Текст книги "Whisper of Venom"

Автор книги: Richard Lee Byers

Соавторы: Richard Lee Byers
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“At this point,” said Aoth, “Luthcheq’s soldiers can’t get here in time to help. But Tchazzar can.”

“I’ll talk to him,” she promised, “and tell you tomorrow night what he said.”

“Good.” Aoth hesitated. “How’s Cera?” he asked gruffly. Behind him, Gaedynn grinned.

“I haven’t seen her for a couple of days,” Jhesrhi said.

Aoth’s eyes narrowed. “What? Everyone knows Soolabax is surrounded, don’t they? She wouldn’t try to return here without a flying steed to carry her.”

“Everyone knows,” Jhesrhi said. “Your messenger arrived. Now that you mention it, it’s strange, because I’ve seen plenty of Daelric.” Mostly trying fruitlessly to arrange to talk to Tchazzar without Halonya in attendance. “You’d think Cera would have accompanied him at least part of the time.”

“I’m coming down there.”

At the end of the palaver, Aoth waved his hand. Jhesrhi’s image vanished, and the leaping flames subsided to mere flickering wisps among the coals. They’d devoured most of the wood while the magic was active.

“You realize,” Gaedynn said, “this is stupid. Maybe not let’s-go-to-Thay-and-fight-Szass-Tam stupid, but stupid nonetheless.”

“Somebody has to prod Tchazzar into motion.”

“And that somebody is Jhesrhi. The drake picks his favorites, and for the moment at least she’s one of them. So if she can’t do it, you can’t either. You’ll just make yourself look bad by showing up at court when you’re supposed to be here attending to business.”

“I’ll be there attending to business.”

“It’s Cera, isn’t it? You only just met the wench. How can she mean so much to you?”

“You’re one to talk.”

One corner of Gaedynn’s mouth quirked upward. “I have no idea what you mean by that. But if I did … Never mind. Just because Jhesrhi hasn’t seen her for a day or two, why do you leap to the conclusion she’s in trouble? A vision?”

“I wish. It’s because she believes Amaunator wants her to find out what’s really behind the Green Hand murders and all the other mysteries. She urged me to help, and I refused. I told her fighting the war was my proper concern.”

“Which was sensible. But you’re afraid she took advantage of being in Luthcheq to snoop around by herself and has come to grief because of it.”

“Pretty much.”

“Then let me go look for her.”

“It may take truesight to pick up her trail. Now, I give you my word. Whether I find her or not, I won’t stay gone for long. While I’m away, you’re in command. Don’t make any big moves unless you have to. But use scouts to track those wyrms and other creatures coming down from the north. If you decide you need to go ahead and break the siege to spring the trap as planned, do it.”

It had been a long time since Aoth had seen Gaedynn succumb to consternation. “I know how to lead my bowmen and skirmishers,” the lanky redhead said. “But the whole Brotherhood?”

“You can handle it.”

“Khouryn’s still in Tymanther doing Keen-Eye only knows what.”

“That’s why you have to handle it.”

“With both you and Jhesrhi absent, there’ll be scarcely any sorcery to speak of.”

“Despite being a surly young snot, Oraxes has some power, and some sense and grit to go with it. He can help you use what magic you do have to best effect.”

“You realize Hasos won’t be happy taking orders from your lieutenant.”

“I’ll order him to obey you as he would me.” Aoth snorted. “For whatever that’s worth.”

Clad in her favorite purple robe with the silvery sigils sewn on, Nala spun her shadow-wood staff through complex figures and chanted in the secret, sibilant language the dragon god evidently preferred. As usual, her body writhed from side to side like she was a snake trying to crawl straight up into the air.

As the chant progressed, that sinuous motion became contagious. The half dozen true neophytes started doing it too.

Balasar knew why. He could feel Power buzzing around his head like a swarm of flies. But because he’d resisted the temptation to yield to his dragon nature during his initiation, it couldn’t get inside.

