by Paul Kearney
Psellos stared at Pachydon in icy silence. At last he said, “This is not the place to be discussing business, Councillor.”
“It was a fair question.”
“You will find that Rol is perfectly capable of providing complete satisfaction. Now, please, I think you will find that this next course begs your complete and undivided attention.”
Rol stared whitely at the Master. He was about to get up from the table when Psellos’s iron-hard grip pinched the nerve behind his knee. His lower leg went numb.
“Not now, my young friend, we have a show to put on,” Psellos murmured. “Remember your manners.”
“My turn to be pimped out now, is it?” Rol hissed.
“Shut your mouth, you young fool. I’ll talk to you when we rise from table and not before. Until then, keep a civil tongue in your head or remain a mute.”
A long night. There were speeches to sit through, praising the host and his hospitality. Some speakers were pious and invoked the gods; others were raucous and lewd with drink. Several young blades sent notes to Rowen via salver-bearing waiters. By the time the cloth had been drawn she had a little pile of them sitting beside her glass, all unread. Psellos swept them into his pocket.
At the end the Master rose himself, and proposed a toast to health, commerce, and the continuing prosperity of Ascari. His listeners applauded politely or thumped the table, but they seemed to like the sound of their own voices better than his. At last the diners rose and began to drift toward the bright firelit hearths at the back of the chamber, some more steadily than others, whilst the worst of the debris was cleared from the tables and fresh candles lit. Scores of stools were produced and on these the ladies sat fanning their painted faces, for it was close in the room and many of the gentlemen were now smoking pipes of whitherb. The servers went to and fro freshening drinks and collecting glasses. Some looked more like prizefighters than waiters, and they seemed to linger near knots of conversation, fiddling unnecessarily with the stuff on their trays. Psellos watched Rol’s frown follow their movements, and smiled.
“The Feathermen are an adaptable bunch, are they not? Canker and I gather more information on this one night of the year than on the rest combined.”
Of course. There must always be an angle, some advantage to be gained.
Rowen had disentangled herself from the attentions of half a dozen young noblemen and joined Rol and Psellos. The three stood apart from the chattering crowd and watched them, as a shepherd will look down on his sheep. With a kind of proprietorial detachment.
I, too, Rol thought. I do it now.
“Not even the inauguration of a new council gets a throng as well-bred as this,” Psellos said with relish. “A good night, in all.”
Then he turned to Rol, cold and entirely businesslike.
“Pachydon is one of the richest Mercanters of Gascar. The long and the short of it is that he wants a man killed. Tomorrow night.”
Rol felt the muscles of his face tighten. “And I am to do it.”
“You are to do it. Consider it a kind of final examination. Rowen’s phase of your instruction is almost over. Soon you will have a new tutor.”
“Who?”
“Our mutual friend, the King of Thieves. He will put the final polish upon you.”
Rol glanced at Rowen. She kept his gaze for a moment, and something opened in her eyes, a kind of pity.
“Who is the man I am to murder?”
“His name is Canoval. Lord Canoval to such as you and me.”
“Why?”
“Ah, Rol, that is the one question you must never ask. How, by all means, when, certainly, but why? No. There is no need for that one.”
“Where does he live? How do I recognize him?”
“That’s more like it. As to recognizing him, he is here tonight, and I will make sure you meet him. The where of it will be handled by Canker. He has been monitoring the lordship’s movements for several weeks now, not that these aristocrats are anything but predictable. Canker will be your mentor in this thing, he will hold your hand, as it were. It is a test in killing, but not simply some inane slaughter. You must show us that you can practice some finesse.” Psellos had not looked at Rol once as he spoke. His eyes were ranging about the chamber, alighting with interest now and again, registering faces.
“What if I refuse to do it?”
Psellos sighed. “Rol, must you be so tiresome? You should be growing out of this petulance by now. Rowen, tell him. I am off to mingle with the great and the good. Be with me at the door when it is time to see them out, both of you.” And off he went, a lean, elegant figure all in black, with shining wolf-teeth.
“Well?” Rol asked Rowen.
“There are two types of men in the world,” she said, “those who prize their own skins above all else, and those who . . .” She paused as though searching for words. “Those who prize the thing they love above their own lives.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He knows you are not one of the former. So, he has said that if you do not perform this deed, I am to spend a month in the guildhouse as the plaything of the King of Thieves.” She cleared her throat. “It is probable that I would not survive.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“He would do anything.”
“So I love you more than my own life, is that it?”
“That is what he thinks.”
“And what do you think?”
“That is unimportant.”
“I do love you, Rowen. You know this. You have known it a long time.”
She looked him in the eye again at last. “Yes, I have.”
“Then there is nothing more to be said. I must end a life to preserve yours.”
“You may look upon it that way if you will.”
“Damn you! Are you flesh and blood at all?”
She walked away, and he seized her arm. It came limply, as though the will had gone out of her.
“No,” she said quietly. “Not here.”
She allowed herself to be led out of the chamber, through the streams of servants coming and going. Finally Rol found a quiet space a few levels down. The noise of the party was faint above them. He took Rowen by the shoulders. “Listen to me. I—”
A pain in his belly. He looked down to see her pushing a blade against the silk of his shirt.
