“Simple folk. It is nothing to worry about. But if they fail, our enemy, whoever it is, will no doubt call in the Protectorate. If they are allies with the Protectorate, they cannot risk us slipping away. We have little time, but one more night will not hurt. Assassins we can deal with. Do not fear, Tirielle.”
“Fear?” laughed Tirielle. “I am not afraid! I’m angry! Blood friends of our oppressors. Who could be their ally? Are humans so meek that they now do the work of the Protectorate for them? What will become of Rythe when humans forget who the enemy is and fight themselves? Already we hand them our magicians, and fool ourselves that a man’s life is worth the dirty gold we are paid. Now we hand them thieves, and cutthroats, and us. Do they not know what fate the betrayed suffer? Do they think the Protectorate have gaols? Or whips? No, they have none such, just needles and nails, axes and swords and fire and salt. Bastards!” she spat, thumping her fist down on the table.
The Sard were silent. Quintal put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off.
“I will not be calmed! I have had enough, and I am sick!”
“Enough, Tirielle. You rail against the people, but even among the meek there are lions. You have sent out many letters — not all have betrayed you. Only one, and the rest have stayed silent, biding their time. All is not yet lost. One rotten apple among many fine apples. And we still have time. We were vigilant before, now we know for sure what comes. We will not fail. One more night, one more attempt on your life, and then we will leave. We will find what we need tonight.”
Soft footsteps came from the back stairs, silencing Quintal, and the Seer came into the room, blinking even in this gloomy light. No one could see her eyes, but they all knew what was there, even if the knowledge behind them was a mystery.
“Seer, you should be in bed, resting,” said Cenphalph, rising and moving to her side to take her arm.
“Have you seen something, Sia?” asked Tirielle, unsure whether to be hopeful or afraid.
From her tone, Tirielle could not tell whether she meant Beheth, or on Rythe at all.
Chapter Fifty-One
Tall shutters covered the windows, meagre light slicing out into the night. Gurt checked the street behind him — it was one of the more prosperous districts of Lianthre, but he was not looking for footpads. His enemies were more deadly.
Sure he was alone in the darkened street, unobserved by anything but the eighth-moon, Hern partially hidden behind his larger brother, he reached out a hand and rapped on the door with a grimace of pain. The bone rot had started in his hands, but the rest of his body was still hale. It was an indignity he had no choice but to bear. A guard since his youth, and Captain in his middle years to Dran A’m Dralorn, then to his daughter, he would no longer be wielding his short sword or cudgel. But if he could aid the land in any other way, he fully intended to do so.
Sventhan, his third cousin, opened the door with a beaming smile. Sventhan was in his middle years, but had lost none of the muscle of his youth. He was as broad as the door, with a mashed nose spread across a broad, open face.
“I was afraid you might not come,” he said, embracing the older man.
“As if I would forget my duties. I had much to do, but I am here now. Are you going to let me in, or shall we wait for the Protocrats to take us before their Inquisitors?”
“Brusque as ever, my friend. Come in, of course.”
Sventhan stepped aside. His wide shoulders had all but filled the doorway. Gurt stepped inside briskly, closing the door on the night and the enemy that prowled the city streets.
“Come in, make yourself at home,” said Sventhan. “Tama has tea on the stove. I’ll fetch it. Sit, sit,” he bustled around the table setting cups out. Gurt heaved himself into a hard-backed chair with a grunt. Perhaps the rot was setting into his spine, too. The long ride had tired him more than expected. He rubbed his back as firmly as his hands would allow.
Sventhan poured thick, black tea from a heavy kettle, which he set back atop the stove before taking a seat opposite Gurt. His eyes raised as he saw Gurt’s crooked fingers taking the cup, but he said nothing. Gurt sipped the tea. He was grateful for the warmth on his aching hands. Come winter he would be crippled with pain, but for now he could still use his hands. When the rot came it was often slow. Sometimes it took years. Gurt was just unlucky. A year ago he had suffered no more than a few troubling twinges. Now his fingers were already out of alignment, and the pain often woke him during the night. An alchemist had recommended a noxious paste, which burned and had cost him a goodly portion of his savings, but it did alleviate the pain, if only for a few hours.
“Tama!” the big man called out. “She’s with the babe,” he explained, with a shy smile. “She’s a beauty, too. Blessed with a strong arm, I hope, but if not she’ll be a good wife to a good man one day.”
“I didn’t know. It seems I have been out of touch too long.”
Tama, Sventhan’s wife, breezed into the room. She was almost as big as her husband, but possessed of a strange grace and gentleness that made her seem a woman half her size. She was as beautiful as Gurt remembered though. He greeted her with a smile, she with a kiss on his cheek.
Gurt blushed slightly. He was never good with women.
“Tama, I am glad to see you. You look well. How is the baby?”
Tama beamed. “She’s fine. Six months next week. She’ll be fine for a while. I’ve just put her back to sleep. Hardly sleeps at all. But she’s so fine.”
“I’ll see her before I go.”
“Going already?”
“Not yet, Tama. We’ve business to do first.”
“Men’s business, I guess from the impatient look on my husband’s face. I do hope it involves no subterfuge. He’s but a simple man.”
Sventhan took the criticism without a retort, just smiled lovingly at his wife and patted her on the behind. “As you say, wife. Now leave us for a while.”
“So masterful!” she cooed, fanning her face in mock excitement. Gurt remembered. Sometimes she could seem like a little girl.
“Go on, woman,” said Sventhan, but kindly.
She kissed him on the cheek and with a wave goodbye she returned to her rooms.
“She’s a good woman. You’ve been doubly blessed.”
“And you have been a man of duty all these years. Are you sorry you were called?”
“Not at all,” Gurt lied. Often he wondered what his life would have been like had he married, instead of serving a councillor.
The two men fell silent, a gulf between them. Neither would speak of it again.
Gurt picked up his hot tea, and Sventhan waited. He never spoke while food or drink was being consumed, Gurt remembered. Strict adherence to the Omerteran in all things. Gurt was not so strict, but he still followed the principles. It was in his blood. To forget his duties would mean he was no longer a builder, one of the largest family on the whole continent, and if the lore was true, outside it also.
The room was cool enough to forget the heat outside. The shutters allowed a little breeze into the room. Gurt looked around, eyes alighting here and there — a fat, low candle, thick Pluan table, scarred from long use. An elaborately carved chest between two soft chairs, facing a cold fireplace. The furniture was not expensive, but of good quality. All the builders eschewed the gaudy, and made do with the functional. It was their way, despite their wealth.
Gurt knew the chest was an heirloom. Sventhan would never squander his own money to buy such a piece. He would save his wages. Save them for times such as these.
Gurt turned his gaze back to the big man. Tea finished, Sventhan broke the silence.
“It is good to see you. I was at first pleased that you wrote. Saddened, too, that it has come to this.”
