by Carol A Park
Ivana didn’t look up; she merely nodded. It was standard practice. No assassin wanted to chance bringing the wrath of the Conclave down on them, and Ivana had her own reasons for wanting to avoid their gaze.
She frowned at the coins and started counting again. There were too many; she must have miscounted.
“Is it short?” Aleena asked.
“No. It’s over.”
“Really? I thought he was jesting.”
Ivana looked up at Aleena. “Jesting?”
“Said he included a bonus for the…” She looked at the ceiling and tapped her chin. “‘Delightful scandal that accompanied the Gan’s unfortunate demise.’” Aleena shrugged. “You know how Xambrians talk.”
He could only have meant the rumors about the maid’s death. Typical Xambrian. But the maid had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time; Ivana hadn’t planned it.
Aleena’s eyes were on her, but she knew better than to ask about the details of a job.
Ivana pushed the extra coins toward Aleena. “Deposit it into the charity fund.”
Aleena swept the offered coins into her palm without a word, and Ivana pushed the remaining coins back into the purse. “Anything else of note?”
“Ri Gildas of Ferehar issued a matching contract yesterday.”
The last coin landed on the floor instead of the purse, and Ivana bent down to retrieve it, irritated at the involuntary betrayal of her hand, despite years of practiced self-control.
Ri Gildas. She hadn’t heard that name in years. She would have preferred never to hear it again.
She had left Ferehar twelve years ago and had never returned, not for any job. Had even turned down a few simply because she had no desire to see that place again.
Control. She shoved the unwanted memories away and focused instead on the unlikeliness of Aleena’s words. “Really? Isn’t he the Ri that became a Hunter a few years back?” she asked as she came back up and placed the last coin in the purse.
It had caused quite a scandal, as she recalled. Though there were always back room alliances, the Ri technically served the king, so it was a bold move for a Ri to openly wed himself to the Conclave.
Still, Ferehar’s political favor had decreased over the years in direct proportion to the Conclave’s increase in power. The natives of the region had been worshipping the heretic gods when Setana claimed the land for its own, and while most of those natives had been fully assimilated into Setanan culture, rumors—rumors she knew to be true, having grown up there—abounded that worship of the old gods continued in Ferehar, which cast constant suspicion on the region by the Conclave. Becoming a Hunter might actually have improved the Ri’s political standing in this case.
Aleena had paused to consider. “I do believe you are correct,” she said at last.
Interesting. Apparently Gildas thought there was an active threat to his well-being. It seemed unlikely, not because he was a Ri—there were certainly enough people who would like to see a Ri dead—but because he was a Hunter. And as she had just been reminded, there weren’t many assassins who would risk such a target. Nonetheless, by issuing a matching contract, the Ri had essentially announced that he had a strong suspicion someone was after him.
She tilted her head to the side. “Aleena,” she said. “Did the potential client from tonight tell you the name of the target?”
“We didn’t get that far.” Aleena went on before Ivana could speak. “But I just had the same thought.”
“It seems too coincidental, doesn’t it?”
Aleena nodded.
“What are the terms of the contract?”
“Quadruple on proof of death.”
Ivana blinked. Quadruple? Burning skies.
Aleena studied her. “You want me to try to find him?” she asked softly.
Ivana hesitated. “Tell me your impressions of the potential client.”
“Nervous, obviously not used to this sort of thing. If I didn’t know the target was a Hunter—and potentially a Ri—I’d say he didn’t have enough money anyway.”
An expensive proposition, indeed. Hunter aside, to go after a Ri…
The regional lords of Setana were collectively second in power only to the king. One didn’t hire an assassin to kill a Ri casually, not least because of the repercussions. Though collectively powerful, individually there was a great disparity between Ri. The jostling for position and influence with the king—and more recently, the Conclave—was a constant give and take that sometimes turned bloody.
In theory, Ri were elected by the literate population of the region. In practice, the title was often passed down from father to son, or sometimes to a brother or cousin. But if the political climate of a region was unstable—or if the subjects had a particular distaste for the family of their Ri—the untimely death of a Ri could mean a fast, bloody succession war at best, and all out civil war between nearby regions at worst.
Ri were aware of all of this. They didn’t leave easily exploited gaps in their security, and they were high-risk targets.
The potential must have known that would be expensive.
Which meant that quadruple would be all the more lucrative for any assassin lucky enough to be approached by the client while the contract was in force. If it weren’t the Ri of Ferehar, she would have discarded the contract as wishful thinking. However, while Ferehar itself was a backwater region on the other side of the desert, it produced a disproportionate amount of the wealth of Setana compared to the other six regions.
The reason the region had been claimed by Setana in the first place had everything to do with the valuable cualli deposits at the edges of the rocky wilderness that defined most of the region’s borders to the south. What the Ri of Ferehar lacked in political power, he made up for in wealth.
Yes, if anyone could afford quadruple the cost of hiring an assassin to murder a Ri, it would be the Ri of Ferehar.
Ivana closed her eyes. No. No amount of money could tempt her to take blood money from that man.
