Where was the boy?
Others came, on horseback, or on what passed for horseback in the North; little beasts, bow-backed or too spindly, sweating with the effort of carrying a man in real armor. Still, their weapons were sure, and what the North lost in riding—and it did lose—it gained in weapon-crafting and use.
Forty-three. Forty-three men had passed the fine, old gates when he saw the Callestan banners take the wind. He snapped to attention at once.
“Carlo!”
The younger man turned, pulling at his reins, and pulling at the bit, invisible, that bound him just as surely as his horse was bound. Ser Anton nodded in the direction of the gate, and Carlo, eyesight still undimmed by the passing of youth, saw at once what he referred to.
They came together, snapping into the full height of their shoulders and backs. This; they understood well. Even Carlo seemed to relax.
The Callestan guards came without their Tyr; that was expected. A man of the Tyr’agnate’s station did not condescend to join a common parade; it was too gaudy, too public, a display. But behind the Callestan banner flew another. He expected to see it; they all did. But it cut him, angered him.
The Ospreys. The Kalakar’s House Guards.
Carlo’s mouth opened; Ser Anton sliced the air as if it were the young man’s impulse. Silence reigned.
And following the flags, Callestan and the well-known white bird on a field of black in the center of the Kalakar House crest, came the young Valedan kai di’Leonne.
“Where did he get that horse?” Carlo said.
Ser Anton frowned; it was a minimal expression. Had Carlo seen it—and he could not, from his vantage—he would have ceased to speak in that minute. Possibly ceased to breathe. He did not.
But Ser Anton had to concede that the horse was fine; dark, and of a color except at face and foot, where black markings spoke of its Southern breeding. It was not the horse that caught his attention, not really the rider, because the rider, he expected.
It was the boy who rode at his back, white-haired, red-faced from the combination of summer heat and lack of the hat that was so practical, and by children so despised. His expression was hesitance and wonder, joy and fear of joy’s loss; it was the youth that Ser Anton did not remember possessing. The youth his own son—by the dictate of the kai Leonne—had been denied.
And would he have had such a youth as this, given his father? Not the first time he had asked such a question. Still, he was surprised at how pained he was to see young Aidan at the back of his chosen enemy. Because he knew that the simple boy would never understand, and never forgive, the success of his vendetta.
It passed. It always passed.
What did not was the determination.
“Who is the boy?” Carlo said, his voice muted.
“The same boy,” Andaro replied. As observant as his teacher, which was a pity.
“Was he a spy?”
“Don’t be an idiot. He is wind-brought, no more.”
Idiot, indeed. Ser Anton turned to the wisest of his students. “Andaro, watch here. I go to receive the witness tokens.”
Andaro nodded; it had been decided, long before this day, who would bear those tokens, and when those bearers would strike. Nothing, in the end, changed that.
Of Ser Anton’s students, eight had been chosen to participate in the Challenge. Had he not witnessed the prowess of the Northern Imperials for himself, Ser Anton di’Guivera would have been personally insulted—and surprised. Matters political did not rule contests such as these; tests of excellence required no more than excellence.
As if to give the lie to even the thought, the large jolly merchant that Andaro had personally chosen as witness stepped forward to join him. His hair was streaked white and pressed flat to his forehead by what could only be, as he could smell it at this remove, scented oils. His face was half again as wide as it was long, and the line of the jaw was hidden beneath the weight of a thinning beard.
“We had heard that the Leonne bastard had joined the Challenge. Both fortunate and unfortunate. Many of my kin will be present in the coliseum.”
By which, Anton knew, he referred to the merchants. It was true, but Anton felt a real, a rare, annoyance at the unwelcome intrusion. At the intrusion that should not have been an unwelcome one. They were here, after all, for the same purpose.
“Yes,” he said coolly. “There are.”
The merchant crossed his chest with the flat—and the fat—of large hands. They were ringed, like women’s hands; the clansmen found this appearance, this mockery of Northern wealth, the least threatening. It was in Pedro di’Jardanno’s best interest, and the best interest of his profession, to threaten as little as possible—unless that was his mission. “Have you taken his measure?”
“I?” Anton shrugged, turning his gaze to the boy. “In some things you must decide for yourself; do not turn to me for objectivity in this particular matter.”
That Pedro was irritated by the tone of Anton’s reply was obvious; that he expected as much, equally obvious. Anton maintained his reputation for a lack of any real finesse. Such lack had endangered his life before, but it had conversely saved it; and never more so than at times like this, when he truly despised the man so spoken to. Dangerous, that contempt; after all, he was a weapon, no more, and one did not waste one’s brief time despising a sword.
Except here, at a test of honor, between men of skill. The sun was not yet gone; the shadows it cast should not have been so long. But there she sat, the woman whose love still defined his life, watching, as he watched.
What would she have said, had she known that he stood beside a man who was—in the end—a servant of the Lord of Night? The brotherhood. It was not named; it was rarely called. Rumor said that it never failed.
