David Coe - Bonds of Vengeance

Because when Dusaan spoke to him of this second Weaver, in a dream less than a turn before, he didn’t hesitate to tell Tihod to kill the man if he had the opportunity.

“Remember that he’s a Weaver,” Dusaan told him that night. “Take great care in approaching him. But he’s seen my face and so must die, and as much as I’d enjoy killing him myself, I can’t risk waiting that long.”

Tihod may not have been a Weaver, but he was not without formidable powers of his own. He was a gleaner and a shaper, and he also possessed the power of mists and winds, a valuable asset for any sea captain. He had some skill with both sword and dagger as well, and one did not brave the storms of the Scabbard and the unpredictable currents and winds of the Narrows without growing strong and agile. Watching Grinsa and the boy make their way from the pier toward Duvenry’s marketplace, he had every intention of following them and making an attempt on their lives this very night.

But Dusaan had also told him to find the assassin. The man had not plied his trade on behalf of the movement in some time, though Dusaan’s servants had sought to hire him for the past several turns. Few even knew where he was, and so when word reached Tihod that a man matching the assassin’s description had been seen in southern Wethyrn two turns before, he steered his ship southward, past the Crown, to Grinnyd. He soon learned that the singer had been there only a half turn before, but had moved on. Rumor at the time placed him in Ailwyck, too far inland for a sea merchant to venture without calling attention to himself, but near enough to send a courier. Once again, however, the assassin resumed his journeying before the movement’s gold reached him, and for much of Amon’s waxing Tihod was at a loss as where to search next for the man.

But just a few nights before the Night of Two Moons, word reached him of another singer, a woman named Kalida Betzel who had sung with the assassin in Ailwyck and who, it was said, might even have been his lover. This woman had left Ailwyck shortly after the assassin did, journeying north to Duvenry. Having no other clues as to the man’s whereabouts, Tihod came to the royal city as well, and soon found Kalida. He kept his distance, not wishing to raise her suspicions, but he gathered that she was inquiring after the singer, and the merchant guessed that if he waited long enough, she would lead him to the man.

It seemed to Tihod that more than coincidence and good fortune had brought Grinsa and this woman to the same city and, ultimately on this night, to the same tavern. But only when he heard the gleaner asking the barman about the very singer she had been seeking, did he finally understand. He remembered now that the assassin had been paid to kill Lady Brienne of Kentigern, and that Tavis had been blamed for her murder. Thus, it didn’t surprise him when Kalida followed Grinsa and the boy outside, or when creeping to the doorway himself, he saw the three of them speaking in the lane just beyond the tavern door. He didn’t step into the street himself, though he would have given a good deal of gold to hear their conversation. He merely watched, noting Kalida’s shock at what they told her-was she just learning now of the singer’s true profession? — and when the Curgh boy raised his voice in anger, hearing snatches of conversation. From what he observed, he could only assume that the Qirsi and the lord intended to continue their search for the man.

It seemed he wouldn’t be killing Grinsa jal Arriet here in Duvenry after all. Clearly, the gleaner still had to die-Dusaan had left no question of that and Tihod was more than happy to strike the killing blow. But first, Grinsa and his companion were going to lead Tihod to the assassin, Cadel Nistaad.

Helke, Wethyrn

“He’s a good ’un, tha’ singer at the Grey Seal. Best I’ve heard in some time.”

The peddler took another long pull on his ale and wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. He had been talking to Grinsa and Tavis for the better part of an hour, drinking ales bought with Curgh gold and regaling them with tales of all the taverns in Helke.

“If it’s music yer lookin’ fer-good music, mind ye-tha’s where I’d begin.”

It had been Grinsa’s idea, and Tavis had to admit that it had worked quite well.

“The closer we get to Helke,” the gleaner had said a few days before, “the more likely it becomes that we’ll run across people who know of Cadel. So rather than asking about him in particular, and possibly drawing attention to ourselves, I’d like to try just asking about the musicians in the city. From what we’ve heard, this man can sing. If he’s there, we’ll hear of him.”

At the time, Tavis hadn’t been convinced that the strategy would work, but on this night the peddler had given them all the information they would need to find the singer. And then some.

“Now, if ye like the pipes,” he went on, draining his tankard and beckoning to the serving girl with his free hand, “then I’d send ye t’ the Mainmast, over on the south end o’ the city. Tha’s a rougher place, though.” He grinned at Tavis, revealing broken yellow teeth. “From the looks o’ the boy, I’d say he’s had enough o’ tha’ kind o’ tavern. Better t’ stick wi’ the Grey Seal.”

“Well, friend,” Grinsa said, digging into his pocket for coins to pay for all the ale the man had drunk, “we thank you for your advice. When we’re in Helke, listening to all this fine music you’ve told us about, we’ll raise an ale and drink to your good health.”

Tavis and the gleaner pushed back their chairs.

“But wait!” the peddler said with widened eyes, no doubt fearing the loss of his free drink. “I’ve told ye nothin’ o’ the taverns in Strempfar. The musicians there aren’ as fine as those in Helke, but there are a few worth mentionin’.”

Grinsa stood and motioned for Tavis to do the same.

“Perhaps another night, friend.”

The peddler’s face fell. “Very well. I thank ye fer the ale.”

They left him there, sipping this last ale far more slowly than he had the previous ones and looking around for his next patron.

Tavis and the gleaner didn’t speak as they wound their way through the crowded tavern to the door. Once they were in the street, however, Grinsa smiled, looking pleased with himself.

“I told you it would work.”

“If you were half as clever as you think you are, you would have thought of this while we were still in Aneira, asking questions of barkeeps who refused to speak with us.”

“I’m not certain it would have worked as well in Aneira. We didn’t know what city he’d be in, and I wouldn’t have wanted to listen to tales of every tavern singer in the realm.”

Tavis nodded, conceding the point.

It was a warm night, the air heavy with a light mist and the faint scent of the sea. They were already in the dukedom of Helke, though they still had another two leagues to travel before they reached the ducal city. The sky flickered briefly-lightning from a distant storm-but they heard no answering rumble of thunder. It had been like this for several nights now, the pale glimmering of the sky holding out the promise of rain, but as of yet none had fallen.

“So now we know where to find him,” the young lord said.

“Yes, I suppose we do.”

Something in the gleaner’s voice made Tavis falter briefly in midstride. It almost seemed that he didn’t believe what the peddler had told them. Or perhaps he hoped that they wouldn’t find the singer, fearing-knowing? — that Tavis wouldn’t survive their encounter.

Tavis regretted having said anything.

They had hardly spoken since leaving Duvenry, though not because of any conflict between them. Tavis simply didn’t feel like talking, and the gleaner seemed to understand this. The young lord could think of nothing but his coming confrontation with the assassin and what Grinsa had told him of his vision of their battle. He had bested the man once, in Mertesse, when Grinsa forced him to let the singer go, and he should have been able to draw some confidence from that memory. But if anything, it merely served to make him more afraid of their next meeting. Tavis had no illusions as to his skills as a fighter. He had brought along Xaver’s short sword, hoping that it might improve his chances somewhat. Thanks in large part to his training under the keen eyes of Hagan MarCullet, he had always been good with a sword, far better than he was with daggers. But even so armed, against a man like Cadel Tavis could expect to prevail once in a hundred fights. And he had already claimed his one victory, hollow though it was. Chances were the assassin would prevail the next time they fought.