The Assassins of Thasalon

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  A groan from the neighboring cot drew everyone’s attention. Rach opened his eyes, blinked. His hand shot to his empty knife sheath, and he convulsed upward. One wild glare around placed his surroundings—the infirmary was common enough, but Nao’s guards by the door told him whose, and Penric’s and Bosha’s scowls hinted just how deeply he’d fallen into this new privy. He swung his legs out and bunched himself to stand, possibly to bolt.

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” said Pen. He nodded toward the guards, holding themselves fully alert. “They’re in better shape than you are, and… I’m a sorcerer, too.”

  Rach had just witnessed what havoc an infuriated sorcerer could wreak upon a man. With a muffled curse, he sank back on the edge of his cot, shoulders slumping.

  Pen’s narcolepsy skill, he knew, was painless to its recipient, who awoke from it with wits in good order apart from some natural disorientation. “I’m glad you’re back with us,” he told the bravo. “We were just talking about you.”

  A hiss through his teeth. “Tronio,” he muttered, as the last moments he could remember came up in his mind. “That sack of maggots…” His gaze went back to Pen. “And he ran like a rabbit from you?” His eyes narrowed. “Wait. You really are that sorcerer from Vilnoc! Jurgo’s hot man. What are you…”

  Doing here, Pen could finish for him. It did explain Pen’s vague sense of familiarity, not with Rach’s face, but with his soul, perceived so briefly on the roof of Pen’s atrium. Rach must have glimpsed Pen from a distance in Vilnoc as well.

  “I suppose I should start,” said Pen, “by telling you that everything Alixtra knew, I now know.”

  “Witless baggage,” Rach muttered. “Did Jurgo hang her?”

  “No. She was pardoned by a higher authority.”

  This making no sense to the bravo, he abandoned it for, “Tronio said her whelp was missing from Methani’s this morning. Upset about it. Did you have anything to do with that?”

  Pen glanced at Bosha, who offered him an innocent smile, somewhat glazed by the syrup of poppies. Yet another subject he’d managed to keep his interrogators from reaching?

  “Not your most pressing concern right now, I promise you,” said Pen to Rach. “Your own situation, I observe, is wholly upended since yesterday by Methani’s death. You’ve lost both an employer and a protector. But also a source of reprisal for any disloyalty.” Pen paused a moment to let that last sink in. “Leaving you quite anchorless.”

  Rach flinched, but returned only a wary scowl.

  “Learned Tronio would seem to have a similar problem,” Pen went on. “Is that why you both went to Lord Bordane this morning? I’m surprised you obtained an interview, as frantically busy as he must be today. Lawyers, archdivines, magistrates, autopsy results, matters of Methani’s truly massive estate falling upon his shoulders, reports no doubt demanded from the imperial palace, his own duties as a lord regent not paused… Your urgency to see him is no surprise, but he must have thought you an urgent matter to him as well, to interrupt all that for you.”

  More silence. Though as Rach perhaps reflected on what his own sorcerer had done to Bosha, his fear was heightening.

  “This whole affair is very tangled on the secular side, but my interest is only in its theological thread, the late Methani’s and Tronio’s uncanny demon-assassination scheme. Did Tronio go to Bordane because he was either involved with or knew of this secret? Is that why the lord regent was so willing to see you?”

  “Tronio thought he must be,” muttered Rach.

  “Had you ever observed this for yourself, earlier?”

  “I never knew anything about it at all, till Methani assigned me to take that jumped-up scrubwoman to do for Arisaydia.”

  “So you weren’t involved in the earlier murders? Ministers Hethel and Fasso, Prince Ragat?”

  Rach jerked back at this, plainly horrified by the depth of Pen’s knowledge given the perilous prominence of the victims. “No! Those weren’t anything to do with me! I only got saddled with it for Vilnoc.”

  “If this turns out to be true, it suggests you could find a better protector than Bordane. You might be able to negotiate some commutation from Princess Laris and Lord Nao, in return for sworn testimony against Tronio and Methani. They’ll be looking to secure such.”

  Rach was a fourth witness that Pen had overlooked, earlier. Pen trusted his unexpected arrival would not displace Alixtra as a pardon-candidate. The more, the merrier? suggested Des.

