Skies (29 page)

“It is good to be returning home. How fares the iron market?” Talha replied, inclining her head slightly toward the man. Lhaurel wondered at this. Who was this man, to be shown such respect from one of the Sisters?

“House Creager is faring far better than some others.” Behind the strange-bearded man, several of his companions grumbled and gave dark looks.

“It’s those wind-blasted storms,” another of the men said, voice low, gruff, and loud. He was shorter than the first man, though the clothes he wore—which were equally as fine as the first man’s—looked a bit disheveled and the buttons of his coat strained against the cloth in an effort to contain the man’s broad belly. “They’ve been cropping up all over the Empire. They’ve ruined crops, overturned barges, and decimated entire slave populations in the Eastern Dominion.”

“Don’t let Mydan radicalism detract from what’s important in that message,” another of the men said. This one was garbed entirely in green and was clean shaven, though his hair was longer than either of the other two men. “He means well, but he’s a hysterical fool at the best of times.”

“Mydan radicalism?” the portly man said, rounding on his companion. His short, brown beard seemed to bristle. “Curse your House to the seventh level of hell, you swine. I’ll have you know the Mydan family is the most conservative in all of Estrelar. Our House has stood for more years than
your
squabbling cooperative of interbred idiots, Leyhend.”

Lhaurel couldn’t help but smile at the indignation in the Mydan man’s voice. The green clothed man, who Lhaurel realized now was clearly one of several representatives of the Great Houses, simply raised an eyebrow and looked back at Talha and Lhaurel, expression one of absolute uncaring disdain. The first speaker, the older man, chuckled softly to himself.

“The storms are a concern, Honored Sister,” green clothes said. “The Storm Wards say that the weather patterns have been disrupted somehow and are afraid to act without consulting you on the matter. I had hoped you would consider working with my own Storm Wards in this venture.”

Lhaurel noticed the slight flicker of movement in Talha’s cheek that showed the woman’s jawline firming slightly. This was clearly a political maneuver, one that was both open and overt in nature.

“Perhaps, Lord Leyhend. Perhaps.”

Lhaurel could tell from her tone that she was not pleased, though Lhaurel doubted this Lord Leyhend would be able to tell.

“Is this the new Sister of Honor?” The first man—Lord Creager—asked. Lhaurel half wondered if he recognized Talha’s hidden displeasure and was purposefully steering the conversation away from politics.

All eyes flickered toward her.

“I am,” Lhaurel said before Talha could respond.

“I heard about your last Incarnation’s passing only eight days past. I had not known she was even unwell.” Though the man spoke conversationally, Lhaurel sensed more curiosity in the question than his body language showed. For some reason, the tall man reminded Lhaurel of Marvi, the old Matron of the Sidena. Her treachery and conniving had lead, in part, to what had happened to the Rahuli people in the Oasis.

“Things happen quickly at times,” Lhaurel said, keeping her words careful and her tone calm. Elyana’s voice whispered in the back of her mind, suggesting what to say. “Like the aforementioned storms. Thankfully, Lord Creager, the Path provides us a means of continuing on even after our frailties render our bodies but empty vessels.”

Lord Creager nodded and gave a pert smile, the motion made larger by his strange beard. “You’re absolutely right. Now, I must beg your leave. I have a few missives to write and reports to review. If you will excuse me?”

He bowed, bending at the waist though not appearing to move much, and then strode around them toward the back of the ship where a number of other, smaller men stood. Attendants or slaves, perhaps? Part of Lhaurel grew enraged at the thought of them being slaves, though it was a small voice now. It was part of the world she’d become entangled in. It wasn’t something she could change.

“You will also need to excuse us,” Talha said to the other two men, who were watching Lord Creager retreat with sour expressions on their faces. “We have some business to attend to as well. I assume our rooms have been prepared below?”

“I assume they have been, yes,” the portly Lord Mydan said, scratching at his chin beneath his beard. “Storms take the slave who hasn’t.”

