Black foundations.
Pure white marble columns.
Slaves streamed through the colonnades, converging on the water garden at the palace’s heart.
Ice-chilled water crept through carved channels, a rare mercy in the Volantene heat.
Trimmed hedges divided the courtyard into a maze.
Flowers blazed.
The scent of fruit carried past the outer walls.
Gem-studded lounges clustered at the center.
Men in tokars sprawled across them while half-dressed slave girls, their cheeks tattooed with flowers and hearts, lifted fresh fruit and pale green Volantene wine to their masters’ lips.
“Doran.
Your plan failed.” A man with an extravagant beard accepted a cup of green wine from a slave.
“The Bontaro pig and his bastard are dead.
The coward ran crying to your father.
If the old man hadn’t swallowed his pride, this would have ended badly.”
Doran Maegyr plucked a roasted scarab from a kneeling slave’s back, dipped it in pepper paste, and crunched down.
“They were stupid.
I told them to test the Valezeth boy.
I didn’t tell them to steal his property.” He laughed.
“Did they really think the old sorcerer’s things would be easy to take?”
“The Tigers have been silent too long.” The speaker was tall and gaunt, his beard trimmed to a rapier’s point.
“While the old sorcerer lived, the Elephant cowards kept us pinned.
Now he’s dead.
What is the boy doing?”
He sat up, drained his wine, and kicked the serving slave to the floor.
“Go get Valezeth silver wine, you whore’s get.
That’s the only thing with any bite.”
The girl crawled out without raising her head.
“The boy is selling his father’s land.” The man’s face twisted.
“Doran.
What is he playing at?
That land was the old sorcerer’s lifeblood.”
“I don’t know.” Doran Maegyr poked through the food with indifference, then grabbed a fried grub split open and stuffed with minced meat and pepper paste.
“Whatever he sells, I buy.
Pity those Elephant whelps keep getting in the way.
Otherwise the land would all be ours.”
“Only land?” The voice came from an old man who had been drinking in silence.
“Lord Belicio.
What do you mean?” The bearded man sat up fast and turned toward the head of House Maegyr, the Tiger Triarch.
“Doran.
Does your contract include the farmers on that land?
The workshop laborers?”
One sentence.
Belicio had just upended Doran’s mind.
“It’s.
It’s standard practice.
Land and estates come with the slaves attached.”
“The old sorcerer had no standard practice.” Belicio’s tone stayed flat.
“His farmers, his workshop laborers, his miners, his soldiers.
None of them follow Volantene tradition.
Those people.” The old Triarch paused.
“Are not slaves.
They are hired workers.
So their contracts remain in the boy’s hands.”
Doran thought for a moment.
“Lord Belicio, the land is already ours.
Its yields far exceed our own estates.
We’ve already gotten more than our money’s worth.”
“Without the old sorcerer’s skilled farmers and workers, without his methods, how many years can you maintain those yields?” Belicio wanted to crack open his grand-nephew’s skull and see what was inside.
The boy had walked straight into a pit.
“And did you bid high against those Elephant whelps?”
“Yes.” Doran’s face flushed.
“But the land matters.
More than half of the Valezeth estates sit in Elephant territory.
We can use them to penetrate their voting districts.”
“We are not at war with the Elephant whelps right now.” Belicio pressed a hand to his forehead.
“Or do you think we can win Elephant votes?”
Silence.
“Enough.” Belicio saw no one would speak.
“Doran, keep buying Valezeth land.
If the boy is selling, acquiring it is no bad thing.
At worst, it builds goodwill.”
“I understand, Lord Belicio.” Doran rallied now that his actions hadn’t been wholly condemned.
“Building goodwill with House Valezeth was my intent all along.”
“But.
Lord Belicio.” The bearded man had thought of something.
“The Bontaro coward seems to want to act.
Should we.”
Belicio’s eyes narrowed.
“That is not our concern.” He paused.
“Leave it alone.”
“You’re saying the Valezeth boy buried the old sorcerer and then started selling off the family estates?” Elephant Triarch Clivna Vysama had summoned her party’s senators.
They were discussing the Valezeth land sales.
