“Alfred!”
Hugh almost glanced around behind him, then realized that the boy must be trying to trick him, draw his attention away from Iridal.
But if Bane was putting on an act, he was giving a marvel-ous performance. He shrank back, held up a warding small hand.
“Alfred! What are you doing here? Alfred, go away. I don’t want you here. I don’t need you...” The child was babbling, almost incoherent.
“Calm down, Your Highness,” said the cold voice. “There is no one there.” Bane swelled in anger. “Alfred’s there! Standing right at Hugh’s shoulder! I can see him, I tell you—”
Suddenly, the boy blinked, stared, narrow-eyed, at Hugh. Bane gulped, managed a sickly, cunning smile.
“I was laying a trap, trying to find out if this man has an accomplice. You spoiled it. You’ve gone and ruined it all, Count.” Bane tried to look indignant, but he kept his gaze fixed on Hugh, and there was a certain uneasiness in the child’s eyes, Hugh had no idea what Bane was up to, cared less. Some sort of trick. The Hand remembered a time when Bane had claimed to see a Kir monk, standing at Hugh’s shoulder.[67] The assassin licked blood from his cut lip, glanced around the room, trying to get a look at the man in charge.
“Me no speak elf,” Hugh grunted.
A tall, well-formed elf came into view. Dressed in resplendent clothing, the elf had, by some miracle, emerged unscathed, undamaged from the whirlwind of destruction that had leveled much of the room. The count walked forward, studied Hugh with detached interest, as he might have studied some new form of bug life.
“I am Count Tretar, lord of the Tretar elves. You, I believe, are known as Hugh the Hand.”
“No?” Tretar smiled. “But you wear our clothes quite well. Come, come, my dear sir.” The count continued to speak elven. “The game is ended. Accept your loss with grace. I know a great deal about you—that you speak elven fluently; that you are responsible for the deaths of several of our people; that you stole one of our dragonships. I have a warrant for your apprehension—dead or alive.” Hugh glanced again at Bane, who was now regarding the Hand with the unblinking, guileless innocence children practice as their best defense against adults.
Hugh grimaced, shifted his body, ostensibly to ease his discomfort, but in reality to test the strength of his bonds. The bowstrings were tied tight. If he attempted to work them loose, he would only succeed in causing them to dig deeper into his flesh.
This Tretar was no fool. Dissembling would no longer serve the assassin. Perhaps he could strike a bargain.
“What’s happened to the boy’s mother?” Hugh demanded. “What did you do to her?”
The count glanced at Iridal, quirked an eyebrow.
“Poisoned. Oh, nothing fatal, I assure you. A mild form, delivered by a dart, that will render her unconscious and incapacitated for as long a period as we deem necessary. It is the only way to deal with those humans known as ‘mysteriarchs.’ Other than killing them outright, of—”
The count stopped talking. His gaze had shifted to a dog that had come wandering into the room.
Haplo’s dog. Hugh wondered where the Patryn was, what his role was in all this. But the Hand couldn’t guess and he certainly wasn’t going to ask, in case the elves had, by some chance, left the Patryn out of their calculations. Tretar frowned, glanced round at his soldiers. “That’s the dog that belongs to His Highness’s manservant. What’s it doing here? Take the beast out.”
“No!” Bane cried. “He’s mine!” The child leapt up and threw his arms around the dog’s neck.
The dog responded by licking Bane’s cheek, giving every evidence that it had just discovered a long-lost friend.
“He likes me better than Haplo,” Bane announced. “I’m going to keep him.” The count regarded the pair thoughtfully. “Very well, the animal can stay. Go find out how it got loose,” he said, in an undertone to a subordinate. “And what’s happened to its owner.”
Bane pulled the dog down beside him on the floor. The animal lay there panting, looking around with bright eyes.
The count returned to his perusal of Hugh.
“You’ve captured me,” said the Hand. “I’m your prisoner. Lock me up, kill me. What happens to me doesn’t matter. Let the lady and the boy go.” Tretar appeared highly amused. “Really, my dear sir, do you think we are that stupid? A renowned assassin and a powerful wizardess fall into our hands and you expect us to literally throw both of you away. What waste! What folly.”
“What do you want, then?” Hugh growled.
“To hire you,” said Tretar coolly.
“I’m not for sale.”
“Every man has his price.”
Hugh grunted, shifted his position again. “There’s not enough barls in this slimy kingdom of yours to buy me.”
“Not money,” said Tretar, carefully dusting the soot off the seat of a chair with a silken handkerchief. He sat down, crossed shapely legs, covered by silken hose, leaned back. “A life. Her life.”
“So that’s it.”
Rolling over to lie on his back, Hugh bunched his muscles, tried to burst his bindings. Blood—warm and sticky—ran down his hands.
“My dear sir, relax. You’re only damaging yourself.” Tretar heaved an affected sigh. “I admit that my men are not particularly impressive fighters, but they do know how to tie knots. Escape is impossible, and we would not be foolish enough to kill you in the attempt, as perhaps you hope. After all, we are not asking you to do anything you haven’t done countless times before. We want to hire you to kill. As simple as that.”
“Who’s the mark?” Hugh asked, thinking he knew.
“King Stephen and Queen Anne.”
Hugh glanced up at Tretar, surprised.
The count nodded in understanding. “You expected me to say Prince Rees’ahn, didn’t you? We considered it, when we knew you were coming. But the prince has survived several such attempts. It is said that he has supernatural powers guarding him. While I don’t necessarily believe in that rubbish, I do think you—a human—would have an easier time killing the human rulers. And their deaths will serve much the same purpose. With Stephen and Anne dead and their eldest child on the throne, the alliance with Rees’ahn will crumble.” Hugh looked grimly at Bane. “So this was your idea.”
“I want to be king,” Bane said, petting the dog.
“And you trust this little bastard?” Hugh said to the count. “Hell, he’d betray his own mother.”
“That’s meant to be some sort of jest, isn’t it? Sorry, but I never could understand human attempts at humor. His Highness, Prince Bane, knows where his best interests lie.”
Hugh’s gaze went to Iridal. He was thankful she was unconscious. He might almost, for her sake, have wished her dead.
“If I agree to kill the king and queen, you let her go. That’s the deal?”
“Yes.”
“How do I know you’ll keep your end?”
“You don’t. But then you haven’t much choice except to trust us, do you? However, I will make this concession. The boy will accompany you. He will be in contact with his mother. Through him, you will know she is alive.”
“And through him you’ll know if I’ve done what you want.” Tretar shrugged. “Naturally. And we will keep the mother informed as to the condition of her son. She would, I imagine, be devastated if anything happened to the child. She would suffer most cruelly...”
“You’re not to hurt her,” Bane ordered. “She’s going to convince all the mysteriarchs to be on my side. She loves me,” the child added with an impish smile. “She’ll do whatever I want her to do.”
Yes, and she wouldn’t believe me if I told her the truth. Not that I’ll be around long enough, Hugh thought. Bane will see to that. He can’t let me live. Once I’ve served my purpose, I’ll be “captured” and executed. But how does Haplo figure in all this? Where is he?
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