Seeds of Betrayal

Chapter Ten

Dantrielle, Aneira

“Play another, lad!” one of the men called to him, drawing shouts of agreement from the others. “Do you know ‘Tanith’s Threnody’?”

Dario shook his head, though he continued to look down at his fingers as he plucked idly at the strings of his lute. “No,” he said. “Never learned it.”

It was a lie, of course. Every lutenist in Aneira knew the threnody, because it was all anyone ever asked them to play. He had already played it this day, and he heard snickers in the far corner of the tavern, probably from someone who had heard him perform it earlier.

“Then play anything,” the man said.

Dario’s fingers throbbed-he had been playing since just after the ringing of the midday bells. They were barely paying him enough to make eight or nine songs worth his while, and he had already done more than a dozen. The tavern shouldn’t have even been open. For one thing, this was the day of Bohdan’s Night, when men should have been with their families rather than drinking at a bar. Most of the men who frequented the Red Boar, however, had no families. More to the point though, with the king dead, every other tavern in the city had been shut down. The duke’s guards never came to the Red Boar, however. They were afraid to. So it remained open, as if nothing had happened, as if it were just an ordinary day in Dantrielle.

One of the serving women put another ale before him and gave him a warm smile.

“They like you,” she whispered.

“Another song or two and my fingers will be bloody.”

She glanced around the tavern and nodded toward the men who crowded the tables and bar. “If you stop now, they’re liable to bloody a good deal more than your fingers.”

She had a point. It was never a good idea for a musician to anger a tavernful of listeners, and this was particularly true in the Red Boar.

“One more,” he said. “And then I need to drink my ale.”

“Fair enough,” another man said. “The lad deserves a bit of rest.”

The others nodded, and Dario began to play. It was one of his own pieces, as the last several had been. He had made up so many that he stopped titling them long ago. But he still remembered where he found each one, and in his own mind he called them by those names. This one was “Moors of Durril,” where he had been early in the last harvest when he first played it.

Each element of the piece was fairly simple-the melody line he plucked from the upper strings, and the bass counterpoint he played on the lower ones. But together they created an intricate pattern that recalled for Dario the grasses of the moor, dancing in a light wind, and the brilliant sunset Morna had offered him that evening. The melody turned three rounds in the piece, each a bit lower in pitch and slower in tempo than the last, before the delicate ending climbed upward once more. It was Dario’s best, and he always saved it for the end of a performance.

Despite their rough appearance and cruel reputations, the men of the Red Boar appreciated good music. They cheered lustily when he finished, and several of them offered to buy him ales, though he had barely touched the one he carried, along with his lute, to the rear of the tavern.

“Fine playing, lad!” the first man said, clapping him on the back as Dario walked past. “You can play for me anytime.”

Dario smiled and nodded, but he didn’t stop to talk. He might have been a musician, but he also had a profession, just as they did, and he had been living on a lutenist’s wage for too long.

He took his customary seat near one of the back windows and laid the lute carefully on the chair beside him. After taking a long drink of ale, he pulled his father’s old pipe from his pocket, filled the bowl with Trescam leaf, and lit it. He leaned back in his chair, blowing a great cloud of smoke toward the ceiling and closing his eyes.

He remained that way for some time, only opening his eyes again when he heard the chair across the table from him squeak.

A man was sitting there, one Dario had seen in the Red Boar before.

Like so many of the others, he had the look of a road brigand to him. He hadn’t shaved in several days, and he wore his black hair long and untied. He was built like Dano, neither brawny nor tall, but lean and muscular, like a festival tumbler. Even though they were both sitting, the lutenist could tell that the man could handle himself in a fight.

“Is there something I can do for you?” Dario asked him, puffing on his pipe again.

The man stared at him with dark eyes, a small smile on his thin lips. “Crebin sent me to tell you that he wants his gold, and that he’s tired of waiting.”

Dario frowned. “I think you have the wrong man. I don’t know anyone named Crebin.‘

“He also told me that you’d say that. We’ve all enjoyed your playing, lad. None of us wants to see you floating facedown in the Rassor with a blade in your back.”

