Treason’s Fulcrum by JM Landels

The only thing better than re-reading a favourite book for the umpteenth time is perhaps the discovery that there is even more to that cherished story. Regular readers will be familiar with the character of Irdaign from the Allaigna’s Song trilogy by JM Landels. And in Pulp Literature Issue 25, Winter 2020 she offers her fans a previously untold tale.

This short story occurs early in the life of Irdaign — that mistress of manipulation who has a finger in every pot in the Ilmar — when she was merely a midwife’s apprentice. Here now is a tantalizing excerpt from ‘Treason’s Fulcrum‘.

Treason’s Fulcrum

Lauraign leans close to me, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Think, Irdaign. It will be so easy. And more … so fun.”

When she laughs, my twin sister reminds me of a fox, her grass-green eyes and white teeth glinting in the sunshine.

“We don’t look enough alike. My eyes are blue — ”

She waves an impatient hand. “And my hair’s straighter. Details! Compared to most Ilmari, we’re as like as two eggs in a nest. Look!”

She takes a lock of my hair, holds up it between our faces, and starts to sing. As she does, the tight ringlets I’ve fought all my life to tame relax and soften, flowing over her hand like water. Intrigued by the possibilities, I add my voice to hers, a counterpoint melody that deepens the colour, turning it from pale strawberry blonde to a rich, bronzy red that matches hers.

She sits back, hands on hips, mock put out. “See, you’re better at it than I. You’ve been teasing me all along.”

I fold my arms. “We’re good, Lauraign, but not that good.” I flick my mismatched lock over my shoulder. “Can you change the shape of your face, the colour of your eyes, and the timbre of your voice all at the same time? And maintain it?”

She laughs. “I don’t even need a charm to do your voice, Irdaign,” she replies, in, I’m annoyed to admit, a quite passable impression of me. “I’ve been practising for years.”

The tip my sister has received from her friends, such as they are, is this: Prince Goffree of Brandishear, as part of his war with the Valnirati, has drawn up land grants — hundreds of them, prepared in advance — to be awarded along with concomitant titles to his captains and generals. Such deeds, worthless as they are now with the territory under Ilvani control, will be worth a fortune should the war end in Brandishear’s favour.

Not that my sister and I want to rob the worthy soldiers of their rightful pay. But two or three deeds fewer will not affect the officers. There will be more deeds than heroes by the end of this bloodbath, and excess lands will go to already-titled lords, who have no need of further riches as far as we are concerned.

What does concern us is the parcelling up and selling off of land. We Leisanmira have found our travels more and more restricted with each passing year. In peacetime we wandered freely between Ilmari and Ilvani lands, hindered by none, welcomed by most. But now suspicions run high, and trust is hard to come by. More and more often we have to drive our carthorses around manors that once let us pass through with ease. If the borders of the Valnirata are eaten away by more Ilmari landholders, our routes will become ever more circuitous. A few well-chosen landlords, sympathetic to our people, could keep our trails open.

It is our good fortune Prince Goffree has chosen as his clerk for this task not one of the household scribes inside the Bastion but Hrinmeath Udor, a lawyer situated in Harkness square.

It takes a fortnight of careful scrying and old-fashioned spying to track the habits of both Udor and his son, Molod; it takes a week more to introduce myself — or rather Lauraign and me, both of us playing me — to Molod. There follow several evenings of flirting, teasing, softening, yet ever refusing to follow him home from the Three Rings in Glaeddyn Lane. Tonight his luck will land.

Molod lifts the flagon to pour me more wine. I put a hand over my cup, lower my eyes, and murmur something about him taking advantage of my weakness for drink. He would lead me home now, but I demur. I am too modest to be seen walking arm-in-arm with a young man of the town into his home. I ask instead for a token I can show to his footman, so I can arrive after dusk. He is about to pull the signet ring from his finger but pauses, no doubt thinking I will simply scamper away with it. Instead he gives me a password.

“Udreyathrin.” I repeat the word — his grandmother’s surname — enunciating clearly for the benefit of my sister, whose scryed reflection nods at me from the dregs of my wine cup. “I will come after twilight,” I say, letting my fingers trail along his cheek. “Wait for me.”

I step from the tavern and walk a few feet from the door, singing a charm to transform my blue cloak to brown and weave a glamour of obscurity around me. He emerges shortly after, and I fall into step twenty paces behind him, mingling with the early evening crowd on Rheran’s streets.

The most difficult part of this confidence trick is coming now. I strengthen my charm and move it down below the level of vocalization, maintaining an aura of near invisibility as I close the distance between us. It is not long before his father’s townhouse appears. Luckily the front door is in shadow, which means the setting sun can cast none of mine. I let my cloak slide off my shoulders, and it fades back to blue near the cellar entrance.

I am on Molod’s heels, barely daring to breathe, my footfalls parroting his as he opens the front door and enters.

To find out what happens next, pick up your copy of Issue 25, Winter 2020 here!

JM Landels is torn between travelling the world to teach writing and swordfighting, and never leaving her idyllic farm in Langley, BC. Her first book, fantasy bestseller Allaigna’s Song: Overture, is available from Pulp Literature Press and Amazon, and the sequel, Aria, was released April 2020. You can follow her adventures with pen and sword at jmlandels.stiffbunnies.com.