“I’m here to see Franz Gillam,” Wrayan explained, when it became obvious the Doorman didn’t intend to let him pass.
“Why would he want to see you?”
“Professional courtesy,” Wrayan replied. “I am Wrayan Lightfinger, the head of the Krakandar Thieves’ Guild.”
The big man squinted at him suspiciously. “Sorry, but I’ve met the Wraith before, lad. And you ain’t him.”
“Well, actually, I am Wrayan the Wraith, as I’m sure Franz will tell you once he’s—”
“I met the Wraith a good twenty years ago, boy,” the Doorman said. “Back before you were old enough to know what a thief is. So why don’t you run along, eh? And next time you want to honour the God of Liars, pick someone your own age to impersonate.”
Wrayan stared at the man, startled to realise he hadn’t been recognised because of his youthful appearance. Wrayan knew his Harshini ancestry meant he didn’t age like other men, but it never occurred to him he hadn’t aged at all. Nobody mentioned it in Krakandar. Maybe, because they saw him every day, they didn’t notice time had been kinder to him than it was to other men. But here in Greenharbour, where he hadn’t been seen for twenty years, the difference between Wrayan Lightfinger and ordinary mortals was patently obvious. And a lot harder to explain away.
He debated arguing with the Doorman and then shrugged. “Very well.”
Turning away, Wrayan headed down the street, mostly to shield his eyes from the Doorman so he wouldn’t see him drawing his power. As soon as he rounded the corner, Wrayan drew a glamour to himself that would make the Doorman’s eyes slide right over him without noticing he was there, and then he walked back down the street, past the Doorman and—without so much as a whimper of protest from the guild’s most fierce and loyal protector—let himself into the headquarters of the Greenharbour Thieves’ Guild.
Wrayan might not have aged much, but Franz Gillam had been ravaged by time. When Wrayan opened the door to the old man’s office, he was confronted by a shrivelled, wrinkled little figure who seemed to be huddling inside someone else’s skin, and it didn’t fit him well. The room was lit with several guttering candles and had an air of musty decay about it, much the same as the wizened figure behind the desk.
The old man looked up when he heard the door, smiling serenely. “Have I died?”
“Not that I know of,” Wrayan replied, a little confused. “Why?”
“I’m seeing ghosts from the past. I thought maybe it meant I’d finally slipped away.” Franz Gillam shifted a little in his chair, grimacing. “No, it still hurts like hell, so I must be alive. You’re definitely a ghost from the past though.”
“You know who I am?”
“Wrayan the Wraith. The Greatest Thief in all of Hythria,”
Wrayan smiled and closed the door behind him. “Dacendaran will be very happy to hear you say that, Franz.”
“I do what I can to appease my god,” the old man replied. “I thought you were running things in Krakandar these days?”
“I was … or still am, actually. I’m only visiting Greenharbour.”
“Pity,” Franz sighed. “How did you get past the Doorman?”
“Magic.”
The old man smiled, assuming Wrayan was joking, and pointed to the decanter on the bureau by the door. “Pour me a drink, eh, lad? For old times’ sake?”
Wrayan did as he asked and then took a seat on the overstuffed sofa opposite Gillam.
“This damn plague has gutted our ranks,” Franz remarked, taking an appreciative sip of brandy. “Three of my best men were taken in the first month, including the man I had marked as my successor. Damned if I know how I managed to survive.”
“Death has enough trouble running the seven hells, I would imagine,” Wrayan suggested. “He probably doesn’t want you down there complicating things.”
Franz chuckled. “You don’t believe all those rumours about me being a tyrant, do you, Wrayan?”
“Are they only rumours? I thought they were well-established facts.”
Amused, perhaps even a little proud of his vicious reputation, the old man’s gap-toothed smile widened. “You flatter an old man.”
“Then my work here is done.”
Franz grinned even wider and took another sip of brandy. “You’re looking well, Wrayan Lightfinger, I have to say. I swear you haven’t aged a day since I saw you last.”
