Rakaia stayed like that for the rest of the night, keeping his nightmares at bay simply by her presence, until she fell asleep too, comforted by the unusual experience of being needed for herself and not her value as one of the king of Fardohnya’s daughters.
Her last thought before she fell asleep was yet another unanswered question about Mica. He’d told her, before he fell asleep, You’re the first person I’ve met since I came back who likes me because I’m me.
The question Rakaia wondered about was, Back from where?
Chapter
33
THE RAVEN OF the Talabar Assassins’ Guild was a small, nondescript man with a balding pate and the unassuming air of a servant. Arguably among the most powerful men in Fardohnya, one would never know to look at him. One’s eyes might slide straight past him and not notice him at all, Naveen thought as he was led into the Raven’s presence.
He was also not the same Raven who’d been in charge the last time Naveen had anything to do with the guild. Perhaps the rumors of trouble in the ranks, or rather the leadership of the guild, had some truth to them.
They were meeting on the Raven’s turf, something Naveen abhorred the necessity for. He was well aware that much of his power came from the fact that any edicts he delivered on behalf of the king seemed so much more authoritative when they were delivered from a palace. But he could not invite the Raven of the Assassins’ Guild to the palace, and even if he had, the Raven would have refused the invitation.
The Assassins’ Guild prided itself on its political neutrality.
Naveen had come in disguise to this warehouse in the weaving district of Talabar, where the sour smell of felting wool hung in the air and the constant clickety-clack of weavers’ looms in almost every street played like a never-ending symphony in the background. He was led through a maze of stacked wool bales by a silent young woman, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness as he was taken further into the building, until they finally reached a clearing in the bales where the Raven sat at a small wooden table with a three-legged stool waiting on the other side.
“I thought the Raven was a woman,” Naveen said, after studying the balding little man for a time.
“I thought the great Naveen Raveve was a man,” the Raven responded. “That wig looks ridiculous, you know.”
Naveen snatched the dark wig from his head, glad of an excuse to be rid of the wretched, itchy thing. “I am well known in the city,” he explained, stuffing the wig into the pocket of his homespun and equally itchy trousers. “I thought it prudent not to announce we are doing business together.”
“It remains to be seen if we are doing business together,” the Raven said, indicating Naveen should sit on the stool. Then he looked up at the young woman who had escorted his guest. “Wait outside. I’ll call you when it’s time to take him back.”
The girl bowed without saying anything and retreated into the darkness, leaving Naveen alone with the assassin in the small pool of yellow light cast by the single lantern on the table beside the Raven.
Naveen took the offered seat and studied his adversary for a moment. The man looked so harmless, it was hard to believe he had the balls to squash a fly, let alone take a man’s life.
They sat in silence for a long moment, each one waiting for the other to speak. It was a game, Naveen knew, and the loser was the one who broke first. He was good at the game—very good at it—but he was also acutely aware of not being gone from the palace for a second longer that he had to. His absence would be noted and things that were noted in the palace invariably meant questions he would rather were not asked in the first place.
“I have a job for the guild,” he announced, deciding to act as if he didn’t even know the game existed. “One that will require a modicum of delicacy.”
“We don’t do royalty,” the Raven stated flatly. “You know that.”
“The . . . target . . . in this case is not royal. In fact, that is rather the issue. The target has been posing as someone of royal blood, accepting all the wealth, rights, and privileges that go with such an elevated station under false pretenses. My king . . . our king . . . wishes to have this situation . . . remedied.”
“Why doesn’t Hablet just denounce the imposter and have him executed for treason?” the Raven asked. “After all, he is, you know, the king.”
Naveen shrugged. “The imposter has managed to ingratiate themselves into the royal family in such a way that publicly denouncing them would have unfortunate political ramifications the king would rather avoid.”
The Raven smiled, revealing a row of surprisingly well-fitted wooden teeth. “Gods . . . he wants one of his daughters killed.”
Actually, he wants all of them killed, Naveen was tempted to reply, but that wasn’t a job he could outsource to the Assassins’ Guild. He would have to take care of the bulk of the harem deaths himself. Rakaia, however, was in Hythria and effectively out of his reach. For that he needed the Assassins’ Guild.
“The imposter in question is . . . well, yes . . . posing as one of his daughters.”
“Which one?”
“Rakaia.”
“The one Hablet just married off to the Hythrun border lord? No wonder he doesn’t want to denounce her publicly.”
“I’m glad you appreciate the political delicacy of the situation.”
“Political delicacy is expensive,” the Raven said.
“I expected as much,” he said, resisting the urge to mop the sweat from his brow in this stifling, closed-in place. “The king would like the imposter’s death to appear accidental. An obvious assassination will raise questions better left unasked.”
“That will cost more.”
“I know.”
“Do we have a deadline—no pun intended?”
“It must happen after her wedding but before she can give birth to an heir. Too soon after the ceremony might be suspicious, but certainly before the end of next winter.”
The Raven frowned. “Then it will have to happen in Hythria. That means involving Elin Bane and the Hythrun guild.”
“I suspected as much.”
“They’re even more expensive than we are.”
