Enjoy. Well that was going to be difficult. Tek almost wished young Kysh had taken a taste of it. Then at least he’d know…
He shook his head and sat down at the table. He already knew. Of course he did. There was nothing wrong with these kidneys and he didn’t need a taster. Tek broke off a piece of bread and picked up his fork in his right hand, speared a particularly juicy looking bit of kidney, and, using the piece of bread to stop the sauce from dripping on his clothes, lifted the tasty morsel to his mouth.
The Tarkin of Imrion let the fork clatter down on the plate. The old dog raised its head.
Larissa said the Tarkina had ordered the dish. Any other day Tek would have believed it-but not today. Just this morning, long before the request for an audience had come from Alkoryn Pantherclaw the Charter, Zelianora had talked to him about how tight his clothes were getting, and how little exercise he’d managed to get over the winter. A nice dish of steamed carrots, flavored with cumin. Apples spiced with cinnamon-even a hot soup. Those he would have expected Zella to send him. But kidneys in jeresh sauce? Not likely.
That didn’t mean the dish was poisoned. And it didn’t mean that it wasn’t.
Old Berlan got up with difficulty from his spot by the fire and walked his old dog’s walk to nudge his master’s hand. Tek absently stroked the bony old head, pulling the long silky ears through his fingers. The dog laid his head on Tek’s thigh and snuffled. Tek looked at the dish of kidneys, at his dog, and back to the dish. Berlan was too old to hunt, too old even to go outside, almost too old to eat. His pain was not yet great, but that day, too, would come.
Tek took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He thrust one finger into the center of the ceramic dish to test for heat before placing the dish on the floor. He watched as Berlan, tail wagging, began to eat. No great harm, perhaps even a kindness, if the dish was poisoned.
And if the dish wasn’t poisoned? No great harm there either.
Tek-aKet, Tarkin of Imrion, Consage of the Lost Isles, Darklin of Pendamar, and Culebroso, sat back in his chair to watch his dog eat.
Fourteen
“MY INSTRUCTIONS WERE very clear, Mistress. I’m to escort you and the children to Mercenary House.” Hernyn hovered in the doorway to the Mender’s inner room, frustration and impatience making his skin crawl. The family were living in the two back rooms of what had been a decent tradesman’s dwelling-before the furniture had been sold and the family tapestries and ornaments taken from the walls, leaving pale marks behind to show where they had been. There were two tick mattresses on the uncarpeted stone floor that had obviously seen their bedsteads sold out from under them, and the outer room held only three mismatched chairs, an unpainted wooden table, and a carefully arranged stack of pottery plates and mugs.
Three children, a boy of about eleven, and two younger girls, perhaps seven and four, sat close-mouthed and wide-eyed on the edge of the larger mattress.
“I must wait for my man.” Korwina Mender fastened the ties on a small leather pack and handed it to the older boy. “He’s been out same as I have, looking for a place to hide the children. I can’t let him come back to an empty house. Please,” she turned to Hernyn, showing him a face that wouldn’t accept a “no.” “I’ll wait and bring him with me. But please, Hernyn Greystone, take the children now.”
Korwina Mender looked at him, mouth set, the words she wouldn’t say in front of her children shining from her eyes. That her man would come back too late, if he came back at all. That, having seen her children safe, she would wait to share whatever ending fate brought her husband.
Hernyn looked from the children to the door and back again. Time was wasting. “Say your good-byes,” he told Korwina.
The older boy stood and went to his mother, the pack clutched in his hands, his face solemn. He was almost as tall as she, with the same soft brown hair and hazel eyes. Korwina brushed the hair back off his forehead with a steady hand.
“I’ll not be long,” she said. “But you are the head of the family until your father and I come. Watch out for your sisters.” She turned to the two younger children. “Mind your brother, and the good Mercenaries, until…” her voice faltered and she looked back at her son.
“Don’t wait too long, Mama,” the boy said.
“I won’t, my heart.” But the look they exchanged showed that both knew the truth. There was not luck enough left in the air tonight to bring the husband and father home in time, and this was good-bye. The boy swallowed and blinked rapidly, as if he knew that tears would frighten the younger children. But his lips were trembling too much for him to say anything more.