“Do not do this.” Her voice broke on the last word.
He said nothing, but deliberately pulled her close, staring into her face. The pain intensified for a split second, and then was gone. There was a metallic clatter on the floor and he could feel blood running down inside his shirt.
Those gray-steel eyes staring at him, unfathomable. He wanted to make them change, to see something new come into them. He took her face in his hands and kissed them shut. And tasted salt as her face betrayed her, tears on the face of a statue. He raised her chin and kissed the lovely mouth. It came alive under his lips, a moment he would never forget. They buried their faces in each other’s bodies and stood thus a long time, heedless of everything but the sudden peace each gave to the other. It seemed to Rol that he had found something of home again, a fixed point in the black whirl of the world.
He raised his head, and glared at her tear-streaked face. “No more pretense. It is you and I, Rowen—whatever it takes, it will be you and I together from now on.”
She nodded, matching him glare for glare. But her warm fingers entwined with his. “So be it. I have had enough. I am tired, Fisheye; you cannot know how tired.”
“I love you,” he said, as though the words were some magic healing spell.
“I know. I think I have always known.”
“You hid it well.”
“Not well enough. Now listen to me—”
“No—you tell me, who is this Lord Canoval?”
“He has just been elected head of the council. He proposes to close down the operations of the Feathermen.”
“Could that be done?”
“T
here is a lot of money involved. With enough money, anything is possible. Canker and Psellos have been working hand in glove for many months now, but they have become greedy.”
“How much support does Canoval have in the council?”
“They are sheep, and he is their shepherd. There was a secret ballot. When they are ready they will make it public. A mercenary flotilla is rumored to be docked on Andelys already, awaiting the word to sail.”
“Gods! It will be a war. And will killing Canoval stop this?”
She shrugged. “Quite probably. None of the rest of them has the sand to stand against both Psellos and the King of Thieves, and there are some among them who believe Canoval cannot either. Pachydon is one—Psellos’s creature, body and soul.” She looked away from him. “He is the front man, and will take the fall, if anything goes wrong. If things go well, he will be council leader.”
“How was he bought?” Rol asked harshly, though he knew the answer.
“With me,” she said. She tried to draw away, but he would not let her, and he was the stronger now. She leaned her head on his chest. “This carcass of mine has been pimped out a thousand times, Rol. Are you sure you want it?”
“You called me Rol.”
“Did I?” That small, rare smile which so transformed her face. “It is easier on the ear.”
He kissed her again, knowing that for this woman there was nothing he would not do, no crime he would not commit.
But there was a question he had to ask. “Why entrust me to do this thing?” he asked. “I am untried, and this will be life and death for Psellos, the killing of this man. The King of Thieves must have experienced assassins aplenty who could do it. And then of course—” He stopped, and the training made its leap intuitively.
“And then there is me.” She moved out of his arms, dry-eyed now. “I am the best in the city—not even the Feathermen come close.”
“He wants both his own killers there.”
“Yes. I, too, will be busy that night. The King of Thieves and Canoval will die together. Psellos will take over the Feathermen, and his creature, Pachydon, will lead the council. Our master will be ruler of Ascari, and hence of Gascar. He will have become one of the princes of the world.”
“If we do as we are told.”
“If we do as we are told.”
“What hold has he over you, Rowen?”
“The hold is twofold now, and identical to that he has over you. He claims to know who my parents are—the history of whatever family spawned me. And he threatens me with the extinction of one I love.”
Rol’s mouth tightened even as the knowledge blossomed wide and bright in his heart. “How long—”
“A long time. I don’t know how, but I think Psellos knew it would happen. He enjoyed watching it, playing us one at a time. He has always relished such diversions.” She reached up with one hand and touched the embroidered collar of his tunic. “I, too, have some skill with a needle.”
He pulled her close again. Something deep within him woke up and began to snarl. Whatever remnant of boyhood he still possessed withered away.
“Psellos must die. Let us kill him.” His voice was thick with the desire.
She set her fingers on his lips. “Wait now, think about this. Psellos is a sorcerer, an assassin of great power. It is possible both of us together might best him, if we caught him unawares. But there may be a better way.”
“I want to feel his life give out under my hands.”
“You think I do not? But I want to live. I want you to live. That is more important. Trust me.”
He kissed her forehead. “I will trust you. But he must die.”
Ten
THE HEIR
CANOVAL, THE CATALYST FOR ALL THE SLAUGHTER THAT followed, was a short, dark terrier of a man with a lively smile. As the line of guests left the Tower he shook Rol’s hand perfunctorily, Psellos’s with rather more force than was necessary, and Rowen’s he kissed with a combination of relish and reverence. An hour by the water-clock the three stood there saying fare thee well and well met to a crowd of men and women who feared and despised and desired them all in one. When at last Quare had a pair of footmen slam shut the great oaken doors of the atrium, even Psellos looked relieved. He tugged at the collar of his shirt and stretched his arms toward the ceiling. “Ye gods, but they are a tiresome crowd, these men of substance. Do they eat their gold, to become such heavy going? Rol, come up with me and have a nightcap. Rowen, you were delightful and perfect as always. I shall see you in the morning. Quare, lock up, and see that our guest workers are well looked after.”