  By Rach’s expression, this was a fresh idea, risky but not instantly rejected.

  “And testimony against Lord Bordane…?” Pen went on, leadingly.

  Rach frowned, this time in thought. “If he was in on this demon-thing before, I never saw sign of it.”

  “Would you have?”

  “Likely not. Tronio might have, but…”

  “But?”

  “No, Tronio didn’t know before,” Rach decided, “because he spent the first part of the talk with Bordane angling to find out if Bordane knew. You ever watch two spiders trying to figure out if they’re going to mate, or eat each other? Like that. I finally gave up listening to the pair of them fencing around, and just told Bordane about it. He hardly reacted, which made it seem he must have been filled in by his uncle at some point.” Rach’s voice slowed as he felt his way to unwelcome new notions. “Except Bordane’s a pretty experienced politician by now, for all Methani treated him as his tool. I don’t think he could have survived this long at the imperial court if he hadn’t learned to lie even better than that rug Tronio.”

  “Might Methani have left some missive to Bordane about it to be opened in case of his death? An unnotarized codicil to his will, as it were?”

  Rach snorted. “The old snake would never have put something like this in writing. With Alixtra hanged in Vilnoc, Tronio thought knowledge of the scheme was just down to him, me, and maybe Bordane. He really wanted to make sure of Bordane.”

  “They have a saying in Lodi—two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.”

  “I expect they learned it from Thasalon. And if it was between me and Tronio… I wouldn’t give odds for my chances.”

  Pen’s brows rose. “Hence your making sure Bordane knew, one way or the other?”

  Rach looked truculent. “If Tronio wanted to make three into one, well, Bordane’s not beyond his reach if Prince Ragat wasn’t. But I figure it would be harder. Especially if Bordane was warned. Besides, he might have liked to take the scheme over for his own use.”

  Bosha’s assessment had been right, Pen decided; the retainer-bravo was neither stupid nor unobservant. “Well, a lot more than two know this secret by now,” said Pen. “Probably dozens. More by the hour, as Nao and Laris get their allies lined up.”

  Rach grimaced, looking sick.

  “I’d really recommend you try to make yourself one of them,” Pen advised, “while you still have a chance.”

  A noncommittal grunt.

  “Did Bordane order you to torture Bosha, by the way?”

  An irritated glance across at Bosha, who was sitting up and apparently enjoying this show to the fullest. Bosha’s lips stretched in a return non-smile. “He said we didn’t need to be gentle, but to make sure the prisoner he’d signed for was still alive at the end. He really did think Bosha’d had a hand in Methani’s death somehow, and he wanted to know how.”

  Not right, but not exactly wrong, either. Bordane’s frustrated suspicions were understandable.

  “Returning to my own thread,” said Pen, “where do you think Tronio might have gone when he hared off from Bordane’s storehouse?”

  “Why was he so terrified of you?” Rach asked back.

  “I doubt he was that afraid of me, but his demon was truly terrified by mine. It was giving him a lot of distracting noise just then. And, um, after two hours of interrogating Master Bosha, I expect his thinking was a trifle… snappish.”

  Rach snorted. But judging by the ugly damage to Bosha’s hands, Tronio wasn’t th
e only member of the pair that the evasive eunuch had worked into a froth.

  “Retreat and regroup might have seemed his best option, in that pressed instant. Sacrificing his rear guard for cover.”

  Rach’s teeth clenched at this reminder. Although, Pen reflected, if Rach’s account of the earlier interview with Bordane was true, it wasn’t exactly the first betraying move in that game.

  “So, where?” Pen prodded.

  “No idea,” said Rach. “Depends on if he thinks there’s still some counter he can make to you, or if he realizes it’s all up and there’s nothing for it but to try to get out of the country.” Rach sighed as if he coveted that last pick for himself, vainly.

  Pen must warn Nao to have the borders and ports watched, although how to square that with keeping Adelis’s arrival unimpeded… was Nao’s problem, Pen decided. “And if Tronio remains in Thasalon?”

  “No idea,” Rach repeated. “There’s his—your—Order’s chapterhouse, and that place in the eastern suburbs he keeps, but if he thinks he’s looked for, he’ll stay away from them.”

