Paul Kearney - The Mark of Ran

At the end the Master rose himself, and proposed a toast to health, commerce, and the continuing prosperity of Ascari. His listeners applauded politely or thumped the table, but they seemed to like the sound of their own voices better than his. At last the diners rose and began to drift toward the bright firelit hearths at the back of the chamber, some more steadily than others, whilst the worst of the debris was cleared from the tables and fresh candles lit. Scores of stools were produced and on these the ladies sat fanning their painted faces, for it was close in the room and many of the gentlemen were now smoking pipes of whitherb. The servers went to and fro freshening drinks and collecting glasses. Some looked more like prizefighters than waiters, and they seemed to linger near knots of conversation, fiddling unnecessarily with the stuff on their trays. Psellos watched Rol’s frown follow their movements, and smiled.

“The Feathermen are an adaptable bunch, are they not? Canker and I gather more information on this one night of the year than on the rest combined.”

Of course. There must always be an angle, some advantage to be gained.

Rowen had disentangled herself from the attentions of half a dozen young noblemen and joined Rol and Psellos. The three stood apart from the chattering crowd and watched them, as a shepherd will look down on his sheep. With a kind of proprietorial detachment.

I, too, Rol thought. I do it now.

“Not even the inauguration of a new council gets a throng as well-bred as this,” Psellos said with relish. “A good night, in all.”

Then he turned to Rol, cold and entirely businesslike.

“Pachydon is one of the richest Mercanters of Gascar. The long and the short of it is that he wants a man killed. Tomorrow night.”

Rol felt the muscles of his face tighten. “And I am to do it.”

“You are to do it. Consider it a kind of final examination. Rowen’s phase of your instruction is almost over. Soon you will have a new tutor.”

“Who?”

“Our mutual friend, the King of Thieves. He will put the final polish upon you.”

Rol glanced at Rowen. She kept his gaze for a moment, and something opened in her eyes, a kind of pity.

“Who is the man I am to murder?”

“His name is Canoval. Lord Canoval to such as you and me.”

“Why?”

“Ah, Rol, that is the one question you must never ask. How, by all means, when, certainly, but why? No. There is no need for that one.”

“Where does he live? How do I recognize him?”

“That’s more like it. As to recognizing him, he is here tonight, and I will make sure you meet him. The where of it will be handled by Canker. He has been monitoring the lordship’s movements for several weeks now, not that these aristocrats are anything but predictable. Canker will be your mentor in this thing, he will hold your hand, as it were. It is a test in killing, but not simply some inane slaughter. You must show us that you can practice some finesse.” Psellos had not looked at Rol once as he spoke. His eyes were ranging about the chamber, alighting with interest now and again, registering faces.

“What if I refuse to do it?”

Psellos sighed. “Rol, must you be so tiresome? You should be growing out of this petulance by now. Rowen, tell him. I am off to mingle with the great and the good. Be with me at the door when it is time to see them out, both of you.” And off he went, a lean, elegant figure all in black, with shining wolf-teeth.

“Well?” Rol asked Rowen.

“There are two types of men in the world,” she said, “those who prize their own skins above all else, and those who…” She paused as though searching for words. “Those who prize the thing they love above their own lives.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He knows you are not one of the former. So, he has said that if you do not perform this deed, I am to spend a month in the guildhouse as the plaything of the King of Thieves.” She cleared her throat. “It is probable that I would not survive.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“He would do anything.”

“So I love you more than my own life, is that it?”

“That is what he thinks.”

“And what do you think?”

“That is unimportant.”

“I do love you, Rowen. You know this. You have known it a long time.”

She looked him in the eye again at last. “Yes, I have.”

“Then there is nothing more to be said. I must end a life to preserve yours.”

“You may look upon it that way if you will.”

“Damn you! Are you flesh and blood at all?”

She walked away, and he seized her arm. It came limply, as though the will had gone out of her.

“No,” she said quietly. “Not here.”

She allowed herself to be led out of the chamber, through the streams of servants coming and going. Finally Rol found a quiet space a few levels down. The noise of the party was faint above them. He took Rowen by the shoulders. “Listen to me. I-”

A pain in his belly. He looked down to see her pushing a blade against the silk of his shirt.

“Do not do this.” Her voice broke on the last word.

He said nothing, but deliberately pulled her close, staring into her face. The pain intensified for a split second, and then was gone. There was a metallic clatter on the floor and he could feel blood running down inside his shirt.

Those gray-steel eyes staring at him, unfathomable. He wanted to make them change, to see something new come into them. He took her face in his hands and kissed them shut. And tasted salt as her face betrayed her, tears on the face of a statue. He raised her chin and kissed the lovely mouth. It came alive under his lips, a moment he would never forget. They buried their faces in each other’s bodies and stood thus a long time, heedless of everything but the sudden peace each gave to the other. It seemed to Rol that he had found something of home again, a fixed point in the black whirl of the world.

He raised his head, and glared at her tear-streaked face. “No more pretense. It is you and I, Rowen-whatever it takes, it will be you and I together from now on.”

She nodded, matching him glare for glare. But her warm fingers entwined with his. “So be it. I have had enough. I am tired, Fisheye; you cannot know how tired.”

“I love you,” he said, as though the words were some magic healing spell.

“I know. I think I have always known.”

“You hid it well.”

“Not well enough. Now listen to me-”

“No-you tell me, who is this Lord Canoval?”

“He has just been elected head of the council. He proposes to close down the operations of the Feathermen.”

“Could that be done?”

“There is a lot of money involved. With enough money, anything is possible. Canker and Psellos have been working hand in glove for many months now, but they have become greedy.”

“How much support does Canoval have in the council?”

“They are sheep, and he is their shepherd. There was a secret ballot. When they are ready they will make it public. A mercenary flotilla is rumored to be docked on Andelys already, awaiting the word to sail.”

“Gods! It will be a war. And will killing Canoval stop this?”

She shrugged. “Quite probably. None of the rest of them has the sand to stand against both Psellos and the King of Thieves, and there are some among them who believe Canoval cannot either. Pachydon is one-Psellos’s creature, body and soul.” She looked away from him. “He is the front man, and will take the fall, if anything goes wrong. If things go well, he will be council leader.”

“How was he bought?” Rol asked harshly, though he knew the answer.

“With me,” she said. She tried to draw away, but he would not let her, and he was the stronger now. She leaned her head on his chest. “This carcass of mine has been pimped out a thousand times, Rol. Are you sure you want it?”