Sea of Death: Blade of the Flame - Book 3 (9 page)

Illyia frowned slightly, and Tresslar wondered if she were somehow aware of the telepathic communication that had occurred between Solus and him. But when she spoke, she said, “So, have you come to acquire one of my sculptures, or are you perhaps here for a different purpose?”

“We’re friends of Tinker,” Tresslar said.

“Tinker?” Hinto said, scowling. “Who’s …?” He trailed off, a sly smile coming onto his face. “Oh …
right.”
He winked knowingly at Tresslar.

Now it was the artificer’s turn to roll his eyes.

Illyia laughed. “Come with me, and we’ll see if Tinker is home.”

She turned and, for the briefest of instants, Tresslar thought the bubbles of her gown turned transparent. But before he could get a good look at what lay beneath, the bubbles returned to their blue-green hue.

Illyia headed toward a door at the back of the shop, walking with perhaps a bit more sway in her hips than was strictly necessary, and Tresslar, Hinto, and Solus followed. Suddenly Kolbyr—curse or no curse—didn’t seem like all that bad a place to the artificer.

Not bad at all.

Yvka stood across the street from a two-story building decorated with elaborate stonework. Intricate designs of sea creatures had been carved into the building’s face, a quartet of granite gargoyles perched upon the roof, and a pair of manticore statues flanked a huge oak door at the top of marble steps. Casual passersby would appreciate the building’s beauty, but few would realize that, should the need arise, the gargoyles and the manticores would come to swift and deadly life.

There was no sign to indicate the name or even the nature of this establishment, but then none was necessary. Only those who already
knew of the Culinarian sought it out, and few of those were permitted entrance. And of and those who got inside, even fewer knew the restaurant’s true nature.

Though Yvka hadn’t let on to her companions, this wasn’t her first time in Kolbyr. She had no specific reason for not telling them the truth, and she wasn’t sure why she’d kept that information from them, and especially from Ghaji. Habit, she supposed. By necessity, operatives of the Shadow Network lived by a strict code of secrecy, but living by that code came with a price. Operatives couldn’t afford to get too close to anyone, even other members of the Network.
Stay silent, stay guarded, stay alone, stay safe
. That was an operative’s motto, and while Yvka had never come out and directly admitted to belonging to the Network, her friends knew the truth. That was why she stood out here hesitating. It was possible—no, almost certain—that the man she had come here to see was aware she’d become too close to Ghaji, Diran, and the others. The question was what, if anything, he planned to do about it.

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and started across the street.

She walked casually, seeming relaxed and comfortable, but inside she was tense and alert. As she approached the stairs, she had to force herself not to look at the gargoyles and manticores. She could feel their cold stone eyes upon her, and though she knew it was probably her imagination, she sensed displeasure in their gazes, as if even the guardians knew of her failure to remain detached and professional.

She reached the steps, ascended them, and stopped before the oak door. There was no knob, no handle, no device for signaling those inside. Yvka simply stood there, and after several moments—a bit longer than strictly necessary, she thought—the door swung inward, and Yvka stepped inside. She found herself standing at the end of a narrow corridor lit by tiny everbright lanterns hovering close to the curved ceiling. The lanterns gave off a soft blue light that only dimly illuminated the way, but they provided more than enough light for elvish eyes to see by. Yvka started down the corridor, and she didn’t look back as she heard the door close behind her with a gentle
snick
that sounded all too final to her ears. No one came forward to greet
her, but that was normal here. If the door opened for you, you already knew you were welcome in the Culinarian.

The corridor ran straight for a few dozen yards before opening onto a vast dining hall. The hall was illuminated by cerulean everbright lanterns floating in the air to simulate an underwater environment, and saltwater aquariums filled with exotic sea creatures were placed in various locations around the hall to further enhance the illusion. A long table constructed from coral stretched the length of the hall, and spread out on its craggy surface was a buffet of seafood dishes: lobster, shrimp, squid, crab, clams, mussels, mullet, salmon, scampi, prawns, grouper, conch, blowfish, octopus, halibut, monkfish, and many more. Dishes were served raw, baked, broiled, and fried, along with a wide assortment of vegetables.

