“I know . . . it sounds crazy, but I was there. Trust me, it’s the truth.”
“Then we have to find the demon child and tell her to call off the deal.”
“We don’t need to do anything, Kiam,” Elin corrected. “We are the Assassins’ Guild. Adrina has Harshini advisors in the palace, she all but owns the Sorcerers’ Collective, thanks to Kalan Hawksword being the High Arrion, and I’m quite sure Wrayan Lightfinger talks to the God of Thieves in person on a regular basis. Adrina doesn’t need the guild’s help and she’s had all the help from you she’s getting for quite some time.”
Kiam shook his head when he realized what that meant. “No . . . you haven’t got another job for me already, have you? I just got back.”
“And if you’d just got back from guild business, I’d be paying for you to lie on a beach in the Trinity Isles surrounded by naked dancing girls for a month,” he said. “But you didn’t. You’ve had your break, and I need you back at work.”
“Can’t Arex do it?”
“The White Fox is in Pentamor, reducing the population of cheating husbands by one.” The Raven shook his head, frowning. “I swear, better than half the commissions we get these days are from disgruntled middle-aged wives looking to rid themselves of useless husbands. There’s a cautionary tale in that somewhere, let me tell you.”
“Elin . . .”
“There’s no point bitching about it, lad. This job requires your special talents.”
“Oh . . . now I have special talents?”
“Well . . . family connections, then. It needs to look like an accident.”
There was no getting out of this, he realized, and if he tried, Elin would just get angry, and one did not anger the Raven of the Assassins’ Guild lightly. Perhaps it would be an easy job. Accidents weren’t all that hard to arrange. He sighed. “Who is it?”
“Chap by the name of Gidion Narn. He’s a spice merchant.”
“Another disgruntled wife?”
“Business partner,” Elin said, “and that’s all I’m going to tell you about who commissioned the job. Suffice to say the client was adamant his death appears accidental. Apparently they have a clause written into their partnership agreement that prevents the other partners profiting from a suspicious death of any one of them. If anyone suspects foul play, we won’t get paid.”
“Trusting little souls, aren’t they? What have my family connections got to do with it?”
“Are you kidding? Rodja Tirstone controls more of the spice trade in Hythria than anybody else. He’s another one of your uncountable former stepsiblings, isn’t he? Go pay him a visit. I’m sure he wants to hear all about your trip to Winternest to collect Adrina’s sister.”
“Seriously? You want me to kill someone while I’m a guest at Rodja’s and Selena’s home?”
“Don’t care where or how you do it, lad, just get the job done by the end of the month.”
Kiam pushed himself to his feet, conceding defeat. “What do you have on him?”
Elin pushed a folded piece of paper across the desk to him. “It’s all there. Where he lives. Where he drinks. Where he keeps his mistress. Shouldn’t be too difficult. He’s a man of predictable habits.”
“So are you, Elin. Come, Broos.”
The Raven smiled as Kiam let himself out. He seemed to think Kiam meant it as a compliment.
His smug expression annoyed Kiam. There was one way to remove it, though. He turned to Elin before he closed the door. “I’m curious about something, Elin.”
“What?”
“You said you’re quite sure Wrayan Lightfinger talks to the God of Thieves on a regular basis.”
“So?”
“Just wondering why Zegarnald doesn’t talk to you in person. I mean . . . you’re the head of the guild that honors him the most in peacetime. You’d think he’d be a bit more, I don’t know . . . interested in you. I wonder what makes Lightfinger so special?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, content that Elin would be up half the night, trying to come up with a suitable rejoinder.
Chapter
50
“SO, YOUR REAL name is Mikel.”
Mica shook his head, refusing to look at Rakaia as they rode, side by side, on their way back to Krakandar. The sun was just creeping over the horizon, painting the low-hanging clouds a dazzling shade of crimson, and it was already hot. Hopefully the line to enter the city wouldn’t be quite so long this early in the morning.
“Mikel died,” he said. “Mikel was a victim and a fool. Gimlorie knew me as Mikel. I am Mica now. Just like you are Aja and not Rakaia.”
Rakaia could have argued her reasons for assuming a false name were quite different from Mica’s, but she was still feeling a little fragile from everything she’d seen and heard this past night. The images of Mica’s supposed death, and the aching loneliness he’d lived with in the years until he escaped Gimlorie had washed over her like a tidal wave, drowning her in his misery, fear, solitude, and perhaps a touch of madness.
For the first time in her life, Rakaia felt the urge to fiercely protect another being from pain. She’d loved Charisee like no other, but what she felt for her sister was dwarfed by whatever it was she was feeling for Mica. She couldn’t even name it. It was somewhere between love for him and anger for what had been done to him.
Who would do that to a child?
Who would abandon a small boy to such an existence?
“Mica it is, then,” she agreed. “You still haven’t told me why you ran off like that yesterday.”
“Because Damin Wolfblade is still alive.”
Rakaia waited, certain there was more to that statement.
Mica took his time, but eventually he filled the silence with an explanation of sorts. “I swore if I ever escaped, I would kill all the people who sentenced me to life as Gimlorie’s prisoner.”
