The Dealmaker's Gambit: Tales of Koleth, #1

By JW Troemner

A century ago, Irora's ancestors bargained with the supernatural zader for power over fire. A year ago, their secret was exposed and her life fell apart. This morning, she's setting out to take her revenge.

Remishi law is absolute: any human who deals with the zader is a traitor. Any boons or favors, triks or curses-- it's all proof of guilt. Now that the truth is out, her family has been rounded up, either imprisoned or killed for their ancestor's crime-- all except Irora.

Irora has survived as a fugitive for over a year, but simply surviving isn't enough. With no hope for justice, she will find whatever way she can to fight back. Branded a dealmaker for her ancestor's treason, Irora sets out to do the unthinkable: become a dealmaker herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JW Troemner
• Release date: Sep 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781945182099

JW Troemner

JW Troemner was born in Germany and immigrated to the United States, where she lives with her partner and house full of pets. Most days she can be found gazing longingly at sinkholes and abandoned buildings.

Book preview

Special thanks to everyone whose support made this story possible, but especially to Jackie and CE Wilder

For new beginnings

DESPITE EVERYTHING, Irora Yureu was a little bit disappointed that her trial wasn’t better attended. 

She’d successfully evaded capture for more than a year after the rest of her family had been rounded up. That event had made the papers, at least—but then, it would: more than a hundred citizens of previously-good standing had been arrested as cultists and dealmakers, with nothing less than a bloodline boon to prove their guilt. Some of the captures had been fairly dramatic—one of her cousins had burned down a town’s entire warehouse district during the struggle; a great-uncle had torched his family’s prison transport in a desperate bid at their freedom. Irora’s own capture, such as it was, had been far less explosive in comparison. She’d had no interest in being brought in with a broken arm or a shattered jaw, so she’d merely marched up to the first cluster of Security Corps gendarmes she’d found, announced her name, and turned herself in. 

After that point, the trial was really only a formality. Just a quick demonstration of her abilities to prove her boon, a few last-minute questions, and then the inevitable life sentence. Maybe if Commander Bursherabu had decided to make an appearance, Irora might have had reason to bring the gendarmerie down on top of their heads—but that didn’t happen. Apparently the Commander saw this not as the last death knell for the freedom of a once-proud family, but one last loose end tied up before the case was officially closed. 

Her arrest had made the paper, at least, though it hadn’t made it all the way to the front page—and they’d used the woodcut from her wanted poster, which barely looked anything like her. She had a sharp jaw and square features, sure, but the person in the illustration was so angular and jagged that she looked like she might cut herself scratching her nose. The textured hair the artist had given her, while lovely, looked more like it belonged to one of her cousins from the main house; her own hair was straight and long and the color of tarnished brass.

At least some people took her seriously. When she was removed from the gendarmerie’s holding cells, three separate gendarmes held her at gunpoint while one of the transport guards shackled her wrists—slowly, fumbling with the mechanisms while wearing what looked like a set of leather blacksmithing gloves. They led her by a length of chain to the plaza in front of the gendarmerie, which had been emptied of everything except an iron cart in the shadow of a life-sized marble statue.

Security doubled when they reached the wharf, and for good reason. The ships were practically tinder, all wood and rope and canvas soaked in pitch, most of them gathered close together to take advantage of the docks and their cargo cranes. Someone could do real damage with a few stray sparks, if they felt so inclined—which was why Irora was accompanied every step along the way by a small procession of guards and gendarmes. Everyone not aiming weapons at her was hauling buckets of water or sand and shooting nervous glances in her direction, as if she was liable to explode at the slightest provocation.

Really, if she was going to explode, she would have done it a year ago, when the Security Corps was dragging her siblings away in bloodied chains—or in the weeks after, when she spent every waking hour looking over her shoulder as she crossed the Queen’s Sea in the cargo holds of half a dozen ships, always listening for the news of yet another cousin captured or killed. The onslaught of terror and grief had burned themselves down to almost nothing; by now, all that remained was a steady smolder.

As satisfying as it might be to provoke the nervous gendarmes, she had things to do, and that kind of chaos would only slow her down.  

Her guards escorted her up the docking ramp and into the General’s Arm, one of the smaller vessels docked in the wharf. It was outfitted with a ludicrous number of guns and canons in anticipation of piracy, but beyond that it had been stripped down to almost nothing. Its only purpose was to transport its passengers to the island prison of Keryear as quickly as possible, prevent any last-minute rescues, or to sink in the attempt.

