“So that’s what you want?” Dario asked, his voice as flat as his playing had just been.
“Well, that’s the right pacing. As for the rest, we just finished a performance. We’re both tired.”
“So we’re done here?”
Cadel nodded. “I think so.”
Dario stood, wrapping his lute in its cloth, and stepping to the door.
“Where are you going?”
The lutenist shrugged, keeping his back to Cadel. “Away from here. That’s all that matters.”
“We still have a good deal to plan for Pitch Night.”
Dario did turn at that. “You make the plans. Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it. That’s what you expect, isn’t it?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Pulling the door open, he walked out of the room and closed the door firmly behind him. If the younger man hadn’t left his lute on the other bed, Cadel would have wondered if he intended to return.
For a long time the singer merely sat and thought, trying to determine if he was angry with the lutenist or just weary of him. He needed someone to guard his back. He had been saying so for years. The truth was, however, he had always preferred working alone. Even when Jed was still alive, he had savored those kills he completed by himself. On a few occasions Jedrek had managed to warn him of danger. Perhaps he had even kept Cadel from being captured or killed. And though Jedrek died trying to protect him while Cadel rode to Kentigern, the singer couldn’t ignore the possibility that Jed had delayed the Qirsi enough to save his life this one last time. Still, Cadel had to admit that he kept Jedrek around not for protection, but rather for the man’s company during the many turns each year when they had no jobs, and all they had to do was wander the land and sing.
He could get by alone if he needed to. There were risks to working without a partner, but he was an assassin and risks came with the profession. Even with the added dangers, working alone had to be better than this. He had grown tired of fighting with the lutenist all the time, of working so hard to accommodate a man whose lute playing was so undisciplined and whose skill with a blade remained so uncertain.
Oddly, considering how much gold he had earned with his dagger, all that had stopped him from ending their partnership before now was his reluctance to kill the lutenist. Dario knew too much about Cadel and his work for the singer to let him live. If he wanted to work alone, he would have to kill his partner, and despite all his misgivings about working and singing with the man, Cadel wasn’t certain he could bring himself to do it.
He shook his head, as if to clear his mind, and stood, stretching his legs and back. He heard the prior’s bells ringing from the city gates, and he cursed himself for wasting so much time. More than half the day was gone-the sun would be setting in just a couple of hours-and he had yet to make his way to the castle. Playing in the city streets had seemed such a fine idea a few days before. Now it was a bother, one more obstacle keeping him from planning Shurik’s murder. He had befriended a few of the castle guards, and had learned much from them about the Qirsi and the fortress itself. But what good were the guards if he found no time to speak with them? Cadel crossed to the door, pulled it open, and stepped into the corridor.
Instinct. There was no other way to explain how he managed to have his dagger in his hand so quickly. It almost seemed that he knew the attack was coming even before he saw the shadow spring at him from the corner of the dark corridor. Still, even with his blade ready, he could do little to defend himself. The attacker caught him off balance, crashing into Cadel’s side and knocking the assassin to the floor. Cadel tried to stand again, but instantly the shadow pounced on him, pinning the singer’s blade hand beneath his body. He tried to free his weapon, at the same time struggling to throw the attacker off of him. His assailant was strong, but not very big, and as they grappled on the wood floor, Cadel sensed that the stranger had little experience with such fights.
It didn’t take the assassin long to loose his blade arm and he struck at the body on top of his, intending to plunge his dagger into the attacker’s back. Just as he did, however, the stranger lashed out with his left arm, catching Cadel full on the wrist, so that his weapon flew from his hand, clattering harmlessly against the wall.
The assassin tried to reach for it, but in the next moment, he felt the cold edge of a blade pressed against the side of his neck.
“Don’t move!” A man’s voice, young and unsteady.
“What is it you want with me?” Cadel asked, his left hand snaking down toward the second dagger he always kept strapped to his calf.
“Vengeance. You took my queen, my title, my life. You’re going to die for that.”
One motion. That was all it would take. A simple arch of his back to throw the man off of him, then, using the force of that first move, he would roll onto the man, second dagger in hand and ready for the killing blow.
Even as the last word passed the attacker’s lips, Cadel had braced one foot against the floor. Before he could move, though, a brilliant white light filled the corridor.
“Tavis, no!” came a voice from near the stairs.
Cadel froze, staring up at the scarred face looming above his own. He wouldn’t have recognized the boy on his own, but there could be no mistaking those eyes, and the noble mouth and nose. This was Tavis of Curgh, one slash of his blade away from avenging Bnenne’s murder. Just as the girl’s spirit had warned on Bian’s Night in Solkara.
Grinsa returned to the inn a short time before the ringing of the prior’s bells, weary but pleased. He had managed to find a lone guard whose mind he could touch without drawing the attention of anyone else. He had learned a good deal about the castle and about where Shurik was likely to be during the night. With any luck at all, he and Tavis could be out of Mertesse within a day.
Entering the inn, he nodded to the innkeeper who was smoking a pipe in the middle of the great room.
“Your friend was looking for you,” the man called to him as Grinsa crossed to the stairs.
The Qirsi halted. “How long ago?”
“He’s not from Aneira, is he?”
Cursing under his breath, Grinsa walked to the innkeeper’s table and sat.
“He’s from Eibithar.”
“Yes,” Grinsa admitted, his voice low, though there were no others in the room.
“You are as well?”
“Yes.” He could have lied, but knowing the truth about Tavis, the man wouldn’t trust them anyway. Better to fight the innkeeper’s suspicions with honesty. “But we’re not here as enemies of Aneira. We have business with one man, and when that matter is completed, we’ll be leaving.”
The innkeeper chewed his pipe, his bright yellow eyes fixed on Grinsa’s. “Two more nights,” he said at last. “Then I want you out. And I want five more qinde per night for these last two.”
The room cost too much already, but if they had only two days left, they couldn’t afford the time it would take to find a new inn. “Fine,” Grinsa said. “How long ago was he looking for me?”
“A while ago, just around midday.”
Grinsa stood and walked away, not bothering to look at the man again.
“Two days,” the innkeeper called after him, as the gleaner started up the stairs.
He nodded, but didn’t stop again. Reaching their room, he found a note lying on his bed and began to read.
Grinsa,
I’ve found Brienne’s killer and have gone to avenge her death. Should I be killed in the attempt, or imprisoned afterward, tell my parents that I died restoring honor to the House of Curgh.
Had it not been for your companionship, I would have spent these last several turns alone and friendless. For that, I will always be grateful. Be well, Grinsa. May the gods keep you safe.
Tavis
“Demons and fire!” he muttered, throwing the parchment to the floor and bolting from the room.
It seemed lightning had flashed in his mind, illuminating shadows in which the truth had been hiding. Of course the assassin was here. The first minister of Dantrielle had sent him. Word of Shurik’s betrayal had spread through all of Aneira, and while most in the kingdom saw it as a humiliation for Eibithar, it shouldn’t have surprised Grinsa that a discerning few would see the traitor’s actions for what they were: a failed attempt by the conspiracy to start a war.