“But it wasn’t an accident, was it?”
A stone turned under Trian’s foot. He reached out instinctively to Hugh, who caught the wizard’s elbow and steadied him. They were descending, moving deeper and deeper into the monastery’s interior.
“No, it wasn’t an accident. I wrested the sword from him; it was easy, he was drunk. I spoke my mother’s name, told him where she was buried, and stuck the blade in his gut. He died too quick. I’ve learned, since then.” Trian was pale, silent. Lifting the glowlamp in its iron lantern, he flashed it into Hugh’s deeply lined, grim face. “The prince must not suffer,” the wizard said.
“So, back to business.” Hugh grinned at him. “And we were having such a pleasant chat. What did you hope to find out? That I’m not as bad as my reputation? Or the opposite? That I’m worse.”
Trian was apparently not to be drawn off onto any side paths. Keeping his hand on Hugh’s arm, he leaned close, speaking softly, though the only ones to hear them that the assassin could see were bats.
“It must be swift and clean. Unexpected. No fear. Perhaps, in his sleep. There are poisons—”
Hugh jerked his arm from the man’s touch. “I know my business. I’ll handle it that way, if that’s what you want. You’re the customer. Or rather, I take it you speak for the customer.”
“That is what we want.”
Reassured, sighing, Trian walked only a short distance further, then halted before another locked door. Instead of opening it, he placed the glowlamp on the floor and indicated with a motion of his hand that Hugh was to look inside. Stooping, placing his eye to the keyhole, the assassin peered into the room.
The Hand rarely felt emotion of any sort, never showed it. In this instance, however, his bored and disinterested glance through the keyhole at his intended victim sharpened to an intense, narrow-eyed stare. He was not looking at the plotting, scheming youth of eighteen who had sprung from Hugh’s reasoning. Curled up on a pallet, fast asleep, was a towheaded, wistful-faced child who could not be older than ten.
Slowly Hugh straightened. The wizard, lifting the glowlamp, scanned the assassin’s face. It was dark and frowning, and Trian sighed again, his delicate brows creased in worry. Placing a finger on his lips, he led Hugh to another room two doors down from the first. He unlocked it with the key, drew Hugh inside and softly shut the door.
“Ah,” the wizard said softly, “there’s a problem, isn’t there?” Hugh gave the room in which they stood a swift and comprehensive glance, then looked back at the anxious magus. “Yeah, I could use a smoke. They took my pipe away from me in prison. Got another?”
6
“But you frowned, you seemed angry. I assumed—”
“—that I was feeling squeamish about butchering a small child?” It is his privilege to die an innocent child, and escape the evil to which mankind is heir. The words came to him from the past. It was this dark and chill room, the cracked stone walls that brought the memory back to him. Hugh drove it down into the depths of his mind, sorry he’d recalled it. A warming blaze burned in the firepit. He lifted a coal with the tongs and held it to the bowl of a pipe the magus had produced from a pack lying on the floor. Stephen, it seemed, had thought of everything.
A few puffs and the sterego[4] glowed and old memories faded. “The frown was for myself, because I’d made a mistake. I’d misjudged . . . something. That sort of mistake can be costly. I would be interested to know, however, what a kid that age could have done to earn an early death.”
“One might say ... he was born,” answered Trian, seemingly before he thought, because he cast Hugh a swift furtive glance to see if he’d heard. There was very little the assassin missed. Hugh paused, the hot coal held over the smoking bowl, and stared quizzically at the wizard.
Trian flushed. “You are being paid well enough not to ask questions,” he retorted. “In fact, here is your money.”
Fumbling in a purse that hung at his side, he produced a handful of coins and counted out fifty one-hundred-barl pieces.
“I trust the king’s marker will be sufficient?” Trian held it out. Hugh, raising an eyebrow, tossed the coal back into the fire. “Only if I can collect on it.”
Puffing on the pipe to keep it lit, the Hand accepted the money and inspected it carefully. The coins were genuine, all right. A water barrel was stamped on the front, a likeness (though not a good one) of Stephen’s head adorned the back. In a realm where most things were obtained by either barter or stealing (the king himself was a notorious pirate whose ravages committed among the elven shipping had helped him win his throne), the “double barl” coin as it was called was rarely seen, much less used. Its value was exchangeable in the precious commodity—water.[5]
This job would make Hugh’s fortune. He would never have to work again, if he chose. And all for killing one little kid.
There is an abundance of water in the Low Realm—those isles in the heart of a perpetual storm known as the Maelstrom. But no dragon has yet been found who will fly into the Maelstrom. The elves, with their magical, mechanical dragonships, are able to sail the storm-tossed route and consequently hold a virtual monopoly on water. The prices the elves charge—when they’ll sell it to humans at all—are exorbitant. Therefore, the raiding of elven transport ships and of water storage ports is not only financially lucrative for humans, it is a matter of life or death.
It didn’t make sense. Hugh balanced the coins in his hand and stood looking at the wizard.
“Very well, I suppose you must know something,” Trian admitted reluctantly.
“You are, of course, familiar with the current situation between Volkaran and Uylandia?”
“No.”
On a small table stood a pitcher, a large bowl, and a mug. Tossing the money on the table, the assassin lifted the water jug and, pouring its contents into the mug, tasted it critically. “Low Realm stuff. Not bad.”
“Water for drinking and washing. You must at least appear to be a nobleman,” returned Trian irritably. “In looks and smell. And what do you mean, you know nothing of politics?”
Casting off his cloak, Hugh leaned over the bowl and plunged his face into the water. Laving it over his shoulders, he picked up a bar of lye soap and began to scrub his skin, wincing slightly when the lather stung the raw lash marks on his back. “You spend two days in Yreni prison and see how you smell. As for politics, they have nothing to do with my business, beyond providing the occasional customer or two. I didn’t even know for certain Stephen had a son—”
“Well, he does.” The wizard’s voice was cold. “And he also has a wife. It is no secret that their marriage is strictly one of convenience, to keep their two powerful nations from going for each other’s throats and leaving us at the mercy of the elves. The lady would like very much, however, to have power consolidated in her hands. The crown of Volkaran cannot be passed on to a female, and the only way Anne can take control is through her son. We recently discovered her plot. My king barely escaped with his life this time. We fear he would not a next.”
4
Sterego is a fungus found on the isle of Tytan. Humans of that land have long used crushed sterego as a healing balm. Elven explorers during the First Expansion noticed that the slow-burning, pungent sterego was far superior to their own pipethorn plant, and was less expensive to grow. They transported it to their own plantations, but there is apparently something special about Tytan. No other variety can match the original in flavor and aroma.
5
Water was scarce in the Mid Realm. Rain fell infrequently and, when it did fall, was immediately soaked up and retained by the porous coralite. No rivers or streams ran through the coralite isles. Various plant life growing there trapped water. The cultivation of crystaltrees and cupplants was an expensive, laborious means of obtaining the precious liquid, but it was the main source (other than stealing from the elves) of water for the humans of the Mid Realm.