by DAVID B. COE
“Corbin!”
He just had time to dive away from the leader’s sword as it whistled past his head. He rolled as the other man had, and came up in his crouch, his dagger ready.
The leader advanced on him warily, the grin gone from his face, though his teeth were still bared.
“Watch behind you!” Dunstan called.
The young one had finally thrown off his fear and joined the fray. He was approaching slowly as well, dagger drawn. But Cadel had no doubt that the leader was the dangerous one. He saw Dunstan go to retrieve a dropped blade.
“Stay where you are, Dunstan! Leave them to me!”
“Ye think ye can take us, eh?” the leader said.
Even as he spoke the words though, he was already launching his next assault. He leaped at Cadel, lashing out with the short sword and holding his dagger ready. The singer danced away, seeing no opening for a counter.
“Fight, ye coward!” the leader roared at the other brigand. “Or when I’m done with “im, ye’ll be next!”
It would be a clumsy attack, born of fear and desperation. Under most circumstances, Cadel would have had no trouble defending himself. But he didn’t dare turn his back on the leader. The singer opened his stance slightly, so that he could look as easily to the rear as to the front, and he held his dagger ready.
He heard a footfall behind him, close. Dunstan cried out again.
Glancing quickly at the younger man, Cadel saw that he had already raised his weapon to strike. The leader was moving as well, closing the distance between them with a quick lunge and chopping down with his sword. Ducking wouldn’t work this time.
Instead, he swung himself down and backwards, swinging his blade arm at the younger man’s leg as he went down. He felt his blade embed itself in flesh, heard the man cry out. But rather than rolling as he had intended, he landed awkwardly, his wrist buckling under his weight.
Pain shot up his arm, white hot, like lightning in the heat of the planting turns.
The leader, who had missed with his first blow, pounced a second time, hammering down with his sword.
Cadel kicked out blindly—his only chance—and his boot glanced off the man’s forearm, deflecting the blow just enough to save him. For the moment.
The man struck at him again. Cadel rolled away and scrambled to his feet, only to find the leader leveling yet another blow at him. But this time he didn’t chop down at the singer. Instead he swung the blade, as if to take off Cadel’s head.
Cadel spun away from him, avoiding the sword. And allowing the momentum of his turn to carry him all the way around, switching his grip on his own dagger in midmotion, he tried to slam his blade into the man’s back. He misjudged the distance, however, slicing through the leader’s shirt and drawing blood from his shoulder, but doing no real damage.
Both of them backed away for just an instant, breathing hard. Cadel chanced a quick look at the other man. He was on the ground still, clutching his leg, which was bloodied just below his crotch. The leader put a hand to his shoulder, looked at the blood on his fingers, and gave a fierce grin.
“Yer no musician,” he said, his voice low.
Before Cadel could think of anything to say, the man rushed him again, raising his sword.
It was a clumsy attack. Too clumsy. At the last moment, Cadel looked not at the short sword but at the dagger, nearly forgotten, in the man’s other hand. It was swinging at his side in a wide, powerful arc, the steel glinting in the sun’s dying light.
Rather than ducking or retreating, Cadel stepped toward the attack, raising his injured arm to block the man’s dagger hand, and with the other arm pounding his own blade into the man’s stomach.
The leader let out a short, harsh gasp, his eyes widening. His dagger dropped to the ground and he grasped the hilt of his sword with both hands. But he was trembling, his legs failing him. Cadel pulled his blade from the man’s gut and thrust it into his chest. The thief sagged to his knees, blood spouting from his mouth. A moment later he toppled sideways to the dirt.
Cadel retrieved his dagger and advanced on the last man, who still lay on the ground, whimpering like a child.
“Corbin, no!” Kalida’s voice. “It’s enough!”
He halted, glaring at her. After a moment he nodded.
“Can you walk?” he asked the young thief.
“I—I don’t know.”
