Argus spotted Syrio in the center of the great hall, at the high table on top of a dais. Surrounded by his family, he clutched a goblet of wine and took in the celebration. A steady stream of dignitaries had formed a line to greet him.
Argus swore under his breath. He saw the beautiful blonde woman up there, who stood at her father's side and received a smattering of kisses.
Janna, he thought.
He'd kissed those cheeks one, back in better times. He kicked himself for not thinking of her earlier. Of course she'd be here. This was just another day in a lifetime of fine clothes and dancing and social graces. It was all she'd ever known. It ran in her blood the same way fighting ran in his.
Argus turned away from the high table and hurried over to a maître d', a swarthy man who looked like he'd washed up in Azmar from the Kingdom of Tokat. He knew enough curses in the common speech, however, to get his point across.
He ripped the soup bowls out of Argus's hands and scowled. “Finally.” That scowl became a smile as he turned to the table beside him, which was packed with wealthy merchants from Rivanna. “Enjoy your soup, my lords.”
The maître d' wrapped a bony hand around Argus's shoulder and guided him away from the table. “You come next time I call you, boy. Do you understand?”
Argus laughed.
The maître d' raised an open palm. “If it weren't for the occasion, I'd slap that insolence off your face. Remember your place, debtor.”
Argus curled his hands into fists. For a moment he was certain he'd strangle the man. Somehow he nodded and overcame the temptation.
“Hurry back down to the kitchens. Find yourself some wine to serve. Hopefully you can at least manage that.” With that he was gone, off to excoriate another hapless servant.
Argus hustled downstairs, avoiding the spilled soup on the steps, and found two jugs of wine. The debtors were already busy serving the next course: a casserole of rice and capon.
Once everyone in the hall had their soups and capon, Lord Syrio rose from his seat and called for their attention. “Welcome! Welcome, everyone! Many of you have traveled far, and Azmar thanks you for that. I'd seat every one of you at my table, if I only had the room to spare.” His smile vanished. “These are troubling times. No one can deny it. Yet it's my hope that we can come together tonight and parlay. To be merry and settle our differences with words instead of swords…”
At the end of his speech the guests clinked glasses and cheered. But their voices lacked enthusiasm. As Argus poured wine for the delegation from Pellmere and some of the Calladonian men, who shared the same table without acknowledging the other's existence, he had the distinct feeling that this feast was for show—and nothing more.
They'd gorge on Syrio's food and finest vintages. Then they'd return to their realms and prepare to fight. War was coming; it stung like a winter wind.
More courses came and went. Shepherd's pie and quail eggs and ribs of boar. So many courses Argus lost count. He poured wine almost constantly, unable to keep up with the army of empty glasses.
I'm running out of time, he thought, hurrying downstairs to refill his wine jugs. And still no closer to the task at hand.
Back in the great hall, he shuffled past fireplaces along the enormous curved glass which made up Syrio's dome. It served as windows and a ceiling both. Starlight streamed in, filtered through the rubies covering the outside, tinged the color of blood.
Argus stopped at a table just beneath the high table, at the base of the marble stairs leading up the dais. At this table sat a strange mixture of Rivannan merchants and delegates from Garvahn. They were blindingly drunk, slamming glasses and singing loud songs. He did his best to keep their glasses full.
He watched the dais all the while. Syrio was surrounded by a cluster of Emperor Eamon's generals. A few Pellmerean elders waited halfway up the steps, watching suspiciously. Janna sat on the end of the table. She was as beautiful as the night he'd left her—maybe even more so. She made small talk with the emperor, who nodded occasionally but kept his eyes fixed on the festivities below.
He scowled whenever there was a drunken outburst, he and his men just as sober as when they arrived. In his eyes lurked something almost inhuman. He watched the crowd the way a feral cat might watch a mouse.
“Hey, don't shortchange me, you bastard!”
