Authors: Raymond E. Feist
“What?”
“That’s throwing someone off a very high place onto the rocks below. My personal favourite is castration, then being fed to the crocodiles in the Overn Deep after having watched them first consume your manhood.”
Tal stood up. “Have I ever mentioned that you have a seriously morbid streak? Rather than contemplate the means of my demise, I’ll spend my energies on staying alive.”
“Then, to a practical concern?”
Tal nodded.
“While I suspect Duke Kaspar would intervene on your behalf in such a circumstance—the humiliation of Prince Matthew, I mean, not the feeding to crocodiles thing . . .”
Tal smiled.
“ . . . isn’t it going to be difficult for him to do so from across the seas?”
Tal’s smiled broadened. “Nakor had intelligence from the north just as I left Salador; Duke Kaspar arrives within the week for a state visit.”
Pasko shrugged. “In aid of what?”
“A little hand-holding for his distant cousin, I imagine, prior to doing something that might otherwise earn the King’s displeasure.”
“Such as?”
“We have no idea, but the north is constantly on a low roil, and Kaspar only has to raise the heat in one place or another for a kettle to boil over somewhere. That’s one of the many things I wish to find out.”
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Pasko nodded. “Shall I draw you a bath?”
“I think I’ll take a walk to Remarga’s and indulge in a long massage and tub there. Bring suitable clothing for an evening in town.”
“Where will you be dining, master?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere public.”
“Dawson’s?” The former inn was now exclusively a dining establishment for the noble and the rich, and had spawned a dozen imitators. “Dining out” had become something of a pastime for those in the capital city.
“Perhaps that new establishment, the Metropol. It’s considered the place to be seen, I have been told.”
“It’s a private club, master.”
“Then get me an invitation while I bathe, Pasko.”
With a wry expression, Pasko said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I must be seen in public so word will spread I’m back in the city, but I need to be alone tonight when I finish supper and return to these quarters.”
“Why, master?”
“So I can find out who’s been following me since I left Salador, and what’s on his mind.”
“A spy?”
With a stretch and a yawn, Tal said, “Probably an assassin.”
Sighing, Pasko said, “So it begins.”
Nodding as he headed for the door, Tal said, “Yes. So it begins.”
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Fog shrouded the city. Mist hung so thick it was impossible to see more than three feet ahead. The bright lamps at each corner of the merchants’ quarter were reduced to _______________
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dim yellow spots in the distance, and even the occasional lantern beside a tavern door became just a faint pool of light across the street. There were places on long streets where no light was visible, and the senses were confounded, distances were meaningless, and the entirety of the universe was murk.
Even sound was muted. The taverns he passed offered just a murmur of voices rather than the raucous cacoph-ony normally heard. Footfalls were a soft grinding of heel on caked mud rather than a clatter of leather on stone.
Even so, Tal Hawkins knew he was being stalked. He had known that the instant he had departed Lady Gavorkin’s home. He had lingered over dinner at the Metropol—it had taken only minutes for Pasko to gain an invitation on behalf of the owner of the establishment for the Champion of the Masters’ Court to dine as his guest—and Tal had left with a free membership in the club. He had been impressed with the décor, the ambiance, and the service. The food was only just acceptable, and he planned on having words with the chef, but he could see this club business might be a useful enterprise.
Roldem lived on commerce more than any nation in the east, and this new club was in a location where nobles and wealthy commoners could come together in casual surroundings to socialize in a fashion impossible to imagine anywhere else in the city. Tal suspected that over the coming years fortunes would be lost and titles gained, marriages arranged and alliances formed in the quiet in-terior of the Metropol. Even before he had finished dining, a note from Lady Gavorkin had been handed to him, and Tal judged it as likely he would encounter his stalker on his way to her town house as he would back to his own.
He had not, however, been accosted by whoever followed, and had spent a pleasant two hours, first being scolded for _______________
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his long absence, then being ardently forgiven by Lady Gavorkin.