“Well, you’re going to have to. It’ll be dark soon, and the nights get cold here this time of year, even on a warm day.”
Dunstan began to reclaim their gold, including the coins Jaan had thrown. Cadel wanted to tell him to forget the money, but he didn’t. Instead he walked to where Anesse and Kalida were tending to Jaan. The bleeding had slowed from his nose and mouth, though his face looked a mess. His breathing seemed labored.
“I think he has a broken rib,” Anesse said, her voice tight.
“Can we get him back to Ailwyck?”
She shook her head. “I think we’d be better off returning to Fanshyre.”
“The distance is roughly the same. And the terrain’s easier to the north.”
“Ailwyck,” Jaan said weakly. “I don’t want to go back to Fanshyre like this.”
Dunstan joined them. “I found most of it. Not all.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Cadel said. “We need to get Jaan back to the tavern. Can you help me carry him?”
“Of course.”
“Are you all right?” Kalida asked him, looking closely at his face.
“I’m fine.”
“It looked like you hurt—”
“I’m fine,” he said again, his voice rising.
Her face colored and she looked away.
“Let’s get him on his feet,” he said to the piper.
Dunstan nodded toward the injured man. “What about him?”
“Leave him. He’s no threat, and he’s not worth helping.” He turned to Anesse. “Find our daggers,” he said. “And theirs as well.”
“What about the sword?”
He stared at the body of the leader. “That, too.”
His wrist was screaming, and he wondered if he had broken the bone. Not that it would slow him. He’d been injured before, far worse than this. Back when he was an assassin. He nearly laughed aloud. You’ll always be an assassin. His father’s voice. He would have liked to curse the old man’s name aloud.
It was a slow, painful walk back to Ailwyck, and before they were done it turned dark and chill as well. The tavern was already full when they arrived—they could hear laughter and raucous singing coining from within. When they opened the door, however, and the tavern patrons saw the blood on Jaan’s face, silence spread through the great room like the pestilence.
“What happened?” the innkeeper said, hurrying through the parting crowd.
“Thieves. In the Grey Hills.”
“Someone get a healer!” he shouted to the men closest to the door. “Are the rest of you all right?”
“I’ve hurt my wrist. The bone may be broken. Otherwise we’re fine.”
“How much did you lose?”
Dunstan grinned. “Only a few qinde.”
The innkeeper’s eyes widened. “You were fortunate.”
“I suppose,” the piper said. “But you should have seen Corbin! He—”
“You’re right,” Cadel broke in. “We were fortunate. But Jaan needs healing, and a place to lie down.”
Dunstan stared at him a moment, then nodded.
The innkeeper led them to his own quarters in the back of the tavern, allowing them to lay Jaan on his bed. “I’ll be back with some food and tea,” he said, bustling back toward the kitchen.
Dunstan and Anesse remained beside the lutenist, but Kalida pulled Cadel into the next room. Her lips were pressed in a thin line and her face was pale. Once more he was struck by how lovely she was. He was going to miss her.
“You said we were fortunate,” she began at last, her eyes meeting his. “I don’t think fortune had any
thing to do with it.”
“Of course it did,” he said, looking down at his wrist and flexing his hand. He could move it with only a bit of pain. Perhaps it wasn’t broken after all. “Anytime you encounter thieves and escape with both your life and your gold, you’ve been lucky.”
“That’s not what I meant. The way you fought them . . .” She shook her head. “I was watching you fight. You never had any doubt that you could defeat them, did you?”
“Of course I did.” He wasn’t certain why he bothered lying. He couldn’t stay. Dunstan was ready to write songs about his prowess with a blade, and now this from Kalida. When the shock of what had happened wore off, the others would have questions as well. They would never look at him the same way again. Still, his dream of leading a quiet life wouldn’t die so easily. “There’s always doubt,” he told her. “When I fell today, when I hurt my wrist, that could have given him the opening he needed to kill me.”
