Lord of the Shadows Read online

  “I was thinking of Oscon in Damita,” Lexie said.

  “Can he help us?” Tia asked doubtfully. “He doesn't even rule his own country anymore. He leaves that to Baston, and he's such a puppet of Antonov's he might as well be Senetian.”

  “Oscon's isolation and disgrace are what make him safe,” Lexie explained. “Damita has done very nicely under Antonov's patronage since the War of Shadows, but Oscon remains a major embarrassment to his son. It suits everyone to forget the old man still lives. Baston hasn't even visited his father in a decade.”

  “It must irk that slimy little weasel no end to think his father and sisters rebelled against his good friend the Lion of Senet.”

  “It does,” Lexie agreed. “That's why he's spent his every waking moment since his father surrendered at the end of the War of Shadows trying to prove to Antonov he is loyal to both the Goddess and to Senet.”

  “Then Damita is just as dangerous as Senet,” Tia objected.

  “Oscon lives on the coast in the north, several hundred miles from the capital, Tanchen. There's little danger she would be discovered there.”

  “What if Baston has spies among Oscon's household staff?”

  “It's unlikely,” Lexie told her. “We've remained in contact all these years, and he's sheltered our people in the past in an emergency without a problem.”

  “I could take her on the Wanderer,” Reithan suggested. “We could slip in and out of Damitian waters without anybody knowing we'd landed.”

  Lexie nodded in agreement. “Can you find room for Misha as well?”

  “What?” Tia cried. “Why Misha?”

  “Because if we leave him here the chances are strong he will be rescued by his own people, and that could be as good as signing his death warrant.”

  “When it comes down to it,” Reithan shrugged, “do we really care?”

  “I think we should. I think we would be well served by seeing to it that Misha Latanya lives to inherit his father's crown.”

  “I think we're fools to be buying into Senetian politics,” Reithan warned.

  “Maybe so.” Lexie shrugged. “But we've bought into it, like it or not. It seems a pity to let such an opportunity slip through our grasp.”

  “You believe his promise about withdrawing Senetian troops from Dhevyn, then?”

  “Yes, I do. And so does Tia.”

  Reithan frowned at her. “Is that true?”

  “He seems pretty genuine,” she replied. Her assurance sounded so inadequate when said aloud.

  Obviously not happy with the idea, Reithan shook his head. “And how is Oscon going to react, do you think, if we arrive on his doorstep—unannounced—with the heirs to both Dhevyn and Senet, looking for sanctuary?”

  Lexie smiled. “You've never met Oscon, have you? Don't worry. I think you'll find him quite enchanted by the idea.”

  “Do you know him well?” Tia asked curiously.

  “Oscon and Reithan's father were close friends. He's abrupt, brusque and irritable, but he's a true and loyal friend.”

  “But he surrendered to Antonov.”

  “He put an end to what was, by that time, a pointless slaughter, Tia,” she corrected. “And he gave Johan and most of the people now living in Mil a chance to get away. For that, he was forced to abdicate his throne and bear the shame of being an exiled king. He's lost his crown and both his daughters to Antonov. He has much to be bitter about.”

  “Shouldn't we send him a message first?” Reithan suggested. “Just to sound him out?”

  Lexie shook her head. “By the time we got a message to him, you could already be in Damita. Besides, I have an uneasy feeling about all this. The Brotherhood seems to think Antonov is already gathering his fleet.”

  “Are they certain?” Tia gasped.

  “No, but there's an unusual amount of activity going on in Paislee and Avacas at the moment, and then there's that terrible business in Tolace.”

  Tia glanced at Reithan for a moment and shrugged. “Well, if you think it's for the best …”

  “I want you to go with them, Tia.”

  “I have to stay here,” she stated flatly. Running away was not an option.

  “I need you to watch over Mellie. There is nobody I trust more than you to do that.”

  “Don't try to flatter me, Lexie …”

  “I wish it were simple flattery, my dear,” Lexie said. “But the truth is, Mellie has led a very sheltered life here in Mil. She is totally unaware of the danger she is in. You do appreciate it, though, and I'm quite sure you'd give your own life if it meant saving hers. I can't imagine sending anyone else to protect her.”