“Just lucky, I suppose.” He shrugged.
If Franz thought there was another reason for Wrayan’s lack of visible aging, he gave no sign of it. “What can I do for you, Wrayan?”
“Nothing much,” the thief told him. “I just thought I’d drop by and let you know I was in town.”
“You’ve been in town for a couple of weeks. And staying at Princess Marla’s townhouse, I hear.”
Wrayan wasn’t surprised to learn Franz already knew of his presence in Greenharbour. Not much got past the old rogue. He shrugged again, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about a thief being a guest in the home of a princess. “You know how it is.”
“Actually, with you, Lightfinger, I’m not really sure how it is. You never did tell me how you came to be such a close confidant of the High Prince’s sister.”
“No,” Wrayan agreed. “I never did, did I?”
The old man sighed. “And you’re never going to either, I suspect. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you? I like the idea of a man in your position owing me a favour.”
“There might be one thing,” Wrayan replied.
“Name it.”
“What can you tell me about Galon Miar?”
Franz Gillam took a long time before answering.
“He’s—” Wrayan began, thinking perhaps that Franz didn’t know who he was.
“I know who he is. How do you know him?”.
“I don’t know him. He’s … the friend of a friend.”
“He’s nobody’s friend, Wrayan.”
“You do know him, then?”
The old man drained the last of his brandy. “Known him since he was a lad. His father placed him with the Assassins’ Guild when he was just a boy, maybe nine or ten. A gifted student who exceeded everyone’s expectations, to hear the Raven tell it.”
“Who’s his father?”
“You don’t know?” Franz slid his glass across the desk for a refill. “His father is … or rather was … Ronan Dell.”
That news left Wrayan speechless. He filled the glass from the decanter and slid it back to Franz.
“He’s a bastard, of course—in the quite literal sense, as well as any other way you care to name. I think his mother was a court’esa. One of the few slaves that deviant monster, Ronan Dell, didn’t manage to kill. Or maybe he did kill her, come to think of it. Just not in his usual manner. She was barely thirteen when she gave birth, I hear. She didn’t survive the experience.”
“What did he do with the boy?”
“Took the child in and raised him in his palace as if he was his legal-born heir, as far as I recall. He doted on the child. Trouble was, you can’t flaunt your bastard too openly when you’re hoping to make a match with a respectable family, and Dell would have married the High Prince’s own sister if he could have got away with it. He might have, too, except old Kagan Palenovar talked Lernen into doing a deal with Fardohnya instead.”
“A deal the High Prince also reneged on.”
“Who can trust the highborn to keep their word on anything?” The old thief shrugged. “Anyway, as soon as the boy turned nine, Ronan apprenticed Galon to the Assassins’ Guild. I don’t know who he arranged to have killed, but the guild usually only accepts highborn bastards in payment for services rendered, so I suppose he had someone disposed of. It wasn’t as if Ronan Dell lacked for enemies.”
“Then Galon Miar’s not likely to be a Patriot,” Wrayan speculated.
“Miar! A Patriot? If that man had his way, he’d slit the throat of every soul in Greenharbour who dared to even think like a Patriot,
Wrayan. That’s common knowledge.”
“It’s unusual, isn’t it, for any assassin to express a political opinion?”
“Understandable, though,” Franz replied. “It was young Galon who discovered his father’s household had been massacred and raised the alarm a few hours after it happened. Walking into that bloodbath is going to leave a mark on any sixteen-year-old boy, even one training to be an assassin.”
And now, twenty-five years later, he’s courting the woman who ordered the assassination of his own father, Wrayan thought, frowning. “I heard he was romantically involved with Alija Eaglespike.”
Does she know who he is? Wrayan wondered. Does Alija know she’s sleeping with the son of a man she had killed? And if Galon Miar knew it was Alija who murdered his father, how would he have kept his knowledge from her?