“If you’re going to attempt to turn in the contract, you’d better do it quickly,” Aleena said, interrupting her thoughts. “It’s already been several hours since I left him.”
Ivana shook her head. “No. Not worth it. It’s still dealing with the Conclave, however you look at it.”
Aleena shrugged, and then nodded.
“Anything else?”
Ivana had trouble concentrating as Aleena related the latest news from the king’s court—political alliances and betrayals, and the like—most of which Ivana had little patience for. When Aleena finally left her, she remained at her desk, staring down at the purse of coins.
She almost called Aleena back to have her find the potential client—not so she could take Gildas’ blood money, but to take the contract for his death. The prospect of being paid to murder him was tempting. But it wasn’t worth the risk—either the risk of tangling with the Conclave, or the risk of opening herself up to everything she had put behind her. It was why she had never gone back to do it for herself, once she had the means to do so. She wanted to pretend he didn’t exist. She didn’t appreciate him intruding on her well-maintained fantasy by inserting himself, in whatever small way, into her world again.
Her musings were interrupted by the sound of a heavy thud outside her study. She lifted her head and focused on the gap between the door and its frame. Aleena had left it open a handspan, and Ivana hadn’t closed it.
“Aleena?” she asked softly. When there was no response, she rose silently from her chair and padded to the door, one hand sliding a dagger out of its hiding spot under her desk as she passed by. She held it point down behind her back; there was no reason to startle someone who wouldn’t expect her to have it.
The door opened farther of its own accord just as she reached it, and she stepped back, hand tightening on the dagger instinctively.
Beidah, her cat, slipped into her study. The cat paused to look up at her, as if questioning why she was standing motio
nless at the door.
Ivana leaned down to scratch the cat behind her ears. “Damn cat,” she muttered, but Beidah merely bumped her head against Ivana’s hand a few times, accepted the token of affection with an obligatory purr, and then stalked away, leapt up onto Ivana’s desk, and settled herself down on top of the coin purse without a second glance at her mistress.
Still, Ivana would feel better if she knew what had made the sound.
Vaughn tried to peel himself off the wall, but he was shaking so hard that he only succeeded in jerking his head a little. He had plastered himself there after a flying orange fur ball with claws had landed without warning on his head, giving him such a scare that he had skittered backward into the coat rack and knocked it over, which had scared him even more.
As far as he knew, his invisibility worked against animals and people alike, and other than the fact that the vicious beast had landed on him, he had no reason to believe that this cat was an exception. Indeed, once he managed to fling the fiend off his face, it hadn’t given him a second glance. It had merely sniffed, as though offended by its arrested flight, and sat to smooth its ruffled fur before slinking into another room.
He managed to calm his tremors enough to rub a hand lightly over the gouges the cat had left in his cheek. He had had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out earlier, and the wounds were bleeding; at least, they had been bleeding. When his hand came away, all that transferred to his fingers was a dusting of silver: the blood-turned-aether that was the telltale mark of a Banebringer.
He picked at the dried aether on his cheek absently and then pressed a crushed sliver of bindblood aether into the wounds to heal them faster.
This might have been taking things a bit too far. Following an assassin’s henchman—or henchwoman in this case—was insane enough; following her into a room without any idea of who might be in it, if he would have any place to hide, and if there would be a way of easy escape?
Had he become so desperate?
Yes. Absolutely, yes.
The door to the room the cat had entered opened wider, and Vaughn froze again.
A woman stepped out, and Vaughn recognized her as the woman who had followed the assassin’s contact a few minutes after the contact herself had passed through. The two had then cloistered themselves in the other room, door firmly shut, and so little sound came from within that the room had to have been soundproofed.
The wooden plaque hanging on the outer door had proclaimed these the private rooms of the innkeeper; if that were the case—and given the dagger the woman in front of him held in her hand—Vaughn suspected that the “innkeeper” was none other than Sweetblade herself.
And looking for him. He tried not to contemplate what she might do if he were caught here.
So, unable to do anything more useful than pray to whatever god was listening, he watched as she spotted the coat rack lying on the floor and moved to set it aright. He hardly dared move, but he had to edge away from her, or she would come too close to him for comfort.
He took one careful step to the side, and his back brushed the wall with a barely audible rustle.
Audible enough, apparently. She turned to look in his direction.
Damn. He had never been good at sneaking.
He held his breath, hoping she couldn’t hear his heart hammering in his chest as well.
She moved closer to his position and finally stopped right in front of him, so close he could see the intricate metalwork on a rose-shaped pendant she wore on a chain around her neck, just brushing the low neckline of her dress.
He had thought assassins were supposed to be small and wiry. She was on the shorter side, to be sure, but that generous bosom was anything but wiry.
Burning skies—not now, Vaughn. He could only hope his invisibility didn’t choose that moment to ghost. With the moon being almost full, it could, at times, flicker, shimmer, or even show a brief outline. Usually that was while moving, however. As long as he stayed still…
Thankfully, she looked right through him and then around the room again, before shaking her head and re-entering the side room.
