Go and find more riders. Quai'Shu had already lost them some thirty ships, burned by dragons while anchored in the bay outside Furymouth, and that had been before he'd helped King Valmeyan steal all of the Prince Jehal's dragon eggs. Perhaps the Mountain King had won his war but Chrias Kwen had met both and thought he probably hadn't. If the prince was back on his throne in Furymouth then the best that any Taiytakei could expect was to have their ships burned to ash around them. The fat fool of a t'varr was right, though. One alchemist and one dragon-rider was too few of either.
He looked down over the desolate rain-swept stone of the Grey Isle. Here was as good a place as any for monsters, wasn't it? Elesxian could start building, have the Stoneguard dig tunnels and caves ready for the slaves and the dragons when he found a way to wrest them from Tsen's grip. They'd need their own alchemist though, ready and waiting, and as for a rider. .
He closed his eyes. An expedition to the dragon lands meant paying for a navigator to take them across the storm-dark. It meant half a dozen ships at the very least. He'd have to land his men far away from either city or eyrie so the ships wouldn't be burned by wandering dragons with their riders. He'd have to find the sort of men who could stay hidden in a hostile land for weeks, perhaps months, who could slip into an eyrie full of dragons and slip away again with captives who'd be far from happy about being taken. One of the lesser shifters, one of the failed Elemental Men, a windwalker or an earthshifter perhaps, but again they cost a small fortune and Quai'Shu had already almost ruined them.
Almost ruined? Such things were a t'varr’s domain and t'varrs were always prone to exaggerate, but Chrias had his own spies. As far as he could see, Tsen was right. Xican was so deep in debt that they'd all be slaves before another year was out and for what? Eggs and babies! Vespinarr would own them all before much longer! If they had their way, they'd take Tsen's eyrie and everything in it for a fraction of what it was worth and put Meido on his father's throne, no better than the Vespinese puppet lord of Tayuna; and yes, Tsen had no love for the Vespinese either and he might fight them tooth and nail, but how, when success depended on a slave who brewed potions from his own blood and would doubtless soon be murdered and that. . that murderous whore-slave who ought to be hanging from nails through her feet for what she'd done to Zifan'Shu. . Yes. Alchemists and riders, another few of each and soon, but not given to Baros Tsen and his eyrie. They'd be held safe and in secret in Xican, out of harm's way.
He sighed. Tsen was actually damn good as a t'varr. Why couldn't he be content? What did he want that he didn't already have? But there was no point dwelling on that — Tsen clearly wasn't content and so he'd have to be brought to heel and that meant taking his power away. Chrias turned from the window and paced tiny circles inside the gondola. He couldn't send his black-cloaks to the dragon lands — they were Taiytakei and could never pass as anything else. It would have to be slaves. Slaves from the dragon lands themselves. The Taiytakei had plenty, and mostly they hated the dragon-riders and the alchemists. If times had been different he'd go among the sword-slaves who'd come from there and pick them himself and yes, he'd probably lead the expedition with a handful of his own best men but not now, not with Quai'Shu as he was. He'd need someone else. Someone he could trust with six ships and two hundred men and possibly the future of the Grey Isle itself.
He stopped his pacing and smiled. Someone to be the next kwen when he wore Quai'Shu’s cape. Now there was a prize worth having.
The glasship wafted through the stone spires of the city and drew to a silent halt over the Palace of Leaves. It nudged itself up against the spike of a black stone monolith; its rim touched the very top of the stone and the arcane energy of the earth trickled through, charging the glasship for its next journey. As it did, the golden gondola eased down on its chains. It came to rest a finger above the earth, and through the windows Chrias saw that Elesxian was waiting for him. Elesxian of the Grey Isle. She was Quai'Shu’s eldest grandchild, heir of his heir, the treasured daughter who ruled the city in Zifan'Shu’s name while Zifan'Shu sailed at his own father's side, and of all Quai'Shu’s bloodline by far the best choice for the city's next sea lord. Chrias took a moment to compose himself. Every gesture between them carried meaning. Some to those who watched, some only to himself and Elesxian. She'd left Khalishtor too soon. He needed her to see that matters had changed between them and he needed her to see that at once; but at the same time there would be other eyes on them, and those eyes would have to be blind — all they must see was a kwen come to his sea lord's vassal to call upon her resources.
He opened the egg and stepped outside and bowed. Not the kowtow a sea lord would demand but a bow of almost-equals. He let himself dip perhaps an inch lower than usual. She would see that — and yes, a moment of hesitation before she began the ritual of greeting, old words known by rote, offering her home and her fire and her water. He replied with the formal words every Taiytakei knew by heart. Rituals like these were useful. They broke silences, calmed and settled angry thoughts, and today they filled the awkward handful of seconds it took to walk from his own glasship to hers, brought down to take him to the airy rooftops of her palace. As they entered her own egg — silver this one, streaked with gold, but a true golden egg was for the sea lord and his first servants only — he saw she'd come alone. As had he; and as the glasship rose and there could at last be no eyes watching through the windows, Chrias offered her his arms.
‘I'm sorry for the loss of your father,’ he said, the first time he'd truly been able to offer her any comfort. In Khalishtor everything had orbited Quai'Shu and his broken mind. Everyone else had largely forgotten his murdered son but Chrias. Zifan'Shu would have been a fine lord. The succession would have been clear and no one would have questioned it.
Elesxian looked away. Instead of coming to him she sat among the gold-embroidered cushions heaped around the floor. ‘I would have followed him.’
‘Yes.’
Chrias sat down beside her. He came close but she leaned away and held up a hand. ‘Stop. That's not what I want now. My father's dead and our sea lord has lost his mind, and all for marvellous treasures that turn out to be monsters. And where are they? Out of our hands. Uncle Meido has turned on us and now he and our lord's t'varr seem to think they can exclude us. They forget who is the lady of this city. Will you be here for long?’
‘Not long.’ In Khalishtor she'd worn her masks well. He hadn't realised how bitter she must have felt. ‘The fleet is on its way. I'll make arrangements for its replenishment and another foray to the dragon lands to acquire an alchemist of our ow-’
‘Another? To what end, Chrias? To burn more ships?’
‘What Baros Tsen T'Varr has is far too fragile. I'll be careful.’ He snorted. ‘And yes, I'll be cheap. But that will likely take months before it's done. Until then I'll move between here and Khalishtor. We both must. Tsen can't be left to act freely there or he'll become Quai'Shu’s voice while he keeps our lord alive and stifled in his eyrie.’ Supplying the fleet was a t'varr’s job too, and so he could easily have sent one of his own t'varrs here to arrange the expedition instead of coming himself. People would wonder why he hadn't. He'd have to choose. Let them see the squadron forming to cross the storm-dark or let them see his real reason. He looked at her. Elesxian. Grief was making her older than her years but she was beautiful. Skin black as the dead of night, hair braided down to her feet like a cloak, soft rounded belly. .