Assassin's Price

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Charyn nodded to Bhayrn. “You can do the gratitude.”

  “For whatever grace may come from above, whatever bounty there may be, for what passes for justice and mercy, we offer our thanks and gratitude, in the spirit of that which cannot be named.”

  “That is a rather cynical version of the grace,” observed Chelia mildly.

  “I’d prefer to say that it is more accurate,” replied Bhayrn.

  Charyn poured white wine for himself, then looked to his mother.

  “The hot mulled, please. Today felt like the coldest of winter so far.”

  Charyn filled her mug, leaving her wine goblet empty, then served himself white wine before passing the platters. “You were saying that most choices are illusions.”

  “They are. Your choices are two. Be a good and effective rex or die. Abdicating is not a choice, but an illusion of choice. If you tried to leave, you would be a threat to whoever succeeded you. That would mean you would always be a threat to those who relied on the whims and wishes of your successor. Sooner or later, someone would assassinate you. Unless, of course, you became a nameless laborer someplace. You are not suited to that so you would likely also soon die. Your father’s brother thought he had choices as well, and that he could be rex. His only real choice was the same one all younger brothers have, to accept estates and become a High Holder. He refused that choice. In doing so he threatened not only your father, but the Collegium and the factors. He died in the struggle. So did thousands of those who supported him.” Chelia took a sip of the hot mulled wine.

  “You make it sound like there are no meaningful choices,” declared Bhayrn.

  “There are meaningful choices. We three are alive today because your father went against his beliefs and allowed imagers into the chateau. I could have chosen not to marry your father and married someone lesser. There would have been less tragedy, but also less opportunity to be a part of something meaningful.”

  “Some of us have fewer meaningful choices.” Bhayrn’s words were tinged with bitterness.

  “Everyone has some meaningful choices,” returned Chelia. “The fewer you have, the more important they are.”

  “That’s easy enough to say.” Bhayrn took a healthy swallow of the red wine.

  Charyn tried not to wince, both at how quickly Bhayrn was drinking his wine … and at the thought of that much cool red wine with fowl.

  “You’re right,” Chelia agreed. “It’s always easier to say something than to do it.”

  Bhayrn opened his mouth, as if he had been ready to dispute whatever his mother said, and then closed it.

  “Although most apparent choices are illusions of choice, part of wisdom is understanding which choices are illusory and which are not. You cannot know when you will next face a meaningful choice.”

  “Because some choices that we think are just illusions of having a choice turn out to be meaningful and some choices that seem to be meaningful are not?” asked Charyn.

  “That’s something you’ll have to decide for yourselves.” Chelia took another sip of the mulled wine. “Do you think it will get colder by Samedi?”

  “It’s stopped snowing,” said Charyn. “The skies are clearing, and that means it will be cold tonight.”

  “You’ve at least got someone to keep you warm,” murmured Bhayrn.

  “Except I can’t keep her,” replied Charyn. “Not for long.”

  “Why not? You’re the mighty rex.”

  “If I kept her against her will, she’d soon be too cold to keep me warm. And she won’t be my mistress once I decide to court anyone. Nor will she wish to remain here.”

  “You could still—”

  “Bhayrn.” Chelia’s voice was as cold as the moaning wind that blew outside the Chateau. “Trying to keep anyone against her will soon destroys all her charms. It also will turn you into the sort of man few women could marry, let alone love.”

  Bhayrn’s jaw set.

  Charyn took another bite of chicken. The sooner they finished eating the better. The last thing he wanted to do was deal with Bhayrn … especially given that their uncle was most likely trying to kill both of them, and possibly their mother. And telling Bhayrn that, with Bhayrn’s stubbornness and current contrariness, and Charyn’s lack of hard proof, would only make matters worse.

  48

  When Charyn reached the family breakfast room on Jeudi, Chelia was already seated at the table, sipping tea and waiting for him. She had finished her breakfast.

  “Have you recovered from yesterday, Charyn?”

  “Perhaps from dinner, but not from so many people wanting to profit from my early death.” He settled into the chair across from her.

  “You already know that everyone seeks to profit from the rex in some fashion.” Her words were dryly matter-of-fact. “I’m completely into my new quarters. Now you can move into the regial rooms.”

  “Thank you.” Charyn was not in any hurry to move.

  “I’ve already arranged for Delya to move your clothing. She’ll begin at noon.”

  Charyn took a cautious sip of the mug of tea before replying. “You do want me moved.”

  “It’s another indication of permanence. You need all the indications you can get. Speaking of which, you need to formally announce the spring season-turn ball and send out invitations to anyone you particularly wish to attend.”

  Charyn had totally forgotten about the timing of the next ball, not that it was a matter of pressing concern, especially in comparison to his other problems. By the calendar, spring began on the first of Maris, even though winter weather usually lingered into the middle of Maris. The season-turn balls were always held on the evening of the thirty-fifth of the month, which meant the Spring-Turn Ball was only six weeks and two days away.

  “I would suggest inviting by name a number of eligible daughters of High Holders,” Chelia continued. “That cannot but help your position. Since you kept notes for the past several balls, that certainly would not pose a problem.”

