by DAVID B. COE
“Good.”
“But you still need rest. I don’t want you doing anything today beyond sleeping, eating, and drinking more of my brew.”
“You should have told my father that. He’s ridden south, and there’s a soldier come from Kretsaal with news of the assassins. I have no choice but to speak with him.”
The herbmaster twisted his mouth sourly. “Fine, then. Nothing more after you’ve seen him.”
“Yes, herbmaster. Thank you.”
He sketched a quick bow and left her. Diani glanced at her breakfast. Bread and butter, smoked meat, stewed sour fruit from Macharzo, and, of course, the herbmaster’s sweet-smelling brew. Her head had started to clear, but her appetite had not yet returned and she decided to speak with the baroness’s man before eating.
“Guard!” she called.
One of her men opened the door.
“Have the soldier from Kretsaal brought to me at once.”
He had made his way out of the village as soon as the inn grew quiet, leaving by way of the gate nearest the tavern shortly before the ringing of the midnight bells and the closing of the village gates. He circled quickly to the north gate and waited within sight of it, just off the road, until the bells tolled. He stayed low in the grasses, so as not to be seen in the dim moonlight. If Kretsaal barony was like nearly every other court in the Forelands, the guards would change at midnight.
It was, and they did. No sooner had the last echo of the bells died away than the replacements appeared in the lane that led from the modest castle to the gate.
Immediately, before the replacements could get too close, he stood, calling out, “Hold the gate!” and then, “My wares are a bit heavy. Can one of you help me with these sacks? It’ll get me into the city faster.”
Two of the guards had already begun to close the gate and now they stopped, peering out into the darkness. He heard one spit a curse and the other begin to laugh. This second man turned and started walking toward the center of the village, but the first man stepped beyond the walls, still trying to spot him. He noticed that the guard unsheathed his sword.
“Where are you?” the guard called, walking slowly along the worn lane that led into the city.
“Over here.” He made his voice sound strained, as if he were struggling with heavy satchels. He had chosen a place near a cluster of stones, and he bent over them now, as if they were his sacks.
“Don’t you have a horse and cart?” The soldier had adjusted his approach at the sound of his voice and was coming directly toward him.
“The cart threw a wheel back on the moor. Snapped the rim. I left the horse and most of my wares there, but needed to bring some with me. I’ll have to sell most of this tomorrow to be able to pay a wheelwright to come with me and fix it.”
He could hear the soldier’s footsteps in the soft grasses now, and he drew the garrote from within his cloak, pulling the wire taut and wrapping it twice around each fist. He remained bent over the stones until the soldier reached him.
“What do you want me? . . .” The guard trailed off, taking a step back. “Where are your satchels?”
The one satchel he did have—the one he always carried—was already in his hand and he straightened now, in the same motion swinging it at the soldier with all his strength and hitting the man full in the temple. The soldier fell to the ground, but managed somehow to keep hold of his sword. Not that it mattered. He was on the guard instantly, wrapping the garrote around his throat and pulling it taut. The soldier struggled, but to no avail. He’d used this same garrote against men far larger and stronger than this one.
Sitting back on his haunches and taking a long breath, he looked toward the gate. It still stood ajar, but none of the men was looking out at the moor. The guard’s friend was nowhere to be seen, and the men who had replaced them probably didn’t even know enough to be looking for him.
As if to prove his point, two of the new guards pulled the gate shut. The man wouldn’t be missed until morning.
He stripped the guard’s uniform from the limp body and began to put it on himself. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it would do. He put his clothes on the soldier, thus perhaps delaying for a bit longer the discovery of just what he had done. Then he started westward, away from the castle and the sea, to the place where his horse was tethered.
He rode swiftly, hoping to reach Curlinte well before sunrise. At one point he heard riders in the distance approaching from the ducal city. Reining his mount to a halt, he made the beast lie down on the grasses, ducked down himself, and peered over the horse’s flanks, watching the riders. They didn’t slow, nor did they give any indication that they had seen him. He waited until he could no longer hear them and they were but dim, distant figures in the moonlight. Then he coaxed his mount back onto its feet and rode on. Even with the delay, he thought that he could reach the walls of Curlinte before daybreak. He might even have time to rest before seeking an audience with the duchess.