Like any thief, Wrayan knew the rumours claiming the Assassins’ Guild had long ago developed techniques involving mental discipline that enabled an assassin to shield his mind. The stories were as old as the Assassins’ Guild itself, a remnant of a time when the Harshini roamed the world at will. According to the legends, when an assassin was caught killing a man, it had been a simple matter for the Harshini to read his mind and learn the name of the man who had commissioned the crime. Under Harshini law the one who ordered the kill was the guilty party, not the assassin who wielded the blade. An assassin they considered nothing more than a tool in the hand of the real killer.
To counter the Harshini mind-readers and protect the identity of their clients, the Assassins’ Guild had sought a way to make their assassins impervious to Harshini interference and had—according to legend, at least—come up with a way of blocking certain unwanted (and incriminating) memories from the reach of a probing Harshini mind, through a series of mental exercises that took years to master. It was fear of the Harshini exposing them that also gave rise to the practice of keeping assassins ignorant of anything other than the name of their intended victim. Over time, ignorance proved just as effective as discipline. Brilliant mental control or not, even the Harshini couldn’t take information from an assassin’s mind that wasn’t actually there.
But that gave rise to another question. Did Galon Miar have that sort of mental discipline? Or was he playing a different game? One that meant it mattered little if Alija discovered he was Ronan Dell’s bastard.
“Galon Miar’s love affairs are often common knowledge,” Franz said dismissively, forcing Wrayan to abandon his unsettling train of thought to concentrate on what the old man was saying. “He’s a real charmer. Should have been a court’esa, not an assassin. Women trip over each other trying to climb into his bed. It’s this whole dangerous assassin allure, I think. He’s a good-looking man and some women like the menace he represents.”
“Still, sleeping with the woman who orchestrated his father’s murder? Hardly the actions of a dedicated Royalist.”
“Which just proves how far he’s willing to go, to achieve whatever it is he’s after. Galon Miar is working to his own agenda, Wrayan. Take my advice and don’t get involved.”
Wrayan frowned, wondering if Galon Miar’s interest in Princess Marla was also part of his private agenda. If it was, then he should warn the princess. Marla was probably the most careful person Wrayan knew, but she was grieving and vulnerable at the moment. There was always a chance she could be seduced by a charming smile and the thought of something so forbidden that just thinking about it was an aphrodisiac. He knew exactly how that felt.
Swallowing the last of his brandy, Wrayan rose to his feet. “I’ll tell my friend to be careful. Thanks for the drink.”
“You planning anything while you’re here?”
“Nothing at the moment,” he assured the guild head, understanding that Franz was asking about his larcenous plans, not his social calendar. “But you never know when an opportunity will present itself. And I do have Dacendaran dogging my heels, making sure I earn my ‘greatest thief’ title.”
The old thief smiled. “That’s one thing I’ve always liked about you, Wrayan. You really are a true believer.”
“Do you doubt the God of Thieves exists?” Wrayan asked, a little surprised to hear such an admission from the head of a Thieves’ Guild. He forgot sometimes that the Harshini were long gone and the gods didn’t appear to others the way Dace appeared to him. When one had proof of the gods’ existence, it seemed strange to confront someone forced to rely on faith.
The old thief shook his head ruefully. “If he does, with your devotion, you’re far more likely to run into him than I am, son.”
“Shall I tell Dacendaran you’re expecting a visit from him when I see him next?”
“You do that, Wrayan,” Franz chuckled. “I’m an old man, and I’ll die someday soon. It’d be nice to know—before I go—that I devoted my life to an entity who actually exists.”
“Dacendaran exists, Franz. You have my word on it.”
“You say that with such sincerity, I almost believe you.”
“Believe it, Franz,” he assured the old man. “And be grateful he’s not in the habit of dropping in on you. He can be a little … trying.”
Franz looked surprised to hear Wrayan admit such a thing. “And here, all this time, I thought you worshipped our god unconditionally.”
