by DAVID B. COE
Cadel stiffened at the sound of his surname. Even Jedrek didn’t know it. He had done everything in his power to leave it behind when he left his home in southern Caerisse sixteen years ago, even going so far as to stage his own death and have his family informed that he had gone to the Underrealm. An assassin couldn’t afford to have a past or a name, at least not one that could be traced. So he had thought to eliminate his. Up until now, he felt certain that he had succeeded, that nobody knew.
“How—?” He stopped himself, not wishing to let her see that she had unsettled him.
“How did I know your full name?” She opened her hands. “I know a great deal about you. Your father is a minor noble in southern Caerisse, a viscount I believe, who’s more interested in his vineyards and horses than he is in politics. Your mother is the daughter of a northern marquess who had hoped she would marry better. Her first pregnancy—as it turned out, her only one—dashed all hopes of that and forced the marriage. You left your home at the age of sixteen, without ever having your Fating. The reason for your departure isn’t clear, though there seems to have been a girl involved, as well as a rival for her affections who turned up dead.”
He crossed to the room’s lone window and stared down at the lane below. “How can you know all this?”
“I’m first minister to the duke of Thorald. And I’m Qirsi. I have resources at my disposal the likes of which you can’t even imagine. Never forget that, Cadel.”
As if to prove her point, she produced a leather pouch that jingled much as the innkeeper’s had, and held it out to him. He took it reluctantly. It was heavy with coins. He stared at her briefly, then pulled it open and poured the contents into his hand. There must have been twenty gold pieces. Two hundred qinde.
“This is more than we agreed,” he said quietly, returning the coins to the pouch.
“You see? Sometimes a change in plans can work to your advantage.” She watched him, as if waiting for a reaction. When he gave none, she went on. “Consider the extra gold an incentive. As I was saying, we may wish to hire you again.”
He looked down at the pouch, feeling the weight of the coins in his hand. But it was the threat implied by her chilling knowledge of his youth that occupied his mind. An incentive, she had said. And, in case that didn’t work, she had shown him the cudgel as well.
“What about tonight?” he asked, his eyes still on the money bag.
“He rides tonight, after the banquet. He’ll be in the North Wood.”
“The wood?” Cadel said, meeting her gaze.
“He honors his father, who died there several years back. A hunting accident, I believe.”
“Do you know where in the wood he’ll be?”
She nodded. “His father died near the Sanctuary of Kebb, on the north edge of the wood just east of Thorald River. Do you know it?”
“Yes.”
“I assume he’ll be there.”
“And that’s where you want it done?”
She smiled at that, her small, sharp teeth as white as her hair. “It seems fitting, doesn’t it? It was good enough for the father, it will do for the son.”
Cadel offered no response, and after a moment she continued. “I want this to look like the work of thieves. The boy’s uncle pointed out today that the Revel brings with it a collection of miscreants and lawbreakers. He’ll readily believe that one of them is responsible.”
“All right.”
“That means you can’t be seen leaving the city; you can’t use any of the gates.”
It was Cadel’s turn to smile. “That’s not a problem.”
“You’ll have to be careful getting back in, as well. You should be seen here tomorrow. It might arouse suspicion if you were to just disappear.”
He held up the pouch of gold. “You’ve paid me a great deal, First Minister, because you know I’m the best. Let me worry about the fine points. I won’t be seen leaving or entering the city, and I have no intention of disappearing. In fact, I expect to be singing ‘The Dirge of Kings’ at the young lord’s funeral.”
“I’ll look forward to that, Cadel. I hear you sing quite beautifully.”
He bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the compliment. “Is there anything more that we need to discuss, First Minister?”
“No,” she said. “Leave me.”
He hesitated. “But this is my room.”
“Yes. But no one should see me leave. Not even you.”
“I need to change my clothes.”
“Please,” she said with a raised eyebrow and a coy grin, “be my guest.”
