Smoke and Shadow: The Fireweaver, Book 1

Chapter 14. RESERVATIONS

CHAPTER 14. RESERVATIONS

Lehran sat across from the merchant, two glasses of the precious '89 batch of Lorecas between them. Fiona had brought the mysterious man promptly to his office. He'd come unannounced, which was, in and of itself, not unusual, but something about his arrival bothered him. Right away he noticed that his own lovely Fiona, usually impervious to the charms of richer patrons, was flushed as a virgin on a wedding night. He took a sip of the fine Lorecas the merchant had brought. Wished he could hate it.

"It's one of your own?"

The merchant's sapphire cufflinks caught the sun like a wink in reply. The amber drink in the crystal tumblers seemed to glow. The Lorecas was flawless, likely older and worth more than the rare Bubinga wood of his desk. He breathed in the drink before taking another sip.

The merchant answered unhurried, and with a look of open pride. 

"It is mine," he said, "First harvest after the Fall." The oldest and the rarest drink you could get. Everything but that vineyard had perished along the coast that year of the flooding.

Lehran took another slow sip and regarded the man in front of him. Did he have a peculiar accent? He couldn't quite place it. Glanced back down at the screen hovering over his desk, once again scanning the man's brief, but remarkable bio.

Lord Aronde Redamte. Owner and sole proprietor of two distilleries in Chanette, a string of small but prosperous vineyards along Jorjuque's bustling coast, and an estate in the much-coveted valley of Arteismia, home to wealthy business owners and other elites. Before that, he'd been a decorated officer with the Rejkavs for ten years. Bullet-shot rise in the ranks. Nothing recorded before that. Model citizen. Squeaky clean. Cleaner than his damn desk.

Lehran closed the hovering screen with a subtle flick of his finger and leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. 

"How may we be of service, Lord Redamte?"

"A woman sang at the Glasgow last night." The man gave a slight pause, but his gaze didn't waver. "I want a Skyroom arranged with her. Today."

Lehran chuckled good-naturedly. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific." He swirled his drink and finished it. "My Stayhouse is filled to the brim this close to Festival. I cannot possibly know which one—"

"I want her." Lord Redamte swiped a finger to his wristscreen, pulling up a video. The woman stood in a pool of light on the Glasgow's quaint stage, a paisley indigo scarf wrapped around her head, leaning over a mandolin, dark lashes against her cheek. Lehran covered his look of shock.

It was the strange, quiet woman who said she was from Jorjuque. With the red-headed wisp of a kid. What the devil could the Lord Redamte want with her? 

The woman, having tuned the mandolin, began to play, strumming her hands over the strings. And then she sang. Her voice was ragged at first, and her chords tentative, but soon, her song and chords merged, her words and voice as cutting and clear as a mountain stream. The Lord cut the footage short and Lehran snapped back to his senses.

"She's not available," he said to the Lord, and he began to pull up other artists, other available Beneiahs on his holoscreen. "We have other talented singers and musicians—"

"I don't want them. I want her."

"She won't want you."

"I would hear it from her."

"I'm sorry, but I cannot allow it. She'd ruin this institution's reputation. Also she has stayed only a week," he said, "and still owes me."

"One-thousand lezions pays for her rent." Three times the amount he would charge for two weeks.