By mid-morning he reached the most salubrious part of Talabar, closest to the harbour and the Summer Palace. A hundred generations of Fardohnyan kings, anxious to curry favour with the gods, had dedicated themselves to building ever more impressive temples in this city. Jelanna was Hablet's personal favourite, so her temple had received the bulk of the King's largesse. It had been faced with marble since Brak saw it last and an impressive pair of fluted columns now supported an elaborate portico carved with cavorting demons at the entrance. It had done him little good, Brak knew. Despite almost thirty years of trying, he had yet to produce a legitimate son, although he had sired enough bastards to fill a small town.
Finally, Brak turned into a discreet, single-storey inn that sheltered almost directly under the high pink wall surrounding the Summer Palace. A slave hurried forward to take his mount in the shaded courtyard and he tipped the lad generously. There were slaves that owned more wealth than their masters in Fardohnya, and one could, if one chose to, purchase one's freedom. Many did not. There was a degree of job security in being a slave that was hard to beat in the uncertain world of the free man.
The interior of the inn was dim and cool, the entrance separated by a whitewashed trellis from the low hum of conversation emanating from the taproom. The owner hurried forward, took in Brak's travel-stained appearance, noticed the jingling purse tucked in his belt, did a quick mental calculation, then bowed obsequiously.
“My Lord.”
Brak was quite certain he looked nothing like a nobleman in his current state, but the innkeeper was covering himself against the possibility that this new arrival was a gentleman of means.
“I require rooms,” he announced.
“Certainly, my Lord. I have a vacancy in the north wing. It is closest to the palace walls. One can hear the joyous laughter of the princesses at play, if one listens closely.”
Brak thought that highly unlikely. “I also need to contact someone from the Assassins' Guild.”
“Did you want anyone in particular?”
“I need to speak with the Raven.”
The little man's eyes narrowed. “The head of the Assassins' Guild does not meet with just anybody, my Lord.”
“He'll meet with me,” Brak assured him confidently.
“You know him then?”
“That's none of your business.” Actually, Brak had no idea who now held the post, and did not particularly care. The Assassins' Guild was simply the best source of intelligence in Fardohnya.
“Of course not, my Lord!” he gushed, wringing his hands. Only the wealthiest of noblemen could afford to deal with the Assassins' Guild. Brak had just gone up considerably in the innkeeper's estimation. “Forgive me for being so forward. I will show you to your rooms at once. If there is anything I can do...”
“You could be quiet, for a start,” Brak remarked coldly, already annoyed by the man.
“Of course, my Lord! What was I thinking? Be quiet... Oh...” The innkeeper clamped his lips together when he noticed the look on Brak's face.
“That's better. Now, if you could show me the room? I want a bath too. And some lunch.”
The man nodded, wisely saying nothing further. With a snap of his fingers another slave hurried forward to show Brak to his rooms.
Much to Brak's surprise, the contact from the Assassins' Guild was a woman. Fardohnya was notoriously patriarchal and it was rare for a woman to hold any position of note. He was not even aware that they had changed the rules to admit women to the Guild. She was small and slender, the long, pale-green robe she wore concealing what Brak was certain would be a body in superb physical condition. It was hard to judge her age; she might have been twenty, or perhaps forty. Brak suspected the latter. Her eyes were too knowing, too cautious and too world- weary for her to be in the first bloom of youth.
She came to his rooms after dinner, knocking softly on the whitewashed door. He opened it cautiously and looked her up and down. On the middle finger of her left hand she wore the small gold raven ring of the Guild. While he privately considered it the height of arrogant stupidity to announce one's profession so openly, particularly for an assassin, that he recognised the ring and admitted her without question went a long way to establishing his credentials. He'd had a discussion once, with a previous Raven, about the foolishness of wearing something so obvious, but humans liked their symbols and apparently the custom was as strong as ever.
“What do you want with the Raven?” the woman asked, without preamble, looking around the room.
“I wish to speak to him.”
“The Raven doesn't speak to anyone.”
“He'll speak to me.”
She finished her inspection of the room and turned to look at him. “So Gernard said.”
“Gernard?”
“The innkeeper.”
“Ah... can I offer you some wine?”
“No.”
She walked across the room and threw open the doors that led to the gardens, taking a deep breath of the fragrant air from the riot of flowering greenery. Brak was sure she was more interested in making certain they were not overheard, than she was in botany.
“So, tell me,” she demanded, turning back to him as she stepped away from the open doorway, “what is so special about you that the Raven would grant you an audience?”
“I am Brakandaran.”
She studied him for a moment in the twilight then laughed. “Brakandaran the Half-Breed? I doubt that.”
“You require proof?”
“Oh, I'm certain you have proof,” she chuckled. “Some mirrors and wires rigged to convince me of your magical powers. You have, however, neglected one minor point.”
“And what is that?”
“Brakandaran, if he was still alive, would be in his dotage now. It's been what... fifty years since he was here last? You can't be more than thirty-five. Forty at the most.”
“I'm half-Harshini,” he pointed out. “I don't age like a human.”
She smiled. “Very good! You even have an answer for that one. I still don't believe you, but I do appreciate attention to detail.”
Brak found himself warming to the woman. She was sharp and not at all unattractive. But he was going to have to convince her, and probably the hard way.
“Very well, then,” he shrugged. “You name the proof. Something I cannot possibly have anticipated. We can even go somewhere else, so that you can be assured I'm not using - what did you call them - mirrors and wires?”
“I really don't see why I should bother.”
“Can you afford to be wrong?”
She thought on that for a moment, then shook her head. She turned away from him, as if in thought, reaching into her robe. “Proof, you say? Something unexpected?” She spun around, raising her arm. “Try this!”
The quarrel from the small crossbow took Brak by surprise. He had guessed she was up to something, but had no time to react. Elanymire saved him. She popped into existence in front of him and snatched the missile from the air, chittering angrily at the woman.
The assassin dropped the weapon in surprise at the appearance of the little demon. “How... ?”
“The demons live to protect the Harshini,” he pointed out with a shrug. He bent down and picked the demon up, stroking her leathery skin, trying to calm her. She took a very dim view of anyone trying to hurt a member of her clan and was all for vaporising the woman where she stood.
The assassin stared at him for a moment, as he stood there soothing the angry demon and then dropped to one knee. “Divine One.”
Brak rolled his eyes. “Oh, get up! I am
