Seeds of Betrayal wotf-2

by DAVID B. COE

  Oddly, considering how much gold he had earned with his dagger, all that had stopped him from ending their partnership before now was his reluctance to kill the lutenist. Dario knew too much about Cadel and his work for the singer to let him live. If he wanted to work alone, he would have to kill his partner, and despite all his misgivings about working and singing with the man, Cadel wasn’t certain he could bring himself to do it.

  He shook his head, as if to clear his mind, and stood, stretching his legs and back. He heard the prior’s bells ringing from the city gates, and he cursed himself for wasting so much time. More than half the day was gone-the sun would be setting in just a couple of hours-and he had yet to make his way to the castle. Playing in the city streets had seemed such a fine idea a few days before. Now it was a bother, one more obstacle keeping him from planning Shurik’s murder. He had befriended a few of the castle guards, and had learned much from them about the Qirsi and the fortress itself. But what good were the guards if he found no time to speak with them? Cadel crossed to the door, pulled it open, and stepped into the corridor.

  Instinct. There was no other way to explain how he managed to have his dagger in his hand so quickly. It almost seemed that he knew the attack was coming even before he saw the shadow spring at him from the corner of the dark corridor. Still, even with his blade ready, he could do little to defend himself. The attacker caught him off balance, crashing into Cadel’s side and knocking the assassin to the floor. Cadel tried to stand again, but instantly the shadow pounced on him, pinning the singer’s blade hand beneath his body. He tried to free his weapon, at the same time struggling to throw the attacker off of him. His assailant was strong, but not very big, and as they grappled on the wood floor, Cadel sensed that the stranger had little experience with such fights.

  It didn’t take the assassin long to loose his blade arm and he struck at the body on top of his, intending to plunge his dagger into the attacker’s back. Just as he did, however, the stranger lashed out with his left arm, catching Cadel full on the wrist, so that his weapon flew from his hand, clattering harmlessly against the wall.

  The assassin tried to reach for it, but in the next moment, he felt the cold edge of a blade pressed against the side of his neck.

  “Don’t move!” A man’s voice, young and unsteady.

  “What is it you want with me?” Cadel asked, his left hand snaking down toward the second dagger he always kept strapped to his calf.

  “Vengeance. You took my queen, my title, my life. You’re going to die for that.”

  One motion. That was all it would take. A simple arch of his back to throw the man off of him, then, using the force of that first move, he would roll onto the man, second dagger in hand and ready for the killing blow.

  Even as the last word passed the attacker’s lips, Cadel had braced one foot against the floor. Before he could move, though, a brilliant white light filled the corridor.

  “Tavis, no!” came a voice from near the stairs.

  Cadel froze, staring up at the scarred face looming above his own. He wouldn’t have recognized the boy on his own, but there could be no mistaking those eyes, and the noble mouth and nose. This was Tavis of Curgh, one slash of his blade away from avenging Bnenne’s murder. Just as the girl’s spirit had warned on Bian’s Night in Solkara.

  Grinsa returned to the inn a short time before the ringing of the prior’s bells, weary but pleased. He had managed to find a lone guard whose mind he could touch without drawing the attention of anyone else. He had learned a good deal about the castle and about where Shurik was likely to be during the night. With any luck at all, he and Tavis could be out of Mertesse within a day.

  Entering the inn, he nodded to the innkeeper who was smoking a pipe in the middle of the great room.

  “Your friend was looking for you,” the man called to him as Grinsa crossed to the stairs.

  The Qirsi halted. “How long ago?”

  “He’s not from Aneira, is he?”

  Cursing under his breath, Grinsa walked to the innkeeper’s table and sat.

  “He’s from Eibithar.”

  “Yes,” Grinsa admitted, his voice low, though there were no others in the room.

  “You are as well?”

  “Yes.” He could have lied, but knowing the truth about Tavis, the man wouldn’t trust them anyway. Better to fight the innkeeper’s suspicions with honesty. “But we’re not here as enemies of Aneira. We have business with one man, and when that matter is completed, we’ll be leaving.”

