“I think that at the moment, all the thieves in the city are here in the palace,” he said. “And when they either finish looting the place, or they realize they aren’t going to get a chance to loot it, they’ll be back out in the market.”
“And what if they find they don’t have to loot it?” Tabaea shot back. “What if they find that the new government here is more generous than the old, and that anyone can have a decent living without being forced to steal?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” the brave merchant answered. “I think there’ll always be thieves, and I want someone to protect us from them.”
“You have me,” Tabaea said. “That’s all you need.”
The merchant’s expression made it quite plain that he did not consider his new empress, whatever her abilities, to be an adequate replacement for several thousand soldiers, but his nerve had apparently run out; he said nothing more, and the scruffy little man who seemed to be serving as Tabaea’s chamberlain herded the group down the stairs.
Next up was a woman who claimed she had been unfairly forced from her home; as she gathered herself together and inched up to the dais, Sarai, standing at the head of the left-hand stairway, considered what she had just heard.
Tabaea was no diplomat; her treatment of the warlock and the merchants had made that plain. The case of the stolen blanket was interesting, though; she had not hesitated in the slightest before ordering the man to give the woman the blanket. Had Tabaea really known who was lying, as quickly as that?
It could be, of course; if Tabaea had acquired the right magical skills, she might be able to instantly tell falsehoods from truth. She hadn’t had to consult any magicians other than herself, certainly.
Or maybe she had just guessed. Maybe she assumed that the accused were always guilty. Maybe she would always prefer women to men, or the sober to the intoxicated. From one case, Sarai really couldn’t say...
She had reached that point in her thoughts when the arrow whistled past. Her eyes widened, and she saw the impact very clearly as the missile struck Tabaea, Empress of Ethshar, in the throat.
Sarai stared as blood dribbled down the pale skin and onto the front of Tabaea’s absurdly gaudy dress; the sight of the woman standing there gasping, with the arrow projecting from her neck, was horribly unnatural. Sarai was vaguely aware of clattering footsteps behind her as someone descended the stairs so fast that it was almost as much a fall as a climb, and then the fading sound of running feet as the archer fled down the corridor below. The sound was very loud and distinct in the shocked silence following the shot.
Then Tabaea reached up and ripped the arrow free; blood gushed forth, spattering the dais and drenching her dress. Someone screamed—a single voice at first, then a chorus of shrieks and shouts.
The empress took a single step, staggered—and then straightened up.
As Sarai watched, the gaping red hole in Tabaea’s throat closed, the skin smoothed itself out, and the wound was gone as if it had never been.
“Where did that come from?” Tabaea demanded, in a voice as strong as ever.
Several fingers pointed, and Tabaea strode through the room, imposing in her anger despite her small size, with the bloody arrow still clutched in her hand. She headed for the stairs where the assassin had lurked. All present, regardless of who they might be, hastened to get out of her way—Sarai among them.
She had to admit, as she watched Tabaea pass, that was a very impressive bit of magic, the way that wound had healed—if it had all been real, and not some sort of illusion. She turned back to the throne room.
The dais was soaked with blood; if it was an illusion, it was a durable one. And, Sarai saw, a line of bloody drops and smears on the stone floor marked Tabaea’s path from the dais to the stairs.
Sarai did not really think it was an illusion at all.
She wondered who the assassin was, and why he had made his attempt. Had Lord Torrut sent him, perhaps? And would he get away, or would Tabaea catch him?
If she caught him, Sarai was sure the man would die. She hoped it wouldn’t be too slow or painful a death.
She looked around again, at the remnants of the crowd, at Tabaea’s chamberlain standing by the dais looking bewildered, at the rapidly drying blood the empress had lost. She thought of the warlock, and the merchants, and the drunk with the broken hand, of Grandgate Market and the gate itself left unguarded, and of the palace corridors jammed with beggars and thieves. She thought of the empress of Ethshar abandoning everything else to chase her own would-be assassin, because she had no guards to do it for her, no magicians to track down and slay the attacker.
