Bonds of Vengeance

Chapter Twelve

Ailwyck, Wethyrn

He had pushed himself hard after leaving Mertesse, driven in equal measure by his fear of being captured and imprisoned for the murder of Dario Henfuerta, his last partner, and by his desire to begin a new life for himself, free of the Qirsi and their insatiable demand for his deadly talents. If all went as he hoped, he would never again be known as Cadel Nistaad, assassin. Instead, he would simply be Corbin, a traveling singer with an uncommonly fine voice.

In many ways, Wethyrn was a dangerous place to begin his pursuit of this new profession. Even the largest of the realm’s festivals did not rival those of Sanbira, Eibithar, or even Aneira. A musician of his ability might easily draw too much attention to himself, particularly if he spent a good deal of time searching for others with whom to perform. As a lone singer he would be a curiosity, prompting difficult questions. Where are you from? How could a man of your talents have no partners? What happened to the people with whom you used to perform?

The safest course of action, Cadel decided, as he crossed the Caerissan Steppe, skirting the southern edge of the Glyndwr Highlands on his way to the Wethy border, was to visit several of Wethyrn’s major cities until he found a group in need of a male singer. Best to answer the inevitable questions only once.

He reached the Wethy border with the beginning of the new turn, entering the walled city of Grinnyd on the third morning of the waxing. He took a room at a small inn and spent several nights wandering the city streets, stopping in tavern after tavern in his search for other musicians. By the end of his fourth night in the city, Cadel’s spirits had fallen. He had expected to face risks, but he hadn’t expected to have so much trouble finding any musicians at all. Surely there were singers somewhere in Wethyrn. Clearly, however, they weren’t in Grinnyd.

He left the city the next morning, continuing on to Ailwyck. Located on the Ailwyck River, in the center of lower Wethyrn, just north of the Grey Hills, the city of Ailwyck was the third largest in the realm. Only the royal city of Duvenry, and Jistingham on the eastern shore, were larger, and together the three great cities formed what the people of Wethyrn called the Granite Triangle. Wethyrn was generally regarded as the weakest of the seven realms of the Forelands, though Cadel thought it more likely that his native Caerisse deserved that dubious distinction. The Wethy army was smaller than those of its rivals, and its weaponry of only middling quality. But Wethyrn’s men were well trained, and the Wethy fleet was renowned for its fine ships and skilled crews. She was no rival for Braedon or Aneira, Sanbira or Eibithar, but Wethyrn would be a valuable ally in any conflict. Anyone who thought otherwise had only to look at the mighty of walls of Ailwyck to understand the undeniable strength of the Wethy people. The cities of the Granite Triangle had never once been occupied by a hostile force. No other realm in the Forelands could say that about its three greatest cities.

Once in Ailwyck, Cadel’s fortunes quickly changed. His very first night in the city, he found a group of musicians of great ability who were desperately in need of a male singer. He was wandering the narrow byways west of the city marketplace when he heard strains of music coming from a small tavern. He recognized the piece immediately. “Panya’s Devotion” from The Paean to the Moons. The Paean had long been one of his favorite pieces both to sing and to hear. It was also one of the most difficult to play, much less to play well. And even from a distance, he could tell that these musicians were playing it beautifully.

He entered the tavern, more out of curiosity than anything else. Musicians accomplished enough today the Paean like this probably would not be looking to add to their group. The tavern, though on a small street and tucked away in a remote corner of the city, was filled near to bursting. Seeing no place to sit, Cadel remained by the door, listening and watching. There were four musicians in all. Two men, one playing the lute, the other the pipes, and two women, one of them singing at that moment, the other standing beside her. Since this second woman held no instrument, Cadel assumed she was a singer as well.

The men played their instruments deftly. There was an art to accompaniment, a demand for subtlety that few players could master. These two had. Their music lent texture to the piece and complemented the singer’s voice without overpowering it. They were playing the counterpoint, which, in the Paean, was usually done by other singers, and they were doing so quite well.

But it was the woman who drew Cadel’s ear and eye. She sang the “Devotion” exquisitely, but more than that, she looked familiar to him. It was several moments before he realized why. Her name was Anesse, and the woman beside her was her sister, Kalida. The two of them had sung this same piece with Cadel and Jedrek several years before. They had been in Thorald at the time, traveling with Bohdan’s Revel; he and Jed were there to murder Filib the Younger, heir to the throne of Eibithar. As they made their preparations for the assassination, they were fortunate enough to meet the two women, accomplished singers both, and gain some small measure of notoriety for their magnificent performances of the Paean. Jedrek and Kalida spent at least one night in each other’s arms, and though Cadel and Anesse did not, they both made it clear that they were attracted to each other. “Perhaps Adriel will bring us together again,” he had said at the time, speaking of the goddess of love. To which Anesse had replied, “She will if she has an ear for music.”

