by Megan Derr
Myra sighed. "That's the wrong question. I didn't kill my father to secure my freedom. I killed my father because I decided someone else's life was more valuable, and the only way to save that person was to kill my father. 'What if' is a waste of time because there's no world where that option ever existed. I had a choice between a world with Emperor Sarrica or a world without him, and I chose the one where he lived. If I had to do it all over again, I'd make the same decision. The only difference between me and the rest of the clans was that I made the choice myself, instead of taking money and acting on someone else's choice."
Kimberly's mouth pinched, and she ate the rest of her meal in silence.
Biting back frustration, because most of it was simply the result of stirring bad memories, Myra finished his food and went without comment when she moved him back to the bed. He rolled over on his side and stared at the wall, losing himself in happy daydreams of being home again, of Jac, of Charlaine—and maybe a few of Jac and Charlaine.
The door slammed open so hard it hit the wall and bounced back—which just further angered the man it nearly hit. He slammed it closed once he was inside and stomped over to the bed opposite.
Myra slowly relaxed from the fighting position he'd jerked up into and sat on the bed facing the man.
"You're bleeding everywhere," Kimberly sniped.
"Shut up, bitch," the man snarled. "Can't you see I'm trying to fix the problem?"
"Quit stomping and floundering about! That'd—"
"Shut up or I'll make you shut up."
Kimberly huffed but fell silent, and the man went back to whatever he was doing.
His face was a mess, and Kimberly was right—the way he was moving around ignoring it instead of at least using something to staunch the blood wasn't helping. Finally, though, he dug out a battered pack of healing supplies and pressed a cloth to his face to sop up most of the blood. When he pulled it away to look at his wounds in a mirror, Myra finally got a good look at the damage: long gashes down his cheek and the top of his neck. Similar, in fact, to wounds and scars he'd seen on many mercenaries, including Captain Chass.
The damage was done by Bentan bear claws, a nasty weapon Bentan mercs favored because the long claws could be worn under special gloves, making them particularly useful in the frigid, snowy weather that plagued Benta most of the year.
Bastard was lucky he still had a face—that he hadn't lost an eye. That he was still alive. The only way that happened was if the claws merely grazed flesh, or were mostly blocked by good armor, instead of landing a full blow. When that happened…well, the body wasn't arranged for a public viewing before being put to pyre.
"Stitch this up," he snapped, looking at Kimberly.
"Fuck you," Kimberly said. "I'm not the group healer, and I'm sure as shit not helping somebody who's already snarled at me for trying to help and called me names. Stitch your own fucking wound—that's what you'd say to me if I asked you for help."
"I can't stitch my own fucking face, bitch."
Kimberly sprawled on her bed with a book she'd pulled out of her bag. "Calling me a bitch over and over again isn't helping you. Do it yourself or wait for one of the others to come back."
"I can do it," Myra said.
The man sneered. "Like I'm letting a traitorous whore like you anywhere near me."
Myra didn't roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. "The longer it goes untreated, the more likely it is to get infected, not to mention you've already lost quite a bit of blood. And you're right: you can't stitch it yourself. That job will take two hands. When are the others due back?"
Swearing loudly and colorfully, the man finally said, "Fine. Get over here and stitch up my face."
Kimberly rolled her eyes but got up to loosen Myra's tether. He approached the man's bed and deftly laid out the supplies, then fetched the jug of water and washing bowl from the table in the corner. It would be better if it was hot water, but the ass would have to make do.
Once Myra had cleaned and treated the wounds as best he could, he threaded a healer's needle and set to work stitching the man's face and neck up. It was slow, difficult work, and he had to stop several times to clean his hands when they got too slick, but eventually the deed was done. Washing his hands one last time, Myra slathered the wounds in healing ointment, bandaged them, and finally stepped back. "All done. Change those bandages twice a day and keep a close eye for infection, and you should be fine in a few weeks. Where did you cross paths with a Bentan mercenary, of all people?"
