Time's Assassin, page 37
part #3 of The Islevale Cycle Series
“A company of soldiers? Approaching under cover of darkness so late in the night? Of course we took precautions. And of course we have scouts watching the road. Our castle may be small and far removed from Daerjen’s great cities. But we’re not fools.”
“No, I wouldn’t think.”
Both of them kept smiles on their faces, but they might as well have faced each other with blades drawn. When the duchess offered her food and wine, she wished she had brought a taster.
They repaired to the castle’s main hall, where platters of cheese, fruits, meats, and bread had been set upon a long table.
A carafe of white wine awaited them. The duchess poured, gave a cup to Gillian, and raised her own.
“To unexpected pleasures.”
Gillian drank, was embarrassed to see that her hand shook slightly as she set her cup on the table. She should have been better prepared for this confrontation. It might have been a mistake to begin her journeying here, rather than with a visit to a friendlier court.
“Your soldiers are searching our castle. I would know why.”
“A precaution. Nothing more.”
“And yet you eat our food, drink our wine, walk our corridors with only a small retinue of guards. Doesn’t that seem rash? Or are you searching for someone in particular? ‘Northisle instigators?’ That’s the phrase being bandied in the streets of the city, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I believe it is. Have you seen any?”
The duchess’s laugh sounded genuine. She appeared far more at ease than Gillian felt. Again, she feared she had erred in coming here so soon.
“Yes! The castle is crawling with them. Haven’t you seen?”
“This isn’t an occasion for jests, my lady.”
“You’re right,” Corinne said, turning grave. “It’s an occasion for shame, for all who love this isle to lament how far we have fallen.”
Gillian had been reaching for her cup again, but she stopped, sat back in her chair, and regarded the woman.
“You did hear me when I said that I was an emissary of the sovereign? The new sovereign. Noak.”
“Clearly.”
“I could have you arrested this night. Your words are treasonous.”
“You can try to have me arrested. You can even try to kill me if you like, though I believe you’ll find that more difficult than you imagine. But you will not keep me from speaking my mind. And frankly, I don’t think you’re foolish enough to attempt either.
You came here with forty soldiers. I command five times that number and more. You would not survive the night.”
“Are you trying to provoke me? Do you seek war with the supremacy?”
“Of course not. I’m not stupid. I’m also not afraid. You know as well as I that Noak hates my husband, that he sees us as a threat to his authority. If I feigned friendship, I would fool no one.”
“And yet—”
“I remember you, minister. You served as a protocol minister in the old supremacy as well. Which makes me wonder if you are lying to the present sovereign, or if you were a traitor to the old one. Either way, I would ask that you not speak to me again of what is treasonous and what is not.”
Gillian drank more of her wine, placed the cup on the table, pushed back her chair, and stood.
“I had hoped our conversation would go differently.”
“Surely you didn’t expect it to.”
She frowned, feeling again that she was beyond her depth. The truth was, she had expected it to be a different sort of encounter. She thought the duchess—or her duke—would dissemble, would seek to mollify. Instead, Corinne seemed intent on provoking her. Was she as inexperienced in this sort of diplomacy as Gillian, or did Duvyn’s hatred of the Sheraighs truly run so deep? Gillian couldn’t tell, and she took this as yet another measure of her own ignorance.
She was halfway to the chamber door when she realized that it was neither ignorance nor hostility that elicited these barbs from the duchess. It was desperation. Corinne sought to make Gillian and her men feel unwelcome in the castle. She wanted them gone.
And Gillian was certain she knew why.
She faced the duchess again, her pistol drawn. The pistol with which she had already killed once in the past few days.
“The woman and the infant princess—where have you hidden them?”
Corinne dropped her gaze to the pistol, then looked Gillian in the eye again.
“You would draw your weapon on me in my own castle? And you call yourself an emissary?”
“You are harboring a traitor and a threat to the safety of our isle.”
