Master of restless shado.., p.38
Master of Restless Shadows, page 38
part #1 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
“I really don’t think that was the conclusion of any of my memoirs,” Atreau replied. “And it’s certainly not my current situation.”
“You might not think it is, but I’ll bet one of your dear friends has you doing his dirty work, like always.”
Atreau said nothing but Spider read him all too well.
“How you have the gall to chide me for being reckless, I’ve no idea. You’re obviously up to your neck in someone else’s troubles.” Spider muttered the words under his breath as he dabbed a little blood from the side of his face. Then he narrowed his gaze. “You haven’t allowed that handsome Haldiim fellow to embroil you in a plot to assassinate the royal bishop, have you?”
“What?” The suggestion was so far removed from any of Atreau’s intrigues that he almost laughed. He couldn’t imagine how it had occurred to Spider.
“There’s no end to the rumors going around about Haldiim plots against the church.” Spider shrugged. “More power to them, I say.”
Atreau nodded. Spider loathed the Holy Cadeleonian Church, and with good reason.
“I’m not currently entangled in any assassination plots.” Atreau hesitantly drew the bundle of letters from his coat pocket. “I’m doing just what I said. Trying to locate the physician mentioned in these missives before the church gets ahold of her. I have almost no information about her, except that she may have been employed by the Grunito family twenty-five years ago and she immigrated to the Salt Islands some fifteen years back.”
Spider glanced down at the letters but didn’t take them from Atreau.
“Your nobleman will pay well, you’re sure of that?” Spider asked.
“If you can deliver the information he needs, then he’ll pay you in gold. Enough that you won’t need me to buy out the Goose.”
Spider took the letters, untied the string holding them together, and then leafed through them.
“If she kept practicing medicine then she would’ve had to train at the temple. Though most folk who move to the Salt Islands go to make new lives, so . . . ,” Spider said quietly. He turned back through the small pages two more times, then frowned and shook his head.
Atreau wasn’t certain if he was relieved or disappointed that Spider refused the work. As much as he wanted to find this physician, he didn’t want to embroil Spider in the battle between Prince Sevanyo and the royal bishop.
“That’s all right,” Atreau decided. “Honestly, I might be able to scrape up some money for you and Inissa. Not right away, but after the coronation. I might see an investment of mine come in then.” Once Prince Sevanyo’s reign was secured, Fedeles would likely receive so many royal favors that he’d not begrudge Atreau a generous loan—even if both of them knew Atreau could never repay it. “We’ll talk about what it would cost me to buy the Fat Goose then, all right?”
Spider appeared almost startled, and then a rare smile brightened his angular face.
“Of course, we can talk about it, when the time comes. But for now I think I’ll pen a few letters to my friends at the temple. It’s not too hard to guess where your physician would likely have ended up, and her name sounds rather familiar to me.”
“But I thought—”
“I was shaking my head at how ignorant this fellow writing the letters must be to think that Cadeleonian missionaries are going to find anything that the temple doesn’t want found,” Spider said.
“So you’ll look into this, then?”
“I will,” Spider agreed, and then he grinned. “By the way, you realize that you’ll have to pay off your tab before I sell you the Goose, don’t you?”
Atreau laughed, and it hurt his ribs but came as a relief.
He left the Fat Goose a few minutes later and crossed to the Green Door. He briefly searched through the parties filling the many tables for Sabella. It had occurred to him that a swordsman as skilled as the assassin who’d slain Captain Ciceron would need to train almost constantly and against the very best of opponents. The best place for that would be the Red Stallion. The sword house was a breeding ground for ruffians and assassins, hosting countless unsanctioned duels and regularly providing fat purses of prize money to the most ruthless sword masters.
Unfortunately, Sabella was nowhere to be seen tonight. Since she’d taken to sheltering Suelita, her sociability had shriveled to nothing. Especially in the evening. But he couldn’t begrudge Sabella her recent excess of hours spent in bed. She’d been lonely for a long time, and there was no telling if or when Suelita would wake up and realize she’d left all hope of safety and leisure behind and return like a penitent to her family.