He was done with rumor.
“He is taller than I expected.”
“And you had good reason, no doubt, to expect less.”
Pedro di’Jardanno was silent again, which was a good thing. Ser Anton did not relish the consequences of killing him, but the act itself was beginning to have its strong appeal.
“You are an . . . unusual man, Ser Anton. I would believe, were it not for your legendary dedication to a cause of your own choosing, that you have become too enamored of the event itself.”
“And if I were the type of man who cared what another thought, I might point out that legend indeed is the only home for such dedication as you claim for me.” His voice grew chill, robbing sun of warmth but not blistering heat. “Because if I were such a dedicated man as you imply, I would certainly have remained dedicated to my original goal: hunting the bandits who killed my wife and son.
“A man of your intelligence would of course realize that the Tyr’agar who ordered their deaths was a weak man, not a stupid one. There is no way that he would have trusted such information to mere soldiers, especially not to men of power and ambition such as the former General, Alesso di’Marente. Marente, therefore, did not have access to that information. Were I he, I would have chosen to call upon the Lady’s dark brotherhood—but had he, no word that they were assassinated would have escaped. They are not political creatures, that brotherhood.
“Which means he trusted only the perpetrators. And as that information did come to light, and so conveniently recently, it must mean that the man in the Tyr’s service who was given the orders still survives.”
Pedro said, “Your instructor—”
“Long dead.” Ser Anton’s smile was thin. “Which means, of course, that I have far to search, and that my answers will lie in the Court of the Tyr himself.
“Take for example you, Pedro di’Jardanno. I believe this is the first time that you have been under the command of the General.”
“A wise man would remember the rank of the man he serves.”
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��We both know that until he takes the Sword he is called Tyr by the sycophantic, cowards, and serafs. He knows it as well.”
“He would be greatly displeased to hear you speak thus.”
“And will you run back to him like a harem child to carry the tale?” Ser Anton shrugged. “He will choose to ignore it; he is practical. He needs my skill and my public support. He needs your skill. Just as, perhaps, another before him did.”
Pedro’s deceptively soft face paled. “Ser Anton—”
“Dedication,” Anton continued, unmoved. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I should examine more closely the men with whom our new Tyr surrounds himself. Perhaps I would find the hand responsible for the two deaths that have always driven me to succeed.
“You deal death at the whim of unscrupulous rulers. You always have. I am watching you—except, perhaps, on those rare occasions when something, such as this competition, catches my attention.”
“I . . . see.”
“Good.”
Pedro di’Jardanno walked away, pulling his heavy silk robes around a girth that was more show than fact.
It was ill-considered, to have spoken so freely. Foolish, especially when he did not consider Pedro to be the enemy, that final death which might give him back what remained of his life. Perhaps he was old indeed, to know this and care so little for its truth. He turned to see the kai Leonne standing silently with his men, the flat of his blade exposed to the sun’s light. The Lord’s gaze. His posture was perfect.
What had Ser Kyro said?
He would have died with us, rather than choosing to save his own life, as the Northern Kings offered. We are his kin by that action, Anton, and you fail to understand that, if you have come to me for approval.
And he had. Not obviously, of course; a man of his stature could ill afford to plead like some wayward child for the approval of his elders. But Kyro was a man his youthful self, long since buried under the weight of wind-brought sand, understood. Even admired.
Mari had liked him.
Mari was dead.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Evening, 17th of Lattan
Averalaan, Guesthouse in Avantari
The witnesses were given quarters adjacent to Avantari, the Palace of Kings. They were also given guards, in a manner of speaking. These were placed at the doors, the street windows, the long halls; they were stationed in the kitchen; they were, in short, everywhere, and far more numerous than the witnesses they purported to be guarding.
Aidan couldn’t understand it; not at first. He didn’t expect to, though; the Kings had money, and no one who had a lot of money had to make sense if they didn’t damned well want to.
And they had money all right. Aidan had meat for dinner that night, covered in weird sauce—he scraped his off—and after that, cream, sugar, fruit that was rare no matter what the season. Everything was pretty, and he regarded the food with a mixture of hunger, disdain, and curiosity before he was convinced that he wouldn’t make an idiot of himself by eating it.
There were three boys his own age, and one girl; they sat together, ate the same way, and eventually went off to their rooms by some silent mutual agreement. The woman in charge of the guesthouse had put them all in the same stretch of hallway because, as she said, there was at least some chance that one of them was paying enough attention to remember it. Sam—funny name, for a girl—was.
So he found his huge, empty room, on the second floor of what was a huge, bustling building, and he sat in the center of a bed six times too large, wondering what it was going to cost him to be here. When she smiled, Kalliaris was the most wonderful god in the world.