“Well, I’m glad to know that we’re in agreement on that point,” Dario said, eyeing the man as he would a new instrument. He had never seen the man fight, so he didn’t know his tendencies or his weaknesses. Dario was near the back of the inn, but he wasn’t against the back wall. If he moved fast enough, he could stand and kick away his chair, clearing himself some room to draw his dagger and meet an assault. He opened his hands, as if to show the man that he held no weapon. “There’s obviously been some misunderstanding, but I’m sure that you and I can work it out. Perhaps you can start by telling me what this Crebin looks like.”

“Don’t try my patience, boy. You may think you can handle yourself in a fight, but you’ve never fought me.”

“You know, I’m tired of people calling me lad and boy all the time,” Dario said, his hand snaking down toward his calf, where he held his spare blade. “I’m seven years past my Fating, and still everyone treats me like I’m little more than a child.” He cocked his head to the side, just as the fingers on his throwing hand unfastened the strap that held the blade in place and closed around the smooth wooden hilt. “Recently I’ve thought of letting my beard grow in. Do you think that would help?”

“I think you should stop what it is you’re doing, before you get yourself hurt.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The man looked past him for just an instant, and too late Dario realized that there was a second man behind him. Before he could do anything with his own blade, he felt the point of another weapon pressing against the back of his neck.

“Bring your hand up slowly,” the second man commanded. “And lay the blade on the table.”

Dario did as he was told, cursing himself for his carelessness.

“And the other one.”

He pulled his better blade from his belt, and placed it on the table beside the other.

“Now, let’s try this again,” said the man sitting before him. “Where’s Crebin’sgold?”

“I tell you, I don’t know anyone named Crebin. Nor do I have any gold to speak of. Do you think I’d still be playing here if I did?”

The man shook his head slowly. “You’re a fool. Men like Crebin aren’t to be trifled with. Nor are we.”

He nodded once to his friend, who grabbed Dario by the hair and pulled him to his feet, all the while keeping the tip of his dagger firmly against the lutenist’s nape.

“Say there!” came a voice from the front of the tavern. “What are you doing with the lad?”

Several of the older men in the tavern came toward them, led by the man who had patted Dario’s back earlier.

The man holding Dario shifted his blade so that its edge pressed against Dario’s throat.

“Stay out of this, old man,” the bearded one warned. “The boy stole gold from a man who doesn’t take such things lightly. If he pays us what’s owed, he’ll be back to play for you again. If not…” He shrugged. “But if you get in our way, I swear to you, we’ll kill him where he stands.”

The man looked past the brigand to Dario. “You want us to help you, lad?”

“I think you’d better not. But I’ll remember the offer, my friend. You can count on that.”

The man nodded. He cast a dark look at Dario’s two assailants, but then he and his companions backed away.

“We’d better go out the way you came in,” the bearded one said. “We’ll never get through that crowd.”

The man holding Dario began to drag him toward the tavern’s rear door.

“Wait!” Dario said. “My lute and pipe.”

“You won’t have much use for them as a corpse, boy.” The man looked at the instrument briefly. “But we’ll bring them just the same. They may fetch a few qinde in the markets when we’re through with you.”

The man stuffed Dario’s pipe into his pocket and grabbed the lute roughly, banging it against a chair as he did. As an afterthought, he also picked up Dario’s daggers off the table. Then he gave a nod to the other man, who turned toward the corridor leading to the rear door. He still held a fistful of Dario’s hair, and had shifted his dagger once again so that it now pushed against the center of the lutenist’s back.

Dario racked his brain trying to think of any way he could break free of the men and flee, or better yet, kill them before they killed him. He hadn’t much time. The narrow byway just behind the tavern was dark and usually deserted, even at midday. If they did it there, no one would find his body for hours. It might have helped him had he known who this Crebin was, or why he thought Dario had his gold. But the only gold pieces Dario could call his own were the ones still owed to him by the owner of the Red Boar for this day’s performance.