She looked just as he remembered her. She still wore her dark hair short, so that it framed her round face. Her eyes were a soft green, and though she appeared somewhat leaner than the last time he saw her, she was still a bit on the heavy side, which he found quite attractive.

Cadel was already thinking that finding her here in Ailwyck had been a stroke of enormous good fortune, when the “Devotion” ended and the music wound its way toward the beginning of “Bias’s Lament.” Only when the Paean’s second movement began did he understand fully the extent to which the gods smiled upon him.

He had expected one of the men to sing “Ilias’s Lament” It had been written for a man’s voice and it had always been his part. But instead, Kalida sang it, an octave above where he would have. She did so competently, blending her voice with the counterpoint of the lutenist and piper, and turning what could have been a disastrous performance into a satisfying one.

Still, when the musicians finished and the tavern began to empty, Cadel knew that he had found a job. He waited until most of the patrons had left and the players were waiting for their payment from the barkeep. Then he approached Anesse and the others. It occurred to him to wonder if she would remember him as he remembered her, but he needn’t have worried.

“That was an enjoyable performance,” he said, drawing their gazes. It had been more than that, of course, but he needed to convince them that they needed another singer. Too much praise would undermine his efforts to that end. “I’ve never seen the Paean performed so.”

The man with the lute smiled. “Thank you, friend.”

But Cadel was watching Anesse.

“Corbin?” she said, her eyes widening.

“You remember.”

She colored slightly, her eyes flicking toward the lutenist. “Of course I do. Yours is a voice few could forget.”

“The two of you know each other?” the lutenist asked, stepping forward so that he stood beside her and laying a hand on her shoulder.

“Yes. Kalida and I sang with Corbin and a friend of his a few years back. In Thorald. Isn’t that right?”

Cadel nodded. “It is.”

“What was you friend’s name again?”

“Honok,” her sister answered, coming closer as well. “Is he with you?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said, forcing a smile. “He and I parted ways about a year ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Kalida said, with genuine regret. She resembled her sister more than Cadel recalled. Her eyes were blue rather than green, and she wore her hair long, but their features were similar and the coloring nearly identical.

“Perhaps you should introduce us,” the lute player said, eyeing Anesse.

“Yes, of course. Corbin. .” She trailed off. “I never did learn your family name.”

“Ortan,” he said, extending a hand to the lutenist. Actually, that was Jedrek’s family name, but under the circumstances, his friend wouldn’t mind.

The lute player took his hand in a firm grip as Anesse said, “This is Jaan Pelsor. Jaan is my husband as well as my accompanist.”

By now Cadel had expected this, and he smiled warmly at the man. “My congratulations. How long has it been since your joining?”

“Nearly eight turns now,” Jaan said. He was as tall as Cadel and solidly built. He had black hair, flecked extensively with silver, and pale grey eyes. He must have been at least ten years older than Anesse, perhaps more.

“I’m very happy for both of you.”

The man nodded, then indicated the piper with an open hand. “And this is Dunstan MarClen. Dunstan and I grew up together.”

Cadel shook hands with the piper as well. “You play beautifully,” he said.

Dunstan merely grinned.

“All of you do,” Cadel went on a moment later. “It’s rare to find musicians of such talent.”

“Thank you,” Jaan said. “I gather from what Anesse said a moment ago that you’re rather a fine singer yourself.”

“I believe I am.” Cadel answered, knowing how brazen he sounded. “I’ll get right to the point, Jaan.” He wasn’t certain whether this man spoke for the rest of them or not. But he sensed that Jaan was wary of Cadel’s past friendship with Anesse, perhaps even jealous. If he could overcome Jaan’s objections, he could deal with the rest. “I enjoyed your performance today, but it seems clear to me that you need a male voice in your company. Anesse and Kalida both know that I can sing. If they remember anything of Thorald, they also know that I take my music seriously and that I can be trusted with gold.”

The lutenist looked doubtful. He glanced briefly at the two sisters, then looked back at Dunstan, who was regarding Cadel warily.

“I won’t deny that we could use another singer,” Jaan said at last. “But I’m not certain we can afford one. In another two or three turns, as the winds change and trade along the coast improves, we may be able to ask for a better wage, but for now we’re barely making enough for four. To add a fifth. .” He shrugged, then gave a small shake of his head.

“This tavern was packed tonight,” Cadel said. “The innkeeper should be paying you plenty.”

Kalida nodded. “I’ve been saying much the same thing for more than a turn now. We draw enough people to this place to deserve twice what the old goat pays us.”

“Perhaps. But I’m not willing to risk steady work by demanding more.”

Cadel regarded the man for a moment. “Can we speak in private?” he asked.

“All right.”

They walked together to the back of the tavern.

