Four days later, the duke finally returned to Mertesse. Few saw him enter the city. Coming north from Solkara, he entered the castle through the south gate, without passing through the city’s marketplace. Word of his return spread quickly, however, as did rumors of the grave condition of his first minister.
The following morning, Cadel and Dario ventured into the city streets and, choosing a prominent spot among the peddlers’ carts began to play. Dario did not like playing his lute outside, particularly with the air so cold, but he knew that Cadel had reasons for asking him to do so. They told the innkeeper at the Swallow’s Nest that they were hoping to draw more customers to the tavern by giving the city folk a taste of their music. In reality, Cadel hoped to draw some of the castle guards into conversation between songs.
It worked. The first minister, one soldier told them, was not nearly as ill as some believed. She had suffered greatly from the poisoning and had slowed the company’s return to Mertesse, but she would live and she continued to serve the duke.
“I had heard the duke has a new minister,” Cadel said casually as Dario pretended to tune his lute yet again.
The guard shook his head. “The traitor you mean? No. The duke would never stoop to making him a minister, not even a lesser one.”
The traitor! Dario forced himself to keep his eyes on the instrument in his hands.
“Why do you call him the traitor?”
“You don’t know?” the guard said, obviously pleased to be the bearer of such fascinating news. “You must not be from here. Caerissan aren’t you?”
Cadel smiled, though Dario could see that it was forced.
“Yes, I am.”
“Thought so. I can pick any accent in the Forelands. Not just realms mind you. But even cities. I’d guess you’re from Jetaya.”
“Very good. That’s quite close.”
Actually, Cadel had once told Dario that he came from the Adlana dukedom, which was more than fifty leagues south of Jetaya, but if he didn’t care to correct the man, Dario certainly wouldn’t.
“The traitor?” Cadel prompted after a brief silence.
“Oh, right. He used to be first minister in Kentigern. They say he betrayed his duke during the siege and was given asylum here.”
“And he lives in the castle?”
“He lives in the first minister’s quarters,” the man said with a wink. “If you get my meaning.”
The singer gave the same thin smile and nodded. “I once met a minister in Kentigern. I performed there many years ago. Perhaps it’s the same man. I believe his name was Bekthad jal Pors.”
The guard shook his head. “No. I think this one’s called Shurik jal… something. Those white-hair names give me trouble.”
“Oh, well. It was worth a try.” He glanced at Dario. “Are you tuned yet?”
The lutenist began to play another song, and eventually the guards moved off.
Shortly after, Dario and Cadel returned to the tavern. For the first time since their initial encounter in Dantrielle, the older man seemed truly pleased.
“I’m impressed,” Dario told him over their midday meal. “That guard would have told you even more if you’d given him the chance.”
“Probably,” Cadel agreed. “He certainly would have kept talking. I’m not sure we would have been interested in anything else he had to say.”
“So now we know where to find this Qirsi. How do we kill him?”
Cadel gave him the same mysterious grin he had offered on the Night of Two Moons. “We wait.”
“For what?”
“Don’t you know the moon legends?”
Dario shrugged. “Some of them. To tell you the truth, half the time I don’t even know which turn we’re in.”
“Well, you should.”
The lutenist cursed himself for his honesty. No doubt Cadel would see it as another occasion to lecture him.
“An assassin uses every weapon he can,” Cadel said, “every scrap of information. What turn is this?”
Dario thought a moment. “Qirsar’s.”
“And what do the legends say about Qirsar’s Moon?”
He shrugged. “I guess something about the Qirsi.”
“Something about the Qirsi,” Cadel repeated, shaking his head. “Yes, they say something about the Qirsi. On the Night of Two Moons, a Qirsi’s magic is more powerful than on any other night of the year. And what about on Pitch Night?”
It came to him in a rush. For all Cadel’s bluster, in this instance, there could be no arguing with him. Dario should have remembered. It was brilliant.
“On Pitch Night in Qirsar’s Moon,” he answered, so excited he barely managed to keep his voice low, “a Qirsi has no power at all.”
Cadel nodded, sitting back in his chair. “Very good. Very good, indeed.”
“We have more than half the waning to wait,” Dario said.
“That’s all right. We still have some planning to do. I doubt our friend will be venturing far from the castle, especially on that night. We’ll spend our evenings singing and our days preparing for Pitch Night.”
The lutenist nodded. It seemed a sensible plan.
That night, however, the Swallow’s Nest was so crowded the two musicians had almost no room to perform. The innkeeper said he had never seen so many people in his tavern and he credited his success to the daytime performance they had given in the streets of Mertesse. He offered to raise their nightly wage to seven qinde, provided they agreed to return to the marketplace each day. Posing as wandering musicians, they could hardly refuse.
The day following his ill-fated attempt to speak with Keziah was quite possibly the longest of Grinsa’s life. Of course he intended to reach for his sister again that evening, and the wait for nightfall nearly drove him to madness. Consumed by his fear and frustration, he set a punishing pace throughout the day, which Tavis managed somehow to match. They encountered no Solkaran soldiers and covered several leagues, stopping for the evening near a village that Grinsa knew to be only a day’s walk from the northern edge of the Great Forest. If they continued to evade the royal guard, they would be in Mertesse in another four or five days.
Their meal consisted of roots and berries once again. Tavis grumbled about it, but Grinsa hardly noticed. He wasn’t hungry and he had little to say to the boy. He just stared to the east, waiting for the moons to rise. After some time, Tavis lay down to sleep offering a curt “Goodnight.”
Grinsa marked Panya’s progress through the sky with an anxious eye, but it was Ilias he awaited. As soon as he saw the red moon top the trees, he closed his eyes and reached for Keziah.
Upon entering her dreams, he turned a full circle, scanning the plain for any sign of the dark sky he had seen the night before. Seeing none, he felt something loosen in his chest.
“Kezi?” he called.
She came into view an instant later, walking quickly toward him, her face as white as new snow, dark purple lines under her yellow eyes. Reaching him, she fell against his chest, sobbing like a hurt child so that her whole body shook. Grinsa merely held her, stroking her soft hair.
After a long time, she stepped back, wiping her tears, though more still flowed down her cheeks.
“Tell me,” he said.
Swallowing, she looked away for a moment, as if she didn’t want to talk at all. Once more, he was reminded of how she had looked as a young girl.
At last she began to speak, telling him first of Paegar and their friendship, and then of his death and the gold she found in his chambers. By the time she started to explain her idea for attracting the notice of the conspiracy, Grinsa understood everything he needed to know. At least he thought he did.
“I find it hard to believe that Kearney allowed you to do this,” he said, not bothering to mask his anger.
“Kearney doesn’t know.”
Then, finally, he truly grasped all that she had endured. “Oh, Kezi,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. There’s no one you can tell? Not even one of the other ministers.”
“I’ve told Gershon everything, but no one else.”