“What’s a lute worth?” the man holding Dario asked.

“I don’t know,” the bearded one said. “This one looks to be a bit worn, but I’d wager we could get eight or ten qinde for it.”

“Eight or ten?” Dario repeated incredulously, stopping so abruptly that the man’s dagger jabbed painfully through his shirt. “It’s worth thirty qinde if it’s worth one!”

“Keep walking!” the man said, shoving him forward. They were near the end of the corridor. The door stood just before him, slightly ajar. So Dario did the one thing he could. Stumbling as if from the force of the man’s push, he fell to his knees, wincing when the brigand failed to let go of his hair.

“Get to your-!”

Before he could finish, Dario threw his elbow back with all the force he could muster, catching the man fully in the groin. This time the man did let go, grunting in agony and falling against the corridor wall. The lutenist scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward the door, throwing it open and racing out into the byway, just as the bearded man would expect. He had no intention of running far, however, not so long as the brigand had his lute. He pressed himself against the outside wall of the tavern, just to the left of the door, praying to all the gods he could name in that moment that the bearded brigand was better with his right hand.

It seemed the gods were with him.

The man burst through the door, Dario’s lute in his left hand and a blade in his right. Immediately the lutenist grabbed the arm and hand that held the lute, using the man’s own forward motion to swing him in a swift arc into the wall, his head hitting the wood with a dull thud.

The brigand staggered back for an instant, just long enough for Dario to grab his other hand-the one with the blade-and hammer it into the man’s gut, steel first. The bearded man gasped, his eyes widening and holding Dario’s gaze for a moment before rolling back into his head as he collapsed to the ground.

Dario retrieved his lute and examined it closely. There were a few new scratches on the underside, but otherwise it appeared to be fine. He placed it carefully on an empty ale barrel that stood nearby. Then he returned to the corridor and dragged the other man into the byway.

“Your friend’s dead,” he said, kicking the man in the stomach. “If you ever come near me again, I’ll kill you, too. Understand?”

The brigand looked up at him and nodded weakly.

Dario took his pipe and daggers from the dead man, picked up his lute, and went back into the Red Boar.

Another man had taken his seat at his table, so Dario chose one near it and started to sit.

“You handled that well,” the stranger said, watching him, a mild smile on his face. He was lean and tall, but broad in the chest and shoulders, like a warrior. He wore a beard and his long dark hair was tied back. But it was his pale blue eyes, the color of the sky on a frigid day, that held the lutenist’s attention. Dario had never seen eyes so cold.

“Thank you,” he said after a moment.

“I take it both men are dead?”

“Only one of them. I let the other go. I doubt he’ll bother me again.”

The dark-haired man frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. I had hoped to retrieve my gold, but I can only assume that the one who survived has already taken it and fled.”

Dario narrowed his eyes, feeling his body grow tense. “You’re Crebin?”

“It’s a name I use. Some know me as Corbin. My friends call me Cadel.”

The lutenist nodded, though it struck him that a man with such eyes couldn’t have many friends. He stepped free of the table and pulled out his dagger once more. “Why did you send them for me?”

Cadel looked at the dagger and shook his head, his face hardening. “Don’t be a fool. I’d kill you even more easily than you killed the man in the alley.”

From another a man it might have seemed an idle boast. But something in Cadel’s tone and expression convinced Dario that in this case it was true. After a moment he slid the blade back into its sheath.

“Answer me,” he said. “Why did you send them?”

Cadel opened a hand, indicating the chair across from him, the chair in which Dario had been sitting before all this began. The lutemst took a slow breath and sat.

“Forgive me,” Cadel said, smiling once more. “I sent those men as a test.”

“A test?”

“Yes. I’ve heard you play, and you’re very good, just as your reputation said you would be. Your reputation as a hired blade is a bit less sure. I wanted to see for myself how you’d handle such a situation.”

“A test,” Dario said again, shaking his head. “Who in Bian’s name are your

“Someone who can make you very wealthy very quickly.”

