by DAVID B. COE
“It has,” Dario said, not bothering to mask his anger. “It was my father’s, and it was nearly destroyed in the attack on my home village that took his life.”
Cadel’s brow furrowed. “It would seem that it’s my turn to apologize,” he said quietly. “Your lute certainly has a good sound, and as for the rest, I intended no offense.”
The lutenist gave a single nod. “It’s all right.”
Another performer, a piper, began to play at the front of the tavern.
The assassin stood. “Why don’t we go somewhere we can play, and you can show me just how fine an instrument it is.”
Dario looked up at the man, and after a moment he grinned. “Very well. I just need to collect my pay from the tavern keeper.”
He stood, picking up his lute, and they began making their way among the tables toward the bar. But after taking only a few steps, Cadel stopped, his face hardening as he began to shake his head.
“Not so soon,” he whispered. “They can’t want me again so soon.”
Following the direction of his gaze, Dario saw a Qirsi woman standing by the bar, speaking with the owner of the tavern. She looked vaguely familiar to him, though he couldn’t say why. There could be little doubt as to why she had come, however. As Dario watched, the tavern keeper nodded and pointed toward Cadel. The white-hair looked at them, recognition in her bright yellow eyes. She said something to the man, handing him a gold coin. Then she started in their direction.
She didn’t need a message from Fetnalla to tell her that she should have seen to the matter already, though Evanthya wasn’t surprised when such a message arrived at Castle Dantrielle that morning. Fetnalla had penned it herself—Evanthya would have known her hand anywhere—but the note itself was so brief as to seem almost cold. “Any news yet?” it asked. And then, simply, “Write me soon.” Only the signature offered the slightest hint of what lay behind it. “Your Fetnalla.”
They had signed their notes this way for years. Such a small thing, yet it was all they dared. This at least could be passed off as an error made in haste, rather than as a declaration of their love.
Deep as that love went, however, Evanthya could tell that Fetnalla was cross with her. The note itself had been intended as a rebuke, a reminder of how much time had slipped by since Chago’s funeral. She could delay no longer, especially with Tebeo preparing to ride later that day to Solkara for the king’s funeral.
After her daily audience with her duke, Evanthya made her excuses to the underministers, changed out of her ministerial robes, and left the castle, hurrying through the north end of the city to the marketplace. As much as she had dreaded doing this, she had not been completely idle since leaving Fetnalla in Orvinti. For years she had heard rumors of a tavern in Dantrielle that was frequented by assassins, brigands, and thieves. Most cities had such places, but the one in Dantrielle had long been said to be the most crowded in the kingdom, the one to which the most renowned men of this kind flocked. She now knew that it was called the Red Boar, and that it could be found just off the southern edge of the marketplace. She knew, as well, the name of one particular man whose talents matched her needs perfectly. The information had cost her nearly half a turn’s wage, and had required that she tell the most appalling lies not only to her duke, but also to several guards, the other ministers, and one of the stableboys, who was now convinced that she had a secret lover on the far side of the city to whom she paid frequent late-night visits.
As it turned out, the Red Boar was more difficult to find than she had been led to believe. It was located on a narrow street near the south city gate, with a single small sign that she overlooked several times as she walked up and down the lane. It didn’t help that the tavern looked fairly respectable from outside; she had expected that its appearance would match its reputation.
Once inside, however, the first minister was not disappointed. She had little trouble believing that the men crowding around the bar and laughing raucously from nearly every table were killers and rogues. Many of them stared at her as she approached the bar—she was the only Qirsi in the tavern—but they left her alone. The tavern keeper seemed reluctant at first to speak with her, but when she showed him a ten-qinde round, he gladly pointed out the man she sought.
His name was Corbin, a Caerissan singer with a reputation as a skilled though expensive assassin. He stood at the back of the tavern with a younger man, and it appeared that they were preparing to leave.
Evanthya glanced around awkwardly as she walked toward them, conscious once more of being the only Qirsi in the room.
“Are you Corbin?” she asked, stopping in front of the Caerissan.
He stared at her with unconcealed hostility. “Did the barman just tell you I was?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have cause to doubt him?”
She bit back a retort, forcing a smile instead. “Perhaps we can sit,” she said, gesturing toward the table the man and his friend had just left.
Corbin hesitated, looking briefly at his companion. After a moment he nodded, and they walked back to the table.
The younger man carried a lute, and Evanthya wondered if he was merely a musician or an assassin as well. She suddenly felt far beyond her depth.
“This is Dagon,” the assassin said, indicating the younger man with an open hand.
Dagon smiled, glancing at his companion. It occurred to Evanthya that this wasn’t his real name, that in fact Corbin’s name was probably an alias as well. Which probably meant that the younger man was also a killer. She found this hard to believe. He looked terribly young, with a clean-shaven face and warm brown eyes. He could easily have been a new probationer in the duke’s guard or even a court noble. Indeed, Corbin had the look of nobility as well. Perhaps this explained his success as an assassin.
“And your name?” Corbin asked after a brief pause.
“My name isn’t important,” she said, unable to think of an alias of her own.