“Of course they are,” Naveen said, making no attempt to disguise the sarcasm in his voice. “Will you take the job?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand gold rivets.”
Naveen could feel the blood draining from his face. “I could buy one of the Trinity Isles for that.”
“I don’t doubt it,” the Raven agreed. “But you’re not asking for anything nearly so simple. You want us to kill a young bride everyone believes is the daughter of the Fardohnyan king in a foreign country, make it look like an accident, and I’m guessing in a way that does nothing to jeopardize any concessions Hablet gained for access to Highcastle Pass as part of her dowry agreement. When you look it at like that, Lord Raveve, ten thousand is a bargain.”
“Is the price negotiable?”
“No,” the Raven stated flatly. “It may even go up, depending on what the Hythrun guild wants for their services.”
Naveen rose to his feet, certain the Raven would use that excuse to inflate the cost of this assassination even more. “I’ll have the deposit sent to you in the usual fashion.”
The Raven looked up at him, shaking his head. “No. This will require payment in full up front.”
“That’s not how you usually do business.”
“It is in this case.”
Naveen debated arguing the point. After all, no self-respecting Talabar merchant accepted any price without some sort of haggling. But something about the set of the Raven’s shoulders warned him the man wasn’t lying when he said the price was not negotiable.
“If the job is not done exactly as required, the king will expect a full refund,” he warned, aware of what a hollow threat that was to someone like the Raven of the Assassins’ Guild.
The Raven smiled. He knew it was a hollow threat,
too.
“You tell his highness we’re taking care of it,” he said. “Our work is always guaranteed.”
“It had better be,” Naveen warned. He turned on his heel, intending to make a dramatic exit, until he realized he had no way of finding his way out of this stinking maze of wool bales in the darkness. He took a deep breath and turned back to the Raven, wishing he could snuff the little worm out for the smug smile he was wearing. “Please call my escort. I have more important things to be doing.”
“I’m sure you do,” the Raven replied with a knowing smile, and then yelled for the girl so loudly, it made him jump. “Lilleh!”
The girl appeared out of the darkness a moment later and looked to the Raven for her instructions. She still hadn’t uttered a word.
“Show our illustrious visitor out, would you, pet? He has important things to be doing.”
The girl nodded and pointed to a gap in the bales, obviously expecting Naveen to follow.
“Master Raven,” he said with a short bow as he pulled the wig from his pocket and positioned it back on his head. Then he turned to follow the young woman into the darkness, silently cursing the exorbitant cost of this contract, but relieved at least one important task his king had charged him with was taken care of.
Now he just had to figure out how he was going to dispose of the rest of Hablet’s unwanted wives and daughters.
Naveen sighed, keenly feeling the burdens he carried on behalf of his king.
“It’s hard, sometimes, being King Hablet’s most trusted aide, you know,” he told his silent escort. “Some days, I swear, it seems like my work will never be done.”
The girl glanced over her shoulder at him with an odd expression, but she made no comment, offered no sympathy for his plight. She just turned back to leading him out of the warehouse, vanishing into the night as soon as they stepped outside.
Chapter
34
CHARISEE USED THE excuse of returning Broos to his rightful owner to visit Kiam’s room. The hall was dark, lit only by the moonlight checkering the patterned hall runner with light from the large window at the end of the hall. The rest of the house was asleep and far out of earshot from the guest wing. She led the dog along the hall, glancing over her shoulder to ensure there was nobody else about, although she had her story prepared if anybody challenged her right to be wandering Warrinhaven Palace in the middle of the night, dressed in nothing more than her nightgown.
The halls were deserted. She wasn’t challenged. Her carefully prepared excuses were unnecessary. As she reached Kiam’s door, rehearsing the conversation she planned to have in her head with him, Jakerlon’s words kept interrupting her thoughts.
“You are the most wonderful type of liar there is,” he’d told her, “because the person you lie to most often is yourself.”
She knew she was lying to herself. She knew Broos didn’t need to be escorted back to Kiam’s room. But somehow, it seemed less dishonest to pretend she had a reason to visit him other than a selfish concern for her very survival.
That was the other lie she was telling herself—that she was only here at Kiam’s door in the middle of the night because of the danger she would be in on her—or rather Rakaia’s—wedding night.
Her hand shaking with a mixture of fear and anticipation, Charisee glanced up and down the hall once more and then forced herself to knock on Kiam’s door. A few moments later it opened to reveal the assassin wearing only his trousers, barefoot and obviously fresh from bathing. He had the broad shoulders and narrow hips of a fighter, Charisee noted, as she consciously forced her gaze upward to look him in the eye.
“I brought Broos back for you.”
“Is he giving you trouble, your highness?” His eyes were gray—like a stormy winter sky. She’d never been so acutely aware of that before. He was looking at her as if he knew exactly what she was doing here, but was going to make her go through the charade of pretending he didn’t have a clue.
“Not really . . . Can I come in for a moment?”
He stood back to let her enter. “Are you sure?”
She nodded and stepped across the threshold, waiting until he closed the door behind her before she said anything more. Broos bounded over to the bed and claimed it by stretching out across it sideways, leaving no room for any human occupants.