The duchess laughed. “A threat. You speak of an infant. Is the House of Sheraigh so weak that it can be brought down by a mere child?”
“You’re not fooling me, my lady. Now tell me where they are.”
“There is no one here—”
Gillian cocked the pistol, silencing her. “You think I won’t kill you. You believe you’re safe because there are soldiers wearing Duvyn colors in your courtyard and on your battlements. You’re wrong.”
“If you kill me, those men—”
“If I kill you, those men will be faced with a choice between following my orders or being hunted down and executed as traitors to their sovereign. Do you honestly believe that your corpse can inspire such loyalty?”
She backed to the door, the hand holding her pistol never wavering. She opened the door.
“The child and woman are somewhere in the castle,” she said to the guards waiting in the corridor.
“We’ve searched, minister. We haven’t found them.”
“Search again. Check every room, every stairway, every corridor.
They’re here. I’m certain of it.”
“Yes, minister.”
The duchess glowered, the muscles in her neck and jaw tightening.
Further confirmation of what Gillian already knew.
She could barely contain her excitement. Lord Orzili would reward her handsomely for delivering the princess. And if he had the woman, he would eventually have Tobias as well, which, she knew, he desired above all else.
Gillian closed the door and moved to the center of the chamber.
She waved the pistol toward a chair. “Sit, my lady. We’ll wait together.”
Corinne didn’t move until Gillian cocked an eyebrow and motioned more sharply with the weapon. Reluctantly, Corinne sat. Gillian reclaimed her cup and poured more wine.
Chapter Twenty-Five
17th Day of Sipar’s Ascent, Year 634
Her soldiers’ search of the castle took far longer than Gillian anticipated. A bell passed, and then a second and third. In the small of night, there came a knock on the door to the hall. The duchess started awake. Gillian might have been dozing as well.
She wasn’t certain.
She stood and faced the door. “Enter.”
One of the Sheraigh soldiers stepped into the chamber.
“What have you found?”
The soldier shook his head. “Nothing, minister. We’ve been in every chamber and hall, every corridor.”
“What about the stairways and towers?”
“Nothing.”
Gillian glanced at Corinne, who watched her, wary, anxious.
“They’re here,” she said to the soldier. “Look again. Search for anything unusual, any door or passageway that might conceal...something.”
The man’s expression flattened, but he nodded and left them again.
“You’re wasting your time,” the duchess said.
“We both know better.” Gillian tried to sound sure of herself but wasn’t convinced she succeeded. Perhaps she had misread the woman’s reactions earlier.
She reclaimed her chair, ordered Corinne to settle back into hers. And again, they waited.
Another bell passed. The same soldier returned, his bearing as it had been.
Gillian knew before he spoke what he would say. And still she remained convinced that Tobias’s woman and the child were in this castle. True, she was relatively new to the sort of intrigue that Orzili had brought into her life. But she had always been clever, had always sensed truths that others missed. Bexler would have believed the duchess’s denials. So would any number of ministers from Mearlan’s court. She didn’t, and she trusted her intuition.
Mostly.
“You found nothing at all?”
“Nothing, minister. There was... No, there was nothing.”
She stepped toward him. “What? What were you going to say?”
“It’s nothing. A tower stairway that goes beyond the castle’s second level and ends at a wooden wall.”
“A wall? Or a locked door?”
“A wall. There is no handle, no lock, nothing at all. It’s solid—
it doesn’t give at all. It can’t be opened, and the wood appears ancient. I would guess that whatever lies beyond it hasn’t been seen in years.”
As the soldier spoke, Gillian watched Corinne. The duchess barely responded. She sat unmoving, her stare fixed on the far wall, her mien placid. Too much so.
“That’s it,” Gillian said. “Did you leave someone there? Is someone watching that stairway?”
The man wet his lips. “No. Minister, I swear to you, it’s nothing. An old stairway is all.”
