“Straight to business as always, aye, Perdeus?” He grinned, a vulture contemplating its next meal, “You know, you should really learn to appreciate the small things in life, its little pleasures. There are so many, after all.”
You mean so many young women you can blackmail or have your guards force into your bed, or maybe it’s the servants you terrorize—yes, I’ve heard the stories. Oh, I want none of your ‘little pleasures’ you old bastard. Or so he thought. What he said was, “Of course you’re right, sir. I suppose some of us, perhaps, appreciate life’s little pleasures more than others.”
Some of his disgust must have come through in his tone because the other man frowned. “Have you ever wondered, Perdeus, why I have been blessed with the title of Prefect while you, despite your admitted intelligence and dedication to the Divines, have never been granted a position past that of High Priest?”
And how many have you left destitute and destroyed in your wake, I wonder? “Some of us are more deserving and, therefore, more blessed, than others, I expect.”
“Indeed,” the prefect said, still frowning as if he could read Perdeus’s thoughts, “the Divines, of course, in their infinite wisdom, choose who will rise and fall in their service. Of course, your lack of success is also, I suspect, in part due to your friendship with that rebel—oh, I’ve read the records, but I do have a terrible way with names. What was it … oh yes, Parin Shale.” He made a tsking sound, “Regrettable that. After all, how could you have known the man was a heathen and a traitor?”
Perdeus schooled his features, fighting the urge to fling himself at the man, bad leg and all, and see if that ruffled the old vulture’s feathers.
When Perdeus didn’t respond, the prefect frowned as if disappointed, “Yes, a truly regrettable thing, a black mark on an otherwise superb record. Not that it could be held against you, of course, nor should it, but, well … people will whisper, won’t they?”
And you the loudest of them all. “I am satisfied to serve the Divines in any way they see fit, be it modest or otherwise.”
The prefect grinned, his head bobbing on his scrawny neck, a bird pecking at its meal, “Yes, yes, exactly so, exactly. Still,” he said, “I do find it sad that such an uncontrollable situation has stained your career. I suppose that if poor old Orlen was alive now, he’d be surprised, don’t you?” Perdeus had spent his early years in the Church being trained alongside Saliander and Orlen, the priest in charge of training them, had put Perdeus forward as a candidate for priesthood two years before reluctantly putting Saliander’s name forward. If the whispers were to be believed, the old priest had not done so of his own free will but at Saliander’s … call it, urging. After all, priests have families like everyone else and, like everyone else, will do much to keep them safe. “I suspect,” Perdeus said after a time, “that our former master would not have been surprised in the least at the … greatness you have achieved.”
“Ah, well that is very kind of you to say, old friend.” The prefect turned to his two guards, “Leave us.”
“Sir—” one began, and the Prefect waved an annoyed hand, “Go, I said! I’m sure I’m quite safe in the office of an old friend, especially considering that this particular old friend happens to also be a cripple.”
The two men glanced uncertainly at each other, but they left the room, closing the door behind them.
Saliander waited for the door to close then turned back to Perdeus, rolling his eyes, “I’m sure those fools are quite good at stabbing things, but they’re not good at much else, I can tell you that. Still,” he said with an effected sigh, “when a man reaches a certain … status, shall we say, it behooves him to have bodyguards.”
“Of course.”
“Oh,” Saliander said, as if just realizing something, “I do hope I didn’t offend you by calling you a cripple.”
“Not at all,” Perdeus said, smiling and gesturing to the place where his foot used to be, “I am, after all.”
Saliander laughed as if they’d just shared a great joke, his hand on his stomach as if struggling to contain his mirth, “Quite so, quite so. Well, I just wanted to come by and tell you the good news in person.”
“Oh?” Perdeus asked warily. Good news to a man like Saliander meant that someone, somewhere, was having a really bad day.
“Yes, well, correct me if I’m wrong, but is the Harvester, Cameron Shale, not the son of your old, regrettably traitorous, friend?”
“So he is.”