Dario knew he should have been suspicious-a man who would send murderers after him and then call it a test was not to be trusted. But his pockets were empty, and he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life playing lute in the Red Boar.

“You have a job for me?”

“I might have several, though not as you’re thinking of it. I’m not looking to hire you. I’m looking for a partner, someone to guard my back and help me with more difficult tasks.”

“So you’re a blade yourself.”

“Yes, I am.”

“And you’re making enough to make me wealthy?”

“I’ve made over four hundred qinde in the last five turns,” he said in a low voice. “I expect I’ll make nearly as much in the next five. My partner’s share of that would be somewhere around one hundred and fifty.”

Dario gaped at him. One hundred and fifty qinde! That was more gold than he had made in the last four years. And here Cadel was offering him the chance to make that much by the plantings.

“I’d say you’ve found yourself a partner,” he said with a grin.

Cadel smiled thinly. “Not yet, I haven’t.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, for one thing, I still haven’t decided that you’re the man I want.”

Dario sat forward. “But your test! I bested both men without so much as a scratch from either of them.”

“And then you let one of them go.”

“You wanted me to kill them both?”

“Not necessarily. But I want to know that you didn’t kill the second man for the right reasons. I agree with you that this man posed no threat to you. Seeing what you did to his friend, he’ll probably be happy never to meet up with you again. But another man, a more accomplished killer perhaps, would almost certainly come after you again, either to finish the job he’d been hired to do, or to avenge his companion. By letting him live you could have been endangering your own life. And if you did something similar as my partner, you’d be endangering my life as well.” He watched Dario for several moments, then raised an eyebrow. “So? Why did you do it?”

It would have been easy to lie to him, but for some reason, Dario decided against it. Maybe he didn’t want to cast his lot with this man, even if it did mean wealth beyond his imaginings. Or maybe he just sensed that Cadel would know if he lied.

“I didn’t want to kill him,” he admitted. “So I let him live. I was confident that he wouldn’t attack me again tonight, but I can’t say that I gave much thought to tomorrow or the next day.”

Cadel nodded. “I see. That’s not really the answer I wanted to hear, but neither is it the lie I might have expected from a man hungry for gold. And when it comes to choosing a partner, I’ll trade ruthlessness for honesty any day.”

“Does that mean we’re partners now?”

“It means I’m convinced that I could trust you. But before you agree to join me, there are a few things you should know.”

“Like what?”

“Well, to start, I travel the land as a musician, joining festivals, including the one in Sanbira and the Revel in Eibithar. I know that you play alone, but I don’t know if you’ve performed with a singer before, or if you’re inclined to do so now.”

“You sing?” Dario asked.

“A little bit, yes,” Cadel said, smiling in a way that made Dario think he must be quite good.

Dario gave a small shrug. “I have no objection to performing with you. What else?”

“You should know that my last partner was killed trying to protect me. That’s why I’m looking for someone new.”

“I assumed as much, just as I assume that the partner before him died the same way.”

“There was no partner before him. I worked with Jedrek for almost seventeen years.”

Dario felt his face reddening. It wasn’t the first time he had created trouble for himself by saying something stupid, but it might well have been the most inopportune. Not only had the man sitting before him promised to make him rich, he was also a paid killer. Either way Dario looked at it, this was not a man he wanted to make angry.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking away.

“It doesn’t matter,” the assassin said, his voice flat. After a brief pause, he went on. “The last thing you should know is that the gold we’re talking about comes from the Qirsi.”

“What do you mean?” Dario asked, looking at the man again. A moment later it hit him, and his eyes widened. “You mean the conspiracy?”

“Yes.”

Dario sat back again, shaking his head. No wonder Cadel had made so much gold.

“It’s an assassin’s dream,” the younger man said. “Steady work, good pay, jobs scattered throughout the Forelands so that you have to keep moving. What more could you want?”

Cadel smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

“Hasn’t it turned out that way?”

“I guess. I’ve made a good deal of gold, I’ve had jobs in Eibithar, Aneira, Caerisse, and Sanbira. So all you say is true.”