Korwina Mender took her son’s face once more between her hands and shut her own eyes. After a moment she opened them again, and her son’s face was calm, peaceful. He pressed his lips together and nodded, touching his mother’s face lightly. Hernyn looked from one to the other, knowing that something had happened, but unsure what it could be. The boy looked more solid somehow, more whole. She’s Mended him, Hernyn thought, licking suddenly dry lips. By the Caids, she’s Mended him.
“Hernyn Greystone,” the woman said, lifting her hands slightly as the boy led his sisters from the room. “I should tell you, my boy shows signs of Mending, like me. We’ve told no one else.”
“I don’t care if he shows signs of being a vulture plant,” Hernyn said. “Good luck to you, Korwina.”
“And to you, Greystone.”
As soon as they were out on the street, Hernyn picked up the older girl and set off as quickly as the boy, carrying his younger sister, could manage.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Jerrick.”
“Come along, then, Jerrick.”
Close to an hour later, Mender’s children safely stowed in Mercenary House and managing to eat the food Fanryn had set before them with a surprising appetite, Hernyn Greystone was on his way to the Carnelian Dome through back alleys washed clean by the rain. As he sprinted toward the main avenue, he became aware of the sounds of a crowd ahead of him. He slowed, drew the longer of his two swords, and shifted over to the right-hand side of the alley as three men, two carrying long butcher knives, the third with a rusty short sword, ran past him on the left. The last man looked over with a hard eye, but Hernyn’s Mercenary badge showed well in the moonlight that had followed the rain, and he had to stifle the laughter that bubbled up in his throat when he saw how quickly the man’s belligerent look became polite. Instead of saying whatever he had intended to say, the man ducked his head and hurried after his friends.
As he neared Tarkin’s Square in front of the Carnelian Dome, the rumbling he’d heard in the distance grew louder, becoming murmuring, with individual voices raised in shouts Hernyn couldn’t quite make out. It seemed like every corner he passed had grown a knot of three or four men. This was no ordinary crowd, Hernyn thought, his stomach muscles tightening, but a mob in the making.
He slowed his pace still further and sheathed his sword, but kept his hand resting lightly on the grip. Trying to appear nothing more than curious, he sauntered up to the nearest group of men. “Hey, friend,” he said. “What’s caused all this buzz? Are we invaded?”
“Have you not heard?” the man said, his smile wide, plainly pleased to be giving news to a Mercenary Brother. “There’ll be work for you boys, that’s certain. Imrion’s Fallen.”
Hernyn hoped his raised eyebrows disguised the shock he felt.
“The Tarkin’s been poisoned,” the man continued. “They say it’s those cursed Marked.”
Hernyn walked away, his eyes fixed on the towers of the Carnelian Dome, still some blocks away. The distant shouting had become screaming, and he could hear the sounds of metal clashing on metal.
Hernyn began to run.
Dhulyn was getting tired of these very nice rooms. This one had a deep pile rug on the flagstone floor, a highly polished table with two comfortable chairs, a pitcher of wine with matching glazed cups, and a plate of one-bite meat pies. Everything, in fac
t, to entertain waiting guests except music, windows, and an unlocked door.
She looked up from the vera tiles she was laying out on the table as Parno asked the same question for the third time.
“Alkoryn says he’ll return for us,” she said, giving the same answer she’d given twice already. “Compose yourself in patience, my soul.”
“Caids take it, of course he’ll come,” Parno said. He turned back to the door and stroked the lock with the fingertips of his right hand. “You’re certain we shouldn’t help him a bit ourselves? Meet him halfway, as it were?”
