His chance to find out came when they entered the main hall. Two of the hooded foes darted in from side rooms, as if they’d seen them coming. Haig put himself in front of Kall and ran at both, grabbing up a large Calishite vase from a side table. He smashed the expensive item in the face of the hood to his right while simultaneously batting a raised sword out of his way. Dazed, the attacker fell back, unresisting, allowing Haig to charge forward to engage the foe to his left.
Kall stared at the scene, retaining only the presence of mind to raise his weapon while he watched the old man fight.
Screams filled the air as Gertie, one of the maids, hurtled from the hallway into the crystal display front as if she’d been thrown. Fragile glass panes shattered under her weight. Her hands and arms were bloody when she picked herself up, but she kept running, bolting across the hall. Her usually meticulously combed curls hung loose and wild from her bonnet. A gloved hand snagged her hair, jerking the maid’s head back into the doorway to the kitchens.
Kall watched in numb horror as the hand drew a knife in a crooked, horizontal slash across Gertie’s throat. For a breath, the young maid’s eyes met Kall’s across the room. Then she saw the blood pouring down her dress and raised her hands as if she could stop the flow.
Kall charged forward, away from the safety of Haig’s back. Instead of engaging the man with the knife, he ran a wide circle. Before the man could realize what he intended, Kall had wedged his sword between the wall and the display front and pulled, levering the heavy glass case away from the wall. Piles of crystal, wood, and glass came down on the hooded man, knocking him back into the kitchen. The last Kall saw of the man was the Morel emerald glinting in his knife, alongside a ruby in a nest of gold loops.
Kall dropped to his knees next to Gertie, but the maid was already dead. Above her ruined throat, her eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. Kall felt bile rise in his throat, but a glint of gold in the blood pool caught his eye: Gerties necklace, a small medallion emblazoned with Lathander’s sunrise. The assassins knife had cut it away. Kall scooped it up.
He caught black movement out of the corner of his eye and spun, sending his sword out in a wide, reckless arc. Another hooded figure danced back, Kall’s blade swishing across his opponent’s stomach to tear fabric if not flesh.
Blindly, Kall followed with a backslash, cutting up and diagonally from hip to shoulder, driving forward in a rush as he’d seen Haig do.
Kall was not a novice to sword play. When he was younger, his father had decided to personally train Kall to fight. Never had the man paid him so much attention. Kall had reveled in it, learning all he could. His skills steadily grew, but his father’s interest in teaching waned over the years in favor of seeing to his business and the security of his house. Kall could feel the burn of disuse in his sword arm.
He risked a glance at the old man. Haig had pulled the hood from the foe harrying him on the left. White-gold hair tumbled down a black cloak—Isslun’s. She puckered her lips saucily at Haig even as her hand went for the dagger at her belt.
Haig got there first. He slipped the weapon from its sheath and with a grin shoved her away. Immediately, an identical face from the right met him. Aliyea—twin to Isslun—had recovered from the hit with the vase and removed her hood to fight openly beside her sister.
Kall’s sword went skittering across the marble floor. Distracted, he’d let himself be disarmed. “Haig!”
Haig hurled Isslun’s dagger. The fang buried itself in the hood of Kall’s opponent. Kall looked away, sickened, and saw Haig fighting for better position, backing the twins toward one of the smaller rooms off the main hall. “Follow me!” the old man yelled at him.
Kall hesitated. He still didn’t know where his father was. The bulk of the fray seemed to be coming from the central garden; Haig was headed in the opposite direction. With a last look at white-gold hair and whirling steel, Kall retrieved his sword and ran for the sunlight, ignoring Haig’s voice calling after him.
In the heart of the garden, Kall found his father. Dhairr was alive and fighting, but he bled from several wounds. He straddled one fallen hood and fought two others who pressed him back against the lip of a fountain. This central point irrigated the entire garden; the water had been left to flow freely, turning the terrain off the raised stone walkways into a muddy jungle.
Kall ran down the flooded path, not allowing himself to think as he stabbed the black-robed figure closest to his father. The foe’s back arched, and the dying assassin toppled over the side of the fountain, wrenching Kall’s sword from his hands. Kall scrambled to get out of the way.
Dhairr looked up in shock to see his son. His remaining opponent backed away, hoisting up a dead comrade. Dhairr spun to see another hood charging at them through the mud, but instead of engaging, this one too, grabbed a body—that of the foe Kall had killed—and started to spirit it away.
“No!” A scream of pure agony and frustration tore from Dhairr’s throat. He charged the escaping assassins, but water and wounds slowed him. He could not make the edge of the fountain before his legs gave out. He still grasped his sword in a white-knuckled fist. Kall dodged it and grabbed his father around the waist, gripping and hoisting him up.
“All back! All back!” Dhairr tried to pull away, but Kall held him tightly. Spittle flew from his mouth, and he trembled wildly, slashing his sword at invisible foes. “Guards, to me! Bring one alive, damn you! Bring one alive!”
Bootfalls pounded from the direction of the main hall. Dhairr made an ugly sound in his throat. Kall turned, expecting another enemy, and saw Haig running out to them.
“Father!” Kall stayed the lord’s arm as he swung his gaze and blade to the man. Recognition came slowly into Dhairr’s eyes, and he lowered his weapon.
“Haig,” he said hoarsely. “What happened?”
Kall spoke first. The words tumbled over each other to get out. “Isslun, Dencer …” he named them all, describing Aazen’s wound and Haig’s rescue.
Dhairr had both hands on Kall’s shoulders, but he looked at Haig. “How many in total?”
“I can’t be certain, my lord,” Haig replied. “As it stands, I would trust none of your guard and appeal to the Esmeltaran militia for help.”
Dhairr nodded, taking it all in. “Where is Kortrun?”
Boots scraped on stone, and all three of them looked up. Balram stood at the edge of the garden, near the stairs to Dhairr’s office. He was watching them, a speculative look in his eyes as they fell on Haig.
“Captain,” Dhairr said, relieved. “We were nearly overrun.” He noticed the blood dripping from Balram’s hand. “Are you all right?”
“I am,” Balram said, walking slowly out to them. His sword trailed unsheathed at his side, its emerald winking in the sunlight. “Thank the gods you’re both alive.” The words held no inflection.
Haig’s blade came up, but he stayed at Kall’s side. He laid a hand on Kall’s arm, as if he might draw him away from his father. “Your captain was one of those who betrayed you, Lord Morel,” he said calmly. “Do not trust him.”
Dhairr glanced sharply at Balram. “That can’t be,” he said. “Kortrun—”
“The accusation is fair,” Balram replied, cutting him off and surprising a frown onto Dhairr’s face. “But you should know its source before you judge.” He raised his blade. Haig batted it aside with a clang that was loud in the stillness of the garden. Balram merely smiled and pointed with the sword’s tip at Haig’s collar. A small silver pin glinted there, barely visible from the folds of cloth. Its crescent moon surrounded a harp and tiny stars. “A piece to rival even your finest work, my lord, if you’ll forgive my saying so.” His smile melted into a sneer. “We have a Harper in our midst.”