Yet even though Lord Unferth had always been a supporter of the Order, the same could not be said of many of his subjects. Unlike other City Lords, he was notoriously lax in persecuting those who spoke out against the Pontiff and her decrees. In his efforts to cultivate an atmosphere of creative freedom, he had turned a blind eye to blasphemers who hid their criticisms of the Order in their art. As a result, Norem had become a haven for heretics and nonbelievers, and when Yasmin had declared another Purge, it proved to be a focal point of resistance and rebellion.
Unferth had tried to quell the unrest in his city, but he lacked the stomach for the harsh measures. It was said he had the soul of an artist though Yasmin understood this was merely a polite way of saying he was a weak ruler.
As Justice of the Order, Lord Carthin had been right to focus his efforts on Norem. Lord Unferth had welcomed his arrival, quickly turning over control of the city to the Pontiff’s duly appointed representative.
But that was weeks ago, Yasmin reminded herself. More than enough time for Carthin to crush the small pockets of rebellion and bring the city into line.
Norem was laid out in a series of ever-widening circles, with the wealthiest residents living in the neighborhoods closer to the center. In the very middle of the city was a sprawling castle—the Unferth ancestral home.
Yasmin had never had reason to visit Norem before, but she had heard tales of the incredible beauty of castle Unferth. When she finally laid eyes on it, however, she was struck more by its impracticality than its majesty. There was no exterior wall to blunt the charge of an attacking army. The grounds were covered by lush gardens and hundreds of massive statues carved from marble—perfect spots for an enemy to take cover against archers inside the main building. The castle itself was long and narrow, with six spires rising along the length of its structure, each spaced far enough away from the others that defenders at one location would be unable to offer support or reinforcements to another. Worst of all, hundreds of massive stained-glass windows covered the entire building, many on ground level.
No wonder Unferth was loath to use force against his subjects, Yasmin thought. If they turned against him, his castle would be overrun in minutes!
As the Pontiff and her followers neared the main entrance of the castle, a small honor guard emerged: six mounted soldiers in full armor carrying red-and-gold banners surrounding a single rider wearing the city colors. To Yasmin’s surprise, however, it wasn’t Lord Carthin who had come to greet her.
“Welcome to Norem, your Eminence,” Lord Unferth said, dismounting so he could grace the Pontiff with a low bow. He was an older man, well into his fifties. At barely over five feet tall, his head barely reached up to Yasmin’s chin. His face was round and puffy, his nose red and veined from years of enjoying too much good wine. His suit was well tailored, but it couldn’t completely hide the small paunch that overhung his belt.
“My city is honored by your visit,” he added, puffing slightly from the exertion of climbing down from his horse.
“Is it still your city?” Yasmin asked.
Unferth blushed as he stammered out a reply. “I am the official ruler of Norem though I have given Lord Carthin temporary control of my soldiers so that he may deal with the rebels in our midst.”
So Carthin has added Norem’s forces to his ever-growing army.
“A noble cause,” Yasmin replied, “but not the one he is supposed to be pursuing. Were my instructions to gather our forces at Callastan not received?”
Lord Unferth looked even more uncomfortable than before. He licked his lips before saying, “I dare not speak for Justice Carthin, Pontiff.”
“Perhaps it is just as well that he speaks for himself,” Yasmin said with a nod. “I trust he is expecting us?”
“News of your arrival came this afternoon,” Unferth assured her. “Lord Carthin has prepared a special feast in your honor.
“However,” he added unexpectedly, speaking far more quickly than before, “if you are tired from the journey, I can escort you to the guest rooms so you can refresh yourself before the meeting.”
“That will not be necessary,” Yasmin assured him.
“Of course,” he said, sounding disappointed. “Lord Carthin is ready for you, then. I will take you there now.”
That was odd, Yasmin thought. She focused the full attention of her Sight on Lord Unferth, sensing something wasn’t right. The night wasn’t particularly warm, but he was sweating profusely. And his eyes kept darting from side to side, as if wary of the soldiers escorting him.
Maybe his surrender of the city wasn’t as willing as he makes it seem. Maybe he’s a prisoner in his own castle. Maybe he was hoping to get some time alone with me to plead his case.
It wouldn’t be out of character for Carthin simply to seize control of Norem’s forces without asking. He could easily justify it as a necessary first step in restoring the Order’s authority over the city. Technically he wouldn’t be overstepping the boundaries of his office as Justice of the Order, though he would be pushing the limits.
Even more reason to have this meeting. Carthin needs to be put in his place. He needs to remember that he serves at my discretion.
Unferth took them to the main entrance of the castle on foot, leading his horse by its bridle. The six soldiers escorting him remained mounted and followed close behind.
“This is where I must leave you, Pontiff,” he said once they reached the door. “A steward will lead you to the banquet hall where Lord Carthin awaits.”
He bowed deeply once more. As he did so, he whispered in a voice so low even the Pontiff’s superior senses could barely hear him, “Don’t drink the wine!”
The door opened and Unferth stood up and turned away quickly, relinquishing Yasmin to the steward waiting on the other side before the Pontiff had a chance to even react to his cryptic warning.