Again he shuddered, as though from a chill wind. But the first minister showed no sign of relenting. In the end, Cadel stood in the far corner of the room, his back to her, changing out of the tunic and trousers in which he had performed, and into simple, dark clothes far better suited to what he was to do that night. When he was finished, he walked to the door wordlessly and put his hand on the knob. Then he stopped himself and faced her again.
“Why do you want him dead?” he asked.
He had never asked this of an employer before, but neither had he ever been asked to kill a future king.
She regarded him for some time, as if trying to decide whether or not to answer. At last she gave a small shrug. “We sense an opportunity, a chance to gain control of events here in the Forelands. We don’t want it to slip away.”
“With so many Qirsi in the courts, I would have thought that you already control everything you need.”
She smiled, as if indulging him. “We don’t control everything. Sometimes events show us the way. The deaths in Galdasten, for instance. An accident of history, the act of a madman. The same is true of the incident that claimed the boy’s father. Another accident, or perhaps an act of the gods. But these events created the opportunity I mentioned a moment ago. And with your help we’re going to turn this opportunity to our advantage.”
He nodded, profoundly relieved to learn that at least some of what happened in the Forelands lay beyond the reach of Qirsi magic. Still, he couldn’t help feeling that by killing on their behalf, he made it easier for the white-hairs to turn subsequent events to their purposes.
He turned and pulled the door open, but before he could leave, the Qirsi woman called his name.
He looked at her once more and waited.
“What is it about the Qirsi that bothers you so much? Our magic? The way we look?”
“Yes, both of those,” he said. “But mostly it’s that you don’t belong here. Your place is in the Southlands. The Forelands were meant to be ours.”
She nodded. “I see.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, that’s all. Do well tonight, Cadel, and in time the gold in that pouch will seem a pittance.”
He felt his jaw tense, but he bowed his head once more, then left her and went in search of Jedrek. Gold is gold, he told himself as he walked. It doesn’t matter from where it comes. Certainly that was what Jed would say.
Cadel found Jedrek in the city marketplace, haggling with a peddler over the price of a Sanbiri blade.
“Leave it, Honok,” Cadel said as he approached the vendor’s table. “You can’t afford it anyway.”
Jedrek glanced at him sourly, before facing the merchant again. “I could if this Wethy goat would be reasonable.”
“Twelve qinde is as reasonable as I intend to be,” the peddler said in a raspy voice.
“It may be worth twelve qinde in Wethyrn, old man, but it’s worth half that anyplace else.”
“We’ll give you ten for it,” Cadel said. “Final offer.”
The merchant eyed him warily for a few moments. “Done,” he finally said.
Careful to keep the money from the Qirsi woman hidden, Cadel pulled out two five-qinde pieces and handed them to the man. The merchant took the money and made a point of handing the dagger to Cadel rather than Jedrek.
“Thank you, good sir,” he said to Cadel, a toothless grin on his wizened face. Then he c
ast a dark look at Jedrek. “It’s always a pleasure to do business with a gentleman.”
Cadel nodded once, before walking away. Jedrek hurried after him, holding his hand out for the blade. But for several moments Cadel held on to it, examining the bright steel and the polished wood handle. It was actually a fine piece of work. Sanbiri blades were the best in the Forelands, except perhaps for those made in Uulrann, which were exceedingly hard to find. At last he handed the dagger to Jedrek.
“Thanks,” Jedrek said, taking time to look at it as well. “You can take the ten qinde out of my share.”
“I will,” Cadel said. “It’s a good blade.” He paused, before adding, “Better than a musician needs.”
Jedrek shot him a look. “Then why did you buy it for me?”
“The damage had been done. Better we should get out of there quickly, without a fuss, than have you argue with the goat until sundown.”
Jedrek shook his head, a sullen look on his lean face. “So now I’m not even allowed to buy a dagger? Is that what you’re saying? Come on Ca—” He stopped himself. “Corbin, I mean. You’re not being reasonable. We just gave a great performance, and we did nothing to hide the fact that we were paid very well for it. Can’t I enjoy that?”