But when she frowned, you kind of forgot what the smiles were like. You beware, his mother used to say, of any luck you don’t make. He’d wondered, then, how the Hells you were supposed to make luck. But he almost understood what she meant: Things could go just that shade too well. Kalliaris liked the helpless and the downtrodden—and as long as you didn’t forget just how helpless or downtrodden you’d been, she was fair.
But forget—just forget for a minute who you owed your life to, and she reminded you. If you survived it.
Things were going too damned well, that was the problem.
That and he’d eaten way too much.
Evening, 17th of Lattan
Avantari
The moon was high.
Devon ATerafin had nothing against the moonlight. But shadows had a way of gathering. He was always wary of the shadows, and tonight he’d spent almost an hour watching them. Instinct spoke with its own voice. If not for that voice, he would be sleeping in the relative comfort of his own bed. Instead he waited here, his eyes straying between window, balcony, and door; the doors to this particular set of quarters were notorious in a very small circle of men and women.
Devon disliked silent doors as a matter of principle, but the very particular Patris Larkasir insisted that they be well-oiled and otherwise perfectly maintained. Patris Larkasir’s loyalties lay with the Kings, and in his job as the overseer of the Royal Charters and Trade, he was peerless. Devon had had the privilege of working with him for just over two decades, and he knew that the only security issue Patris Larkasir cared much about was that of his information. Whether or not someone could enter the office quietly was not a matter of concern; as far as Patris was concerned there was actually no such thing as too quiet.
Devon adapted. It was not one of the traits for which he was known in general, but it was one of the traits that he had found most useful in his long career.
The door, when it opened, opened, as expected, silently; had he not been watching for the movement he might have missed it, and he missed very little. But he swore under his breath when he saw who stepped through it.
And of course, being who it was, he heard; Kallandras of Senniel missed nothing that could conceivably be heard, distance notwithstanding.
“You were expecting me, I see. Did she summon you, as well?”
“She?”
In the darkness, the bard was dark, as much a part of the shadows as—as Devon himself. They were dressed for darkness, both of them, or rather, dressed to take advantage of it. Kallandras raised a fair brow. “If you did not see her, you must tell me one day what, exactly, you were waiting for.”
“I’ll trade,” Devon said, with a smile that was slightly less sharp. “You tell me what on earth you thought you’d find here.”
“You,” Kallandras replied. He stepped back through the open door, leaving his voice behind. “I don’t think we’ve much time.”
“Time for what?” Devon followed him quietly; they moved, both men, as if movement itself were suspect.
The bard did not answer.
Aidan hadn’t thought to tell his Da much; only that he was going to wait in the streets until the parade of champions had passed him by. He’d half-hoped his Da might join him; they’d done it less than two years past. But his Da was working, and as he said, the parade was the best time to catch up on the work that needed doing, what with everyone gawping like farm boys.
Three days. Da. You take care.
I will.
Three days, then.
He remembered this in the dark of night; the moon through open courtyard and half-closed glass—glass!—cast a weak shadow across the sheets as he sat bolt upright.
Da’s going to kill me.
He lurched out of bed, hit the ground with a grunt. The beds were a lot taller here than they had been in the old house. In the rooms above the shop, bed was a flat mat that sat on the floor; didn’t much matter if you rolled out of that. Cradling his arm, he got shakily to his feet. He’d bitten his lip to stop from shouting; everyone else was sleeping and besides, he didn’t need them to think he couldn’t even get out of bed without injuring himself.
He hadn’t
brought much in the way of clothing, and he’d spent the last of the evening trying to clean what he had brought. The shirt was still wet when he pulled it over his head. Nothing dried in weather like this.
But he hadn’t taken off the medallion. Pulling it out from beneath the damp folds of shirt, he made sure it would be plainly visible; the guards would ask otherwise.
What are you going to tell them? That you have to go home and tell your dad where you are? That brought him up short. He stood there, hand on the door, sure he was going to look like a complete fool.
Better to look like a fool than to be one. His grandmother’s words. His mother’s. His Da never said anything like that; looking like a fool, or feeling like one, always made him angry. Made Aidan wonder if he was getting to be too much like his Da.
And that made him open the door.
It was unexpectedly dark in the hall. The torches must’ve burned down. It surprised him; the whole place just reeked of money, and money meant light. Torches, oil, mage-stones, windows the length of a wall and the height of the ceiling. But down the long hall some lights were burning, and he shrugged, closed the door, and started toward them.
Until he saw that they were bobbing. Moving. They dropped once to the ground, or rather, seemed to bend that way. Beneath the glow of lamp, he could see an exposed back, laid out, facing a ceiling entirely absorbed with night. It shimmered under the pale glow of lamplight. The light rose again; the body did not.
Aidan didn’t know much, but he wasn’t stupid.
He held his breath, backed down the hall. In the distance he could hear first knocking, muffled slightly, and then a creak. The whole hall wasn’t in use. It wasn’t. He told himself that. And maybe they weren’t going to open every door. Maybe they were just—just looking to steal something. Something like that.
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