One of the Rivannan merchants tugged on his sleeve. Argus turned and added even more wine to the glass he'd just poured, filling it to the very brim.
“That's it!” the merchant said. He tipped back the glass and spilled wine all over his face and clothes.
“Feel better, Felix?” the man beside him asked, shouting over the peals of laughter. “At least you didn't shortchange yourself!”
Idiots.
Argus studied every face at that high table. Searched for the right angle. Most of them were drunk, cheeks flushed and swaying to the music.
Then Lord Syrio stood up on his chair and shouted, “Time for dessert and dancing!”
They answered with whistles and boisterous applause. Some of the delegations, distant when the evening began, had started to mingle.
Maybe this is working, Argus thought. It's harder to kill a man after you dine with him and look him in the eye.
He helped clear the dishes. After adding an armful to the enormous stacks down in the scullery, he found a sharp cooking knife and slipped it into his robe.
Argus returned upstairs with more wine. He hovered near the tables just below the dais, filling glasses and watching. Waiting. Dessert approached quickly; he decided that was when he would do it.
There would be no dancing afterward.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After what felt like forever, the debtors trundled out of the kitchen with strawberry tarts.
Argus poured wine until the guests at his table got their desserts, then left them the jugs to cheers and laughter. He worked his way to the end of the table, where a pair of Garvahnish men snored with their faces in their hands. He snatched their tarts and made for the dais.
A debtor scurried up the steps just in front of him, steadying a tray with a humble smile.
Damn.
Argus hastened up the steps. He stuck out his ankle. Then came a scream and terrible clatter.
He didn't look back until he reached the top of the dais. The poor man lay sprawled out across the steps, covered in strawberry tart. The guests around him roared with laughter.
“What in the blazes is this about?” Syrio asked, snarling over the rim of his goblet.
Argus slipped away to the edge of the dais, unnoticed. Everyone's attention settled on the hapless debtor, who'd begun to pick up the strawberry filling by hand.
“I'm terribly sorry, my lord,” he quavered. “I didn't m-mean to—I didn't intend to disrupt your feast.”
Syrio waved him off with a stiff hand. “See to it that this mess is cleaned up at once. I don't want strawberry filling on my shoes when it's time for dancing.”
The debtor bowed. “Yes, my lord.”
He scurried away and left Argus alone with Lord Syrio's personal wine bearer. A pale woman with coal black hair, she pulled him aside and whispered, “Who are you?”
Argus shrugged. “A humble servant.”
“Hugo is a humble servant. I saw you trip him. I don't know what this is all about, but I can assure you we'll…”
He swiped the wine out of her hand and left her chattering away at the rear of the dais. Starting at the end of the table opposite the emperor, Argus served the guests of honor their strawberry tarts.
He refilled their wineglasses and slowly worked his way toward the other end of the table. The kitchen knife brushed against the inside of his sleeve. It was small; he hoped it was sharp enough.
It will have to do.
Argus studied the faces between him and the emperor. They were soft, grown fat on their wealth. They might have had an outlaw's instincts once, as they were building their fortunes, but none of them carried weapons anymo
re.
He filled another wineglass and looked across the table.
That's when everything changed.
Argus nearly dropped the glass. He steadied his fingers and set it down in front of the woman across from him. He backed away, blinking rapidly.
She was still there.
He pulled his hood tighter. He looked away but felt no relief from those eyes boring into him. Something strange had happened the moment he reached for her empty wineglass. A flicker of recognition…
Kyra, he thought. No. It can't be.
He poured the next wineglass, checked again, and found the woman still staring.
Gods!
Aside from a few wrinkles creasing her forehead, she was largely unchanged. She stared at him with her honey eyes, beautiful, cheeks quivering under her chestnut hair.
Argus watched her lips tremble, just like they had when she received word that Prince Belen had chosen her to be his bride. She'd cried all night. Even threatened to run away. But when morning came, Belen's men came with it.