“Then why do you sound like you’re trying to warn me away from this?”

“Have you spent much time with the Qirsi?” Cadel asked, his eyes locked on Dario’s.

“Not really.”

“Neither had I. It never occurred to me that their appearance and their magic would bother me so, but they do.”

Dario started to say something, but Cadel raised a hand, stopping him.

“It’s not just that,” he said. “I used to think that this profession gave me freedom. As long as I had some gold in my pocket, I could work when and where I chose. Now that I work for the Qirsi, that’s gone. They tell me what to do, which jobs to take, how the kills are supposed to be done. They pay me well, better than anyone else ever has. But their gold has a price.”

He wasn’t certain that he understood all that the assassin was trying to tell him, but the solution seemed obvious. “So stop killing for them.”

Cadel shook his head, looking away. “I can’t, at least not yet. They know too much about me. If I try to free myself of them, they’ll reveal me to every house in every kingdom in the Forelands.”

“Can’t you threaten to do the same?”

The assassin stared at him again, looking like a man who had just had his innermost thoughts laid bare. “I’ve thought of that,” he said. “In time, that may be my way out. But if I tried it now, they’d hunt me down and slit my throat.”

Dario exhaled through his teeth. “I see.”

“Are you certain you want to work with me?”

“Not as certain as I was a few moments ago,” he said, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “But gold is gold, and the Red Boar doesn’t pay its musicians enough to keep me here.”

Cadel extended a hand. “Then I suppose we’re partners.”

Dario stared at the assassin’s hand briefly before taking it with his own.

“The first thing we should do,” Cadel said, releasing his hand, “is rehearse some pieces. They don’t have to be perfect at first, but we should have at least four or five songs that we can perform reasonably well.”

“All right.”

“If you’d like, I can pay you a bit now, and take it out of your share later. You can buy yourself a new instrument. That one looks like it’s been through a war.”

“It has,” Dario said, not bothering to mask his anger. “It was my father’s, and it was nearly destroyed in the attack on my home village that took his life.”

Cadel’s brow furrowed. “It would seem that it’s my turn to apologize,” he said quietly. “Your lute certainly has a good sound, and as for the rest, I intended no offense.”

The lutenist gave a single nod. “It’s all right.”

Another performer, a piper, began to play at the front of the tavern.

The assassin stood. “Why don’t we go somewhere we can play, and you can show me just how fine an instrument it is.”

Dario looked up at the man, and after a moment he grinned. “Very well. I just need to collect my pay from the tavern keeper.”

He stood, picking up his lute, and they began making their way among the tables toward the bar. But after taking only a few steps, Cadel stopped, his face hardening as he began to shake his head.

“Not so soon,” he whispered. “They can’t want me again so soon.”

Following the direction of his gaze, Dario saw a Qirsi woman standing by the bar, speaking with the owner of the tavern. She looked vaguely familiar to him, though he couldn’t say why. There could be little doubt as to why she had come, however. As Dario watched, the tavern keeper nodded and pointed toward Cadel. The white-hair looked at them, recognition in her bright yellow eyes. She said something to the man, handing him a gold coin. Then she started in their direction.

She didn’t need a message from Fetnalla to tell her that she should have seen to the matter already, though Evanthya wasn’t surprised when such a message arrived at Castle Dantrielle that morning. Fetnalla had penned it herself-Evanthya would have known her hand anywhere-but the note itself was so brief as to seem almost cold. “Any news yet?” it asked. And then, simply, “Write me soon.” Only the signature offered the slightest hint of what lay behind it. “Your Fetnalla.”

They had signed their notes this way for years. Such a small thing, yet it was all they dared. This at least could be passed off as an error made in haste, rather than as a declaration of their love.

Deep as that love went, however, Evanthya could tell that Fetnalla was cross with her. The note itself had been intended as a rebuke, a reminder of how much time had slipped by since Chago’s funeral. She could delay no longer, especially with Tebeo preparing to ride later that day to Solkara for the king’s funeral.

