“Where’s the lad?” one of them asked.
“He went off with one of the duchess’s ladies. Last I saw him, he was carrying a flask of wine and telling me to take care of this.”
The soldiers laughed.
“Guess his hands are full with other things,” the first one said.
Cadel nodded and stepped past them to the wicket gate. “Just my luck. Serves me right for traveling with a younger man.”
They were still laughing as he left Castle Mertesse and started across the city. He heard the gate bells ring on the city walls. Gate closing. Not that it mattered: he had never planned to leave Mertesse through the gates.
The city was quiet, like a great sleeping beast. He saw no one as he walked back to the Swallow’s Nest, nor did he see the innkeeper as he crept up the stairs of the tavern. He took both his travel sack and Dario’s, pausing in the room only long enough to write a brief message, before leaving the inn as noiselessly as he had come. With neither moon traveling the sky this night, he had little trouble scaling the city wall unobserved. Before long he had reached the edge of Mertesse Forest, which he followed west, toward the rocky shores of the Scabbard Inlet. At some point he would head back in the other direction, toward the Moors of Durril and the Caerissan Steppe, and, eventually, to the relative safety of the Wethy Crown. First,.however, he needed to find a merchant, and short of remaining in Mertesse, the easiest way to do so was to visit the trading villages along the coast.
He walked through the night, setting a swift pace so that he might put as much distance as possible between himself and Mertesse. With first light of day, he slipped into the shadows of the wood, and continued to travel westward. They would be finding the bodies soon and Cadel knew that the castle guards would be interested in speaking with him. Best not to give them that chance.
Near midday, sooner than he had expected, Cadel spotted a peddler’s cart approaching, following one of the sea-lanes toward Mertesse. He stepped out of the forest and raised a hand in greeting. Seeing him, the man reined his horse to a halt. He had steel grey hair, though not much of it, and his face was ruddy from the cold and wind. As Cadel approached the cart, he saw the man pull out a long bladed knife.
“Are you heading to Mertesse?” the singer asked.
“I am. I suppose you’re wanting a ride.”
“Actually, no. I was wondering if you would be willing to ride on to Solkara without stopping in Mertesse.”
The merchant wrinkled his brow. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I’ll pay you fifty qinde.”
He chuckled. “You have fifty qinde?”
Cadel pulled out his money pouch and counted out the gold pieces, which glittered in the sunlight.
The merchant rubbed a hand over his mouth, his dark eyes fixed on the coins and the hand holding the knife falling to his side.
“What is it you want of me?”
Cadel swung the travel sacks and lute off his shoulder and knelt beside them, returning his money to his pocket. Rummaging through Dario’s bag, he soon found the lutenist’s pouch of gold and counted its contents. Then he added a bit of his own.
“This lute and travel sack belong to a friend of mine. He wants them taken to his sister in Tounstrel dukedom.”
“Tounstrel! You said Solkara. It’ll take me nearly the entire turn to ride to Tounstrel.”
Cadel raised an eyebrow. “When was the last time you cleared fifty qinde in a single turn?”
The man clicked his tongue several times. “The girl’s name?”
“Lettalle Hunfuerta. She lives in a village on the Plain of Stallions, just north of Tounstrel city.” He pulled from his pocket the message he had written the night before. “On your way to Tounstrel, I want you to deliver this to Castle Dantrielle. Give it to the first minister there.”
“You ask a lot.”
Cadel strode to the cart and dragged the man down off of his seat. The peddler tried to raise his knife, but the singer slapped it away.
“What’s your name?” Cadel demanded.
“T-Traver. Traver MarSint.”
“Well, Traver, you’re right. I do ask a lot. And I expect even more. There’s forty qinde in that travel sack. If I hear from Lettalle that she didn’t get the lute, or that even a single qinde is missing from the pouch in that sack, I’ll find you, and I’ll slit your throat. Do I make myself clear?”
The merchant nodded, his eyes wide, spittle on his chin.
Cadel released him, smoothing his overshirt. He took out his money again and paid the man his gold.
Traver tucked it away in a pocket without bothering to count it.
“You better get moving,” Cadel said. “You’ve a long journey ahead of you.”
The man eyed him briefly, then nodded again and climbed back onto his cart.
“Why don’t you want me going to Mertesse?” he asked, picking up the reins.
Cadel started to walk away. “It’s not safe,” he said over his shoulder “I hear two people died there just last night ”
She sat on the floor beside Shunk’s hearth, staring at the bloodstained bed, tears running down her face like melting snows off the steppe Her love’s body and that of the other man had already been removed, but Yaella couldn’t bring herself to leave, even with soldiers and servants constantly stepping around her.
The castle guards said that the second man was a musician, a lute player of some renown, who had come to the castle to bed one of the duchess’s ladies. But despite their certainty, and the broken flask of wine found in the middle of the chamber, she had no doubt that he was actually a paid assassin. She found it remarkable that Shunk had managed to kill the man, on Pitch Night no less.
Her chest ached merely thinking of how she had doubted him. For nearly an entire turn, he had spoken of his fears, of how two Weavers wanted him dead. Yet for all that time, she had tried to convince herself and him that the danger wasn’t as great as he believed. She should never have left him alone. She should have stayed with him, or better yet, insisted that he accompany her to the sanctuary.
“I failed you in so many ways, Shunk,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
One of the Weavers had arranged this. She felt certain of it. Sitting there in the chamber, Yaella resolved to learn which one If it turned out to be her Weaver, the leader of the movement, she wasn’t sure what she would do. The man could read her thoughts. He would sense her rage, her need for vengeance, and he would have her killed as well. But if it was the other one, this Grinsa jal Arriet, she would use every resource within her grasp to destroy him. She owed Shunk that much She heard the sound of boots clicking in the corridor, and looking toward the doorway, saw the duke walk in. Reluctantly, she stood and bowed to him
“First Minister,” he said, meeting her gaze before walking to the bed and shaking his head at the dark stains. “This is a terrible business. I don’t understand how such a thing could happen in my castle.”
Is that all you can think about? Your castle? “Yes, my lord.”
“You must be terribly upset I’m sorry for you.”
Her tears starting to flow once more and she cursed herself. This foolish young duke had hated Shurik, yet she reacted to his smallest kindness as if he had put his arms around her
“Yes, my lord. Thank you.”
“I’m sure you’ll want the funeral to be at the sanctuary, but you’ll have whatever help the servants of this castle can offer.”
“That’s most generous of you, my lord ”
He hesitated. “There is the matter of this chamber. There’s no hurry of course, but at some point it will need to be.. emptied. Will you want to do that, or would you like me to have the servants take care of it?”
Shurik had left most of his belongings in Kentigern when he fled Aindreas’s castle after the siege, but there might be some gold in this chamber. The Weaver’s gold.
“I’ll see to it, my lord.”
“Very well. As I say, there’s no hurry.” He glanced about the room once more, shaking his head. “I intend to find out how this happened, First Minister. No man, regardless of his race or how he came to be here, should fear for his life within the walls of Castle Mertesse.” Rowan turned to leave, his cape swirling