A House Divided (Astoran Asunder, book 1) (16 page)

Transfixed, she stared at the image of form three. She combed it from top to bottom, taking in as many details as she could. The picture was startlingly lifelike, a perfect image of a boy, legs shoulder width apart, both knees bent, arms in front of him, slightly bent at the elbows, right arm extended in front of him at shoulder height, the other higher, near his face. Both of the boys' hands were straight, palms out, his left hand concealing his left eye and part of his face. He was poised on the edge of movement, ready to begin his slide into position four.

"It's you, isn't it?" she asked Kila when he returned, bearing a tea tray that included the biscuits she liked. He hadn't served them the first two times they'd had tea, but she'd eaten four when he produced them the third, and he'd included them on the tray ever since. Some people found Enforcers uncanny, but Cianne liked that he noticed even minute details, despite that it made lying to him far more complex.

"It is," he said, blowing on his tea.

Reluctantly, Cianne set the book aside, careful to put it far from the tea, and picked up her own cup. She closed her eyes and inhaled. At home her father favored an orange-scented black tea. Cianne liked it too, but she liked Kila's tea even more. Pale green in color, it looked like spring in her cup, but it smelled of autumn, rich and warm. She took a tentative sip, scalding her tongue.

"Hot," she said, putting it down.

"What do you notice about form three?" he asked, dunking a biscuit in his tea.

Cianne took one as well, biting into it thoughtfully. She knew he wasn't asking for her impression of the picture, but about the specifics of the form, so she described it as best she could, her words inadequate to quantify the combination of grace and strength that leapt out at her from the image.

"Very good," he said, with an approving nod.

"You said your father drew it?"

"Yes."

"Was he…" she began, hesitating. Would he think the question impertinent? "Was he an Adept too?"

"No," Kila said, flashing her a smile. "My mother was an Adept, but my father wasn't. His talent took years to develop, and he practiced drawing every chance he got."

"He was very talented," Cianne said sincerely. The idea that someone without Adept abilities could accomplish something so wonderful prompted a warm glow of hope within her.

She thought about the boy's face. Determination was etched in every line of it, yet she also got the impression he was a nice boy, just as he was now a nice man. Six years was a lot, half her lifetime. She wondered if she would seem as worldly as he did when she was eighteen.

"What about your parents?" he asked. He took a casual sip of tea as he gazed off into the night, but Cianne wasn't fooled. She'd already slipped once. She wasn't about to do it a second time.

"I'd like to try form three again," she said, ignoring the question altogether.

She didn't miss his sidelong glance. He didn't say anything for a moment, but then responded with, "Very well. Let's see it."

He set his tea aside and leaned forward in his seat as she took up her position. He watched with intense concentration, but his limbs were loose, as always. His elbows rested on his knees, his clasped hands hanging between them.

"Yes, that's much better. Start again from the beginning, and let's see if you can't manage that transition."

She was shaky, but she did make it, and he was generous with his praise for her efforts, which made her even more eager to perfect her skills. Tea forgotten, he rose and positioned himself across from her, going through the forms with her so that she could mirror his movements. He was the best, most patient teacher she had ever had.

***

She had never told him that. Perhaps she should. Perhaps she would, when she returned his little book to him.

She would miss it when it was gone, but he had told her his father had made it for him, and she knew his father was gone. He had also told her that his mother had died, but he had never spoken of the circumstances of their deaths, or why he had come to Astoran.

Not that she had asked him. She had liked him a great deal from the moment she had met him, and by the time he had disappeared she had grown to feel something much different from childish affection, feelings that had never quite faded. Many nights she had soothed her troubled mind by paging through the book, even after she had long since learned every last form by heart. Holding the book reminded her that he was real, that he hadn't been a wonderful figment of her imagination. It had made her feel as if he couldn't be gone forever, because surely he would have to return someday to collect such a precious object.

But if she gave the book back to him and he left, what reason would he ever have to return to her again?

Chapter 16

Several uneventful days passed, and though Kila kept an eye out for Miss Wyland, she didn't make a repeat appearance. He supposed she was busy with the funeral, and he wondered if she had learned anything more from Captain Stowley. Was the captain right that something was going on? Or had the man's insistence that his father hadn't committed suicide been the protestations of someone devastated by grief, and had he come to understand that refusing to accept the truth wouldn't bring his father back to him?

Kila knew what that kind of denial was like, though he refused to think about it.

Things had been quiet at the station. He had studied everything Burl had given him, and her hostility faded somewhat in the face of his thoughtful questions about House Staerleigh. He took care not to appear too obsequious, but he adopted a tone of respectful admiration whenever he spoke of the House, and Burl responded well to it. Calculation was never comfortable for him, and he hoped it never would be, but experience had taught him that a studied bit of calculation applied well could yield excellent results. Thus far his ploy was working with Burl.

The chief waylaid him again as he was on his way home one night, telling him that she'd heard the Elders of the trade Houses intended to meet and confer.

"Is that out of the ordinary?" he asked her.

"It's not unprecedented, but it is rare," she said, tugging at her bottom lip. "I wouldn't have paid any attention to it were it not for the fact that I've had reports that House Elders from all three Houses have been conducting smaller meetings."

"But that can't be unusual either," he said. "They have common interests. They would need to meet to discuss them."

"Yes, but when business meetings occur they're held at one of the Council Halls. These other meetings have taken place in a variety of locations, as if they're purposely avoiding meeting in the same places twice."

