by DAVID B. COE
Shurik had returned with the duke and hadn’t left the safety of the castle since. He spent most of his time caring for the first minister, who was still recovering from the poisoning in Solkara. The new duke, though honoring his father’s pledge to protect the man, despised him and had no intention of ever making him a minister.
“How did you get a soldier of Mertesse to tell you all this?” the young lord asked, when Grinsa had finished.
“You remember the peddler we met in the Great Forest?”
Tavis felt the blood drain from his face.
“With all the guard told me,” the Qirsi went on a moment later, “I still have no idea how I can get close enough to Shurik to-” He fell silent, glancing uneasily at Tavis.
“To what?”
Grinsa stared at him briefly, his mouth twitching. Then he looked away. “To kill him.”
“I thought you wanted to question him, to learn what you could about the conspiracy.”
“I did. But with Keziah trying to join the movement, he’s too great a threat, to her as well as to me. I don’t have a choice anymore.”
Tavis considered this for several moments before starting to nod. “All right. What do you want me to do?”
Grinsa smiled, looking relieved. “Nothing for now. Rest. Walk the marketplace. Enjoy the musicians. I still have a great deal to learn. It’s been several years since I last visited Mertesse, and I don’t remember much about the castle.”
“You think we’ll have to do it there?”
“I doubt very much that Shurik will give us the opportunity to do it anywhere else.”
They spoke a while longer, Grinsa relating to Tavis those details he did remember about the castle and actually asking the young lord questions about the design of Curgh Castle, which apparently had been constructed at about the same time as Mertesse. Eventually they returned to the main room of the tavern to have a small meal and continue their conversation. Tavis was pleased to find that much of what he told the gleaner about his family castle seemed to interest Grinsa. So often in their time together- most recently when they had spoken of Grinsa’s powers-Tavis had felt like a child learning from a master, or even a parent. He enjoyed speaking with the Qirsi as if, for once, they were peers.
When they finished eating, Grinsa walked back to the castle, though he remained vague as to what he planned to do there, and Tavis returned to the marketplace, hoping to find the musicians. They agreed to meet back at the tavern at sundown.
When the young lord reached the marketplace, there was no sign of the musicians or the crowd they had attracted. He did find some jugglers who were throwing knives back and forth with alarming speed, and he watched them for a while before wandering among the carts again. It had been some time since he last heard a performance by worthy musicians, and he briefly considered going to the tavern where they were said to play. What had the man called it? The Swallow’s Nest. He knew, though, that Grinsa would think it a bad idea. With Shurik so close, Tavis sensed that the gleaner would have liked to lock Tavis in their room the entire day, just to keep him from being noticed. He couldn’t, of course, but he had made it clear that the boy was to limit himself to their room at the tavern and the marketplace. In any other city, Tavis would have chafed at such constraints. But Mertesse, located only a league from the Tarbin and the border with Eibithar, was different. In his kingdom it was said that no Aneirans hated his people more than those in Mertesse. If someone here recognized his accent they might very well kill him where he stood. He would wait until tomorrow, when he could hear the musicians in the marketplace.
When Tavis and Grinsa met at the end of the day, the gleaner seemed weary and discouraged. He explained that he had spoken to six or seven more guards, using his mind-bending magic on several of them, but had learned nothing more about the castle, or where Shurik’s quarters could be found. They ate their dinner in silence, then climbed the stairs to their room and slept.
The following morning, Tavis dressed quickly and was ready to leave the room before Grinsa was even out of bed.
“I want to find a good place to sit to hear the players,” he said, as he pulled the door open.
“All right. Be careful. I’ll be at the castle much of the morning, but I’ll try to find you in the marketplace around midday. If you don’t see me, come back here.”
Tavis nodded and left. So eager was he to reach the marketplace that he didn’t even stop to eat in the tavern. Instead he bought a round of bread from a baker and hurried on to where the musicians had played the day before. Even so, he wasn’t the first to get there and within an hour of his arrival, he was surrounded by a mass of people. He could only hope that the musicians were as good as these Aneirans seemed to think.
