Annabelle’s eyes suddenly went wide. “Those were his exact words,” she whispered, “when he was torturing Alfred. Despite the horrific acts he was performing, he seemed completely at peace.”
For several long moments everyone was silent. Then Brent looked from the cut branch to Tristan, and to the golden sword hilt rising up from behind the prince’s right shoulder.
“Everyone says that you are a marvelous swordsman,” the boy said respectfully. “Perhaps the finest in Eutracia. Can you cut a branch that way?”
Tristan shook his head. “Not even with a dreggan. I know. I’ve tried.”
“And making matters worse, Xanthus also commands the craft,” Adrian added. “But what is a Darkling? Where did he come from? And most important, why is he here?”
With a deep sigh, Faegan pulled thoughtfully on his beard. “That is impossible to say,” he answered. “But I fear we will be meeting him soon enough, whether we wish to or not.”
“If his powers are as strong as they seem, it is only logical to assume that he can also cloak his blood,” Tristan mused. “Not to mention that he can become invisible. Like he warned us, trying to search him out would be pointless.”
He looked at Annabelle. “Xanthus carried an axe and shield, you say?” he asked.
Annabelle nodded. “The axe was the weapon he used to cut the tree branch in midair. The blade moved so fast that it was only a blur.”
Tristan looked down at the weary refugees. He knew that Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay would be itching to discuss all of this in private. Suddenly the attack on the Citadel didn’t seem so important.
He gestured to Ox. The giant Minion clicked his boot heels together.
“Find adequate quarters and fresh clothing for these people,” Tristan ordered. “Until we better understand this new danger, they will be guests at the palace.”
“I live to serve,” Ox said.
Tristan looked back at his visitors. “Forgive me for making decisions on your behalf,” he said gently. “But unless you strongly disagree, I believe it best that you stay here-at least for now. I realize that some of you have lost loved ones,” he added. “We respect the fact that you are in mourning. But if you would like to attend tonight’s ball, you are welcome.”
As Ox led them from the room, Tristan turned to face the Conclave.
“We should return to the meeting room,” he said. “It seems there is far more for us to discuss.”
As the Conclave members moved to depart, Tristan picked up the perfectly cut tree branch and the blank scroll. He regarded them closely.
So the legend is true, he thought. K’Shariexists, after all. And one of its practitioners is coming. Lifting his face, he stared out over the vacant hall.
Just how good is this being? he wondered.
Still clutching the branch and the scroll, he started the long walk back to the Redoubt.
CHAPTER VII
AS HE WALKED ACROSS BARGAINERS’ SQUARE, LOTHARof the House of Fletcher felt his stomach growl. His dark eyes started searching out various food stalls. Soon he smelled freshly fried turkey, and his decision was made. But the stall where it was being cooked had already drawn a crowd. He knew that turkey legs always sold fast at a public execution. Today would be no exception.
When people saw who was coming, some made way. Rudely elbowing the others aside, Lothar glared at the elderly vendor.
“How much?” he demanded.
The vendor recognized Lothar. He immediately smiled-not because he wanted to, but because he realized that it would be in his best interests. The vendor stank of grease and oil. The turkey smell would permeate his clothes, his house, and perhaps even his soul, Lothar guessed.
Using wooden tongs, the vendor fished around in the boiling oil to retrieve a large, dripping leg. With a smile, he held it enticingly before Lothar. As if on command, Lothar’s stomach growled again, louder this time.
“Three kisa,” the vendor announced.
The stall’s proprietor had clearly seen better days. He was missing two front teeth, one ear, and a good deal of his hair. Lothar found himself hoping that none of the vendor’s disappearing facial features had recently found their way into the turkey pot. Trying to stay in Lothar’s good graces, the vendor widened his crooked grin.
“But for the master of Tammerland’s debtors’ prison, I’ll charge only two,” he added wryly.
“Wrong,” Lothar growled back. “For the master of Tammerland’s debtors’ prison, you’ll charge nothing.”
Reaching out, he swiped the turkey leg from the vendor’s grip, tongs and all. He blew on it to cool it, then took a large bite. He found it to his liking. Seasoned drippings ran down his chin, which he daintily wiped with an embroidered handkerchief.
Everyone in the crowd knew better than to protest Lothar’s thievery, so they remained still. Lothar was a powerful man. People on his wrong side could disappear for long periods of time-perhaps forever. He arrogantly pointed the half-eaten leg at the old vendor as though it were some kind of weapon.
“You’d best not protest the price I just paid,” he warned. “If you do, I might have to dust off several outstanding debtors’ warrants in your name. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that, eh?”
Despite the heat rising from his pot, the vendor’s face blanched. He gave Lothar a short, respectful bow.
“No, m’lord,” he answered quietly. “I’m always happy to accommodate one of Tammerland’s most respected officials.”
Answering only with a grunt, Lothar took another bite of turkey, then turned away to find the executioner.
It was midafternoon in Eutracia, and the sun was high. Bargainers’ Square was busy, and the impending execution added to the congestion. Once a hotbed of thieves, whores, drunkenness, and gambling, since the newfound peace, Tammerland’s largest square had become somewhat more respectable.
The prince’s roving Minions had helped to a great degree. Their eyes attentive and their swords always at the ready, a dark-winged patrol narrowly crossed Lothar’s path. Smiling unctuously, he gave them a short but secretly insincere bow. In truth he hated the wandering warriors, for their presence only made his thievery more difficult.
But if one knew where to look, all the vices that had once been sold so openly here could still be had. That pleased Lothar immensely, for vice always brought debt-and it was debt that brought him wealth. Contentedly munching his turkey leg, he crossed the street to stand before a shop window.
The reflection staring back at him was tall, with a hugely fat stomach. Knowing it would only make him appear more obese, he resisted the urge to turn sideways. Taking a deep breath, Lothar pulled his gut in for a moment. But such pretenses had no lasting effect, so he gave up, letting his belly sag over his belt again. In truth, he didn’t care how fat he became. He always bought his women, anyway. Even in the newly upright Bargainers’ Square, rich men never lacked for affection.
No one had ever accused Lothar of handsomeness. The face staring back at him was jowly, and pale from spending so much time indoors. What remained of his dark hair lay slicked down, across his shiny skull. His eyes were brown and his hooked nose long. His breeches, shirt, and waistcoat were of the finest material. Looking down, he could barely see the tips of his shoes for his protruding abdomen. But he knew that they were so brightly shined that his face would have been reflected in their tops. Tossing the ravaged turkey bone into the street, he got his great bulk moving again.
As he neared the executioner’s station, the crowd thickened. He smiled. Despite the new sense of goodwill, there still seemed to be no shortage of those wishing to see their fellow man suffer. Good, he thought. That always makes for more business. Wending his way through the crowd, his mind turned to how he had risen to his position in life, and how he had cleverly used that position to enhance his ever-growing wealth.
Crime adjudication had long been an illicit income source for those who arrested, tried, and punished Eutracia’s criminal element. The late Directorate had tried more than once to wipe out the corruption, but to no avail. Unless the wizards were willing to look into every crime personally-something they hadn’t the time to do- oftentimes only a well-placed bribe determined a person’s guilt or innocence. More often than not, the wealthy
