Whatever the reason, he tended to wake up quickly and completely… and without moving.
Now he lay very still and let one hand steal slowly, slowly under his pillow. Its fingers settled around the dagger hilt, and his nostrils flared as he drew a deep, silent breath and prepared to fling himself out of the bed and away from the direction from which he thought the slight sound had come.
“I do hope you’re not planning to do anything hasty with that dagger, My Lord,” a voice said politely out of the darkness. “This is a new tunic. I’d hate to have to have it patched so soon.”
Coris froze, eyes narrowing. There was something about that voice. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but he knew he’d heard it before somewhere…
“If you don’t mind, My Lord, I’m going to strike a light,” the voice continued as pleasantly as if it held conversations in someone else’s bedchamber in the middle of the night on a regular basis.
“Go ahead,” the earl invited, trying to match the voice’s conversational tone.
“Thank you, My Lord,” the voice replied.
There was a scratching sound, and then sudden, painful light smote Coris’ eyes as something flared and guttered blindingly. He smelled a stink of brimstone, and despite himself, flipped out of bed and landed in a half crouch on its other side, dagger ready.
The intruder paid him no attention. He simply lifted the glass chimney from a lamp, lit the wick, and then blew out the flaming sliver of wood he’d used to do the lighting.
“What in Langhorne’s name was that?” Coris demanded, his voice considerably more shaken than he would have liked.
“The Charisians call it a ‘Shan-wei’s candle,’” the other man said in an amused tone. “Personally, I think they could’ve come up with a more tactful name, given Vicar Zhaspahr’s current attitude towards the Empire and the Church of Charis.” He shrugged. “On the other hand, given how… enthusiastically it takes fire-and the stink-it is an appropriate name, don’t you think? Besides, I don’t think they’re especially concerned by the thought of hurting the Grand Inquisitor’s tender feelings these days.”
“Zhevons,” Coris said, eyes going wide as his orderly memory put a face-and a name-together with the oddly familiar voice. “Ahbraim Zhevons.”
“At your service,” Zhevons acknowledged with a bow. It was clearly the same man and the same voice, but the accent and dialect had changed completely. Unlike the smuggler Coris had met earlier, this man could have stepped straight off a street-an expensive street-in Zion itself.
“What are you doing here? And how the hell did you get into my bedroom?” the earl demanded, his dagger still raised between them.
“As to how I got in, let’s just say King Zhames’ guards aren’t the most alert lot in the world. In fact, they’re pretty pathetic,” Zhevons said in a judicious tone. “Sergeant Raimair’s lads are much better than that, but there aren’t very many of them. And, frankly, I’m a lot better at creeping around in the shadows than anyone else they’re likely to meet.”
“You are, are you?” Coris straightened from his crouch, lowering the dagger. “Given the fact that you’re here, I’m inclined to take your word for that. On the other hand,” his eyes narrowed, “that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“You sent a message to Earl Gray Harbor last month,” Zhevons said, his voice suddenly flat and serious, without the edge of humor which had marked it. “I’m the response.”
The tip of an icicle ran down Coris’ spine. It was an instant, instinctive reaction, born of his awareness of just how precarious his position truly was. But he pushed the instant hollowness of his stomach aside quickly. If Zhevons were an agent of the Inquisition, there’d be no point in any sort of elaborate charade designed to entrap him. And he was the man who’d delivered the messenger wyverns in the first place.
“As it happened, I was in a position to get to Talkyra rather more quickly than anyone else could have done it,” Zhevons continued. “So Seijin Merlin asked me to deliver the reply to your message.”
“Merlin?” Coris repeated.
He’d collected a great deal of information about Merlin Athrawes over the last three or four years. Most of it was preposterous and obviously grossly exaggerated. On the other hand, there was so much of it he’d been forced to accept that as ridiculous as it seemed, Athrawes truly was a seijin. Of course, no one seemed to be exactly sure what a seijin really was, and the old fairy tales about them didn’t help a lot in that regard, so simply pinning a label on Athrawes didn’t accomplish a great deal. On the other hand, the fact that this Zhevons had slipped-apparently effortlessly-through not simply Zhames of Delferahk’s admittedly inferior guardsmen but also past Tobys Raimair’s sentries, suggested “Should I assume you’re a seijin, too, Master Zhevons?”
“People keep asking me that,” Zhevons replied with an edge of exasperation. “They keep asking Merlin, too, I’m sure. And I think his response is probably the same as mine. I wouldn’t call myself a seijin, but I have to admit that Merlin and I both have some of the abilities legend ascribes to seijins. So if you absolutely have to have a label, I guess that one’s as good as any.”
“I see.” Coris smiled thinly, only too well aware of the surreal quality of this entire conversation. “On the other hand, according to my research, very few supposed seijins have ever called themselves seijins during their own lifetimes.”
“So I’ve heard,” Zhevons agreed pleasantly. “Now, about that message I’m here to deliver-?”
“By all means.” Coris tossed the dagger onto the bed, where it settled into the soft mattress, then seated himself in his dressing-table chair and crossed his legs as urbanely as a man surprised in his nightshirt could manage. “I’m all ears.”
“So I see.” Zhevons smiled briefly, but then his expression sobered. “First, the bad news: Earl Gray Harbor is dead.” Despite himself, Coris jerked upright, his mouth opening, but Zhevons continued speaking. “He was assassinated, along with several other members of the Imperial Council and prominent churchmen. Bishop Hainryk in Tellesberg, Archbishop Pawal in Cherayth, Bishop Stywyrt in Shalmar… they almost got Archbishop Fairmyn in Eraystor, too. And they did kill Prince Nahrmahn.”
Coris inhaled deeply, unable to hide his shock. He’d never met any of those men, but he’d corresponded frequently with Nahrmahn, back in the days when he and Hektor had been so consistently underestimating the little Emeraldian.
“How in God’s name-?”
“God had very little to do with it, although that probably won’t be Clyntahn’s version. Let’s just say there were several very large explosions-explosions that killed well over fifteen hundred men, women, and children in addition to the men I’ve just mentioned.” Zhevons’ expression was cold and bleak now. “The youngest victim we’ve identified so far was eighteen months old. Or would have been, if she’d lived another five-day.”
“Langhorne.” Revulsion twisted Coris’ face. “The man’s completely mad!”
“I’m afraid he’s just getting started, My Lord,” Zhevons said grimly. “Which is rather the point of this dramatic little visit, when you come down to it.”
“Yes, of course.” Coris gave himself a shake. “You say Earl Gray Harbor was killed. Obviously someone’s stepped into his shoes. May I ask who?”
“Earl Pine Hollow.”
“Ah!” Coris nodded. “An excellent choice, I think. I was always impressed by his correspondence.”
“My impression is that he’s more than competent,” Zhevons replied with a slight, amused smile. “At any rate, he’s read your message to Earl Gray Harbor, and he’s prepared to offer you, Princess Irys, and Prince Daivyn asylum. Obviously, there are going to be a few strings attached.”
“Obviously,” Coris agreed rather sourly, and Zhevons chuckled.
“It’s only reasonable, My Lord,” he pointed out.
“Knowing a tooth has to be pulled doesn’t make the trip to the dentist enjoyable, however ‘reasonable’ it may be,” Coris responded, then inhaled. “What would the ‘few strings’ be in this instance?”