The passageways were too narrow to allow more than two people to walk astride, and so the majority of Irora’s escort peeled away when she descended below decks, to the space that might ordinarily have been designated the cargo hold. Here that entire space had been cleared out, and instead the space was divided into two lines of holding cells divided by a narrow passage, each cell barely large enough for an adult to lie down. At the end of the passage, close to the stern of the ship, a metal hatch had been freshly installed in the floor, leading to the bilge below. In other ships, the deepest part of the ship collected what liquid waste accumulated on a ship—mop water that seeped between the boards when the floors were cleaned, piss from the animals that supplied the ships’ fresh rations, seawater that came onto deck during bad weather.

On the General’s Arm, it had been repurposed.

The hatch was opened, and Irora was led down a ladder into the bilge. The space was narrow here, the walls on either side sloping in to meet at the keel beneath her feet, somewhere beneath the ankle-deep bilgewater. The only thing down here was the ship’s bilge pump and, just beneath the ship’s bow, her interim prison cell.

Six sheets of iron had been riveted together to form a box, reddened toward the bottom where the foul-smelling water lapped against its base, with a few holes punched unevenly in its sides to allow airflow and food and nothing else. The door was solid steel, sealed with two locks and triply reinforced, so heavy that it took three guards to drag it open wide enough for Irora to be shoved through. Despite the airholes, the inside was dark and oppressively hot, and the closest thing to comforts provided were a metal bench riveted to the back wall and a single filthy bucket. 

Irora settled on the bench while the guards wrestled the door shut and locked it behind them, and then she listened to the slosh of water as they filed out of the bilge and climbed the ladder to leave her behind. The metal caught the sounds of their footsteps as they moved overhead, and echoed them back to her in low reverberations.

She flattened her face against one of the air holes and peered out. The bilge was utterly dark—and, apparently, otherwise unoccupied. If a guard had been stationed down here with her, they likely would have thought to bring a lantern down with them. 

Hello? she called. Is anybody there?

There was no answer.

She tried again: Is there any chance you could bring me a blanket?

Still nothing. 

She smiled. Good.

That meant it was time for her to get to work.

HOURS PASSED BEFORE booted footsteps made their way across the prison hold over her head. Irora extinguished her fire before the hatch opened and those same booted feet descended the ladder, and then waded in her direction with long sloshing strides. The guard had brought a lantern with them, and it sent circles of yellow light dancing around the back wall of her cell, swinging with each slow step. 

Irora wiped her hands on her trousers and grimaced. The water down here really was filthy.

It’s time for your dinner, the guard said, and pushed a bowl of porridge through one small rectangular opening in the door. Irora took it before the bowl could fall, then stepped close to one of the air holes to peer through. The guard was late into middle age, with a dusting of freckles over their weathered cheeks and wisps of silver threading into their dark curls beneath a knit cap. Now that they weren’t holding the bowl anymore, they switched the lantern to their left hand and rested their right in its customary place against their belly. 

I’m surprised they expect me to eat while I’m down here. Irora nodded at the foul water lapping against the guard’s boots. The smell doesn’t exactly make for a good appetite.

Maybe not, but you need to keep up your strength. They leaned closer and lowered their voice. You’re going to be doing a lot of rowing in the near future.

Irora moved to another air hole for a better look over the guard’s shoulder. You’re alone?

For now. Don’t count on that, though—stay quiet, and don’t make any noises you don’t want carrying up topside. They pointed to the tiny drain grates in the ceiling.

I made it this far, didn’t I? she muttered. Do you really think I’m going to blow it all now just because I can’t keep my mouth shut?

More experienced people than yourself have done exactly that. We’re almost there, but that doesn’t mean we’re in the clear. 

The thought sent a jolt through Irora, hope alloyed with anxiety. We’re coming up close, then? 

They nodded. We’ll be passing near the rocks just after midnight.

And here I thought the guards didn’t like to come near the shoals after dark.

They don’t, they said. "Which is why it’s so unfortunate that the sails are so awfully frayed. They’re calling it a round of bad luck."

Irora couldn’t quite stifle a smile. Really.

Especially since they didn’t notice it before they left port. It’s terrible. Absolutely terrible.

