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.
“I’ve sent him to kill someone we believe is part of the conspiracy,” Dantrielle’s minister had said that day in Solkara. But there had been the barest hint of uncertainty in her voice, because she hadn’t been sure-she had chosen to send the assassin north based on hearsay. As it turned out, she was right, but Grinsa should have seen her uncertainty for what it was: a clue pointing to the identity of the man Evanthya wanted dead. Shurik, of course.
“We’re at war with the conspiracy,” she had said. And so she had hired the finest blade in the Forelands to kill the man. Grinsa had been an idiot not to see this sooner.
Charging down the stairs, he called to the innkeeper. “The inn where the musicians play! Where is it?”
“The Swallow’s Nest?”
“Yes! Where?”
“In the west quarter, on a small courtyard off Fisher’s Lane.”
Grinsa burst through the doorway, nearly knocking down an older Qirsi woman. He spun out of her way and sprinted through the streets toward the western end of the city. It had been hours since Tavis left his note. One or both of them might already be dead.
It took him some time to locate the inn, each moment seeming a lifetime. When he finally spotted it, he dashed inside, vaulting the steps to the second floor, heedless of the shouts of the innkeeper. He could hear them struggling even before he reached the corridor and leaping over the last three stairs he raised his hand summoning a dazzling white flame.
“Tavis, no!” he cried, seeing the boy’s blade glint in the sudden light.
The Curgh boy looked up at him, his dagger still resting against the assassin’s neck. In a distant corner of his mind, Grinsa wondered how Tavis had managed to overpower a hired blade.
“Leave us, gleaner!” the young lord said, his chest heaving. “I don’t need your help.”
“I’m not here to help you, Tavis. I’m here to stop you.”
The boy gaped at him, and the assassin used this opportunity to wrench his body to the side, throwing Tavis off of him and raising a blade of his own, one Grinsa hadn’t noticed until that moment.
With a single, desperate thought, the gleaner threw his power at the dagger, shattering it into tiny fragments. The assassin stared at him, his face blanching.
“I can do the same to your bones,” Grinsa told him. “And I won’t hesitate to do so.”
Slowly, the singer nodded.
Tavis jumped to his feet, brandishing his weapon again.
“Hold, Tavis.”
The boy rounded on him. “Why?”
“Because he’s here to kill Shurik, and we have to let him do it.”
“What?”
“Remember what Dantrielle’s first minister told us. She hired the singer to kill a member of the conspiracy. Shurik’s the one. Isn’t that so?” he added, shifting his gaze to the other man.
The singer narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”
Grinsa eyed the man briefly, noting his cold, pale eyes and his lean, muscular frame. Even having described the man to countless barkeeps and merchants during their search through Aneira, Grinsa realized that he hadn’t known quite what to expect. There could be no denying that he had the look of a killer. The gleaner wouldn’t have wanted to face this man without his magic.
“I’m a friend of the boy, and an enemy of the man you’ve been hired to kill.”
“Tell me your name.”
And then Grinsa understood. The assassin he had killed in Kentigern Wood, the one sent by Cresenne, had been this man’s partner. So many paths converging on this one city, on this one day. It almost seemed that the gods had been guiding them all along, turning all of them to their purposes. Who was Grinsa to defy their will, whatever it might be?
“Grinsa jal Arriet.”
The man’s eyes widened.
“Yes,” the gleaner said. “I’m the one.”
“She told me you were more than a mere gleaner,” he said.
Cresenne. So she had sent two assassins for him. He nodded, ignoring the ache in his chest. “She was right.”
“And now you’re saving my life?”
“So it would seem.”
“No, he’s not!” Tavis said, looking from one of them to the other, his face a mask of rage and pain. “He killed Brienne!” the boy said, his wild gaze coming to rest on Grinsa. “Because of him I was imprisoned, beaten, tortured! Because of this man, my father gave up the throne!”
“Not because of this man. Yes, he killed Brienne.” He glanced at the singer. “You did, didn’t you?”
The assassin hesitated, then nodded, as if sensing that there was too much at stake here to lie.
“But none of this happened because of him. He’s a hired blade, a weapon. Nothing more. The conspiracy used him to kill Brienne and make you suffer. If it hadn’t been this man, it would have been another. But they would have done this anyway.”
“I promised her, Grinsa. I swore to her that I’d avenge her death.”
“I know. But Shurik has to die, and I’m not certain that we can kill him. This man can.”
As he was speaking, he saw the assassin eyeing a dagger that lay on the floor near where he knelt. “Don’t do it,” he warned the man. “I’d prefer that you survive this day, but I’ll kill you if I have to.”