He just had to hope Nala couldn’t tell. He shifted back and forth like his fellows in an effort to keep her from taking a closer look at him. Which made him feel like a jackass with spectators watching.

Up until then, the Platinum Cadre had conducted nearly all its rituals and other activities removed from the hostile public eye. But since the cult had gained a measure of acceptance, Nala and Patrin had decided to conduct the trial of faith in a corner of the shaded, breezy Market Floor-with thick columns along the edge of the platform, the prodigious bulk of the City-Bastion suspended overhead, and the cries of vendors sounding not far away.

Nala twirled the staff faster and faster. Her voice rose until she was all but screaming. Then, on the final word of her chant, she whipped down the rod to rest in front of her with the butt exactly equidistant between her feet. Except for the constant boneless shifting, she stood motionless. Even to Balasar, who’d learned sword forms from some of the most exacting masters-at-arms in Tymanther, the instantaneous transition from frenzy to stillness was impressive.

Nala scrutinized the recent converts. Perhaps her gaze lingered on Balasar for an extra moment. More likely it was just his imagination.

“You’re ready,” she declared. “Arm them, Sir Patrin.”

The paladin with his deep blue surcoat and clinking beard of silver chains opened a wooden box and started handing out knives. Balasar felt a pang of dismay.

Which, he supposed, had its comical side. He’d fought a topaz dragon and its strange, formidable minions on the journey down from Chessenta. And he was worried about a pen full of pigs?

Well, yes. Because they were the enormous, savage variety sometimes called dire boars, and an unarmored knife fighter-no matter how skilled-would be at a substantial disadvantage. Especially in the somewhat cramped confines of the pen, where an animal could pin him against the fence.

Yet it was obvious the other neophytes didn’t share his trepidation. Shifting, they stared at the pen like they could hardly wait to start the slaughter.

Nala didn’t keep them waiting any longer than it took to distribute the dirks. “Begin!” she cried, and Balasar’s fellows rushed the pen. He saw little choice but to rush right along with them.

The rules said an initiate couldn’t attack until he was inside the pen. Balasar arguably cheated just a little by breathing frost at the nearest boar while still vaulting over the top of the fence.

Rime painted the pig’s snout white and, as he’d intended, encrusted its eyes. Too ferocious to balk or even flinch, the hump on its back as high as he was tall, the black beast charged him anyway. He sidestepped its slashing tusks and stabbed at its neck.

The knife penetrated, but failed to draw the arterial spurt he wanted. The accursed animal was moving too fast. Its bristle-covered hide was too thick, and there was too much fat and muscle underneath.

Elsewhere in the pen, gouts of fire leaped and lightning crackled. Carried on the breeze, a stray trace of poisonous vapor stung Balasar’s nose and filled his mouth with an acrid taste. His companions were using their breath weapons repeatedly, because unlike him, they could. After a dragonborn truly gave himself to Nala’s deity, the ability renewed itself more quickly.

The boar slammed into the fence. The heavy rails lurched and banged, and the spectators gasped and recoiled. But the barrier held. The pig spun, faster than such a massive, short-legged beast had any right to, and Balasar had to give ground before it. To scurry back toward the center of the pen.

He was horribly conscious of squeals and grunts, the thump and scrape of trotters on stone, and the smells of blood and burned flesh right behind him. But he couldn’t even glance around to see if a second boar was about to gore him. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the one that he knew for certain meant to kill him.

The frost had largely fallen away from its little red eyes. Which, evidently not frozen and blind, were glaring straight at him.

The boar surged forward. He dodged, and it compensated. He sidestepped again, and his foot slipped. Because, while the Market Floor was made of granite, the pigs had been in the pen long enough to start fouling it with muck.

Balasar floundered for balance and saw that he couldn’t avoid the hog. At best he might be able to avoid being sliced open by one of its tusks. As it charged into range, he planted his hand on top of its head and jumped.