  The innkeeper chewed his pipe, his bright yellow eyes fixed on Grinsa’s. “Two more nights,” he said at last. “Then I want you out. And I want five more qinde per night for these last two.”

  The room cost too much already, but if they had only two days left, they couldn’t afford the time it would take to find a new inn. “Fine,” Grinsa said. “How long ago was he looking for me?”

  “A while ago, just around midday.”

  Grinsa stood and walked away, not bothering to look at the man again.

  “Two days,” the innkeeper called after him, as the gleaner started up the stairs.

  He nodded, but didn’t stop again. Reaching their room, he found a note lying on his bed and began to read.

  Grinsa,

  I’ve found Brienne’s killer and have gone to avenge her death. Should I be killed in the attempt, or imprisoned afterward, tell my parents that I died restoring honor to the House of Curgh.

  Had it not been for your companionship, I would have spent these last several turns alone and friendless. For that, I will always be grateful. Be well, Grinsa. May the gods keep you safe.

  Tavis

  “Demons and fire!” he muttered, throwing the parchment to the floor and bolting from the room.

  It seemed lightning had flashed in his mind, illuminating shadows in which the truth had been hiding. Of course the assassin was here. The first minister of Dantrielle had sent him. Word of Shurik’s betrayal had spread through all of Aneira, and while most in the kingdom saw it as a humiliation for Eibithar, it shouldn’t have surprised Grinsa that a discerning few would see the traitor’s actions for what they were: a failed attempt by the conspiracy to start a war.

  “I’ve sent him to kill someone we believe is part of the conspiracy,” Dantrielle’s minister had said that day in Solkara. But there had been the barest hint of uncertainty in her voice, because she hadn’t been sure-she had chosen to send the assassin north based on hearsay. As it turned out, she was right, but Grinsa should have seen her uncertainty for what it was: a clue pointing to the identity of the man Evanthya wanted dead. Shurik, of course.

  “We’re at war with the conspiracy,” she had said. And so she had hired the finest blade in the Forelands to kill the man. Grinsa had been an idiot not to see this sooner.

  Charging down the stairs, he called to the innkeeper. “The inn where the musicians play! Where is it?”

  “The Swallow’s Nest?”

  “Yes! Where?”

  “In the west quarter, on a small courtyard off Fisher’s Lane.”

  Grinsa burst through the doorway, nearly knocking down an older Qirsi woman. He spun out of her way and sprinted through the streets toward the western end of the city. It had been hours since Tavis left his note. One or both of them might already be dead.

  It took him some time to locate the inn, each moment seeming a lifetime. When he finally spotted it, he dashed inside, vaulting the steps to the second floor, heedless of the shouts of the innkeeper. He could hear them struggling even before he reached the corridor and leaping over the last three stairs he raised his hand summoning a dazzling white flame.

  “Tavis, no!” he cried, seeing the boy’s blade glint in the sudden light.

  The Curgh boy looked up at him, his dagger still resting against the assassin’s neck. In a distant corner of his mind, Grinsa wondered how Tavis had managed to overpower a hired blade.

  “Leave us, gleaner!” the young lord said, his chest heavin
g. “I don’t need your help.”

  “I’m not here to help you, Tavis. I’m here to stop you.”

  The boy gaped at him, and the assassin used this opportunity to wrench his body to the side, throwing Tavis off of him and raising a blade of his own, one Grinsa hadn’t noticed until that moment.

  With a single, desperate thought, the gleaner threw his power at the dagger, shattering it into tiny fragments. The assassin stared at him, his face blanching.

  “I can do the same to your bones,” Grinsa told him. “And I won’t hesitate to do so.”

  Slowly, the singer nodded.

  Tavis jumped to his feet, brandishing his weapon again.

  “Hold, Tavis.”

  The boy rounded on him. “Why?”

  “Because he’s here to kill Shurik, and we have to let him do it.”

  “What?”