"None of your fucking business. Get back on your bed where you belong." The man rose and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
"I hope you weren't expecting Barry to thank you," Kimberly said as she rose to fix Myra's tether and clean up the mess.
Myra laughed briefly. "Definitely not. He just better be careful, because I'm not going to be amused if he tries to blame any infection on me."
"He blames everyone but himself for everything," Kimberly groused, then seemed to realize who she was talking to and snapped her mouth shut, saying nothing more as she slipped out of the room to get rid of the used supplies.
Waiting really was the worst part.
But it was a little too much coincidence to think the halfwit had just happened to irritate a Bentan mercenary. So it was Benta who had commissioned the kills—more likely, the Bentan rebels. There'd been various factions during and after the war, divided by end goals. Most of them were small and of little to no threat.
A few of the factions, however, were decidedly threatening, and some of the reports he'd decoded had indicated they were starting to join forces. Whatever their different goals, they all agreed on disliking King Desmond and his determination to forge an alliance with Harken—not least of all because of Bentan ties to Cartha that Desmond had severed but the rebels maintained.
Where had they gotten the money though? It would take Benta a lot longer than a few years to recover all the funds bled away by decades of war. Even Sarrica would flinch at the price on his own head, never mind combined with Allen.
Either the Bentan rebels had more money than anyone knew, or they'd allied with other parties to gain the funds. Which reeked of Treya Mencee, who had more gold than they could ever spend and would benefit immensely from a blow to Harken and having the Bentan rebels in their debt—especially if they were also willing to assist with a possible dethroning.
Myra's head hurt. His biggest problem was supposed to be the master schedule. He shouldn't be sitting here stewing over politics and counting down the days to his own demise.
If only he could convey what he knew to someone who could get word to Sarrica. If he was right, and this was the work of Bentan rebels with assistance from Treya Mencee…then Harken, and the Bentan Throne, had a great deal more trouble headed their way.
Of course, Sarrica and the others might already know that and more. Myra was best positioned to get proof, though. Something, anything, that would let Harken and King Desmond go for the rebels' throats—for Treya Mencee's throat, since they were by far the larger threat right now.
But what could he possibly do when it had taken this long for him to get even a hint of who had hired Iron Moon?
Ryan would have the important information that had needed to be written down, pertinent details that needed to be kept until everything could be copied into Iron Moon's permanent records—because nothing said security like blackmail material, even if it was equally dangerous to have records that they had in fact done the killing.
There was no chance, however, that he'd be able to get near Ryan's belongings. He had next to none to begin with and kept almost everything on him all the time—even when he slept. As good as Myra was, there was no way he could avoid shaking the bells while removing the tether locked around his ankle. If he could do that, he would still be in Harken.
Myra sighed and tabled ideas of getting word to Sarrica. What could he possibly know that Sarrica wouldn't figure out, given all the resources at hi
s disposal?
Were any of those resources being sent after him?
Myra's chest ached, eyes stinging, as he reminded himself the answer was no. Nobody was coming for him. How could they? Thanks to the gliders, they were weeks ahead of any rescue, and he didn't think there was anyone in the Triumvirate territories that Sarrica could send out to retrieve him. Nobody was going to risk their life and livelihood to save a secretary, even the imperial Head Secretary.
The door opened, far too loudly and carelessly to be Kimberly. Myra turned and sat up, and stifled a sigh as Ryan strode into the room looking equal parts furious and smug. "I'm going to kill that worthless sack of shit myself if he doesn't stop giving us the run around. What's left to say? We arranged the return of the money for the incomplete jobs, he doesn't want us trying again, and we have plenty of other matters to take care of right now." He cast Myra a look. "Like staking cowardly traitors in a field to suffer the slow, miserable death they deserve."
Myra ignored him.