Charisee smiled at his antics, and then turned to Kiam. He was studying her curiously, waiting for her to explain the reason for this late-night visit.
“I need your help,” she said, walking a little further into the room, as if putting some distance between her and the assassin would make this easier. She had to tell Kiam at least a version of the truth if she hoped to merely survive her wedding night. That was another thing Jakerlon had taught her, words now branded in her brain: the best lies of all are the stonecold truth.
“I think we’ve already established that your wish is my command, your highness,” he said with a wry smile.
“What I said earlier today . . . about not wanting a court’esa . . .”
Kiam remained standing by the door, his hands behind him on the latch. Charisee tried not to look at him, finding his bare chest more of a distraction than she would like.
“I remember.”
So did Charisee. She could feel her face growing warm at the memory.
“I said I didn’t want one because . . .” Take a deep breath, Charisee. You can do this. “Because I’ve never been with one. A court’esa, I mean.”
Kiam seemed puzzled by her confession. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m not court’esa trained. I don’t know the first thing about sex or men or how to make a husband happy.”
“You’re still a virgin?” Kiam sounded genuinely shocked at the idea. “How is that possible?”
She shrugged, not able to meet his eye. “I just never . . . I mean there were plenty of court’esa in the harem, but my father has so many other daughters I didn’t expect I’d ever be married. I expected to spend my entire life there . . .”
The best lies of all are the stone-cold truth.
“I guess I wanted to wait until I found someone . . . special. Someone I . . .”
“Loved?” he asked. There was a smile in his voice, but Charisee was too afraid to meet his eye to find out if he was amused, or mocking her naïveté.
“I must seem like such a romantic fool.”
She looked up in time to see him nodding. “I think it’s a very sweet ambition, actually. Certifiably insane, perhaps, but kind of sweet.”
“Then you’ll help me?”
“To do what, exactly?”
“Show me everything a court’esa would teach me.”
To his credit, Kiam didn’t even flinch at the suggestion. “Lady Saneyah has already offered you a court’esa to do exactly that, your highness, although I fear you’ve left your run a bit late. If you want to know everything a court’esa can teach you about the human body, you should have started taking lessons in this sort of thing years ago.”
She shook her head, certain it was the worst thing she should do. “Any court’esa employed by Lady Saneyah will report back to her. I’d rather my . . . inexperience . . . remained a secret.”
“And you think you can trust me to show you the ropes? You do remember what I do for a living, don’t you, your highness?”
She nodded. “In spite of your profession, Kiam, I believe you are a man of honor.”
“You don’t know anything of the kind about me.”
“You have been nothing but honorable the whole time I have been in your care.”
He seemed amused by her reasoning. “My stepbrother is the High Prince of Hythria. He would flay me alive if I merely contemplated the thought of doing anything else. You shouldn’t mistake pragmatism for honor, your highness.”
She squared her shoulders gamely and finally looked up at him, trying to figure out if this was the smartest thing she’d done since becoming Rakaia, or the stupidest. “Nevertheless, I believe I
am a sufficiently good judge of character to risk asking you to aid me.” Another lie. Charisee was an appallingly bad judge of character. She hadn’t seen Rakaia’s escape coming, or suspected Princess Sophany of being an adulteress, or even the urbane Lord Erlon of being the God of Liars.
If her future relied on her ability to see the true character of others, she was in dire straits indeed.
Kiam took a step closer to her. Charisee held her ground. She didn’t know what he would do. He might help her—gods, how she wanted that more than anything. But he might just as easily take advantage of her and then betray her to Adrina. It was her royal half-sister who had commissioned this man to guard her, after all, and when he spoke of Adrina he did so with fond familiarity, suggesting their relationship was far from simply that of distant relatives who only meet a few times a year at formal family gatherings.
He reached out, gently moving a stray strand of hair from her face as he had done down by the foals. Her skin burned where he touched her, raising goosebumps along her bare arms.
“Exactly what do you want me to teach you, your highness?”
“Every . . . everything, I suppose.”
“That might take a while.”
“Do you have anything better to do?”
Kiam smiled at her, and took her hands in his. “You’re trembling.”
“It’s cold in here.”
“No it’s not. What are you frightened of?”
The best lies of all are the stone-cold truth.
Charisee took a deep breath. “I’m frightened of what will happen when Lord Branador finds out I don’t know the first thing about how to entertain him in the bedroom,” she said, the words tumbling out of her before she could stop them. “I’m frightened my first time is going to be horrible and painful at the hands of a lecher old enough to be my great-grandfather. I’m frightened because I don’t know how to make him not want me. I’m frightened that when I’m lying in his bed, night after night, doing my duty for king and country, I won’t have any pleasant memories to get me through it.” She was crying by the time she got it all off her chest. Every world of it was true. She was a slave. Court’esa were only available for the high-born, not their servants. All she knew about sex came from what Rakaia had told her about her lessons. Charisee was a fool, and an innocent one at that, but when she tried to turn away, Kiam gathered her into his arms and held her while she sobbed.
The Lyre Thief Page 24