She reached out to grab his arm, not certain she’d heard right. “Did you hire an assassin to kill Damin Wolfblade?”
He shook his head and her hand off his arm at the same time. “Of course not. Why would I hire an assassin? They’re far too expensive and the Wolfblades own the Assassins’ Guild anyway.”
“What did you do?”
“I sung to one of his guards and told him to kill Damin for me.”
“So you created your own assassin?”
“I suppose.”
Rakaia was appalled. “But . . . that’s . . .”
“What?” Mica asked, looking at her with a wounded expression. “Wrong? Unfair? Cruel? Hmmm . . . where have I heard those words before?”
“You probably sentenced that man to death, Mica.”
“Then I have honored Zegarnald.”
They didn’t speak for a while after that. Mica seemed to be sulking, and Rakaia was still getting her head around just how serious Mica was in his desire for vengeance. But it was eating him up. She’d seen the raw open wound that was Mica’s soul when he sang to her last night and showed her what had happened to him. That wound would never heal while he burned with such a self-destructive need for revenge.
“Who else is on your list,” she asked after a time. There was no point in trying to tell him he was wrong, but it would be useful to know if she’d placed her trust in the blood-drenched hands of a homicidal madman.
“The demon child,” he said, with the conviction of a man rehearsing an oft-repeated list. “Princess Adrina. The Halfbreed . . .”
“You’ve missed out there, I’m afraid. Brakandaran is already dead.”
Mica sighed with disappointment. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “It happened at the Citadel when the demon child killed Xaphista. I think helping R’shiel killed him because of the power she was channeling. I really don’t know the details. I was only a child when we got the news in Talabar, so I didn’t pay much attention to the—Gods! That’s why you came up to me in that tavern in Testra, isn’t it? You thought I’d be able to help you find the demon child so you could kil
l her. Or were you planning to sing me into an assassin?”
He didn’t try to deny it. “That plan didn’t work out as I imagined either.” He looked at her for the first time since they’d left their impromptu campsite and grinned, the first she’d seen of the old Mica all morning.
Impulsively, Rakaia leaned across and kissed him. “You are a terrible, terrible person.”
He put his hand behind her head and pulled her closer, kissing her soundly before he broke off the kiss, saying, “Then I’m in good company, my love. You left your sister to be raped by an old man, and probably killed for being a bastard in your place.”
Stung by his brutal words, she punched his arm. “That’s an awful thing to say.”
“True, though.”
This time it was Rakaia’s turn to sulk. She tried so hard to convince herself Charisee was happy, that she was looking forward to the wedding and the fabulous life of privilege and wealth stretching out before her. But there was barely a night she hadn’t lain awake, thanking the gods for bringing her Mica instead of the man her mother had arranged for her to marry.
They rode in silence the rest of the way. The road into the city was cluttering up quickly when they arrived, mostly with farmers bringing their goods to market. With only themselves and a few saddlebags to declare, they were waved through with a cursory glance by the guards, who were more interested in what might be lurking in those wagons.
They dismounted not long after, finding it easier to lead their horses than try to negotiate the crowded streets. Rakaia wasn’t sure where they were going. Although Mica appeared to have a destination in mind, she was too angry with him to ask where it might be.
Around mid-morning they finally arrived at a tavern with a swinging sign over the front door announcing it was the Pickpockets’ Retreat. Rakaia frowned when she saw the name. They were in the Thieves’ Quarter.
“Is this where we’re staying?”
“It doesn’t have fleas, princess.”
“I didn’t mean that. I just thought you’d want to stay in the . . . Musicians’ Quarter?”
“Krakandar City doesn’t have one,” he told her. “And even if it did, I would still stay here.”
“Why?”
“Because if there was a Musicians’ Quarter, that’s where all the musicians would be. We need somewhere I can perform. There’s less competition here. More thieves, you see. Less musicians.”
Rakaia rolled her eyes. There was no arguing with him. “It better not have fleas,” she warned as they crossed the street to where a young lad waited outside, already calculating what he could charge to look after their horses and prevent them from being stolen. This was the Thieves’ Quarter, after all.
“Mind ya mounts for ya, me lord, me lady?” the lad asked, doing his very best to appear honest and trustworthy. He was a tousle-haired lad of about nine. He reminded Rakaia of Alaric. Only with charm. And manners.
“How much?” Mica asked.
“Ten rivets,” the lad announced with not a shred of shame.
“I could almost buy another horse for that,” Mica pointed out.
“Aye,” the child agreed. “And for anythin’ less than ten rivets, ya may have to. I get offers all the time, ya know, when I’m mindin’ things. Ten rivets will make ’em easier to resist.”
Mica frowned but handed over the coin. The lad tucked it into his belt and then took the reins of both their mounts.
“That was straight out extortion,” Rakaia complained under her breath as they walked into the cool darkness of the tavern.
“This is the Thieves’ Quarter,” he reminded her. “His mother is probably very proud of him. I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For what I said about your sister. I know you didn’t mean her any harm.”
“It kills me that you might be right,” she said, slipping her hand into his. “Are you going to be alright?”
He shrugged. “I suppose.”