“Let me offer you a compromise,” Cadel said. “I still have a bit of gold left from previous jobs.” In reality, he had a great deal, enough to keep him comfortable for years. But nearly all musicians were concerned foremost with their wage, and he could ill afford to appear indifferent to money. “Let me sing with you for half a turn. If at the end of that time the company is making no more gold than it is now, I’ll move on. You don’t have to pay me a single silver. But if your wage goes up enough to pay me what each of you is making now, we remain together.”

Still the man hesitated, just as Cadel had thought he would.

“Let me add this,” he went on. “Were I newly joined to a woman as lovely as Anesse, I’d be wary of any old friend of hers, just as you are of me. I assure you, Jaan-I swear to you on the memory of my dearest friend-I have no designs on your wife. I need work. I want to sing with musicians who are as good as I am. I’m not going to do anything foolish.”

Jaan gave a grudging smile. “You don’t lack for confidence, do you, Corbin?”

“Allow me to practice with you tomorrow. You can see for yourself why.”

“Let me make certain I understand this. You sing with us for a half turn, and if we’re not making more gold by the end of that time, you leave without being paid anything at all?”

“That’s right. We’ll consider it an apprenticeship of sorts.”

“Even apprentices get paid.”

“So will I.”

Jaan laughed. “You’re that sure.”

“I’ve heard you play, and I have a sense of what we’ll sound like together.”

The man put out his hand, which Cadel took.

“Very well. We’ll give this a try.” He looked back at the others. “Let me go explain it to them. Dunstan will object until he hears that it’s not to cost him anything.”

“Of course. Tell me where you practice and I’ll be on my way.”

“We have three rooms upstairs. We generally practice up there. I’d recommend that you take a room here as well. The food isn’t bad, and the innkeeper doesn’t charge us for the rooms or our meals. I think we can at least convince him to offer the same to you.”

“All right. If he refuses, I can pay my way for a time.”

Jaan walked back to where the others were waiting and spoke with them for a time. Cadel saw Dunstan shaking his head at one point, but their discussion never grew heated, and finally they approached him, all of them but the piper with smiles on their faces.

“It’s agreed,” Jaan said. “We’ll begin rehearsals tomorrow.” Each of them shook his hand in turn, Dunstan last.

“Don’t worry, piper,” Cadel said quietly, gripping the man’s hand. “I’m going to make you more money than you ever thought a musician could have.”

Dunstan grinned at him.

The others retired for the night and Cadel went to speak with the innkeeper. The tavern’s owner was reluctant to give away another free room, so Cadel paid him, after extracting a promise from the man that the room would be free if Cadel remained with the musicians for at least a turn. That night, for the first time since before Jedrek’s death, Cadel lay down to sleep feeling that he actually was where he belonged.

Their first rehearsal the following morning went just as Cadel had hoped it would. They began with the Paean, and Cadel sang “Ilias’s Lament.” It had been some time since last he sang the piece, but it came to him as if he had sung it just the day before.

When they finished the third movement, “The Lover’s Round,” a four-part canon in which Anesse and Kalida sang the women’s parts, Cadel sang the first male part, and Dunstan played the second on the pipes, a stunned silence fell over the room. All the others were watching him as if he had summoned flames like a Qirsi sorcerer.

“I told you he was good,” Anesse said at last.

Jaan shook his head. “I’ve never heard the ‘Lament’ sung that well. I’ve certainly never played with anyone who could sing it like that.”

“Thank you.” Cadel smiled. “I thought it sounded quite good, though I have a suggestion or two as to how we might make it sound even better.”

At this point he could have suggested that they sing it backwards to the tune of “The Elegy for Shanae” and they would have done so willingly, but he had nothing so extreme in mind. He merely wished to have Kalida and Dunstan change the rhythm of their counterpoint slightly, while Anesse slowed the “Devotion” a bit; subtle changes that his new partners accommodated with ease. Working with them throughout the morning, he realized that they were even finer musicians than he had thought the previous night. Jaan especially was a rare talent on the lute. He didn’t use the intricate picking patterns Dario had, though Cadel had no doubt that he could have had he only chosen to. But his rhythms were as steady as the tide, every note he hit as clear as Morna’s stars on a cold night. With Dario, Cadel had struggled to match his cadence to the sound of the instrument. He had no such troubles with Jaan, whose playing seemed to wrap itself around each voice like a blanket, warm and comforting, effortlessly matching the contour of the lyrics and notes being sung. Certainly Anesse had chosen well in a playing partner.

Over the next few days, Cadel began to see that she had chosen well in a husband as well. Clearly he loved her, doting on her at every opportunity. But he was more than just a love-struck old man entranced by his young wife. He had a fine humor and good business sense. He agreed with much of what Cadel suggested by way of changes in the way they performed various pieces, but when he disagreed, he held his ground, and on more than one occasion Cadel relented, seeing the merits of the man’s arguments.

Kalida and Anesse could be strong-willed as well, and their musical instincts were every bit as good as Cadel’s and Jaan’s. Even Dunstan, who said little most of the time, suggested slowing their performance of “Tanith’s Threnody,” which improved the piece immeasurably.