It was nothing like the agile spring that had carried him over the fence. It heaved him above the tusks, but the boar’s bulk still slammed into him and bounced him off to the side.

He landed hard, and for a moment the world was just a jumble of lunging shapes and noises that didn’t mean anything. Then he remembered what had happened to him and knew the pig was already turning to attack him again.

It lunged, dipping its head to slice a target so low to the ground. Balasar twisted, somehow avoided the stroke, then snatched with his offhand. His fingers closed on one of the lower tusks. As long as he maintained his grip, the pig wouldn’t be able to gore him.

Unfortunately, it could wrench its head back and forth and up and down, trying to break his hold. The motion pounded him against the granite. Meanwhile, he repeatedly plunged his dirk into its throat and the underside of its jaw.

He felt his fingers slipping. Then, finally, blood spattered him and the stone in rhythmic gushes. The boar thrashed in a convulsion that flung him loose, charged, but collapsed a pace or two short of its target.

Balasar just wanted to lie still and gasp for breath. But with a fight raging all around him, that was a good way to get killed. He lifted his head and looked around.

Some of the other pigs were dead, and by and large those that were still active looked in worse shape than the cultists who seared them with repeated blasts of flame and vitriol. Balasar had just about decided he could sit out the rest of the fight when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a hog toss its head and slice a green-scaled dragonborn from thigh to shoulder.

Even as Balasar scrambled to his feet, it occurred to him that the injured fighter was a wyrm-worshiper and thus, in the truest sense, an enemy. Someone he himself might want to kill someday. But his instincts were stronger than that consideration. He charged the boar, meanwhile yelling as best he could in the hope that he could distract it from the foe sprawled helplessly before it.

The huge pig started to turn. Hoping the blade would pass unimpeded under bone and find some vital spot, Balasar thrust his point at the base of its jawline.

The boar exploded into a great thrashing spasm, and it was luck as much as Balasar’s nimbleness or battle sense that kept it from slashing him in the process. But it didn’t, and then it flopped over onto its side.

Still keeping an eye on it, he moved to check the wounded cultist. The son of a toad lay in a sizeable pool of his own blood, but at least he was breathing.

Balasar looked around. All the pigs had fallen and lay inert, mere ugly mounds of bristles and charred, bloody flesh, while Patrin was already trotting in his direction. The paladin evidently realized that if he used his healing powers quickly enough, he could save the maimed cultist.

Patrin kneeled down in the gore, murmured a prayer, summoned silvery light into his hands, and then applied them to the long gash in his fellow worshiper’s body. The magic worked exceptionally well. The wound closed completely, and the fellow dazedly raised his head.

When Patrin helped him to his feet, the cheers erupted, with only a scattering of holdouts among the crowd looking disgusted at everyone else’s reaction.

Balasar registered the acclaim with mixed emotions. He really didn’t want anyone applauding the Cadre for anything. But curse it, he’d fought well, and there was a part of him-no doubt the part the elders of Clan Daardendrien had always decried as frivolous, immature, and irresponsible-that simply wanted to wave and bow.

Then Nala came to the side of the pen, and her cool, appraising gaze reminded him he was playing a deadly serious game-and nowhere near winning it yet.

“You only used your breath once,” she said.

Balasar smiled. “My way was more sporting, and more fun.”

“He fought well,” Patrin said.

“Yes,” Nala said. “But I’m not sure I saw the god’s gift of fury augmenting his strength.”

“My teachers trained me to fight with a cool head,” Balasar said. “Sun and sky, when we faced the giants, Patrin didn’t constantly spit fire, and he didn’t go berserk either.”

“It’s because I’m a paladin,” Patrin said. “Bahamut blessed me with a different set of gifts.”

“Well,” said Balasar, “maybe he’ll end up making me a paladin too.”

