Bratach entered the shop, his package under one arm. The little bell over the door cheerfully announced his presence.
One customer was at the counter, talking with Ivan. The fellow was trying to decide whether to purchase arrows fletched with highland goose quill or the teal feathers of a three-winged triad lark.
As usual Ivan was sweating heavily, his red sleeve garters ringed with perspiration. When he saw Bratach he gave a short nod. Bratach nodded back. Deciding to wait out the customer, he wandered about for a bit.
Finally the customer paid for his arrows and left. Ivan locked the door behind him, turned the sign around to read "Closed," and drew the window shades. Then he looked at Bratach.
"She's downstairs," he said.
"Good," Bratach answered.
He went to the back of the shop and down the hidden stairs, Ivan following.
Satine was sitting at the table, her long legs propped on it. As Bratach walked in she regarded him calmly. He placed his package down, and then he and Ivan sat.
Bratach poured a glass of wine. After taking a long draft, he addressed Satine.
"My confederate in the palace has confirmed that the dwarf is dead," he said. "Congratulations."
A smile crossed Satine's lips. "Of course he's dead," she answered. "I never miss."
She reached into her cloak and removed the two parchments that Wulfgar had given her that day at the Citadel. Removing her legs from the table, she sat upright, unrolled the documents, and unsheathed one of her daggers. With four quick, expert cuts, she excised Geldon's likeness from the scroll. Holding the picture to the candle, she watched it turn to ash. As she let the last bit of it flutter away, she rubbed her fingers together.
"One down," she said.
"Indeed," Bratach answered. "However, for the time being you are to do nothing." Casually, he began to unfasten the package's wrapping.
Satine narrowed her eyes. "And just why is that?" she asked. "I don't like sitting around, waiting for your orders. Even if you are of the craft."
"For the simple reason that my spy tells me there are no available targets just now," Bratach answered.
He reached into the package and produced a small wheel of cheese, a blood sausage, and a loaf of gingerwheat bread. He placed them on a plate that looked something less than clean, took up a knife, and cut a wedge of the cheese. He offered it to her. Satine shook her head. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and then took another sip of the wine.
"It seems that, at the moment, all of your targets are either safely ensconced in the palace or out of the country altogether," he mused.
"Common sense dictates that we wait-at least until my spy informs me of a more promising opportunity."
Satine looked hard at Ivan, then at Bratach. "If common sense had anything to do with this, I would never have accepted these sanctions in the first place," she argued. "I'm strictly in it for the money. The sooner I finish, the sooner I collect the other half." She leaned back in her chair again. "The palace walls mean nothing to me," she went on. "And my blood is not endowed. Unless I'm careless, the wizards and the acolytes will not detect my presence. And I'm never careless."
She pointed down at the parchments. "If I can manage it, who do you want disposed of next?"
As he took another sip of wine, Bratach considered her words. What she proposed was risky. But the idea of killing one of them right under the wizard's noses was tempting. If Satine could accomplish it, Wulfgar would be very pleased. And then Bratach, as Wulfgar's loyal consul, could take the credit. With the return of the Enseterat, there would soon be a new order in the land, and Bratach had every intention of standing with those at the very pinnacle of power. Such an audacious act might help accomplish that.
"Very well, then," he finally answered. "You may try. I can help your cause by providing you with detailed plans of the palace and the Redoubt. This must be planned exceedingly well, Satine. You must not fail us."
"I never fail," she answered. "But you have yet to tell me which one of them to kill."
With the point of his knife, Bratach pulled the parchments closer. Pursing his lips in thought, he looked down at the likenesses. Then made his choice and stabbed the knife through the drawing and into the tabletop.
"This one," he said. He looked over at Ivan. "A fitting choice, don't you think?"
Ivan smiled. "By all means," he answered.
Bratach looked back over at Satine. "As long as you are here, we might as well fill you in," he said. "Ivan, fetch me some parchment."
After some rummaging around, Ivan returned with several sheets and placed them on the table. Bratach looked down and narrowed his eyes. Fascinated, Satine watched as the consul began to burn an image of the first floor of the palace into the sheet.
In the end, it would prove to be a very long day.
CHAPTER XLII
Evening came to Parthalon, the indigo night a cool, comforting blanket. Having left Wigg and Jessamay to themselves, Tristan and Celeste walked side by side through the winding halls of the Recluse. This was one of the few times they had been alone in recent days, and they were thankful for the opportunity. They stopped in the grand foyer.
Torches flickered, throwing shadows across the walls and checkerboard floor. Yet another team of Minion men and women were busy building furniture, weaving rugs, and creating art for the still-unfurnished rooms of the Recluse. As he walked through the great chamber, Tristan couldn't help but wonder how he would employ such a massive building, now that it was so close to being completed.
Alrik presented himself to the prince. Placing his fists upon his hips, the warrior smiled broadly.
"Wonderful, isn't it?" he asked. "I estimate completion within two fortnights. Does the Jin'Sai have any other specific orders for the Recluse afterward?"
Shaking his head, Tristan sighed. "I was just thinking about that," he said.
"There is something else it would be my honor to show you," Alrik said. "In addition to the Recluse, we have completely rebuilt the horse barns. I think my lord and his lady would find them interesting."
At the mention of the Recluse stables, Tristan's face lit up. Horsemanship had always been one of his and Shailiha's greatest joys. The chance to see what the clever Minion carpenters had done with the barns seemed just the tonic he needed. He glanced at Celeste.
"I'd love to," she said. Smiling, she laced one arm through his.
The two of them followed Alrik out of the Recluse and back over the drawbridge.
As they went, Tristan was reminded of the day Geldon had stolen a team and wagon from the Coven stables, so that they could race back to the Ghetto of the Shunned. It would be good to see him again when they returned to Eutracia.
At the end of the drawbridge, Alrik led them around one side of the Recluse. At the sight of the refurbished stables, Tristan's heart began to lift.
At least a dozen large paddocks surrounded the stable buildings, lit by flickering torches. The split-rail fences had been painted bright white, and beautiful horses milled about within their confines.
A large brick building sat in the center of the manicured grounds. Looking closer, Tristan saw that his family crest had been painted on its double doors. Several smaller buildings were attached to the central one. Even the royal stables in Tammerland, before their destruction, could not have surpassed these.
"It's magnificent," he told Alrik. "I hadn't expected this."
Alrik's chest swelled with pride. He gestured to the doors. "If my lord will allow me?"
Tristan nodded. "By all means."
Alrik pushed the doors apart, and familiar equine smells and sounds greeted them.
Stalls of highly polished wood lined both sides of the barn. Horses neighed and snorted as the three of them walked into the barn's cool darkness.
Turning to his right, Tristan walked over to one of the stall doors. A bay mare stepped forward and stuck her head out over the top. Neighing softly, she shook her head, sending her mane flying about. Smiling, Tristan grasped her bridle and rubbed her forehead.