Diani didn’t have to wait long before her guards returned with the soldier from Kretsaal. Straightening in her chair, she beckoned the men into her chamber.
The duchess noticed his hair first. It was yellow and fine, more like that of a man from northern Aneira or even Eibithar than that of a Sanbiri. His eyes, too, seemed wrong. They were pale blue, almost grey, not at all as they should have been. He wore the grey and red of Kretsaal, but the uniform fit him poorly. Sanla, the baroness, never would have allowed such a thing.
Could he be an assassin?
The thought never would have occurred to her before the attack at the headlands the day before, and Diani wondered if she were allowing her lingering fears to cloud her judgment. The guard had a kindly face, hardly that of a killer. Though he did bear a small scar near the corner of his mouth.
“You bring tidings for me?” she asked. But even as she spoke, she rose from the chair and returned to her writing table, as if she might draw comfort from having something substantial between herself and the soldier.
“I do, my lady.” No accent, at least none that Diani could discern. He glanced at the two soldiers behind him before facing her again. “I was told by my baroness to speak only with you.”
Strange, and presumptuous. If he turned out to be just a soldier, she would have to speak of this with Sanla.
“The soldiers who serve me know that I expect not only their loyalty but also their discretion. They’ll remain here.”
“But, my lady, I have my instructions.”
Strange indeed. She allowed her eyes to wander to her table, searching for something to use as a weapon. Her dagger and sword were near the wardrobe, too far if he struck at her quickly.
“And now you have different instructions from your duchess. Do you really believe the baroness would have you argue the point?”
He stared at her, not appearing cowed as he should have, but rather seeming to search her face for some sign that she was growing suspicious.
“Your tidings?” she prompted again.
“Of course, my lady.” Something in the voice, the icy intensity that suddenly appeared in those pale eyes.
Diani took a step back, expecting an attack, but the man surprised her. Seizing the pot of hot brew from her tray, he whirled on the two guards, throwing the pot at one and pulling his sword free to run the other through.
The two guards were caught completely unaware. The pot hit one of them in the chest, splattering hot liquid on his face and staggering him. By the time the other man had his sword free, the killer had already driven the point of his sword into his chest. The guard could only drop his weapon to the floor, blood staining the front of his uniform as he fell to his knees and then toppled over. The first man had recovered enough to draw his blade, but the assassin was on him too quickly. The soldier parried one blow and then another, but even with the skills he had learned from Diani’s father, he was no match for the yellow-haired man.
For a moment, Diani couldn’t move. She had seen dead men before—sold
iers killed in the hills by brigands and carried by their comrades back to the castle—but that was a far cry from actually watching a man die.
As the assassin drove the second soldier back toward the far corner of the chamber, she forced herself into motion. The pot of hot tonic, the one possible weapon she had spotted on her writing table, was gone. She thought about trying to make it to the corridor to call for help, but the two men were closer to the door than she. Instead she sprinted to where her own blade hung and pulled it free. As an afterthought, she grabbed her dagger as well. By the time she turned around, the second of her guards was dead as well, his head nearly severed from his body. The assassin, only slightly out of breath, a faint sheen of sweat on his face, was advancing on her.
“You truly think to succeed where your soldiers have failed?” he asked, grinning. This time the accent was unmistakable. Wethyrn, though she doubted he was here on behalf of the archduke. Assassins, it seemed, came from all realms of the Forelands.
He was bigger than she, stronger as well. And she had seen that he moved quickly for his size. Still, at almost any other time, speed would have been her one advantage. But she was conscious of the throbbing in her leg and shoulder, and she knew that she could not fight as she might have usually.