This was no way to run a city.
Quite aside from any question of Tabaea’s right to rule, it was clear to Sarai that the murderous young woman didn’t know how to rule properly.
She would have to be removed—but as the scene with the arrow had demonstrated, as Mereth’s report of the Wizards’ Guild’s repeated failures, removing her wasn’t as simple as it might seem, with the Black Dagger protecting her.
Sarai paused, looking after the departed empress. At least, she thought, there was an obvious place to start. If the Black Dagger protected Tabaea, then the Black Dagger had to be eliminated.
Of course, Tabaea knew that. It wasn’t going to be easy to get the enchanted knife away from her.
Easy or not, a way would have to be found. And since no one else seemed to be doing it, Sarai would have to do it herself.
She sighed; it was easy to say she should do it. The hard part, Sarai told herself, was figuring out how.
CHAPTER 34
“Let me help you with that, Your Majesty,” Sarai said, reaching out for Tabaea’s blood-soaked robe.
Tabaea looked around, startled. “Thank you,” she said, pulling the robe free. Sarai accepted it and folded it into a bundle; half-dried blood smeared her arms and dripped on the carpet.
“You’re not one of my usual servants,” Tabaea remarked, as she unbuckled her belt and tossed it aside. She tugged at her sticky, bloody tunic and asked, “Where’s Lethe? Or Ista?”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty,” Sarai replied. “I was nearby, and I just thought I’d help.” She hoped very much that if Lethe or Ista showed up that neither would see through her disguise, or recognize her voice.
Of course, those two had mostly waited on the overlord and his immediate family, not on Lord Kalthon and his children; while they both knew Lady Sarai by sight, neither had been a close friend.
And both of them were tired of cleaning up Tabaea’s blood, so they probably wouldn’t be in any hurry to answer the empress’ call. This latest attack, an attempt at decapitation, had been even messier than previous unsuccessful assassinations.
Sarai had seen it, of course; she made a habit of unobtrusively following Tabaea about her everyday business, watching any time an assassin might strike. She wanted to know more about Tabaea’s capabilities; she wanted to be there if Tabaea did die, to help restore order; and she wanted to be there if there was ever a chance to get the Black Dagger away.
She had an idea about that last that she hoped to try. That idea was why she was now playing the role of a palace servant.
She supposed she hadn’t really needed to watch the actual decapitation, but she had been too fascinated to turn away. For a moment, when the assassin’s sword finished its cut through the imperial neck and emerged from the other side, Sarai had thought that this might be too much for even Tabaea’s magic— but then she had seen that the wound was already healing where the blade had entered, that the head had never been completely severed from the body, and that Tabaea was already tugging the Black Dagger from its sheath.
Each time someone had openly tried to kill the empress, Tabaea had pursued her attacker, and two times out of three she had caught and killed someone she claimed to be the assassin.
At least, Sarai thought she had; certainly, she had caught the archer the first time, and judging by her remarks to her c
ourtiers and the satisfied expression on her face, she had caught this swordsman, as well.
She hadn’t caught anyone when magical attacks had been made, of course, but those attacks hadn’t inflicted any deadly wounds, either; the Black Dagger had dissipated any wizard’s spell used against her, and Tabaea, using her own powers, had fought off all the others before they got that far.
She hadn’t eaten the poisoned meals, either; Sarai didn’t know why.
At least, she had turned away meals she said were poisoned, but Sarai had no way of knowing whether poison had actually been present, or that Tabaea hadn’t cheerfully consumed poisons in other meals without detecting them—and without being harmed. And for that matter, if magical attacks had reached her undetected, perhaps they had used up some of her store of stolen lives—but Sarai had no reason to think that had happened. As far as Sarai could see, neither magic nor poison had affected Tabaea’s vitality.
The more direct assaults, however, surely did.