After her daily audience with her duke, Evanthya made her excuses to the underministers, changed out of her ministerial robes, and left the castle, hurrying through the north end of the city to the marketplace. As much as she had dreaded doing this, she had not been completely idle since leaving Fetnalla in Orvinti. For years she had heard rumors of a tavern in Dantrielle that was frequented by assassins, brigands, and thieves. Most cities had such places, but the one in Dantrielle had long been said to be the most crowded in the kingdom, the one to which the most renowned men of this kind flocked. She now knew that it was called the Red Boar, and that it could be found just off the southern edge of the marketplace. She knew, as well, the name of one particular man whose talents matched her needs perfectly. The information had cost her nearly half a turn’s wage, and had required that she tell the most appalling lies not only to her duke, but also to several guards, the other ministers, and one of the stableboys, who was now convinced that she had a secret lover on the far side of the city to whom she paid frequent late-night visits.

As it turned out, the Red Boar was more difficult to find than she had been led to believe. It was located on a narrow street near the south city gate, with a single small sign that she overlooked several times as she walked up and down the lane. It didn’t help that the tavern looked fairly respectable from outside; she had expected that its appearance would match its reputation.

Once inside, however, the first minister was not disappointed. She had little trouble believing that the men crowding around the bar and laughing raucously from nearly every table were killers and rogues. Many of them stared at her as she approached the bar-she was the only Qirsi in the tavern-but they left her alone. The tavern keeper seemed reluctant at first to speak with her, but when she showed him a ten-qinde round, he gladly pointed out the man she sought.

His name was Corbin, a Caerissan singer with a reputation as a skilled though expensive assassin. He stood at the back of the tavern with a younger man, and it appeared that they were preparing to leave.

Evanthya glanced around awkwardly as she walked toward them, conscious once more of being the only Qirsi in the room.

“Are you Corbin?” she asked, stopping in front of the Caerissan.

He stared at her with unconcealed hostility. “Did the barman just tell you I was?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have cause to doubt him?”

She bit back a retort, forcing a smile instead. “Perhaps we can sit,” she said, gesturing toward the table the man and his friend had just left.

Corbin hesitated, looking briefly at his companion. After a moment he nodded, and they walked back to the table.

The younger man carried a lute, and Evanthya wondered if he was merely a musician or an assassin as well. She suddenly felt far beyond her depth.

“This is Dagon,” the assassin said, indicating the younger man with an open hand.

Dagon smiled, glancing at his companion. It occurred to Evanthya that this wasn’t his real name, that in fact Corbin’s name was probably an alias as well. Which probably meant that the younger man was also a killer. She found this hard to believe. He looked terribly young, with a clean-shaven face and warm brown eyes. He could easily have been a new probationer in the duke’s guard or even a court noble. Indeed, Corbin had the look of nobility as well. Perhaps this explained his success as an assassin.

“And your name?” Corbin asked after a brief pause.

“My name isn’t important,” she said, unable to think of an alias of her own.

“Fine,” the Caerissan said, the look in his pale eyes turning cold. “Then what is it you want?”

“I had hoped to hire you.”

“Don’t you people understand that every time I do a job for you, it makes the next one that much more dangerous?” He glanced beyond her briefly, and when he began again it was in a near whisper. “There are risks to every kill, and if one follows too closely after the last, it increases the chances that I’ll fail, or that one of you will be discovered.”

The minister shook her head. “I don’t understand. Has someone else from the castle spoken with you?”

He frowned. “The castle?”

The realization came to her so swiftly, with such power, that she almost began to laugh. There was really only one explanation for what he had said, though she could scarcely believe that it was true. And as she moved beyond the humor of the situation, she began to tremble, fearing for her life.

“You’ve been hired by Qirsi before, haven’t you?”

He nodded, his eyes wide, as if he understood what had happened as well.

Evanthya swallowed, then stood. “I think I’d better go.”

“No, don’t.”

She stopped, unsure at first if he was urging or ordering her to stay. If she needed, she could summon a mist to aid her escape, but her other powers-gleaning and language of beasts-were of little use to her here.

