Klan suppressed the urge to smile. At last! The scent was fresh!
“And we are to hunt her through the city?”
“Oh, I can do better than that. I know where she is staying. I have had my spies watching all our human subjects, and one, Iriya Mar’anthanon, a counsellor of the Kuh’taenium, has ordered Tirielle’s death. Perhaps she will succeed, but if she does not, I will not be surprised. A’m Dralorn is far from defenceless. But I believe your soldiers can achieve that end, where so many have failed before.”
“I will not fail you,” said Klan, itching to be about his business. He did not show his eagerness in front of the Speculate, but realised this was his chance to advance himself in the eyes of the Speculatae, who had doubted him from the first and opposed his elevation. It would stand him in good stead in days to come. Plus, he thought with a secret smile, it would be a pleasant break from the wastelands.
“Do not be so sure, Klan. Powers we cannot understand conspire against us. Still she cannot be seen by the Prognosticators…I feel that there is some part of this hunt that eludes our understanding as our prey has eluded us. Be wary, and warn your men that she is no easy mark.”
“My soldiers are not careless.”
“Perhaps not. But they die as any other. If you fail me in this, I might have to have you punished…I have yet to decide on the punishment.”
Klan had no doubt his punishment would not be so pleasant as an evening spent in the care of Brother San. Klan was a blade, he knew. Jek would not hesitate to throw him aside should his edge dull.
“Go swiftly — there is no guarantee she will be there forever, and when she leaves we might not know where she’s going.”
“Your will,” said Klan, bowing low. He rose from the uncomfortable chair and headed the short distance toward the door.
Before he pulled it open, he paused and turned. Jek was watching his face with open curiosity, and scarcely concealed impatience.
“Yes?”
“What do your spies tell you she is doing, risking hiding to come out in the open in Beheth? If I may be so bold as to enquire, Brother…?”
Jek smiled, as an alligator smiles to its prey.
“Reading, it seems. She spends her evenings reading. Now what, do you suppose, would be so interesting as to keep a lady awake at nights?”
Klan could imagine, but said nothing. He was just as sure Jek knew.
“By your leave.”
“Yes, yes.”
Klan closed the door gently behind him and headed for his apartments. He checked to make sure his newest addition to his congregation was safe in his robe — a grinning, tortured face of a Teryithyrian, and turned his back on his door. The hunt was fresh, yes, but he still needed to make sure his latest friend was not left lonely. He pictured all his friends, faces torn in sadness, missing him as he had been gone so long. He could spare a little time for them. They gave him so much, and all they demanded in return was his love.
He strode purposefully down the hall, his companion wrapped tenderly in the comfort of his robe. His cloak billowed in his wake.
Chapter Fifty
The messenger plucked at his collar nervously. The men were all staring at him, their strange golden eyes seeming to dissect his mind, able to see every guilty little secret he had ever held.
Go to the Great Tree, he had been told. No one had warned him he would be facing seven disgruntled warriors, shaking in his boots while they stared at him with those implacable, fearless eyes.
She came from the back stairs, and he gulped. It was true. She was a lady. Her hair was short, true, like a peasants, but it was neat and seemed to add to her beauty. She wore a soft pink dress, with flowing sleeves. Her hands were crossed, hidden in those voluminous sleeves. She granted him a smile. It was the only one he had had since arriving.
“You have a missive for me?”
One of those frightening warriors followed her down the stairs, and fixed him in his gaze. The messenger gulped before speaking.
“A message, yes, lady. I do not know who it is from.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“A boy, who told me a man had given it to him. I was given a silver coin to deliver it, my lady. I was told to give coin and letter only to you, and that I would, ahem, be taken care of…”
“Were you, indeed? Let’s see this letter.”
She seemed kind enough. She was smiling as one of the golden eyed warriors took the letter from his outstretched hand, the coin from his other, and took them to the lady.
She examined the seal, and broke it open with a quick snap of her wrists.
The messenger waited, looking longingly at the door, while she read slowly.
Her face darkened as she read, but she did not look up until she had finished.
He was sure he was going to die here. He would plunge his dagger into the first man to touch him, he resolved. He might die, but he would take one of them with him. It was troubling, though, that none of the men seemed armed, and they still hadn’t glanced at the dagger hanging from his belt.
“Give him a gold coin, Unthor, and let him on his way.”
To her, it was as though he had ceased to exist. She threw herself down on a cushioned bench. He risked one last glimpse at her as he was ushered through the door out into the sweltering heat with a gold coin resting in his palm.
“Speak of this to no one, man.”
“I wouldn’t, Lord! I swear!” he blurted, looking round for a swift exit, although the warrior held him fast in a firm grip.
“Be sure of it. Now leave, and be careful in future who you take coin from.”
He nodded eagerly, and ran into the market.
Unthor spared a glance around him at the street. All seemed to be in order. He closed the door and barred it, turning to look at the members of his order. Tirielle was slumped, dejected, her head resting on a table.
“Well, what did it say?” he asked.
She looked up slowly and shrugged.
“We are undone. It is from a friend. An assassin comes. I thought it strange that we had been attacked so surely, but it was no accident. It was not random. A death mark has been put on us. We must leave, now, and we have not found what we are looking for.”
He pursed his lips, but let Quintal speak as their leader held his hand up to still him.
“How do you know this?”
“We have been betrayed.”
“By whom?” asked Quintal.
“I warned you to wait,” said Disper. “There is too much riding on our success to risk this intrigue!”
“Be still, Disper. It was the lady’s decision. We do not control her, but she us. This you know.”
Disper was silent, but remained stubborn faced.
“What does your friend tell us of the Protectorate?”
“Nothing,” said Tirielle, biting her lip angrily. “But I cannot think they know we are here. We would not still be living.”
“If we have been betrayed once, we may have been betrayed twice. Whoever called the death mark must be a friend of the Protectorate. There can be no other explanation. But if assassins have been called, the Protectorate do not yet know we are here. We have time. The Protocrats do not use assassins.”
“But assassins!” cried Tirielle.
