“Yes, that is what I heard,” said Ciang, studying him intently, new thoughts awakened.
Hugh saw, from the expression on her face, that he’d given himself away. The woman was too shrewd, too sensitive to have missed his unusual reaction. He waited nervously for the question, was relieved, yet somewhat disappointed, when it did not come.
“That is what comes of traveling to the High Realm,” said Ciang. “Of dealing with mysteriarchs... and other powerful people.” She rose to her feet. “I will pour the wine. And then we will talk.”
And other powerful people. What did she mean? Hugh wondered, watching her move slowly toward the sideboard on which stood a lovely crystal bottle and two goblets. Could she know about the Sartan? Or the man with the blue, tattooed skin? And if she did know about them, what was it she knew?
Probably more than I do, Hugh thought.
Ciang walked slowly, a concession to her age, but her dignity and carriage made it appear that it was she who chose to walk with measured tread, the years had not chosen for her. Hugh knew better than to assist her. She would have taken his offer for an insult. Ciang always served her guests with her own hands, a custom that dated back to early elven nobility when kings had served wine to their nobles. It was a custom long since abandoned by modern elven royalty, yet said to have been revived in this age by the rebel, Prince Rees’ahn.
Ciang poured the wine into the goblets, placed them upon a silver salver, and carried it across the room to Hugh.
Not a drop spilled.
She lowered the tray to Hugh, who took a goblet, thanked her, and held it until the woman had returned to her chair. When she had lifted the goblet in her hand, Hugh rose to his feet, pledged Ciang’s health, and drank deeply. Ciang bowed graciously, pledged his health, and brought the cup to her lips. When me ceremony was complete, both resumed their seats. Hugh would now be free to pour himself more wine, or to assist her, if she required.
“You were grievously wounded,” said Ciang.
“Yes,” Hugh replied, not meeting her eyes, staring into the wine that was the same color as the blood of young Darby, drying on the table.
“You did not come here.” Ciang set her cup down. “It was your right.”
“I know. I couldn’t face anyone.” He lifted his gaze, dark and grim. “I failed. I hadn’t carried out the contract.”
“We might have understood. It has happened to others before—”
“Not to me!” said Hugh with a sudden, fierce gesture that almost knocked over the wine goblet. He steadied it, glanced at Ciang, muttered an apology. The woman gazed at him intently. “And now,” she said, after a moment’s pause, “you have been called to account.”
“I’ve been called on to fulfill the contract.”
“And this conflicts with your desire. The woman you brought with you, the mysteriarch.”
Hugh flushed, took another drink of wine, not because he wanted it, but because it gave him an excuse to avoid Ciang’s eyes. He heard—or thought he did—a note of rebuke.
“I never sought to hide her identity from you, Ciang,” Hugh responded. “Just those fools in town. I didn’t want trouble. The woman is my employer.” He heard the rustle of fine silk, guessed that Ciang was smiling, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. He could hear her unspoken words. Lie to yourself, if you must. You do not lie to me.
“Quite wise,” was all she said aloud. “What is the difficulty?”
“The former contract conflicts with another job.”
“And what will you do to reconcile the situation, Hugh the Hand?”
“I don’t know,” said Hugh, rotating the empty goblet by the stem, watching the light reflect off the jewels at its base.
Ciang sighed softly, her fingernail tapped lightly on the table. “Since you do not ask for advice, I offer none. I remind you, however, to think over the words you heard that young man speak. A contract is sacred. If you break it, we will have no choice but to consider that you have broken faith with us, as well. The penalty will be exacted,[60] even upon you, Hugh the Hand.”
“I know,” he said, and now he could look at her.
“Very well.” She was brisk, clasped her hands, unpleasantness out of the way.
“You have come here on business. What may we do to assist you?” Hugh stood up, walked over to the sideboard, poured another glass of wine, tossed it down in a gulp that took no notice of the fine flavor. If he failed to kill Bane, not only his honor was forfeit, but his life as well. Yet to kill the child was to kill the mother, at least as far as Hugh was concerned. He thought back to those moments Iridal had slept in his arms, confiding, trusting. She had accompanied him here, to this terrible place, believing in him, believing in something within him. Believing in his honor, in his love for her. He had given both to her, as his gift, when he’d given up his life. And, in death, he’d found both returned to him a hundred times over. And then, he’d been snatched back, and honor and love had died, though he lived. A strange and terrible paradox. In death, perhaps he could find them again, but not if he did this terrible deed. And he knew that if he didn’t, if he broke his oath to the Brotherhood, they would come after him and he would fight them instinctively. And he would never find what he’d lost. He’d commit one foul crime after another, until darkness overwhelmed him, utterly, eternally.
It would be better for us all if I told Ciang to take that dagger from its box and stab me to the heart.
“I need passage,” he said abruptly, turning to face her. “Passage to the elven lands. And information, whatever you can tell me.”
“The passage is not a problem, as you well know,” answered Ciang. If she had been disturbed by his long silence, she did not show it. “What about disguise? You have your own means of concealment in enemy lands, for you have traveled Aristagon before and never been found out. But will the same disguise work for your companion?”
“Yes,” Hugh replied briefly.
Ciang asked no questions. A brother’s methods were a brother’s business. Most likely she knew anyway.
“Where is it you need to go?” Ciang lifted a quill pen, drew forth a sheet of paper.
“Paxaria.”
Ciang dipped the pen in ink, waited for Hugh to be more specific.
“The Imperanon,” Hugh said.
Ciang pursed her lips, replaced the pen in the inkwell. She gazed at him steadily.
“Your business takes you there? Into the castle of the emperor?”
“It does, Ciang.” Hugh drew out his pipe, thrust it in his mouth, sucked on it moodily.
“You may smoke,” said Ciang, with a gracious nod at the fire. “If you open the window.”
Hugh lifted the small, lead-paned window a crack. He filled the pipe with stregno, lit it from a glowing coal at the fire, drew the biting smoke gratefully into his lungs.
“That will not be easy,” Ciang continued. “I can provide you with a detailed map of the palace and its environs. And we have someone within who will help you for a price. But to get inside the elven stronghold...” Ciang shrugged, shook her head.
“I can get in,” Hugh said grimly. “It’s getting out again... alive.” He turned, strode back to seat himself at the chair by her desk. Now that they were discussing business, now that the pipe was in his hands, the stregno mixing pleasantly with the wine in his blood, he could for a time banish the horrors that hounded him.
“You have a plan, of course,” Ciang said. “Else you would not have come this far.”
“Only a partial one,” he told her. “That’s why I need information. Anything at all, no matter how small or seemingly irrelevant might help. What is the emperor’s political situation?”
“Desperate,” said Ciang, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, life is not changed within the Imperanon itself. Parties, gaiety, merriment every night. But they laugh from wine, not from the heart, as the saying goes. Agah’ran dares not let this alliance between Rees’ahn and Stephen come about. If it does, the Tribus empire is finished, and Agah’ran knows it.”