“Justice Carthin is expecting you, Pontiff,” the steward said with a small tilt of his head.
He led the way into the castle, through winding halls and past countless rooms. Though she appeared outwardly calm on the journey, Yasmin’s mind was spinning.
Don’t drink the wine!
She had hoped this visit would bring Carthin back into line—a face-to-face meeting to reassert her authority. But if he was planning to betray her, there was only one way to deal with his treachery.
But is he really planning to betray me? Or is Unferth trying to use me for his own game?
If Unferth had been forced to step down, the older man would be resentful. Was he cunning enough to try to trick Yasmin into turning against Carthin with a carefully placed lie?
She glanced back over her shoulder at her Inquisitors.
There are twelve of us, all armed with quarterstaffs. We could fight our way out of here right now, and Carthin’s men couldn’t stop us all.
But if Unferth was lying, they would end up slaughtering dozens of innocent soldiers. More importantly, the relationship between her and Carthin would be destroyed, and she still had need of his troops.
None of the others had heard Unferth’s warning; only she had been close enough to pick up the faint whisper. But there was no need to warn them; if the time for action came, they would follow her lead without question or hesitation.
I just have to be certain that time has come.
The steward led them into a large banquet hall. The cavernous room could easily seat a hundred diners, but only a few tables in the center of the hall had actually been set—just enough for the Pontiff and her retinue.
But though it appeared they would be dining alone, they were not the only people in the room. Standing at attention along either side of the hall were twoscore soldiers, all fully armored and carrying long spears.
Eighty of them against twelve of us, Yasmin noted. Close to even odds.
At the front of the banquet hall was a raised stone platform. Typically this would have been used as a stage for whatever entertainment would be on hand to amuse the nobles durin
g their feast. On this particular evening, however, the stone stage was occupied by a single large, ornate chair. Seated in it, and flanked by a half dozen guards on either side, was Lord Carthin himself.
It was possible the setup was meant only to feed Carthin’s ego, allowing him to look down on the Pontiff and her Inquisitors like a King lording over his subjects.
Or maybe he wants a clear view of the slaughter when he betrays us.
The soldiers along the walls seemed tense and wary. But that alone wasn’t proof of anything: Ordinary men and women were often nervous and unsettled in the presence of those who served the Order, particularly when they saw the Pontiff and the prominent burns and scarring on her bald scalp.
Along the back wall was a balcony, twenty feet above the main floor. Merchants and other tradesmen could purchase seats there to watch the entertainment while the nobles dined below, but tonight the balcony was empty.
If he was setting a trap for the Pontiff, Carthin could have placed archers on the balcony to rain arrows down on them from above. The Inquisitors could duck, dodge, or deflect some of them, but even they couldn’t survive a coordinated volley.
But if he tried to hide archers up there, he knows I would have sensed them the second we entered the banquet hall.
The steward guided Yasmin and the others to their tables, then scuttled away. Yasmin didn’t take a seat but instead leaned on her staff and looked up at Carthin, who at least had the decency to rise in her presence.
“Welcome to you and yours, Pontiff,” he called out, his voice booming and cheerful. “Please, partake of this feast we have prepared in honor of your arrival!”
The Justice of the Order was smiling—the broad grin of an overeager servant desperately seeking approval from his master.
If he’s planning betrayal, he’s doing a good job of hiding it.
Yasmin’s eyes skimmed the table, noting the extravagant feast that had been laid out. In particular, she noted that a full cup of dark red wine, already poured, had been placed at each setting.
“Are you not going to join us while we eat, Justice?” she asked.
“I am your humble servant, Pontiff,” Carthin replied. “I am not worthy to dine with you and your revered companions.”
His tone was as ingratiating as ever, and once again Yasmin could detect no hint of malice or duplicity in him.
Is Unferth the one I should be doubting?
“We have urgent business,” the Pontiff insisted, trying to push him into revealing something. “Perhaps it would be better if we save the meal until after we speak.”
“If that is your wish, then it shall be so,” he readily agreed. “Though it seems a shame to let such a succulent feast go cold.
“Shall we adjourn to my private chambers?” he asked. “I can have my servants take the meal back to the kitchens to try to keep it warm until our meeting is over.”
If this is a trap, Yasmin thought, then he seems content not to spring it.
“That would be preferable,” she said.
Carthin nodded and held up a hand. But as he opened his mouth to call for the servants he suddenly stopped and tilted his head to the side, as if he just had a sudden inspiration.
“Perhaps while we are in our discussions,” he suggested, “the rest of your companions can enjoy the feast. Unless you require them to be part of our conversation?”
Yasmin glanced quickly from side to side. Her Inquisitors were standing calm and still by their respective dinner chairs, their staves held casually at their sides. If they sensed anything unusual about the exchange, they were careful not to let it show in their bearing.
She was still wary, but so far there had been nothing to indicate Carthin was guilty of plotting against her. True, he was a nobleman who had pushed a little too hard in his efforts to add to his own power and influence. But that was to be expected, and his only real transgression was making up excuses to delay sending his troops to support the siege at Callastan. To suddenly go from loyal, if reluctant, servant to traitor was a great leap, even for a man as ambitious as Lord Carthin.