The diners sat at smaller tables in groups of two, three, or more. Like the main table, the diners’ tables had been fashioned from coral, with animated centerpieces enchanted to resemble seaweed drifting in an underwater current. Servers moved constantly throughout the room, some bringing new dishes in from the kitchen, others carrying plates loaded with food to diners too lazy—or self-important—to serve themselves. The diners themselves came from all strata of society. Some were clad in expensive finery and adorned with jewelry of rare craftsmanship and incalculable value, while others were barefoot and wore torn, dirty rags that could only charitably be referred to as clothing at all. But despite the variance in dress, the rich and poor—or at least, those who appeared to be so—often sat at the same tables, talking, laughing, and behaving as equals.

Yvka stood in the great hall’s entrance for a moment as she scanned the tables searching for the man she had come here to see. It didn’t take her long to spot him sitting at a table alone, almost as if he had been expecting her. He probably was, Yvka thought.

Zivon was a handsome man who appeared to be in his mid-forties, though Yvka knew he was older, perhaps quite a bit so. Half-elves weren’t as long-lived as full elves, but their lifespans were significantly longer than those of their human cousins. His brown hair was pulled back and bound with a leather thong, and he sported a neatly trimmed goatee with more than a bit of gray mixed in with
the brown. Full elves didn’t grow facial hair, but half-elves could, thanks to the human side of their ancestry. Zivon wore a fine silken robe of aquamarine with white trimming the color of sea foam, in keeping with the Culinarian’s underwater theme.

Zivon smiled with what appeared to be genuine delight when he spotted Yvka and waved her over to his table. Yvka returned the smile, acknowledged the invitation with a nod, and began making her way across the room toward Zivon. As she drew near, she saw that the capillaries in the half-elf’s eyes were tinted purple, and she knew that he’d been indulging in urchin-sting, a common narcotic enjoyed in the Principalities. She also knew that he was far from the only one in the great hall who had done so this day. Sitting on the table before him was a plate piled high with seafood delicacies, and before Yvka could sit across from him, a server brought her a plate similarly loaded. As soon as that servant departed, another appeared carrying a wine jug. She refilled Zivon’s mug, then moved to fill the mug already sitting at Yvka’s place, but the elf-woman waved the servant away and the woman moved off to tend to other diners.

As Yvka took her seat, Zivon said, “I’m surprised you declined the wine. You know I select only the finest vintages for my cellar.” The half-elf’s voice was steady, though his words were slightly slurred.

“I also know you lace your wine with urchin-sting to blunt the effects of the Fury,” Yvka said. “I’d rather my perceptions remain undulled. Besides, if all goes well, soon no one in Kolbyr will need to worry about resisting the Fury any longer.”

Zivon took a long sip of wine, and when he put his mug back down, the veins in his eyes looked thicker and more purple than they had a moment ago. “You speak of course of your friend the priest.”

There was something in the way Zivon said
your friend
that made Yvka uncomfortable. Half-elves were known for their silver tongues, and Zivon was no exception. He used words with rapier-like precision. He was undoubtedly making a comment about Yvka getting too close to her companions.

Zivon lifted an oyster to his mouth and swallowed it in a single deft motion. He set the empty shell aside and took another sip of wine. Half-elves tended to be thin, though not as ethereally slender
as full-blooded elves. With his hybrid metabolism Zivon could regularly eat twice as much as a human without putting on excess weight, which made the Culinarian a perfect place for a devotee of fine dining like him to serve the Shadow Network.

“We were aware of the priest’s vow to lift the curse on the House of Kolbyr moments after he made it,” Zivon said.