  “Would it be too improper to invite Maitre Malyna, as a gesture of thanks?”

  Chelia frowned, momentarily, then offered what could only be described as a delighted smile. “I had not thought of that. It’s an excellent idea, for a number of reasons. It will establish in an unorthodox fashion that you are your own man, and that you will make your own alliances. Now … if you will provide a list of the young ladies in the next day or so, I will take care of the invitations.”

  “In the next day or so,” he agreed.

  Charyn’s breakfast arrived at that moment, as did Bhayrn.

  “You’re up early,” offered Charyn.

  “It’s the only time I can see you unless I wait until dinner.” Bhayrn seated himself beside his mother and beckoned to the serving girl. “Hot cider.”

  “I need to see to some matters, dears,” said Chelia, smiling pleasantly and rising.

  “Then we’ll see you later,” replied Charyn.

  Bhayrn nodded.

  “You had something in mind?” asked Charyn after taking several bites of egg and ham slices.

  “I just wondered if you were going to do anything to put the factors in their place and stop all the attacks on us. Among other things, I’d like to ride some and visit friends.”

  “You can take the plain coach and a pair of guards if you want to visit,” offered Charyn. “If the guards wear brown coats, no one will even notice.” He shoveled in another mouthful of breakfast, followed by a swallow of tea.

  “I’m supposed to sneak around L’Excelsis? A member of the regial family skulking like an overindebted High Holder? Like Cousin Ferrand and his father?”

  “Well,” said Charyn, drawing out the single word before continuing, “you could take the regial coach and run the risk of getting shot. Better yet, just ride out in regial green.”

  “Most humorous, elder brother. Most humorous.”

  “What do you want me to do? Execute every hundredth factor until someone confesses? Something like
that would keep anyone from paying tariffs as well as start not just a revolt, but a war.”

  “It’s better than doing nothing.”

  “No. Doing things that make matters worse are not better than doing nothing, although you might have noticed that I have been doing a few things, such as obtaining agreements for more tariffs to build warships, as well as restructuring the Chateau Guard, and the rest of the staff. I’ve also gotten more help from the Collegium.” He paused and took another bite. “All that may not be as dramatic as mass executions, but it’s likely to be more effective over time.”

  “Provided you don’t get killed in the meantime by whoever it is that seems to want to destroy the entire regial family.”

  “I’m working on that.”

  “How?”

  “That’s something I’ll be keeping to myself for the moment.”

  “Secret plans … how dramatic.” Bhayrn snorted, then took a swallow of the hot cider that the server had put in front of him.

  “Not dramatic, just prudent, given that all too many around the chateau have proved to have interests that did not include our well-being.” Charyn concentrated on eating for a time.

  “That’s all you have to say?” Bhayrn finally asked.

  “What else is there to say? We’re short of golds and under attack by someone who apparently holds us personally responsible for the Jariolan piracy. I’m doing everything I can think of to deal with the problems. If you have any suggestions, I’d like to hear them.”

  “Just find out who’s behind it and execute them.”

  “Excellent idea. The imagers and I have been working on that for almost a month. The only problem is that whoever it is seems to be able to set matters up that his agents either don’t know who he is or they die before they can say anything.” Charyn hastily swallowed the last sip of tea and rose. “It’s time to see what other problems are about to beset me.”

  Before he made his way to the study, Charyn stopped by the duty desk, hoping to find Dylert. He did.

  “You wish to see the logbook, sir?” asked the imager politely.

  “If it’s ready to be seen.”

  “There aren’t many entries, just those from midday yesterday.”

  Charyn opened the log to the first page. Dylert was right. The handful of names were all tradespeople—a farrier and a grain factor to see Kaylet, a produce factor for Norstan, an imager courier with a message for Dylert.

  “The message was a letter from my wife,” Dylert explained. “She sent a list of trustworthy factors and suppliers, as well as a list of those to watch, and those to avoid.” After glancing at Charyn and seeing his expression, the imager added, “She’s the bookkeeper for the Collegium and comes from a prominent factoring family. She’s also a maitre. I thought such information would be useful for Kaylet and whoever becomes stablemaster, as well as for the seneschal. I asked Howal to make copies for you and for Kaylet and Norstan. Oh … and the mint mark is that of Factor Lythoryn. His mines and his mint are just north of Asseroiles.” He extended a small leather pouch. “Here’s the gold, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Charyn had never heard of Lythoryn. “Do you know if Lythoryn has the closest mint to either L’Excelsis or Rivages?”

  “It’s the closest mint that does silvers and golds. That’s what Thelia wrote. Cuipryn here in L’Excelsis does most of the coppers.”

  “Thank you … and convey my thanks to her as well.”

  “I will, sir, when I can.”

  From the duty desk, Charyn went straight up the grand staircase to his study, doubting that he needed to check with Norstan about appointments after seeing Dylert’s logbook.

