“And if the one we want isn’t with the duke?”

Cadel shrugged. “We’ll walk back to Solkara and start searching again, hoping that he really did go there after leaving our innkeeper.”

“Are all your jobs like this?” Dario asked.

“Like what?”

“So uncertain, so dependent on good fortune.”

Cadel shook his head, gazing toward Mertesse. The castle looked bigger than he remembered, more formidable.

“No,” he said at last. “This job is unlike any I’ve ever had before. I rarely agree to kill without out knowing the name of the one I’m hunting, and without being certain I know where to find him.” He hesitated, thinking suddenly of Brienne of Kentigern. “Or her.” He shivered, though the sun felt warm on his back and legs.

“You also rarely kill for so little money,” Dario said quietly. “You really were eager to strike back at the conspiracy, weren’t you?”

Cadel eyed him for a moment, but said nothing.

“Do you regret it now?”

“No. Not even a little.”

Dario nodded, but at least he had the sense not to say anything more. The truth was that while Cadel didn’t have any qualms about striking at the conspiracy, he wished that he had found a different way to do it. Usually he liked to have a job planned well in advance or, failing that, to have at least a few alternatives in mind. Right now, he had no sense of how he was going to kill this man, or even get close enough to him to try. He could almost hear Jedrek railing at him for being so rash as to take gold from the woman who had hired them. Never take a job when you feel anything for the one you’re supposed to kill, be it love, hate, anger, or pity. It was one of the first rules Cadel had taught Jedrek, and he here he was violating it. It seemed he had learned nothing at all in Kentigern.

“So what do we do when we get to Mertesse?”

Cadel took a breath, then squinted up at the sun. They’d be in the city before nightfall.

“We find work,” he said. “There’s no shortage of taverns in a city this large. One of them is bound to need musicians.”

“And then?”

“And then we hope that the gods are with us.”

But he could hear Jedrek again, asking the question he couldn’t answer. Are the gods ever with an assassin?

Chapter Twenty-six

City of Kings, Eibithar

She could always tell when Kearney was unhappy with her. The signs were subtle, like the scent of snow in the highlands before a storm. The silver-haired king had spent too long in the courts of Eibithar’s nobles to reveal much, and few others would have noticed anything at all. Except, perhaps, for Gershon Trasker. But to Keziah, who had loved him for so many years, the indications were as clear as a bright morning in the cold turns. The way he avoided her gaze; the expression on his face, a boyish mix of hurt and resentment; the restless pacing as he listened to the counsel of his other ministers. She had seen all these things before, usually after she angered him with some cutting remark about the queen, or overstepped with her teasing about the Glyndwr traditions.

Until now, though, she had never actually tried to make him angry. The other ministers did not appear to have noticed what she was doing. If they had they were certainly keeping it to themselves. Clearly, though, they believed that she was angry with the king and she could only assume that they would delight in seeing her influence with Kearney wane. More to the point, she wondered if one of them might see in this an opportunity to exploit.

Unlike the ministers, Gershon was watching everything she did with complete understanding and-dare she think it-more than a little admiration. They hadn’t spoken in private since the night after Paegar’s death, when she went to his quarters to tell the swordmaster of the gold she found in the high minister’s chambers. All who lived in Audun’s Castle knew of their enmity, and would have taken note of seeing them together. But she had learned to read Gershon’s expressions as well. He had long been her chief rival for Kearney’s ear, and even loving the man she served, she had not been entirely above court politics. Gershon was watching her, gauging the progress she made in alienating the king, and offering his approval with raised eyebrows and barely concealed grins.

She felt his gaze upon her now, as she watched the king pace before his writing table, and she sensed the swordmaster’s concern. Before this day, she had opposed Kearney only on small matters, trifles really, that would trouble the king without compromising the safety of the kingdom. With this meeting of Kearney’s council of ministers, matters had abruptly grown far more dangerous.

“You’re certain of these tidings, Your Majesty?” Dyre asked, his yellow eyes fixed on the king. “Might there be some mistake?”

Kearney shook his head. “There’s no mistake, Minister. This information came from our own men. It wasn’t purchased and it didn’t come from those who might oppose us.”

“First he goes to Kentigern, and now he sends a messangeer to Curgh,” Wenda said. “Could it be that Marston is trying to broker a peace?”

Kearney stopped, glanced at Keziah, then faced Gershon. “Swordmaster?”

Even the other ministers couldn’t help but notice that. The king almost never asked Gershon questions of this sort. He was Kearney’s most trusted advisor on tactics, arms, and war, but not on matters of statecraft and mediation. Until recently, he would have asked Keziah before anyone else. It was working. The archminister’s chest felt tight, and she feared she would cry, right here in the king’s chambers.

Gershon cleared his throat and straightened in his chair. “I would think it possible, Your Majesty. We did have Tremain send Marston a message, asking him for help.”

Dyre shook his head. “We asked only to know where he stood in this conflict. We certainly didn’t ask him to mediate it.” He looked at Keziah. “Did we, Archmimster? After all, it was you who penned the message to Lathrop.”

“As you say, High Minister,” she answered coolly, “we asked only where he stands.”

“Maybe he took it upon himself to do more,” Gershon suggested.

A cue.

She turned to the swordmaster, arching an eyebrow. “Maybe he’s decided to sell his loyalties to the highest bidder. He wouldn’t be the first noble to do so.”

He glared at her. “The buying and selling of loyalties is a Qirsi trade, Archminister. It has been for centuries.”

“That’s enough!” Kearney said, his voice like a blade. He looked from one of them to the other, but his eyes came to rest on Keziah. “Marston’s no traitor, and his house is the strongest in the land. What could Curgh or Kentigern possibly offer him?”

She regarded him as if he were simple. “The throne, of course. He’s probably trying to decide which of them will make the stronger ally, and which alliance will cost him the least.”

“So what would you counsel us to do, Archminister?” Gershon, with another cue. His voice was heavy with sarcasm, but she read the concern in his blue eyes. If Kearney took her words to heart, it could lead them all down a path to civil war. She doubted, however, that her king would ever again take seriously any advice she gave him. At least, he wouldn’t if her plan worked.

“I’m not certain there’s anything you can do,” she said. You rather than we. None of the rest would hear it, but Kearney would. Before long, his displeasure with her would be as obvious to all of them as it already was to her. “You thought that by taking the throne for Glyndwr, you could avoid a civil war, but you were wrong. Curgh and Kentigern are still at each other’s throats, and the other houses are choosing sides. All you’ve done is put Glyndwr in the middle of the conflict. You should never have come here, and now that you have you’re even more powerless to keep the peace than you were. Glyndwr can’t mediate anymore. Everything the king does is seen as a ploy to keep the crown. Nobody trusts him.” She felt Kearney staring at her, but she refused to meet his gaze. “Now that he’s king,” she said, her voice dropping, “everything has changed.”