He closed the distance between them swiftly, trapping her near her wardrobe and leveling a powerful blow at her head. Rather than trying to parry it and being knocked off balance, she dropped into a crouch allowing the man’s blade to whistle harmlessly over her head. Anticipating her counter he swept his blade downward, to block her own sword. But Diani struck with the dagger instead, slashing him across the side of his knee. She gasped at the pain in her shoulder, but seeing blood soak into his trouser leg, allowed herself a small smile. Perhaps he wouldn’t be quite so quick now.
The assassin offered no response at all, but launched himself at her again, chopping downward at her so that she couldn’t avoid the attack by ducking. She raised her sword and was nearly hammered to the floor by the force of his blow. Her arm felt numb and as he raised his blade to strike once more she wondered if she could absorb another assault.
She stepped back and cried out for help, but she knew it would do her no good. There were always two men positioned just outside her chambers, but those two men lay dead on the floor, and with her guest wearing the colors of loyal Kretsaal, the captain of the guard would never have thought to send more men.
The assassin merely grinned and hacked at her again and then a third time. She blocked his sword with her own each time, but she fell to her knees after the third attack and had to drop her dagger in order to hold her blade with both hands.
He backed off for just an instant, lowered his hands and brought back his sword to deliver what would be the killing stroke. Desperate, she did the only thing she could. With all the strength in her frame, she swung both arms around, throwing her sword at the man. It hit him in the chest, hilt first, and clattered to the floor. But it stopped him for just an instant, long enough for Diani to retrieve her dagger and dive past him into the middle of the chamber. He came after her, lunging for her once with his sword and missing, then closing the distance between himself and the door so that she couldn’t escape.
She started toward the window, thinking to open the shutters and call for help, but he advanced on her, and she didn’t dare turn her back on him. Then she thought to reclaim her sword, but he cut her off from that as well.
In the end she could only back away from him, trying to keep her writing table between them. She started to cry for help, but was cut off when he leaped at her again, his blade just barely missing her breast.
“You must stop doing that, my lady,” he said, throwing the table aside as he spoke.
He had her trapped again, in the back corner of her room. She held her dagger before her, but she knew it would not be enough to stop him.
“Diani?” Her father’s voice, from out in the corridor.
“Father!” she yelled.
The door burst open revealing the duke and several of his men, all with swords drawn.
The assassin froze, looking frightened for the first time since entering Diani’s chamber. His pale eyes flicked about the room, as if searching for some path to freedom. He still held his sword before him and as his gaze fell upon the duchess he appeared to consider killing her, even though it would have meant his death.
Sertio seemed to see this as well, for he quickly placed himself between Diani and the killer. His soldiers followed him into the chamber, surrounding the yellow-haired man.
“I don’t want him killed!” Diani said, her voice unsteady as she lowered her dagger. Her pulse raced and her hands were shaking so violently she could barely maintain her grip on the hilt of her blade.
“Drop your weapon,” Sertio said, his dark eyes never leaving the man’s face.
The assassin did nothing, but he continued to glance around the chamber, perhaps trying to decide who among his captors would be easiest to kill.
“Drop your sword and you won’t be hurt,” the duke said again, his voice harder this time.
Still the man did not move, though a slight smile touched his lips. “You’re lying,” he said softly. “You’ll torture me until I tell you whose gold paid for my blade.”
Her father opened his mouth, perhaps to deny it, though everyone in the chamber knew it to be the truth. He never got the chance. The assassin raised his sword as to cleave the duke in two, roaring like a cornered beast.
Sertio, stepped to the side to avoid the strike, aiming a thrust of his own at the man’s shoulder, to spare his life, but disarm him. Had it been just the two of them fighting it might have worked. But the other men, seeing their duke threatened, closed on the assassin as well, pounding at him with their blades. In a matter of seconds the man lay on the floor of Diani’s chamber, blood flowing from several deep wounds.
Diani took a step forward. “Call for a healer! I want him alive!”
“The Qirsi who healed you would never get here in time,” her father said, staring down at the man, his voice low.
“One of the castle’s healers, then!”