Nala snorted. “I doubt it. Still, it’s true that the god doesn’t bless everyone in precisely the same way, and occasionally it can take a while for his blessings to manifest. Even so, the next time-”

The war drums started thumping. They’d sounded often across the Market Floor, and through all Djerad Thymar, ever since the giant tribes had set aside their feuds and joined forces to assail Tymanther. Sometimes the drummers had pounded out the steady cadence of an alert and sometimes the slow, hollow beats that announced defeat. Only rarely had they hammered out the fast, intricate, largely improvisational rhythms used to celebrate a victory, but they were doing so now.

The spectators headed toward the center of the marketplace, where many folk were starting to cheer. Nala, Patrin, Balasar, and the rest of the neophytes followed.

On horseback, the lancers loomed above the heads of the crowd. Despite all the excited people crowded together in front of him, Balasar could more or less see Medrash and the rest of the procession riding past. Unlike the Platinum Cadre, the patrol hadn’t mutilated the bodies of fallen giants for trophies. But they had appropriated the barbarians’ huge stone weapons to show what they’d accomplished.

“This is glorious!” Patrin said.

He didn’t see the scowl Nala gave him, but Balasar did. At that moment, it was difficult to believe the two were lovers.

As the servant ushered Gaedynn into Hasos’s study, he reflected that he and the baron had a good deal in common. They were both gently born and followed the profession of arms. They were still young and good-looking, and in their disparate styles took pains with their appearances. Still, he could tell from Hasos’s frown that it wasn’t likely to be a particularly cordial meeting.

I don’t like it either, Gaedynn thought. But if I have to swallow the stone, then so do you.

Hasos stood up from behind his desk, although not with any great alacrity. “Sir Gaedynn,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“My scouts report that the dragons and their creatures are closer than we’d hoped.” Gaedynn noticed a map on the desk and pointed to a spot in Threskel. “As of this morning, they were here. Which means that to carry out Captain Fezim’s strategy, we need to break the siege now.”

Hasos’s frown turned into an outright glare. “That’s impossible.”

“To the contrary. It’s entirely feasible, especially since we have powerful wizards on our side.” At least they might be powerful. Gaedynn hadn’t seen any irrefutable evidence to the contrary.

Hasos made a spitting sound. “Wizards. Devil-worshiping degenerates.”

Gaedynn grinned. “Not anymore. Not since Tchazzar proclaimed them to be fine fellows, one and all. More to the point, whatever you think of them, we can put them to good use.”

“Still-”

Gaedynn decided it was time to move on from unfounded optimism to outright lies. “It’s also my pleasure to inform you that the war hero and the army under his personal command are now on their way to Soolabax. They’ll advance onto the battlefield when their sudden appearance will do the most damage.”

“Where’s the messenger who carried this news? Why didn’t you bring him to me right away?”

“Because it was the mage Jhesrhi Coldcreek, speaking to me from far away. The spell didn’t last long enough for me to send someone to fetch you.”

“Then have one of the ‘powerful’ wizards who are still in the city communicate with her. Or Captain Fezim. Or the war hero himself.”

Gaedynn smiled and spread his hands. “I wish that were possible. But as you may know, every sorcerer has his own secrets and specialties. Oraxes and his fellows truly are formidable, but alas, none of them is a master of the particular art in question.”

Hasos sneered. “You have an answer for everything.”

“I like to think so. Unfortunately, it’s clear you don’t find any of them especially convincing. But you can believe this: We’re going ahead with Aoth’s plan, and Tchazzar will receive a report of the outcome. It’s up to you whether he hears that you gave your wholehearted support or balked at every turn.”

His voice tight with resentment, Hasos said, “When exactly are we planning to launch the attack?”

FOUR

4 KYTHORN, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

Nicos Corynian loved his family and made a point of taking his evening meal with them whenever practical. That night, however, the bright, trivial chatter of his wife and nieces grated on his already jangled nerves. As soon as he could make his escape, he headed for the private study that served him as a kind of refuge.