Dhulyn shot him the look she usually reserved for people cheating at tiles and put down the tile she was holding with an audible click. “You’re the expert on politics and Noble Houses,” she said. “You tell me. Tell me you think it’s a good idea for us to wander about the Carnelian Dome hoping to meet our Brother in hallways crawling with servants, pages, and nobility both high and low, to say nothing of the Tarkin’s Personal Guard. Tell me this, and that lock’s as good as picked.” Dhulyn went back to studying the hand she was laying out before Parno had even finished rolling his eyes. She moved a page of swords from its place in a sequence of sword tiles so that it stood next to the seven of staffs. The two tiles, though of different suits, had the same color pattern. Green. There was a hand. A winning hand called Tarkin’s Jade. She looked at the tiles, frowning. She could have sworn that for a moment she’d seen something else, not a pattern exactly, but some total lack of…
“Parno-” she began.
“Shhh. Someone comes.” From habit, Parno moved away from the door to stand where he wouldn’t be immediately visible when it was opened. He needn’t have bothered. The Tarkin’s Guard weren’t Mercenary Brothers, but they weren’t common idiots either; the one who opened the door checked both walls before he allowed the tall young man behind him to enter.
“I greet you,” the young man said. “I am Far-eFar, Senior Page of the Old Tower. The Tarkin Tek-aKet thanks you for waiting so patiently and sends me to ask that you join him at your earliest convenience.”
Even Dhulyn could tell that this was mere politeness for “now and be quick about it.”
“We’re at his lordship’s disposal,” Parno said, with a bow that Dhulyn was sure gave credit to his childhood tutors. He gave his arm to Dhulyn, and she put her fingertips on it, exactly as she’d seen noble ladies do. The Senior Page smiled and, nodding to the guards who remained at their stations, led the Mercenaries out of the room.
“You have no guards with you?” Parno said, as if he were remarking on the weather.
“No need,” Far-eFar said. “I assure you I know the way.”
Dhulyn exchanged a look with Parno behind Far-eFar’s back. This did not have the smell of a trick. So the Tarkin no longer felt the need to guard them? Was this the work of the Tarkina, or had something else happened? They knew there was no point in questioning Far-eFar; no one could be in the Tarkin’s household for long and not have learned when to speak and when to hold his tongue.
Though this did not mean that the young man stayed silent, Dhulyn observed with a grin. He was a well brought up lad, Far-eFar, and he made a polite inquiry about archery that soon had Parno chatting with him as if they were on their way to the supper table at the young man’s home. Dhulyn listened, half-entertained and half-annoyed. That nobles, whether of Houses, Households, or Holdings, couldn’t go ten breaths without speaking was something she already knew. Nor was Parno acting, aping the manners of the noble class; this was the voice, the manner, even the way of walking that he’d practiced for years before he had come to the Brotherhood. Before she had met him on the field at Arcosa, before they had become Partnered.
Dhulyn pressed her lips together. No point in lying to herself; being so close to the lures of Parno’s old life still worried her. Even if her Vision had been of his past and not his future-something she could not be sure of-that did not mean that all would be well for them now. Parno was so sure there was nothing here to entice him, he did not even have his guard up. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. The sooner they were out of these noble lives and back to their own, the better.
The hallways through which they walked became narrower, dating from more austere times when ladies’ skirts were not so wide as fashion had them now. The walls were dressed stone instead of paneling, the ceilings squared instead of arched, and made of inlaid woods instead of painted plaster. Dhulyn gave a silent whistle. Was it possible she’d recognize the room they were heading for?
Far-eFar stopped in front of a heavy oak door reinforced with bands of metal. There was an old lock, the kind that had a key as big as a man’s hand, but one of the smaller, more difficult to pick modern locks had been added above it. Far-eFar rested his long-fingered hand on the heavy iron handle that lay between the two locks.
“I wait here,” he said, as he opened the door for them.
Dhulyn took a step forward and looked around her with interest. There was the table with its cloth, weights sewn into the corners so that breezes wouldn’t disturb it. The fireplace, ready to be lit. The window with its etched pane.
The Tarkin on the floor with a dog’s head in his lap.
“He wasn’t in a lot of pain, not yet,” the Tarkin of Imrion said without looking up. “But he was old, and soon the pain would have become much worse.” He looked up at Dhulyn. “They brought me a dish of kidneys in jeresh sauce,” he said. “I gave them to Berlan. He took my death.”
Dhulyn crouched down next to the Tarkin. She stroked the still-warm muzzle with the backs of her fingers.