“I believe in him, Franz. And I honour him every chance I get. But worship … ? As a good friend of mine is fond of saying—nobody knows better than I that the gods exist. Whether I believe them worthy of adoration is an entirely different matter.”
“And which good friend would that be?”
His hand on the door, Wrayan smiled cryptically at the old thief as he pulled it open. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“You have too many secrets, Wrayan Lightfinger.”
“As do you, old man.”
“True, but mine won’t get me killed.”
Wrayan looked at him curiously. “What makes you think mine will?”
Franz Gillam eyed him up and down. “You come here in the dead of night, looking no older than you did two decades ago. You’re in Greenharbour as a guest of the most powerful woman in Hythria and you’re here asking about the most dangerous assassin in the country. That’s more secrets in one day than I deal with in a year.”
“Don’t worry about me, Franz. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m not worried about you,” the old thief told him. “Nor am I a fool. You’re not visiting a city recovering from the plague out of concern for your health, my old friend. You’re up to something, Wrayan Lightfinger, and if it involves Galon Miar and Marla Wolfblade, it’s the rest of Hythria I fear for.”
CHAPTER 43
Furious her summons had been ignored, Marla paced her room for a good hour before she felt settled enough to attempt sleep. She was unaccustomed to such rudeness, even among her peers. To be treated in such a cavalier manner by a common-born assassin was more than she could tolerate.
You are a damned fool, she told herself, as she began to undress. She had dismissed her slaves when she retired, not wishing them to witness her agitation. As usual, the night was heavy with moisture, but the breeze was cool on Marla’s clammy skin. Tugging on the laces of her bodice, she pulled it off impatiently and tossed it on the floor, wondering how much of her anger was really just irrational disappointment. Marla was honest enough with herself to recognise her emotions for what they were. She knew she’d been waiting for Galon Miar to arrive with something akin to giddy anticipation, which was ridiculous, because Marla also knew that’s exactly what the assassin was trying to make her feel, so she should know better than to fall for his barefaced manipulation.
Unfortunately, knowing about a disease didn’t make one immune to it.
Perhaps that’s why she’d been waiting for him so anxiously, Marla consoled herself, as she dropped her skirt on the floor and stepped out of her undershift. If he’d shown up when he was supposed to, Wrayan would have read Galon Miar’s mind and exposed his treacherous moti
ves, which were undoubtedly some sort of dire plot against the throne and she’d be over this idiotic obsession with a man so inherently dangerous, that just thinking about him as anything other than an enemy was probably suicidal.
“Gods, Marla!” she told her reflection as she slipped the cool silk of her dressing gown over her bare shoulders. “Get a grip on yourself, girl! You’re starting to sound as crazy as Lernen!”
“Talking to yourself isn’t a terribly encouraging sign either, your highness.”
Marla squealed in fright and spun around to find Galon Miar reclining on the windowsill of her open bedroom window. She had no idea how long he’d been there. Or how he’d gotten there. She certainly hadn’t heard him coming through the second-floor window, nor had he betrayed his presence with any unexpected movement.
A thousand reactions to his appearance raced through her mind, but oddly, not one of them involved calling for the guards. Marla knew she was in danger from this man, but it wasn’t physical danger. It was something far more insidious. And far more seductive.
She took a deep breath, her inner turmoil something she wasn’t planning to share with anybody, least of all the man who was causing most of it.
“What are you doing here?” she asked calmly, pulling the robe closed.
Galon jumped down from the windowsill, landing silently on the rug. Dressed in black from head to toe, he moved like a cat, which was an apt description, Marla thought, because that’s what he was—a predator. A very dangerous predator.
“You invited me.”
“I invited you to come through my front door at a reasonable hour, Master Miar, not through my bedroom window in the dead of night.”
He smiled. “But it’s so much more romantic this way. And if we’re to be married …”
“I have agreed to nothing of the kind,” she informed him, turning back to the mirror, and more importantly, turning her back on the intruder as a sign of her contempt.
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