  “Remember what Dantrielle’s first minister told us. She hired the singer to kill a member of the conspiracy. Shurik’s the one. Isn’t that so?” he added, shifting his gaze to the other man.

  The singer narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

  Grinsa eyed the man briefly, noting his cold, pale eyes and his lean, muscular frame. Even having described the man to countless barkeeps and merchants during their search through Aneira, Grinsa realized that he hadn’t known quite what to expect. There could be no denying that he had the look of a killer. The gleaner wouldn’t have wanted to face this man without his magic.

  “I’m a friend of the boy, and an enemy of the man you’ve been hired to kill.”

  “Tell me your name.”

  And then Grinsa understood. The assassin he had killed in Kentigern Wood, the one sent by Cresenne, had been this man’s partner. So many paths converging on this one city, on this one day. It almost seemed that the gods had been guiding them all along, turning all of them to their purposes. Who was Grinsa to defy their will, whatever it might be?

  “Grinsa jal Arriet.”

  The man’s eyes widened.

  “Yes,” the gleaner said. “I’m the one.”

  “She told me you were more than a mere gleaner,” he said.

  Cresenne. So she had sent two assassins for him. He nodded, ignoring the ache in his chest. “She was right.”

  “And now you’re saving my life?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “No, he’s not!” Tavis said, looking from one of them to the other, his face a mask of rage and pain. “He killed Brienne!” the boy said, his wild gaze coming to rest on Grinsa. “Because of him I was imprisoned, beaten, tortured! Because of this man, my father gave up the throne!”

  “Not because of this man. Yes, he killed Brienne.” He glanced at the singer. “You did, didn’t you?”

  The assassin hesitated, then nodded, as if sensing that there was too much at stake here to lie.

  “But none of this happened because of him. He’s a hired blade, a weapon. Nothing more. The conspiracy used him to kill Brienne and make you suffer. If it hadn’t been this man, it would have been another. But they would have done this anyway.”

  “I promised her, Grinsa. I swore to her that I’d avenge her death.”

  “I know. But Shurik has to die, and I’m not certain that we can kill him. This man can.”

  As he was speaking, he saw the assassin eyeing a dagger that lay on the floor near where he knelt. “Don’t do it,” he warned the man. “I’d prefer that you survive this day, but I’ll kill you if I have to.”

  “No, you won’t,” Tavis said. “I will. I can’t let him live, gleaner.”

  “You have to. We need him, at least for now.”

  The boy raised his weapon again. “No,” he said again.

  Grinsa took a step forward. “I’m tired, Tavis. I’ve shattered his blade and I’ve been holding this flame for some time now. I can break your blade, too-I will if I must-but I might miss, and splinter your wrist instead. Please don’t make me do that.”

  The young lord glared at him. “How can you do this to me?” he whispered, tears streaking his face.

  “I’m sorry. Truly I am. But your need for vengeance is not as important as stopping the movement.”

  Tavis shook his head. “No!” he said savagely. “You mean it’s not as important as protecting your life and your sister’s! That’s what this is about! Guarding your precious secret! You just don’t want anyone else to know that you’re-”

  “That’s enough!”

  The boy looked away, his face reddening, his tears still falling.

  Grinsa faced the assassin. “Tell me your name. Not an alias, the real thing.”

  Once more the man faltered. Then, “Cadel.”

  “Go, Cadel,” the gleaner said. “While you can. My debt to you is paid. The next time we see you, I won’t stop him. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” the assassin said, climbing to his feet. “But you should understand that I have to protect myself, regardless of debts. I know you’re here now. I know the boy wants me dead. If I have to kill him and you to keep myself safe, I will. And if you’re here in Mertesse on Pitch Night, I’ll hunt you down.”

  “We won’t be.” Grinsa paused. “Is that when you plan to kill Shurik?”

  “I’m Eandi, and he’s a sorcerer. If you were in my position, when would you kill him?”

  The gleaner nodded. “Come, Tavis.”

  The boy faced the singer, hatred in his dark eyes. For a moment Grinsa thought he would strike at the man, in spite of all that the gleaner had said. Instead he leveled his blade at the man’s heart. “The next time I see you…” He trailed off, lowering his weapon again and walking away.