If Sarai correctly understood how the Black Dagger worked— which she doubted, since her information was third-hand at best, relayed by Mereth or Tobas or one of Tobas’s wives from analyses provided by various wizards—then each time Tabaea killed someone, she added another life to her total; each time she received a wound that would have killed an ordinary person, a life was lost from that sum.
So while she had lost three lives to assassins, she had recovered two of them, tracking down her enemies and stabbing them to death before they had a chance to escape. Neither one had even gotten out of the palace.
That must have been a ghastly sight for the would-be killers, Sarai thought, to look back and see Tabaea, covered with her own blood and wielding that horrible dagger, in hot pursuit. And it had presumably been the last thing they ever saw—at least, for two out of three.
The chase was over now, and Tabaea had retreated to her apartments, to change out of her bloody clothes, to wash the blood from her skin and hair, before going on about the business of ruling me city. She had sent her chancellor and her other followers away, so that she could clean up in private.
And this was what Sarai had been waiting for. The instant Tabaea had set out after the assassin, Sarai had hurried to the imperial quarters, where she had filled the marble tub and hung the kettle over the fire.
“The bath is ready, Your Majesty,” she said. “I hope the water’s warm enough; it’s not my usual job.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Tabaea said wearily, as she handed Sarai her tunic and ambled into the bath chamber. Sarai accepted the garment, bowed, and hurried after.
Tabaea dropped her skirt, stepped out of her girdle, and stepped into the tub.
“It is a bit cool,” she said. “See to the kettle, whatever your name is.”
“Pharea, Your Majesty,” Sarai said. She put the bloody clothes aside and fetched the kettle from the fire, then poured steaming hot water into the tub, stirring it in with her other hand.
She wanted Tabaea to be comfortable, to take a nice, long bath—and give her a good head start.
“You’re nervous, Pharea,” Tabaea said.
Sarai looked up, startled.
“Don’t be,” the empress said, “I won’t hurt you.”
Sarai was not reassured, but she tried to hide her discomfort. “Of course not, Your Majesty,” she said. “I suppose it’s just the blood.” “Your Majesty?” a new voice called.
Sarai turned, as Tabaea said, “Ah, Lethe! Come in here and help me get this blood out of my hair.”
Sarai bowed, collected Tabaea’s remaining garments, and backed out of the bath chamber as Lethe stepped in. The servant gave Sarai a startled glance, then ignored her as she tended to her mistress’ needs.
Sarai collected Tabaea’s bloody clothes into a bundle, and dumped it in me hallway, to be disposed of or cleaned, whichever was more practical—she really didn’t know and didn’t much care. Her servant act was almost over. In a few seconds she would have what she wanted. She returned to the bath chamber and leaned in.
“I’ll just close this door to keep the steam in, shall I?” she said.
“Yes, thank you, Pharea,” Tabaea said with a wave.
Sarai closed the door, quietly but firmly.
Then she hurried to Tabaea’s belt, still lying on the floor where the empress had flung it; she snatched the Black Dagger from its sheath, took her own knife from concealment beneath her skirt, and substituted the ordinary belt knife for Tabaea’s magical weapon. She tucked the Black Dagger carefully under her skirt, then looked around, checking to see if she had forgotten anything.
As she turned, she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror; at first, she paid no attention, but then, startled, she stared at the glass.
Her magical disguise was gone; she was no longer Pharea, a moon-faced servant, but herself, Lady Sarai.
The Black Dagger had done that, obviously; it had cut away the illusion spell.
She certainly couldn’t afford to stay here, in that case, not that she had intended to. Moving quickly, but not hurrying so much as to attract attention if someone saw her, she stepped out into the passageway and closed the door behind her.
And then, carefully not hurrying, trying very hard to appear as ordinary as possible, she strolled down the hall, down the stairs, and a few minutes later, out of the palace entirely, across the plaza onto Circle Street.
She had done it. She had the Black Dagger.
Now what?
She didn’t want to do anything hasty or ill-considered. The obvious thing to do would be to go to the Guildhouse on Grand Street and tell the wizards that Tabaea had been disarmed—but
Sarai did not always trust the obvious.
