The Stiehl Assassin

by Terry Brooks

  As Lakodan followed Battenhyle and the Federation commander outside, he found himself wondering. All this felt a little too good to be true. A lifetime of experiencing the treachery and ruthless behavior of the Federation made it impossible for him to relax his guard.

  Well, there it was, wasn’t it? In spite of all the assurances and camaraderie, he still wasn’t quite ready to trust Ketter Vause.

  * * *

  —

  Drisker Arc did not return from his journey into Arborlon until almost midnight. By then, Tavo had fallen asleep inside their airship and Tarsha was pacing the ground surrounding it, increasingly worried about what had happened. She felt a surge of relief when the Druid appeared, his black-cloaked form materializing out of the darkness and silence in the old, familiar way. By then, the airfield was virtually empty save for the watchmen the field manager employed to protect the vessels against thieves and vandals. All three on duty had passed her at least twice by then, and she was thinking they would soon be on a first-name basis.

  But petty gripes and small irritations disappeared the moment she saw the expression on Drisker’s face, and she ran up to him at once. “What’s happened?”

  “Gerrendren Elessedil is dead, killed in his sleep by an assassin.” The Druid lowered himself to the ground and sat cross-legged on the grass, waiting for her to join him. “The common opinion is that whoever killed him was from the Federation, but we know better, don’t we?”

  “Clizia Porse?”

  He nodded. “She used the Stiehl. The cuts—so smooth and clean and deep that great force would have been necessary otherwise…Only one blade could achieve that. I spoke with the queen. She is recovering now, but was in shock when her husband was discovered two days ago. Mostly, she was concerned for the safety of Brecon, but I was able to assure her he was in no danger from the king’s assassin.”

  “You told her it was Clizia?”

  “I told her not to allow the High Council or her sons—especially whichever becomes the new king—to wrongly attach the blame to the Federation. Unless there is an alliance I don’t know about, this seems more likely to have been instigated by the Skaar. After all, Ajin d’Amphere secured Clizia as a Skaar ally early on so that she could gain entry to Paranor. It seems reasonable to assume that her father continues to make use of Clizia—or she him—in this new arrangement.”

  Tarsha stared at him. “I don’t understand. Why would she do this? What does she gain by killing the Elven king? He isn’t allied with either the Skaar or the Federation, is he?”

  “Not presently. But I think this has more to do with the future. She moves people around like chessmen, and she takes them off the board when they pose a threat. So if she seeks to ally still with the Skaar, it is best to remove those who might present a threat to them. And Gerrendren Elessedil commanded the second most powerful army in the Four Lands and had use of a modicum of magic, too.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We keep searching for Clizia until we find her. Then we try to persuade the Skaar and the Federation to settle their differences.”

  Tarsha almost laughed at the seeming impossibility of it all. “How do we do that? And how are we ever going to find her?”

  “I was thinking about it on my way back from the city. I could try using the scrye orb to summon her, but I don’t want to reveal that we are onto her just yet. But the logical conclusion to me is that she is trying to aid the Skaar in their efforts to establish a foothold in the Four Lands by giving any potential antagonists something else to occupy their time and effort. Realistically, she has only the Elves and the Federation to worry about. If she can draw their attention away from the Skaar, she has a better chance of making her own plans for a new Druid order to take root.”

  “Isn’t that a bit of a stretch? How many things have to fall into place for that to happen?”

  Drisker shook his head. “I agree, it seems an impossibility. But she doesn’t have much else to work with. She needs the support of at least one power, and the Skaar offer her the best chance. Neither the Federation nor the Elves will have anything to do with her. Besides, she is slow and methodical, and she always takes the long view. For her, the passing of a few more decades would not be a problem. She has lived a long time and undoubtedly plans to live a lot longer. She will play this game until she gets what she wants or is stopped. She’s already proved that.”

  Tarsha was mulling it over. “So she killed the Elven king to give the Elves something to do besides worry about the Skaar—and maybe to give them the impression that the killing was done on Federation orders.” She paused and looked at him. “But that suggests that she might want to do the same thing with the Federation.”

  Drisker nodded slowly. “She might use the Stiehl next on Ketter Vause.” He climbed to his feet. “And we have to hurry if we want to stop it from happening.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  CLIZIA PORSE HAD INTENDED to sleep only through the remainder of the day and into the next morning before setting out again, but her need for rest and healing proved much more extensive. So when she woke at last, almost two days were gone, and she was deep into the second full day after her arrival at the camp of the Skaar and her meeting with Cor d’Amphere. At first, she didn’t realize how much time had passed, and when she did she was worried for the first time about her health.

  Using the Stiehl had required so much more of her than she would have expected. As old as she was, as many years as she had lived, she had always been quick to recover after engaging in magic. But not this time. The years were catching up with her, perhaps, and it could be that her ability to employ magic needed more consideration. She was not pleased to think of herself as growing old, but then she had known these days would come eventually. It was why the Druid sleep was so necessary for those who overextended themselves. Magic required a price, and a part of that price was always a loss of strength and a shortening of life.