  Rach really had no more to offer on this problem, Pen decided. Although it did seem as if the events of the last—had it only been a day?—had cut away most of Tronio’s options, one way or another.

  By the reddening hue of the daylight filtering through the infirmary’s high windows, afternoon was advancing into evening. Pen hoisted himself from the cot and went over to the guardsmen.

  “The prisoner can go to whatever you have here for a lockup, now. He’s fully recovered, and he’s no amateur at violence, so watch him closely. If he decides he wants to talk to Lord Nao, let Nao know at once.”

  The guards consulted briefly with each other, and one went off, to return shortly with a small squad of mates. As Rach was marched off under this escort, Bosha sighed and sank back into his pillows, allowing his alert strain to ease at last.

  “That was masterly,” he said to Pen, as Pen sagged back onto his cot-perch with scarcely less fatigue. “A pleasure to watch you work, Learned.”

  “It wasn’t especially hard.” Pen shrugged. “It makes all the difference if a man has every reason to be loyal, or none.”

  A conceding nod.

  “I was thinking at first this might be another occasion for the shamanic weirding voice,” Pen admitted, “but it turned out not to be needed. That would have made me bleed, not him, though, so I’m just as glad.”

  “What, no setting his nerves on fire? I’m disappointed.”

  “There are subtler and more effective methods. Also much quieter.” Pen stretched his aching neck. “So. Shall I try to extract you from Nao’s custody and take you off to your ladies? I need to get back there myself and nail Iroki to my hip. Curse it, if I’d had him with me today this could be over already. I don’t want to be caught without him if I can find Tronio again. Somehow.” The now fully warned Tronio—Pen’s teeth gritted.

  “Gods I want to go home…” groaned Bosha.

  “That makes two of us.”

  Three, allowed Des. But we’re not done yet.

  No. Alas.

  Bosha inhaled for resolve. “But no. I’m probably safer here with the princess’s very loyal, muscular, and numerous men looking after me than even the Xarre mastiffs could manage. And… I wouldn’t be trailing any potential reprisals back with me.”

  “Mm. Bordane must be home by now, and have learned of you being filched away. But however much you irritate him, I’m not sure you’re at the top of his very long list of problems at present.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Do you have any notion of where in Thasalon Tronio might have gone to earth?”

  Bosha shook his head in regret. “No more than the egregious Rach, I’m afraid. Your guess is as good as mine. Better, given your shared callings.” And after a moment, curiously, “Do you think Tronio and his demon have the same aim by now?”

  There was a new thought. “Maybe… not.”

  I never saw a demon struggling harder to ascend, mused Des, with less hope of succeeding. Whatever else you could say of Tronio, he’s brim full of will.

  “Gah,” said Pen. “So many unknowns, still.”

  Bosha glanced around the infirmary at their temporary solitude, the guards not having returned from bestowing Rach yet. “So… do you know who poisoned Methani?”

  “Yes,” said Pen. “Do you?”

  That stretched non-smile again. “If you do, then I do. Well.” He raised one stiff, swollen hand to stroke the tail of his white queue, hanging limply over his shoulder. “She always was a quick study. Look after her till I can get back, yes? Both of them. As I can hold neither quill nor blade at the moment. Don’t let her do anything rash. More rash.”

  “I don’t think that was rash. It seems to have been very astutely managed. Apart from one servant who didn’t follow his instructions.”

  “Ah.” Bosha’s smile, into his lap, was briefly genuine. “That would be it.”

  By the time Pen had placed one more dose of uphill magic into Bosha’s hands, the guards returned, so he took his leave to go report the new developments—well, barring that last-discussed with Bosha—to Lord Nao and call for his wickerman. Dusk was closing in as he left the palace once more.

  The fit young wickerman lit his glassed lantern and raised it on its post. “Is Master Bosha going to be all right, learned sir?” he asked Pen diffidently as he was engaged in this task. The concern in his voice seemed sincere. He’d carried out all his duties today with an unmoved, sometimes wooden, countenance, but that last leg in particular had put a strain on his trained reserve. Pen wished he could be a fly on the wall for the gossip in the Xarre servants’ hall tonight.

  “Yes. He’ll be spending the night in Nao’s palace infirmary while he recovers a bit more.” Des added, curiously, “Do you like him?”

