“I’ve thought of that.”
“Do you have a plan in mind?”
“Not yet.”
Dario twisted his mouth, but gave a small nod. He didn’t remain silent for long, however. “Have you thought of what we’re to do if the old woman is right, and this Qirsi we’re after isn’t in Mertesse?”
“I expect she is right,” Cadel said. “The question isn’t whether he’s gone, but rather if he’s coming back. What concerns me most is the fact that he had already left Mertesse when he heard of the poisoning. That makes me think that he was leaving for some reason that had nothing at all to do with his duke.”
He didn’t say it, but Cadel could only assume that if he wasn’t serving Mertesse, he was acting on behalf of the conspiracy.
“If that’s the case, there’s no telling where he might have gone.”
“True. But I’m hoping that the poisoning changed his plans.” He gestured over his shoulder in the direction of the inn. “Our friend back there seemed to think that he was in love with the duke’s first minister. If she’s right, then I imagine he’ll be returning with Rowan. Provided the first minister didn’t die in Solkara.”
Dario regarded him a moment, then shook his head slowly. “You’re placing a good deal of faith in an old woman who may know nothing at all.”
“Not really,” Cadel said, smiling. “Though I suspect she knows more about people than you might think. Mostly I’m just acknowledging what we both know to be true. We’re going to be here for some time. If the Qirsi doesn’t come back, I have no idea where to begin looking for him. So our best hope is to wait for the duke’s return and hope that both ministers are with him.”
“And if the one we want isn’t with the duke?”
Cadel shrugged. “We’ll walk back to Solkara and start searching again, hoping that he really did go there after leaving our innkeeper.”
“Are all your jobs like this?” Dario asked.
“Like what?”
“So uncertain, so dependent on good fortune.”
Cadel shook his head, gazing toward Mertesse. The castle looked bigger than he remembered, more formidable.
“No,” he said at last. “This job is unlike any I’ve ever had before. I rarely agree to kill without out knowing the name of the one I’m hunting, and without being certain I know where to find him.” He hesitated, thinking suddenly of Brienne of Kentigern. “Or her.” He shivered, though the sun felt warm on his back and legs.
“You also rarely kill for so little money,” Dario said quietly. “You really were eager to strike back at the conspiracy, weren’t you?”
Cadel eyed him for a moment, but said nothing.
“Do you regret it now?”
“No. Not even a little.”
Dario nodded, but at least he had the sense not to say anything more. The truth was that while Cadel didn’t have any qualms about striking at the conspiracy, he wished that he had found a different way to do it. Usually he liked to have a job planned well in advance or, failing that, to have at least a few alternatives in mind. Right now, he had no sense of how he was going to kill this man, or even get close enough to him to try. He could almost hear Jedrek railing at him for being so rash as to take gold from the woman who had hired them.
Never take a job when you feel anything for the one you’re supposed to kill, be it love, hate, anger, or pity
. It was one of the first rules Cadel had taught Jedrek, and he here he was violating it. It seemed he had learned nothing at all in Kentigern.
“So what do we do when we get to Mertesse?”
Cadel took a breath, then squinted up at the sun. They’d be in the city before nightfall.
“We find work,” he said. “There’s no shortage of taverns in a city this large. One of them is bound to need musicians.”
“And then?”
“And then we hope that the gods are with us.”
But he could hear Jedrek again, asking the question he couldn’t answer.
Are the gods ever with an assassin
?
Chapter Twenty-six
City of Kings, Eibithar
She could always tell when Kearney was unhappy with her. The signs were subtle, like the scent of snow in the highlands before a storm. The silver-haired king had spent too long in the courts of Eibithar’s nobles to reveal much, and few others would have noticed anything at all. Except, perhaps, for Gershon Trasker. But to Keziah, who had loved him for so many years, the indications were as clear as a bright morning in the cold turns. The way he avoided her gaze; the expression on his face, a boyish mix of hurt and resentment; the restless pacing as he listened to the counsel of his other ministers. She had seen all these things before, usually after she angered him with some cutting remark about the queen, or overstepped with her teasing about the Glyndwr traditions.
