Hernyn tossed back his hair to draw attention to his Mercenary badge, bared his teeth in a strained smile, and placed his hand casually on his sword hilt. And knew without looking that Alkoryn had done the same.
“If I were you, my Brother,” Alkoryn said, tugging at Hernyn’s dark green cloak once they’d left the smith behind, “I’d think about getting something in a different color.”
“It was a good price,” Hernyn said.
“And now you know why.”
As streets wide enough for two coaches became narrower and shorter, they passed shops which were now closed for the night, and the small knots of whispering folk grew fewer, and farther between. They were able to make better time here, and Hernyn had picked up the pace when Alkoryn spotted a woman in dark green creeping from doorway to doorway, taking advantage of every shadow the rainy evening offered her. As they drew near, she pressed herself into a doorway, turning her face away from them and waiting to let them pass. Hernyn was just thinking that she’d better hurry-curfew for the Marked was the setting sun, and with the rain it was hard to prove that the sun had not already set-when Alkoryn signaled to him with a quick finger snap and stopped in front of the woman, effectively shielding her from any others who might pass by.
“Korwina Mender,” he said, his soft whisper making it perfectly safe to say her name. “I thought you were gone from Gotterang.”
Seeing who it was, the woman looked up, but didn’t leave the deep shadow of the doorway. “Your advice was good, Charter, but we left it too late. We were turned back from the gate.”
Hernyn winced at a sudden bad taste in his mouth.
“I’m sorry, Korwina, that can’t be good,” Alkoryn said.
“So we thought, and it’s followed by worse. I’m to present myself and my family at the Jaldean High Shrine tomorrow morning.”
Alkoryn shook his head. “Do they know your family? How many…?”
“If they don’t, there’s plenty of my neighbors will tell them.” The woman’s tone had no resentment, no bitterness, Hernyn noticed. They’d got used to this kind of thing in Gotterang. She shrugged. “They’ll have to, to save themselves. Still, I’ve been going round now, to my best customers, to see if there’s any will hide my children. If they’re not there tomorrow, the Jaldeans can’t take them, no matter what tales the neighbors tell. But no one dares.” Again, she sounded as if she didn’t blame them. “They don’t know, you see, what the Jaldeans may do to us once we’ve gone to them. They can’t risk that I might tell…” the Mender drew in a shaky breath. “That I might tell where my babies are hidden.”
“Send them to us,” Alkoryn said.
Hernyn looked up in surprise.
“Come to Mercenary House.” Alkoryn’s voice sounded harsher than usual. When the older man turned to him, Hernyn had had time to school his face.
“You go with her, my Brother, make sure she and the children are safe and none see you. Your Brothers in the House will know what to do with them. Tell your Brothers further what has occurred at the Dome; tell them to bar all doors and gates, and to make the lower chambers ready. Then join me yourself at the Dome.” Alkoryn looked off into the middle distance, as if he were listening to some music only he could hear. “Tell them that if we are not back by sunrise, Fanryn Bloodhand is Senior.”
“But, Alkoryn-”
“I’m a fool, Hernyn, I’ve been too long with my maps. The time for counsel and waiting is passed. Go now, do it quickly.”
His mouth suddenly dry as sand, Hernyn nodded, and stepped round to take the Marked woman gently by the elbow.
“Waste no time,” Alkoryn said. “In Battle.”
Hernyn touched his forehead. “Or in Death.”
“The Caids bless you,” the Mender said in the ancient way, “the Sleeping God hold you in his dreams.”
“Someone’ll have to,” Hernyn muttered, as he followed the Mender woman down a narrow corridor between two buildings. She did that well, he thought, almost like a Mercenary. It was surprising what people could learn when they had to.
Tek-aKet, Tarkin of Imrion, stood a long time at the window of his private room, watching his reflection dance on the rain dripping down the panes of glass, and running his fingers from time to time against the five words scratched there by some unknown ancestor’s jewel. Like Dhulyn Wolfshead, he did not know the language, though he also thought he could draw the letters from memory.
The sound of the door latch drew him around, and made the old dog sleeping in front of the fire raise its eyelids.
Larissa-Lan, junior page for this old tower, and therefore the one who usually brought whatever was required to the Tarkin’s private workroom, entered balancing a tray with practiced ease on her left hand. On the tray, along with cutlery, linen, and a breadbasket, was a heavy ceramic dish whose close-fitting lid barely the contained the familiar odors of a wine sauce.
“Here we go, sir,” said the young woman, smiling. “Still hot, and unsampled, though I had to threaten Kysh with a beating.”
“What is it?” Tek asked, though he thought he knew.
The page looked up in surprise. “Why, your favorite, Lord. Kidneys in jeresh sauce.” She advanced on the worktable, set down the tray, and laid out a heavy place mat for the hot dish. Beside it on the right she placed a crisp napkin folded in the shape of a crane, along with one of the new silver forks, and arranged the small breadbasket to the left.
Tek did his best to nod naturally even while his throat closed and his stomach dropped abruptly. This was coincidence with a vengeance-and altogether too pat for comfort.
“And who ordered this treat for me?”
“The Tarkina, my lord. At least, that’s what the cook told me. I was to say, with the compliments of the Tarkina.”
“Excellent, Larissa, thank you.”
“A pleasure, sir. Enjoy.” With the confidence of familiarity the young woman left the room.
Enjoy. Well that was going to be difficult. Tek almost wished young Kysh had taken a taste of it. Then at least he’d know…
He shook his head and sat down at the table. He already knew. Of course he did. There was nothing wrong with these kidneys and he didn’t need a taster. Tek broke off a piece of bread and picked up his fork in his right hand, speared a particularly juicy looking bit of kidney, and, using the piece of bread to stop the sauce from dripping on his clothes, lifted the tasty morsel to his mouth.
The Tarkin of Imrion let the fork clatter down on the plate. The old dog raised its head.
Larissa said the Tarkina had ordered the dish. Any other day Tek would have believed it-but not today. Just this morning, long before the request for an audience had come from Alkoryn Pantherclaw the Charter, Zelianora had talked to him about how tight his clothes were getting, and how little exercise he’d managed to get over the winter. A nice dish of steamed carrots, flavored with cumin. Apples spiced with cinnamon-even a hot soup. Those he would have expected Zella to send him. But kidneys in jeresh sauce? Not likely.
That didn’t mean the dish was poisoned. And it didn’t mean that it wasn’t.
Old Berlan got up with difficulty from his spot by the fire and walked his old dog’s walk to nudge his master’s hand. Tek absently stroked the bony old head, pulling the long silky ears through his fingers. The dog laid his head on Tek’s thigh and snuffled. Tek looked at the dish of kidneys, at his dog, and back to the dish. Berlan was too old to hunt, too old even to go outside, almost too old to eat. His pain was not yet great, but that day, too, would come.
Tek took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He thrust one finger into the center of the ceramic dish to test for heat before placing the dish on the floor. He watched as Berlan, tail wagging, began to eat. No great harm, perhaps even a kindness, if the dish was poisoned.