The lady was recently widowed, her husband having perished in a raid against a nest of Ceresian pirates operating out of an isolated bay off Kesh. His service to the Roldemish Crown had garnered Lady Gavorkin a fair amount of sympathy, some guarantees of a modest pension in addition to her ample estates and holdings, and an appetite for a new husband as soon as the proper mourning period had been observed. She was childless, and her estates stood at risk if the Crown decided that another noble would better be able to manage them. Ideally, from the royal perspective it would be ideal that Lady Gavorkin, Countess of Dravinko, should marry some other noble who was favored by the Crown, which would tie up two loose ends nicely.
Tal knew he would have to sever all contact with Lady Gavorkin soon because he would never withstand the close scrutiny reserved for those marrying into Roldemish nobility. A minor squire’s son from a town outside a distant Kingdom city who was socially acceptable as an escort for galas and festivals was one thing, but someone who wed the widow of a recently departed war hero was another matter entirely. Besides, being tied down to anyone, even someone as attractive as Lady Margaret Gavorkin, held limited appeal for Tal, her substantial wealth, holdings, and energetic lovemaking notwith-standing.
Tal listened as he walked and let his hunter’s instincts serve him well. He had learned years earlier that a city was nothing but a different kind of wilderness, and that the skills he had learned as a child in the mountains to the far north, across the sea, could keep him alive in any city.
Each place had its own rhythm and pace, its own dynamic _______________
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feeling, and once he was comfortable within that environment, threats and opportunities for a hunt would be recognized, just as they were in the wild.
Whoever followed him was desperately trying to keep a proper distance and would have gone unnoticed by anyone less keenly aware of his surroundings than Tal. Tal knew this area of the city as well as anyone born there, and he knew he would be able to lose his stalker at whim.
But he was curious as to who was following him and, more to the point, why.
Tal paused for a half a step, just enough of a break in the rhythm of his walking for his stalker to reveal his whereabouts, then continued. He turned right at the corner and stepped inside a deep doorway, the entrance to a tailor shop he had frequented. Forgoing his sword, he deftly removed a dagger from his belt and waited. At the moment Tal expected, the man following him turned the corner and stepped in front of him.
Tal reached out and grabbed the man’s right shoulder, bearing down and twisting as he pulled. The man reacted, but Tal was quicker; the stalker did exactly as Tal anticipated, hesitating for an instant before reflexively pulling away. Tal yanked upward, using the man’s own motion to spin him completely around. Suddenly the stalker found himself hard against the door with Tal’s dagger at his throat.
“Why are you following me?” Tal asked, his voice a hissed whisper lest he arouse those asleep upstairs above the shop.
The man was quick, for his hands were moving toward his own dagger before the last syllable was uttered.
He was also no fool, for he recognized he was in a hopeless situation a scant moment before Talon would be forced to plunge the blade into his throat. He slowly _______________
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raised his hands to show they were empty. In a whisper, he answered, “Magnificence! I mean you no harm! My sword and dagger are still in my belt!” He spoke in the language of the Kingdom of the Isles.
“Who are you?”
“I am Petro Amafi.”
“Amafi? That’s Quegan. But you speak the language of the Isles.”
“I have resided in Salador many years now, and, to tell the truth, my command of the Roldemish tongue is lacking, so I employ the King’s Tongue.”
“Tell me, Amafi, why are you following me,” Tal repeated.
“I am an assassin by trade. I have been paid to kill you.”
Tal took a step back, leaving his blade against the man’s throat, but gaining a perspective on him.
Petro Amafi was a half head shorter than Tal’s two inches over six feet, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His clothing marked him as a foreigner; he wore a curious long tunic, gathered at the waist by a black leather belt, and rather than the long wide-bottomed trousers affected by the style-conscious in Roldem that season, he wore leggings and a courtier’s slippers. He sported a mustache and goatee, and upon his head he wore a felted wool beret with a clasp and feather on the left side. His face was narrow, with deep eyes that revealed his menace more than his vulpine appearance. “You mean me no harm, but you’re an assassin sent to kill me. Something of a contra-diction, don’t you agree?” observed Tal.
