Free Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 by Joel Shepherd

warn of any move in force. Worse, the poor will barricade, and spy, and drop flaming jars from the windows. And, in all likelihood, the serrin will help them. There are at least two hundred of the talmaad in Petrodor, probably more of late. Senior Nasi-Keth also move from house to house and rarely stay in the same lodgings for long, so their location can hardly ever be guaranteed. Even should your two hundred men survive long enough to reach the target, the house would likely be empty…and very few of your men would live to escape back here to the higher slopes.”
    Duke Tarabai drew himself up, bristling. “You underestimate my men, young Steiner—”
    “There shall be no such attempt,” said Patachi Steiner, with a sharp gesture of his hand. “The forces of the provinces shall not operate in the city without the consent of the families. And we do not give it.”
    Duke Tarabai paled a little beneath the patachi's stare. “As you say, Patachi. I meant no offence.”
    “You are correct in one thing, though,” the patachi continued. “Cronenverdt and his girl make matters complicated. It shall be difficult to raise any army and come to an understanding with the Maerler, with the Nasi-Kethsuddenly militant and interfering beneath Cronenverdt's command. But one must know the city, Duke Tarabai. You are a foreigner from the countryside. I—” he raised a crooked forefinger, “ I have lived in this city for all my sixty-four years. I have done business here, and I have made fortunes here. I tell you that there are other ways, Duke Tarabai, to resolve a problem, than the brutal force of a direct assault. Such is not the Petrodor way.”
    Duke Tarabai made a small bow. “I concede to your wisdom, Patachi. What are your plans?”
    The great man of Petrodor gave the Duke of Danor a lingering, watchful stare. “When I need you to know,” he said simply, “I shall tell you.”

     
    “Well it wasn't me,” said Rhillian, sipping a cup of water. “It's the usual Petrodor tangle. Anyone could have killed Randel Ragini.”
    The bar was dingy, old plank walls lit with dull lamps, small, scattered tables frequented by a few quiet patrons. Most of The Fish Head's usual customers were outside.
    Sasha sat alongside Rhillian, watching Kessligh's expression. Aiden, one of Kessligh's closest allies amongst the Nasi-Keth, wore a thinking look. They spoke Saalsi, as was common between Nasi-Keth and serrin in Petrodor. Very few who were not one or the other could speak it with any fluency. It made spies less of a problem.
    “I hear Randel Ragini was actually a good man,” Aiden volunteered. He had a homely face, with a wide neck and unremarkable chin, black hair slicked back from his forehead, and friendly brown eyes. But he wore the sword at his back svaalverd-style and had passed the useen of the Nasi-Keth—the graduation ceremony, from uma to uman, student to teacher. Such men were not to be taken lightly, no matter what they looked like. “He gave money to the Riverside Brothers, and helped fund an orphanage at Cuely. It's sad.”
    “Good men usually die first amongst the families,” said Kessligh. He looked grim, and just a little tired. The dull lamplight seemed to weary his features even further. It seemed to Sasha that, for the first time in all the years she'd known him, only now did he truly look the fifty years she knew him to have. A craggy face, sharp-edged and worn. Her uman for twelve of her twenty years. The nearest thing to a father she'd ever have. Certainly her true father, King Torvaal of Lenayin, would never qualify.
    It was strange to see him in this environment. Kessligh was born in Petrodor, the son of poor dockworkers who'd died young from thethen-rampant infestations of disease. The Nasi-Keth had become his family, and their teachings had granted him hope. He'd been a loner even then, desperate for escape and wide horizons. When Torovan volunteers had come calling for men to go and fight the Cherrovan