He had a point.
“You told me earlier that I was growing careless,” Jedrek went on, obviously struggling to keep his voice low. “I think it’s just as possible that you’re trying to be too careful. You’re the one who’s acting like an old man, not me.”
Cadel had to resist an urge to strike him. But he also had to admit that Jedrek was right. It was one thing to be prudent; it was something else entirely to act out of fear. In many ways that was as dangerous as taking no precautions at all. Wasn’t it possible that by trying too hard not to stand out, they could draw attention to themselves? Yes, the dagger was an extravagance. But wandering musicians needed to protect themselves from thieves, and fresh from their performances, Jedrek could be expected to celebrate a bit.
Cadel’s meeting with the first minister had left him shaken, but he had no right to take that out on Jedrek.
“You’re right,” Cadel said. “Enjoy it. It’s a fine dagger. Nicer than mine, to be honest.”
Jedrek stared at him for several moments, as if not quite sure whether to believe what Cadel was saying. Finally he grinned. “I know it’s nicer. That’s why I wanted it.” He slipped the blade into his tunic. “So where’s your meeting?” he asked a moment later, as they continued to walk.
“I’ve already had it.”
“What?”
“Our employer was waiting for me in our room.”
“How did he know where we were staying? How did he get past the barkeep?”
Cadel saw no reason to correct him. “I’m not sure.”
Jedrek dropped his voice to a whisper. “So are we doing it tonight?”
“Yes. In the wood. He’ll be on horseback.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
Cadel nodded. “I agree. We also have to avoid the city gates.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem either. Did he pay you already?”
“Yes. More than twice what we were promised.” Cadel grinned at the expression on Jedrek’s face. “Wish you had held out for a bigger blade?”
“I should have gotten two.”
They circled once through the city, then returned to the inn at which they were staying.
“Go upstairs and change out of your performance clothes,” Cadel said. “Then join me down here. We’ll eat supper and go back to the markets. From there, when, it’s time, we’ll make our way to the wall.”
Jedrek nodded and climbed the stairs to their room, while Cadel claimed a table in the back of the inn and ordered two plates of fowl and greens.
The two men lingered over the meal, which, though not particularly good, was not as bad as some of the meals Cadel had endured in inns like this one over the years. They left the inn just as the sunset bells were ringing. The sky had darkened to a shade of deepest blue, except in the west where the last rays of crimson and yellow still blazed. To the east, Panya, the white moon—the Qirsi moon—hung just above the city wall. A handful of stars could be seen overhead, pale as Qirsi skin. The air was still, which would make it harder to slip by the guards, but easier to hear the approach of their prey.
Cadel and Jedrek walked slowly back through the marketplace. Many of the merchants’ tables had been cleared away to make room for the Revel’s street performers. Tumblers soared through the air, twisting and rolling like swallows on a warm day. Bright flames leaped from the mouths of fire-eaters, and jugglers tossed gold and silver balls into the warm, sweet air. A company of Qirsi sorcerers conjured flames of every imaginable hue that danced and whirled as though they were alive. Musicians played at intervals along the street, the music from one group mingling with that of the next.
In the center of Thorald City, outside a great tent, young men and women of Determining and Fating ages stood in a long, winding line, waiting to have their futures foretold by the Qirsi gleaner inside. For all the spectacles of Bohdan’s Revel, the dancers spinning and gliding in the streets, the falconers displaying the talents of their birds, the tournaments of strength and speed and sword skill waged by men of fighting age, the gleaning remained its most important element, just as it lay at the core of the traveling festivals found in the other kingdoms of the Forelands. For children in their twelfth and sixteenth years, it was all they could think of during the turns leading up to the Revel’s arrival in their city.
The gleaning was yet another custom of the Southlands, brought to the northern kingdoms by the Qirsi invaders. A Qirsi man or woman possessing the gleaning power, the ability to divine the future, would offer a glimpse of each child’s fate with the aid of the Qiran, a great crystal said to be imbued with magic of its own.