  “Mother's right, Tia,” Reithan agreed, adding his weight to the argument. “If we're going to do this, you're the logical one to send. Besides, Misha trusts you. If we're sending him along, you're the best one to watch over him, too.”

  Tia shook her head. “I can't watch over them both. Misha's determined to defeat his poppy-dust habit. I can't protect Mellie and help him at the same time.”

  “Can you fit in another passenger, Reithan?” Lexie asked.

  “Who did you have in mind?”

  “Master Helgin.”

  He shrugged. “It'll be crowded, but I suppose I can squeeze him in.”

  “The Wanderer will sink before we get through the delta,” Tia warned.

  Reithan smiled. “Then you'd better bring a bucket along so you can keep bailing.” He turned to his mother then, his smile fading. “When did you want us to leave?”

  “As soon as you can,” Lexie replied. “I don't want to give Mellie too much warning. She's likely to spend the next three days just saying good-bye to her friends. I'd rather you just slipped away, unnoticed. The fewer people who know where you've gone, the better.”

  Tia smiled briefly. “The three fastest forms of communication in the Baenlands: carrier pigeon, the Wanderer and telling Eleska Arrowsmith about it.”

  Lexie nodded ruefully. “That's exactly what I'm afraid of.”

  “We'll leave tonight then,” Reithan confirmed. “Now that the decision is made, there's not much point in waiting.”

  “Are you sure about this, Lexie?”

  Lexie sighed heavily before she answered. “Am I sure I should be sending Mellie away? No, I'm not. But I am sure I want her kept out of the clutches of the Lion of Senet, and if that means I never see my daughter again as long as I live then I will do it, and sleep soundly at night, knowing I made the right decision.”

  irk asked for, and received, permission from Antonov to visit the assassin who tried to kill him, three days after Belagren's funeral. The Lord of the Suns still lived, if only barely, but he was critically ill and Yuri was not hopeful.

  With Paige Halyn at death's door, Dirk was able to delay Antonov's demands that the Lord of the Suns verify Marqel's vision a little longer, which gave the Lion of Senet more time to grow accustomed to the idea. It also meant the attack on the Baenlands would be delayed, even if only by a few days. Marqel had been on her best behavior and, mindful of the fact that she needed the Lord of the Suns to confirm her as High Priestess, was doing all she could to aid Yuri in caring for him, to make certain he lived long enough to do it.

  As for Dirk, he felt like he was juggling fireballs.

  Between Belagren's death, the attempt on his own life, and trying to keep Marqel under control, Madalan on his side, Alenor safe and Antonov convinced that all of this was the will of the Goddess, he was exhausted. He had barely slept since Paige Halyn was wounded, partly out of worry over the old man's fate, and partly because he was terrified that the next assassin would somehow manage to slip past his guards. He was afraid that if he did fall asleep, he might never wake again. He took all his meals in the dining room now, eating the same food as the other residents of the palace rather than risk poisoning. He would only drink water or wine poured from a jug others were also drinking from, and he was constantly looking over his shoulder, waiting for the next attack.

 
At this rate, the Brotherhood wouldn't need to make another attempt on his life. If he kept on like this, he would worry himself to death.

  The Lord of the Suns' condition had not improved, but neither had it deteriorated. Dirk's fear now was that even if he survived the shock and blood loss of his wound, infection might set in. The bladed bolt that had taken a slice out of Dirk's ear and then lodged in Paige Halyn's neck would have been sharpened on an oilstone, he knew, and more than likely lubricated with spit. Essentially, it may as well have been poisoned.

  There was a time limit, fortunately. Sixty days was all he needed. Paige Halyn had to live for sixty days.