Though Suelita did seem more sincerely dedicated to avoiding both marriage and the convent than the last couple of women Sabella had become entangled with, so perhaps hope was in order? It wasn’t for him to say . . .
Atreau turned his attention to locating Xavan; if Spider’s friends at the temple couldn’t find the physician, then Atreau would still have another agent to fall back on. But the sailor and his big beard was nowhere to be seen. Then one of the serving girls caught his eyes. She knew Xavan well and when she beckoned Atreau back toward the kitchen, he guessed that the man had left a message for him with her. Perhaps the street brawl with the royal bishop’s guardsmen had put Xavan off.
Atreau made his way back to the steamy, fragrant kitchen. Before he could speak with the serving girl, Pepylla caught his elbow and pulled him aside. He didn’t mind, since Pepylla only wished to reassure him that Inissa was a little muddied but otherwise perfectly fine.
“She just needs rest now . . . though what she was doing out on the street, alone at this hour, I have no idea.” Pepylla shook her head.
Reading her expression, Atreau felt certain that she harbored a suspicion and it didn’t please her. Pepylla liked Inissa, but she couldn’t have cared less for Spider’s welfare. Jacinto claimed her true loyalty and also ensured her livelihood. If she came to believe that Inissa or Spider had betrayed Jacinto, she wouldn’t keep quiet about it.
“That was my fault,” Atreau told her. “I wanted a word with her about certain things that might have been left in her room by another lady.”
Pepylla raised a white brow but then nodded as she realized that Atreau referred to Lady Hylanya and why he would be evasive about it.
“I was late meeting her,” Atreau went on. “I didn’t think that anyone would—”
Pepylla hit him, her tough hand striking his jaw just where Spider had laid into him half an hour ago. Atreau swore at the pain but Pepylla paid him no attention.
“You idiot! She could have been killed, you realize that!”
Wasn’t there an irony that he now stood here taking the very words he’d shouted at Spider? Atreau kept his mouth shut and glanced meaningfully to the two serving girls standing only a few feet away, gaping at them. Pepylla scowled at the servers. The balding cook lounging near the roaring fire began to whistle a loud, nervous tune.
Pepylla shook her head and then returned her attention to Atreau.
“I didn’t hit you that hard.” A slight motherly concern showed in her expression. Atreau could feel the side of his face throbbing and had no doubt that a noticeable red weal now stood out on his cheek.
“No. Not so hard as Inissa would have, I imagine,” Atreau replied, and in truth his bruised face didn’t hurt nearly as badly as his ribs. “Tell her I’m sorry to have left her waiting for me, will you?”
Pepylla nodded and an idea occurred to Atreau. He couldn’t do much to aid Spider and Inissa monetarily, but he might keep Pepylla—and Jacinto by extension—from suspecting too much if they met again. He leaned closer to Pepylla and said softly, “I’ve made arrangements with Spider across the way at the Fat Goose, so that Inissa can leave anything of importance in my rooms there—during the day, of course. Will you pass that on to her as well?”
“Of course,” Pepylla replied, then she added. “I suppose you could go up and tell her yourself.”
That Atreau guessed was as close as he’d come to Pepylla offering an apology.
“I’d better not, just yet. My delicate features can only stand so much righteous outrage in one night.”
Pepylla laughed and over her shoulder one of the serving girls cast Atreau a sympathetic smile.
“Well, take care of yourself tonight,” Pepylla told him before she turned her attention to arranging the complex assortments of little dishes meant to accompany the steaming pots of kaweh. The cook’s whistled tune quieted and the serving girls each snatched up the side dishes as they called out drink orders to the cook. Pepylla just waved her hand when Atreau bid her good night, but outside of the kitchen, the serving girl sidled up to him.
“Did Xavan leave a message for me?” Atreau asked.
“No. Haven’t you heard?” The serving girl lowered her voice. “He and two other sailors were attacked and branded last night.”