Terrible, Irora repeated dryly. Have I told you lately that you’re amazing, Kiha? 

You could stand to say it more often, Kiha preened. Though maybe save the praises until we’ve got the job done. 

I’ll go faster if I don’t have to look over my shoulder every few minutes, Irora said. What are the chances of someone else coming down here?

They were drawing lots for who had to come down here before I volunteered. Most of them are afraid you’ll burn off their eyebrows if they get too close. They think you’re throwing some kind of temper tantrum down here. That’s how they’re explaining all the steam, anyway.

Irora frowned at the condensation dripping down the steel walls. She’d assumed it would dissipate before it could escape the bilge. Apparently she’d been wrong.

They’ll want news when you come up, she said. Any ideas what you’re going to tell them?

That they’ll lose a lot more than their eyebrows if they get near you.

I’m flattered. She flashed a savage grin. Kiha met it with a warm smile of their own and turned to leave, stretching out the fingers of their free hand. 

Hey. Irora leaned in. How’s your arm?

Kiha wrinkled their nose. It’s been better. Life on a ship isn’t exactly full of opportunities to rest it. Besides, I signed on claiming to be an able-bodied sailor, and I’m not about to admit to lying right before the big moment. That sort of thing tends to make people suspicious.

Maybe you were an able-bodied sailor this morning, Irora said, and she turned away and smeared her hand across the back wall of her cell, where the metal had been darkened with fresh char. Let me take a look, will you?

They raised their bushy eyebrows and stuck their hand through the little rectangular gap almost up to the elbow. Irora grabbed them by the wrist, over their sleeve, and focused heat to the flat of her palm. Other members of her family had been able to harness raw power, but her talent had always been precision. She raised the temperature by a few degrees at a time, just until she caught the acrid scent of burning hair. When she pulled away, the soot from her hands had left a blackened handprint on the fabric, and the center of it had been lightly scorched. 

How’s that?

Kiha withdrew their hand and pulled back the sleeve. Underneath, the skin was a little red and a little more bald than when she’d last seen it, but otherwise they were unharmed. Feels alright.

I know you’re just putting on a brave face, she said. Look at you, just doing your job like a good citizen and you get absolutely brutalized by a felon. What is this world coming to? 

They flashed a warm smile. Appreciate it, boss. 

We have to take care of each other, right? She jerked her chin at the ceiling. These ships have doctors onboard, right? You should probably get that burn checked out. 

They tugged their cap in a lazy salute. Aye aye. And they made their way back to the ladder.

In the few moments while she still had light from Kiha’s lantern, Irora scarfed down her gruel. A few holes had been punched in the bottom of her cell wall, likely to serve as a drain for easier cleaning. They were too small to fit her bowl, but she managed to poke her spoon through and filled up the bowl with bilge water. Then she turned back to the corner of the cell where she’d been working. 

Once again she drew her focus to the space just beyond her palms. There was a pressure there, invisible but potent, and she reached into it and tightened it, harnessed it, and called it into pure concentrated heat. She could count the individual breaths before the wall beneath her hands began to glow red, then a sunset orange, and finally a straw yellow, with the brass rivets within them blazing brighter still.

All at once she grabbed the bowl of water and splashed it onto the glowing wall, which erupted into a gout of steam. She refilled bowl and did it again, and again, and again, until the water ran almost cool to her feet. 

And then she heated the wall again.

The brass rivets swelled within the softened steel, pushing it out in every direction. When she hastily cooled the space, the metal shrank back, but the distortions remained, and each time the rivets became more and more loose in their casings, until at last she could push the rivets through their holes one after another. She prodded at the edges of the glowing metal with her spoon, scraping away at the rivet’s head in the brief seconds before the tin utensil got too soft to use. It was tedious, grueling work, but at least it was work. After the past year, she was sick to death of waiting.

Footsteps approached, and she quickly cooled the wall and set her bowl and spoon aside. This time two sets of boots sloshed through the water on either side of the keel. The swinging light of the lantern was intermittently blocked by a Kiha’s familiar form, holding a bowl of gruel in one hand while their other arm was tucked into a sling. The man holding the lantern was tall and wiry, with a long face that was currently twisted into a snarl.

Two of you this time, Irora said cheerfully. To what do I owe the pleasure? 

Don’t play games, dealmaker, the man growled. 

I do like a good game, she said. "Nice as it is to catch up on some sleep down here, it does get a