“Ah, and you have perhaps heard of his betrayal of the Church?”
“I have,” Perdeus said, his skin going cold.
“A sad thing, but not wholly unexpected. It’s in the blood, you see, and one cannot argue with the blood. I told them as much, years ago, if you’ll recall. I told you as much.”
“I remember.”
“Yes, well, at any rate, I thought you’d like to know that the man is dead, executed for his crimes. And, perhaps, finally, the family’s cruel, dark legacy will no longer mar your own. Exciting, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” Perdeus said, swallowing back the building rage that the man’s mention of Cameron had caused, “I … thanks for telling me this, prefect, and I wonder if you would mind terribly if I have to call this meeting short? I am very tired.”
“Oh, but you haven’t heard the best part,” Saliander said, smiling larger than ever, “there’s more.”
Perdeus leaned back in his chair, suddenly anxious. “More?”
“You’re aware, of course, of the rebellion led by this Memory person that has been plaguing our city?”
Perdeus began to feel a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he nodded, schooling his features, “I am.”
“Well, let us say that it is no longer a concern.”
Divines look over her. “Oh?”
“That’s right. You see, one of the traitors came forward and told Harvester Marek everything. The attack was to happen tonight and, by now, I doubt if there’s a single traitor left breathing.”
“You’re … certain?”
The prefect showed his teeth again in that cruel grin, “Oh quite, certain.”
Divines, if you are real, please give me strength. They were dead, then. All of them. Memory. Cameron. Yet he still lived, alive and useless, as always. Unable to do anything but watch those he loved die. “So what will happen now?” He asked, feeling numb.
“Now? Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Marek is under the impression—and, frankly, I agree with him—that the rebellion couldn’t have been as successful as it was without help from inside the Church. What’s more, the man who came to him pretty much confirmed as much. It is also clear that this man, or woman, must be fairly high up in the Church’s hierarchy.”
“You can’t be serious,” Perdeus said, “do you mean that a Harvester betrayed us?”
Saliander grinned, “Or a High Priest.” He shrugged, “Oh, there’ll be an investigation, and I’m sure that Marek’s men will keep a few of the poor bastards alive for questioning.”
Perdeus nodded, and once more had to fight down the urge to launch himself at the grinning fool. An old bastard and an old cripple wriggling and struggling on the ground. What a spectacle we’d make. “It sounds as if everything is well in hand.”
“Oh, it is.” Then, as if he’d just thought of it, “Oh, by the way, do you still have the essence for Falen Parcival? The clerk’s records indicated that you volunteered to collect it.”
Perdeus hesitated, but there was no use lying, not at this point. “I do.”
“Wonderful,” Saliander said, “I will take it and any others you may have when I leave, if you don’t mind.” And even if I do, I suspect.
“I’m going by the castle to visit the king at tonight’s Midyear Ball,” Saliander continued, “and I will transfer them to him there, saving you a trip. I know that it is no easy thing for you to journey to the castle, what with your handicap. As for the investigation … I would suggest you stay here for a
time. Considering your past with the traitor’s family, and now that the father and son are both dead,” He paused, shrugging with obvious enjoyment, “well, it’s possible that Marek may have some questions for you. I wonder, Perdeus, if, should he have lived to see the coming weeks, our mentor’s mind would have, perhaps, been different regarding the two of us.”
You know, don’t you, you bastard? Perdeus thought, you know, and you think to toy with me. He took a moment, gathering his courage, his thoughts racing, then he came to a decision. He smiled, feeling at peace for the first time since the night his friend had been murdered. “The traitor killed, the rebellion crushed, and it seems that I will even be saved a trip to the castle on my wounded leg. Truly, this calls for a celebration. Tell me, Saliander, do you still enjoy wine?”
The prefect studied him across the desk, his eyes sparkling, “Wine is one of life’s small pleasures, of which I am particularly fond.”
Perdeus nodded, “That is well. I have an aged Tarsean that I have been saving for just such an occasion, should you care to do me the honor of sharing it with me.”
