“We won’t practice very long,” he said, trying once more to soothe the other man’s anger. “Just once through the threnody and the folk songs ought to do it.” I
need this
, he almost said. I
need to sing in order to keep my mind off of everything else
.
Dario gave no reply, and they walked the rest of the way to the inn without speaking a word.
They played the songs quickly and flawlessly, though without any of the feeling that usually marked their performances. The lutenist stared at his hands the entire time, as if refusing to look at Cadel.
If I’m not careful, I’ll destroy this partnership before our first kill.
“That sounded good,” he said when they had finished the last song. “All of them did.”
“So that’s what you want?” Dario asked, his voice as flat as his playing had just been.
“Well, that’s the right pacing. As for the rest, we just finished a performance. We’re both tired.”
“So we’re done here?”
Cadel nodded. “I think so.”
Dario stood, wrapping his lute in its cloth, and stepping to the door.
“Where are you going?”
The lutenist shrugged, keeping his back to Cadel. “Away from here. That’s all that matters.”
“We still have a good deal to plan for Pitch Night.”
Dario did turn at that. “You make the plans. Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it. That’s what you expect, isn’t it?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Pulling the door open, he walked out of the room and closed the door firmly behind him. If the younger man hadn’t left his lute on the other bed, Cadel would have wondered if he intended to return.
For a long time the singer merely sat and thought, trying to determine if he was angry with the lutenist or just weary of him. He needed someone to guard his back. He had been saying so for years. The truth was, however, he had always preferred working alone. Even when Jed was still alive, he had savored those kills he completed by himself. On a few occasions Jedrek had managed to warn him of danger. Perhaps he had even kept Cadel from being captured or killed. And though Jedrek died trying to protect him while Cadel rode to Kentigern, the singer couldn’t ignore the possibility that Jed had delayed the Qirsi enough to save his life this one last time. Still, Cadel had to admit that he kept Jedrek around not for protection, but rather for the man’s company during the many turns each year when they had no jobs, and all they had to do was wander the land and sing.
He could get by alone if he needed to. There were risks to working without a partner, but he was an assassin and risks came with the profession. Even with the added dangers, working alone had to be better than this. He had grown tired of fighting with the lutenist all the time, of working so hard to accommodate a man whose lute playing was so undisciplined and whose skill with a blade remained so uncertain.
Oddly, considering how much gold he had earned with his dagger, all that had stopped him from ending their partnership before now was his reluctance to kill the lutenist. Dario knew too much about Cadel and his work for the singer to let him live. If he wanted to work alone, he would have to kill his partner, and despite all his misgivings about working and singing with the man, Cadel wasn’t certain he could bring himself to do it.
He shook his head, as if to clear his mind, and stood, stretching his legs and back. He heard the prior’s bells ringing from the city gates, and he cursed himself for wasting so much time. More than half the day was gone-the sun would be setting in just a couple of hours-and he had yet to make his way to the castle. Playing in the city streets had seemed such a fine idea a few days before. Now it was a bother, one more obstacle keeping him from planning Shurik’s murder. He had befriended a few of the castle guards, and had learned much from them about the Qirsi and the fortress itself. But what good were the guards if he found no time to speak with them? Cadel crossed to the door, pulled it open, and stepped into the corridor.
Instinct. There was no other way to explain how he managed to have his dagger in his hand so quickly. It almost seemed that he knew the attack was coming even before he saw the shadow spring at him from the corner of the dark corridor. Still, even with his blade ready, he could do little to defend himself. The attacker caught him off balance, crashing into Cadel’s side and knocking the assassin to the floor. Cadel tried to stand again, but instantly the shadow pounced on him, pinning the singer’s blade hand beneath his body. He tried to free his weapon, at the same time struggling to throw the attacker off of him. His assailant was strong, but not very big, and as they grappled on the wood floor, Cadel sensed that the stranger had little experience with such fights.