“That one will take him first.” Lord Leyhend nodded toward where the blocky Sister stood beating at the drum, keeping the oars moving in time. It was only then that Lhaurel realized how far they’d already travelled. The oars propelled them forward at twice again the speed of the barges. Already they’d passed beyond the city of bridges and stone.

“You’re likely right.” Talha sniffed and turned her head to look at Lhaurel. “Come now, Lhaurel. Let us be off. This journey is a short one.”

Lhaurel gestured for Josi, who still stood close behind her, to follow and the three of them headed toward the back of the craft in the direction that Lord Creager had gone. Talha moved quickly, reaching the raised section and gesturing for one of the sailors to open a door there, which he did with quick, economical movements. Talha strode through into the short corridor beyond. Lhaurel nodded at him, but hurried after Talha, her priestess tagging along behind. Talha opened a door and walked in, leaving it open for Lhaurel and her priestess.

“I
hate
politics,” Talha fumed as Lhaurel walked into the room. Talha kept talking, but Lhaurel missed the rest of the words as the sheer opulence of the room overwhelmed her.

Shimmering cloth in seven distinct colors hung from the walls, swaying with the motion of the ship. Couches, chairs, and oddly rounded pillows in bright, puffy patterns lay in neat arrangement through the surprisingly large chamber. Bottles and bottles of wine and other drink lay in racks against one wall, nestled behind a sort of table with no legs. A tall man stood behind it, his lower half obscured by the table-like counter. He was an older man, with a squared face and somewhat exotic hair that seemed to stand up at the sides and sweep backward toward his neck.

“Lhaurel!” Talha snapped, the edge in her voice making it quite clear how she felt about being ignored. “I asked you a question.”

Lhaurel forced herself not to flush. She needed to stop doing that. She was one of the Seven Sisters now, given respect by all and feared even more.

“What was the question?”

“Would you like a drink?” Talha snapped, throwing a hand toward the man at the counter, who looked at her and bowed slightly.

“Just water, I think.” Lhaurel said.

“Lance,” Talha said. “Water for her and a tall glass of a dark wine will do for me.”

“Yes, Great One,” the man, Lance, replied with another bow. His voice was oddly lilting, almost as if he were about to burst into song. He wore a strange outfit, a red leather overcoat with several leather cords strung from one shoulder to the other that were quite clearly
not
necessary to hold the outfit closed. A strange ruffled shirt was underneath, the wavy-patterned collar poking out from beneath the overcoat. “Is there a particular year or vintage you’d prefer?”

Talha flopped down into one of the slope-backed chairs and fished in a pouch at her waist, pulling out a small, leather-bound book and a pencil. “The usual, Lance. It doesn’t ever change.”

The man nodded and began pulling out glasses, polishing them with a stark, white cloth, and looking through the racks of bottles.

“Sit, Lhaurel,” Talha said, gesturing with her pencil to anther of the squashy, slope-backed chairs, then looked over at Lhaurel’s priestess, who still stood behind her. “You go over there.” Talha gestured toward one corner of the room that was partitioned off with some cloth hung from the ceiling. “Do not speak.”

Lhaurel rankled at the way Talha addressed her priestess, but let it go as she took a seat on the edge of her chair. It was softer than she expected and she almost fell backward at the lack of expected resistance, but her staff saved her once again. It
was
proving rather handy. Talha had placed hers in an ornately carved stone barrel-thing near the door. Josi bowed and strode to the other side of the room.

“I
hate
politics,” Talha complained, the end of her pencil tapping against her bottom lip.

“So you’ve said.”

Talha waved the hand holding the pencil. “That was not a statement. It was an introduction.”

Lhaurel rolled her eyes. Another lesson.

“Lhaurel, this is important.” Talha leaned forward, her tone as earnest as Lhaurel had ever heard before. “You think we’re infallible as Sisters, that we’re this great, untouchable thing. That’s the image we portray to the world. We have great, deific power, but we’re only seven women. We’re mortal. We can be killed. And we’re limited.”