Until now, though, she had never actually tried to make him angry. The other ministers did not appear to have noticed what she was doing. If they had they were certainly keeping it to themselves. Clearly, though, they believed that she was angry with the king and she could only assume that they would delight in seeing her influence with Kearney wane. More to the point, she wondered if one of them might see in this an opportunity to exploit.
Unlike the ministers, Gershon was watching everything she did with complete understanding and-dare she think it-more than a little admiration. They hadn’t spoken in private since the night after Paegar’s death, when she went to his quarters to tell the swordmaster of the gold she found in the high minister’s chambers. All who lived in Audun’s Castle knew of their enmity, and would have taken note of seeing them together. But she had learned to read Gershon’s expressions as well. He had long been her chief rival for Kearney’s ear, and even loving the man she served, she had not been entirely above court politics. Gershon was watching her, gauging the progress she made in alienating the king, and offering his approval with raised eyebrows and barely concealed grins.
She felt his gaze upon her now, as she watched the king pace before his writing table, and she sensed the swordmaster’s concern. Before this day, she had opposed Kearney only on small matters, trifles really, that would trouble the king without compromising the safety of the kingdom. With this meeting of Kearney’s council of ministers, matters had abruptly grown far more dangerous.
“You’re certain of these tidings, Your Majesty?” Dyre asked, his yellow eyes fixed on the king. “Might there be some mistake?”
Kearney shook his head. “There’s no mistake, Minister. This information came from our own men. It wasn’t purchased and it didn’t come from those who might oppose us.”
“First he goes to Kentigern, and now he sends a messangeer to Curgh,” Wenda said. “Could it be that Marston is trying to broker a peace?”
Kearney stopped, glanced at Keziah, then faced Gershon. “Swordmaster?”
Even the other ministers couldn’t help but notice that. The king almost never asked Gershon questions of this sort. He was Kearney’s most trusted advisor on tactics, arms, and war, but not on matters of statecraft and mediation. Until recently, he would have asked Keziah before anyone else. It was working. The archminister’s chest felt tight, and she feared she would cry, right here in the king’s chambers.
Gershon cleared his throat and straightened in his chair. “I would think it possible, Your Majesty. We did have Tremain send Marston a message, asking him for help.”
Dyre shook his head. “We asked only to know where he stood in this conflict. We certainly didn’t ask him to mediate it.” He looked at Keziah. “Did we, Archmimster? After all, it was you who penned the message to Lathrop.”
“As you say, High Minister,” she answered coolly, “we asked only where he stands.”
“Maybe he took it upon himself to do more,” Gershon suggested.
A cue.
She turned to the swordmaster, arching an eyebrow. “Maybe he’s decided to sell his loyalties to the highest bidder. He wouldn’t be the first noble to do so.”
He glared at her. “The buying and selling of loyalties is a Qirsi trade, Archminister. It has been for centuries.”
“That’s enough!” Kearney said, his voice like a blade. He looked from one of them to the other, but his eyes came to rest on Keziah. “Marston’s no traitor, and his house is the strongest in the land. What could Curgh or Kentigern possibly offer him?”
She regarded him as if he were simple. “The throne, of course. He’s probably trying to decide which of them will make the stronger ally, and which alliance will cost him the least.”
“So what would you counsel us to do, Archminister?” Gershon, with another cue. His voice was heavy with sarcasm, but she read the concern in his blue eyes. If Kearney took her words to heart, it could lead them all down a path to civil war. She doubted, however, that her king would ever again take seriously any advice she gave him. At least, he wouldn’t if her plan worked.
“I’m not certain there’s anything you can do,” she said.