"Speaking of deserved deaths," Ryan said slyly, sending a cold chill slicing down Myra's spine, "there are some interesting rumors going around the city. They say the Seven sent out the city guards to track down a couple of stray Harken birds." His smiled turned nasty. "Do the names 'Sergeant Denali' and 'Lieutenant Astor' mean anything to you, dear brother?"
"No," Myra replied, struggling not to throw up and cry and laugh all at once. Jac and Charlaine were in Soldonir? They'd come after him? What were the fools doing? They'd get themselves killed! They had no idea what they were doing, getting involved in Triumvirate politics and clan vendettas.
Ryan laughed meanly. "Liar. Did you think I wouldn't recognize their names? Denali is the pretty little slut we hired men to kill in the city. Sadly, they didn't listen to us and underestimated her. Astor is the one-eyed soldier who babysits the High Commander's bitch."
Oh, Myra would give anything to see him call Lord Kamir the High Commander's bitch in front of Jader.
Crossing the room, Ryan backhanded Myra hard enough he toppled to the bed. "Give it up. We all know those two are chums of yours, given how upset they were to see you dragged away. How sweet they've tried to come to your rescue. What a pity they'll be dead long before they get anywhere near you, and knowing the royal guard, the bodies won't ever be found. That will really upset your precious little birds won't it? I know how much they just love setting corpses on fire."
Myra had always liked that tradition, versus those of Soldonir: important figures were laid out in special decaying rooms until only the bones remained, at which point they were put in special boxes and placed 70p-=-in a crypt. Some wealthi families had similar practices. Everyone else, the bodies were laid out for nature to take back. That was why the ultimate punishment for traitors and other high-level criminals was to put them out while still alive.
He licked blood from his lips. "Leave them alone. There's no reason to set the guards after them—"
Ryan's laughter drowned him out. "That's the best part! Your stupid emperor sent a request to the Seven that they were to be located and treated like guests. He also apparently sent a request that you be foundand treated the same, until he and the Seven could come to an agreement on what is to be done with you. Pathetic, but that comes as no surprise."
Myra almost did start crying then. Sarrica was trying to save him.
It was a futile effort, but it warmed him in a way nothing had for days. Iron Moon would slit his throat before they let anyone take him, but Sarrica was trying. He was leveraging his power and authority to save a secretary. A lying, deceiving, former assassin turned secretary who'd failed to save his brother-in-law.
"You're just as pathetic as them—no wonder you fit in so well," Ryan said.
"Why are you such a mean-hearted bastard?" Myra asked.
Ryan slapped him that time, then shoved him face down on the bed, pressing so hard Myra couldn't breathe. "I'm mean-hearted? I'm doing what I must to see that my clan, my family, survives. You're the bastard who killed our father. A friend. People who trusted you, who did their part believing you would do yours, only to be murdered by the hand they died thinking would save them. You don't get to judge me when you're the one so fucking selfish that you betrayed and abandoned everyone who loved you." He yanked Myra around and straddled him, pushing his arms into the bed and holding his wrists bruise-tight. "We mourned you. We thought that whole mission a fucking tragedy, a job we shouldn't have taken, that father's arrogance led us to disaster. Mother cried for you. She cried for weeks. We gave you everything and this whole fucking time you've been living a grand and glorious life of luxury in the goddamn Harken Empire. I'm mean-hearted? Brother, you could give me lessons."
"It's not mean-hearted to want to choose my own life!" Myra snarled, slamming his head into Ryan's nose, which started bleeding. Ryan let him go and Myra immediately shoved him back, then grabbed hold and threw him off the bed, not remotely sorry when that caused his head to crack against the frame of the neighboring bed.
Ryan bellowed as he clambered to his feet, nose and forehead bleeding—but he struggled only briefly as Kimberly and another man dragged him back. He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You'll pay for that." Turning sharply on his heel, he stormed out of the room, the man who'd held him back giving chase.
Kimberly turned to Myra. "You've really done it now."
"What are they doing to do? Kill me twice?"
"There's a whole lot of suffering that can be done before they finally let you die."