After having heard Cadel sing, the piper began to warm to him. He was a kind man, if rather simple, but there could be no mistaking his skill with the pipes. There could also be no doubt of his feelings for Kalida. Whenever he wasn’t playing, he watched her, looking unsure of himself, as if hoping that she would declare her love for him and save him the ordeal of speaking first. For her part, Kalida appeared to have no interest in him. He had a kindly face and a quick smile, but beside Jaan, whom he clearly admired, he looked plain and soft, with a round body and slightly stooped shoulders. Add to that the fact that he was so terribly shy around her, and Cadel could see why she didn’t return his affections. This, after all, was a woman who had been drawn to Jedrek, with his lean wiry frame, wild black hair, and jaunty manner.

On only the third day after their first practice together, the five musicians gave their first performance. The tavern was packed, as it had been every night since Cadel’s arrival in Ailwyck, and though he had sung before dukes and thanes, and placed himself in gravest danger to earn gold in his other profession, he could not remember being as nervous as he was this night. Not that he needed to be. They sang and played flawlessly. Their performance of the Paean drew cheers and applause so loud that Cadel actually feared that the tavern roof might collapse. Even the innkeeper, a dour man who had shown little interest in their music the previous nights, whistled and smiled.

The following night, the tavern began to fill before the ringing of the prior’s bells, hours before the musicians were to begin their performance. By the time the company stepped onto the small wooden stage, the entire courtyard outside the tavern entrance was full, and many of those both inside and outside were drunk. The innkeeper had to promise a second performance to those beyond the door in order to prevent a riot. Cadel and his friends didn’t mind, for they were paid double their usual wage, and the others agreed without dissent that Cadel should receive an equal share of the extra gold.

It was a late night, which became a sleepless one when Kalida let herself into his room after the others had gone to sleep. Cadel had already climbed into bed, but was still awake. He sat up, lighting the candle beside his bed with a flint. She closed the door behind her, then stood there, as if awaiting an invitation to join him.

She was wearing a simple shift, and her hair hung loose to the small of her back.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” she said.

“Actually, I am. Won’t Dunstan be disappointed?”

She shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She was quite lovely, really. And it had been a long time since he last passed a night with a woman. “All three of them will be.”

“They will?”

“Dunstan is Jaan’s oldest friend,” she said, beginning to wander about the small room. “They’re like brothers. And so when Jaan was joined to Anesse, they all assumed that I’d be a dutiful girl and promise myself to him.”

“A woman could do worse.”

She paused by the wardrobe, regarding him, an eyebrow arched. “She could do better, too.”

“I’m not certain that I’m the joining kind,” Cadel said.

Kalida laughed. “I don’t want to be joined to you, Corbin. To be honest, I don’t think of myself as the joining kind either. If I did, I’d still be with your friend, Honok. As I recall, when we were in Thorald together, I spent Lovers’ Night in his bed. Where Anesse and I come from that’s the same as a betrothal.”

“In other words, you wish to share my bed so as to make it clear to the others that you have no intention of being joined to Dunstan.”

She walked to the bed and sat beside him, running a finger down the center of his chest. “That’s not the only reason.”

He felt a stirring in his groin, saw Kalida glance down at the sheets covering him and grin. Pulling the shift off over her head, she slid under the sheets beside him and kissed the side of his neck.

“Your sister may object,” he said, closing his eyes as her lips began to travel his body.

“How can she? She’s married to Jaan.”

With all of them sleeping under the same roof, it took only a day or two for the others to realize that Cadel and Kalida were sharing a bed. Despite his fears, Cadel saw no evidence that Dunstan was angry with him. The piper was downcast for a short while, but it seemed to Cadel that whatever sadness he felt was tempered by a profound sense of relief. Indeed, the only one of the other three who did show any sign of being angry was Anesse, who said nothing to either Cadel or Kalida for a full day after seeing them emerge together from Cadel’s room. Jaan, on the other hand, seemed genuinely pleased, perhaps seeing in their affair proof that he needn’t be jealous of the singer any longer.

Within six nights of their first performance, the innkeeper more than doubled the musicians’ wages, in part because they were now doing two performances each night, and in part because he was unwilling to risk having Cadel leave. He also gave Cadel his room for free, though it quickly became a wasted expense. Cadel and Kalida spent nearly every night together, either in her bed or his. She was a skilled lover, far more so than he, and the singer found himself anticipating their lovemaking even more than he did the company’s performances.

His one concern in the midst of all his newfound success was that word of the company’s performances would travel beyond Ailwyck, drawing the attention of the Qirsi conspiracy or Lord Tavis of Curgh. In Mertesse, Cadel had allowed the fame he and Dario enjoyed to lull him into carelessness. As a result, Tavis surprised him in the upstairs corridor of their inn, and nearly succeeded in exacting his revenge for Lady Brienne’s murder. And over the past several years, the conspiracy had managed to find him no matter where he went, giving him gold he could not refuse and demanding that he kill for them yet again. Upon leaving Mertesse, Cadel had decided that his days as an assassin were over, and now, having found a company with which to sing, a city in which their music was appreciated, and a lover with whom he could share his nights, he was ever more determined to embrace this new life.