His hand with its scarred knuckles trembling ever so slightly, he opened the door, set the single white wax candle he’d brought along on the dice table, and headed for the walnut cabinet in which he kept strong drink. The taper was sufficient illumination for the moment. He’d worry about lighting the lamps when he had some brandy inside him.

A deep voice sounded from the shadows. “Good evening, milord.”

Startled, Nicos lurched around. A robed and hooded figure rose from one of the chairs between the dice table and the wall. The apparition stepped forward and Nicos saw the eerie blue glow of its eyes.

Aoth pushed the cowl back, and the yellow candlelight gilded his tattooed face. “Please excuse the clothes. I realize they’re filthy and smell like garbage. But it’s not easy to wander around without being recognized when you look like I do.”

“How did you get in here?” As soon as the question left Nicos’s mouth, he realized the answer wasn’t important. But he was still too rattled to think straight.

“You have a kindly cook. She was willing to feed a beggar. Then I slipped out of the kitchen when her back was turned. I stole a bottle of cooking wine and left the door ajar so she’d assume I’d departed the house.”

“All right, but why are you in Luthcheq at all?”

“Partly to prod Tchazzar into heading north.” The mercenary hesitated. “What?”

Nicos realized that his expression must have changed when Aoth spoke the dragon’s name. “It’s nothing.”

“Plainly it isn’t, and since I’m planning to talk to him, I need to know about it.”

Nicos sighed. “Have it your way. At court today, a minstrel sang a song he’d written about Tchazzar’s past triumphs. In it he made mention of one of the wyrm’s old lieutenants. Someone Tchazzar evidently remembers fondly.”

“Go on.”

“Tchazzar flew into a rage. He said the bard had insulted his friend and ordered him whipped.”

“That’s harsh, but I’ve known other princes who might have done the same.”

“So have I,” said Nicos, “but here’s the difference. No one else could perceive the insult. I still can’t. Every word the singer used was complimentary.”

“Maybe if you’d actually known the fellow, you’d see that the words conveyed some hidden irony?”

“I doubt it, and anyway there’s more. A guard started the whipping, but Tchazzar wasn’t satisfied with the results. He insisted on taking over, and I think he must have some portion of a dragon’s strength even when he’s a man. He went on and on, tirelessly, until he’d all but cut the minstrel to pieces.”

Aoth frowned. “And we brought him back to Chessenta. Well, Jhesrhi and Gaedynn did, but I sent them on your orders.”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’ll just have to hope that Tchazzar’s good qualities offset his quirks. Meanwhile, I’ve delayed presenting myself at the War College because Cera Eurthos has disappeared, and I wanted a free hand to poke around. What do you know about it?”

Nicos blinked. “Me? Nothing! Why would I?”

“She was staying in Amaunator’s temple, but no one’s seen her for a while. I gather Daelric’s not especially concerned. He assumes she headed back north. Which she shouldn’t and wouldn’t have done without asking permission. But he’s apparently too jealous of Halonya’s sudden rise to think the matter through.”

“Perhaps she left the Keeper’s house to visit family or friends in the city.”

Aoth shook his head. “She doesn’t have any living family. She probably does have old friends hereabouts, but I’m certain she had something else in mind. As I’m sure you realize, no one ever figured out the whole truth about the Green Hand murders. She believed her god had given her the task.”

“That sounds potentially dangerous.”

Aoth smiled a crooked smile. “I agree. Yet I left her here to snoop around alone. I was preoccupied. I thought my responsibility was to lead the Brotherhood and defeat Threskel.”

“You were right. It is.”

“I know. Still, I mean to find her.”

“And you think that somehow, I can help you.”

“Yes, milord, I do. I don’t spread this around, but the Blue Fire did more than extend my life. It changed the way I see. Once in a while I have visions that point to hidden truths. The first time we met, I saw a green dragon looking over your shoulder.”

Making sure his voice would remain steady, Nicos took a breath. “What in the name of the Yellow Sun did that signify?”

