“I know. But Shurik has to die, and I’m not certain that we can kill him. This man can.”
As he was speaking, he saw the assassin eyeing a dagger that lay on the floor near where he knelt. “Don’t do it,” he warned the man. “I’d prefer that you survive this day, but I’ll kill you if I have to.”
“No, you won’t,” Tavis said. “I will. I can’t let him live, gleaner.”
“You have to. We need him, at least for now.”
The boy raised his weapon again. “No,” he said again.
Grinsa took a step forward. “I’m tired, Tavis. I’ve shattered his blade and I’ve been holding this flame for some time now. I can break your blade, too-I will if I must-but I might miss, and splinter your wrist instead. Please don’t make me do that.”
The young lord glared at him. “How can you do this to me?” he whispered, tears streaking his face.
“I’m sorry. Truly I am. But your need for vengeance is not as important as stopping the movement.”
Tavis shook his head. “No!” he said savagely. “You mean it’s not as important as protecting your life and your sister’s! That’s what this is about! Guarding your precious secret! You just don’t want anyone else to know that you’re-”
“That’s enough!”
The boy looked away, his face reddening, his tears still falling.
Grinsa faced the assassin. “Tell me your name. Not an alias, the real thing.”
Once more the man faltered. Then, “Cadel.”
“Go, Cadel,” the gleaner said. “While you can. My debt to you is paid. The next time we see you, I won’t stop him. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” the assassin said, climbing to his feet. “But you should understand that I have to protect myself, regardless of debts. I know you’re here now. I know the boy wants me dead. If I have to kill him and you to keep myself safe, I will. And if you’re here in Mertesse on Pitch Night, I’ll hunt you down.”
“We won’t be.” Grinsa paused. “Is that when you plan to kill Shurik?”
“I’m Eandi, and he’s a sorcerer. If you were in my position, when would you kill him?”
The gleaner nodded. “Come, Tavis.”
The boy faced the singer, hatred in his dark eyes. For a moment Grinsa thought he would strike at the man, in spite of all that the gleaner had said. Instead he leveled his blade at the man’s heart. “The next time I see you…” He trailed off, lowering his weapon again and walking away.
The assassin opened his mouth as if to speak, but then appeared to change his mind.
As Tavis stepped past him, Grinsa laid a hand on his shoulder. The boy shrugged it off violently and continued down the corridor to the stairs.
Grinsa looked at the singer again, their eyes meeting for just an instant.
“Don’t fail,” the Qirsi said.
“I never do.”
They stood there, saying nothing. Then, with a sudden chiming that made the assassin jump, Grinsa broke the blade that lay at the man’s feet. He gave a grim smile and let his flame die out before hurrying to catch up with Tavis.
Chapter Thirty-three
He was sitting in the back corner of the Swallow’s Nest, sipping his fourth cup of Eardley bitters, when Dario returned to the tavern. Cadel saw the lutenist step through the door, but he merely watched as the younger man walked to the stairs and climbed to the upper corridor. He’d come back down soon enough, and Cadel wished to enjoy his solitude for just a moment longer.
It had been some time since he last drank this much. Certainly he had never done so on a night when he was to sing. But the lutenist never worried about the quality of their music, so why should he? The bitters wouldn’t detract much from his performance anyway. Wine and ale clouded the mind. Bitters brought clarity. They had this night.
At no time during his struggle with Tavis of Curgh did Cadel truly fear for his life. He trusted all to his instincts, as he so often did in such circumstances, and he fought, assessing dangers and opportunities as they presented themselves. Only when the encounter had ended, as he stood alone in the darkened corridor, listening to the fading footfalls of the Qirsi gleaner, did he begin to contemplate how close he had come to dying.