“A Tarsean,” Saliander said, whistling, “Why, I do suppose I could be persuaded.”
“Very well.” Perdeus withdrew a dusty wine bottle from his desk along with two glasses. He blew off the bottle, revealing the gold inlaid image of a pile of grapes lying in front of a golden sun—the mark of the Tarseans—and passed it to Saliander. “If you would do the honors.”
“Oh, if you insist,” the other man said, studying the bottle of nearly priceless wine with avid, greed-filled eyes. He took the corkscrew Perdeus offered and opened it, smelling daintily at the bottle. “Ah, excellent. The Tarsean were the best vintners of our age, until the drought hit Tarsa, of course. I, myself, have only tasted such on one other occasion. And what is that aroma?” He asked, sniffing at the bottle again, “A hint of honey? Cloves, perhaps?”
Perdeus smiled widely again, “Yes, something like that, I believe.” He poured them both a glass, sliding one toward the prefect.
Saliander took the glass, started to drink, then paused, smiling widely at Perdeus. “Oh, you must forgive me old friend. Being as this is your wine you are kind enough to share with me, of course you should have the first taste.”
Perdeus waved a hand, “There need not be such formality between old friends. Please, help yourself.”
The prefect’s smile and friendly manor vanished in an instant, and he studied Perdeus with hard, calculating eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, but I believe I must insist.”
The two men studied each other across the desk for several seconds, each of them thinking their own thoughts. “Oh, if you insist,” Perdeus said, “how can I refuse?”
He held his glass up in silent toast then took a long, slow drink of the wine, closing his eyes and relishing the silken feel of the liquid as it coursed its way down his throat.
Saliander watched him for several seconds then nodded and, smiling, took a sip of his own. “Ah. Better, even, that I remembered it.”
They sat in silence for a time, each drinking their wine. Perdeus refilled his own cup as well as Saliander’s. The prefect coughed gently into one hand then raised the glass to his lips again before he was suddenly overcome with a coughing fit, and he dropped the glass to the ground where it shattered, spilling wine onto the floor. He continued to hack, covering his mouth with the sleeve of his robe. When he’d finally gained control of himself once more, he lowered his arm and stared wide-eyed as his sleeve came away red with blood. “Ah, but I don’t feel well. Not well at all.”
Perdeus nodded slowly, “That would be the poison.”
Saliander’s eyes went wide as he stared at Perdeus. Then, after a moment, he laughed, “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Perdeus. After all, you drank first. I watched you.”
Perdeus smiled and paused long enough to cough into his own hand. “So I did.”
Saliander’s brows drew down, and he frowned, studying Perdeus as he smothered a fresh bout of coughing in his sleeve. “This is ridiculous,” he said. He made to rise but the strength went out of his legs, and he stumbled, knocking over the chair in which he’d been sitting before falling to the ground. He turned to stare at Perdeus with disbelieving eyes, “But … why?” He gasped.
Perdeus stared down at him from his desk, “Did you think that you could kill Palen, my friend, and not face any consequences for it? Did you truly think me such a coward? Well. You were right, Saliander. I am a coward. But, then, they say that poison is a coward’s weapon.”
“Y-you damned fool,” the old man croaked, “You’ve killed us both. You’ll die the same as me.”
Perdeus nodded, “I will. But, then, I’ve been dead for a long time now, Saliander. Since I stood by and watched while you had an innocent man and his wife murdered. And now you think to come and gloat, to gloat about having his son killed as well? You think to come to me and brag about the deaths of women and children?”
He struggled to remain calm as he felt the poison running in his veins, struggled not to shout. He did not want to alarm the guards, not yet. He still had some things to take care of. He rose, stifling another cough in his hand, before looking back down at the dying man, “Well,” he said, wiping away a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, “in the face of enough abuse, even a coward might find his courage. You may find it interesting to know that I purchased this wine not a week after Palen’s execution, after his murder. I do hope you enjoyed it.”