  So she accepted her lot with a mix of bitterness and resignation, but still acknowledged it as fact and moved along. She had much to do in the hours ahead, and her next undertaking would require the same loss of energy and need for rest afterward as the last. Once she had used the Stiehl on Ketter Vause, she would again have to find shelter and concealment while she recovered her strength, or Drisker Arc and his allies would find her and put an end to all her plans. She harbored no illusions about this. The Druid was hunting her, and he would not stop. He was likely already aware that she had killed Gerrendren Elessedil. And if he knew that, then she had to suppose he had concluded the rest and knew she would now go after the Federation Prime Minister.

  And she had to expect that he would try to stop her.

  Again, she found herself wishing that he had not escaped Paranor and the Guardian of the Keep but had died there as she’d intended he should. Things would be so much simpler if he had. But it was in the nature of life that even the best-laid plans should go awry, so she refused to waste time dwelling on it. Her only choice was to keep moving forward, to work that much harder at achieving the goals she had set for herself.

  She dressed, ate a little of the food she was offered at the cook tent, and wandered through the Skaar camp to walk off the lingering effects of a sleep that had stiffened too many muscles. Even in daylight—for it was now midafternoon—she was a dark presence as she passed, wrapped in her hooded black cloak, head bent, ancient hands clasping the folds of her garments as if they provided a second skin. No one deigned to speak to her, and she made no effort to speak to anyone in turn. Hers was a solitary existence even in the most crowded and bustling of spaces, and that was the way she preferred it.

  Sometimes, she missed the company of her fellow Druids, even though so many of them had been weak and foolish. At least they had shared some small part of her understanding of magic’s vast possibilities and scope. So many distrusted magic and yearned to see it banished fo
rever. So many believed it a black art and anathema to ordinary lives. Small minds and limited understanding fed such fears, but she was one of the fortunate ones upon whom the gift of magic had been bestowed. And she possessed the determination to see that gift honored and empowered by her personal vision for what constituted a better world.

  She had no regrets; she had no wish to take back a single day of her long life. Why would you ever regret that which had raised you head and shoulders above your fellow human beings? Why would you ever wish to be less than what you were? To do so would be a denial of everything you had ever done and everything you were. It marked you as weak and foolish, and she would never think of herself that way.

  After a long, meandering walk, she returned to her tent to prepare for the night ahead. She was, in fact, ready now. She wore the clothes she would need and carried the Stiehl hidden within them. She had arranged for her aircraft to be readied for her departure. She had studied maps provided by the Skaar king that detailed the layout of the Federation camp. She knew where she would find Ketter Vause and what it would require to get to him once she had arrived.

  There was little else needed save for the sun to set and the night to provide her with the cover she required to reach her quarry unseen. That and her magic would be sufficient to put her close enough to the Federation Prime Minister to make an end of him. By this time tomorrow, she would be back in the Skaar camp and asleep once more, the deed done and her cherished dreams of the future one step closer.

  By the time night finally arrived, she was beyond impatient to set out. She saw no point in announcing her departure to Cor d’Amphere or anyone else in the Skaar camp—these invaders meant less than nothing to her and were little more than pawns—so she took her leave as swiftly and silently as she could manage. The airfield manager did not question her as she moved to the small aircraft she had been given. If anything, he seemed grateful that she kept her distance. So much of her success depended on people’s desire to avoid her. Some would have been broken by the knowledge that their presence was abhorrent, but Clizia Porse reveled in the power this granted her.

  She powered up her airship and lifted off, wheeling west to follow the Mermidon for the better part of twenty miles before crossing over to the southern bank and continuing southeast. Her route would eventually place her in a position to come into the Federation camp from behind. Not that there wouldn’t be as many sentries there as anywhere else, but those on the rear lines were less likely to be vigilant. Besides, a small craft with a single flier would barely catch their attention and seem to offer no real threat.

  As time passed and her flight continued, she found herself musing on the bargain she had entered into with Cor d’Amphere. What he required was a serious distraction to draw the attention of both the Elves and the Southlanders. If both were too busy to give time and thought to engaging in a battle with an enemy that wasn’t actually providing any immediate threat, then the chances for the Skaar to seize their desired territory unopposed were substantially improved.

  In the case of the Elves, that goal was already achieved. It would be weeks before the Westlanders determined who was to blame for the death of their king—if that was even possible—and longer still before a new king could be agreed upon. Until then, their High Council was unlikely to find much support for mounting an attack on the invading Skaar.

  That left the Federation—admittedly the more pressing problem—but Clizia had been clear that once Ketter Vause was gone, it would find itself in a position similar to that of the Elves. The effort to determine who was responsible for Vause’s death would be difficult. Any choice for a new Prime Minister would take time and extensive negotiations on the part of the members of the Coalition Council. The army might stay encamped on the Mermidon while this was taking place, but no one would be willing to suggest attacking the Skaar when matters were so unsettled.

  That would give Cor d’Amphere the time to persuade both potential adversaries to permit the Skaar to establish a foothold in the Four Lands. The most successful sorts of invasions, after all, were relatively peaceable ones. First the invader gained a foothold. Then it settled in as a neighbor, intending no harm. Then it began to work at destabilizing the established powers. And finally, it eliminated them, one by one.