“And if you’re wrong, would you care to be the one to explain to Lord Orzili how the woman and child escaped us?”
No answer.
“Go. Take ten men and stand watch at the bottom of that stairway.
Let no one past you.”
“Yes, minister.”
The man turned smartly and left.
“Come along, my lady,” Gillian said, aiming the pistol again. “We should be there as well. To greet your guests.”
Corinne rose, graceful and grave, fear in her dark eyes. She said nothing—what could she say? Gillian followed her, the barrel of her pistol pointed squarely at the woman’s back.
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Mara woke to a noise she couldn’t identify. Sofya slept on, and for a fivecount, Mara heard nothing at all. Had she imagined it?
She rose slowly, carefully, so as not to disturb the princess, and crept out of the small room toward that slab of wood blocking off the stairway. She halted short of it, listened.
And heard it again. Someone was on the other side. Whoever it was hadn’t knocked. Rather, they were scratching at it in some way.
The wood creaked, as if those below were pushing on it. She heard a voice, and then a second. Men. Not Corinne. She took a step back, her heart abruptly laboring.
Sheraighs. It had to be.
They had been pursued for so long, had come close to dying during their fight with Orzili and his men. Somehow this felt...closer, more threatening. If they found a way through that piece of wood, she and Sofya were dead. The barrier seemed all too flimsy.
After another tencount, the scratching ceased, the voices faded, vanished. Still she remained where she was, listening, trembling, sweating.
Would the men move on and give up, or would they return with axes to break through the board? It could only be opened from above, but it could be rent from below.
She wheeled, hurried back to the small room and its pallet.
Kneeling, she shook Sofya awake. The princess’s eyes fluttered, closed again. At a second shake and the whisper of her name, Sofya opened her eyes, yawned, blinked, stared.
“Are you awake, love?”
The girl nodded.
“I need you to listen to me very carefully. We have to leave this place now. We can’t make a sound, and once we’re downstairs, I’ll need to find a place to leave you for a short while.”
Sofya scowled, bunched her face to cry.
Mara stopped her with a raised hand. “I need you to be really big now, and as brave as you’ve ever been. I need you to do exactly as I say. Please.”
Sofya was smart and strong and, yes, as brave as anyone Mara had ever known. Maybe it was the “please” that reached her; Mara sensed her making up her mind to do what she asked.
“Aww wight,” she said.
She retrieved her weapons, loaded her pistol. Sofya frowned at the weapon and then at Mara. But she didn’t comment, and when Mara was ready, she held out her arms to be picked up. For the span of a breath, it was all Mara could do not to cry like a child herself. She had never felt such pride for anyone as she did then for the princess—her child.
She carried Sofya to the wooden slab, set her down, and motioned for the princess to be silent. Sofya nodded, wide-eyed and solemn. Mara went back to the room for the candle and placed it near the princess. After listening for a tencount and hearing not a sound, Mara removed the brackets that held the board in place and blew out the candle, plunging them into complete darkness.
Sofya gave a soft cry. Mara shushed her gently. She ran her fingers around the edges of the piece of wood, grasped it, and lifted it away from the opening, taking care to do so noiselessly.
She picked up Sofya again and descended the stairway. The princess kept silent. At the bottom of the stairs, Mara eased out into the corridor, which was as dark as the stairway had been.
She followed it to its end and paused, trying to recall the route she and Corinne had taken earlier in the night. Here, there was a bit of light—arrow slits on one side allowed in some glow from the stars and the moon, and on the other side the inconstant glow of torches burning in the courtyard. She heard footsteps, the jangle of steel and the scrape of leather. Men. A good many of them, headed in her direction, likely to try the stairway again.
She had left their hiding place just in time.
She hurried to the left, reasonably certain the hallway would take her to the chamber of someone she could trust. She turned right at the next corner, and at the one after, only to backtrack the other way after a few steps. Along that last corridor, she came to the door she’d been seeking. She knocked.
