22 #2
“We’ve spent the last few months securing options to purchase almost all the chaon in circulation on the island. Dozens of discrete contracts, strictly confidential, so none of the promisors know what’s happening. Now that we’ve bought the options, though, we need the funds to draw them down.”
“I see. I put up part of the price and take part of the return. Three to one, you said?”
“At a conservative estimate,” said Leo, unclipping his briefcase. “Likely more. I have the figures, should you wish to examine them.”
“I shall,” said Evander, reaching for the papers, “but any financier could lend you the capital. You said you needed a praetor.”
“Yes,” said Myria, drawing in air through her teeth.
Leo stiffened, and she let a hint of tension shade her countenance.
“Siron’s the only port where airships can refuel along the Maran trade run.
Own almost all the chaon on the island, and .
. . well, think of it. If you didn’t decide to sell it for an immediate return, you’d as good as control the money supply.
That’s a mighty lever over the local government. Over their decisions.”
“Like whether they decide to tax every vessel that docks at the island,” Evander murmured. “And whether they hand over a percentage of the proceeds to a certain someone. I see.”
“Which means there’s a risk,” said Leo. “Siron has an independent legislature. If they chose, they could pass a law expropriating our entire investment.”
“But if it’s in the name of a Carinth praetor, they wouldn’t dare,” Evander finished. Myria nodded.
“Precisely. But they’d press you to relent. Some of the governors have Carinth connections, and there’s no telling how they’ll use them. We need a praetor who won’t bend to their demands.”
“Well, I see why you thought of Valorus,” said Evander, folding his hands over his waistcoat. “They couldn’t openly attack the Magister-General. The man’s a peacemaker, though. He’d reach a compromise.”
Leo ruffled and made to speak, but Myria raised a hand to stay him. Evander’s gaze turned vague and fixed on the far wall for a moment. Then, it snapped back to the pair of them.
“How did you hear of this?”
“A man in the local government,” said Leo, slipping another folder from the briefcase. “He hopes to be compensated for his troubles.”
He spread the papers across the praetor’s desk in a neat fan. Myria beamed inside. They’d always been good at forgeries between them, but now that Leo was a proper investment agent, those papers could fool anyone.
“A confidential memorandum from their Ministry of Finance,” he said, tapping the first sheet.
“I trust you understand my insistence upon secrecy now,” Myria added. “If word escaped, the prices would leap. The deal wouldn’t be worth doing.”
“Indeed. I assume that’s why I needed a covert account,” said Evander, leafing through the papers. “No matter. No self-respecting praetor goes without one.”
“The Lynxias?” she ventured. He nodded briefly.
“Well, ma’am, I’ve much to consider. A minimum of ten thousand lyrin, you said. And the ceiling?”
“At your discretion,” she said. “The truth is, we’ve enough from other financiers to draw down almost all the options. It’s your name we need, more than your funds. We’d put the entire investment in your hands, then enter contracts entitling the others to their shares out of the pool.”
She saw the moment that the wolf scented prey. Oh, that man hasn’t changed, she thought. She’d laid it out before him like a picnic—the whole investment in his name, and everyone else’s shares secured by a piece of paper. It was an arrangement ripe for a swindle.
“Very well,” he said, setting down the papers. “When would you require my decision?”
“I’d half hoped you wouldn’t ask,” she said with grim humor.
“The governors mean to move within the fortnight. There’s no wire or arcanic transport to Siron, and the next airship leaves in four days’ time.
I’ll need your decision by Deus Darian’s Day, at the latest. If you decline, we’ll have one last day to nail down Valorus. ”
“Miss Cafferty—” Leo began. Myria silenced him with another pointed look, but he bristled and rose from his chair. “Forgive me, Praetor,” he said. “I beg a word with my associate.”
Evander inclined his head. Myria set her teeth in feigned impatience, but nonetheless followed her accomplice out of the chamber. Leo closed the door, then gestured sharply back toward the praetor.
“We’re offering it to him first?” he hissed. “Over the Magister-General?”
“I told you that.”
“You told me you were considering it!”
“Well, I’ve considered it. You weren’t there when I spoke to Valorus. The man’s a milksop. He won’t stand the test.”
“Don’t underestimate him. Besides, he’s a known quantity, and those provincial splitwits won’t dare press a man of his standing—”
“Until he loses the damned election! Haven’t you been reading the scrolls? He’s at the end of his shelf life.”