"I don't care. I'm not going to keep putting up with his abuse. If he's going to treat me that way, I'm going to return it."
"I can certainly tell you two are related, solely from your reckless behavior and tempers. I would have thought a man known as the High Secretary would have a bit more control."
Myra laughed—and laughed and laughed, until his sides and face hurt, until his eyes burned from the tears, and he was gasping for breath. Kimberly stared at him like he'd lost his mind. "Control? You think I lack control? I have murdered more people for Iron Moon than I care to think about. I plotted an escape, murdered my own father and lived twenty years with everyone in Soltorin thinking I was dead. I've been kidnapped, beaten, abused, taunted, and more over the past three weeks, and only now do I snap and you think I lack control?"
There was a long, heavy silence, then Kimberly quietly said, "Fair enough. You might want to get it back, though, because you're not going to like what's coming next."
"What's coming next?"
"Do you remember Lord Ethan?"
Myra frowned briefly as he ran through his memories. "He was the Clan Overseer, their liaison between the Seven and all the clans. He died nine years ago." Myra's stomach cramped. "Why are you telling me this? What difference does that make to me?"
She gave him a pitying look. "I think you and Ryan do share arrogance. A smart man who wanted to start a new life would have picked a quiet farm in the middle of nowhere, not chosen to work as the Emperor's head secretary."
"It wasn't like that," Myra said, but she'd already vanished out the door, probably to go fetch supplies to clean up the blood and fresh linens for Myra's bed.
He rose and stripped off his bloody jacket, used it to wipe the blood from his face and hands. There was still plenty of tacky, drying blood left behind, but without the water he couldn't reach there wasn't much he could do.
So he sat on the floor and waited for the others to return, ignoring his pounding headache and the fear gnawing at his gut. The only reason the identity of the new Overseer would matter to him was if it was someone he knew. Someone from Iron Moon, and before he'd left there'd been a great deal of talk about who in their clan would most be suited to assume that role. Women weren't allowed to become assassins, but they'd always been permitted to take up other roles. Men ruled the clans, but women could do other things—include serve as Overseer.
Pantheon, please let him be wrong.
Kimb
erly came back a short time later, an inn servant behind her who quickly set all to rights. By the time she'd left, the others were back, and with a smile full of malice, Ryan hauled him to his feet, freed the tether, and slung Myra over his shoulder. "You should be honored, brother; a special guest has made time to come see you."
Myra was going to throw up.
They went downstairs into a private room usually rented for meetings, banquets, and the like, where Myra was put on his knees, his head yanked back—and his heart dropped into his stomach as his greatest fear proved to be true.
Lady Nessa, his mother, wearing a necklace that marked her as a member of the Court of Seven and the circlet of the Clan Overseer. Which meant she was likely the liaison who'd brokered the deal between the Bentan rebels and Iron Moon.
Myra's mother had always been shrewd and ambitious, far more than was usually tolerated in women. She had only grown more beautiful over the years, her skin moonglow pale, a mark of her high status, her long hair bound in elaborate braids and twists, and held in place by jeweled combs. On her hands and fingers were the intricate tattoos worn by the women of Iron Moon, showing their family lineage—from birth to those birthed. Her robes were of dark reds and oranges, decorated with gold snakes and silver cranes, with a wide green sash embroidered with roiling gold and silver waves.
Her lips curled. "So it's true. I kept hoping everyone was wrong, that it would be a stranger brought before me who only strongly resembled the son I thought dead these past two decades." Standing just behind and on either side of her were four guards, each wearing the garb of a different clan, but the cowl and hoods marked them as working for her. "Eliza—"
"My name is Myra—"
"Your name is irrelevant," Nessa snapped. "You're a murderer and a traitor."
"We're all murderers!" Myra said, laughing coldly. "You act like I'm some monster and all of you the offspring of gods, but we're all killers. You think you're better than me simply because you haven't killed anyone you're related to? Murder is murder."