Earlier in the day he had sensed that something was amiss, that a threat lurked somewhere just beyond his sight and hearing. Emerging from his room just a few hours later, however, he gave no thought to those premonitions. He merely stepped into a dark hallway, his blades sheathed and his mind wandering like that of a child. Had he taken the time to glance toward the corner as he did-a simple precaution that even the most inexperienced assassin knew to take-he would have seen the Curgh boy and killed him with ease. Instead, he found himself on his back, with another man’s steel pressed against his throat. He deserved to be dead. Looking back on all that had happened, he was forced to conclude that he had been fortunate. Had the Qirsi not arrived when he did, Cadel might have managed to throw the boy off of him. But he couldn’t be certain of that. It was just as possible that he would have died in the attempt. He shuddered at the thought, as if he could still feel the cold blade on his neck.
Assassins often spoke blithely of killing and being killed. No one who wielded a blade by profession could ignore the risks inherent in such a life. And no man, no matter his skill with a dagger, was immune to the passage of time. Cadel had plied his trade for more than eighteen years, not long for a farmer or smith perhaps, but an eternity for an assassin. He had always known that he would have to quit eventually, or be killed himself. But until today that time had seemed remote, a vague certainty, like the distant promise of the plantings in the middle of the snows.
His instincts had saved him this day, barely. But how much longer could he count on them? Next time he faced Tavis of Curgh, the boy would be older, stronger, more sure of himself with a weapon. And Cadel would be that much slower, that much more likely to fail and die.
Which brought him to the essence of the matter, the realization that had come with the clarity of his bitters. He wished to live. He had more gold than he could spend in a lifetime, some of it in a pouch he carried with him, the rest hidden in Cestaar’s Hills, just outside of Noltierre. Before he died, he wanted to enjoy his wealth, to wander the Forelands without planning his next murder or his next escape. A few turns before, after facing the ghost of Lady Bnenne, he had convinced himself that he needed a new partner. A few hours ago, he had decided that he wanted to work alone. Now he understood that what he wanted most of all was to be finished with killing altogether. There was enough blood on his blade; there were already too many wraiths berating him on Bian’s Night. Brienne had told him that he wouldn’t survive the year, and the prioress in the Deceiver’s sanctuary had suggested that he find a new profession. It had taken far too long, but at last he had taken to heart the lessons of that harrowing night.
He wasn’t foolish enough to think that the Qirsi would leave him alone for long, but he would find a way to avoid them and their movement. He could go east, to Wethyrn. The Wethy Crown had never held much appeal for him, but he had heard that the conspiracy was far less active there, no doubt because the eastern realm was the weakest of the seven.
Wherever he chose to go, he had made his decision. The time had come to end his life as an assassin. One kill remained, and then he would be free.
He saw Dario come down the stairs again and scan the tavern for him. It didn’t take the man long to spot him and approach his table. Seeing the cup of bitters in front of Cadel, he frowned.
“You’re drinking?”
“Yes. Care to join me?”
“We’re performing tonight.”
“I’m aware of that. You’re concerned that I won’t sing well?”
“No. I just…” Dario stopped, shaking his head. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the broken daggers I found in the corridor, would it?”
Cadel eyed the younger man for a moment, then looked away. “Yes, it would.” It occurred to him that he was unarmed, for the first time he could remember. He carried extra blades in his travel sack, just in case he lost or broke one-a musician couldn’t be seen purchasing daggers too often, not without raising suspicions. But he would have to remember to put them in the empty sheaths.
The lutenist leaned closer. “What happened?” His eyes widened. “Was it the white-hair?”
“A Qirsi broke my blades, but not the one you have in mind.” He drained his cup and forced a smile. “It was nothing. A debt from the past come due. It’s over now.”
Dario regarded him closely, as if expecting him to say more. When he didn’t, the younger man shrugged, seeming to dismiss the matter. He looked angry, however. Or maybe hurt.
“Fine then. If it’s over, I won’t ask about it anymore.”
“Good.”
“Do you plan to drink more, or is that over as well?”
Cadel stared briefly at the empty cup. “I think I’m done.”
“Then there’s something I want to talk about.”
The singer gave a wan smile.
Of course there is
, he wanted to say. But he kept silent and waited.
“I’ve given this some thought,” he began, his voice dropping low, “so I hope you’ll listen to all I have to say before arguing with me. I understand that you’ve always taken care of the jobs involving Qirsi. I understand as well that your old partner accepted this, that it was just the way you two worked things out. I can even see that we should do things the sanie way, at least until I’ve proven to you that I can handle a kill on my own.” He paused, appearing to gather himself for a fight. “But this job is different.