  It would happen that way here, too, she believed. Once Ketter Vause was dead, there was no reason why it shouldn’t.

  She flew farther south of the Federation camp and turned back again. When she was still a mile away from their perimeter lines and well out of sight of any sentries who might be keeping watch, she landed her airship in a patch of heavy forest.

  She shut down the parse tubes and thrusters, locked the controls, and climbed out. A few moments of using her magic to conduct a careful search of her surroundings revealed there was no one else about. She was safely alone.

  Her robes wrapped tightly about her scarecrow frame for warmth against the night chill, she began walking north.

  * * *

  —

  Kol’Dre had been getting through the recent weeks with more than a little difficulty. Separated from Ajin, forced to stay behind when every fiber of his being screamed at him to go after her—and burdened with having to now serve as an adjutant to Cor d’Amphere, his king and Ajin’s father but also a man for whom he had little regard—was almost too much to bear. He had gotten through it by staying busy as best he could, carrying out the orders he was given, and spending his free time in the company of common soldiers with whom he was more comfortable than the officers who were of equal rank.

  None of it, however, gave him much satisfaction or relief.

  He was worried for Ajin, and not without reason. Sending her home was an ill-conceived notion at best. The queen, Ajin’s stepmother, bore her enough animosity that there was no doubt at all in the Penetrator’s mind that she would try to have the princess killed. Ajin knew this, and she was smart and strong-minded, but the queen was equally determined. And that was what Ajin was facing until her father came home to set things right.

  He kept hoping there was something he could do to help her, but thus far he had failed to come up with anything useful. Everything he could devise involved rushing to her aid and either setting up a line of defense or spiriting her away. He was trapped by his circumstances, and it was maddening.

  In the midst of his agony, he received a report from the scouts on the forward lines that forced him to drop everything and hasten at once to speak with the king.

  He found Cor d’Amphere reworking his lines of communication with home, arranging for a regular run of ultra-fast aquaswifts and couriers, both human and avian. The birds were called falconlets, and they were a variety of falcon, only much smaller, better suited for long flights and better equipped to make them. Kol’Dre had not yet been returned to favor in the king’s eyes, given the Penetrator’s close personal relationship with Ajin and his clear involvement in whatever it was she had been doing here, so the initial look the king gave him on his approach was anything but welcoming.

  “What is it?” he said, his words clipped, his tone of voice flat.

  “Majesty.” Kol gave him a respectful bow. “Our sentries have sighted unusual activity in the Federation camp. Something is clearly happening.”

  It was the middle of the night, so any activity taking place at this hour was troubling. But the king was dismissive. “Send one of our scouts to find out what it is.” He hesitated. “Better yet, go yourself. Penetrating enemy territory is what you do best, isn’t it?”

  Kol’Dre could have argued the point but chose not to. If he were ever to be returned to favor, it would come from exceeding expectations.

  So he went back to his tent and changed his clothes, choosing a plain black tunic and pants. Then he walked down to the airfield in the darkness, picking his way through sleeping men and scattered stacks of equipment and supplies to find the manager and request
a flit. He was given his pick of the airships available and chose one he knew to be quieter when it was in flight—not so powerful as some but agile and tested. Also, more important, one that lacked a recognizable identity and could just as easily have been crafted by the Federation as by the Skaar. Thanking the man, he boarded his craft and soared out of the camp and straight down to the Mermidon. The night sky was clouded over sufficiently that there was no sign of moon or stars, and even ambient light was almost nonexistent. He crossed the river swiftly, angling away from the Federation camp and then swinging back again when he drew nearer to the far bank. Making no effort to hide his coming, he found their airfield and settled down on the western edge of the field.

  A sentry approached within moments, as Kol’Dre knew one would. The Penetrator began speaking first.

  “No time for that,” he said breathlessly, speaking fluently in the Southland dialect he had long since mastered. “I have an urgent report I must make to the Prime Minister. Can you maintain watch over my vessel until I return?”

  “Yes, sir,” the other man answered at once, offering a hasty salute, immediately assuming from Kol’s confident tone that he was a superior officer. “Will you be long?”

  Kol’Dre shook his head. “Just long enough to deliver my message. Something is happening across the river, and I have to make certain what it is.”

  “Yes, sir!” The sentry provided immediate assurance of his cooperation. “Your airship will be ready when you are.”

  “Very good, soldier. I won’t forget this.”

  Off he went without a backward glance, another shadow lost in the darkness, working his way through the camp with its tents and weapons racks and sleeping men to where the activity noted by the Skaar sentries had been seen. When he got to within fifty yards, he slowed to consider what he was seeing.

  There was considerable activity ahead, down toward the Mermidon but behind the foremost fortifications. Several platforms were being constructed—broad wooden layers of planks closely fitted and ringed by low walls constructed of stakes with sharpened ends. Each structure sat eight to ten feet above ground level and had wooden stairs so that it could be mounted from the rear through a break in the walls. The three platforms, spaced perhaps fifty to sixty feet apart, were in various stages of completion, with one being substantially finished and the other two somewhere in the halfway range.