colored.

“We know that already. After the lies we have fed her, she might kill the peasant for us,” the prince said. He picked up the second goblet, Mandes’s serving, and drank it down as well. “I should love to see that!”

“There might be a better approach, Highness. Tolandruth will certainly seek her out under furtive circumstances. If caught together, both their lives would be forfeit, and only the emperor would bear the blame for their deaths.”

Nazramin blotted droplets of nectar from his mustache. “You’re a devious wretch, aren’t you, sorcerer? How can you insure they meet? I already have the princess watched at all times, but why would Tolandruth risk it after all this time? Surely he has other women.” He leaned forward, becoming caught up in the plot. “You could make a potion, an aphrodisiac. I’ll see it’s put in Valaran’s food-”

“That won’t be necessary, my prince. Just bring them together. Their natural passion will accomplish the rest.”

“After all this time, she detests the peasant bastard!”

Mandes had little experience of love, but he understood human nature far better than his noble patron. Valaran hated Tolandruth because she believed he had betrayed her by having a child with the forester woman Miya. Nazramin had forged that lie in a letter from Tolandruth to her ten years ago, and had reinforced it with more forged letters. Valaran had cut off all communication, and Mandes had taken pains to intercept Tolandruth’s letters to her, which dwindled over the years.

Now, if the couple was brought together and the truth revealed, their passion would rekindle tenfold, fanned by the misunderstanding and their long separation.

Nazramin was content to leave the details in Mandes’s hands. The prince said Valaran would provide a potent diversion while his agents got their hands on Tol’s saber, in case it was the talisman Mandes suspected was shielding him from his spells.

The prince was not yet ready to depart. He demanded to see the progress of their other ongoing project. When Mandes hesitated, Nazramin tapped the quirt weightily against the palm of his hand. Bloody handkerchief still pressed to his face, the sorcerer acquiesced with a bow.

On the room’s rear wall was a shelf piled high with pots of dried herbs, mineral powders, and trays of rough crystals. Mandes faced this wall and traced a sigil in the air with his left hand. A vertical line of light appeared, widening steadily as the hidden door opened in the seemingly solid stone wall.

Beyond was a niche lit by a smoky oil lamp. Within the niche was a black-draped table on which rested a statuette two handspans tall. Made of dully glinting gray metal, the image bore the unmistakable features of Nazramin’s elder brother. Affixed to the statuette were two screw clamps, one compressing the figure’s head, the other its chest. Every day Mandes tightened the screws a half turn. Every day, Amaltar grew a little more ill.

“Splendid,” the prince said, and smiled.

“A crude method, but effective,” agreed the wizard. “Almost no one uses image magic any more. Too easily countered if discovered.”

The prince approached the statuette. “Oropash and his people can do nothing. My brother has lost all confidence in their abilities.” He rubbed a finger over each of the clamps, his touch as delicate as a woman’s. Resting his finger on the statuette’s middle, he looked back at the sorcerer, eyes aglitter. “Add a third one. On the belly.”

“As you wish, great prince.” Mandes bowed, but warned, “If too many clamps are used, the emperor will sicken too quickly, and people will suspect his weakness is not natural.”

“How long can he live with the current arrangement?”

“As long as Your Highness wants-a year, two years-or a day.”

Nazramin slowly took his hand away from the cruel, merciless clamps and straightened. “I can wait,” he said. “Many of the older lords feel the loss of my father, and they’ve transferred their sympathies to Amaltar. As time passes and he becomes weaker and more useless, more and more warlords are weaned to my side.”

With a final, feral grin, Nazramin gathered up his dark cloak and departed in a rush.

Left alone, Mandes hunted up a jar of ointment for his wound. Nazramin had been a good client for many years. Mandes could credit his rise in Daltigoth to Nazramin, to the many jobs performed for the prince, the public ones for all to see and the private ones that served darker purposes, but all along the wizard had loathed Amaltar’s brother. All along he had distrusted Nazramin’s ambition and cruelty.

After dabbing the soft unguent on his stinging cheek, he re-entered the niche. He lifted the heavy drape and withdrew a second hollow lead statuette that had been concealed beneath the table. This figure bore the face of Nazramin. Two clamps encircled its head. With great satisfaction, Mandes tightened both screws a full turn.

Three loud thuds echoed through the great house. In the kitchen, Tol and the Dom-shu sisters looked up from the remnants of their meal. It had been a good one, roast beef, prepared by Tol. For all their skills, the sisters were of little use in the kitchen. Miya freely admitted she could not cook. Kiya thought she could, but for the sake of all their stomachs she had to be prevented from doing so.

Tol buckled on his sword belt, and with a casual gesture, made sure the Irda millstone was still in its secret pocket.

Miya picked up the candle from the table. It was a timekeeper, divided into thick rings, called marks, representing the hours of the day.

As they made their way to the front door, the sound came again, three knocks booming through the silent house. Some — one with a heavy hand was pounding on the bronze portal.

Night had long since fallen; the time for casual visitors was well past. Kiya urged caution. Her hand rested on the hilt of her knife.

“Since when do assassins knock?” Tol said, and pulled the doors open.

Four tall figures stood before them, identically dressed entirely in white. Their robes swept the ground, and their heads were covered with stiff cloth cowls, styled to look like war helmets. The two in the rear carried lanterns.

“Lord Tolandruth.” It was hard to determine which of the two figures in front had spoken. “You are summoned to attend upon the emperor.”

“Doesn’t Amaltar ever sleep?” Miya blurted.

“The summons does not come from Crown Prince Amaltar,” the muffled voice solemnly replied. “His Majesty Pakin III requires your presence.”

“But he’s dead!”

Tol, although as confused as Miya, shushed her. “What is this about?” he asked. He decided it was the figure on his right who was speaking.

“The Emperor of Ergoth calls you to duty. Will you come?”

Kiya put a hand on his arm. “Don’t go, husband. No good can come of serving a dead man.”

“You must make yourself clean, and wear these.”

The fellow on Tol’s left held out a bundle of white cloth, its corners tied together at the top.

The bundle was weighty, but soft. Ritual garments, Tol assumed, like the ones the strange messengers wore.

“I will come,” he said.

The sisters exchanged worried glances. Tol was altogether too trusting.

“Come alone at midnight to the Tower of High Sorcery. Follow where you are led, and do not speak.”

The white-clad phantoms departed. Miya shut the heavy door.

“What sort of trick is this?” Kiya demanded. “Husband, you should not go!”

Tol smiled. “It’s all right. I believe they want me to stand vigil over the late emperor.”

This made sense to the sisters. Their tribe had a similar rite. The night before a dead chief was immolated on his funeral pyre, his family was expected to spend the night with him, making offerings to the gods.

Kiya went to the kitchen to heat water for Tol’s bath. He headed to his bedchamber and there untied the bundle. It contained a linen robe, a sash, a short cape, a simple cloth skullcap, and slippers. Even smallclothes had been provided. Every item was spotlessly white.

Miya watched as he laid out the funerary garments. “Honor or not, I still don’t like you going through the streets alone,” she said. “Wear that dwarf blade, will you?” He assured her he would.

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