  The sixty-day law had come about to protect members of the nobility who foolishly got themselves into duels over points of honor. Antonov had outlawed fighting to the death, but it was perfectly acceptable to wound your opponent to redress an insult. But a serious problem arose when a minor wound turned septic and killed the unfortunate dueler. Antonov had decreed that if a man lived for sixty days after receiving a wound, then even if he died on the sixty-first day, his assailant was not responsible. Dirk was counting on that fine point of law working in his favor. But he was afraid it was going to take more than Yuri's expertise and Marqel's tender care to keep the Lord of the Suns alive for the next fifty-seven days.

  He was afraid it was going to take a miracle.

  Dirk entered the dungeons beneath the garrison in the center of Avacas accompanied by six men handpicked from Antonov's Palace Guard. Antonov had trebled their number after the funeral. They were charged with protecting the Lord of the Shadows, as much as guarding him.

  Dirk had gone out of his way to befriend the men assigned to enforcing his house arrest and they were becoming more and more relaxed in his company. The ride through Avacas to the garrison was tense, though. Every bough of the tree-lined avenue leading from the palace might be harboring another assassin. Every shady alley, every dusty window, every looming rooftop offered a place of concealment. Dirk was living on tenterhooks, waiting for another attack, quite certain the next one would succeed.

  To his surprise, Ella Geon was with the Prefect when Dirk entered the lower levels of the vast barracks where Barin Welacin ruled the murky underworld of his spy network. They were in one of the cells set aside for interrogations, but it was not what Dirk was expecting. There were no chains on the walls or wicked implements of torture in evidence; no glowing coals or hot branding irons. There was simply a flat metal table in the center of the bare-walled room, to which the assassin was tied. The man appeared to be unconscious. Dirk seriously doubted he had simply nodded off while he waited for his torture to begin.

  “You look disappointed, my lord,” Barin said when Dirk entered the room. His pleasant, grandfatherly face was creased with amusement.

  “I was expecting something a little more … sinister,” Dirk admitted.

  “You suffer the same misconception as most people,” Ella told him. “You think physical torture is the only way to extract a confession.”

  “Actually, my lady, I try not to think of things like that at all,” he replied. “I admit I'm surprised to find you here. I thought you were trained in helping the sick and wounded. Still, I suppose things must be a little slow with Misha gone. How creative of you to come down here to drum up some business.”

  Ella glared at him, but did not reply. Dirk had taken only Madalan and Yuri into his confidence among the Shadowdancers, and mistrusted Ella just on principle. This woman had turned Neris into an addict. This woman gave birth to Tia, simply so she would have something to hold over Neris when she began to fear the poppy-dust was losing its effect.

  “Has he said anything yet?” Dirk asked Barin.

  “We've only just started. The honey-dew affected him quite badly. We'll know more when he comes around again.”

  “Honey-dew?” Dirk asked. It seemed such an innocuous name for something sufficiently powerful that Barin felt no need for any other method of persuasion. Other than the ropes that bound him, there wasn't a mark on the unconscious assassin.

  “It's a type of fungus,” Ella explained. “It comes from the flowering head of rye when the crop has been exposed to too much moisture.”

  “You mean ergot?” he asked, his natural curiosity for a moment winning out over his determination not to become involved. Sometimes it was painful to recall he once planned a career as nothing more menacing than a physician. “But that's used to control bleeding after labor. At worst it's an abortifacient.”

  Ella smiled at him coldly. “You know your herb lore, my lord.”

  “You forget I was apprenticed to Master Helgin, my lady.”

  “Then you should find this morning's proceedings most enlightening,” Barin declared, sounding positively delighted by the prospect of sharing his expertise with someone who could fully appreciate his skill. “A few grains will speed up the contractions of a woman in labor, certainly, but increase the dosage and it causes the contraction of every muscle in the body, even the muscles that make up the walls of veins and arteries, as well as the internal organs.”

  “You mean it will give him cramps?”

  “Cramps so bad his bones will break,” Ella confirmed.

  “And hallucinations. Violent muscle spasms, vomiting, burning sensations, delusions and crawling sensations on the skin …it's amazing.”

  “Handled correctly, we can even force gangrene to develop in the extremities,” Barin added with relish. “A man's tongue loosens very quickly when he's facing the prospect of his fingers and toes dropping off.”