It was that morning when young Argus discovered there was only so much he could do to fend off what fate had in store.
Fate. She had torn his family apart and banished him from Leith. And now that crude, cruel instrument had brought them back into his life, at the worst possible moment.
Kyra's eyes brimmed with tears. She stabbed at them with her slender fingers. A sidelong glance revealed that her husband was distracted.
She leaned forward, reaching for her brother's arm.
“Argus? Is it truly you?”
He nodded without a word. Then he pulled away from her and moved on. Kyra was deep in her cups, wobbly, but he prayed she remembered what would happen if her husband overheard.
Kyra watched him shuffle past and reach for the bastard's wineglass. Prince Belen was older now, fatter with his hair graying at the temples. The man who'd exiled him to a life away from Leith received his glass without the slightest interest.
Argus reminded himself to breathe. Any semblance of a plan scattered. There was nothing left but pain. It had burrowed deep in the marrow of his bones, yet seeing his sister again dredged it up to the surface.
If only I knew how to fight back then. If only I had Reaver…
He pressed on, still staring at the side of the prince's face. He couldn't believe they'd been sitting up here this whole time with their backs to him. Argus reached for the woman's glass who sat on Prince Belen's right—actually it was King Belen now—and felt even drunker than she was.
She giggled at Belen's terrible jokes, flushed, showed too much cleavage.
Argus was a different kind of drunk. In the span of a single look, he'd gone from sober assassin to plunging off a cliff.
He continued his free fall, edging ever closer to the emperor. Eyes settled on him from all around. He felt Kyra staring, squirming in her chair. And, lest he forget, another pair of eyes watched as well.
Janna.
He glimpsed her blonde hair across the table. He had already served the man beside her, so he couldn't skip her without drawing even more attention to himself.
He grabbed Janna's glass, keeping his eyes low under the hood.
She received it, muttered thanks, and resumed her conversation with the nearby guests.
Thank the gods…
Then King Belen sneezed.
Janna's eyes shot across the table. She caught Argus looking right at her, and nothing could hide his face in the candlelight.
Her mouth fell open, and her wineglass spilled across the table.
Out came Argus's knife.
It glinted as he tucked it into his palm.
He took one step toward the emperor, who had gotten up from his chair with the others, distracted by the spill. Despite his position as the most influential man at that table, he wore a plain brown doublet. A testament to his faith.
No armor. Aim for the heart.
Just out of reach.
Argus gripped the knife and leaned forward. He watched the emperor's chest amid the shouting and scooting chairs. Prepared to thrust…
Someone bumped him from behind.
His elbow tweaked to the side as he crashed into the table, knocking a petite woman to the ground. She screamed, everyone screamed, and above it all he heard Janna's voice.
“No!”
Argus whirled.
Janna lay across the table, her blonde hair disheveled, reaching.
He turned past her, toward the heavy body crushing him against the table. He found King Belen staggering there, drunk and stupid and oblivious. The bastard smelled of sour wine. He chuckled as he groped the svelte woman beside him.
In that moment, the emperor was forgotten. All of Argus's seething hatred for the man in front of him bubbled to the surface.
He shoved him backward and thrust the knife in his chest.
His eyes widened. His grin fell away a moment later—when reality set in and he began to gurgle. Fat, hairy fingers clawed at his chest as he crumpled.
The woman beside him shrieked, and jumped aside just before Belen fell on top of her. Janna screamed. Everyone at the feast might have been screaming with how loudly the voices echoed under that giant dome.
Argus left the knife in.
A crowd gathered to help Belen. Somewhere far away, Syrio called for his mender. Argus backpedaled, looked at his sister one last time, and did everything he could to preserve that memory.
Fear clouded her face, but behind it was relief. He'd live the rest of his life in exile. But she'd have a chance to be free.
He turned and bounded down the dais.
“It's him!” Eamon called. “The tall man in the red robe!”