“I was wrong to come here,” she said, not looking at him. “I just want to leave.”

“You came to hire an assassin.”

Evanthya nodded.

“And you’re not with… You’re not part of a movement.”

She looked back at the man, meeting his gaze. “No, I’m not,” she said, as if daring him to hurt her for her loyalty to the duke.

“Neither am I,” he said.

The minister narrowed her eyes. “But you said-”

“I said I had worked for them. That doesn’t make me party to their cause.”

“Meaning what?”

‘Meaning that if you want to hire me, you can.“

“It’s not that simple,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t just want to hire you, I want to hire you to kill a Qirsi we suspect is part of the conspiracy.”

“ ‘We’?”

Her face colored. “I.”

A small smile flitted across the man’s face. “Please, won’t you sit again?”

“Why? I’d just be wasting your time, and my own.”

“Not necessarily.”

“You’d actually consider doing this?” she asked.

He gestured at the empty chair. “Please sit.”

She returned to the table and slowly lowered herself onto the chair, her eyes never straying from the two assassins.

“Who is this person you want killed?” Corbin asked, his gaze steady.

In a far corner of her mind, Evanthya wondered that she could be discussing such things so calmly with a hired killer. She wanted only to serve her duke and her kingdom, like any other Aneiran. Yes, she had yellow eyes and possessed magics that the Eandi feared, but in other ways she was just like any of her duke’s subjects. She had never wanted to be more than she was, and certainly she had never thought to plot the murder of another. But in these times it seemed that loyalty to Tebeo and the kingdom demanded more than simple ministerial duties.

“How is it that you can do this?” she asked the man. “How can you kill for the Qirsi movement, and then turn around and take my gold to kill one of them?”

“Their gold buys my blade, not my allegiance,” he said. “Just as your gold does. I may kill for you today, only to turn my blade against you tomorrow. That’s the nature of my profession.”

The assassin’s eyes bored into her own as he spoke, as if by saying the words to the minister he could reach every Qirsi in the land. There was more at work here than just avarice, though she couldn’t be certain what it was.

“This person you want killed,” he went on a moment later. “Can you give me a name?”

“No. I wish I could. I know that he once served a duke in Eibithar, Kentigern I believe. He recently sought asylum in Mertesse.”

Corbin’s face paled at the mention of Kentigern. “Why this man?” he whispered.

“You know him?”

“I know of him. Tell me why.”

Because it’s all we can do, she wanted to say. Because we know so little of the conspiracy that just suspecting he might be involved makes him a threat. Word of the man’s escape from Eibithar had spread quickly through Aneira, as did descriptions of the siege that nearly captured Kentigern Castle. Most in the kingdom greeted these tidings predictably, mourning the death of Rouel of Mertesse, cheering the blow dealt to Kentigern and the Eibitharians, and marveling at how close the Mertesse army had come to taking the great castle atop Kentigern Tor.

But with word of the battle and the defection came whisperings among some of a darker purpose behind the minister’s actions. He betrayed his duke not to help Mertesse, these stories implied, but rather to further the conspiracy, whose leaders hoped to draw the two kingdoms into a fullblown war. The stories went on to say that he had a hand in the death of Kentigern’s daughter, whose murder nearly precipitated a civil war between Kentigern and Curgh, two of Eibithar’s leading houses. Most dismissed these last rumors, but not Fetnalla and Evanthya. These tidings fit too well with all the other strange events darkening the Forelands. A turn later, Fetnalla dreamed of the man, and though she had told Evanthya little of the vision, offering only vague answers to her repeated questions, she did make clear that it had convinced her of what they already suspected: the traitor from Kentigern had acted on behalf of the conspiracy. The murder of Chago of Bistari only served to deepen their certainty that the time had come to strike back at the conspiracy. In light of Fetnalla’s vision, and all they had heard since the siege of Kentigern, the renegade minister seemed the logical choice as their first target. Evanthya still grew queasy at the notion of killing a man on the basis of rumor, suspicion, and a single dream, but Fetnalla argued that their only alternative was to wait for another murder or siege that might finally bring war and chaos to the land. The king’s death only strengthened her point.