Midway through the waning of Elhir’s turn, however, it became clear that indeed their fame had started to travel the land. Late in the morning, as they practiced a new piece that Jaan had written, a messenger arrived at the inn from the marquessate of Fanshyre in the Ailwyck countryside. The marquess, it seemed, had heard tales of their extraordinary talent and requested a private concert. He offered to host a feast in their honor two days hence and to pay them ten qinde each for a single performance.

As an assassin Cadel had spent little time in Wethyrn, and so he had little fear of being recognized. Still, he was certain the marquess had at least one Qirsi minister, and there was always the danger that this person might be a traitor who would have heard whisperings of the singer-assassin. More to the point, such a performance would only serve to widen their renown, increasing the danger that he would be found.

Unfortunately, none of the others shared his concerns. Nor could he voice them himself. Invitations like this one were exceedingly rare for all but the most talented performers. Any musician in the Forelands would have been delighted to receive one and deeply envious of others who did. Cadel could no more object to making the journey than he could admit outright that he was a hired blade.

They accepted the invitation immediately, sending the marquess’s messenger back to Fanshyre with word that they would be at his castle on the appointed day. The others were far too excited to continue with their rehearsal and Cadel did his best to make it seem that he shared their enthusiasm. That night, however, as he and Kalida lay in bed, she made it all too clear that he had failed.

“Why are you reluctant to go to Fanshyre?” she asked, staring up at him, her legs still wrapped around his hips.

He forced a smile. “I’m not.”

“Don’t lie to me, Corbin. You tried to seem as pleased as the rest of us, but it took an effort. I could tell.”

He exhaled, leaving the warm comfort between her legs and sitting on the bed beside her. How many lies were too many between lovers?

“It has nothing to do with Fanshyre. I’ve never even been there. I simply don’t like the courts.”

“Why not?”

“My father served in one when I was young. I hated the way he was treated.”

The lie just came to him, and it struck him as a strange twisting of the truth of his childhood. He had grown up in the court of his father, a viscount in southern Caerisse, and what he had hated most about it was the viscount himself.

Kalida seemed to ponder what he had said for several moments, absently playing with his hair. Then she shrugged, and said, “Well, then enjoy taking his money. It’s not like we’re going to live there. It’s one day, and nearly as much gold as we’ll make here during the rest of the waning.”

“You’re right. I should be grateful for the invitation. I’ll try to be.”

“You’re humoring me. There’s more to it than what you’ve said.”

Cadel smiled, looking away. “Yes, there is. But leave it at that, Kalida. Please.”

“Is this about Honok?”

He looked at her again. She hadn’t mentioned Jed since their first night together.

“Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know. He once told me that his father didn’t think much of the courts either. And I know the two of you were good friends before whatever made you part ways.”

He pushed the hair back from her brow. “We’re still good friends, he and I. And no, this has nothing to do with him.”

“I’m sorry. I won’t ask you anything more.”

“Thank you. I promise you that I’ll sing my best. Whatever my feelings about the courts, they won’t hurt our performance.”

“They’d better not,” she said, pulling him down to her again. “You may not have an appetite for gold, but I do.”

Two mornings hence, they set out southward for the marquess’s castle. It was a bright, mild morning, a fine day for a journey. It seemed the planting winds had come to Wethyrn at last. The innkeeper had given them leave to miss their early performance in the tavern, but had made it clear that he expected them back in Ailwyck for the later one. From what he told them, it seemed a simple journey. Fanshyre Castle stood less than two leagues away, nestled in the northern reaches of the Grey Hills near the source of the Ailwyck River.

“If you leave early enough, you can be there before midday,” the innkeeper said. “And if you leave Fanshyre with the prior’s bells, you should have plenty of time to get back here, change your clothes, and earn your keep.”

He wasn’t a subtle man, but he knew the countryside. The company reached Fanshyre just as the midday bells tolled from the gates of the small village. They were greeted by the marquess himself, a short, rotund man with a broad grin and round face. His wife might well have been his sister, so alike did they look, and she welcomed them heartily before leading them to the castle’s hall. There, true to his word, the marquess made them honored guests at a simple but ample feast. Afterward, they sang for him, performing every song they knew, and, at the marquess’s request, repeating several pieces, including the Paean and, much to Jaan’s delight, the new piece the lutenist had just written. Usually Cadel did not like to perform the same piece more than once for the same audience, but Fanshyre had been kind enough to feed them, and, as Kalida reminded him once again on their walk to the castle, he was paying them handsomely for their music.