“It looks like everyone in the city is here.”
Tavis turned toward the voice, only to find a young, attractive red-haired woman looking at him. A frown flitted across her features as she traced his scars with her green eyes. But then she met his gaze and smiled. He gave a small smile in return and nodded, not wanting to risk a conversation.
“Did you hear them yesterday?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“I did. They were wonderful, of course. When was the first time you saw them?”
“Actually, I haven’t seen them at all,” he told her, trying his best to sound Aneiran.
Judging from the puzzled look she gave him, he could tell that he had failed. “You’re not from Mertesse, are you?”
“No. I was born in Tounstrel, but I’ve… moved around a lot.”
The woman nodded seeming to accept this. “Well, you’re going to enjoy this. They’re the best musicians to perform here in years.”
“I’ve heard others say the same.”
“I’m Rissa.” She turned and surveyed the crowd, her frown returning. “My brother’s here somewhere, but I don’t see him right now.”
“I’m Xaver.”
“Are you here with anyone, Xaver?”
Before he could answer, the people far behind them began to cheer. It seemed the musicians had arrived. Tavis and Rissa turned to the sound, straining to see over the crowd, and slowly the sea of people began to part, revealing the players. He saw the lutenist first, a young man with golden yellow hair, warm brown eyes, and a square face.
Looking past him to the other man, Tavis felt his whole body grow numb with cold, as if Brienne’s spirit had passed through him, borne by a wind from the Underrealm. There could be no mistaking that face. He had seen it in Curgh during the Revel, when he first heard this man sing, though it had taken Brienne’s ghost to remind him. He saw it again in the great hall of Kentigern, when the man, then posing as a castle servant, handed him a flask of dark Sanbin wine. He saw it a third time in Kentigern’s Sanctuary of Bian, a vaporous image summoned for him by Brienne’s spirit. And he had seen it a hundred times since, haunting his sleep like one of the Deceiver’s demons, taunting him with a malevolent smile.
The smile appeared kinder now, as did the thin, bearded face. But those eyes-pale blue, and as cold as the north wind blowing off of Amon’s Ocean-those eyes could only belong to a killer. Brienne’s killer.
Tavis’s first instinct was to reach for his blade, to finish it right here. But he knew he couldn’t. Even if he could have managed to overpower the singer, the people around him wouldn’t allow it. The man was a luminary here in Mertesse. And Tavis was an Eibitharian noble, an exile.
He looked around desperately, searching for Grinsa, or a castle guard, or anyone who might believe the truth about this man. He’s an assassin! he wanted to shout. That man is a hired blade! He killed the woman who was to be my queen! He killed the duke of Bistan and may even have murdered your k_mg! Again, though, nobody in the marketplace had any reason to believe him, and hearing his accent they would view him as the enemy, not the assassin.
The singer had almost reached him. In another moment he would see Tavis, and surely the scars and the stained travel clothes would not keep
him from recognizing the young lord. Tavis had but one choice. Turning quickly and pushing his way through the thick ring of people that surrounded him, the boy fled.
“Xaver!” he heard Rissa call to him. “Xaver, where are you going?”
He ignored her, fighting his way through the crowd like a lone crow flying in the face of a gale. The Aneirans pressed against him, as eager to get closer to the singer as Tavis was desperate to get away from him. For several moments he wondered if he’d get through at all. He could barely move forward, and there was no going back. Feeling fear rise in his chest like the waters of the Tarbin in flood, he very nearly reached for his blade so that he might clear a swath through this mass of bodies. At last, however, he broke free, stumbling into the open street as if he had been shoved out of the throng.
He bent at the waist, his hands resting on his knees and his breathing labored. For just an instant he thought he might be sick, but the nausea soon passed, leaving him weary and tearful.
