20 #3
“Either that, or you take pleasure in wasting time and money,” he said. “Come. You have my attention. I have yours. Let us speak plainly.”
There it was—another glint of Vixius, gone in a blink. It was impossibly strange to sit across from that man, knowing who he was, yet seeing a stranger. That stolen face was too bright and handsome, that voice too velvet smooth.
“Hmm. A man who says what he means. Are you certain you’re a real politician?” asked Myria.
“The votes will tell. Now, this investment. You said you needed a praetor, and a bold one. Why?”
Myria drew a slow breath. Thunder rumbled through the clouds around them, setting the cutlery trembling subtly on the tabletop.
“First, I’d have you understand that secrecy is vital,” she said. “If word reached the market, it’d scupper the venture entirely.”
“I expected no less. I prefer to keep my dealings confidential, in any event.”
“Just as well. You see, I understand that praetors’ accounts are subject to a level of public scrutiny. I trust you have one . . . less in the public eye?”
“I can’t imagine what you mean,” he said impassively.
“Good. You’ll need it. I can’t discuss it here, but”—she stole a subtle look each way—“if you’re cut from the right cloth, I suggest we meet again in your offices.”
“And what cloth did you have in mind?”
“This investment,” she began, as though choosing her words with care, “it’s unusual. Political, one might say. It’ll mean holding fast against opposition once it all comes out. It’s legal, but there’ll be no shortage of people trying to force you to back down.”
She paused as a waiter swept in with their food. Myria breathed in the scent of pheasant bathed in spiced honey, admiring the carved peach lilies floating in the pool.
“Good evening, Madam Cafferty. A pleasure to see you again,” he murmured, bowing his head. Myria nodded graciously and waved him off. It was wonderful, the things you could get a chap to say for five lyrin.
Fighting the urge to attack her meal at once, she swirled her fork in the honey and regarded Evander with testing eyes. Beyond the glass, another streak of lightning split the clouds.
“Political,” he repeated. “How so?”
“There’s more than gold at stake,” she said. “There’s influence to be won. In Carintheum, and elsewhere.”
“Tell me.”
“Not here. If you’re interested, we’ll need to speak somewhere there’s no chance of being overheard.”
Evander frowned at her over his wine glass. “Why meet, if you’re not going to tell me what you’d like me to buy?”
“Because I don’t yet know if I’d like you to buy it,” she shot back. “In truth, you weren’t on our list of potential investors. Until two or three years ago, you’d led an undistinguished life. You’re an unknown quantity.”
It would’ve been an insult to the real Evander, but she saw a flicker of satisfaction in her companion’s false face.
“And you prefer dealing with the devils you know. I understand,” he said. “But you have the evidence before you. I rose from indistinction, as you put it, in a matter of weeks. I overtook Valorus in months.”
Thanks to us, you bastard.
“So it seems,” she answered levelly.
“You look doubtful, ma’am.”
“I couldn’t help but wonder if you owed your celebrity to that noble statesman’s art, looking handsome in the news scrolls.”
He leaned back in his chair and surveyed her with a half-smile. Then, as though by automation, he took his knife and tossed it—one quick spin, catching it by the blade. In a blink, her mind plunged back three years.
Traitor.
“I realized something very simple,” he said. “Everything worth having in Carintheum belongs to those with power. Power doesn’t belong to those who earn it. It belongs to those who take it, by means fair or foul. I took it.”
Murderer.
“Yes, I do recall some rather opportunistic sallies after that business with the Elysius Vault,” said Myria. It was a masterwork of self-control to keep her countenance impassive.
“Valorus failed to keep the place secure,” Evander said with an offhand shrug. “Just as he’s failed to stop the grayside at every turn.”
“And you’ll do better?”
“I’ll destroy them utterly.”
She almost laughed aloud. He even said it like he meant it, voice hard, eyes intense as undiluted poison. He was a better actor than she’d known.
Is he?
The thought dropped in out of nowhere, half formed and strange. Those men are instruments, at best, he said in a faded memory. Not the sort who’ll hold fast when it’s just the two of you against the world.
No. No time to wonder. She couldn’t lose her focus in mid-duel.
“I almost believe you,” she said dryly. “All the same, I’ll have to persuade my liaison that a change of investors would serve us better.”
“There’s another party?”
“A licensed Carinth agent. Name of Asperix. Not being a citizen myself, I need to work through a local man.”
“Trustworthy?”
“Carinth,” she said, “but he knows how to keep his mouth shut. If you’d like to weigh him for yourself, I’d propose we meet. First, though, are you prepared for the risk?”
“That depends on the return.”
Myria raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t steal a close enough look at my papers?” she said, then lowered her voice. “Three to one, I’d estimate. Perhaps more. Minimum stake of ten thousand.”
Evander nodded slowly, still tossing the knife in silver flashes. Behind him, lightning broke in blinding sheets across the clouds. Hadria blinked across her mind’s eye in the brightness, skewered by steel and gasping as she died.
Not now.
He took your arcana. She said he watched you, all that time. What was he after? And that workshop, sealed away . . .
Pay attention.
“Very well,” he said suddenly, setting down the knife. “What say . . . two days’ time, Iscendin Crescent docks? The tenth hour.”
Got you. A knot momentarily unwound in her nerves, before snapping tighter yet.
“I’ll be at liberty,” she said. “I’ll persuade Asperix that he is, too.”
Evander nodded, then turned to his meal. Before he began to eat, though, a thought crossed his countenance, and he smiled.
“As a matter of interest, ma’am, why are you prepared to cross Valorus to offer this to me?”
“I’ve made no promise to either of you, yet,” she said. Evander raised an eyebrow.
Not convinced.
She forced a smile. It took many weapons to destroy a man, and the greatest of them all was self-command.
“And . . . perhaps I like you better.”