“Fine,” the Caerissan said, the look in his pale eyes turning cold. “Then what is it you want?”
“I had hoped to hire you.”
“Don’t you people understand that every time I do a job for you, it makes the next one that much more dangerous?” He glanced beyond her briefly, and when he began again it was in a near whisper. “There are risks to every kill, and if one follows too closely after the last, it increases the chances that I’ll fail, or that one of you will be discovered.”
The minister shook her head. “I don’t understand. Has someone else from the castle spoken with you?”
He frowned. “The castle?”
The realization came to her so swiftly, with such power, that she almost began to laugh. There was really only one explanation for what he had said, though she could scarcely believe that it was true. And as she moved beyond the humor of the situation, she began to tremble, fearing for her life.
“You’ve been hired by Qirsi before, haven’t you?”
He nodded, his eyes wide, as if he understood what had happened as well.
Evanthya swallowed, then stood. “I think I’d better go.”
“No, don’t.”
She stopped, unsure at first if he was urging or ordering her to stay. If she needed, she could summon a mist to aid her escape, but her other powers—gleaning and language of beasts—were of little use to her here.
“I was wrong to come here,” she said, not looking at him. “I just want to leave.”
“You came to hire an assassin.”
Evanthya nodded.
“And you’re not with…You’re not part of a movement.”
She looked back at the man, meeting his gaze. “No, I’m not,” she said, as if daring him to hurt her for her loyalty to the duke.
“Neither am I,” he said.
The minister narrowed her eyes. “But you said—”
“I said I had worked for them. That doesn’t make me party to their cause.”
“Meaning what?”
&nb
sp; “Meaning that if you want to hire me, you can.”
“It’s not that simple,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t just want to hire you, I want to hire you to kill a Qirsi we suspect is part of the conspiracy.”
“‘We’?”
Her face colored. “I.”
A small smile flitted across the man’s face. “Please, won’t you sit again?”
“Why? I’d just be wasting your time, and my own.”
“Not necessarily.”
“You’d actually consider doing this?” she asked.
He gestured at the empty chair. “Please sit.”
She returned to the table and slowly lowered herself onto the chair, her eyes never straying from the two assassins.
“Who is this person you want killed?” Corbin asked, his gaze steady.
In a far corner of her mind, Evanthya wondered that she could be discussing such things so calmly with a hired killer. She wanted only to serve her duke and her kingdom, like any other Aneiran. Yes, she had yellow eyes and possessed magics that the Eandi feared, but in other ways she was just like any of her duke’s subjects. She had never wanted to be more than she was, and certainly she had never thought to plot the murder of another. But in these times it seemed that loyalty to Tebeo and the kingdom demanded more than simple ministerial duties.
“How is it that you can do this?” she asked the man. “How can you kill for the Qirsi movement, and then turn around and take my gold to kill one of them?”
“Their gold buys my blade, not my allegiance,” he said. “Just as your gold does. I may kill for you today, only to turn my blade against you tomorrow. That’s the nature of my profession.”
The assassin’s eyes bored into her own as he spoke, as if by saying the words to the minister he could reach every Qirsi in the land. There was more at work here than just avarice, though she couldn’t be certain what it was.
“This person you want killed,” he went on a moment later. “Can you give me a name?”
“No. I wish I could. I know that he once served a duke in Eibithar, Kentigern I believe. He recently sought asylum in Mertesse.”
Corbin’s face paled at the mention of Kentigern. “Why this man?” he whispered.
“You know him?”
“I know of him. Tell me why.”
Because it’s all we can do, she wanted to say. Because we know so little of the conspiracy that just suspecting he might be involved makes him a threat. Word of the man’s escape from Eibithar had spread quickly through Aneira, as did descriptions of the siege that nearly captured Kentigern Castle. Most in the kingdom greeted these tidings predictably, mourning the death of Rouel of Mertesse, cheering the blow dealt to Kentigern and the Eibitharians, and marveling at how close the Mertesse army had come to taking the great castle atop Kentigern Tor.
But with word of the battle and the defection came whisperings among some of a darker purpose behind the minister’s actions. He betrayed his duke not to help Mertesse, these stories implied, but rather to further the conspiracy, whose leaders hoped to draw the two kingdoms into a full-blown war. The stories went on to say that he had a hand in the death of Kentigern’s daughter, whose murder nearly precipitated a civil war between Kentigern and Curgh, two of Eibithar’s leading houses. Most dismissed these last rumors, but not Fetnalla and Evanthya. These tidings fit too well with all the other strange events darkening the Forelands. A turn later, Fetnalla dreamed of the man, and though she had told Evanthya little of the vision, offering only vague answers to her repeated questions, she did make clear that it had convinced her of what they already suspected: the traitor from Kentigern had acted on behalf of the conspiracy. The murder of Chago of Bistari only served to deepen their certainty that the time had come to strike back at the conspiracy. In light of Fetnalla’s vision, and all they had heard since the siege of Kentigern, the renegade minister seemed the logical choice as their first target. Evanthya still grew queasy at the notion of killing a man on the basis of rumor, suspicion, and a single dream, but Fetnalla argued that their only alternative was to wait for another murder or siege that might finally bring war and chaos to the land. The king’s death only strengthened her point.