  The lad reflected. “Well, you don’t want to get on the sharp side of his tongue, that’s for sure. Or of his sword, I suppose. But… he kind of makes me laugh, sometimes? Not out loud, of course,” he added hastily. “The ladies rely on him like anything.”

  “Two-way street, son, two-way street,” Des murmured as he saw Pen up onto his seat. The wickerman nodded thoughtfully as he went to take up his shafts, and they rolled off for the long trip out to the eastern suburbs.

  Chapter 16

  The dusk had deepened, the night insects taking up their songs, when the wicker cart pulled quietly up to the Xarre front gate. The wickerman didn’t need to pound on it for admittance; they were watched-for. Cressets new-lit flickered on both sides, and several glowing lanterns sat along the top of the wall. Not one but three heads popped up among them: the porter, Alixtra, and Lady Tanar. Tanar leaned out precariously, her gaze searching, then disappeared. By the time the porter unbarred and swung the gate wide for the cart, she’d descended to the drive, bouncing in impatience at Pen’s elbow as he dismounted.

  “Sura?” she asked tensely.

  “Safely retrieved at Princess Laris’s palace.”

  “Why isn’t he with you?”

  “Well, technically, he’s still in the custody of lord regent Nao.” The more distressing details had better wait until they were in private, he judged. “I have a great deal to report to you two, and to Lady Xarre. Best to tell it all once.”

  She nodded understanding, seeming inclined to rush him to her mother’s chambers on the instant. Alixtra, less urgent, strolled up beside her hostess. Both were garbed from Tanar’s wardrobe in slightly worn day-at-home dresses that any Vilnoc seamstress would have prized. Pen fished out an extra coin for the wicker-lad, sweating from his speedy run, and waved him on to his stable.

  Some yips amid laughter from the adjoining lawn brought Alixtra’s head around, and she smiled into the lantern-shot shadows. “Kittio!” she called. “It’s time to come in, now. Bring the puppy and come meet Learned Penric.” The tenderness in her tone was entirely new to Pen.

  “Yes, Mama,” a breathless high voice returned.
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br />   Two young figures tumbled up to them: a skinny boy of five with a shock of dark hair, bronze-skinned, tunic and knees grass-stained, and what Pen recognized as a mastiff puppy from the Xarre kennels. It actually was a reasonable creature for a boy to be set to play with, Pen told himself, not yet looking ready for a saddle like its seniors, panting and sociable, with milk-teeth not fangs. Still drooling, though. The awkward size of its paws, which it tripped over galloping around its new friend, promised something more appalling for its future.

  “Kittio,” said Alixtra carefully when she’d captured and straightened the boy, her hands protective on his shoulders, “make your bow to Learned Penric. He’s a Temple sorcerer from Orbas, and has become my teacher.” A little pressure from behind prompted an unpracticed but willing dip.

  “How do you do, sir,” Kittio managed, credibly, then a little more doubtfully, “Divine-sir?”

  “Learned sir is the usual polite honorific for a divine, though Learned Penric, Penric or just Pen all work. My Temple demon is named Desdemona. Would you care to say hello for yourself, Des?”

  Amused, she cooperated: “Hello, grubby child. Pay attention to Penric, and you’ll do all right. That goes for your mama as well.”

  Kittio’s face screwed up, understandably uncertain if this was a jape at his expense. He looked Pen up and down, his Wealdean whites unfamiliar but obviously Temple-y, and leaned in to whisper, “Is it really really true mama’s become a sorceress…?”

  “Yes,” Pen said, bending down gravely, “really really true. She’s going to be a good one. When she finishes her theological training, you’ll have to call her learned ma’am.”

  Kittio, nonplussed at this news, accepted it as yet more adult incomprehensibility, to be lived with like the weather.

  Pen straightened back up to find Alixtra anxious, her smile gone thin-lipped. He expected he’d better curtail conversation on this interesting subject with Kittio until he’d found out what she’d told the boy already—he doubted she’d broached the magical assassin part yet. He gave her a reassuring nod, and her grasp relaxed. Kittio seized this release to crouch down to the wriggling puppy, ecstatic to greet him again after a half-minute’s inattention. Small hands rubbed brindled fur in fresh wonder.