Lhaurel leaned back from the intensity of Talha’s words, feeling fear grip her chest. Her mind called up the memories of the dream where Beryl had killed the other Sister back in Elyana’s day. She felt suddenly vulnerable and she wanted nothing more than to draw on her abilities. The absence of her magic was another stark reminder of her utter weakness in this foreign land.

“Politics is a strange beast of perception and presence instead of knowledge or understanding. It goes against everything I understand. There is nothing concrete or factual about it. It’s like trying to define what salt tastes like. Some things, by their very nature, are so unique they
become
the definition of itself. Politics is one of those things.”

Lhaurel tried not to let her focus wander.

“Dack Creager is a master of politics. House Creager wasn’t even considered one of the Great Houses when he became head of the family. Now he is the head of the Council of Houses and is as slippery as an eel.”

Lhaurel recognized the word from Elyana’s memories. The council of Great House representatives, the political government’s balance to the religious might of the Seven Sisters. A direct influencer of the economy and trade within the Empire.

“His beard is a little odd for one so powerful,” Lhaurel observed, coming to the slow understanding that she most likely had not presented herself well in their first meeting.

Talha stared at Lhaurel as if she’d just grown a third eye.

“The man
is
power, Lhaurel. He follows the path of Power, though oft times he leans heavily toward Conquest. Those two are difficult to separate. The point is, he does what he wills. He defines the fashions of Estrelar and Anichka. You’ll see dozens emulating him, just as you saw that woman back in Geithoorn.” Talha blew out a long, clearly exasperated breath.

Lance approached and handed Talha a glass of dark, amber colored wine. She took it without looking at him. Lhaurel took her glass of water when Lance approached, but didn’t drink it. Lance retreated back toward his counter. Talha swished the wine around in her glass for a long moment before taking a sip, placing her notebook and pencil down next to her. She half smiled in satisfaction and looked down at the glass in her hand, then took several large swallows.

“You must always be cognizant of the fact that politics is at work. It breathes with the life force of the Empire—it flows through all action, especially here. Don’t ever believe anyone who offers to help you for nothing or who seems to ask too many or not enough questions. The wrong words at the wrong time or to the wrong people can get you killed.”

“Killed?” Lhaurel asked, looking up sharply. “We’re Sisters.
Can
we be killed? I mean
really
killed?”

Talha snorted and took another drink. The glass was almost empty.

“Of course we can. We’re not infallible. One of the benefits of being in the Path and having achieved our Iteration is that the death of one life, one body, isn’t the end. We return. But there are . . . gaps, when that happens. We try and minimize them, but they happen. Memories get jumbled, prior lives are sometimes lost, and things of that nature. So yes, we can be killed, but it doesn’t really stop the Path.” Talha took another long drink. “I’ve missed this wine. Lance, another glass.”

Lance hurried over and poured more wine into Talha’s glass from an old, yellow glass bottle. There was dust on the outside of the bottle.

“Politics is a game that everyone you meet in the Empire is playing. You are playing it too, even if you don’t realize it. I will teach you what I know of it, but you must be wary. What you say will be remembered. What you do will be spoken of to others. What you are, that you must keep to yourself.” Talha gave Lhaurel a significant look, then took another drink. “Politics. Oh, how I
loathe
politics.”

Lhaurel’s head spun with the implications. She’d already thought being a Sister was complicated. This sense of political wrangling and strife was even more so. How did
anyone
juggle it all?

Talha got to her feet after placing the empty wine glass on the ground next to her chair. Lhaurel looked over at her as she walked over to her staff by the door and pulled it free of the container it was in.

“I am not feeling well, at the moment,” Talha said, swaying slightly. “I shall retire to another room to rest for the few hours it will take us to reach Estrelar. You—well, you should stay here, I think.”