It didn’t take the assassin long to loose his blade arm and he struck at the body on top of his, intending to plunge his dagger into the attacker’s back. Just as he did, however, the stranger lashed out with his left arm, catching Cadel full on the wrist, so that his weapon flew from his hand, clattering harmlessly against the wall.
The assassin tried to reach for it, but in the next moment, he felt the cold edge of a blade pressed against the side of his neck.
“Don’t move!” A man’s voice, young and unsteady.
“What is it you want with me?” Cadel asked, his left hand snaking down toward the second dagger he always kept strapped to his calf.
“Vengeance. You took my queen, my title, my life. You’re going to die for that.”
One motion. That was all it would take. A simple arch of his back to throw the man off of him, then, using the force of that first move, he would roll onto the man, second dagger in hand and ready for the killing blow.
Even as the last word passed the attacker’s lips, Cadel had braced one foot against the floor. Before he could move, though, a brilliant white light filled the corridor.
“Tavis, no!” came a voice from near the stairs.
Cadel froze, staring up at the scarred face looming above his own. He wouldn’t have recognized the boy on his own, but there could be no mistaking those eyes, and the noble mouth and nose. This was Tavis of Curgh, one slash of his blade away from avenging Bnenne’s murder. Just as the girl’s spirit had warned on Bian’s Night in Solkara.
Grinsa returned to the inn a short time before the ringing of the prior’s bells, weary but pleased. He had managed to find a lone guard whose mind he could touch without drawing the attention of anyone else. He had learned a good deal about the castle and about where Shurik was likely to be during the night. With any luck at all, he and Tavis could be out of Mertesse within a day.
Entering the inn, he nodded to the innkeeper who was smoking a pipe in the middle of the great room.
“Your friend was looking for you,” the man called to him as Grinsa crossed to the stairs.
The Qirsi halted. “How long ago?”
“He’s not from Aneira, is he?”
Cursing under his breath, Grinsa walked to the innkeeper’s table and sat.
“He’s from Eibithar.”
“Yes,” Grinsa admitted, his voice low, though there were no others in the room.
“You are as well?”
“Yes.” He could have lied, but knowing the truth about Tavis, the man wouldn’t trust them anyway. Better to fight the innkeeper’s suspicions with honesty. “But we’re not here as enemies of Aneira. We have business with one man, and when that matter is completed, we’ll be leaving.”
The innkeeper chewed his pipe, his bright yellow eyes fixed on Grinsa’s. “Two more nights,” he said at last. “Then I want you out. And I want five more qinde per night for these last two.”
The room cost too much already, but if they had only two days left, they couldn’t afford the time it would take to find a new inn. “Fine,” Grinsa said. “How long ago was he looking for me?”
“A while ago, just around midday.”
Grinsa stood and walked away, not bothering to look at the man again.
“Two days,” the innkeeper called after him, as the gleaner started up the stairs.
He nodded, but didn’t stop again. Reaching their room, he found a note lying on his bed and began to read.
Grinsa,
I’ve found Brienne’s killer and have gone to avenge her death. Should I be killed in the attempt, or imprisoned afterward, tell my parents that I died restoring honor to the House of Curgh.
Had it not been for your companionship, I would have spent these last several turns alone and friendless. For that, I will always be grateful. Be well, Grinsa. May the gods keep you safe.
Tavis
“Demons and fire!” he muttered, throwing the parchment to the floor and bolting from the room.
It seemed lightning had flashed in his mind, illuminating shadows in which the truth had been hiding. Of course the assassin was here. The first minister of Dantrielle had sent him. Word of Shurik’s betrayal had spread through all of Aneira, and while most in the kingdom saw it as a humiliation for Eibithar, it shouldn’t have surprised Grinsa that a discerning few would see the traitor’s actions for what they were: a failed attempt by the conspiracy to start a war.
“I’ve sent him to kill someone we believe is part of the conspiracy,” Dantrielle’s minister had said that day in Solkara. But there had been the barest hint of uncertainty in her voice, because she hadn’t been sure-she had chosen to send the assassin north based on hearsay. As it turned out, she was right, but Grinsa should have seen her uncertainty for what it was: a clue pointing to the identity of the man Evanthya wanted dead. Shurik, of course.