Sertio glanced at her, his face as grim as it had been the day her mother finally died. “They’re all in the prison tower.”
She swallowed. “We could free one of them, just for this.”
But a guard who had bent to feel the man’s pulse shook his head. “He dies as we speak, my lady. The tower is too far.”
Diani dropped to her knees beside the man. “Who paid you? Was it the Qirsi? The Brugaosans? Who?”
But he merely lay there, the same inscrutable smile on his lips, his eyes open but utterly lifeless.
Chapter
Five
Dantrielle, Aneira, Elhir’s Moon waxing
Most years, the beginning of Elhir’s turn brought warm days and clear nights to the southern Forelands. Usually the snows maintained their icy grip on the northern kingdoms through at least the waxing of the god’s turn, but in the south, frigid winds gave way to temperate breezes and the hard blizzards of the cold turns were replaced by gentle rains that presaged the coming of the planting.
Not this year. There had been a pleasant day or two at the end of Eilidh’s turn, but with the first days of the new waxing, the snows returned like a vengeful army, battering at the castle gates and shuttered windows with howling winds, and burying the wards and surrounding city under mounds of drifting snow. Neither the tapestries that hung on Evanthya’s walls nor the bright blaze in her hearth that the servants fed constantly could keep the chill from her chamber. She had never paid much heed to the passing of the seasons. Living in Dantrielle, where the turns of the snows were mild and even the hottest days of the growing turns were cooled by the soft breezes that drifted among the shadows of Aneira’s Great Forest, she never had cause. This year, however, the snows had seemed interminable, the wait for a true thaw excruciating.
Perhaps it had been too long since she last held Fetnalla.
Perhaps she just longed to leave Dantrielle for a time, to escape the suspicions of her duke and the pall that had settled over the castle since the death of King Carden the Third and the selection of Numar of Renbrere as regent for the late king’s daughter. Or maybe, now that she had purchased the death of the traitorous minister from Kentigern, thus striking a blow at the Qirsi conspiracy, she so thirsted for more blood that she could not wait for the warmth of the growing.
Beginning the very day she received the assassin’s cryptic message telling her that the traitor in Mertesse had been killed, Evanthya had been of two minds about what she and Fetnalla had done. From the moment she paid the assassin at the Red Boar Inn in Dantrielle city, the minister had wondered if they had been justified in killing the man, if indeed such an act could ever be forgiven, no matter the justness of their cause. She knew the dead man’s name now. Shurik jal Marcine. She had learned it soon after the arrival of the assassin’s note, as word spread southward of the man’s mysterious death, and it served only to deepen her doubts.
But even as she wrestled with her guilt, Evanthya also found herself wanting desperately to continue her private war with the conspiracy, to open a new front somewhere in the Forelands. Like a battle-crazed warrior, she was suddenly avid for more violence. A part of her, deep in the dark recesses of her mind, wondered if she might even take up a weapon herself. According to what she had heard whispered in the marketplace among traveling merchants, the traitor died at the hands of a drunken lutenist who also was killed in their struggle. Evanthya knew better of course, but though she shuddered just to think about it, she could not help being curious as to how the singer had made it appear so. How did one kill two men and escape blame for both murders? What kind of person devoted his life to mastering such a dark art?
Upon hearing from the assassin, Evanthya sent a missive to Fetnalla in Orvinti, informing her of their success. Her love’s gold had paid for the assassination and Shurik’s murder had been as much Fetnalla’s idea as her own. Truth be told, Fetnalla had been more eager than she for the man’s death. But would she be satisfied at having purchased Shurik’s death, or would she, like Evanthya, see this as but an opening salvo in a far longer struggle? Evanthya had yet to receive any response, and with each day that passed she grew more impatient. In the last day or two, she had come to a startling decision: no matter what Fetnalla wrote in her reply, Evanthya intended to proceed with her war on the conspiracy. She didn’t know where she would find the gold to pay another assassin, or how she would choose her next target, but she could not sit by idly and allow the conspiracy to destroy the Forelands, not after having tasted success.