“It won’t change anything if you kill everyone who ever hurt you, Mica.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it will stop them hurting anyone else.” He let go of her hand and approached the man behind the counter to negotiate their lodgings and meals in return for entertainment.
There is no arguing with him on that point, she thought. At least not at the moment.
But Rakaia knew she wouldn’t stop trying until she had convinced Mica that the person he would hurt most by pursuing vengeance against a family as powerful as the Wolfblades, or someone as formidable as the demon child, was himself.
And her. Already the thought of a life without Mica in it was becoming unthinkable.
But how could she convince someone as hurt and hurting as Mica to walk away from the chance to even the score with those who had caused his unbearable pain in the first place?
Chapter
51
OLIVAH BRANADOR WAS a slender, fair-haired, handsome young man a couple of years older than Charisee. He smiled when they were introduced, kissed her palm, and greeted her with an altogether too charming smile. She couldn’t say why, but he set her teeth on edge.
His father was much easier to assess. She simply disliked him on sight. He was a brute of a man, barrel-chested and red-nosed from a life of excess by the look of him. He lacked any guile at all, along with not owning any discernable manners.
“Gods, what a prize you turned out to be,” he announced after Adrina introduced her. “You’re going to be wasted on my father.”
“Please, my lord,” Adrina scolded as they took their seats at the table. “My sister has just arrived. Don’t frighten her off on her first day in Greenharbour.”
Charisee grabbed her wine and took a good mouthful, quite certain the only way she was going to get through this next hour or so was with plenty more of it.
“I’m right, though,” Braun insisted as he drank down his own wine in a single gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring at Adrina. “Given the concessions your husband insisted we cede to your father, your highness, I’d expect the girl to have a pussy lined with solid gold.”
Charisee almost choked on her wine, but Adrina was either used to this man’s crudeness or had a nerve of tempered steel.
“I would imagine if one required something like that, one could have one made and use it at their leisure. In private. Without the need for my sister to be attached to it.”
Even Braun had decency to look a little shamefaced. Charisee was certain her face must be as red as the wine.
Olivah grinned at her obvious discomfort. He seemed to be having a grand old time. He leaned across to Charisee, smiling. “Shall I call you Grandmother?”
Charisee had no idea how to respond to that. She looked to Adrina for help.
“Does she not speak Hythrun?” Olivah asked his father when Charisee didn’t answer. “Surely someone thought to put a clause into this wretched agreement that insisted my new granny spoke basic Hythrun?”
“I’m sure, Olivah, that as soon as you say something civil, my sister will be glad to respond.”
“It’s alright, Adrina,” Charisee said in Fardohnyan, anger and humiliation lending her courage. She turned to Olivah and replied in flawless Hythrun. “You may not call me Granny. You may call me your highness.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Charisee caught Adrina’s smile of approval.
Braun did more than approve. He bellowed out loud at her comment, leaving Olivah looking rather foolish.
“Ha! She has you there, son,” he laughed. “Maybe this girl won’t be so awful after all.”
“Even if I’m not lined with gold?”
Neither Braun Branador nor his son had an answer for that.
Adrina skillfully drew the conversation away from Charisee’s physical attributes after that, keeping the conversation on more mundane topics like the state of the roads to Highcastle and the timber exports Highcastle was now able to send to Fardohnya.
As she listened and said nothin
g, Charisee learned a great deal. Highcastle was losing revenue from border taxes in this deal, but it was a timber-rich province that had always struggled to sell its product to its neighbor just on the other side of the pass. This was in no small way, she discovered as she listened to Adrina and Braun argue about it, to do with another deal Hablet had done years ago, when he traded Adrina in marriage to the Karien crown prince in return for access to vast quantities of Karien timber. Although the treaty was long dead—along with the crown prince of Karien—the timber deal had remained in place.
Charisee began to get a hint of the politics involved in wedding another daughter of Hablet’s to secure this deal, which would make Highcastle richer than it had ever been, and strengthen the High Prince’s coffers, too, no doubt. The Kariens had put a price on their timber, and that price was one of Hablet’s daughters. Now that the price was set, there was no chance any other deal was going to be taken seriously unless it came with the same payment.
Adrina knew all of this, Charisee was quite sure. She may even be feeling a little guilty about it. Perhaps that’s why those other conditions about free travel for Fardohnyan women were added into the agreement. If Adrina had to stand by while one of her sisters suffered the same fate as she had done, all those years ago, perhaps the knowledge that others might benefit somehow eased the sting a little.
Or Adrina was simply a ruthless politician who didn’t give a damn about what any of her sisters might suffer at her hands.
Charisee didn’t really know her well enough to tell.
BRAUN AND OLIVAH took their leave a couple of hours later. Charisee’s silence during Adrina’s discussion with Braun and his son had probably given them the impression she was a brainless trophy bride looking for a shelf on which to sit. She smiled and said the right things as they left, planning to escape to her room and ponder the least painful way she could kill herself rather than spend a lifetime sharing a home with those two.
She wasn’t allowed to escape, however. As soon as the men left, Adrina turned to Charisee and indicated she should resume her seat. “You did well.”
The Lyre Thief Page 35