Syrio's Olive Cloaks, who had blended into the background for the evening, filled the great hall with a new sound: ringing steel. Swords drawn, they converged on him quickly. Argus squeezed between two tables and pulled his hood tight. When he emerged on the other side, he joined a sea of debtors and did his best to blend in.
Most of them just stood there, overwhelmed by all the noise and Syrio's never-ending commands. Some sprang into the fray. Others fled for the exits.
Argus joined them. He walked fast—but not too fast. He worked his way back toward the kitchen stairs. All around him, arguments broke out and Olive Cloaks grabbed stray debtors and detained them.
He shoved past a few waiters, wineglasses shattering, and disappeared down the stairs. Down and down he went, dizzy, nearly slipping on the slick stone tile. He didn't look back until he reached the bottom and felt the oppressive heat of the kitchen.
“Halt! In the name of Lord Syrio!”
A pair of Olive Cloaks scrambled down behind him, broadswords in hand.
Argus sprinted into the kitchen. He found a row of wide eyes. Cooks and busboys cleared a path for him, some murmuring, others gaping in bewilderment.
“Grab him!” the Olive Cloaks screamed.
None of them did. They just froze there listening to the screams from the great hall as Argus wove between them. He picked up a butcher knife, burned his arms on a few hot pots, and ran on.
The Olive Cloaks shoved their way closer. There were more of them now, surrounding him from every side. He knocked over a cart full of dishes. They shattered around the Olive Cloaks, but hardly slowed them down as they advanced shoulder to shoulder in formation.
Argus ran for the wall. He started to edge along it. Nowhere to go. A mass of debtors and Olive Coats cut off all the escape routes.
He threw dishes and knives, but they clanged harmlessly off the heavy armor bearing down on him. Then the Olive Cloaks from the great hall joined the others who'd come in through other doors, and the corral was complete.
Argus looked left, then right, and snatched a giant pot lid off a nearby counter. Using it as a shield, he lowered into a battle stance.
A few of the Olive Cloaks laughed at him.
He was a cow fit for slaughter. But he didn't let that stop the rage from building inside him
. Reaver was far away, though he heard her blood song well.
With any luck, they'd just kill him on the spot instead of bothering with a proper execution.
Not before I kill some of them first…
Conscious thought fled; only instinct remained. The Olive Cloaks had stopped laughing now. They watched the fugitive's eyes.
“Come on,” Argus said, beckoning with the knife. “Which one of you should I eat for supper first?”
The Olive Cloak with a white plume in his helmet raised a mailed fist. The others gathered tighter around. He let that fist fall slowly, and the soldiers shuffled forward as one.
Chest heaving, Argus lunged for the captain. Sparks flew when his butcher knife met the man's massive shield. Broadswords whistled all around. One of them landed in his calf.
Argus screamed. His leg fell out from under him, then it was all he could do to collapse as softly as possible. On his way down he lunged, stabbing one of the guards right in the armpit.
The Olive Cloak came down with him. On the ground they tangled, Argus reaching for the butcher knife as the others pressed in close. Once he pulled it out he started stabbing again, the blade clinking uselessly off forged steel.
Strong hands grabbed him by the arm and tugged. He gripped his knife tighter, still stabbing, until someone stomped on his hand.
“Argh!”
“Let go of the knife, fugitive, unless you want another.”
He looked up and found the captain, who pointed a sword right between his eyes. Slowly, he raised his boot again and grimaced.
Argus released the knife and held his wounded hand, still screaming. Needle pricks throbbed in his knuckles. He was vaguely aware of his calf burning, losing a lot of blood.
The swords inched closer.
“That's enough,” the captain said. “Lord Syrio wants him alive. So justice may be done in accordance with the law.”
Some of the Olive Cloaks groaned at that. But they sheathed their weapons; a few approached and helped Argus up.
“He's losing a lot of blood, captain,” one the men said, as they pulled the captive to his feet.
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