The itch, dormant for much of the day, began again. Not so painful now, but an insistent throbbing ache.
“But first,” the woman said, getting to her feet and brushing dust from her clothes, “we have the last name on our list to strike through. And this time, since you find me so amusing, I think I’d like you to play with them a while first. It’s a child you see, and children do so love to play.”
The villa stood on a plateau to the west of the city. It was a large horseshoe-shaped structure, two storeys tall, comprising a stable and workshop as well as a lavishly decorated main house, all set within well-ordered groves of acacia and olive trees. White-cloaked guards patrolled the grounds in pairs. From the number visible, Frentis guessed there was at least a company garrisoned here.
They had approached via a narrow fissure in the southern slope of the plateau. It would have been a perilous climb in daylight but at night their success in scaling it seemed miraculous. He knew he had the woman to thank for the smooth precision with which he had made his way up the rock, hands and feet finding purchase with faultless accuracy. Somehow the binding enabled her to convey her skills to him, along with her bile. The itch hadn’t stopped and he worried continually it would prove such a distraction he would slip, but the binding and the woman’s Dark skill left no room for error and they reached the plateau’s edge without incident.
He hung at her side as two guards passed by above, fingers clamped to the ledge, sweat bathing him as the strain told. But his hold never wavered and he suspected, if she so wished, she could have him hang there until he starved. She waited until the voices of the guards had faded then hauled herself up, sprinting into the gardens, Frentis trailing ten feet behind. They moved fast but with barely any sound, halting in tree-cast shadows to allow patrols to pass. They were both dressed head to foot in black cotton, the metal hilts of their swords and daggers blackened with ash to conceal any telltale gleams. The guards were a vigilant lot, speaking to each other in infrequent murmurs, their eyes constantly scanning for intruders. Whoever lived here was clearly worthy of the best protection the Emperor could offer.
It took over an hour before they made it to the rear of the main house. The windows on the ground floor were all securely shuttered and this side of the building was bare of any decorative fixtures that would have afforded useful handholds. The woman took something from the silk sheath on the underside of her wrist, a small garrotte he had seen her use on the merchant’s clerk in the Twelve Sisters, ten inches of shining steel wire stretched between two wooden grips. She moved to one of the windows, briefly inspected the iron padlock on the shutters, then looped the garrotte wire around the U-shaped piece of iron to which it was secured. Her hands moved in a blur, the scrape of the wire on the metal seemed like a scream after so much time spent in silence. Frentis kept watch as the woman worked. In the distance he could see two white-cloaks moving through the gardens, left to right, then right to left, following a pattern that took them ever closer to the house. He and the woman were concealed in the shadow cast by the stables but that would offer scant protection when the white-cloaks came within thirty paces or so.
There was a ping then a clatter as the lock came free of the shutter, the woman catching it before it could hit the ground. She pulled the shutters apart and climbed through, Frentis following, closing the shutters behind them. They were in a kitchen, the cook fire still glowed from the day’s work and rows of hanging copper pots gleamed in the half-light. The woman drew her sword and moved to the door.
Most of the servants would be abed in one of the side buildings at this hour, but there were still a few tending to nightly chores in the main house. They found an old man lighting lamps in the hallway, the woman’s sword piercing his neck from behind before he even sensed their presence. A pretty young maid swept a broom over the marble steps ascending from the main lobby, she had time to gape at them before Frentis’s thrown dagger took her square in the chest. He pulled it free as they climbed the stairs. By now the itch had grown to a tiny pinprick of purest agony in his side, the kind of agony that would have sent him screaming to his knees but for the binding.
The next floor yielded three more servants, all dispatched with quiet efficiency. The woman opened successive doors until she found her quarry. The boy half rose in his bed as the light from the hallway bathed him, yawning and rubbing at his eyes. He was nine or ten years old and stared at them with a strangely fearless wonder, saying something in a sleepy murmur.
“You’ve never had a dream like us, boy,” the woman said, then nodded at Frentis. “Bring him.” She turned and walked along the hallway to another door, pushing it open and provoking a startled shout from an unseen female occupant.
Frentis entered the boy’s room, standing over him, hand outstretched. The boy looked at his hand then at him, his eyes suddenly absent of sleep and full of terrible understanding. I’m sorry, Frentis wanted to say, standing there, tormented to the edge of reason by the binding and the agony in his side. I’m so sorry.
The boy’s head slumped and he took Frentis’s hand, allowing himself to be led from the room, padding alongside in his silk pyjamas as they went through the door the woman had opened.
He found her tying another woman to a chair, her head slumped forward, dark hair dangling as the woman bound her with ropes torn from the drapes over the windows. When she was done she took hold of the woman’s hair, jerking her head back, revealing a face of arresting beauty, the kind of face that belonged on one of the Alpirans’ god-worshipping statues. The bound woman was dressed in a white silk robe, the ropes leaving red weals where they bit hard into her tanned flesh. The woman slapped the beautiful face, once, then twice. The bound woman’s eyes flew open at the second slap, bright green and darting about in alarm.
“Beloved,” the woman said in Realm Tongue, “allow me to present the Lady Emeren Nasur Ailers, former ward of the Emperor Aluran Maxtor Selsus, and widowed bride to Seliesen Maxtor Aluran, the fallen Hope of this empire.”
The Lady Emeren drew a great breath, tilting her head back.
“Scream and the boy dies,” the woman said.
Emeren closed her eyes, the breath hissing from her through gritted teeth. “Whoever you are . . .” she began in accented but well-spoken Realm Tongue.
“Forgive me,” the woman said. “My etiquette is not what it was. You must, of course, be fully informed of who we are. This handsome fellow is my lover and soon to be husband, Brother Frentis, formerly of the Sixth Order of the Faith and the Unified Realm. As for myself, I haven’t had need of a name for many years, so let’s just call me a servant of Volarian Imperial interests, for the time being anyway.”
Frentis watched the calculation on the Lady Emeren’s face, the way her eyes shifted from the woman to Frentis and the bloody dagger in his hand, then to the silent boy holding his other hand. It was only when she looked at the boy that he saw true fear in her eyes.
The throbbing in his side was like a spike, plunging into his flesh, over and over . . .
“If you know so much,” Emeren said, her voice even and well controlled, “you know I hold no power in this empire. I have no sway with the Emperor. My death will cause him no hurt.”
“Hurting the Emperor is not our object,” the woman replied. She went to the large bed, sitting down and bouncing on the soft mattress, her legs dangling over the side, a little girl at play. “I thought you might like to know something,” she said. “Regarding your recent visit to the Meldenean Islands. Did you know, if you had succeeded in your artful scheme, you would have given immeasurable aid to our enterprise? We’ve given up trying to take Al Sorna, now it’s just his death we seek. He’s there in every scrying, every vision we wring out of the seers. The endless impediment, saving those we want dead, killing those we want alive. Your much-mourned husband for instance.”