"Friends?" Leesil repeated. A frown wrinkled his brow as if such a notion were naive.
"Yes, someone here must have known your parents. Perhaps they would have heard something."
"Assassins don't have friends," Leesil snapped. He paused, lost in thought, then whispered one word. "Byrd."
"What about a bird?" Magiere asked.
"A man, not an animal," Leesil muttered. "His name is Byrd, and he owns an inn out back of the merchant district. My father spoke of him something like a friend. I knew him as well."
A brief flash of relief flooded Magiere, gratitude for any clue that might give Leesil answers. It was quickly followed by nervous caution.
"Can he be trusted?" she asked.
"In a way," he answered.
Magiere's anger got the best of her this time. "What does that mean?"
Leesil breathed in and blew the air out slowly. "He's one of Darmouth's spies."
Lit braziers of heavy iron lined the keep's council hall where Lady Hedi Progae sat across the table from Baron Emel Milea. Between them at the table's end was their host, Lord Darmouth. Hedi silently counted the moments until this tense evening would end.
Stuffed pheasants, dried peaches, winter nutcake, and loaves of freshly baked bread were carried in on polished wood trays. All the guests ate from finely glazed plates with silver forks and knives. Hedi had no patience for pretenses of finery, though she did note that the number of Darmouth's trusted ministers had diminished over the years. The only minister present this night was her Emel. She made polite play with her food in small bites as she watched her host.
Lord Darmouth's brown hair was cropped short, but the front and temples were graying. His blockish face was lined, and there were faint hints of old scars below his left eye. Even at a formal dinner, he wore a steel-reinforced leather breastplate and long daggers sheathed upon his wide belt. Bearded in past years, he now shaved daily, perhaps believing it made him look younger. Pointless, as he was nothing more than an aging savage.
Hedi glanced across the table at Emel. In his early forties with thinning red hair, he was the one person here this night who understood her false smile of submission. He had taught her self-preservation, to keep everything inside. Emel still lived, while so many of Darmouth's entitled nobles and officers ended their days on an iron spike upon the keep's walls. They dangled there until their bodies rotted enough to tumble into the lake and vanish from sight, if not memory.
Each time Darmouth shifted in his high-backed walnut chair, Hedi smelled musk and stale sweat. Reaching for the wine bottle, he brushed his forearm across the back of her hand, and she flinched. His sinewy limb was like knotted cord around a log, and covered in salt-and-pepper-shaded hair. She went rigid to keep from driving her dinner knife through his wrist.
Hedi smiled, demure as always.
Darmouth did not smile back. Instead his gaze moved down her burgundy satin gown and back up to her shoulder-length black curls. Emel stopped chewing when he noticed Darmouth's wandering eyes.
Emel had suggested the gown, and Hedi regretted her agreement. Though her attire pleased him, and that was acceptable, it was too low-cut in the presence of a murdering lecher like Darmouth. Pleasing such a man was as dangerous as defying him.
Seven officers were seated at the table, among them Lieutenant Omasta, head of Darmouth's personal guard. Between bites, Omasta tugged uncomfortably at his blond beard and gripped his fork awkwardly like a shovel. Normally these men ate off the same large platter or out of the pots while discussing military matters in the meal hall across the way. This entire dinner display of trays and wine sipped from plundered silver goblets appeared to be for Hedi's benefit alone.
Lord Darmouth gestured to the roasted pheasant ringed in mushrooms.
"Please, my lady," he said, voice deep and gravelly. "Have a bit more."
Perhaps she should be flattered. She could count the times he had used the word "please" on one hand. Apprehension overcame her revulsion.
"In a moment," she answered. "I would like some wine first."
He fumbled for idle conversation. "Where are you and Emel staying?"
"At the Bronze Bell."
"Yes… a fine inn."
A worthless exchange. They stayed at the Bronze Bell whenever Emel was called to Venjetz. No visiting noble was lodged in the keep-nor wished to be. Darmouth poured wine into her goblet. Hedi hoped she could swallow smoothly, as he bit into a pheasant leg, speaking while chewing.
"Emel, I want Tarovli put down before the winter celebration. I want his head, and I want any officers with him for crow's fodder."
The words were so casual that for one breath they didn't register upon Hedi. She stiffened and quickly relaxed before giving herself away.
"Of course, my lord," Emel said too slowly. "I've deployed troops and recalled Captain Altani from the north. The matter will be settled before the new moon."
Darmouth grunted acknowledgment. "I've enough trouble with that witch, Lukina, on my western border."
"Yes, my lord," Emel replied more quickly. "I've placed most of my own men under your officers there to assist with patrols."
More patrols, indeed. Hedi knew the growing number of raids across Darmouth's borders was more than the usual feints and jabs the provinces made at one another. The other tyrants of the Warlands watched Darmouth's grip tighten with each year. His hold weakened his own province, with the population decreasing and fewer men to conscript.
Lukina Vallo was not the only one becoming a threat. There were rumors of Dusan Abosi's forces thickening beyond Darmouth's northern border. And Tarovli's meager success at treachery from within was another sign of decay. One by one, Darmouth's nobles became starving dogs, turning on one another in desperation to survive. His territory was plagued from within, and the wolves of the Warlands were circling outside.
Hedi had learned of Mikhail Tarovli, like all other shadowy dealings in the province, from Emel. The young Count Tarovli had lured away enough conscripts to ambush a contingent of Darmouth's sparse cavalry. No one knew it was his doing at the time. Some upstart officer was always scheming, but Tarovli was exceptional or lucky. He managed to build his forces and arms for nearly three moons before his treachery was uncovered. Most never launched their first assault.
Tarovli was unfortunate, no matter how cunning, for he would not die quietly and quickly in the night. Hedi felt no pity for him.
Sometimes nobles and officers eliminated one another, seizing a rival's plan for their own. Hedi's knowledge of such intrigue was sparse, but lately she had grown more skilled at gleaning information. Her awareness and hatred grew like an ice-capped mountain constructed one pebble at a time.
Years ago, when Hedi was only fifteen, she, her mother, and her sisters were invited to a "ladies' evening" by her uncle's half sister. It was a long and strangely tense event of halting empty talk and cards, but they were kept so late that it was necessary to spend the night. When they returned home in the morning, the house servants said her father was still asleep in his chamber. Everyone assumed he had taken an evening out for himself and been up late as well. No one disturbed him, even as soldiers hammered at the manor doors before anyone finished stripping off their cloaks.
Andrey Progae, Hedi's father, had died alone in his bed, a thin blade precisely thrust into his skull just above the back of" his neck.
The order had come directly from Darmouth.
Hedi's uncle and his half sister never came under suspicion, not losing their place in this province. They raised not one finger for their kin. They were never outcast as the family of a traitor, like Hedi's mother and younger sisters, who starved to death in the streets.
Hedi had been more fortunate, or so it was said. She was given as mistress to Emel for his constant loyalty to Darmouth.