Don’t drink the wine!
There really was only one way to discover the truth.
“The others can stay and eat,” Yasmin agreed. “There is no need for them to be privy to our discussions.
“But allow me a moment to slake my thirst before we speak,” she added, picking up the wine goblet in front of her.
She brought it slowly to her lips, focusing her Sight on the rich, ruby liquid. She sensed nothing unusual about it, though she knew there were poisons so subtle even she wouldn’t be able to detect them until it was too late.
Tipping the glass back, she let the wine brush against her lips, though she was careful not to let any slip into her mouth. Most toxins would take time to have any effect, and she doubted a single swallow of anything would be enough to incapacitate her. But there was no point in taking an unnecessary risk.
As she set the goblet down on the table she let her awareness drift back across the room toward Carthin. His face was still plastered with the same ingratiating grin he’d worn since she entered, but for an instant she saw something flicker in his eyes—a smug glint of cruel satisfaction. It came and went in an instant, but the Pontiff had no doubt about what she’d seen.
Fourscore against a dozen.
There was no time to accuse, no time to explain. Not if she wanted to get to Carthin before he could escape.
Yasmin leapt forward, her long legs propelling her onto the top of the table with a single step as she rushed toward the raised stage. At her back the Inquisitors instantly sprang into action, responding to her charge by fanning out in all directions, their staves spinning furiously through the air.
She had already covered half the distance between her and Carthin by the time he realized what was happening.
“Nightfall! Nightfall!” he shouted, yanking out a black kerchief and waving it above his head.
In response to his signal, the guards aligned along the wall lowered their weapons and rushed forward, trying to mow down the Inquisitors in the center of the room with a wave of spears crashing in from either side.
Yasmin ignored the battle behind her, gaining speed and momentum as she threw herself from the floor and up onto the stage. The dozen guards surrounding Lord Carthin barely had time to ready their spears before she landed among them.
The stone stage was large, but with nearly a dozen armed combatants battling on it there wasn’t much room to spare. The Pontiff was a blur of motion, spinning, leaping, and ducking to avoid the clumsy thrusts and stabs of the soldier’s spears in the close quarters. She lashed out with her staff, catching one of the guards across the helm. The force of the blow dented the side of his helmet and made his eyes roll back into his head, but it also caused Yasmin’s staff to snap in two.
Carthin had scrambled out of his seat, knocking his makeshift throne onto its side as he desperately tried to stay out of the melee. Yasmin took a step to follow him, only to be cut off by several of the guards.
Dropping to the floor, Yasmin rolled clear of three soldiers who tried to tackle her to the ground, then sprang to her feet and hurled the splintered remains of her weapon at the nearest opponent. She threw it with such force that the jagged end of the staff ripped through the guard’s chain-mail shirt and buried itself deep in his chest. He clutched at the protruding shaft and staggered back before disappearing off the edge of the stage.
Several soldiers closed in on Yasmin from all sides, forcing her to leap off the stage and back onto the floor below. On an instinctive level, she was aware that her Inquisitors were wreaking havoc among the guards on the floor—at least twenty soldiers were already down. But two of her brethren had already fallen, and the others would soon begin to tire and slow. Eventually they would be overwhelmed by the sheer numbers against them.
I have to get to Carthin—force him to surrender!
The remaining guards atop the stage were too disciplined to follow
her down to the floor. Instead, they had formed a protective wall between her and the Justice. Fortunately, the rest of the soldiers were too preoccupied with the Inquisitors to come to Carthin’s immediate aid, giving Yasmin enough time and space to try another tactic.
A quick backflip took her from the floor and up onto the table where the feast had been prepared. Her lips were burning from where the wine had brushed against them; whatever poison Carthin had chosen was incredibly potent. In a single fluid motion, the Pontiff crouched, scooped up one of the still-full wine goblets and hurled it at the soldiers. They cried out in surprise, then ducked away and covered their eyes and mouths with the crook of their arms as it sprayed over them.
In rapid succession she whipped the remaining goblets at the guards, causing their ranks to break and scatter. Three fell to the ground, writhing in agony as the vile liquid splashed into their eyes, blinding them almost instantly.
With the wine gone, Yasmin simply switched to the silverware on the table. The knives were dull and ill balanced, and the three-pronged forks were blunted from years of use. But they were heavy and metal, and thrown with enough force they could still be deadly.
Yasmin unleashed a barrage of the unorthodox missiles, each one thrown with extreme velocity and devastating accuracy. She scored a direct hit to the face on three of the soldiers, shattering noses, teeth, and jaws. Several others managed to throw their arms up to shield themselves, only to have wrists, elbows, and forearms cracked and snapped by the deadly projectiles. Within seconds, the stage was littered with the prone bodies of grown men, groaning and whimpering in pain…or lying deathly silent.
Carthin stared in dumbfounded disbelief at the carnage around him, then dropped to his knees in supplication as Yasmin bounded up onto the stage.
“Call them off!” she barked.
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