“Branded?” Atreau scowled at the thought. Hadn’t Hylanya said something about assassins bearing sorcerous brands? Then he remembered Hierro grasping the front of his shirt and the burning sensation that had seared across his flesh. Thankfully, Javier’s icy white blessings had won him a moment’s reprieve to tear free.
“That’s not the strange part,” the serving girl whispered. “A few hours later all three of them abandoned their friends and went loping after some nobleman’s carriage like dogs. No one’s seen a hair of them since.”
A deep dread fluttered through Atreau.
“I thought I should tell you. Better watch your back when you’re out on the streets alone.”
“You too,” Atreau replied.
The girl offered him a very sweet smile and thanked him for his concern. Then she was called away to a table and Atreau departed.
He collected his horse from Spider’s stable and rode back to Fedeles’s mansion in a wary silence. The thought of what Xavan and his friends were now enduring was terrible, but so too was the thought of what they might be able to reveal to Hierro Fueres. Atreau avoided narrow, empty alleys and took pains not to show how badly his ribs hurt him. The cut in his side broke open and bled a little more, but not so much that it soaked through his coat.
He wondered if Narsi wouldn’t have a poultice for him and then reminded himself that Narsi was hardly out of the sickbed himself.
At the mansion, the guards allowed him past with a mere nod. Atreau didn’t particularly feel like making merry conversation with every soul he passed, nor was he certain that his bedraggled appearance would pass without remark if he walked through the well-lit corridors of the house. So he skirted the grounds, making his way to a section of wall at the back of the building where a hedge of yew obscured several feet of carefully carved stonework.
Atreau found his key and slipped it into a hardly visible niche. As the hidden door opened, the slim shadow of a black cat slunk from the hedge and circled Atreau’s boots.
“Creeping back to the charming physician’s bed, are you?” Atreau whispered to the creature. The cat kept its own council but it followed Atreau into the secret corridor. As he made his way through the narrow space and up the stairs toward his own chambers, he heard the cat pad away. For just a moment he considered following it and intruding upon Narsi.
I should make certain that he’s not feeling ill again . . .
Even as the thought occurred to Atreau he recognized the self-deception in it. He knew perfectly well that Father Timoteo and Brother Berto would look after Narsi. He wasn’t hoping to sit at Narsi’s bedside and play nurse any more than he honestly expected Narsi to tend the gash in his side. No, he simply wanted the young man’s pleasant company to lift his own flagging spirit. It had been a long time since anyone had intrigued Atreau or entertained him as much as Narsi did. The young physician possessed such a quick mind and the sort of laugh that seemed to warm an entire room. And the way he gazed at Atreau when he didn’t think he was being observed was so very flattering.
But indulging the impulse to pursue Narsi’s company would only feed a fledging affection that could do neither of them any good.
Atreau had already involved Narsi in one deadly enterprise. And Narsi had performed so capably that Atreau planned to use him again, particularly after witnessing how well he controlled his own terror in the face of muerate poisoning. He could prove to be a highly valuable asset for Fedeles, and Prince Sevanyo.
Growing too attached to him would be about as wise as befriending a mayfly. No one as upstanding and daring as Narsi lived long in the capital. Being Haldiim on top of that . . .
No, Narsi wouldn’t likely last a year. Atreau knew that he would no doubt play a large part in the other man’s demise. For the sake of their nation—perhaps their world, if Javier was to be believed—sacrifices had to be made.
Atreau leaned against the cold stone of the dark passage and drew in a deep breath of the stale air.
Will I even remember the names of all the lovely dead left behind me?
Atreau shook his head at his morose turn of thought. After all he’d seen in the Labaran War, how could he still fret over sacrificed agents and spies? He had no right. Not when he thought of how Elezar had led hundreds of his best men to their deaths for the sake of a nation that wasn’t even his own. Compared to that, what burden did Atreau bear? A mere handful of promising lives lost to ensure that hundreds of thousands thrived in a better, more tolerant kingdom.