“At the time, I had no idea. I’m still not sure. But ever since the Brotherhood came to these lands, there have been dragons, dragon-worshipers, and creatures with draconic traits popping up everywhere.”

Nicos forced a smile. “Well, obviously Chessenta is fighting a war against a dracolich and his circle of dragon followers-”

“I mean above and beyond that, as you understand perfectly well. I hadn’t gotten around to mentioning that I once smelled the lingering odor of a certain gum you’d burned in your study. A gum used in mystical rituals.”

“And that concerned you? All right, I confess I have a small talent for sorcery, which I’ve always concealed to avoid the stigma. But now that Tchazzar’s changed the law, what does it matter?”

“It matters because, together with my vision, it indicates there’s more to you than most people realize. Now, I’m not your enemy. By the Black Flame, I work for you, give or take. But I demand to know what you know. To find Cera, and to help me look out for the Brotherhood’s interests.”

“And if I refuse to surrender all my secrets?”

“Then I’ll tell Tchazzar what I know. Maybe you’ll be lucky and he won’t think anything of it. But I’m pretty sure Lord Luthen will talk until his teeth fall out trying to make it seem damning. You never know-tomorrow, or the next day, it could be you tied to the whipping post.”

Trying to look defeated, Nicos sighed and slumped his shoulders. “All right. I’m not some sort of scoundrel, but there are … things you probably should know. I’m afraid it will take a while.” He waved toward the pair of brown leather chairs in front of the hearth. “Sit. I’ll get us something to drink.”

“Fine.” Aoth flopped down in one of the chairs.

Nicos headed for the cabinet containing the bottles and goblets. Which put him behind the war-mage.

I can do this, he told himself. I’m a pugilist. I know how and where to hit. And the man said himself, no one knows he came here. I can dispose of the body somehow.

He looked at the nape of Aoth’s neck and clenched his fist.

Aoth sprang up out of the seat and whirled. He kicked the chair into Nicos’s legs.

It stung and made Nicos stagger back a step, but that was all. He started to rush Aoth, but by that time the Thayan was rattling off a charm. On the final syllable he snapped his fingers, and a pearly glow, dazzling in the gloomy chamber, appeared in the air between him and his attacker.

Squinting, Nicos instinctively balked, then realized the light was harmless. At the same instant vicious blows hammered him in the kidney and the jaw in quick succession. A foot sweep jerked one leg out from under him. Aoth slammed him down hard on the floor, then drew a dagger from one of his voluminous sleeves.

“Are you going to be sensible?” the sellsword asked. “Or do I have to hold the blade to your throat and go through the rest of the routine?”

Aching and breathless, half stunned, Nicos managed, “I’ll be sensible.”

“Good.” Aoth offered a hand and pulled him to his feet. “This time, you sit and I’ll fetch a bottle.”

Nicos collapsed into a chair. “How did you know? Another vision?”

“No. It’s just that I’ve spent the better part of a hundred years reading the faces and stances of men who were about to try to kill me.”

“It was an impulse. I didn’t mean-”

“Don’t apologize. I’m glad you panicked. I didn’t really have enough to go running to Tchazzar. I was bluffing. But I have it now.”

“Yes. I suppose you do.”

Aoth pulled the stopper from a decanter of brandy. The liquor gurgled into goblets, its scent filled the air, and, craving it, Nicos shivered.

Aoth gave him one of the cups, set the bottle on the low table between the chairs, then sat down opposite him. “Now,” he said, “talk.”

Nicos took a long drink first, and felt the brandy warm his belly. “I guess there’s no way to say this except straight out. For a number of years, I’ve secretly provided certain services to a green wyrm named Skuthosiin.”

Aoth’s lambent blue eyes bored into him. “You’re telling me,” he said, his voice flat, “that the man who brought the Brotherhood to Chessenta, the man to whom our fortunes are still tied, is a spy and a traitor?”

“No! It’s not like that. Skuthosiin never asked me to do anything that was clearly a disservice to the realm. And I wouldn’t have. It’s just that he was willing to reward me for … information and various favors.”