She left the door open a handswidth, and when he felt calm enough to move, he tiptoed over to the door and peered through the gap.
She was running her hand along the back of the orange terror, murmuring to it. He could have sworn the phrase “damn cat” was included in her words.
Well, at least he wasn’t alone in that assessment.
She nudged the cat to the side and picked up a coin purse that it had been sitting on. The cat furiously licked an imaginary spot on the fur Sweetblade had disturbed before settling back down again.
Sweetblade, on the other hand, pushed aside a painting that was hanging on the wall behind her desk, revealing a safe. She unlocked the safe with the pendant—some sort of key, apparently—and deposited the purse inside.
She set the painting back into place and then sat down in the chair, absently stroking the cat again while she stared off into the distance. It closed its eyes halfway and purred so loudly Vaughn could hear it from across the room.
If he had come here hoping to find information he could use to blackmail the assassin into helping him, he had succeeded, in the worst sort of way, since the information was useless to him. He could hardly confront her about her secret identity, as that would probably get him killed. And while the thought of trying to seduce an assassin so he could steal her key was a bit thrilling, he judged the odds of success to be slim.
And also likely to get him killed.
There had to be something else, something a little less dangerous for him, something he could use…
He shook his head. For now, he had tempted Temoth enough. He carefully backed away from the door, pausing every few steps to be sure she hadn’t heard a noise and decided to investigate again. He unbolted and opened the hall door with one long cringe, waiting for it to squeak or give some other telltale sign of its movement, and waiting then to be confronted with someone outside in the hall, wondering how a door was opening of its own accord.
He was lucky on both counts; the door moved silently, and the hall was empty. He closed the door as quietly as he could, but his luck ran out, as it still made a soft snick as it latched shut. He gave up on sneaking and fled down the hall, not waiting to see if she had heard.
Beidah lifted her head, ears erect, and looked toward Ivana’s study door. Ivana followed her gaze. She hadn’t heard anything, but Beidah had better hearing than she did. After a moment, Beidah apparently decided it was nothing and settled her head back down on her paws.
Ivana could take no such chances. She rose yet again to investigate; the earlier incident, while having a plausible explanation—Beidah like to haunt the ledge above the door, and she could have jumped down onto the coat rack and then knocked it over—still had Ivana on edge.
As before, she found nothing out in the main living area. A mouse skittering in the walls, perhaps? Ivana hoped not, or she might have to recruit some of Beidah’s friends. She prided herself on the cleanliness of her inn. No bugs or vermin at The Red Rose.
She had just begun to turn to go back to her study, when she spied a peculiarity in the pattern of the rug. No, not in the pattern—it was a foreign object. She picked it up and laid it flat against her palm. A thin length of a silvery material shimmered in the lamplight. She frowned. She had nothing among her possessions this could have come from, so unless she or Aleena had tracked it in on their shoes…
She glanced at the door. The bolt was open, yet she was sure she had latched it earlier.
Someone had been here.
She crumbled the substance between her thumb and forefinger, watching as it turned to powder and drifted back to the rug.
There was something familiar about the substance, in as much as she ought to have known what it was. The answer niggled at the back of her mind, and long-forgotten tirades surfaced, diatribes from the mouths of the so-very pious priests of Yathyn, blasting Yathyn’s wo
rst enemies, the Banebringers, and their unnatural blood…
She spun on her heel and went back into her study. Much to the protest of the dozing cat, Ivana picked her up and forced the claws from the sheaths on one of her paws. She stared at the claws. They were streaked with the same silvery substance.
Beidah wriggled from Ivana’s grasp, jumped down from the desk, and gave Ivana a perfectly understandable glare before stalking out of the room.
Flecks of the silvery substance still clung to Ivana’s fingers, and she rubbed them together, entertaining one of the worst possibilities someone in her position could have.
Someone had most certainly been here, and that someone knew who she was.
Chapter Three
The Babe and the Blade
Vaughn had retreated to the inn’s dining room while trying to decide on his next move. If he were smart, he would give up this whole venture.
And go where? Back to roaming the countryside? He couldn’t take up his previous activities, not without endangering anyone who helped him. Gildas had made that clear.
Should he flee Setana altogether? He had heard that the pagan nations Setana hadn’t managed to conquer yet were less hostile toward Banebringers, but less hostile didn’t mean sympathetic. And he doubted borders were of any concern to his father, anyway.
Back to the manor? He wasn’t ready to admit defeat yet.
No, there was only one solution to his personal predicament, if not to the general one all Banebringers faced: his father had to be stopped.
It was late; the dining room was empty but for the woman who was mopping floors, and silent but for the splash-swish-swish of her mop. She was a sweet thing, with large, round eyes framed in long eyelashes that gave her a certain look of innocence. Vaughn grinned. More likely, the better to seduce men with; fortunately for her, he was easily seduced.
Once again, he had to berate himself. This was one of those rare instances when it truly was not a good time. At least, not for acting. Imagining, on the other hand…