There’s an irony in how many murders are required to maintain the illusion of a great and peaceable land. Or perhaps tragedy is a better word for it.
He climbed the steps and emerged in his cold rooms a moment later. The narrow chambers were familiar but never felt welcoming to him. When he had the time for it he did most of his writing in his comfortable, run-down room at the Fat Goose. Here, he existed solely as an instrument of Fedeles’s needs and, by extension, Prince Sevanyo’s ambitions.
He’d dressed the chambers like the set of a stage play; the desk displayed an assortment of inks and randomly penned pages, while the books filing the crowded shelves largely served as decoys, disguising the few hollowed volumes where messages from Elezar and Javier lay hidden. A mildly obscene tapestry, depicting pretty maidens frolicking in a dewy garden, hid the door to the passage he’d just exited and the four little bare-breasted figurines posing on his dressing table contained vials of deadly-potent duera—in case escape prove impossible.
Starlight glowed through the narrow gaps between the heavy drapes hanging over his two windows. A pitiful stash of coins weighted the decorative trim of the curtains—certainly not enough to purchase the Fat Goose, but sufficient to hire a boat to carry him and his horse out of the capital if the need for flight arose. The stone of passage offered him another route, but Atreau knew better than to ever depend upon a single ally for salvation.
The transaction still made him uneasy. It came very close to serving two masters. But Atreau reassured himself that he was not working against Fedeles. Hylanya had already placed spies all across the city without his aid. Now, at least, he held some sway over her familiars and spies. He could keep his own agents and hers from working at odds to each other. Already, one of Hylanya’s familiars had ensured Narsi’s full recovery.
And if everything went wrong, he still possessed a means of escape that Oasia couldn’t undermine.
Through the gloom, the pale blankets of his empty bed struck Atreau as the only authentic testament to the life he led.
He gladly sat down on the bed and then lay back to stare up at his blank ceiling. He closed his eyes. A melody rose from the music room below. It should have been dance music, played to accompany Sparanzo as he practiced his steps for the coronation ball, but tonight it sounded strangely like a dirge.
Chapter Twenty-Two
As midnight approached, Atreau still lay staring at his ceiling, willing sleep to come to him. When a knock sounded at his door, he welcomed the distraction from insomnia. Probably Fedeles expecting him to have something worth reporting. He sighed and hauled himself up to his feet.
A sharp, resentful pain flared from his ribs as he strode across the room.
He opened the door with a carelessness that he knew should have concerned him. Only two days ago a guardsman had been murdered in the mansion; at the least he should have asked who called and peered through the tiny spy hole hidden in the door’s decorative inlay. Instead he simply flipped the latch and swung the door wide.
Lamplight flooded in from the hall and lit Narsi in a golden halo. He certainly cut a striking figure; tall, dark and handsome enough to breathe a new life into the tired turn of phrase. The curly dark hair framing his face reminded Atreau of a whirling thundercloud, and two of the buttons fastening his simple white shirt remained undone. His gray physician’s coat hung open. Between the warm light and Narsi’s easy smile, Atreau almost overlooked how ashen Narsi’s complexion still appeared. He rather casually tucked his injured right hand behind his left.
“I apologize for calling on you so late in the evening, but you’d mentioned a proposition that—” Narsi’s pleasant expression became troubled as he leaned nearer. The clean, astringent scent of coinflowers drifted from him. “What happened to your face?”
Belatedly, Atreau recalled that his cheek had taken a few blows and likely now displayed the beginning of a bruise.
“The wages of my life of sin and delight,” Atreau replied.
Narsi didn’t look convinced but he didn’t argue either. Instead he simply stepped into Atreau’s room and then, lowering his voice, commented, “I came for my medical bag. You said that I should—”
“Yes, yes, I did. Come in. Have a seat.” Atreau shoved the door closed behind Narsi and flipped the lock closed out of habit. For a moment they were both plunged into darkness. Atreau silently cursed himself for failing to light a fire when he’d first arrived in his rooms. Now he went quickly to his mantel and lit the two lamps there. The flames flared up in gold tongues and set shadows all across the room flickering and jumping.