“We’re at war with the conspiracy,” she had said. And so she had hired the finest blade in the Forelands to kill the man. Grinsa had been an idiot not to see this sooner.
Charging down the stairs, he called to the innkeeper. “The inn where the musicians play! Where is it?”
“The Swallow’s Nest?”
“Yes! Where?”
“In the west quarter, on a small courtyard off Fisher’s Lane.”
Grinsa burst through the doorway, nearly knocking down an older Qirsi woman. He spun out of her way and sprinted through the streets toward the western end of the city. It had been hours since Tavis left his note. One or both of them might already be dead.
It took him some time to locate the inn, each moment seeming a lifetime. When he finally spotted it, he dashed inside, vaulting the steps to the second floor, heedless of the shouts of the innkeeper. He could hear them struggling even before he reached the corridor and leaping over the last three stairs he raised his hand summoning a dazzling white flame.
“Tavis, no!” he cried, seeing the boy’s blade glint in the sudden light.
The Curgh boy looked up at him, his dagger still resting against the assassin’s neck. In a distant corner of his mind, Grinsa wondered how Tavis had managed to overpower a hired blade.
“Leave us, gleaner!” the young lord said, his chest heaving. “I don’t need your help.”
“I’m not here to help you, Tavis. I’m here to stop you.”
The boy gaped at him, and the assassin used this opportunity to wrench his body to the side, throwing Tavis off of him and raising a blade of his own, one Grinsa hadn’t noticed until that moment.
With a single, desperate thought, the gleaner threw his power at the dagger, shattering it into tiny fragments. The assassin stared at him, his face blanching.
“I can do the same to your bones,” Grinsa told him. “And I won’t hesitate to do so.”
Slowly, the singer nodded.
Tavis jumped to his feet, brandishing his weapon again.
“Hold, Tavis.”
The boy rounded on him. “Why?”
“Because he’s here to kill Shurik, and we have to let him do it.”
“What?”
“Remember what Dantrielle’s first minister told us. She hired the singer to kill a member of the conspiracy. Shurik’s the one. Isn’t that so?” he added, shifting his gaze to the other man.
The singer narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”
Grinsa eyed the man briefly, noting his cold, pale eyes and his lean, muscular frame. Even having described the man to countless barkeeps and merchants during their search through Aneira, Grinsa realized that he hadn’t known quite what to expect. There could be no denying that he had the look of a killer. The gleaner wouldn’t have wanted to face this man without his magic.
“I’m a friend of the boy, and an enemy of the man you’ve been hired to kill.”
“Tell me your name.”
And then Grinsa understood. The assassin he had killed in Kentigern Wood, the one sent by Cresenne, had been this man’s partner. So many paths converging on this one city, on this one day. It almost seemed that the gods had been guiding them all along, turning all of them to their purposes. Who was Grinsa to defy their will, whatever it might be?
“Grinsa jal Arriet.”
The man’s eyes widened.
“Yes,” the gleaner said. “I’m the one.”
“She told me you were more than a mere gleaner,” he said.
Cresenne. So she had sent two assassins for him. He nodded, ignoring the ache in his chest. “She was right.”
“And now you’re saving my life?”
“So it would seem.”
“No, he’s not!” Tavis said, looking from one of them to the other, his face a mask of rage and pain. “He killed Brienne!” the boy said, his wild gaze coming to rest on Grinsa. “Because of him I was imprisoned, beaten, tortured! Because of this man, my father gave up the throne!”
“Not because of this man. Yes, he killed Brienne.” He glanced at the singer. “You did, didn’t you?”
The assassin hesitated, then nodded, as if sensing that there was too much at stake here to lie.
“But none of this happened because of him. He’s a hired blade, a weapon. Nothing more. The conspiracy used him to kill Brienne and make you suffer. If it hadn’t been this man, it would have been another. But they would have done this anyway.”
“I promised her, Grinsa. I swore to her that I’d avenge her death.”