  Dirk stared at the two of them, wondering how such people could live in this world and still think themselves a part of humanity. Their detached, clinical interest in watching a man cramp so violently he snapped his own bones made Dirk physically ill.

  “If he's delusional, how do you know he's telling the truth?” Dirk asked, sorry that he had come here now, but at the same time, glad he had. It was good to be reminded why he was doing this.

  “It's not what he says while he's having the delusions that is important,” Barin explained. “It's severing his link with reality that makes this type of torture truly effective. Physical pain gives a man something to cling to. But make him lose touch with everything he knows or thinks is real; make him think the chair he's sitting in has just turned into a mass of writhing snakes, or he's being eaten alive by invisible spiders, and he loses the will to fight very smartly.”

  “An interesting theory, Master Prefect,” Dirk replied tonelessly. He wanted to flee this place so badly he consciously had to stop himself from stepping backward. But the Prefect of Avacas had been there the night Johan Thorn died. Both he and Ella Geon had watched him kill his own father, which made it easier for them to believe he was unaffected by what he was hearing now. “And truly, I wish I had the time to stay and witness this remarkable… effect you describe. But I just came down to see if you'd broken him yet. His highness is most anxious to learn who it was that hired this man.”

  “It takes a little time, my lord. We do know he's a Brotherhood assassin.”

  “I could have told you that the day he attacked me,” Dirk told the Prefect disparagingly. “If that is all you've discovered in three days, then I find your methods unnecessarily complicated and barbaric. Are you sure you're doing this to find out what he knows? Or simply because you enjoy it?”

  Barin's smile faded into a frown. “Prince Antonov has never seen fit to question my methods before, my lord.”

  “Perhaps because he's unaware of how inefficient you are, Master Prefect.”

  “I am answerable only to the Lion of Senet,” Barin reminded him. “Your opinion of my methods is really not the issue.”

  “Don't be too sure of that,” Dirk warned him coldly. I'm turning into quite an actor. If I live through this nightmare, I should run away and join a theatrical troupe, he told himself. But how much longer can I keep pretending I don't feel anything?

  How much longer before I lose my nerve?


  Nothing of what Dirk was thinking reached his eyes. He looked down at the assassin with a disapproving frown. “Perhaps, if you ever finish the job, you could inform me when you've learned something useful?”

  Barin studied him closely for a moment, debating the advisability of challenging Dirk's authority. Dirk unconsciously held his breath, relying on his manner as much as his rank in the Shadowdancers and his relationship to Antonov to convince the Prefect he was a force to be reckoned with.

  After a small hesitation, Barin bowed obsequiously. “Of course, my lord. I will have a messenger dispatched to the palace as soon as we learn anything.”

  “You do that,” Dirk said, and then turned on his heel and walked from the interrogation chamber, forcing himself not to run.

  hen the Lord of the Suns regained consciousness the following day, Marqel sent for Dirk, rather than Yuri. They needed to get this High Priestess business out of the way, and she wasn't going to wait for Yuri to fuss over the old man for hours before they did it.

  Marqel hated sickness. She hated old age, too. It had a smell about it, as if somehow the body was already rotting, even though it had yet to die. Tending the Lord of the Suns was a chore she loathed, but she aided Yuri willingly, sharing the watch over him with the Shadowdancer Olena Borne. The only reason she nursed the old man with so much dedication was to ensure the old fool didn't up and die on her before he could make her High Priestess. Ella Geon had not been around the palace much lately to help. She was doing something with the Prefect down in the garrison in town. Marqel hadn't seen her since the funeral.

  Marqel was alone with Paige Halyn when he began to stir. She hurried out into the hall and grabbed the nearest servant, ordering her to find the Lord of the Shadows, and then made her way back to Paige Halyn's room to resume her vigil.

  A few moments later, Marqel stood up from her chair by the bed as Dirk hurried into the room. “He woke up about ten minutes ago.”

  He pushed past her wordlessly and knelt by the bed. “My lord?”

  Paige Halyn turned his head painfully toward Dirk. “Dirk?”