“You might not think it is, but I’ll bet one of your dear friends has you doing his dirty work, like always.”
Atreau said nothing but Spider read him all too well.
“How you have the gall to chide me for being reckless, I’ve no idea. You’re obviously up to your neck in someone else’s troubles.” Spider muttered the words under his breath as he dabbed a little blood from the side of his face. Then he narrowed his gaze. “You haven’t allowed that handsome Haldiim fellow to embroil you in a plot to assassinate the royal bishop, have you?”
“What?” The suggestion was so far removed from any of Atreau’s intrigues that he almost laughed. He couldn’t imagine how it had occurred to Spider.
“There’s no end to the rumors going around about Haldiim plots against the church.” Spider shrugged. “More power to them, I say.”
Atreau nodded. Spider loathed the Holy Cadeleonian Church, and with good reason.
“I’m not currently entangled in any assassination plots.” Atreau hesitantly drew the bundle of letters from his coat pocket. “I’m doing just what I said. Trying to locate the physician mentioned in these missives before the church gets ahold of her. I have almost no information about her, except that she may have been employed by the Grunito family twenty-five years ago and she immigrated to the Salt Islands some fifteen years back.”
Spider glanced down at the letters but didn’t take them from Atreau.
“Your nobleman will pay well, you’re sure of that?” Spider asked.
“If you can deliver the information he needs, then he’ll pay you in gold. Enough that you won’t need me to buy out the Goose.”
Spider took the letters, untied the string holding them together, and then leafed through them.
“If she kept practicing medicine then she would’ve had to train at the temple. Though most folk who move to the Salt Islands go to make new lives, so . . . ,” Spider said quietly. He turned back through the small pages two more times, then frowned and shook his head.
Atreau wasn’t certain if he was relieved or disappointed that Spider refused the work. As much as he wanted to find this physician, he didn’t want to embroil Spider in the battle between Prince Sevanyo and the royal bishop.
“That’s all right,” Atreau decided. “Honestly, I might be able to scrape up some money for you and Inissa. Not right away, but after the coronation. I might see an investment of mine come in then.” Once Prince Sevanyo’s reign was secured, Fedeles would likely receive so many royal favors that he’d not begrudge Atreau a generous loan—even if both of them knew Atreau could never repay it. “We’ll talk about what it would cost me to buy the Fat Goose then, all right?”
Spider appeared almost startled, and then a rare smile brightened his angular face.
“Of course, we can talk about it, when the time comes. But for now I think I’ll pen a few letters to my friends at the temple. It’s not too hard to guess where your physician would likely have ended up, and her name sounds rather familiar to me.”
“But I thought—”
“I was shaking my head at how ignorant this fellow writing the letters must be to think that Cadeleonian missionaries are going to find anything that the temple doesn’t want found,” Spider said.
“So you’ll look into this, then?”
“I will,” Spider agreed, and then he grinned. “By the way, you realize that you’ll have to pay off your tab before I sell you the Goose, don’t you?”
Atreau laughed, and it hurt his ribs but came as a relief.
He left the Fat Goose a few minutes later and crossed to the Green Door. He briefly searched through the parties filling the many tables for Sabella. It had occurred to him that a swordsman as skilled as the assassin who’d slain Captain Ciceron would need to train almost constantly and against the very best of opponents. The best place for that would be the Red Stallion. The sword house was a breeding ground for ruffians and assassins, hosting countless unsanctioned duels and regularly providing fat purses of prize money to the most ruthless sword masters.
Unfortunately, Sabella was nowhere to be seen tonight. Since she’d taken to sheltering Suelita, her sociability had shriveled to nothing. Especially in the evening. But he couldn’t begrudge Sabella her recent excess of hours spent in bed. She’d been lonely for a long time, and there was no telling if or when Suelita would wake up and realize she’d left all hope of safety and leisure behind and return like a penitent to her family.
