DAVID COE - Seeds of Betrayal

“Because we know of him as well,” Evanthya finally told the assassin. She had said “we” again, but she pressed on. “The conspiracy has gone unopposed for too long. I don’t expect that this man’s death will stop it. It might not even slow its advance across the land. But those who lead it have to be made to understand that they will be opposed. Perhaps this is the way to convey that message.”

“Perhaps it is,” he said thoughtfully.

“You said that you know of this man. Do you know his name?” She wanted to ask if he knew for certain that the man was part of the conspiracy, but she didn’t dare reveal her doubts. She felt that she was betraying Fetnalla even thinking it.

“I wouldn’t say even if I did,” he told her. “I’m not part of their movement, but neither am I their enemy. I’ll tell you nothing about them. And I’ll tell them nothing about you.”

How could she argue? “Very well.”

“You have gold for me?”

Evanthya took a breath and pulled Fetnalla’s pouch from within her riding cloak. She had added some of her own money to the sixty qinde Fetnalla had given her. The pouch felt heavy as she placed it in the man’s large hand.

“That’s ninety qinde,” she said. It seemed a lot to her, but given the look that passed between Corbin and his young companion, she guessed that they usually demanded more. Her heart sank, and she expected the assassin to hand back the pouch.

“That’s fine,” he said instead.

The younger man started to say something, but Corbin laid a hand on his arm and shook his head.

“We’ll see to this matter,” he said, holding her gaze. “You may not place much faith in the word of men like me, but I promise you, the man in Mertesse will be killed, and no one will learn from us who bought his blood.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, her throat abruptly dry.

“Now I’d suggest you go, before your duke misses you.”

Evanthya felt the blood drain from her cheeks.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, smiling at her. “As you’ve seen, I don’t betray those who buy my services.”

She just sat there, knowing that she should leave, that she should run from the place and never return. But she wasn’t certain that her legs would bear her. After several moments, she made herself stand and leave the table. She stepped to the tavern door, glancing back as she pulled it open. The two men were still at the table, but they were talking to each other. She glanced around the tavern one last time and then hurried out into the lane. She and the duke’s company would be departing soon for Solkara, where, no doubt, she would see her love again, sooner than either of them ever imagined. Fetnalla would be pleased by what Evanthya had done, but that did little to ease the pounding of the minister’s heart.

Cadel stared after the minister as she made her way to the tavern door. Taking her gold was dangerous, but he hardly cared. By making it clear to her that he knew who she was, he guaranteed that she wouldn’t reveal him to others. And at last, he could strike back at these Qirsi who had controlled his life for so long.

“Why did you do that?” Dario demanded, sounding angry and terribly young.

Cadel looked at him. “She gave us gold.”

“Ninety qinde, for a job that’s going to take us the better part of a turn. Maybe longer. You can’t expect me to believe that you’ve been accepting so little pay for other jobs.”

“No, I haven’t. But didn’t you hear what I told you earlier about working for the conspiracy?”

“Yes, I heard,” the young man said. “They know too much about your past. They can reveal you to every noble house in the Forelands. And if you try to stop working for them, they’ll hunt you down. Demons and fire, man! What do you think they’ll do to you when they learn that you’re killing Qirsi who belong to the movement?”

“They won’t find out. I’ve been doing this a long time now, and I’ve gotten quite good at it.” He eyed the lutenist briefly. “If you don’t want to do this, we can part ways now. I’ll hold no grudges. You have my word.”

Dario stared at him, as if weighing the offer. Then he shook his head. “No, I’ll go with you.” He rubbed a hand across his brow. “Ninety qinde,” he mumbled to himself.

Cadel nearly laughed aloud.

“What’s my share come to?” Dario asked.

Cadel thought for a moment. “Thirty-six qinde.”

“Thirty-six. I suppose I should be pleased. That’s more than I’ve got now.” He peered into his empty tankard. “Still, I think it’s only fair that you buy the ales.”

Curtell, Braedon, Bohdan’s Moon waning

Dusaan strode through the white stone corridors of the palace, his red robe rustling like the cape of a king, his white hair dancing about his shoulders. He still seethed at the messenger’s tidings, though he was certain that no one would have known it to look at him. He had learned long ago to keep a tight rein on his passions. In a few hours he would be free to loose his rage, but before then he had to endure an audience with the emperor. Surely Harel would be distraught enough for both of them.

He passed by one of the interior courtyards, its fountain gurgling noisily amid the blooms and shrubs growing in great carved marble planters. A pair of finches flew up from the water at his approach, alighting on a high ledge just below the white ceiling. Just beyond the courtyard, he turned to enter the broad, tiled corridor leading to the emperor’s chambers. Guards stood on either side of the door, both of them dressed in gold and red, both holding pikes that gleamed in the sunlight from the glazed windows that lined the outer hall.

They bowed to him as he stepped past them and pushed open the door.

“Dusaan jal Kama!” another guard called out as Dusaan paused in the doorway. “High Chancellor to the Emperor of Braedon!”

Harel sat on his marble throne in the center of the chamber, his fleshy chin cradled in his hand, his small green eyes downcast. He looked utterly disconsolate, like a child trapped in his house by an untimely rainstorm. He wore white as always, his robe and cape fringed with red and gold. His jeweled crown sat upon his head in a nest of tight brown curls, and the Imperial Scepter lay across his lap, its diamonds and rubies glittering, calling to Dusaan’s eye like beacons in the night.

Like the hallway, the emperor’s chambers were bright with sun. Even the great castles of Thorald and Solkara, Enharfe and Yserne, did not have glazed windows, Harel often reminded anyone who would listen. Only here, in the Imperial Palace of Braedon, could the leader of one of the Forelands’ seven lands-the wealthiest and most powerful of them all-pass the cold months in the warm glow of the sun, rather than in the murky light of torches, lamps, and candles.

In the near corner of the chamber, a harper played a slow ballad, her slender hands moving like spiders over the strings. The empress’s court ladies sat in a tight circle near the musician speaking in low tones, though the empress herself was nowhere to be seen.

Harel sat up straighter when Dusaan was announced, his round face brightening considerably.

“High Chancellor,” he called, beckoning to the Qirsi with an outstretched hand.

Dusaan walked to where the emperor sat, dropping to one knee just before the throne and bowing his head.

“Your Eminence.”

“Rise, High Chancellor.”

Dusaan stood again, and the emperor regarded him gravely, as if they had both lost a dear friend.

“You heard?” Harel asked.

“Yes, Your Eminence. Word of the message reached my quarters not long ago.”

The emperor shook his head. “Terrible business. I never would have thought that Carden could do such a thing.”