He straightened and began to walk back toward the inn, struggling to keep from bawling like a babe. The singer had been right in front of him. Had he but drawn his blade and waited a moment or two, he might have been able to kill the man. Yes, the crowd would have overwhelmed him. They might even have killed him. But at least the singer would be dead, and Brienne avenged. He had sworn to her spirit that he would strike the man down for her and though he had not spoken the words aloud, he had vowed to himself that he would not allow fear for his own life to stay his hand.
Now he had done just that.
“I am a coward,” he muttered under his breath, tears stinging his eyes. “I always have been.” The only time he had truly been brave was in Kentigern’s dungeon, when he had endured the torture inflicted upon him by Brienne’s father rather than confess to her murder. And all he had to show for those brief moments of valor were the scars on his face and body.
That would end here, in the half-frozen, mud-covered lanes of this city. He began to walk faster. The assassin hadn’t seen him; the young lord felt certain of that. Which meant that the man would be as unprepared for Tavis’s assault at their next encounter as he had been at this one. He had lost an opportunity, but nothing more. He would find this Swallow’s Nest and kill the singer there. Let the Aneirans hang him. Better to be executed for the murder of a killer and reviled as a nobleman of Eibithar, than to waste away in exile with all the Forelands believing that he had butchered his queen.
By the time he reached the small lane that led to the inn at which he and the gleaner had taken a room, he was running, enlivened by his resolve. He threw open the door of the tavern, took the stairs two at a time, and rushed down the corridor to their room. Opening the door, he found that Grinsa had already gone.
He spat a curse and searched the room for a quill and a piece of parchment. Seeing none, he hurried back down the stairs to where the innkeeper sat, puffing on a pipe.
“Do you know where my friend went?” he asked, heedless of his accent.
The Qirsi man regarded him coolly. After a moment he shook his head. “I saw him leave just after you did, but he told me nothing.”
No doubt he had gone back to the castle, hoping to learn something of its design and of Shurik’s whereabouts.
“Do you have a quill, and something on which to write?”
The innkeeper gave him a sour look, but he stood and walked slowly back to his chamber, emerging a few seconds later with a quill, a stoppered vial of ink, and parchment.
Tavis grabbed them from him, tossing a “Thank you” over his shoulder as he ran up the stairs once more.
He sat on his bed and opened the ink, but then faltered with the quill poised over the vial. If he explained too much about what he intended to do, the gleaner would try to stop him. Grinsa would see only the danger. Tavis was more than willing to exchange his life for the assassin’s, but the Qirsi would balk at such a trade. In the end, however, the young lord decided it was best to tell him everything and hope that Grinsa wouldn’t have the chance to interfere. Someone should know what he had done. Someone should be able to explain to his parents that he hadn’t died a coward, that he hadn’t carried his shame to the Underrealm.
He kept his message to the gleaner brief and to the point, but he did include a final word of thanks for all Grinsa had done for him.
“Had it not been for your companionship, I would have spent these last several turns alone and friendless,” the young lord wrote. “For that, I will always be grateful. Be well, Grinsa. May the gods keep you safe.”
He placed the parchment at the foot of the gleaner’s bed, checked to make certain that his blade was strapped securely to his belt, and left the room. His stomach felt hard and empty, but he didn’t dare eat. Having made his decision to avenge Brienne here in Mertesse, he now needed to contrive a way to kill the singer without getting himself killed first, and without giving the gleaner time enough to stop him.
Their performance in the marketplace went quite well; better, Cadel had to admit, than had any of their previous ones. Not that the city folk would have noticed much difference from one day or evening to the next. Dario could have neglected to tune his lute, and Cadel could have reversed the lyrics of the Paean, and still the people of Mertesse would have cheered lustily for every note. Such was the power of the reputation they already enjoyed in this city.