Quare and Rowen bowed. As she straightened again Rowen’s fingers brushed Rol’s. The warmth of that tiny gesture was still with him as he entered Psellos’s private apartments near the summit of the Tower. The stair-climb and the revelations of the evening had cleared his head, and he watched the Master pour Cavaillis for them both with an even mind.
“Tiresome, these occasions, but necessary,” Psellos said, handing Rol a glass and collapsing into a well-stuffed armchair. One of the housemaids had lit the fire, knowing that the Master hated a cold room, and it cast beating wings of shadow about the walls. These were lined with books, but Rol had been in here before, and he knew that the volumes on display could be bought from any good antiquarian. The real knowledge, the important texts, were housed elsewhere, in some secret chamber Rol had never seen.
“Gods, boy, you are getting tall. Take a seat. You’ll crick my neck for me if I have to crane it any more.”
He did as he was bidden, wondering as he sat if hatred could be smelled, if it had a particular redolence. If so, this room must stink of it.
Psellos was rolling his glass between his hands, staring into the fire. For the first time, Rol noticed that there was gray in the forelock that overhung his narrow face.
“You will meet Canker in Candlemas Street tomorrow night—no, it is tonight now, I suppose. He will take you to a back entrance of Canoval’s manse. It will be unguarded. He sleeps on the second floor, in a room with a red door and his arms emblazoned upon it, the ass. His wife will be with him. She also must die.”
“He was alone tonight.”
“She is something of an invalid; a fall from a horse a few years ago.” He smirked. “In any case, she will not be running anywhere for help.”
“What about servants, bodyguards?”
“There will be a few, but no more than you can handle. Kill them or bypass them, I care not. But Canoval must die as swiftly and silently as possible. A matter of style, I’m sure you’ll understand.”
“It must look as though it was child’s play to accomplish.”
“Exactly.” Psellos sipped his brandy meditatively, looking Rol over as a woman would regard herself dressed unfamiliarly in a mirror. Finally he spoke with great deliberation.
“Amerie, your mother, would be proud of you, Rol. With this final test, you will have grown up into a man.”
Dumbstruck, Rol merely stared. Psellos seemed rewarded by the expression on his face.
“I have need of loyal lieutenants, and I have no sons of my own. These things are better kept in the family, I have always thought.”
“Family?” Rol managed.
“Amerie was my sister. We are of one blood, you and I, not only because we share in our inheritance from the Elder Race, but because we come from the same stock.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why do you think old Ardisan sent you to me with his dying words, nephew of mine? He knew it was time. He kept you hid as long as he could, but at some point you were always going to end up here. It is the only way you would ever approach your true potential.”
“My father—who was he?”
Psellos frowned. “I’ll be honest with you—I do not know.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, in this I speak the truth. I have nothing more to gain by keeping these things from you now. You have apprenticed yourself here because of the promis
e of knowledge, and because your youth made you afraid to strike out on your own. And then there is Rowen, of course. But you are a boy no longer, and thus it is time to tell you what I know.”
The fire cracked and spat brightly. Rol could not look at this man who purported to be his uncle.
“Amerie’s husband in life was Bar Hethrun, one of the great men of Bionar. The Blood was in him, but so was that of the line of Bion himself. There were those who thought he would have been king, had he not fallen in love with a raven-haired sorceress out of the Goliad, the birthplace of Man. The Bionari did not like the idea of a witch’s brat sitting at the foot of the throne, and there were plots to discredit Hethrun and his house, assassination attempts. He forsook his high estate and took to the seas with your mother and many others of his household, meaning to live in peace somewhere beyond the reach of whispers and pointing fingers and knives in the dark. Cambrius Orr all over again, you might say. But the little fleet he had put together was broken up by storms in the Bionese Sea, and most of the ships were scattered and wrecked, their crews drowned or cast up on beaches from Perilar to Osca. Amerie was lost in the disaster, and Hethrun spent years searching for her as a humble captain of privateers. He found her, or she found him, and she would not speak of the lost time they were apart. The pair spent what was left of their lives at sea, but the Bionari learned of their survival and sent out men-of-war to track them down, for there was a new king on the throne of Bionar, Bar Asfal, and his grip on power was not sure enough to allow a pretender to travel freely about his coasts. Their son therefore they sent away with Amerie’s parents, and her brother, to be brought up somewhere in safe anonymity. Amerie and Bar Hethrun died. At the last they were hunted down and murdered by agents of the Bionese crown. Their son disappeared, and the story became a tragic ballad to be played in inns across Bionar. The King-That-Never-Was. The Lost Heir. Bar Asfal has reigned for over twenty years now, and he has struck up a treaty with the Mage-King of Kull, who even as we speak has certain suspicions about the identity of one Psellos of Gascar. His suspicions have not yet hardened into certainty, but one day they will, and there is nowhere on earth one can hide from the doppelgangers of Kull.”