Page 9 of Court of Treachery

Saradon vanished into the ether, leaving Dimitri in the dark as Saradon’s faelight vanished with him. He looked toward the exit. He did not fancy walking all the way back, so he conjured his own faelight and faded from the living plane. A few heartbeats later, Dimitri stood in his own chambers once more, gratefully taking deep breaths of the sweet air. Troubled, he sank onto the couch.“The court will crumble,”Saradon had promised with grim glee. Dimitri would be watching to see how it manifested.

What had Saradon unleashed? Dimitri could not help but feel as though he had involved himself in machinations he did not understand, which only added to the coil of tension winding tighter in his belly.

7

LANDRY

Landry sucked the froth from the fringe of his moustache before taking another swig of his tankard. The Dragon’s Horn was their usual meeting place. The landlord gave them the best price per pint for their custom, as well as use of the back room. Away from prying eyes. The guilds of Tournai valued that, and their reward flowed as golden as his brews.

That night, the back room with its clouds of tobacco smoke wafting, held only complaints as the guilds congregated to bemoan the king and his rising taxes, which bled them all dry, even as their trades dwindled with the closing of all passes east over the mountain, thanks to the goblin troubles.

Landry stroked his beard, nodding as the Master of the Guild of Bakers looked at him, the chair of the proceedings. “Yet he will not act! How are we supposed to feed His Majesty when we cannot procure any of the fine flours from across the mountains that he demands we use in his breads?”

“I understand your concern, Aberon,” Landry said, his voice even and measured. It was his duty to remain neutral, though he shared their frustrations. With his responsibility, he supped his drinks at half the rate of his peers, who grew more rowdy and malcontent with the bottom of every tankard they reached. Hehad a sore enough head from the hammering at the forges all day long without adding drink to it.

“Yet you do nothing about it!” snapped Aberon. “Do your forges not grow cold without dwarven ores to supply them?”

Landry frowned. “They do indeed, yet anger will get us nowhere, Masters.”

As Master of the Guild of Metalsmiths, dwarven ores were the lifeblood of Landry’s business. He was indeed running short of the ore he needed to forge new armour for the Kingsguard, new shoes for their horses, and all manner of accoutrements the city folk required of him. Yet the goblins were far from home—and a problem they could not solve.

He glanced around their assembled company. The masters of the craft guilds on one side, the merchant guilds on the other. He had only been elected by the craft guilds’ weight of numbers, for the merchants sneered at those who dirtied their hands to earn a living. With a hand blackened by a day of forging, Landry set his now empty tankard upon the table and laid his hand flat on the uneven wood. He was not ashamed of his craft.

“All roads east through Valtivar are closed with the goblin troubles, it is true. That ought to only seek to unify us. We are all in this predicament together. None of our wares or materials may pass the eastern borders.” His gaze lingered on the merchants. Frowns covered their sneers. “We need the king’s help. We can only plead with him to address the issue, for?—”

Aberon scoffed at him, and the merchant leaders tittered. “Plead? Pleadwith him? He will not help us. He has made it very clear that the goblins are not his problem to bear. He cannot be reasoned with! Did you not see the traitors burning?” Aberon demanded. Their company shuddered at the memory of the burning pyres that had blighted the plains before the city and a rumble of discontent laced with the charge of fear chased aroundthe room. Aberon jabbed a finger at Landry and scowled. “That will be the fate of any who ask for aid fromhim.”

Landry pursed his lips. “I can agree. Our chances are slim, but what do you propose?” He held his arms wide and looked about, challenging them all. “What can be done? Are we not all old men, moaning bitterly into our tankards, with no hope of recourse?”

And thus, the meeting of the guild masters descended back into complaints and squabbles, for no one had a solution. Exasperated, Landry slipped out and left them all to it, until their next formal meeting, where he hoped they would come with more hope in their hearts. It was their only weapon.

Landry meandered up the winding, cobbled streets to the lower middle levels of the city, on the border between the poor districts and the wealthy. His forges were near the lower end, of course, for the fine folks did not like smoke clogging their clean air. Now, however, with the dark of night blanketing all, his forges were dead and cooling, his men gone after a day of hard work.

Landry admired their work—piles of helms and breastplates for the Kingsguard—as he checked the forge, just as he did every night to ensure they were safe. His men were careful—the ashes cooled and the embers dead already. The stone houses still contained enough wood, thatch, and flammable materials for just one stray ember to damn the entire neighbourhood.

With his checks complete, he ambled up the stairs, tiredness dogging each step, to the home above the forge that he shared with his wife, Aislin, three boys, and young daughter. With a squeal, Shayla ran to greet him as he entered, throwing her arms around his legs. He scooped her up into a hug, kissing herforehead, his beard scratchy. At her protests, he deposited her upon the floor once more.

Aislin, the slender, elven beauty he still did not know how he had won, slid her arms around his giant torso and placed a soft kiss upon his lips with a loving smile, before walking back into the kitchen to finish cooking. Her twinkling green eyes caught his gaze before she turned away. Shayla tugged him toward the dinner table where the three boys awaited. It was the only time the boys were ever early for anything.

“Evening, Fa,” chorused the twins in unison, drowning out their younger brother.

“Evening, boys,” Landry replied and sank into a chair with a grateful groan. He washed his face and hands with the wet cloth, as he did every night, slowly teasing every last piece of grime from between the lines of his skin, under his nails, and in the corners of his face, until he gleamed, and the cloth ran sooty and black.

Dinner was soon before them—as was Aislin’s wooden spoon, rapping whichever of the boys dared try to sneak a scrap before Landry blessed the dinner and took his own cut. Once he had, the boys were permitted, with a nod from their mother, to partake, but at the warning glance from Landry, they held back—though barely—until Aislin and Shayla had taken their own portions. The twins squabbled raucously over the best cuts, as they did every night, whilst their little brother sneaked out the choicest pieces as they were preoccupied. Landry hid his smile in his beard.

“Anyone would think we starved you,” tutted their mother.

“Or that we had raised a pack of animals.” Landry glared with mock sternness at Fergus and Finn, who grinned at him and continued their tussle. It was all in good fun. Landry had once been the self-same with his own brothers. The twins were burlyboys, nearly men. They would take over the forge when he was too old to lift the hammer.

Only their younger brother took after his mother. He was slim, willowy, unsuited for a life in the forge. Like Shayla, he had inherited their mother’s figure—and her magic. The forge ran strongest in the twins’ blood, despite their half-elf heritage, but the younger two had their mother’s elven magic and looks. It was not them for whom he worried. He hoped their blood would send them straight to the academy for the Winged Kingsguard. The twins, however… Landry sighed, earning him a concerned look from Aislin. If his business ceased, their future would also be lost.

“Are you quite all right, Landry?”

He brushed her off with a tired, warm smile, but he knew he did not fool her.

That night, when the children were asleep under the eaves above them, he tugged her close in their own bed, folding her frame into his and taking comfort from her arm encircling his waist and her head tucked under his chin. “I worry that we might not be able to sustain trade soon if this continues. Then where will we be?” Landry said after he had told her of the shambles of the meeting.

“You have never failed us before, love,” she murmured reassuringly. “We will weather this storm, if one is to come, as we have weathered all that have come before us.”

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