We’re going into Castle Mertesse and we’re doing it on Pitch Night in Qirsar’s Turn.“
“Your point?”
“Killing the Qirsi is going to be the easy part. Any other day of the year it wouldn’t be, but that night he’ll have no magic. He’ll be no more dangerous than an Eandi. In fact, I expect he’ll be weaker than most of the men you usually go after.”
Cadel had to agree. “Interesting. Go on.”
Dario grinned, but it lasted only a moment. “The castle guards are the real danger. So it seems to me that it makes more sense for you to guard my back while I take care of the white-hair.”
It wasn’t how Cadel had envisioned his last kill, but he hadn’t survived eighteen years in this profession by being stubborn. Clearly, this would make things far easier for him, and that alone made Dario’s suggestion attractive.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll try it your way. You take the Qirsi, and I’ll watch your back.”
Dario gaped at him, as if Cadel had offered him all his gold. “Really?”
The singer gave a shrug of his own. “As you say, killing the white-hair will be the easy part.”
For all Qirsi, Pitch Night in the turn of Qirsar, god of their people, was a night of uncertainty and fear. Any Qirsi with even a bit of sense understood how much the Eandi hated the sorcerer race. Most of Shurik’s people believed that only their magic protected them from constant persecution.
For one night each year, perhaps as a test of their strength and courage, perhaps as a cruel joke, Qirsar took away their power, their shield, and forced them to face Ean’s children unguarded. The vast majority of Qirsi passed this night in the sanctuaries. There were few shrines devoted to Qirsar anywhere in the Forelands, but as the last bastions of the Old Faith, the sanctuaries of the other ancient gods offered some solace and comfort. They were considered sacrosanct, even by nobles whose courts had long ago turned to the Path of Ean. The Qirsi knew they were safe in the shrines. Even Shurik, who rarely visited the sanctuaries any other time of year, had spent Qirsar’s Pitch Night in Kentigern’s Sanctuary of Bian every year he served in Aindreas’s court.
This year, however, he had no intention of leaving the castle. Not with two Weavers after him. Yaella had tried repeatedly to convince him to join her when she went to Elined’s Sanctuary in the north quarter of the city, but he wasn’t going to change his mind. If anything, the approach of Pitch Night only served to heighten his fears. By the last morning of the turn, he could barely bring himself to leave his chamber in order to have breakfast.
He couldn’t say what he expected to happen. He had slept soundly the night before, without any thought of the Weaver, much less a dream of him. And the Mertesse guards weren’t about to allow a strange Qirsi man and an Eibitharian lord into the castle. But as a gleaner, Shurik had no choice but to trust the sense of foreboding that hung over him like a demon’s shadow.
He took his meal in the castle kitchen, eating quickly and retreating immediately to his chamber. Almost as soon as he returned to the dark confines of his room, he wished that he had forgone his breakfast. His stomach felt heavy and sour, and he expected to be ill at any moment. He had often heard of Qirsi fasting on this night and he wondered if this was the reason.
A knock at his door made him start and his heart race.
“Come,” he called irritably.
Yaella stepped into the room. The sight of him brought a frown to her face.
“You don’t look well.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’ll be glad when this night is over.”
“It would do you some good to get out of this chamber, maybe even out of the castle. The sun’s shining and it’s not very cold. How about a walk in the gardens?”
He had to smile. “The gardens? In Qirsar’s Turn?”
“Why not? There may not be much to look at, but at least you’d be doing something.”
Shurik considered this for a moment, but then shook his head. “No. Thank you, but I’m happy to stay here.”
She smiled coyly. “Well, would you like some company then?”
“That’s a nice offer, but I think I’m better off alone.”
The frown returned. “Now I’m really worried about you. You’ve never turned me from your bed before.”
“I’ve never had two Weavers wanting me dead. Forgive me, Yaella. I’m not myself today. I’ll be fine after tonight. I promise.”