Before he could pull the weapon from its sheath, before he could even turn to face the sound, he felt someone grab him from behind, a hand gripping his right arm at the elbow, and a muscular arm locking itself around his throat.

The duke struggled to free his sword, but the man holding him was remarkably strong. He opened his mouth to scream, but the singer-it had to be he-tightened his hold on Chago’s throat until the duke could barely draw breath.

“My apologies, my lord. But it seems someone wants you dead.”

He’s an assassin then, Chago thought, not a brigand.

Not that it mattered. He was going to die here in the wood, not even a league from his castle.

Where in Bian’s name was Peshkal?

The realization came to him so suddenly, with such force, that his knees actually gave way, forcing the man to hold him up. He had been hearing the rumors for nearly a year now, long enough and from so many different sources that he no longer doubted their truth. But though he had little trouble believing in the existence of a Qirsi conspiracy, it had never occurred to him to question Peshkal’s loyalty.

The sorcerer had been with him for eight years now, the first several as an underminister, the last five as his first minister. Chago would never go so far as to call the Qirsi his friend, but he had paid the man handsomely, relied on his counsel without hesitation, and trusted him with the well-being of his dukedom, the safety of his family, and his own life. Until this day, Peshkal had given him no reason to do otherwise.

The hunt had been his idea. So had Silbron’s ride for that matter. He had contrived every circumstance so that the duke would be hunting alone. And then he had made certain that Chago would be at this very spot at precisely this time. He could hear the minister’s words once more-he could see the man’s smile. “I have business in the city, but I’ll meet you on the edge of the wood just after midday.” Indeed. The Qirsi had killed him, and Chago had made it far too easy for him.

All of this occurred to the duke in a single instant. The assassin still held him fast, and now he pried Chago’s fingers off the hilt of his sword and drew the weapon himself.

“A pretty blade, my lord,” he said, tossing it aside as if it were a trifle. “Where is your dagger?”

Chago said nothing, and the man began to crush his throat.

“Tell me.”

“My belt,” the duke rasped.

The man ran his hand along Chago’s belt until he found the blade. This, too, he threw to the side. Both of Chago’s hands were free, and he straightened, bearing his own weight again. If he moved fast enough…

Before he even formed the thought, the point of a dagger was resting against the corner of his eye.

“This can be done quickly or slowly, my lord. Painlessly or not. It’s your choice.”

“I’ll do whatever you say,” Chago whispered. “Please, not my eyes.”

The man said nothing, though he did remove the blade.

“You don’t have to do this,” the duke said, “fust tell me what you want.”

The man shook his head. “I’ve already told you, someone wants you dead. It’s not my choice.”

“No, it’s your profession.”

The singer offered no response, though it seemed to Chago that he pulled something from his pocket.

“Were you hired by the Qirsi? Can you tell me that much?”

The man stopped what he was doing. After a moment he turned the duke around and looked him in the eye. Chago and the assassin were almost the same height, and looking at him again, knowing now that he was more than a mere singer, the duke saw much that he had missed before. The man had a small scar high on his cheek, and there was something cold and uncompromising in those pale eyes. Without the smile he had worn as he sang, he had the look of a killer.

Their eyes remained locked for another moment, and then the assassin raised his hands. He held a garrote, the cord wound around his fists and pulled taut between them. For centuries, the garrote had been the weapon of choice for assassins sent by Solkaran kings.

“Is it Carden then?” the duke asked. “Is that who sent you?”

The assassin said nothing, and Chago backed away. He stumbled, fell backward to the ground, tears running down his face.

“Please,” he said again, as the man came toward him, pulling the garrote taut once more so that it thrummed like a hunter’s bow. “I have gold. I can pay you more than whoever it was that hired you.”

Incredibly, the man seemed to waver.

“Just tell me how much you want,” the duke went on, feeling bolder now. “My treasury is yours.”

Cadel had never considered such a thing before. People paid him to kill, and he killed. In his profession, failure meant death. If by some chance he had forgotten this over the years, the loss just a few turns before of Jedrek, his partner, had served as a bitter reminder. But what if he refused to kill? What if he chose to let this man live?

Would the Qirsi try to kill him? A part of him wished that they would try. He had been working for them for too long, and had grown far too dependent on their gold. He longed to strike back at them. It was far more likely, however, that they would try to destroy him while stopping short of killing him. Somehow they knew his true name. They knew of the circumstances that had driven him from the court of his father in southern Caerisse when he was little more than a boy. And, of course, they knew of every murder he had committed on their behalf. They could keep him from ever working again. With a mere word uttered to the right person, they could turn him into a fugitive.

All of which made the gold offered by this duke cowering before him that much more attractive. Before they died, many of his victims tried to buy his mercy-his employers were wealthy and powerful, and, not surprisingly, so were those they wanted dead. Always in the past he had refused. But something in the duke of Bistari’s plea stopped him, probably the fact that he knew who had paid for his death. It had come to that: he so hated working for the Qirsi that he saw in their newest enemy a possible ally, or at least a way to break free of the white-hairs and their gold.

In any case, the duke had Cadel’s attention.

“You don’t want to do this,” the man said, still sitting on the ground, his cheeks still damp with the tears he had shed.

Cadel opened his mouth, then closed it again. Some things were best left unspoken. “You offered me gold,” he said instead. “How much?”

“More than you can imagine. My dukedom is the wealthiest in Aneira. Only the king has more gold than I.”

“I wasn’t asking how much you have, I was asking how much you’d give me.”

“As much as you want. All of it, if that’s what it takes.” He faltered. “I’m not a brave man, and I fear dying more than anything else.”

Cadel closed his eyes for just an instant, cursing his own stupidity. Jedrek would never have allowed him even to begin this conversation. What had he been thinking? No duke would offer all of his gold, even out of fear. Bistari had no intention of actually paying him.

“And I suppose after you give me all this gold, you’ll send your soldiers to ride me down, cut out my heart, and retrieve your money.”

“No, I’ll let you go. You have my word.”

But Cadel felt his hope slipping away. Perhaps there was still a way for him to regain his freedom, but this was not it. Not with this man and his promise of gold. He should have realized it from the start. Jedrek was dead, killed by an enemy of the Qirsi men and women who had been paying him. That his friend’s killer was Qirsi as well struck Cadel as ironic, perhaps even funny in a way Jed himself would have appreciated, but it changed nothing. If Cadel wanted to find this man, he would need the help of the white-hairs. Even if the duke of Bistari’s offer had been sincere, he was in no position to accept it.