  Once inside his study, he picked up the weekly edition of Tableta and began to read the story entitled, “Mystery Explosion and Deaths at Chateau.” The story was similar to the one that had appeared in Veritum, but had added one other detail:

  … six Chateau guards are missing … and two are believed to have died in an attempted attack on the new rex. The entire Guard structure is being changed … but the acting Guard Captain would only say that the changes will work better for the guards and that they were worked out under the direct orders of the rex …

  Charyn also noted that Dylert’s name did not appear in the story.

  After he finished with the newssheet, he unlocked the hidden compartment in the low and wide bookcase against the wall behind the desk. Everyone would look for such a compartment in a desk, few in a bookcase. From there he extracted the threatening notes and the golds. First he examined the golds, those obtained both from Cauthyrn and from Churwyl, adding the gold he had received from Dylert. All not only had the same mint mark, but were still shiny, almost new. Asseroiles wasn’t all that far from Rivages, where his uncle’s holding was located. Except he’s spent most of the past six years here in L’Excelsis. Still, the likelihood that a wealthy factor, whose coins came from everywhere, would have all the golds used to purportedly pay off assassins come from a mint in one location was a great deal less than for a High Holder. Yet another indication, but such a frail one. A second thought occurred to him. Ryel will never leave absolute or even partial proof of the kind to convince either a council or a High Justicer.

  That meant the attacks and threats would continue until Ryel was stopped, or Charyn himself was dead. Stopping Ryel meant removing him in a way that seemed justified, or Charyn would likely be left with yet more unrest and quite possibly demands for his own head or the fragmentation of Solidar—which was what the High Holders had effectively supported for years.

  He replaced the golds in the pouch and set it aside before laying out all of the threatening notes side by side. As Howal had said earlier, the hand on each note was identical to that on every other note. Even comparing them, letter by letter, Charyn couldn’t see the slightest deviation.

  “Howal…?” Charyn gestured for the imager to join him, then waited until Howal could see all the notes before asking, “Does the paper look exactly the same?”

  The imager bent and studied each sheet before finally straightening. “I don’t see how they could be more alike.”

  “I’d like you to image several sheets of paper—without the writing. Can you do that?”

  “It might take me a little while. How many sheets do you want?”

  “Five, I think.”

  “Let me take one over to the table, if you would.”

  “You can take the one I got in the anomen.” Charyn handed it to the imager. As Howal walked away, Charyn studied the text of the various messages.

  The first message had been impersonal, referring to Rex Lorien in the third person. The other five all addressed either Charyn or his father as “you.” Why the change? It took Charyn several moments to figure out that the sender wanted to make certain that the first message actually reached the rex. That also meant that, if Ryel were successful in killing Charyn, the next message would go to Bhayrn. Charyn could just imagine it.

  You have been warned. If you fail to act more decisively than the preceding rexes, you won’t be ruler of Solidar any longer than your immediate predecessor.

  That might not be the exact wording, but it would be close. And after Bhayrn was dead … Charyn swallowed. Was that why Howal had been briefed to mention young High Holder Regial? Yet … why would Ryel want young Regial … Ryel’s granddaughter Iryella! Was Ryel really that devious?

  Charyn smiled sardonically.

  A quint later, Howal said, “I think I’ve got it, sir.”

  Charyn rose and walked across the study to the conference table.

  Howal handed him a sheet of paper.

  Charyn studied it closely, then felt it, and even smelled it. “It would take a paper mastercrafter to see the difference, if there even is any. Excellent.”

  “Five sheets, you said?”

  “Ten if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “I think I can do that.” Howal handed Charyn the threat letter he had been using as a model for the paper.
>
  “I’d appreciate that.”

  While Howal concentrated on the imaging, Charyn replaced all the messages and the golds in the hidden compartment.

  Even after Howal finished imaging and turned the ten sheets over to Charyn, sheets cool and crisp to the touch, Charyn’s thoughts remained on Ryel … and how he could reveal his uncle’s treachery.

  After some thought, he said, “Howal, would you draft a letter to Factor Elthyrd, requesting that he come to the chateau for a brief meeting on either Vendrei or Lundi, the time to be at his convenience?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Two quints later, just after Charyn had signed and sealed the letter to Elthyrd, Maertyl announced, “There’s a Ferrand D’Delcoeur-Alte at the front entrance to see you, Your Grace.”

  “He’s my cousin. You can show him in and up here.”

  Perhaps a fifth of a quint passed before Ferrand entered the study. “What’s happened here?” His tone was between aggrieved and angry. “They wouldn’t even let me beyond the foyer. I’m your cousin.”

  “It just might have to do with the three attempts on my life in the last week,” replied Charyn dryly. The shooting was stretching things because Churwyl hadn’t been aiming at Charyn, but it would help convey the seriousness of the situation.

  Abruptly, Ferrand looked at Howal, then at Charyn.

  “Howal is my personal secretary. He’s also saved my life at least twice.” Charyn gestured toward the chairs, then sat behind the desk.

  “You are serious. How did all this happen?” Ferrand took the chair closest to the window, moving it closer to the desk.

  “It’s a continuation of the threats against Father. Apparently, nothing he did satisfied someone, and I’m not doing any better.” Charyn managed a shrug. “You didn’t come to the chateau in this weather to hear about my problems. What is it?”

  Ferrand looked at Howal again.