She thought it must be late, and she assumed she would have to knock several times before she received a response. Instead, the door opened almost immediately, revealing Tarrod, the young healer, his hair in disarray, but his eyes alert.
“My lady,” he said.
She held a finger to her lips, glanced up and down the hall.
His expression sharpened. “They’re searching for you,” he said in a whisper.
“Yes. For this one, really.” She bounced Sofya in her arms, drawing a smile from the girl.
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you that. I need you to keep her safe. Hide her if you can. Kill for her if you must. The future of everything depends on it.”
He stared at her, then at Sofya. “Yes, all right.”
“Nava, I need to leave you with Tarrod for a short while.”
Sofya shied from him, clung to Mara more tightly.
“Remember what we talked about? What I asked you to do?”
“I have a wooden top,” Tarrod said. “Have you ever played with a top?”
Sofya regarded him, curiosity warring with skepticism. She shook her head.
“Would you like me to teach you how?”
“I’ll be back soon, love,” Mara said. “You can learn how and then show me in a little while.”
Still the girl hesitated. Mara begrudged every instant, but she sensed that to allow Sofya to cry would imperil them both.
At last she nodded and held out her arms to the healer.
Tarrod took her, offered a wan smile to Mara. “She’ll be fine.”
“Thank you.” Mara kissed Sofya’s brow and hurried away. She heard the door close and lock behind her.
She headed for Corinne’s chamber, but long before she reached it, she had to duck into another corridor to avoid a company of soldiers, at least eight of them. They walked briskly, their footsteps and the jangle of their weapons and armor masking her breathing and her steps.
When they had passed, she continued on, only to have to duck out of sight a second time.
In this instance, she heard only two people. Peeking out from her place of concealment, she had to stifle a cry. Corinne was trailed by a woman Mara recognized. The traitorous minister from Mearlan’s court. The one who once lured her to the Notch on the pretense that she was helping Tobias rather than trying to capture him. She couldn’t recall the woman’s name. Not that it mattered. She held a pistol, had it aimed at Corinne’s back. That was all Mara needed to see.
As the women passed, Mara stepped out into the corridor directly behind them and drew her sword. The minister heard and whirled.
Mara gave her no time to shout or to fire. She plunged her blade into the minister’s chest.
The woman gave a small gasp, and her eyes went wide. She grabbed at the blade, slicing open several fingers, then started to level her weapon. Mara slapped it out of her hand. It clattered to the floor. Corinne claimed it.
Mara pulled her sword free and blood blossomed from the wound, staining the minister’s robes. The woman’s mouth moved, but no words came out. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she fell to the floor.
Corinne and Mara eyed each other, both glum.
“I’m sorry,” Mara said. “I was afraid—”
“She would have called for help,” Corinne said, her voice low.
“Or fired her weapon. You did what you had to. But now you need to get out of the corridor until I can summon my soldiers.”
Mara knew she was right. She knew as well that she would pay a price for this murder. Yes, the woman had been her enemy. She had hurt Mara during their first encounter and would have thought nothing of killing her and Sofya this night. Still, there would be a cost. She had killed without hesitation, without giving her foe a chance to strike or defend herself. There had to be a cost for killing that way. Didn’t there?
Shouldn’t her stomach have turned at what she’d done? Shouldn’t she have been shaking? She stared down at the woman’s corpse, at the blood pooling on her chest, glistening in the torch light, so dark it almost looked black. The minister’s eyes remained open.
Her mouth as well. Shouldn’t killing a woman bring tears or tremors or immediate remorse? Was there something wrong with her that she felt nothing but grim satisfaction?
Yes, she had killed before. She had fought humans and Ancients, had killed with a musket and a pistol. Her memories of the confrontation with Orzili and his men on the strand near the Notch had grown hazy. She wasn’t certain why. But she thought she recalled killing assassins there with her blade. Perhaps Sheraigh soldiers, too.