“But you fought—”
“Honok and I used to travel a good deal. We encountered many thieves, and over the years we learned to defend ourselves. That’s why I fight as well as I do.”
“That’s not what I was going to say. You fought only when Anesse and I—” She swallowed. “When it seemed they were going to take more than just our gold. You could have fought them at any time, but you waited until then. It was almost as if you didn’t want us to see you fight, as if you were afraid to let us see how good you are with a blade.”
He started toward the door, intending to retrieve what few possessions he carried from his room upstairs. “I should go.”
“Who are you, Corbin?”
“I’m a singer.”
“And what else? A mercenary? Are you a thief yourself?”
He turned and walked to where she stood. She didn’t shy from him, and when he bent to kiss her lips, she returned the kiss.
“It doesn’t matter what else I am or was. I came here hoping to be a singer, and I became your lover because I thought you beautiful and kind. Never doubt that.”
He crossed to the door once more and pulled it open.
“Where are you going to go?”
“It’s best I don’t tell you.”
“What about your wrist?”
“I’ll find a healer.”
“What about us?”
He glanced back at her and smiled. “I’ll remember . . . us for the rest of my days. Tell Anesse and the others what you will. Be well, Kalida. Gods keep you safe.”
She gazed at him sadly, but there were no tears on her face, nor did he expect that there would be. Given time, he might have loved this woman.
“And you, Corbin,” she said.
He slipped past the other musicians, returned briefly to his room, and then left the tavern, knowing that several of those who remained in the great room of the inn marked his departure. He knew as well that people in Ailwyck would speak for years of the singer who came to their city, bringing music such as few of them had heard before, only to leave a short time later, after single-handedly defeating five road brigands in the Grey Hills. This couldn’t be helped, nor could the fact that this tale would spread through the land, eventually reaching Qirsi ears, or perhaps those of Tavis of Curgh. There was nothing he could do but journey onward. He was an assassin. He had been an assassin for more years than he could count, and he would die an assassin. This, it seemed, was his fate.
Chapter
Thirteen
Solkara, Aneira, Osya’s Moon waxing
“You’re wasting time,” Henthas said, sulking in his chair.
Numar had to smile. “Perhaps. But it’s my time, not yours.”
There was a part of him that actually enjoyed seeing his brother so agitated. Certainly these discussions grew tiresome, but they also served a purpose, reminding Henthas that though he might have been duke of Solkara, Numar, in his capacity as regent, led their house now.
“The longer you remain regent to Carden’s child, the weaker you grow. She’s ten now, and with each year—”
“That’s right, Henthas: she’s ten. She has no claim to the throne for another six years. The fool’s way is to rush matters. And as we both know, I’m no fool.”
The duke’s face colored, and Numar nearly laughed aloud. He was no more a fool than Henthas was a jackal. Jackals were cunning; they were dangerous. His brother was neither. Numar had reduced him to little more than a lapdog, toothless and completely dependent on Numar’s goodwill.
“The dukes won’t follow a regent to war. You said yourself that Dantrielle was already showing signs of defiance. What if he can convince others to stand with him?”
“Then I’ll crush them, just as I intend to crush Tebeo. I don’t have to be king to wield power. Indeed, I believe in most respects you’re entirely wrong. As regent, I have as much sway with the dukes as I would as king, and far more goodwill. Wearing the crown, I become just another Solkaran tyrant, a man to be feared and distrusted, just as Carden was. But so long as I remain regent, I am merely the dead king’s younger brother, humbly serving the land in its time of need.”
Henthas snorted. “You honestly believe they see you that way?”
“Enough of them, yes. And I’m fully certain that were Kalyi to meet her untimely end anytime soon, it would mean my downfall, and Solkara’s as well. Killing a noble or two is one thing. Murdering the child-queen is quite another.”