Though Suelita did seem more sincerely dedicated to avoiding both marriage and the convent than the last couple of women Sabella had become entangled with, so perhaps hope was in order? It wasn’t for him to say . . .
Atreau turned his attention to locating Xavan; if Spider’s friends at the temple couldn’t find the physician, then Atreau would still have another agent to fall back on. But the sailor and his big beard was nowhere to be seen. Then one of the serving girls caught his eyes. She knew Xavan well and when she beckoned Atreau back toward the kitchen, he guessed that the man had left a message for him with her. Perhaps the street brawl with the royal bishop’s guardsmen had put Xavan off.
Atreau made his way back to the steamy, fragrant kitchen. Before he could speak with the serving girl, Pepylla caught his elbow and pulled him aside. He didn’t mind, since Pepylla only wished to reassure him that Inissa was a little muddied but otherwise perfectly fine.
“She just needs rest now . . . though what she was doing out on the street, alone at this hour, I have no idea.” Pepylla shook her head.
Reading her expression, Atreau felt certain that she harbored a suspicion and it didn’t please her. Pepylla liked Inissa, but she couldn’t have cared less for Spider’s welfare. Jacinto claimed her true loyalty and also ensured her livelihood. If she came to believe that Inissa or Spider had betrayed Jacinto, she wouldn’t keep quiet about it.
“That was my fault,” Atreau told her. “I wanted a word with her about certain things that might have been left in her room by another lady.”
Pepylla raised a white brow but then nodded as she realized that Atreau referred to Lady Hylanya and why he would be evasive about it.
“I was late meeting her,” Atreau went on. “I didn’t think that anyone would—”
Pepylla hit him, her tough hand striking his jaw just where Spider had laid into him half an hour ago. Atreau swore at the pain but Pepylla paid him no attention.
“You idiot! She could have been killed, you realize that!”
Wasn’t there an irony that he now stood here taking the very words he’d shouted at Spider? Atreau kept his mouth shut and glanced meaningfully to the two serving girls standing only a few feet away, gaping at them. Pepylla scowled at the servers. The balding cook lounging near the roaring fire began to whistle a loud, nervous tune.
Pepylla shook her head and then returned her attention to Atreau.
“I didn’t hit you that hard.” A slight motherly concern showed in her expression. Atreau could feel the side of his face throbbing and had no doubt that a noticeable red weal now stood out on his cheek.
“No. Not so hard as Inissa would have, I imagine,” Atreau replied, and in truth his bruised face didn’t hurt nearly as badly as his ribs. “Tell her I’m sorry to have left her waiting for me, will you?”
Pepylla nodded and an idea occurred to Atreau. He couldn’t do much to aid Spider and Inissa monetarily, but he might keep Pepylla—and Jacinto by extension—from suspecting too much if they met again. He leaned closer to Pepylla and said softly, “I’ve made arrangements with Spider across the way at the Fat Goose, so that Inissa can leave anything of importance in my rooms there—during the day, of course. Will you pass that on to her as well?”
“Of course,” Pepylla replied, then she added. “I suppose you could go up and tell her yourself.”
That Atreau guessed was as close as he’d come to Pepylla offering an apology.
“I’d better not, just yet. My delicate features can only stand so much righteous outrage in one night.”
Pepylla laughed and over her shoulder one of the serving girls cast Atreau a sympathetic smile.
“Well, take care of yourself tonight,” Pepylla told him before she turned her attention to arranging the complex assortments of little dishes meant to accompany the steaming pots of kaweh. The cook’s whistled tune quieted and the serving girls each snatched up the side dishes as they called out drink orders to the cook. Pepylla just waved her hand when Atreau bid her good night, but outside of the kitchen, the serving girl sidled up to him.
“Did Xavan leave a message for me?” Atreau asked.
“No. Haven’t you heard?” The serving girl lowered her voice. “He and two other sailors were attacked and branded last night.”