They left Fanshyre just after the ringing of the prior’s bells, gold jingling in their pockets, their spirits high. There had been only one Qirsi in the castle, the marquess’s lone minister, a frail old woman who appeared to nod off in the middle of their performance. Cadel felt confident in assuming that she wasn’t with the conspiracy and that his fears of this journey had been unfounded. As they made their way through the hills, he found himself joking with the others and singing along with Jaan to the bawdy Mettai folk songs the lutenist was playing.

He didn’t even notice the three men in the road ahead of them until the company had almost reached them. And by then it was too late.

They were still in the hills, though they couldn’t have been more than a hundred strides from more open land. Just here, however, the road narrowed and the rocky hills formed a steep canyon. The company halted and Cadel glanced behind them. Already there were two more men there, leering at them.

“I could hear the coins in your pockets from up there,” one of the thieves said, pointing toward the top of the nearest hill.

Jaan stepped in front of Anesse and Cadel did the same with Kalida. He had a dagger on his belt-Jaan and Dunstan did as well-and a second strapped to his calf inside his boot.

The thieves all carried blades, and the one who had spoken, their leader no doubt, carried a short sword as well, stolen from a noble by the look of it. He nodded at the others and they began to advance on the company.

Jaan reached for his belt, but Cadel held out a hand, stopping him.

“Don’t, Jaan. They’ll kill us.” Actually Cadel felt fairly certain that he could fight them off with just a bit of help from the others. But he was a musician now, not a killer, and he was willing to trade a bit of gold to keep all of them alive and preserve the secret of his past.

“We can’t just let them take the gold,” the lutenist said.

“Better the gold than our lives. We can always earn more.”

The leader stopped in front of Jaan, a smirk on his begrimed face. He was about Cadel’s size and he walked with the swagger of a man who had killed before and would do so again without hesitation. One of the others appeared far younger than he, and a bit unsure of himself, but the other three seemed just as confident as their leader. Two of them planted themselves in front of Cadel, their daggers drawn, and another stood beside Dunstan.

“Yer gold, old man,” the leader said to Jaan. “An’ that o’ yer friends.”

“Shouldn’ we take their blades?” asked one of the men by Cadel.

The leader shrugged laconically. “Sure, take ’em. They migh’ be worth something.”

The man who had spoken laid his blade against Cadel’s throat with one hand, and took the weapon from his belt with the other. In a moment they also had Jaan and Dunstan’s blades.

“Now, give us yer gold.”

Cadel, Dunstan, and the two women handed over their money, but Jaan, who carried his in a small leather pouch, took out his gold rounds and threw them over the man’s head into the brush on the slope of the hill.

“You want it, you bastard?” he said. “Get it yourself.”

The leader gave a short harsh laugh, glancing at his friends, but making no move to retrieve the coins. “Did ye see tha’?” he asked. “Th’ old man has some darin’.” He faced Jaan again. “No brains, though.”

And with a motion so swift that his hand was but a blur, the thief hammered the hilt of his sword into Jaan’s face.

The lutenist crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. Anesse screamed out his name, but before she could even drop to her knees beside him, the man kicked him in the stomach.

Cadel made a motion toward the leader, but the two thieves beside him brandished their daggers, forcing him to stop.

Seeing this, the leader walked to where the singer stood, the same cruel grin on his lips. “Ye want t’ try too?” he asked, as if daring Cadel to hit him. “Ye want t’ end up like yer friend?”

“Just take the gold and go,” Cadel said, holding the man’s gaze.

“Well, ye know, I would ha’. But now I don’ think so.” He looked at the women, and with a quick glance back at Cadel, stepped back to where Anesse now knelt. She was sobbing and cradling Jaan’s head in her lap, trying to stanch the blood with a kerchief. The thief sheathed his sword, pushed Jaan away from her with his foot, and forced her to stand, stepping around behind her, one hand gripping her by the hair and the other grasping her breast. “How “bout it, boys?” he called to the others. “Feel like a bit o’ mutton?”

One of the men guarding Cadel walked over to Kalida, grabbing her by the arm, and tearing the front of her dress.

The man who remained with Cadel was looking past him at what his friends were doing, grinning with amusement. Cadel threw the punch so quickly, with such force, that the man never even had time to look at him. He merely dropped to the ground, his larynx shattered by the blow. The man by Dunstan cried out and bounded toward Cadel, but by that time the singer had his second blade in hand. The man swung at him wildly with his own weapon, but Cadel ducked under the attack and plunged his dagger into the man’s chest.

Shoving the thief off his blade, he spun toward the two who had Anesse and Kalida. The one with Kalida, pushed her to the ground, and held his weapon ready, dropping into a fighter’s crouch. Cadel didn’t falter. Striding toward the man, he lifted his weapon as if to attack. The thief lunged at him, just as Cadel knew he would. His kick caught the man just under the chin. The thief fell, rolled, tried to stand, but Cadel was on him too quickly, slashing at the brigand’s throat.

