Golden Age (The Shifting Tides, #1)(81)

Dion’s eyes shot open, and for a moment he didn’t know where he was. Remembrance slowly returned; he was far from home, on the Salesian side of the Maltherean Sea.

Leaving the circle of sleeping marines propped up around the fire, Dion walked down to the beach and stared into the water. He felt disturbed, although he couldn’t place the reason why.





35


Peithon, first adviser to King Markos of Xanthos, master of trade and the treasury, stood on the balcony of his majestic villa, hands on the rail as he gazed out at the city below.

The voice of the overseer droned on and Peithon was fighting to keep listening. Instead he was thinking about his home.

After the Royal Palace, it was the most impressive residence in the city, but Theodotus, the richest merchant in Xanthos, had just commenced work on a villa that would make Peithon’s home pale in comparison. Admittedly, the new villa’s position, while high, was less desirable than Peithon’s, which was both close to the palace and loftily raised from the stench of the poor. But what chafed most of all was that it would block the view he was currently enjoying. He could see it now – already the foundations had been laid and workers scurried to and fro as they erected the walls. He would be forced to watch as the first story went up, and then the second. The most skilled artists from Phalesia would decorate the exterior and design elaborate gardens. Statues would catch his eye whenever he looked from this vantage. People would remark on the residence of Theodotus where they had previously talked about Peithon’s home.

Something the overseer said caught his attention.

‘—going to halt work. I need a hundred pieces of silver just to keep going for another week.’

He was discussing the new harbor wall. It was barely a few inches high and didn’t yet cover the length of the city’s shore. Nikolas, the king’s eldest son and heir, had pushed his father to erect it, but workers were expensive, as was stone.

Peithon turned to face the frowning overseer. ‘You will get your coin when I have it.’

‘Stopping work will set us back,’ the overseer persisted. ‘It takes time to assemble a crew and explain what needs doing to the team leaders.’

‘Then don’t stop work,’ Peithon stated, spreading his hands.

‘They are family men. They need to feed their children.’ The overseer changed tone, his voice now inquiring. ‘Perhaps, lord, you can provide some of your own silver, just until the king’s money arrives? I heard in the city that you’ve just paid a sizable sum for an extension to your villa . . .’

Peithon’s eyes narrowed. Heavyset but tall, he leaned forward and jutted a pudgy finger with a thick silver ring as he spoke to the overseer. ‘Who am I?’

The overseer stammered, remembering his station. ‘You are the king’s first adviser.’

‘And who are you?’

‘I am a master of stone.’

‘Well, I am master of stone, timber, food, wine, coin – the list goes on. There are many items that require my attention and that make demands on the treasury—’

Peithon’s speech was interrupted when he saw one of his servants leading a slim man with neatly combed hair to the balcony. Recognizing Alastor, the king’s chief steward, he decided to close the conversation.

‘Tell your men to keep working. They will get their money when the king is ready. If they decide to halt, I will inform the king, and he will make an appropriate response. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, First Adviser. But the queen said—’

‘You spoke to the queen, rather than come directly to me?’ Now Peithon was truly furious.

‘She asked me about the progress on the wall,’ the overseer protested.

‘Everything comes by me,’ Peithon spat. ‘Everything. If you circumvent my authority again I will have you thrown out of the city. Your wife and children will go with you, and you will find yourself without a home, looking for work in a place where you have no friends.’

‘Yes, First Adviser,’ the overseer said mournfully.

‘Good. Now get out.’

Peithon scowled at the overseer as he left, but then smoothed his expression and turned to face the king’s steward.

‘Alastor, my friend. What can I do for you?’

‘Lord, you said you wanted to know about all messages that arrive for the king?’

‘I do.’

‘The silver . . . ?’

Peithon’s smile tightened. ‘Is your news worth silver?’

‘It is.’

‘Follow me.’ He led the king’s steward into the villa’s interior and retrieved a single coin from the ornate wooden box on a side table. He offered it, but when the steward reached out he drew back his hand. ‘The news?’

‘The news is from Phalesia. It is old, but we are only getting it now. The Ilean warship that was damaged in the earthquake . . .’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘Prior to the quake, as part of a larger fleet, the Ileans sacked three towns on the isle of Orius. They burned the houses, looted the temples, and raped the women.’

Peithon rubbed his chin as he murmured. ‘Then, damaged in the tremor, they had the nerve to ask Phalesia for help.’

‘The reports have convinced the Assembly. Despite the peace faction, they are preparing for war.’