Thinking about what Cianne had told him, Kila asked, "Do you think this has something to do with the succession?"

Fixing him with a shrewd look, the chief said, "It might. The Houses have been consolidating their power for the last several years. They don't intend for their public works to cease with the renovation of our station. They're hatching plans for more community improvements, such as building schools and Healer clinics throughout the city, as well as improving roads and digging more wells to provide people with clean water."

"And those are bad things?" he asked, lifting a brow.

"Of course they aren't. But why now? Why not in the past? Why have the Houses taken such a sudden interest in the common folk of Cearova?"

"To buy collective goodwill," he said, understanding where she was going.

"Exactly. The Houses would love nothing more than to ensure the loyalty of Cearovans, gain their backing."

"Do you think they want to make Cearova a city state?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps they have no interest in that at all and want only to be guaranteed the autonomy to run the city as they like. There's no indication that they intend to place themselves in direct opposition to any of the candidates for the monarchy, but what they obviously want more than anything is to secure their position."

"You think Toran Stowley could have stood opposed to that?"

"It's possible. Perhaps he was an obstacle House Staerleigh felt it had to remove."

It still didn't add up for Kila. Why would they go to the trouble? Dissension in their ranks might be embarrassing, but he was under the impression that if Toran hadn't agreed with the Elders he had been in the minority. There were no other signs of trouble within House Staerleigh, which from all indications ran with impressive precision. They projected an overall image of harmony and unity, and why shouldn't they? House members enjoyed greater wealth and security than the average Cearovan, even if some of the House members benefited more than others. Membership in a House, no matter how lowly, guaranteed a person some level of influence. Murder seemed like an extreme response to someone who wouldn't have been more than an annoyance.

He kept the thought to himself. The chief seemed set on a course, and who was to say she wasn't right? He wasn't about to jump blindly aboard with her, but he wouldn't stand in her way either. Maintaining his independence would also allow him to pursue the leads he wanted to pursue.

"I'll keep you informed," he said.

She nodded and began to slip away but stopped, half turning toward him. "You're doing a good job with Burl. I wouldn't say she's ready to claim you as one of her closest companions, but she's not shutting you out either."

He thought he knew why she was sharing the praise this way. She was asking him to possibly betray his partner, an uncomfortable request regardless of circumstance. He was certain she wouldn't want him to feel as if she were manipulating him. He wasn't certain yet that she wasn't.

"Thank you," he said in a neutral tone.

She gave him a brisk nod and continued on her way.

He waited until she'd disappeared, then made a quick stop to pick up Stowley's ledger. Every few days he moved it from one place to another, not yet satisfied with any of his hiding spots. It was probably for the best at any rate. Someone could still stumble upon it, but his continuously returning to the same location might garner someone's notice. He was confident he would know if someone were shadowing him, but if the Houses' reach did extend as far as the chief seemed to think it did, there was no telling how many invisible spies they might have in their employ. He knew from personal experience that a few coins could do wonders to loosen tongues.

Once home and supplied with tea, he spent the evening in his office poring over the ledger. He had compiled a list of the dates of the hash-marked entries, which he kept on several slips of paper, scattering them around his lodgings so that they wouldn't look as if they belonged together. Pinning them up on his wall, he scrutinized them. He had already noted that they occurred at regular intervals, though it hadn't looked that way in the ledger, which Kila imagined might have been deliberate on Stowley's part. The dates were always three weeks apart, always on the same day of the week, Wednesdays. Were they the Elder meetings the chief had mentioned?

It was possible, but he didn't think so, though he couldn't say why. Instinct told him they weren't, and though he knew to trust his instincts, his instincts weren't proof. He would have to keep digging.

Amounts had been entered into the ledger for each date, though they varied. Some were so small as to constitute little more than pocket change. Others were large enough to raise his brows. None of them would give anyone pause if seen at a glance, though, not given Stowley's reputation for aptitude with figures. House Staerleigh dealt in precious goods on a regular basis, and many of the other ledger entries included similar exorbitant figures.

As with Stowley's other entries, those hash-marked were denoted with numbers and letters, but Kila couldn't make heads or tails of most of them. It was like a code for which he had no key, and perhaps that had been the point. Breaking codes took time, which presumably meant that Stowley alone would have been able to interpret the entries with any ease.

He needed to talk to Miss Wyland. Something about the dates might strike her as significant, or perhaps she would know what the letters and numbers stood for. If she didn't show up soon, he would leave a message for her in the spot she had specified.

"Interesting," she said in a low voice as she entered the office, and for a second he was afraid her presence was the product of his wishful thinking. The woman was uncanny.

"Have you any idea how disconcerting that is?" he asked, unable to keep the shortness from his tone. His heart was pounding, and his hand had gone for the dagger he kept sheathed to the bottom of his desk. Forcing his hand away, he turned to face her.

"My apologies," she said, but the faint smile on her lips suggested she rather liked disconcerting him.

She wore dark clothing again, but not the same as the previous time. Her tight black breeches hugged her legs, and over them she wore a short, equally tight black leather coat. This one laced up the back and buttoned up the front, emphasizing her gentle curves. Her clothing fit her like a second skin, highly practical for when she climbed or snuck about. It offered nothing an assailant could grab, had no loose sleeves to get snagged on a jagged stone or protruding ledge. She'd pushed back her hood, and a crown of tight braids clung to her scalp. The flickering candlelight exaggerated the hollows in her cheeks. A black leather mask dangled from her right hand.