“The mistress of pearls,” she said, holding out a handful of platinum coins.
“Remember our restrictions,” Alden said as he waved a finger before her, then turned and motioned for her to follow. The Harpers were led past several rooms where men and women who would normally be found hiding in shadows, nervously waiting for fresh prey to arrive, were openly laughing and trading stories over drinks. Others played good-hearted games where the stakes were kept low for the enjoyment of all. A dark-eyed serving maid winked at Ord, who strained to look over his shoulder at her passing form until Burke grabbed his shoulder and reminded him to stay alert.
Soon they stood before a great set of double doors that had been painted blood red. Figures had been chiseled from the marble door, representations of many gods, including the hawk-nosed lord of the dead, who once had been a man in Myrmeen’s employ. Alden used both hands to manipulate the heavy knocker. Only when he had heard an invitation lost to the hearing of all the others did he move to the side of the door and throw a lever. The doors swung inward, revealing a spacious office that contained a gigantic four-poster bed, a wealth of statues, a small kitchen, and a desk, behind which sat a hulking, bald man who rose to greet his visitors with a disarming smile. The Harpers moved to enter the room and Alden’s hand shot up.
“Only her,” the young man said. “She will be safe, I assure you.”
Myrmeen entered the chamber and heard the door swing shut behind her. Pieraccinni was not handsome, but his features were bold and strong. He wore a sleeveless teal frock, with an ornate belt made of gold and covered in rubies. Similarly designed bands graced his thick upper arms and wrists. The man was strongly built, but the muscles of his bare arms and partially revealed chest were not meticulously defined. He walked barefoot upon the floor, which was carpeted in a fine, eastern-style weave, and paused before the red silk curtains of his black marble four-poster bed. He wriggled his fingers at the curtains, and a slight, feminine giggle sounded. Myrmeen suddenly became aware of movement behind the silk and the hushed whisper of conversation.
“Twins,” Pieraccinni said proudly, “from the desert of Anauroch. Incredibly talented lovers and highly efficient assassins. Would you like me to bring them out for you?”
“No,” Myrmeen said. “I have other needs.” Pieraccinni linked his hands behind his back and nodded with a forced compassion, his smile still in evidence. “I see,” he said. “And what might they be?”
“Information. On the Night Parade.” The bald man’s stride did not falter, nor did he seem surprised as he stopped before Myrmeen and crossed his arms over his chest. “I could give that to you, I suppose. Charge you some outrageous fee, so that you feel you’ve gotten your money’s worth. They’ll kill you, of course. I’ll feel regret for at least a second or two, then go on to my next bit of business. Yes, I suppose I could do that, Mistress Lhal.”
Myrmeen tensed, worried that she had walked into another trap. Sensing her distress, Pieraccinni allowed his hands to fall to his sides, palms forward, in a gesture of acquiescence.
“There is no harm to be found here,” Pieraccinni said. “These hands and my heart contain no malice for you.”
“You must be mistaken—”
He raised his hand, his features twisted in distaste. “Please. Don’t insult my intelligence. You’ve been making inquiries in violent and extremely public ways. That gets people talking. I always listen when people talk. Not two months ago, your former husband, Dak, lay on that bed with an acquaintance of mine, a delightful young lady. Some wine, the pleasure of her rather athletic abilities, and he was ready to tell me everything of his plans to extort funds from you for the information concerning your lost child. He was a thoroughly unlikable man. I hope you don’t mind me saying as much.”
“That’s fine,” Myrmeen said. “Are you aware that Dak was killed in Arabel?”
“Oh, yes,” Pieraccinni said as he looked at her strong arms. “It takes great strength and terrible desire to sever a man’s head with a single blow. You seem to possess both, in great abundance.”
“Win you help me find the Night Parade?”
“There’s no need,” Pieraccinni said as he retreated to his desk, drawing Myrmeen deeper into the room as she moved to follow him. She glanced back at the bed and rested one leg on the edge of his desk so that she would not have her back turned to the women behind the curtains.
“What do you mean?” she asked, suspicious.
“I have something more valuable. Once I had learned that poor, foolish Dak had been married to you, I urged him to think about anything he knew about the fabled ruler of Arabel that could be used to blackmail her. Not that I would have, you understand, but I enjoy this type of thing. The entertainment value. You understand.”
“Go on.”
“I have found your daughter,” he said as he scratched a set of numbers on a sheet of parchment, then slid the paper toward her. “That is my price for what I know.”
Myrmeen let out a deep, ragged breath as she thought about the figure. “You must know that I would not carry this kind of money with me.”
Pieraccinni shrugged. “After you have the girl, come back here and pay me what you can as a show of intent. I will be happy to take payment on the rest after you go home.”
Myrmeen thought about his offer. “How do I know you aren’t lying?”
“Well, you don’t, of course. But I think you can see that I am a businessman. I see a need, I fulfill that need—for a price. Your needs are considerably more apparent than you seem to realize. That is why I ask for nothing up front and trust you to follow the terms of our agreement, provided this information proves to be of value.”
She cupped her face in her hands, thinking it over, then she locked her gaze with his. He did not flinch or look away. She would have to wager that he was telling the truth.
“All right,” she said. “Tell me how to find my daughter.”
Six
Cyric’s Hammer was one of the few significant landmarks in the vast Calim Desert. Djimon, the leader of the highly successful band of desert raiders known as the Black Scourge, knew them all. The towering spire of rock was a particular favorite of the short, powerfully built man. His unusual brown hair and soft blue eyes had marked him as a pariah in his own culture, a bastard child who had been abandoned because of impurity in his blood. He did not know his parents and so he did not know if the stigma he had suffered under had been warranted or not. What he did know, however, was that once he had reached adulthood, no man or god had been safe from his wrath.
During the time of Arrival, Djimon had slain a man who claimed to be the human avatar of Malar, the Beastlord, the god of bloodlust. The man’s random attacks along the trade route that Djimon had clearly staked as his private territory had made a challenge inevitable and the man’s continued existence extremely bad for business. In truth, Djimon’s nemesis was an insane, murderous wizard with delusions of grandeur. Nevertheless, Djimon had earned the name “Godslayer” among his people. His band of killers and thieves had gained a taste of even greater notoriety, for which they were grateful. Keeping his underlings happy had been the single most important aspect of his continued success in an enterprise where death was often the ultimate reward.
Djimon turned at the sound of the familiar, piercing shriek that he had been forced to put up with for the past week, ever since his last excursion into the city. It was midafternoon, and he was sitting atop Cyric’s Hammer, a dangerous perch that boasted only one safe path from its base to its wide, flat head. Rumors had it that a hundred men had died trying to find a non-treacherous route to the top. When they mere inches from achieving their desire, the stones would shift to dislodge all who were foolish enough to challenge the rock, sending them screaming to the sharp rocks at the base. The pillar had earned its name when a wandering sage pronounced the rock accursed by the god of misery and death.