  The assassin opened his mouth as if to speak, but then appeared to change his mind.

  As Tavis stepped past him, Grinsa laid a hand on his shoulder. The boy shrugged it off violently and continued down the corridor to the stairs.

  Grinsa looked at the singer again, their eyes meeting for just an instant.

  “Don’t fail,” the Qirsi said.

  “I never do.”

  They stood there, saying nothing. Then, with a sudden chiming that made the assassin jump, Grinsa broke the blade that lay at the man’s feet. He gave a grim smile and let his flame die out before hurrying to catch up with Tavis.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  He was sitting in the back corner of the Swallow’s Nest, sipping his fourth cup of Eardley bitters, when Dario returned to the tavern. Cadel saw the lutenist step through the door, but he merely watched as the younger man walked to the stairs and climbed to the upper corridor. He’d come back down soon enough, and Cadel wished to enjoy his solitude for just a moment longer.

  It had been some time since he last drank this much. Certainly he had never done so on a night when he was to sing. But the lutenist never worried about the quality of their music, so why should he? The bitters wouldn’t detract much from his performance anyway. Wine and ale clouded the mind. Bitters brought clarity. They had this night.

  At no time during his struggle with Tavis of Curgh did Cadel truly fear for his life. He trusted all to his instincts, as he so often did in such circumstances, and he fought, assessing dangers and opportunities as they presented themselves. Only when the encounter had ended, as he stood alone in the darkened corridor, listening to the fading footfalls of the Qirsi gleaner, did he begin to contemplate how close he had come to dying.

  Earlier in the day he had sensed that something was amiss, that a threat lurked somewhere just beyond his sight and hearing. Emerging from his room just a few hours later, however, he gave no thought to those premonitions. He merely stepped into a dark hallway, his blades sheathed and his mind wandering like that of a child. Had he taken the time to glance toward the corner as he did-a simple precaution that even the most inexperienced assassin knew to take-he would have seen the Curgh boy and killed him with ease. Instead, he found himself on his back, with another man’s steel pressed against his throat. He deserved to be dead. Looking back on all that had happened, he wa
s forced to conclude that he had been fortunate. Had the Qirsi not arrived when he did, Cadel might have managed to throw the boy off of him. But he couldn’t be certain of that. It was just as possible that he would have died in the attempt. He shuddered at the thought, as if he could still feel the cold blade on his neck.

  Assassins often spoke blithely of killing and being killed. No one who wielded a blade by profession could ignore the risks inherent in such a life. And no man, no matter his skill with a dagger, was immune to the passage of time. Cadel had plied his trade for more than eighteen years, not long for a farmer or smith perhaps, but an eternity for an assassin. He had always known that he would have to quit eventually, or be killed himself. But until today that time had seemed remote, a vague certainty, like the distant promise of the plantings in the middle of the snows.

  His instincts had saved him this day, barely. But how much longer could he count on them? Next time he faced Tavis of Curgh, the boy would be older, stronger, more sure of himself with a weapon. And Cadel would be that much slower, that much more likely to fail and die.

  Which brought him to the essence of the matter, the realization that had come with the clarity of his bitters. He wished to live. He had more gold than he could spend in a lifetime, some of it in a pouch he carried with him, the rest hidden in Cestaar’s Hills, just outside of Noltierre. Before he died, he wanted to enjoy his wealth, to wander the Forelands without planning his next murder or his next escape. A few turns before, after facing the ghost of Lady Bnenne, he had convinced himself that he needed a new partner. A few hours ago, he had decided that he wanted to work alone. Now he understood that what he wanted most of all was to be finished with killing altogether. There was enough blood on his blade; there were already too many wraiths berating him on Bian’s Night. Brienne had told him that he wouldn’t survive the year, and the prioress in the Deceiver’s sanctuary had suggested that he find a new profession. It had taken far too long, but at last he had taken to heart the lessons of that harrowing night.