“Because we know of him as well,” Evanthya finally told the assassin. She had said “we” again, but she pressed on. “The conspiracy has gone unopposed for too long. I don’t expect that this man’s death will stop it. It might not even slow its advance across the land. But those who lead it have to be made to understand that they will be opposed. Perhaps this is the way to convey that message.”

“Perhaps it is,” he said thoughtfully.

“You said that you know of this man. Do you know his name?” She wanted to ask if he knew for certain that the man was part of the conspiracy, but she didn’t dare reveal her doubts. She felt that she was betraying Fetnalla even thinking it.

“I wouldn’t say even if I did,” he told her. “I’m not part of their movement, but neither am I their enemy. I’ll tell you nothing about them. And I’ll tell them nothing about you.”

How could she argue? “Very well.”

“You have gold for me?”

Evanthya took a breath and pulled Fetnalla’s pouch from within her riding cloak. She had added some of her own money to the sixty qinde Fetnalla had given her. The pouch felt heavy as she placed it in the man’s large hand.

“That’s ninety qinde,” she said. It seemed a lot to her, but given the look that passed between Corbin and his young companion, she guessed that they usually demanded more. Her heart sank, and she expected the assassin to hand back the pouch.

“That’s fine,” he said instead.

The younger man started to say something, but Corbin laid a hand on his arm and shook his head.

“We’ll see to this matter,” he said, holding her gaze. “You may not place much faith in the word of men like me, but I promise you, the man in Mertesse will be killed, and no one will learn from us who bought his blood.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, her throat abruptly dry.

“Now I’d suggest you go, before your duke misses you.”

Evanthya felt the blood drain from her cheeks.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, smiling at her. “As you’ve seen, I don’t betray those who buy my services.”

She just sat there, knowing that she should leave, that she should run from the place and never return. But she wasn’t certain that her legs would bear her. After several moments, she made herself stand and leave the table. She stepped to the tavern door, glancing back as she pulled it open. The two men were still at the table, but they were talking to each other. She glanced around the tavern one last time and then hurried out into the lane. She and the duke’s company would be departing soon for Solkara, where, no doubt, she would see her love again, sooner than either of them ever imagined. Fetnalla would be pleased by what Evanthya had done, but that did little to ease the pounding of the minister’s heart.

Cadel stared after the minister as she made her way to the tavern door. Taking her gold was dangerous, but he hardly cared. By making it clear to her that he knew who she was, he guaranteed that she wouldn’t reveal him to others. And at last, he could strike back at these Qirsi who had controlled his life for so long.

“Why did you do that?” Dario demanded, sounding angry and terribly young.

Cadel looked at him. “She gave us gold.”

“Ninety qinde, for a job that’s going to take us the better part of a turn. Maybe longer. You can’t expect me to believe that you’ve been accepting so little pay for other jobs.”

“No, I haven’t. But didn’t you hear what I told you earlier about working for the conspiracy?”

“Yes, I heard,” the young man said. “They know too much about your past. They can reveal you to every noble house in the Forelands. And if you try to stop working for them, they’ll hunt you down. Demons and fire, man! What do you think they’ll do to you when they learn that you’re killing Qirsi who belong to the movement?”

“They won’t find out. I’ve been doing this a long time now, and I’ve gotten quite good at it.” He eyed the lutenist briefly. “If you don’t want to do this, we can part ways now. I’ll hold no grudges. You have my word.”

Dario stared at him, as if weighing the offer. Then he shook his head. “No, I’ll go with you.” He rubbed a hand across his brow. “Ninety qinde,” he mumbled to himself.

Cadel nearly laughed aloud.

“What’s my share come to?” Dario asked.

Cadel thought for a moment. “Thirty-six qinde.”

“Thirty-six. I suppose I should be pleased. That’s more than I’ve got now.” He peered into his empty tankard. “Still, I think it’s only fair that you buy the ales.”