“I gain nothing by hiding the truth, Magnificence. My life is preserved by your ignorance. Should you kill me this moment, you will wonder who hired me.”
Tal chucked. “That is true. So, then, we are at an im-
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passe, for should you tell me, then I must kill you. So it is to your benefit not to tell me. But as I cannot spend the rest of my life waiting for you to divulge who sent you, so I gain nothing by keeping you alive.”
“Wait!” said Amafi, holding out his hand in a concil-iatory gesture. “I did not come to kill you. I was hired to do so, but I have been observing you since nearly a week before you departed Salador, and I wish to bargain.”
“For your life?”
“More, Magnificence. Let me serve.”
“You’d take service with me?” said Tal in dubious tones.
“Willingly, Your Magnificence. Any man of your skills would be a worthy master, for I have seen you duel in the Court of Blades in Salador, and I’ve watched from the corner as you play cards in the alehouses; you win just enough to raise no suspicions, yet you are a master cheat.
You are welcome in the homes of the great and near great.
You are admired by men and desired by women. What’s more, no one has ever done what you just have, turned me from hunter to hunted. But most telling of all, you are Champion of the Masters’ Court, the greatest blade in the world, and a rumor circulates that you are secretly in the service of Duke Kaspar of Olasko, and one who serves such as Kaspar can only prosper greatly. I wish to prosper greatly with you.”
He gently moved the tip of Tal’s blade away from his throat with one finger, and Tal permitted it. “As you can see, Magnificence, I am getting on in years, nearly sixty of them. The assassin’s trade requires skills that are fading as I age. I must think of my latter days, and while I have kept some part of the fees paid me over the years, it is not enough. I have fallen on hard times.”
Tal laughed. “Bad investments?”
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Amafi nodded. “A trading concern out of Salador, most recently. No, I wish to take my bloody skills and use them to a more permanent advantage. Were I your man, then I would rise with you. Do you see?”
Tal put away his dagger. “How can I trust you?”
“I will swear an oath in whatever temple you require.”
Tal considered. Few men would willingly break oath, even if they weren’t as honor-bound as the Orosini. “Who told you I was in Kaspar’s service?”
“A rumor here, there, nothing more. You were reported to have been seen in the region of Latagore where Duke Kaspar has interests, and it is well known he sought you out after you won the competition at the Masters’ Court two years ago. Duke Kaspar employs only the most gifted and ambitious young men, so it is assumed you are his.”
“Well, I’m not,” replied Tal, intentionally turning his back on Amafi. He knew he took a risk, for as much as the assassin claimed age was slowing him down, Tal judged him capable of a swift attack from behind if given the opportunity. The attack didn’t come.
Instead, Amafi fell into step beside Tal. “You wish to know who sent me?”
“Yes,” replied Tal.
“Lord Piotre Miskovas, though I am not supposed to know this.”
“He does hold a grudge,” observed Tal. “I haven’t slept with his wife in more than two years.”
“As I understand it, she became intoxicated at a gala given by Lady Amsha Detoris, and threw the facts of your . . . liaison into her husband’s face over supper some months after you last left the city. The couple is yet not reconciled, and she abides in her suites here in the city, while he resides at their estates in the country. He blames you.”
“He should look to his own philandering,” remarked _______________
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Tal, “for had he not been so quick to bed every pretty face he saw, his wife would not have been so eager to receive my attentions.”
“Perhaps, Magnificence, but it takes a man of unusual character to openly confront his own shortcomings. It’s so much more convenient to blame others.
“Upon hearing of your planned return, he sought out an assassin—far less discreetly than he should have—and I was hired to remove this”—he pointed at Tal—“blot on his honor. He was at least intelligent enough to have used a . . . broker . . . in Salador, lest blame fall upon him here in Roldem. I have ‘failed,’ so I am honor-bound to return his gold, and seek to turn this failure into a triumph. Employ me, Magnificence, and I will serve you. My oath upon it!”