The half-elf was exaggerating, Yvka thought, though probably not by much. The Shadow Network knew virtually everything that happened in the Principalities—in some instances, before it occurred. “Then you also know that Diran stands a good chance of succeeding.”

“You’re not eating,” Zivon said, the merest hint of disapproval in his voice. “Try the mussels. They’re delectable.”

Yvka wasn’t especially hungry but tried a mussel for the sake of not offending her host.

“Well?”

Yvka chewed, swallowed. “It’s good.”

“Good? I have some of the finest cooks in the Principalities working in my kitchen, and all you have to say in response to experiencing their art is ‘good’?”

Yvka shrugged.
“Very
good.”

Zivon shook his head and laughed. “Fortune save me from uneducated palates!” He took yet another sip of wine, set his mug down, then pushed his plate aside—an indication that he was ready to get down to business. “You truly believe the priest is capable of dispelling the Fury?”

“His name is Diran, and I’ve seen him do remarkable things.”

“Rumor has it that you’ve seen his partner do a few remarkable things as well.”

Yvka felt her own rage take hold at Zivon’s remark—a rage that had nothing to do with the House of Kolbyr. But before she could say anything, Zivon held up his hands in a placating gesture.

“You’ve managed to maintain our code admirably
—until
the night you met Diran Bastiaan and his companions in a seedy tavern in Port Verge. At first you joined them in order to discover the secret of the Black Fleet, for information is the Network’s lifeblood,
is it not? But it didn’t take long for you to come to admire your new companions and, despite your many years of experience at maintaining professional distance from others, for the first time in a long time you found herself becoming close to others, didn’t you? Especially the half-orc.

“Oh, you made excuses, told yourself that the best way to gain your new companions’ trust was to appear to become friends with them, and your association proved even more beneficial than you’d hoped when, after you’d defeated Erdis Cai, you informed us about the vampire’s hidden lair in Grimwall. We were quite pleased with the treasures we discovered in the ancient goblinoid city. And if you’d had a little fun with the half-… with
Ghaji
in the process of performing your duties, what was the harm? You received a new assignment not long after that, and when you were forced to say goodbye to Ghaji, you pretended that parting from him didn’t hurt. And you almost managed to make yourself believe it.

“But a few months later you learned that Aldarik Cathmore, one of Bastiaan’s former teachers in the art of assassination, had come to the Principalities, and you used that information as an excuse to rejoin your new friends once more … as an excuse to see Ghaji. Once again, your association with the others benefited you: you informed us of the existence of the creation forge within Mount Luster, and our artificers are even now investigating the facility to ferret out the delicious secrets it holds. You’ve done well, Yvka. Quite well, indeed.” Zivon paused a moment before adding, “All things considered.”

Zivon’s tone remained pleasant enough, but his words sent a chill rippling down Yvka’s spine. “You’re speaking of the
Zephyr.”

“A valuable asset. One that we are disappointed to have lost.”

“Makala took it.” It was as much a question as a statement.

“Yes. Though she wasn’t alone.”

Yvka frowned. “Who else was with her?”

“A lich and a barghest. The same barghest, we believe, who stole the wand of your artificer friend.”

“A lich?” Could it be the same one that Diran, Ghaji, Tresslar, and Hinto had slain in the mountains outside Perhata? How could it be any other? The barghest had been her servant, after all. But
how had the lich been resurrected, if that was the right term to apply to the reanimation of an already undead creature? Had the barghest somehow used Tresslar’s dragonwand to perform the task? Yvka supposed it didn’t matter how the dark deed was done. A more important question was why Makala had joined forces with the lich and her servant, and most important of all, where were they bound aboard the
Zephyr?
Aboard
her
ship?

Anticipating her question, Zivon said, “The three set sail from Perhata in the dead of night, appropriately enough, bound for the open sea. They did not make port here in Kolbyr, but otherwise I cannot say where they went. Given their last heading, my guess is that they intended to leave the gulf entirely, but it is only a hunch, based on no solid information.”