Having traveled for several years with Eibithar’s Revel, Sanbira’s Festival, and smaller fairs in Aneira, Wethyrn, Caerisse, and Braedon, Cadel had learned a good deal about the gleanings and how they worked. He knew, for instance, that the Qiran itself was little more than a pretty rock. It served mostly as a medium through which the Qirsi sorcerers could convey what they saw to the awed children. The Determining, done at the younger age, also was not what it seemed, at least not anymore. Once, perhaps, there had been some magic in it. Over the years, however, it had become little more than a means for steering children into apprenticeships at the appropriate age. Still, for the children gazing into the Qiran as the Qirsi before them summoned forth an image of their future lives, it was a wondrous event. Cadel still carried vivid memories of his own Determining, though he shouldn’t have been surprised by what he saw: himself as an adult, presiding over Nistaad Manor, tending to the vineyards and stables, and collecting tribute from the surrounding villages. At the time he thought it prophecy. Later, long after he fled southern Caerisse, he realized that it had merely been an informed guess.
The Fating, however, was a different matter. Done in the sixteenth year, it relied entirely on Qirsi magic. Fatings foretold good marriages or failed love affairs, great wealth or grave misfortune, long life or untimely death. Those awaiting their moment with the Qiran might be giddy with anticipation or debilitated with fear, but no one took it lightly. Even Jedrek, who scoffed at the legends and paid little heed to custom, had once admitted to Cadel that his Fating, which offered glimpses of the life they were leading now, had left him troubled for many turns after.
Cadel had often wondered what his Fating would have revealed. He left his home early in his sixteenth year, before the festival arrived at the village closest to Nistaad Manor. Tall and strong for his age, with a dark mustache and beard already beginning to appear on his face, he was able to pass for an older man almost immediately. To have sought out his Fating in another village would only have served to call attention to himself.
At this point, he had little doubt about what the Qiran would have shown him. He was living the l
ife he was meant to live. He didn’t need a Qirsi sorcerer to reassure him of that. Yet, even now, seeing the children of Thorald waiting to take their turn in the Qirsi’s tent, he could not help but feel the call of the stone.
“Corbin! Honok!”
Wincing inwardly, Cadel turned at the sound of Anesse’s voice. He and Jedrek could ill afford to be trapped in a long conversation, or, worse, caught in a lie. It was nearly time for them to make their way to the city wall.
“I thought you had plans for tonight,” Anesse said. She was wearing a long, blue dress that was almost a perfect match for the color of the sky. It had a tantalizingly low neckline.
He summoned a smile. “We do. We’re on our way there now.”
“You’re certain we can’t lure you to the banquet?”
“Sadly, yes. You’re certain we can’t convince you to remain in Thorald for another day or two?”
She nodded. “Sadly.”
Cadel glanced for an instant at Kalida, who was steadfastly avoiding his gaze and Jedrek’s, her face as red as her dress.
“Well,” Anesse said awkwardly. “We should be on our way.”
“So should we.”
“Goodbye again, Corbin. Honok.”
“I hope to have the pleasure of singing with you again,” he said.
The two women turned and started up the road toward Thorald Castle. After watching them walk away, Cadel and Jedrek turned as well, and cut back across the market to the south end of the city. Cadel would have preferred to go over the city wall somewhere between the south and east gates. But all the land between the gates belonged to the Sanctuary of Amon, and Cadel wished to avoid any encounters with the clerics. Instead, they made their way to the southwestern wall, between the south gate and the lower river gate. There were a few small houses in this part of the city, scattered along a narrow lane. But most of the residents were at the banquet or enjoying the Revel. The houses were dark and the street empty.
At least six guards were stationed at each of the gates, and two more walked atop each of the three wall segments between the river gate and the south gate. A small watchtower separated one segment from the next, and each tower held two bright torches. Obviously, their best chance was to climb the wall near the center of the middle segment, as far from the torches and the well-manned gates as possible.