“I’m sure you recall my hiring Master Seablanket when we passed through Shwei on our way here,” Coris said, turning back to Irys as Seablanket and Raimair crossed the library and halted behind him. “I was fortunate to find a Corisandian suitable to my requirements that far from home, wasn’t I?”
“The thought had crossed my mind, yes,” she replied slowly. “And, if you’ll pardon my saying so, it seemed a little suspicious.” She looked across the earl’s shoulder at Seablanket. “It struck me that if someone wanted to plant a spy on you, that might’ve been one way to go about it. On the other hand, I’ve known you since I was a little girl. It seemed… unlikely that same possibility wouldn’t have occurred to you.”
“I’m afraid there are times even I can be a bit gullible and overly trusting,” Coris said with a sigh. “And this, alas, was one of them. In fact, Irys, Rhobair is an agent of the Inquisition.” He watched the young woman’s eyes widen in sudden alarm but continued unhurriedly. “He was, in fact, specifically assigned to worm his way into my employment by Wyllym Rayno himself. Unfortunately for Archbishop Wyllym, however, when Rhobair first entered the Grand Inquisitor’s personal service, he already had an employer… your father.”
Despite her formidable self-control, Irys’ jaw dropped. She stared at Coris for a moment, then whipped her eyes back to the valet, who suddenly looked much less lugubrious. In fact, he smiled at her, eyes touched by an amused light she’d never seen in them before, and bowed deeply.
“He worked for Father?! ” she more than half blurted.
“Exactly.” Coris shrugged. “It’s an interesting thing about the Inquisition, Irys. They plant spies and agents everywhere, and they’re very good at finding disaffected people to inform on others, yet until at least very recently, it never seems to have occurred to them that anyone else might plant spies on them. I think it has to do with the arrogance of power. They’re so busy dealing with all the things they’re doing to other people that they never consider the possibility of what other people might do to them. Or what steps those other people might take to protect themselves against the Inquisition’s spies. And they did make a minor recruiting error in Rhobair’s case.”
“They did?” she asked in a fascinated tone.
“Oh, indeed they did,” Coris practically purred, yet there was an odd, icy edge under his obvious satisfaction. “You see, Rhobair is a Corisandian, born and raised, but his mother was born in Harchong… where his grandfather was beaten to death on the very steps of his village church while the local inquisitor looked on. And his crime?” Coris looked into her eyes. “The squire beating him to death had wanted to bed his youngest daughter. She’d refused, he’d ignored her refusal, and her father had had the unspeakable temerity to protest his thirteen-year-old daughter’s rape. That daughter was Rhobair’s mother.”
Irys’ eyes flitted back to Seablanket and saw the truth as cold, bitter memory-and hate-quenched the humor which had flickered in his eyes.
“I won’t bother you with the details of how his mother and her two sisters managed to reach Corisande, Irys. That’s not really my story to tell, anyway. But they did get to Manchyr, eventually, where your grandfather employed all of them on the palace staff and she married one of his armsmen. So when Rhobair came to your father and told him he’d been approached by an inquisitor about becoming a spy inside your grandfather’s household, your father told him to agree.
“That was over thirty years ago. They soon realized what a prize he was and pulled him out of Corisande to use other places before I ever came into your father’s service. He became very valuable to them over the years-valuable enough that it took very little effort on his part to plant the notion that he be sent to Shwei to ‘infiltrate’ Daivyn’s court in exile. After all, he certainly knew enough about Corisande and about Corisandian politics to be perfect for the job. And he’d been a trusted agent of the Inquisition since long before I became your father’s spymaster, so even though he’d grown up in your grandfather’s palace, I wouldn’t recognize him when I saw him. It was, alas, childishly easy for him to worm himself into my confidence… and he’s been reporting exactly what I wanted him to report ever since.”
Irys leaned back, shaking her head slowly. Not in denial, but in surprise.
“Phylyp, I’m trying, but it’s a little hard to believe even you could be audacious enough to plant-what? A double agent?-on the Office of the Inquisition!”
“I did nothing of the sort, Your Highness! First, he’s not a double agent; technically he’s a triple agent,” Coris protested with a smile, raising both hands in an eloquent gesture of innocence. “Besides, I had nothing to do with his original recruitment by the Inquisition. Your father did… when he and Rhobair were both about your age, in fact.”
His smile disappeared, replaced by a far sadder expression.
“I learned a great deal from your father, Irys. I’d like to think he learned a few things from me in return, too. Yet the one lesson neither of us learned until it was too late is that some things in this world are genuinely more important than the ‘Great Game.’ The truth is, I don’t think your father ever did learn that, but watching what happened to him, seeing what’s happening to this entire world, has taught me there are. Your father made mistakes, Irys. Even the smartest man can do that, especially when he’s blinded by ambition, and-forgive me-he was. I speak with a certain degree of experience, because I helped him make a lot of those mistakes and shared a lot of those ambitions. But your father wasn’t simply my Prince. He was my friend, and that bastard in Zion had him and his son-my godson -butchered on the streets of his own capital just so he could blame it on someone else. And now he wants to murder Daivyn, too.”
“Daivyn?!” Irys gasped. She jerked up out of her chair, her face pale, and one hand rose to the base of her throat.
“That’s my ‘strong suggestive evidence,’ Irys. I’ve been sent orders to help clear the way for a party of assassins to murder Daivyn. What my orders don’t tell me is that after Daivyn is dead, I’m going to be killed, as well. That will both remove any unfortunate witnesses who might know a little too much about how the tragedy came to occur and allow Clyntahn to argue that-just like your cousin Anvil Rock and his friend Tartarian-I’ve betrayed Corisande in return for some promised reward from Cayleb and Sharleyan Ahrmahk. Unfortunately for Clyntahn, the man who’s been charged with denouncing me to King Zhames and the Inquisition is none other than my valet, who will-unfortunately-have become aware of my treasonous intentions just too late to prevent your brother’s murder. Oh, and as a crowning touch, the murderers-all of whom will either perish in the attempt or die under the Inquisition’s urgent interrogation-will be Charisians. Or, at least, all of them were born Charisians, although most of them have grown up and spent most of their lives here on the mainland. That’s a nice refinement, don’t you think?”
Irys sank slowly back into the chair, eyes huge, and Coris shrugged.
“I could be making all of this up, lying to you, but I think you know I’m not. And even though I can’t show you a written order from Clyntahn to have your father and young Hektor murdered, I think the pattern we’re seeing is clear enough, don’t you?”
“We can’t let him kill Daivyn, Phylyp!” For once, Irys Daykyn looked as young as her years, her eyes filling with tears. “ Please. He’s all I have left, all the family I have! And he’s such a little boy. He doesn’t deserve any of this!”
“I know.” He reached out and took her hand. “I know, Irys, and Rhobair and Tobys and I will do anything we can to protect him-and you. But we’re going to need help, and lots of it, or all we’ll be able to do is to die in your defense. And I hope you’ll forgive me for saying it,” he smiled a small, crooked smile, “but I’d really prefer not to do that. Especially not if there’s a chance of getting away alive in a way that will piss Zhaspahr Clyntahn off badly enough pure apoplexy might just kill the son-of-a-bitch. Pardon my language.”