Would magic work against Tabaea now? She still had the strengths and talents of a dozen or so people, even if she could no longer add more. And mere was the question of whether it would be for the best in the long run if wizards removed the usurper empress; however much she might like some of the individual members, Sarai did not like or trust the Wizards’ Guild. They had claimed they didn’t meddle in politics, yet she was quite sure that if she told them the Black Dagger was gone, they would immediately assassinate Tabaea. Like it or not, Tabaea was the city’s ruler. What sort of a precedent would it set if she helped the Wizards’ Guild kill a reigning monarch and go unpunished?
Not only would they surely go unpunished, they might expect to be rewarded for such a service. They might well demand a larger role in running the city, or some tangible expression of gratitude. Sarai did not for a minute believe that their strictures against interfering in politics, or their insistence that they wanted to kill Tabaea for themselves rather than the good of the city, would prevent them from expecting payment for such a service to the overlord.
What if they demanded the Black Dagger?
Sarai frowned. She didn’t like that idea. The Black Dagger was dangerous.
Of course, wizards were dangerous—but still, why hand them even more power?
And then again, it might be, for all she knew, that the Black Dagger would only work for Tabaea. It might be that the wizards already knew how to make such daggers.
It might be that Tabaea would be able to make another as soon as she found that this one was gone, in which case Sarai really shouldn’t be wasting any time—but still, she hesitated. Wherever the Black Dagger came from, whether more could be made or not, Sarai was sure that the wizards would want it.
Well, the wizards had things she wanted—not for Ethshar, but for herself. What if she were to trade the dagger to them in exchange for a cure for her father and brother?
This all needed more thought, despite any risk that Tabaea would make another dagger. The time was not yet right, Sarai decided, for a quick trip to the Guildhouse.
But then, where should she go?
Lord Torrut, she decided. There was no point in letting more assassins die for nothing, not when a single spell might now be enough to handle the problem. She had no doubt at all
that the assassins were sent by Lord Torrut; when open battle had failed, he had gone underground, but she was sure he was still fighting.
The question was, where?
The obvious place to start looking was the barracks towers; with that in mind, she headed out Quarter Street toward Grand-gate Market.
And as she walked, a thought struck her.
Ordinary swords and knives and arrows could not kill Tabaea, as long as she had extra lives saved up—but what if she were stabbed with the Black Dagger? Wouldn’t that steal all her lives at once?
Maybe not; it would certainly be a risky thing to try. Most particularly, it would be risky for an ordinary person, with an ordinary person’s strength, to attempt to stab Tabaea, with all her stolen power.
But what if someone used the Black Dagger to build herself up to be Tabaea’s equal, or her superior, and then stabbed Tabaea?
Whoever it was couldn’t go about murdering magicians, of course, or even just ordinary people, but perhaps if there were condemned criminals...
Did the dagger’s magic work on animals? Sarai remembered that dogs, cats, and even a pigeon had been found with their throats cut; Tabaea had, at the very least, experimented with animals. Someone with the strength of a dozen oxen might be a match for her.
Of course, if anyone tried that, then the knife’s new wielder would be a threat to the peace of the city—unless it was someone completely trustworthy, someone who would simply never want to disrupt the normal flow of events.
Someone, for example, like Sarai herself.
She glanced briefly toward the Guildhouse as she crossed Wizard Street, but walked on toward the Wall Street Field without even slowing.
In the Guildhouse, Tobas watched uneasily from the landing.
“I know that I sort of suggested some of mis,” he said, “but I’m not sure it’s really a good idea.”
Mereth glanced at him uneasily, then turned her attention back to Telurinon. The Guildmaster was seated cross-legged on a small carpet, his athame held out before him, its point directly over a shallow silver bowl supported on a low iron tripod; he was chanting intently. Fluid bubbled and steamed in the silver dish. A sword lay on the floor beneath the bowl, and an old and worn noose encircled the tripod, the sword’s blade passing under it on one side and atop it on the other.
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