“Branded?” Atreau scowled at the thought. Hadn’t Hylanya said something about assassins bearing sorcerous brands? Then he remembered Hierro grasping the front of his shirt and the burning sensation that had seared across his flesh. Thankfully, Javier’s icy white blessings had won him a moment’s reprieve to tear free.
“That’s not the strange part,” the serving girl whispered. “A few hours later all three of them abandoned their friends and went loping after some nobleman’s carriage like dogs. No one’s seen a hair of them since.”
A deep dread fluttered through Atreau.
“I thought I should tell you. Better watch your back when you’re out on the streets alone.”
“You too,” Atreau replied.
The girl offered him a very sweet smile and thanked him for his concern. Then she was called away to a table and Atreau departed.
He collected his horse from Spider’s stable and rode back to Fedeles’s mansion in a wary silence. The thought of what Xavan and his friends were now enduring was terrible, but so too was the thought of what they might be able to reveal to Hierro Fueres. Atreau avoided narrow, empty alleys and took pains not to show how badly his ribs hurt him. The cut in his side broke open and bled a little more, but not so much that it soaked through his coat.
He wondered if Narsi wouldn’t have a poultice for him and then reminded himself that Narsi was hardly out of the sickbed himself.
At the mansion, the guards allowed him past with a mere nod. Atreau didn’t particularly feel like making merry conversation with every soul he passed, nor was he certain that his bedraggled appearance would pass without remark if he walked through the well-lit corridors of the house. So he skirted the grounds, making his way to a section of wall at the back of the building where a hedge of yew obscured several feet of carefully carved stonework.
Atreau found his key and slipped it into a hardly visible niche. As the hidden door opened, the slim shadow of a black cat slunk from the hedge and circled Atreau’s boots.
“Creeping back to the charming physician’s bed, are you?” Atreau whispered to the creature. The cat kept its own council but it followed Atreau into the secret corridor. As he made his way through the narrow space and up the stairs toward his own chambers, he heard the cat pad away. For just a moment he considered following it and intruding upon Narsi.
I should make certain that he’s not feeling ill again . . .
Even as the thought occurred to Atreau he recognized the self-deception in it. He knew perfectly well that Father Timoteo and Brother Berto would look after Narsi. He wasn’t hoping to sit at Narsi’s bedside and play nurse any more than he honestly expected Narsi to tend the gash in his side. No, he simply wanted the young man’s pleasant company to lift his own flagging spirit. It had been a long time since anyone had intrigued Atreau or entertained him as much as Narsi did. The young physician possessed such a quick mind and the sort of laugh that seemed to warm an entire room. And the way he gazed at Atreau when he didn’t think he was being observed was so very flattering.
But indulging the impulse to pursue Narsi’s company would only feed a fledging affection that could do neither of them any good.
Atreau had already involved Narsi in one deadly enterprise. And Narsi had performed so capably that Atreau planned to use him again, particularly after witnessing how well he controlled his own terror in the face of muerate poisoning. He could prove to be a highly valuable asset for Fedeles, and Prince Sevanyo.
Growing too attached to him would be about as wise as befriending a mayfly. No one as upstanding and daring as Narsi lived long in the capital. Being Haldiim on top of that . . .
No, Narsi wouldn’t likely last a year. Atreau knew that he would no doubt play a large part in the other man’s demise. For the sake of their nation—perhaps their world, if Javier was to be believed—sacrifices had to be made.
Atreau leaned against the cold stone of the dark passage and drew in a deep breath of the stale air.
Will I even remember the names of all the lovely dead left behind me?
Atreau shook his head at his morose turn of thought. After all he’d seen in the Labaran War, how could he still fret over sacrificed agents and spies? He had no right. Not when he thought of how Elezar had led hundreds of his best men to their deaths for the sake of a nation that wasn’t even his own. Compared to that, what burden did Atreau bear? A mere handful of promising lives lost to ensure that hundreds of thousands thrived in a better, more tolerant kingdom.
There’s an irony in how many murders are required to maintain the illusion of a great and peaceable land. Or perhaps tragedy is a better word for it.
