This was the third time Iolanthe and Ariakas had used her scrying spell to spy on Kitiara and the first time they’d ever discovered something interesting. Prior to that, she and Ariakas had observed Kitiara speaking with Derek Crownguard, and the other time she’d been riding Skie. Ariakas had been pleased to discover that Kit was loyal to him, perhaps the only one of his Highlords he could truly trust. He was now being forced to face the truth.
Iolanthe said quietly, “You note, my lord, how she brought the conversation around to those people from Solace. Among those named were her half-brothers, were they not, my lord? Raistlin and Caramon Majere?”
“They were,” said Ariakas grimly. He shifted his baleful gaze from the brazier, from which curls of smoke were rising, to Iolanthe. “Kitiara told me about them. I think she once hoped they would join her, but if so, nothing ever came of it. If she did hire these men, why would she ask questions about them? It seems to me she would avoid mentioning them at all, so as not to draw suspicion to herself.”
“Unless she fears she might be implicated, my lord. She could be trying to find out if they said or did anything that would point the finger back at her.”
Ariakas grunted and shoved back his chair. He rose to his feet and with a flip of his cape, stalked off without a word. He was angry with her for having revealed to him what he didn’t want to know. Iolanthe should have tried to appease him, but she was too drained by the spellcasting to go after him. The scrying spell was a powerful one, requiring immense focus and concentration. She was feeling dizzy and nauseous and the stench of burnt hair wasn’t helping.
Ariakas halted when he reached the door to her chambers.
“I am not convinced,” he told her. “We will do this again.”
“I am yours to command, my lord,” Iolanthe said wearily, and she managed to find the strength to rise to her feet and bow.
When he was gone, she sank back into the chair and stared at the smoking brazier. She pondered what she was doing. In betraying Kitiara to Ariakas, she was undoubtedly winning Ariakas’s favor, but what would happen if Kit found out? Having watched Kitiara, Iolanthe was impressed with her. She was strong, resolute, intelligent. True, she was playing a dangerous game—though just what that game was, Iolanthe could not tell.
The people of Khur love horses. They breed the best in the world, and in order to prove which tribe breeds the finest, tribes race the horses, one against the other, with wagers placed on the outcome.
Iolanthe was starting to wonder if she’d bet her money on the wrong horse.
Iolanthe had noticed something Ariakas had not, something only a woman would see. Kitiara had been in an excellent humor, toying with the imbecile hobgoblin, even as she extracted the information she desired. She had taken pleasure in what Toede had been saying until he had mentioned the name of the elf princess. In an instant, Kitiara’s mood had altered. She had been snickering at Toede one moment, flying into a raging fury the next. The moment she’d felt the piercing bite of jealousy’s sharp tooth. Kitiara was jealous of the elf woman. This meant that one of those assassins was not only in Kitiara’s pay. He was also in her bed.
Iolanthe could have mentioned this to Ariakas. She had no proof, but she did have a quantity of black curls. She decided she would let the horses race on, see how they handled themselves over the distance before she put her money down on one or the other.
8
The Spy. The Rival
Kitiara did not sleep well that night. She spent half the night lying awake, thinking of Tanis with pleasure one moment and the next cursing his name. When she finally fell asleep, Queen Takhisis visited her dreams, urging her to leave Haven and set off immediately for Dargaard Keep, there to challenge the death knight, Lord Soth. Kit fended off the Queen as best she could and woke with a raging headache. Afraid to fall back asleep, lest her Queen once more accost her, Kit rose early and sought out Commander Grag.
The dawn was gray and raw and cold. A chill drizzling rain had fallen during the night and, though it had stopped, water dripped from the trees, stood in puddles on the muddy ground, and trickled down the sides of the tents. The human soldiers grumbled and complained. The draconians complained, too, but not about the weather. They were angry because they were stuck here doing nothing when they wanted to be out fighting. Kit found the commander making his rounds of the sentry posts.
“Commander,” said Kitiara, falling in alongside the draconian officer, “the Emperor has tasked me with investigating the death of Highlord Verminaard—”
Grag made a face.
“I don’t much relish the assignment either,” said Kitiara. “To my mind, Verminaard brought about his own downfall. Still I have my orders.”
Grag nodded to indicate he understood.
“I spoke to the Fewmaster last evening. What can you tell me about the assassins?” Kitiara asked.
Grag glanced at her sidelong. All this interest in the assassins. Was she trying to cover her tracks? Grag considered the matter. He liked her and he had thought Verminaard a boorish lout. If the Blue Lady was involved, it wasn’t any of his business. Grag shrugged his scaly shoulders.
“Not much, I’m afraid, Highlord. They were slaves and, as such, I had little to do with them. I didn’t take any notice of them until they attacked us. Even then, things happened so fast and there was such confusion—dragons battling and half the mountain falling down on top of us—that I paid little attention to the slaves—except to order my men to slay them, of course.”
Kitiara was about to walk off, go in search of food, when Grag added, almost as an afterthought, “There is a man who might be able to tell you more. He was one of Verminaard’s spies. He managed to worm his way into the confidence of these people and he warned Verminaard they would likely make an attempt on his life. At least, that’s what the man claims.”
“I could use such information,” said Kit. “Where is this man?”
“Take a walk into Haven,” said Grag. “You’ll find what’s left of him by the side of the road.”
Kitiara shook her head, not understanding. “You make it sound like he’s dead in a ditch.”
“He probably wishes he was. The wretch was buried in the rock fall at Pax Tharkas. We thought he was dead when we pulled him out, but he was still breathing. The leeches saved his life, though not his legs. If the beggar’s not in his usual spot, go into Haven and ask around. Someone will know where to find him. His name is Eben Shatterstone.”
You’ll find what’s left of him by the side of the road.
Grag’s description was accurate.
A good many beggars had taken up positions outside the city, hoping to catch travelers before they spent their money in the marketplace. Most of the men were casualties of the war—most of them missing limbs. Looking at these men, many still clad in the rags of their uniforms, Kit felt a knot in her gut. She saw herself by the side of the road, hand out, begging for scraps.
“Not me,” Kit vowed. “Not so long as I have the strength to use my sword.”
Opening her purse, she began dispensing coins and asking for a man called Shatterstone. The beggars mostly shook their heads; they were too absorbed in their own misery to care about anyone else. But one pointed with a maimed hand to what appeared to be a bundle of rags dumped beneath a tree.
Kitiara walked over to the bundle and, as she drew closer, she saw it was a man—or rather, the crushed remnants of a man. He had no lower limbs—both legs had been amputated—and he had strapped what was left of himself to a small cart on wheels, using his hands to pull himself over the ground. His face was so badly disfigured it was difficult to tell what he had once looked like, but Kitiara thought he might once have been a handsome young man. His unwashed hair fell over his brow and straggled down around his shoulders.