“Corbin!”

He just had time to dive away from the leader’s sword as it whistled past his head. He rolled as the other man had, and came up in his crouch, his dagger ready.

The leader advanced on him warily, the grin gone from his face, though his teeth were still bared.

“Watch behind you!” Dunstan called.

The young one had finally thrown off his fear and joined the fray. He was approaching slowly as well, dagger drawn. But Cadel had no doubt that the leader was the dangerous one. He saw Dunstan go to retrieve a dropped blade.

“Stay where you are, Dunstan! Leave them to me!”

“Ye think ye can take us, eh?” the leader said.

Even as he spoke the words though, he was already launching his next assault. He leaped at Cadel, lashing out with the short sword and holding his dagger ready. The singer danced away, seeing no opening for a counter.

“Fight, ye coward!” the leader roared at the other brigand. “Or when I’m done with “im, ye’ll be next!”

It would be a clumsy attack, born of fear and desperation. Under most circumstances, Cadel would have had no trouble defending himself. But he didn’t dare turn his back on the leader. The singer opened his stance slightly, so that he could look as easily to the rear as to the front, and he held his dagger ready.

He heard a footfall behind him, close. Dunstan cried out again.

Glancing quickly at the younger man, Cadel saw that he had already raised his weapon to strike. The leader was moving as well, closing the distance between them with a quick lunge and chopping down with his sword. Ducking wouldn’t work this time.

Instead, he swung himself down and backwards, swinging his blade arm at the younger man’s leg as he went down. He felt his blade embed itself in flesh, heard the man cry out. But rather than rolling as he had intended, he landed awkwardly, his wrist buckling under his weight.

Pain shot up his arm, white hot, like lightning in the heat of the planting turns.

The leader, who had missed with his first blow, pounced a second time, hammering down with his sword.

Cadel kicked out blindly-his only chance-and his boot glanced off the man’s forearm, deflecting the blow just enough to save him. For the moment.

The man struck at him again. Cadel rolled away and scrambled to his feet, only to find the leader leveling yet another blow at him. But this time he didn’t chop down at the singer. Instead he swung the blade, as if to take off Cadel’s head.

Cadel spun away from him, avoiding the sword. And allowing the momentum of his turn to carry him all the way around, switching his grip on his own dagger in midmotion, he tried to slam his blade into the man’s back. He misjudged the distance, however, slicing through the leader’s shirt and drawing blood from his shoulder, but doing no real damage.

Both of them backed away for just an instant, breathing hard. Cadel chanced a quick look at the other man. He was on the ground still, clutching his leg, which was bloodied just below his crotch. The leader put a hand to his shoulder, looked at the blood on his fingers, and gave a fierce grin.

“Yer no musician,” he said, his voice low.

Before Cadel could think of anything to say, the man rushed him again, raising his sword.

It was a clumsy attack. Too clumsy. At the last moment, Cadel looked not at the short sword but at the dagger, nearly forgotten, in the man’s other hand. It was swinging at his side in a wide, powerful arc, the steel glinting in the sun’s dying light.

Rather than ducking or retreating, Cadel stepped toward the attack, raising his injured arm to block the man’s dagger hand, and with the other arm pounding his own blade into the man’s stomach.

The leader let out a short, harsh gasp, his eyes widening. His dagger dropped to the ground and he grasped the hilt of his sword with both hands. But he was trembling, his legs failing him. Cadel pulled his blade from the man’s gut and thrust it into his chest. The thief sagged to his knees, blood spouting from his mouth. A moment later he toppled sideways to the dirt.

Cadel retrieved his dagger and advanced on the last man, who still lay on the ground, whimpering like a child.

“Corbin, no!” Kalida’s voice. “It’s enough!”

He halted, glaring at her. After a moment he nodded.

“Can you walk?” he asked the young thief.

“I–I don’t know.”

“Well, you’re going to have to. It’ll be dark soon, and the nights get cold here this time of year, even on a warm day.”

Dunstan began to reclaim their gold, including the coins Jaan had thrown. Cadel wanted to tell him to forget the money, but he didn’t. Instead he walked to where Anesse and Kalida were tending to Jaan. The bleeding had slowed from his nose and mouth, though his face looked a mess. His breathing seemed labored.

“I think he has a broken rib,” Anesse said, her voice tight.

“Can we get him back to Ailwyck?”

She shook her head. “I think we’d be better off returning to Fanshyre.”

“The distance is roughly the same. And the terrain’s easier to the north.”

“Ailwyck,” Jaan said weakly. “I don’t want to go back to Fanshyre like this.”

Dunstan joined them. “I found most of it. Not all.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cadel said. “We need to get Jaan back to the tavern. Can you help me carry him?”

“Of course.”

“Are you all right?” Kalida asked him, looking closely at his face.

“I’m fine.”

