Chapter 47 | Vallan #2
We are creatures of tradition, and Alacine was the overlady of the Intelligence Ward for half a century. This news threatens the makeup of the Five Ministries, which I’m sure is why Aramastun called this emergency meeting.
Aramastun’s silver-ringed eyes fall on Master Barnabac across the stage. “Seems her ceaseless ambitions got the better of her, Craxon. Our Spymistress was always adding more insects to her webs.”
“One of those insects decided to bite the black widow back,” Valenthia says in a raspy, grating tone.
Anytime I’ve heard her speak, it is like this: ominous, stilted, and saturated with heaviness in a way that makes it sound like she’s reading from an unholy scripture.
Liolen Sesk slouches in their chair, chin on their fist, and speaks in a velvety, neutral tone. “How do you know this, dear?”
Aramastun glances at them, lips firming. “The dust of her ashes arrived to me in a box, complete with her hollowed-out skeleton.”
“Could it be a ploy?” Liolen asks, circling their wrist. “Another one of Madame Mortis’ many schemes?”
“To what end, Sesk?”
They shrug, ruffling the shoulders of their elegant gold robe. “Subterfuge, of course.”
Barnabac grunts a laugh. “She would not be so foolish.”
“It won’t matter if she is or isn’t, Ministers, because her seal was sent in the box with her.”
That quiets the room. The Ministers keep their voices low, measured, without a hint of emotion.
I know from history the seals of the Ministers are small items surgically implanted in an overlord when they are inaugurated as leader of a ward.
The only way to get them out is to get inside their flesh.
So either Alacine Mortis is truly dead, or she’s having a very bad evening.
“Who will replace her?” Barnabac asks.
“Remains to be seen,” Aramastun answers. “I have called you here to combine our knowledge, see what we may discover.”
“Discover, dear?” Liolen chirps from Aramastun’s left.
“Who killed our overlady, Sesk.”
Liolen shifts positions on their chair, as if they’re uncomfortable sitting for too long. Their robe is a sea of gold on the floor around their seat. “What enemies did she have?”
Valenthia Yurlyth says, “Despite being my neighbor ward to the north, Alacine Mortis was no enemy of mine.”
“I suppose the better question,” Liolen murmurs, “is how was she killed, Aramastun? I can guess based on her ashy arrival to your quarters, dear, but I’d rather not assume.”
“A silver sword,” Aramastun replies. His viper-like eyes land on every Minister in turn.
“Those are forbidden in Olhav,” Valenthia points out, helping no one.
Leaning slightly forward, I speak to Barnabac, raising my voice loud enough to be heard. “Don’t you have a silver sword in your chamber, sire?”
Barnabac growls over his shoulder, “Quiet your impudent tongue, boy.”
I clear my throat and stand straight-backed, clasping my hands in front of me again, the very picture of a good bodyguard. Staring out from over Barnabac’s shoulder, I notice Aramastun’s imposing gaze has landed on me.
“What was that, fullblood?” he calls out.
Barnabac flaps a hand. “Never mind the lad, Wyvox. You know how my Red Spawn can be. He will be whipped and punished for—”
“No, I would like to hear what he said,” the Night Judge cuts in.
Glancing down, I see how the veins along Master Barnabac’s neck bulge when he tenses.
In a businesslike tone, I say, “Apologies for interrupting, my lord. I only meant to say, it’s curious my blood-lord houses a silver sword in the chamber of his tower at Castle Galfeld.”
Slowly, Barnabac glares at me over his shoulder. I know what he wants to blurt out: That I gave him that sword. But doing so would put him in a precarious position, because the next question becomes, “Well how did your bloodthrall obtain such a sword, and why did he give it to you?”
Barnabac wisely stays quiet, his beady eyes narrowing threateningly on me.
From across the stage, Aramastun says, “Is that all you mean to say? Or did you mean to imply something else, as well?” When I begin to answer the overlord, he raises a hand, which has the effect of clamping my throat tightly shut. “What is your name, fullblood?”
My throat loosens and I inhale a sharp lungful of air. “Vallan Stellos, sire.”
Overliege Liolen sits up in their chair. “What I would like to know, dear Vallan, is how your blood-liege came to obtain silver. Because the only place would be from my mines.”
“The North Mines I protect with my military!” my master barks. “Do not forget our arrangement, Liolen.”
Liolen snorts in a pretty way. “Yes, the arrangement where I own the silver mines with my bountiful coin, and you supposedly protect it from ne’er-do-wells.” They roll their red and blue eyes. “For the good of the Five Ministries.”