“Do you think he would have preferred it otherwise?”
The Tarkin looked at her, frowning, before his countenance cleared. He almost smiled. “No,” he said, his voice sounding much lighter. “Not at all. Thank you.” He gently placed the old dog’s head on the curly wool of the hearth rug and stood, shrugging the stiffness out of his shoulders as he returned to the chair behind his worktable. He stood for a moment, his eyes on his old dog, before waving at the chairs on the opposite side with an open hand.
Parno had long ago given up any expectation of ever again finding himself sitting down in the same room as his distant kin, the Tarkin of Imrion. In the back of his mind a much younger version of himself was making a very childish gesture at his father. Parno grinned, leaned back in his chair, and propped his right ankle on his left knee.
“And so I take it from this that neither you nor the Lady Mar-eMar, nor even the Scholar of Valdomar had anything to do with the Fall of Tenebro House? As the poet says, ‘True in one thing, true in all things?’ ”
“Take whatever you like,” Dhulyn said, shrugging. “Proving it’s a different breed of horse altogether.”
Parno was never sure why Dhulyn, who’d read far more than he and could speak in as cultured a manner as any Library Scholar, often took great care to sound as barbarous as possible. He’d have thought her nervous with the noble classes-if he’d ever seen her nervous. He’d opened his mouth to speak, thinking in any case to take the pressure of conversation with the Tarkin from her, when an urgent tap sounded on the door. From the look of astonishment on the Tarkin’s face, it was a sound he’d never heard in this place.
“My lord.” Far-eFar, pale as a piece of bleached parchment, entered without waiting for a summons. “I beg your pardon, my lord. Alkoryn Pantherclaw the Charter is here saying there are rioters in the streets, proclaiming your death by poison. The Guard Captain’s sent men out to find out what he can.”
“So quickly.” The Tarkin blinked slowly. “My cousin has nerve, I’ll give him that. I’d have waited until I saw the body.”
“It’s possible they won’t let him wait.”
“Ah, yes, the Jaldeans.” The Tarkin turned to the page. “Does the Charter tell us anything about them?”
Far-eFar glanced behind him and bit his lip.
The Tarkin sighed, and stood. “Don’t keep him standing there, Far. Let’s have them in, by all
means.”
Parno and Dhulyn came to their feet as the Tarkin stood, moving silently off to one side as the page pushed the door full open, allowing Alkoryn to enter. Parno, catching a glimpse of Hernyn’s Mercenary badge among the soldiers waiting in the hallway, signaled the boy with a flick of his fingers to come in and indicated the corpse of the dog with a tilt of his head. Hernyn nodded, bending over at once to pick up the body and carry it out into the hall. No use having people step on the poor beast, and it was one less thing to distract the Tarkin.
Hernyn slipped back into the room on the heels of the arriving Guard Captain. The man was flushed, out of breath, and accompanied by only three more soldiers in the dark red surcoat of the Tarkin’s Personal Guard. One of these had an arm dangling limply at her side. Numbed by a blow, Parno thought. No blood.
“How bad does it look out there?” he asked Hernyn.
The young Brother shrugged, trying his best to imitate Parno’s relaxed tone. “Bad, but the looting hasn’t started.”
Dhulyn dragged her eyes away from them and addressed her Senior Brother. “What news?”
The older man shook his head. “Worse than I would have expected, given the time,” he said. As quiet as his voice was, everyone in the room stopped to listen. “There were people inside before we could get the gates shut, and the Dome is full of House soldiers.” Alkoryn caught Dhulyn’s eye. “Not just Tenebro either. It seems Lok-iKol has allies in the other Houses. I saw the colors of both Jarifo and Esmolo. The Carnelian Guard is scattered; half of them think the Tarkin is dead.” His disgust at poorly managed security was evident. “As for the Tarkin’s Personal Guard,” he shrugged.
“How could this happen?” Parno said. “Where is the rest of the Dome’s Guard?”
Dhulyn found it more than interesting that such was Parno’s natural tone of command the Guard Captain answered without questioning Parno’s authority to ask.
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