Jassion ground his teeth. "And what am I to call you, my new companion?"
"Oh, I'm certain you'll be inspired to come up with a great many things to call me.
"But for now, Kaleb will do."
Chapter Four
THE CEPHIRANS WORKED THEMSELVES into a right frenzy upon discovering the two murdered guards, but after a few days of scampering, anthill-like activity, they'd discovered precisely nothing. The bodies were found nowhere near the workers' barracks, and since none of the prisoners had escaped or apparently even freed himself from his shackles, obviously none of them could be the culprit. The soldiers fiercely questioned everyone and doubled patrols in and around the city for more than a week, and stricter curfews made things even more unpleasant for Rahariem's citizens, but the status quo ultimately reasserted itself, as is so often its wont.
Another week or two drifted past; Cerris was starting to lose track. The pervasive but gentle warmth of early summer was steadily building toward its typical midseason inferno, the sun's firm hands curling into pounding fists. Each evening, the forced laborers returned to their barracks weaker, coated in thicker films of a mud consisting of dust and sweat. Listlessly they swallowed cold stew and warm water, then collapsed into exhausted slumber. Cerris began to wonder if he'd have the strength to react to Irrial's signal if and when he spotted it.
On the day he finally did, however, the sudden surge of excitement blew away the worst of his fatigue like a sparrow in a hurricane.
It was nothing remarkable, just a plume of smoke rising from one of the many chimneys of the many houses in Rahariem's richest quarter. Only by scampering up the hillside beside which he was digging the road could Cerris confirm that it came from the Lady Irrial's estate. Just a typical, everyday sight for the manor, since even the reduced staff required a hefty amount of cooking in order to feed them all. Only someone as familiar with the house as Cerris could possibly have known that the chimney smoking now led not to any kitchen, but to the large fireplace in the parlor, a fireplace that had no business burning in the midst of the summer heat. When they first came up with this scheme, Cerris had worried that the guards billeted in the manor might ask questions, but Irrial assured him that they rarely returned before mid-evening.
So… It was time. Finally. A repetition of his illusions kept Cerris free of the manacles and chains, earning him his freedom once the line of workers had marched back to their stifling, acrid barracks. This time, however, as he'd no intention of sneaking back, Cerris took a rather more direct approach to escaping the billet itself.
Specifically, he set the roof on fire.
It took time-many minutes of intense concentration and chanting eldritch syllables under his breath-but the wood above finally rewarded him with the curling smoke and dancing flame he needed. A few shouts were more than sufficient to wake the others, and their combined uproar brought the guards running. In a frantic rush the length of chain was unlatched from its post and the prisoners shuffled hurriedly outside, there to join the guards in a makeshift bucket brigade.
Cerris, once again cloaked in an illusory uniform, was already moving toward the city, occasionally setting other makeshift structures and canvas tents alight as he went. It should be some hours before the Cephiran soldiers had the opportunity to catch their breaths, take stock, and notice a single prisoner's absence.
It was simplicity itself, in the raging chaos, for the fugitive to find a soldier alone and distracted, and thus to again acquire for himself a tabard and hauberk that would withstand more careful scrutiny. The same two men stood post at Irrial's gate; it was, apparently, their regularly assigned post.
"What's going on out there?" the elder of them asked as Cerris approached, gesturing toward the faint glow beyond the city walls.
"Fire," he said curtly as he passed, scarcely giving them time to haul open the gate. "It's under control, though. Nothing to concern yourself with."
Irrial and her remaining staff were waiting as he slipped through the front door. All were clad in workman's leathers rather than their accustomed finery. The butler Rannert looked particularly put out by the whole affair, but he also hefted a short sword like a man who knew how to use it.
"I'm glad you made it," the baroness told Cerris warmly. Then, without waiting for a reply, "Captain Liveln."
"I… what?"
"Captain Liveln. She was wearing a large mace at her side during the last meeting, one with an impressive array of etchings across the flanges."
Cerris smiled coldly. "Is she staying with the others?"
"So far as I know. You never did tell me how you're planning to reach her."
"I thought I'd get her to invite me in, actually. Might I borrow a quill, an inkpot, and some parchment?"
Irrial frowned, but gestured at Rannert. Expression unchanging save for a fluttering eyelid, he delivered the requested items. Cerris took only a moment to scribble a note, and several more to work a taper from a nearby candelabrum. The wax he dripped upon the folded parchment would never pass as any sort of formal seal, but it would suffice to reveal if anyone opened the missive. Cerris stuck the letter through his belt and, even as the baroness drew breath to speak, twisted his neck to stare briefly at every man and woman assembled in the chamber.
"I'm sure you're all faithful to Lady Irrial," he said, voice low, "but be certain. Once this begins, you'll have only a few hours before the Cephirans discover what's happened here, and they will not forgive. If anyone's loyalty isn't worth dying over-and killing over-tell me now. I'll be happy to knock you out, and you can claim you were never involved. Anyone?"
Several of the staff failed to hold his gaze, but nobody raised a hand.
Cerris nodded curtly and, though he carried the dead soldier's sword at his hip, claimed a dagger from the nearest servant. He looked once more at Irrial who, though her face had grown abnormally pale, nodded in return. "Do it," she told him softly.
Knife clenched in a tight fist, Cerris slipped silently from the chamber, heading for the room in which the billeted soldiers slept.
'Ah, murdering men in their sleep. That's the valiant soldier I remember.'
When he returned to the others, his hands were crimson. Not one of his victims had awoken long enough to make a sound.
Irrial shuddered, clearly uncomfortable with this side of her friend, however necessary. She and the servants gathered by the front door, ready to cross the lawn and disperse into the streets.
"Remember," Cerris whispered, "groups of no more than two. Once you're away from the estate, do not run. Just act casually, behave as though you've every right to be where you are."
'Easy enough for you,' the voice taunted. 'You feel like you're supposed to rightfully own everything anyway.'
It was no more difficult murdering the two gate guards than it had been their sleeping brethren. They knew Cerris-or thought they did-and they expected to see him leaving the house. He approached casually, even offered a friendly smile, and then the younger soldier was crumpling to the earth, clutching uselessly at his slit throat. Stunned, the second man was drawing breath, grasping frantically at his sword, when Cerris drove the dagger up into his chin.
A glance to ensure the street was empty, a wave toward the house, and Irrial and her servants came running. "You remember where to meet us?" she called in a whisper as he stepped away.
He smiled back at her without slowing. "Just make sure you're there waiting for me."
"I'll be there, Cerris," she whispered to his retreating silhouette. Then, with a smile far more confident than she felt, she sent her servants on their way and marched out into the street-arrogant, stubborn, faithful Rannert at her side. THE ANCESTRAL ESTATE OF DUKE HALMON seemed somehow off-kilter, standing at the far southwestern edge of the aristocratic quarter, and indeed the city entire. Haughty and unapproachable, the first duke of Rahariem had deliberately held his home aloof from the "lower folk," and while subsequent generations of the line had softened in their attitudes toward the populace-and vice versa-the notion of moving and rebuilding their home was never seriously considered.