“Wait. Is this the same Skuthosiin who used to live in Unther?” Aoth asked.

“So he says,” Nicos said.

“How did he survive the Spellplague, and Tymanther more or less falling out of the sky on top of his country?” Aoth asked.

“I don’t know,” Nicos said. “He boasts that the Dark Lady favors him. Maybe she protected him.”

“Where is he now?” Aoth asked. “Chessenta, Tymanther, or someplace else?”

“I don’t know where he spends his time,” Nicos said. “He taught me a spell to talk to him from far away. That’s why I burn the gum.”

Aoth grunted. “I’ve done a little studying since Tchazzar returned. Supposedly he and Skuthosiin were allies in the old days. So I take it you ordered me to look for him because your secret master wanted him found.”

“Yes, but there’s more to it. From the start he wanted you and your sellswords in Chessenta, and he somehow knew in advance that your company would meet with defeat and disgrace in Impiltur and need a new employer. That’s how my messenger reached you at just the right time.”

Aoth’s eyes seemed to burn brighter. “ ‘Somehow knew in advance’ is the mush-mouthed way of saying, ‘Made it happen.’ That’s why that whoreson Kremphras and his company didn’t show up to support us, and why there were dragonlike creatures helping the demon-worshipers. They were all working for Skuthosiin, just like you.”

“I don’t know that for a fact,” said Nicos, “but I think it’s likely.”

“How many agents does he have, anyway?” Aoth asked. “Over how wide an area?”

“I don’t know,” said Nicos.

Aoth drew breath to make a reply-an angry one, to judge from his scowl-then caught himself and paused to take a drink. “Well, what else do you know? There had better be something.”

“Looking back, I can at least speculate,” Nicos said. “Skuthosiin somehow knows about your eyes. He initially wanted you here because he thought they might enable you to unmask the Green Hand killer.”

“Which arguably hurt Chessenta more than it helped. So, if Skuthosiin knew what we’d find, maybe he’s no friend to your country,” Aoth said.

“If he knew,” Nicos said, “there were easier ways to steer the city guards in the right direction.”

“Well, possibly,” Aoth said. “You truly have no idea why he wants what he wants? What his ultimate purpose is?”

“No.”

“Or if he’s even let Tchazzar know he’s still alive?”

“No. Are you going to denounce me?”

Aoth scratched his chin, and his fingertips rasped in the beard stubble. Nicos had the wholly irrelevant thought that he would have heard the exact same little sound if the Thayan had scratched his shaved scalp.

“I don’t especially want to,” Aoth said after a moment. “You didn’t cause the debacle in Impiltur, and I haven’t known many lords who weren’t involved in secret dirty dealings of one kind or another. I’d rather stay your friend and do what you and the Crown are paying me to do. But it’s not going to be that easy unless I find Cera. And nothing you’ve said so far points me in the right direction.”

“I told you, I don’t know what happened to her!”

“But you’re the damned spy and the damned courtier too. You keep track of everything that happens in the War College and the city at large. Think of something.”

Nicos did. He thought that if he called for help, the servants might respond quickly. And if they all attacked Aoth together, they might conceivably overwhelm him.

But when he took another look at the man on the other side of the low little table, the hopeful fantasy withered. At the moment the Thayan might not have his enchanted spear or his griffon either, but even so it was impossible to doubt that he could handle anything his unwilling host could throw at him.

Then a more useful thought occurred to Nicos. He sat up straighter, and Aoth said, “What?”

“The Church of Tchazzar,” Nicos said.

“What about it?”

“Tchazzar promised Halonya that a priesthood would form around her, and it did with remarkable speed. You’d think it would be mostly the same commoners who marched with her in the streets, seeking to rise along with her. But quite a few of them aren’t. Before the coronation she’d never even seen them before, and they seem at home in their new roles. Like educated men accustomed to ritual and protocol.”