“Because we know of him as well,” Evanthya finally told the assassin. She had said “we” again, but she pressed on. “The conspiracy has gone unopposed for too long. I don’t expect that this man’s death will stop it. It might not even slow its advance across the land. But those who lead it have to be made to understand that they will be opposed. Perhaps this is the way to convey that message.”
“Perhaps it is,” he said thoughtfully.
“You said that you know of this man. Do you know his name?” She wanted to ask if he knew for certain that the man was part of the conspiracy, but she didn’t dare reveal her doubts. She felt that she was betraying Fetnalla even thinking it.
“I wouldn’t say even if I did,” he told her. “I’m not part of their movement, but neither am I their enemy. I’ll tell you nothing about them. And I’ll tell them nothing about you.”
How could she argue? “Very well.”
“You have gold for me?”
Evanthya took a breath and pulled Fetnalla’s pouch from within her riding cloak. She had added some of her own money to the sixty qinde Fetnalla had given her. The pouch felt heavy as she placed it in the man’s large hand.
“That’s ninety qinde,” she said. It seemed a lot to her, but given the look that passed between Corbin and his young companion, she guessed that they usually demanded more. Her heart sank, and she expected the assassin to hand back the pouch.
“That’s fine,” he said instead.
The younger man started to say something, but Corbin laid a hand on his arm and shook his head.
“We’ll see to this matter,” he said, holding her gaze. “You may not place much faith in the word of men like me, but I promise you, the man in Mertesse will be killed, and no one will learn from us who bought his blood.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, her throat abruptly dry.
“Now I’d suggest you go, before your duke misses you.”
Evanthya felt the blood drain from her cheeks.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, smiling at her. “As you’ve seen, I don’t betray those who buy my services.”
She just sat there, knowing that she should leave, that she should run from the place and never return. But she wasn’t certain that her legs would bear her. After several moments, she made herself stand and leave the table. She stepped to the tavern door, glancing back as she pulled it open. The two men were still at the table, but they were talking to each other. She glanced around the tavern one last time and then hurried out into the lane. She and the duke’s company would be departing soon for Solkara, where, no doubt, she would see her love again, sooner than either of them ever imagined. Fetnalla would be pleased by what Evanthya had done, but that did little to ease the pounding of the minister’s heart.
Cadel stared after the minister as she made her way to the tavern door. Taking her gold was dangerous, but he hardly cared. By making it clear to her that he knew who she was, he guaranteed that she wouldn’t reveal him to others. And at last, he could strike back at these Qirsi who had controlled his life for so long.
“Why did you do that?” Dario demanded, sounding angry and terribly young.
Cadel looked at him. “She gave us gold.”
“Ninety qinde, for a job that’s going to take us the better part of a turn. Maybe longer. You can’t expect me to believe that you’ve been accepting so little pay for other jobs.”
“No, I haven’t. But didn’t you hear what I told you earlier about working for the conspiracy?”
“Yes, I heard,” the young man said. “They know too much about your past. They can reveal you to every noble house in the Forelands. And if you try to stop working for them, they’ll hunt you down. Demons and fire, man! What do you think they’ll do to you when they learn that you’re killing Qirsi who be
long to the movement?”
“They won’t find out. I’ve been doing this a long time now, and I’ve gotten quite good at it.” He eyed the lutenist briefly. “If you don’t want to do this, we can part ways now. I’ll hold no grudges. You have my word.”
Dario stared at him, as if weighing the offer. Then he shook his head. “No, I’ll go with you.” He rubbed a hand across his brow. “Ninety qinde,” he mumbled to himself.
Cadel nearly laughed aloud.
“What’s my share come to?” Dario asked.
Cadel thought for a moment. “Thirty-six qinde.”
“Thirty-six. I suppose I should be pleased. That’s more than I’ve got now.” He peered into his empty tankard. “Still, I think it’s only fair that you buy the ales.”
Chapter Eleven
Curtell, Braedon, Bohdan’s Moon waning
Dusaan strode through the white stone corridors of the palace, his red robe rustling like the cape of a king, his white hair dancing about his shoulders. He still seethed at the messenger’s tidings, though he was certain that no one would have known it to look at him. He had learned long ago to keep a tight rein on his passions. In a few hours he would be free to loose his rage, but before then he had to endure an audience with the emperor. Surely Harel would be distraught enough for both of them.
He passed by one of the interior courtyards, its fountain gurgling noisily amid the blooms and shrubs growing in great carved marble planters. A pair of finches flew up from the water at his approach, alighting on a high ledge just below the white ceiling. Just beyond the courtyard, he turned to enter the broad, tiled corridor leading to the emperor’s chambers. Guards stood on either side of the door, both of them dressed in gold and red, both holding pikes that gleamed in the sunlight from the glazed windows that lined the outer hall.
They bowed to him as he stepped past them and pushed open the door.
“Dusaan jal Kania!” another guard called out as Dusaan paused in the doorway. “High Chancellor to the Emperor of Braedon!”