Perhaps the singer should have accepted this as evidence that Dario was right: no one cared if they played perfectly. It was enough that they sounded good and pleased their listeners. But something about their performance this day left him troubled. More precisely, it was something about the marketplace itself, or perhaps the crowd that greeted them there. Cadel could hardly say which. He knew only that he felt the way he often did before a difficult kill, alert and a bit on edge. It almost seemed that his body was readying itself for a fight, though Pitch Night was still several days away. He couldn’t explain it, but he had learned long ago to trust his instincts. He couldn’t dismiss it either.
Yet there was nothing to be done about it, at least not until he had a better sense of what was coming. As they walked back toward the Swallow’s Nest, Cadel found himself scanning the city streets for signs of trouble, one hand drifting time and again to the handle of his dagger.
Dario didn’t appear to notice. “We sounded good, don’t you think?” he said, a broad grin on his boyish face. “I bet there were people in Kentigern who heard those cheers.”
“Your timing is still all wrong in the threnody, and the Caerissan folk songs are far too ragged in the refrains.”
Cadel winced at what he heard in his own voice, and the smile vanished from the lutenist’s face, leaving a hard, bitter look.
“We’re so close to having it all just right,” the singer began again a moment later. “We just need a bit more work.”
Dario nodded, but said nothing.
He couldn’t say why he treated the younger man this way. There remained much about their playing that bothered Cadel, and though they had practiced every song more times that he cared to count, Dario’s playing had changed little. Nearly every compromise had come from Cadel, either with a specific change in his singing style, or a silent acquiescence to another of Dario’s poor habits. But while Cadel found this exasperating, disagreements over their music hardly explained these outbursts of anger, which, at times, caught even him unaware. It almost seemed that he was directing at Dario all his lingering rage at having lost Jedrek.
“We won’t practice very long,” he said, trying once more to soothe the other man’s anger. “Just once through the threnody and the folk songs ought to do it.” I need this, he almost said. I need to sing in order to keep my mind off of everything else.
Dario gave no reply, and they walked the rest of the way to the inn without speaking a word.
They played the songs quickly and flawlessly, though without any of the feeling that usually marked their performances. The lutenist stared at his hands the entire time, as if refus
ing to look at Cadel.
If I’m not careful, I’ll destroy this partnership before our first kill.
“That sounded good,” he said when they had finished the last song. “All of them did.”
“So that’s what you want?” Dario asked, his voice as flat as his playing had just been.
“Well, that’s the right pacing. As for the rest, we just finished a performance. We’re both tired.”
“So we’re done here?”
Cadel nodded. “I think so.”
Dario stood, wrapping his lute in its cloth, and stepping to the door.
“Where are you going?”
The lutenist shrugged, keeping his back to Cadel. “Away from here. That’s all that matters.”
“We still have a good deal to plan for Pitch Night.”
Dario did turn at that. “You make the plans. Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it. That’s what you expect, isn’t it?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Pulling the door open, he walked out of the room and closed the door firmly behind him. If the younger man hadn’t left his lute on the other bed, Cadel would have wondered if he intended to return.
For a long time the singer merely sat and thought, trying to determine if he was angry with the lutenist or just weary of him. He needed someone to guard his back. He had been saying so for years. The truth was, however, he had always preferred working alone. Even when Jed was still alive, he had savored those kills he completed by himself. On a few occasions Jedrek had managed to warn him of danger. Perhaps he had even kept Cadel from being captured or killed. And though Jedrek died trying to protect him while Cadel rode to Kentigern, the singer couldn’t ignore the possibility that Jed had delayed the Qirsi enough to save his life this one last time. Still, Cadel had to admit that he kept Jedrek around not for protection, but rather for the man’s company during the many turns each year when they had no jobs, and all they had to do was wander the land and sing.
He could get by alone if he needed to. There were risks to working without a partner, but he was an assassin and risks came with the profession. Even with the added dangers, working alone had to be better than this. He had grown tired of fighting with the lutenist all the time, of working so hard to accommodate a man whose lute playing was so undisciplined and whose skill with a blade remained so uncertain.