He saw a quick smile touch his brother’s face and vanish, and there could be no mistaking the gleam in his brother’s eyes. There was just enough malice in Henthas to make the prospect of such an end to Numar’s reign attractive to him. He would never be king, and he would remain duke of Solkara regardless of the house’s standing in the realm. Indeed, Henthas was the sole person in the royal house who would actually benefit from the girl’s death, provided he escaped blame in the matter. With Kalyi gone, her mother, Chofya, the former queen, would no longer have any claim to the status she had first attained as Carden’s wife. Numar, if he weren’t hanged for killing the girl, would be relegated once more to the marquessate of Renbrere, leaving Henthas as Solkara’s leader. The Solkaran riches would belong to him, and any hope the house had of reclaiming the throne would rest with Henthas and his heirs. In light of how little power Henthas had now, he would have been mad not to consider such a course.
Fortunately, Numar had considered it as well.
“I know what you’re thinking, brother,” he said mildly. “I give you my word, you will be blamed for any harm that comes to the girl, not I.”
“How can you be so certain?”
He grinned, opening his hands as if to reveal the answer. “Which of us is the Jackal, and which is the Fool? The dukes may not yet trust me completely, but they’re genuinely afraid of you. To them, you’re just like Grigor. In fact, several of them are still convinced that you had as much to do with the poisoning of the queen and the Council of Dukes as our dear, late brother.”
“Thanks to you, no doubt.”
Numar merely shrugged.
“So what is it you want of me? You summoned me here. There must be something on your mind.”
“I require nothing but your patience, my lord duke. When the time comes, I’ll see to the girl. No one wants her dead more than I. But I’ve a war to fight as well, sooner rather than later if the missives from Curtell are to be believed. If all goes as the emperor says it will, we’ve much to gain from allying ourselves with Braedon. You need only to wait, and support me, and help keep the other dukes in the fold.”
“And how will my patience be rewarded?”
“Our success, and the continuation of the Solkaran Supremacy should be its own reward. But if you require more, I can offer you the lands of Dantrielle.”
Henthas sat forward. “Dantrielle?”
“If Tebeo opposes me, as I fully suspect he will, I’ll have little choice but to lay siege to his castle and seize his lands. The dukedom itself will remain, of course—my authority only goes so far. But as
provided in the Volumes of Pernandis, his lesser holdings will be forfeit. And I’ll make certain that they’re given to you.”
“Can you do that?”
“I’ll have little choice, if he’s guilty of treason.”
Henthas shook his head. “I think you give the other dukes too little credit. As you said a moment ago, they chose you to be regent, not tyrant. They won’t stand by while you strip one of the major dukedoms of her lands. They might have allowed Father to do such a thing, but not you.”
“Treason is treason, Henthas, and the volumes are quite clear on the point. The other dukes will have no choice but to accept my decision.”
Henthas bared his teeth in what Numar took for a grin. “You think you’ve won already. Grigor was the same way, you know. He thought he’d won, and look how it turned out for him.”
“You forget. I’m the one who destroyed him. Grigor would have prevailed, but he took me too lightly. You’d be wise not to make the same mistake, brother.”
“You’re not as smart as you think you are, Numar. Not nearly.”
“Perhaps not, but I’m smarter than you.”
Henthas just stared back at him with an air of calm the regent had never seen in his brother before. That look, that air of grim resolve, frightened Numar far more than anything the duke had said to him. I know more than you think I do, it seemed to be telling him. I know things you don’t. Henthas had always been the least formidable of the brothers Renbrere, weaker than Grigor and Carden, with little of their intelligence. But he was still Tomaz the Ninth’s son, and thus a far more dangerous foe than nearly any other man in Aneira. Could he have finally mastered the art of court politics? Could he have discovered a path to power that Numar had missed?
The regent forced a smile. “We’re being foolish, brother. Father wouldn’t have wanted us to work at cross-purposes.”
Henthas actually laughed. “And would Father have wanted to see Grigor executed so that you could claim the regency?” He shook his head again. “This is a strange time for you to start worrying about what Father would and wouldn’t have wanted.”