You
rather than
we
. None of the rest would hear it, but Kearney would. Before long, his displeasure with her would be as obvious to all of them as it already was to her. “You thought that by taking the throne for Glyndwr, you could avoid a civil war, but you were wrong. Curgh and Kentigern are still at each other’s throats, and the other houses are choosing sides. All you’ve done is put Glyndwr in the middle of the conflict. You should never have come here, and now that you have you’re even more powerless to keep the peace than you were. Glyndwr can’t mediate anymore. Everything the king does is seen as a ploy to keep the crown. Nobody trusts him.” She felt Kearney staring at her, but she refused to meet his gaze. “Now that he’s king,” she said, her voice dropping, “everything has changed.”
For a long time no one spoke. Keziah knew they were watching her, as if waiting for her to weep, or run from the room, or berate the king. But she merely sat, staring at her hands, her face crimson and her heart aching as if from a dagger’s blow.
“That’s rubbish,” Gershon finally said, sounding angry, just as all of them would have expected. It seemed strange that with Paegar gone, the swordmaster, who had hated the Qirsi all his life and had hated her most of all for sharing a bed with Kearney, should become her closest confidant in the castle. Even stranger, he best served their growing alliance by continuing to treat her with disdain and hostility, just as he always had. “We saved this kingdom-the king did really-and everyone in Eibithar knows it except Aindreas and you. Just because you’d rather be back in Glyndwr doesn’t mean the rest of us feel the same way.”
“I said that’s enough!” Kearney broke in again. “It doesn’t matter anymore what any of us wishes had happened. I am king, and I’ll do everything I deem necessary to hold this kingdom together. So, assuming for just a moment that Marston isn’t trying to broker an agreement between Aindreas and Javan, that some darker purpose lies behind these journeys he’s making, what should we do?”
“Tobbar is still alive,” Wenda said. “He may be ill, but he still speaks for the House of Thorald. Perhaps we should send a message to him. He may not even know what his son is doing, in which case maybe he can get Marston to stop.”
“And if he does know?” the king asked.
The high minister hesitated, though only for a moment. “Then I’m afraid the archminister is right. There’s nothing more we can do. If Thorald is intent on opposing us, we can only hope that the armies of Curgh and Glyndwr, when combined with the King’s Guard, will be enough to hold off the other major houses.”
Kearney shook his head. “I won’t accept that. There have to be alternatives. I will not allow Marston’s betrayal-if that is in fact what he has in mind-to destroy the kingdom.”
“Your resolve is admirable, Your Majesty,” Dyre said cautiously. “But it would be… dangerous not to prepare ourselves for the worst. It may not be a fight we want, but it is one in which we can prevail, provided that we ready the army.”
“Yes, fine,” the king said, sounding impatient. “Gershon, you’ll continue to work the men, even through the snows. Do whatever you feel is needed to keep them battle-ready.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“Wenda,” Kearney went on, turning to the high minister, “I want you to draft a message to Tobbar, informing him that we’re aware of Marston’s activities and asking him if Shanstead is making these overtures on his behalf.”
She glanced uneasily at Keziah. Usually Kearney would have had his archminister write such a message. “Yes, Your Majesty,” the older woman said. If she took any pleasure in Keziah’s fall from the king’s grace, she showed no sign of it. Rather, she appeared uncomfortable.
Yet, Kearney wasn’t finished with her. “When you’re done,” he said, “bring the message to me. Then meet with the rest of the underministers and come up with a better answer to my last question. There have to be other ways to combat any betrayal by Thorald than just sending my army north. Now go.”
The high minister stood and bowed to him. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The other ministers stood as well and started toward the door, Keziah among them.
“Be quick about it, High Minister,” Kearney called to her. “We may not have much time.” Then, “Archmimster, I’d like you to remain for a moment.”
Keziah halted in midstride, her face coloring again. The other Qirsi looked at her briefly, then left.
“You’d better go as well, Gershon,” the king said.
Keziah hadn’t turned to look at Kearney or the swordmaster, but she could imagine Gershon’s nod, the grave expression on his blunt features as he said, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The swordmaster brushed past her on his way to the door, but, of course, kept his silence.
“Please sit,” Kearney said, his voice colder than she had ever heard it when they were alone.
She would have given anything to avoid this conversation, but she realized that by asking her to remain, the king had done more to help her than he could ever know. This was not the time to weaken.