“It looked like you hurt-”

“I’m fine,” he said again, his voice rising.

Her face colored and she looked away.

“Let’s get him on his feet,” he said to the piper.

Dunstan nodded toward the injured man. “What about him?”

“Leave him. He’s no threat, and he’s not worth helping.” He turned to Anesse. “Find our daggers,” he said. “And theirs as well.”

“What about the sword?”

He stared at the body of the leader. “That, too.”

His wrist was screaming, and he wondered if he had broken the bone. Not that it would slow him. He’d been injured before, far worse than this. Back when he was an assassin. He nearly laughed aloud. You’ll always be an assassin. His father’s voice. He would have liked to curse the old man’s name aloud.

It was a slow, painful walk back to Ailwyck, and before they were done it turned dark and chill as well. The tavern was already full when they arrived-they could hear laughter and raucous singing coining from within. When they opened the door, however, and the tavern patrons saw the blood on Jaan’s face, silence spread through the great room like the pestilence.

“What happened?” the innkeeper said, hurrying through the parting crowd.

“Thieves. In the Grey Hills.”

“Someone get a healer!” he shouted to the men closest to the door. “Are the rest of you all right?”

“I’ve hurt my wrist. The bone may be broken. Otherwise we’re fine.”

“How much did you lose?”

Dunstan grinned. “Only a few qinde.”

The innkeeper’s eyes widened. “You were fortunate.”

“I suppose,” the piper said. “But you should have seen Corbin! He-”

“You’re right,” Cadel broke in. “We were fortunate. But Jaan needs healing, and a place to lie down.”

Dunstan stared at him a moment, then nodded.

The innkeeper led them to his own quarters in the back of the tavern, allowing them to lay Jaan on his bed. “I’ll be back with some food and tea,” he said, bustling back toward the kitchen.

Dunstan and Anesse remained beside the lutenist, but Kalida pulled Cadel into the next room. Her lips were pressed in a thin line and her face was pale. Once more he was struck by how lovely she was. He was going to miss her.

“You said we were fortunate,” she began at last, her eyes meeting his. “I don’t think fortune had anything to do with it.”

“Of course it did,” he said, looking down at his wrist and flexing his hand. He could move it with only a bit of pain. Perhaps it wasn’t broken after all. “Anytime you encounter thieves and escape with both your life and your gold, you’ve been lucky.”

“That’s not what I meant. The way you fought them. .” She shook her head. “I was watching you fight. You never had any doubt that you could defeat them, did you?”

“Of course I did.” He wasn’t certain why he bothered lying. He couldn’t stay. Dunstan was ready to write songs about his prowess with a blade, and now this from Kalida. When the shock of what had happened wore off, the others would have questions as well. They would never look at him the same way again. Still, his dream of leading a quiet life wouldn’t die so easily. “There’s always doubt,” he told her. “When I fell today, when I hurt my wrist, that could have given him the opening he needed to kill me.”

“But you fought-”

“Honok and I used to travel a good deal. We encountered many thieves, and over the years we learned to defend ourselves. That’s why I fight as well as I do.”

“That’s not what I was going to say. You fought only when Anesse and I-” She swallowed. “When it seemed they were going to take more than just our gold. You could have fought them at any time, but you waited until then. It was almost as if you didn’t want us to see you fight, as if you were afraid to let us see how good you are with a blade.”

He started toward the door, intending to retrieve what few possessions he carried from his room upstairs. “I should go.”

“Who are you, Corbin?”

“I’m a singer.”

“And what else? A mercenary? Are you a thief yourself?”

He turned and walked to where she stood. She didn’t shy from him, and when he bent to kiss her lips, she returned the kiss.

“It doesn’t matter what else I am or was. I came here hoping to be a singer, and I became your lover because I thought you beautiful and kind. Never doubt that.”

He crossed to the door once more and pulled it open.

“Where are you going to go?”

“It’s best I don’t tell you.”

“What about your wrist?”

“I’ll find a healer.”

“What about us?”

He glanced back at her and smiled. “I’ll remember. . us for the rest of my days. Tell Anesse and the others what you will. Be well, Kalida. Gods keep you safe.”

She gazed at him sadly, but there were no tears on her face, nor did he expect that there would be. Given time, he might have loved this woman.

“And you, Corbin,” she said.

He slipped past the other musicians, returned briefly to his room, and then left the tavern, knowing that several of those who remained in the great room of the inn marked his departure. He knew as well that people in Ailwyck would speak for years of the singer who came to their city, bringing music such as few of them had heard before, only to leave a short time later, after single-handedly defeating five road brigands in the Grey Hills. This couldn’t be helped, nor could the fact that this tale would spread through the land, eventually reaching Qirsi ears, or perhaps those of Tavis of Curgh. There was nothing he could do but journey onward. He was an assassin. He had been an assassin for more years than he could count, and he would die an assassin. This, it seemed, was his fate.