“Yes, my lady.” Hamar of House Cyrenica pointed at the council chamber map.
He was the younger brother of Triarch Vagado and a candidate for the next Triarch’s seat.
“Whatever the Valezeth boy intends, his family’s land is fertile.
Even without the attached farmers and workers, we can make use of it for years.
After that, even without the old sorcerer’s methods, the yields will remain substantial.
And at the very least, buying the land builds goodwill with one of our own.”
“Senator Hamar, I’ve heard you lost several land auctions to Tiger bidders.” A tall man with a blue-dyed beard raised an objection.
“If House Cyrenica lacks funds, we can pay on your behalf.
House Valezeth may have long abstained from the Senate, but they have always been our supporters.
We cannot lose such a powerful ally.”
“Yes.” The general of the Tiger Cloaks shifted in his seat.
“At the very least, their Silverblood Legion can actually fight.
With them, we never have to worry about the Tigers’ forces.”
“Enough.” Lady Clivna considered for a moment.
“Do any of you know why Lancel Valezeth is selling the estates?”
Silence.
Only Hamar had a guess.
“I can speculate.
The Valezeth land sales did not begin with Lancel’s inheritance.
They started slowly while the old sorcerer still lived.
This is not some whim of Lancel Valezeth.
And in every sale, House Valezeth has been fully prepared.
They may even have plans we know nothing about.”
“Their contract servants are not included in the sales.
What about the freeborn?” Lady Clivna had found the key question.
Volantene democracy was simple.
Every landowning freeborn could vote in the Triarch elections.
In practice, those freeborn were attached to the great families and great landholders.
They were not truly “free.” The old Triarch families like Maegyr, Cyrenica, and Vysama commanded fixed voting blocs numbering in the tens or even hundreds of thousands.
House Valezeth, if Lancel chose to run for the Senate, could count on no fewer than ten thousand freeborn votes.
“Aside from the skilled freeborn artisans under contract, the rest will transfer with the land to the new owners.” Hamar spoke.
“Rest assured, my lady.
The Valezeth steward who handled the transfer guaranteed there would be no mass loss of votes.”
“Well done.” Lady Clivna nodded.
“Keep watching House Valezeth.
If the Silverblood Legion goes up for sale.”
“We must secure it at any cost.
And the Valezeth silk workshops.” The Tiger Cloaks general spoke loudly.
“As for the Tigers, keep watching them.” Lady Clivna tapped the map, tracing the sharp divide between the two parties’ territories.
“Funding is not a concern.
House Vysama will contribute three million honors in gold and silver for the purchase of Valezeth land and assets.
You are free to bid against the Tigers.”
“House Holdane contributes seven hundred thousand honors.” The blue-bearded man raised his hand.
“Lord Hamar, we cannot let our voting base bleed to the Tigers.”
The Elephants still feared the Tigers’ old military strength, even after all these years out of power.
“House Magorwyn contributes one million two hundred thousand honors.” The Tiger Cloaks general raised his hand.
“Lord Hamar, the Silverblood Legion must not fall into Tiger hands.”
The Elephant senators reached swift consensus.
Whatever Lancel intended, Valezeth assets could not go to the Tigers.
Especially their military strength.
Beneath the Valezeth estate.
The underground laboratory.
Lancel shed his clothes and accepted a Valyrian steel dagger with a silver-wrought hilt from the Red Priest.
The priest’s face was a tapestry of flame tattoos, eyes, and crimson patterns.
But his gaze burned with fervor.
Another Red Priest stepped from the shadows.
This one was old.
Wrinkled skin bore tattoos of roaring flames and dragons in full cry.
A long white beard hung to his chest, strung with flame-shaped ornaments.
His blue-violet eyes held the same heat, the same devotion.
Lancel knew him.
Ben Doro, priest of the Great Temple of R’hllor in Volantis.
A sorcerer who had often visited Cleorius.
“Begin.” Ben Doro nodded to the younger priest.
The young Red Priest drove the dagger into his own heart without hesitation.
Lancel extended his hand.
The priest’s blood flowed as if guided, racing along the symbols carved into the laboratory floor.
Then.
Fire.
It ignited.