“Colt? What happened? You can’t … wait, what are you doing?” Dorna set her hands on her hips.
“I gave my word,” the count said. “I will keep it.”
“What’s going on?” Ninavis tried to stand, then teetered and sat back down again. “What are they planning to do with my people?”
“Wait,” Brother Qown said. “Count, you’re upset. But please explain what’s going on.”
The Count of Tolamer crossed over to where a pewter goblet and pitcher rested on the sideboard. Her hand trembled as she poured water into the cup, before draining it dry and tossing it to the side.
She hadn’t been as careful as normal. She discarded a crushed finger-dented mass of metal.
Janel pulled her fingers through her laevos. “So before we left Tolamer Canton, when my grandfather still lived, he kept the services of a House D’Aramarin Gatekeeper named Kovinglass. Kazivarian man. I didn’t like him, but I never thought him disloyal. At least, I didn’t think that before my grandfather’s death. When I began to look through my grandfather’s papers, I changed my mind. I don’t know if my grandfather paid Kovinglass too little or if Kovinglass had suffered some slight never forgotten. As my grandfather sickened, Kovinglass recommended poor decision after decision, which mired our house further in debt.”
“Not all thieves use swords,” Brother Qown said. “Some are more successful with brushes and ink.”
The count nodded in bitter agreement. “So it seems.”
Ninavis scowled. “What does this have to do with Tamin? With my people?”
“Because of my experience with Kovinglass’s betrayal,” Count Janel explained, “I wanted to believe Baron Barsine had been misled as well. He seemed to be spinning a story about Kalazan’s dead father—and his father’s attempt at an assassination and coup. Even if Tamin had overreacted to his father’s murder, Tamin himself might have been exploited by men like Captain Dedreugh—and perhaps this Relos Var person.”
“Who?”
“Relos Var. A foreigner.4 Tamin’s teacher. After all, I’ve known Tamin for years. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Of course you did. You nobles stick up for each other, don’t you?” Ninavis rolled her eyes. “Always covering up each other’s shit.”
“Shut it, you,” Dorna said. “You don’t talk to my count that way!”
“No, Dorna. She’s earned the right to scold.” Janel sat down. She looked bereft.
“Count,” Brother Qown said, “what happened?”
“The baron doesn’t realize it, but he’s the one summoning the demons,” she explained. “He thinks he’s killing witches. But he’s claiming innocent people are witches, having them executed, and then dedicating those deaths to a demon named Kasmodeus. There is a witch problem in Barsine—and Tamin is the witch.”
“You have to kill him,” Ninavis said. “You have to kill the baron. There will never be a better opportunity. You’re the only one who can get past his soldiers and do it.”
Count Janel stared at the woman in shock. “Haven’t you heard a word I said? Tamin is being tricked. We have to show him—”
“And that’s supposed to make it all right? The villages swept clean? The men, women, and children sent to the flame?” Ninavis pushed herself upright from where she’d been sitting. “Don’t you dare tell me his gullibility excuses what he’s done.”
The count’s jawline whitened as she stared at Ninavis. Dorna stood. Brother Qown stood as well, unsure what he could do.
“There are ways—”
Ninavis thrust out her jaw. “Are you about to start talking about Censure? Because I swear if—” Her voice died, though, trailing into a numb silence as she stared at the Count of Tolamer.
Janel’s eyes glowed incandescent. Inhuman.
“Allow me,” the count said, “to explain how we do politics here in Jorat.” She stepped forward, and Ninavis stepped back. Except Ninavis already stood at the bed’s edge, so she sat down.
“If I march in there and murder the baron,” Janel explained, “who has no children, who has picked out no heirs—his title and lands don’t fall to me but to the strongest stallion in his service. Who might you think that would be, hmm? Dedreugh. Dedreugh will be in charge. You didn’t see him at the tournament. He’s as strong as I am, if not stronger. He’ll kill all of us, and nothing will change. In Jorat, you cannot assassinate your way into power.5 Maybe, just maybe, allow the possibility I have some idea how to handle this.”
The count walked over to a chest, threw open the lid, and began rummaging around inside.
A long, awkward silence wrapped around everyone in the room.
“What are you?” Ninavis asked.
The Count of Tolamer turned her head. “Determined.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. I just don’t care.”
Ninavis inhaled. “Look—”
“Are you going to help me, or are you going to peck at my every action like a little bird?” Janel dropped the clothes in her arms and turned to face the woman. “I can help you and your people outside. But not if you think I’m an enemy whose purpose is to give you something to rebel against.”
Silence.
Dorna and Brother Qown both looked at the two women, not daring to breathe as they waited to see who would move first.
“Might have been a touch out of line back there,” Ninavis said.
Brother Qown exhaled.
Janel tilted her head to acknowledge she’d heard, but otherwise said nothing as she began to toss more clothing onto the floor.
“They’re my people,” Ninavis continued. “And they’re about to be sacrificed to demons.”
“Maybe…” Brother Qown cleared his throat. “Couldn’t we send a message to Tamin’s liege? Warn them he’s a rogue baron? Who is the count here, anyway?”
“Ysinia,” Dorna said, “but just how would you plan to do that, young man? It ain’t like we have a Gatekeeper, unless you have some talents you ain’t advertised yet?”
Brother Qown smiled wanly, which Dorna took as a negative.
He had no aptitude at all for teleportation magic, assisted by a Gatestone or otherwise. He’d never been much bothered by this. Although the Gatestones connected every corner of the empire, Qown had no real interest in being a glorified toll gate operator.
However, Brother Qown did have a legal House D’Mon license to practice magic. He kept up his membership fees. Unfortunately, in Jorat, unless someone was a priest of the Eight or an official Gatekeeper, they were labeled witches. Brother Qown wasn’t at all sure the local Joratese would give him enough time to present his paperwork before they reached for their torches and pitchforks.
“Well, then,” Mare Dorna continued, “since Barsine’s a banner seat, it’s home to a Gatestone. But way I hear from the locals, the baron’s too stingy to pay for his own Gatekeeper. He has those House D’Aramarin folks doing nothing but the barest. A Gate opened the day before the tournament. A Gate’s gonna open the day after. Anyone wants more, they got to pay it themselves. And like as not, have arranged it in advance.”