My brow furrows. I say to Barnabac, “When Alacine Mortis attacked the silver mine recently, my lord, surely the discussion between the Military and Commerce Wards was fruitful?”
Behind me, I feel the stern gazes of my Red Spawn brethren digging into my spine. Our entire side of the stage is tight and tense. Except for me.
Barnabac’s face is practically red with rage. He keeps his temper clamped, fuming while Liolen Sesk caresses their pointed chin.
“I’d nearly forgotten about that,” Liolen says. “Thank you, dear Vallan. I was quite enraged when the Spymistress invaded my mines and killed my workers.” They tilt their head on their thin neck. “And yet your reputable military was nowhere to be found, Barnabac.”
“They’re your mines, as you’ve just pointed out, Liolen!” Barnabac yells, pointing a finger across the way.
“In name only, dear.”
Barnabac stands from his chair, hands white-knuckling the ends of the armrests. “Are you saying if you had the manpower and means, that you’d oust me from the North Mines, pest? Is that your threat?”
Liolen smiles, unwilling to be dragged into my master’s bait.
“Now, now, can we not remain civil, dear Barnabac? I’ve always know your feelings toward me and”—they twirl a thin wrist near their face, searching for the word—“my kind. You wear your emotions on your sleeve, my lovable Blood Baron. You despise the workers I fill the mines with. Workers like me.”
I blink, and even Barnabac seems surprised by the smooth outburst from the Gilded Liege. Liolen’s eyes sharpen as they peer into Barnabac’s blustering face.
My master begins to retort—
Aramastun Wyvox raises another hand to shut him up. “Sit down, Craxon.”
Slowly, Barnabac lowers himself onto the seat.
“The plethora of missing silver from my mines is unsurprising, given everything I’ve just learned here,” Liolen finishes, frowning over to Aramastun.
“None of this answers the silver sword allegedly in your chambers,” Aramastun says to my master. “If I were to send judgemen to your castle this very moment, would I find the sword there? Yes or no.”
Barnabac throws his arms up. “Aramastun, listen to me—”
Aramastun does not. He cuts the Blood Baron off with that strange, throat-closing power of his. As if his blood compels others to speak or not, and Barnabac is unworthy to answer in his own defense.
As the tensions slowly settle, Overlady Valenthia lets out a small, disgruntled sound. “My ward, too, was the target of recent attacks. The unholy Tower of Blisters, home to many of my acolytes and prophets. Razed to the ground by explosives.”
Barnabac snorts with disgust. “I know nothing of that.”
“But sire, explosives are the specialty of the Military Ward,” I say, confusion coloring my words. “Why, I learned the procedure to craft such weapons from you.”
When his eyes widen and he glares over his shoulder, I throw a careless hand toward Overlord Aramastun. “And was not Sutlis Spire impacted the same way, not long ago, my lord, in the heart of the Judgment Ward?”
“It was.” Aramastun sinks deeper in his seat. He says no more, though I notice his eyes are not leaving me.
“In pursuit of an escaped criminal who holds the Loreblood in her veins!” Barnabac crows. “I surely had nothing to do—”
“How would you know that, my lord?” I interject. “Overlady Alacine directed the interrogation, did she not? The Spymistress is—was famously mum about her proceedings. You did not tell me the criminal held—”
“You told me the Loreblood will destroy us, boy!” Barnabac screams. He jolts up to his feet again, anger rippling his face with veins. “You said, in the right hands, that it could be the greatest weapon my military ever had! And then you failed to procure even . . .”
He slows his rambling, trailing off while his words echo through the auditorium and hang heavy in the air.
In a small voice, I say, “My lord, you must be mistaken. How would I ever know such a thing? I don’t know who you have been speaking with—”
“Stop. Just shut your fucking mouth, Vallan! I know what you are doing here, you cretin.” He spins, shoving accusatory fingers toward Liolen, Valenthia, and Aramastun. “You are trying to turn everyone against me, painting this elaborate picture—”
“Master Barnabac,” I cut in firmly, seeing him flounder, “it was not I who impaled hundreds of heads along the roads of my ward. Human heads, which riled up an entire city into riots which continue even now. And all of this followed . . . well, Alacine Mortis’ incursion into Trithea Plaza, without your say-so.
You told me as much. You said you had worked it out between Ministers—”
“And now Alacine Mortis is dead,” Aramastun calls out. “Killed by a silver sword, which conveniently you have stored in your chambers, Craxon. This does not look good at all, Blood Baron.” The Night Judge’s voice is a crooning tsk, a velvety signal wrapped in heat and desire.