He climbed the steps and emerged in his cold rooms a moment later. The narrow chambers were familiar but never felt welcoming to him. When he had the time for it he did most of his writing in his comfortable, run-down room at the Fat Goose. Here, he existed solely as an instrument of Fedeles’s needs and, by extension, Prince Sevanyo’s ambitions.
He’d dressed the chambers like the set of a stage play; the desk displayed an assortment of inks and randomly penned pages, while the books filing the crowded shelves largely served as decoys, disguising the few hollowed volumes where messages from Elezar and Javier lay hidden. A mildly obscene tapestry, depicting pretty maidens frolicking in a dewy garden, hid the door to the passage he’d just exited and the four little bare-breasted figurines posing on his dressing table contained vials of deadly-potent duera—in case escape prove impossible.
Starlight glowed through the narrow gaps between the heavy drapes hanging over his two windows. A pitiful stash of coins weighted the decorative trim of the curtains—certainly not enough to purchase the Fat Goose, but sufficient to hire a boat to carry him and his horse out of the capital if the need for flight arose. The stone of passage offered him another route, but Atreau knew better than to ever depend upon a single ally for salvation.
The transaction still made him uneasy. It came very close to serving two masters. But Atreau reassured himself that he was not working against Fedeles. Hylanya had already placed spies all across the city without his aid. Now, at least, he held some sway over her familiars and spies. He could keep his own agents and hers from working at odds to each other. Already, one of Hylanya’s familiars had ensured Narsi’s full recovery.
And if everything went wrong, he still possessed a means of escape that Oasia couldn’t undermine.
Through the gloom, the pale blankets of his empty bed struck Atreau as the only authentic testament to the life he led.
He gladly sat down on the bed and then lay back to stare up at his blank ceiling. He closed his eyes. A melody rose from the music room below. It should have been dance music, played to accompany Sparanzo as he practiced his steps for the coronation ball, but tonight it sounded strangely like a dirge.
Chapter Twenty-Two
As midnight approached, Atreau still lay staring at his ceiling, willing sleep to come to him. When a knock sounded at his door, he welcomed the distraction from insomnia. Probably Fedeles expecting him to have something worth reporting. He sighed and hauled himself up to his feet.
A sharp, resentful pain flared from his ribs as he strode across the room.
He opened the door with a carelessness that he knew should have concerned him. Only two days ago a guardsman had been murdered in the mansion; at the least he should have asked who called and peered through the tiny spy hole hidden in the door’s decorative inlay. Instead he simply flipped the latch and swung the door wide.
Lamplight flooded in from the hall and lit Narsi in a golden halo. He certainly cut a striking figure; tall, dark and handsome enough to breathe a new life into the tired turn of phrase. The curly dark hair framing his face reminded Atreau of a whirling thundercloud, and two of the buttons fastening his simple white shirt remained undone. His gray physician’s coat hung open. Between the warm light and Narsi’s easy smile, Atreau almost overlooked how ashen Narsi’s complexion still appeared. He rather casually tucked his injured right hand behind his left.
“I apologize for calling on you so late in the evening, but you’d mentioned a proposition that—” Narsi’s pleasant expression became troubled as he leaned nearer. The clean, astringent scent of coinflowers drifted from him. “What happened to your face?”
Belatedly, Atreau recalled that his cheek had taken a few blows and likely now displayed the beginning of a bruise.
“The wages of my life of sin and delight,” Atreau replied.
Narsi didn’t look convinced but he didn’t argue either. Instead he simply stepped into Atreau’s room and then, lowering his voice, commented, “I came for my medical bag. You said that I should—”
“Yes, yes, I did. Come in. Have a seat.” Atreau shoved the door closed behind Narsi and flipped the lock closed out of habit. For a moment they were both plunged into darkness. Atreau silently cursed himself for failing to light a fire when he’d first arrived in his rooms. Now he went quickly to his mantel and lit the two lamps there. The flames flared up in gold tongues and set shadows all across the room flickering and jumping.