“I don’t trust that man! You know we’re in a devilishly vulnerable position once we’ve put the holdings in his name.”
“He’ll sign a contract.”
“Have you ever tried to sue a praetor? A contract’s a paper shield!”
“It may be to the likes of you,” Myria cut in, low and warning, “but no one crosses me. Not the Praetorium’s newest golden boy, and certainly not you.”
She stared him down for a moment longer, taking full advantage of her stolen height. Chances were, Vixius was watching. Best they put on a proper show. Leo’s jaw worked silently for a moment. Then, he tugged irritably at his cravat and turned his gaze aside.
“Do we have an accord?”
He gave a stiff nod. Myria smiled thinly and strode back into the room, where Leo took his seat in tetchy silence.
“Thank you, Praetor,” she said. “Was there anything you wished to ask?”
“Not yet,” said Evander, leafing through the papers. “I’ll examine these and send word with my decision. Your address?”
“Here,” said Myria, conjuring a calling card for Leo’s offices. “Speaking of which . . . so we can verify that any correspondence comes from you, would you put your seal and signature to this?”
She produced a second card and set it on the table.
Evander looked over it, and she didn’t miss the shimmer of arcana as he turned it in his hand.
He was testing it—checking it wasn’t charmed to steal his imprint, she fancied.
Seemingly satisfied, he nodded and produced a sealing stamp from the desk.
Hmm. Had it at the ready. He came with serious intent.
Evander signed and sealed the card, and Myria slid it into her file.
“Oh, and . . . your office address?” she added, casting about for a piece of paper. Evander produced a piece of fine monogrammed parchment from a drawer, and she dashed down the address he gave her in pencil.
“Three days. You’ll have my answer,” he said. “Well, I thank you, madam. Now, shall we join the revels?”
The sounds of celebration returned as they climbed to the upper deck. Myria fought relief as she emerged into the bustle of the ballroom. The day was bright beyond the gallery windows, and champagne glittered from the tables. The sound of strings and scent of perfume drifted through the room.
A servant swept to her elbow, bearing a tray of some deep purple liqueur. Myria took one at once. It tasted like a plum had died in bliss of alcohol poisoning.
No sense in wasting the opportunity to drink away some of the blighter’s ill-gotten gains . . .
Then, Evander gestured to the center of the deck, where dancers spun in jewel-bright splendor through the skies.
“Now that we’ve dispensed with the business . . . a dance?” he offered.
Myria’s heart knocked off the back of her head. For a moment, panic threatened her. A foot apart, in merciless daylight, his eyes on her face the entire time?
But damn the fellow, she thought. You could dance with him and fool him all the while.
“Very well,” she said, handing off her glass to Leo.
He took it with a look of alarm, lips parting; but before he could protest, Evander swept her to the floor, and they were into the fray.
The dancers reeled around them—the morning light came dazzling through the glass—but all at once, the world beyond them ran into a blur.
So close to him, her disguise seemed thin as eggshell.
Both their disguises. Beneath that veil of mercuria stood Vixius.
He might cloak his face, but she knew him to the touch.
He might walk with a borrowed pace, but in the dance, his true movements came out.
She could feel the prickle of the patrium spells woven into his coat, and sense those silver eyes beneath the gold.
And at once, she felt it again—that strange magnetic drag she’d known so long.
Something in her lashed back with disgust, though whether at him or at herself, she scarcely knew.
That lure should’ve been three years dead, yet there it was.
She couldn’t even look away. Wherever she turned, his face was watching her from the posters plastered across the gallery walls.
Restoring Might and Justice to Carintheum.
Ending Grayside Crime.
Evander for Magister-General.
The slogans drove like nails into her mind.
Ending grayside crime. Why promise it, when he’d do precisely the opposite?
No matter how subtly he worked, he’d eventually dig out the ground from under his own feet.
And how could he risk elevating his own men to positions of power?
He didn’t trust them an inch, and he was right not to.
Unless . . . unless you’ve taken the wrong measure of him. She looked into that false face, wondering.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she said, nodding to the posters, “are you planning to keep any of those promises?”
“I honor all my bargains, madam,” he replied. For once, there was no hint of that glossy Praetorium smile.
Never conceal anything you mean to get away with, said a distant voice in her mind. Could it be true? Could he . . . No. That’s madness. But if it isn’t true, then what the devil is he up to?