Saliander tried to speak, but he’d drunk more of the wine than Perdeus, and instead what came out was a wet, choking sound as he sprayed blood onto the floor. He convulsed then and blood began to fill his eyes, trickles of it running from his ears. Then he began to shake, his entire body twisting and writhing until, finally, he lay still and unmoving.
Perdeus nodded, took another sip of the wine—it mattered little now, and his throat was so damned dry. He reached for the drawer of his desk and tried to open it, but his fingers did not want to obey his commands, and it took him three tries. There was no cure for Maiden’s Bane, and motor function was one of the first things to go. Eventually, however, he did manage to open the drawer, and he withdrew from it a pen and a piece of parchment. Then, he took from another drawer a small vial filled with what appeared to be golden mist and sat it carefully on his desk. His vision blurring, he smiled and forced his shaking hand to be as still as he could make it. Then he began to write.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Well,” Nicks said, wiping sweat from his forehead, “What now?”
They sat in a tavern, all of them slumped in their chairs, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. All that was, Nicks noted sourly, except for Cameron. The man had been in a life or death struggle no more than an hour ago, had the wounds to prove it, but he sat easily enough now, his breathing soft and regular while Nicks was fairly certain his lungs had gotten together and decided that their best course of action was to mount a concerted revolt against their owner.
They’d dropped Memory’s niece off at the rebellion safe house where the others were—a sanctuary meant for one or two in a pinch, that was now so packed with people it was a wonder they could breathe—and had ran on until they’d finally walked into this tavern to regroup. And a good thing that. If Nicks had to go another step just now he was fairly certain he’d have a heart attack and be thankful for it, and Blinks’s huge, gasping breaths sounded more like a blacksmith’s bellows than a man.
Cameron flexed his hand into a fist, wincing at the pain that flared in his arm. Memory’s healer had cleaned and bandaged the wound for him, but it still ached, and he didn’t like how unresponsive his sword arm was becoming as it stiffened. The way things were looking, he’d have need of it before the night was done.
He glanced up and noticed the others looking at him, waiting to see what he would say, waiting for him to tell them what to do. The problem, of course, was that he’d never been much for planning. That had always been Falen’s job. The thought o
f his partner sent a fresh wave of anger and grief coursing through him, but he pushed it away with an effort, turning to Memory and shaking his head. “If it was up to me, I’d get you and your people out of the city. The Church will be out in force and it’s only a matter of time before they find where your people are staying. That said, it’s your show. You tell me where you need me, and I’ll go.”
A strange look passed over the woman’s face then she shook her head, slowly. “I don’t like leaving them there either, but I don’t believe we have a choice, not yet. I met with our mutual friend before the attack, and I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“Shocker,” Nicks muttered.
“Perdeus?” Cameron said, leaning forward in his chair, “How is he?”
“He was fine when I left him,” Memory said, liking the Harvester even more for the obvious concern that showed in his face. “But, some of the things he said … well, we have a problem.”
Nicks glanced at Blinks who was finally getting his breathing under control, “Thank the Divines for that, anyway. Many more easy days like today, I swear I’ll die of boredom.”
Blinks frowned, “Nicks, I don’t think—” he cut off as Nicks held up a hand, his eyebrows drawing down dangerously.
Memory smiled, but it faded quickly as she recounted the High Priest’s words. When she was done, Nicks sighed, “Just so I’m clear … we’re supposed to somehow sneak into the ball past, oh, who knows maybe a guard or a hundred, then we’re supposed to track down a necklace that no doubt the entire Church is bent on keeping hidden and guarded, and, once we accomplish these two impossible tasks, we’re to get to the king—without the Church’s knowledge—and return the necklace all in … what, a few hours?”
He glanced to the Harvester and was surprised to find the man smiling. Cameron nodded, his eyes never leaving Memory, and Nicks was even more surprised to find that she was smiling too, her own eyes locked on the Harvester. “Well,” Cameron said, “I don’t have anything else going on.”
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