The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (163 page)

‘Even the greatest see their time end. To be a parent is to one day be eclipsed, to be shown to be in weakness, in error.’

Venn heard her breath catch, a question bitten off before it could be spoken. She was close enough that he could smell the musky tang of her sweat and sour breath, even over the incense-laden air. She had been waiting for him to wake for half a day, without drinking or eating. He could smell her eagerness.

‘Who then,’ he said slowly, his own throat dry and raw, ‘could chastise the Gods themselves for their failings? Where is that perfect individual, who could raise a hand and censure the very Gods who created him? When our Gods fail us, to whom must we pray for intercession in this life of woe?’

Grisat looked around at the men in the room, who were all nervously shifting in their seats. Each one was as fearful as he. They’d ditched their penitent robes and were back in civilian garb, with mail, jerkins and weapons wrapped in bundles so that they wouldn’t look like mercenaries, let alone soldiers employed by the cult of Ushull. Grisat hadn’t yet heard of any repercussions, but he knew they were coming and he had no intention of staying around to catch any of them.

He’d discussed the situation with Bolla, who had agreed with him. All the priests’ leaders had died at the Ruby Tower and there was no one left of any consequence. It was time to collect the cash and walk away. Some would stay, but those he’d talked to - those he’d be able to trust now - had been of similar mind. They’d just been waiting for someone to give them a kick in the right direction.

Grisat waved away a moth, causing half the room to jump. ‘Piss and daemons,’ he growled, ‘yer jumpin’ like frightened rabbits.’ He didn’t tell them their reactions had made his heart jump into his throat. Fortunately, they were all so distracted, none had noticed.

‘We’re jus’ on edge, man, tha’s all. Why’re you flappin’ yer arms around anyway?’ snapped Astin, the tall Litse with the knife-scar across his nose.

Grisat pointedly ignored the man. Damn Litse, can’t keep their sodding mouths shut. Shame he’s more use than the rest; a Litse won’t take order from the likes of me for too long.

He drained the pitcher of beer he’d been nursing, burped, and pushed himself upright. ‘Right, goin’ for a piss. You lot try not t’shit yourselves when I come back.’

He clapped a hand on Bolla’s shoulder as he pushed past. Without his leather jerkin on, Bolla felt all bones under Grisat’s palm. The lanky mercenary nodded in response and shoved his wad of numbroot to the other side of his mouth.

Grisat went out into the short dark corridor and checked left and right. There was no one there - not surprising, since the group had taken the whole attic room of the inn. Childishly he thumped a fist against the wall as he headed for the stair, eliciting a yelp from within, and headed down to the back yard, where the stinking outhouse was located.

It was already dark outside, and cold. It hadn’t felt like the sun had had much effect that day - until nightfall, when you felt the temperature plummet. Grisat shivered and breathed onto his hands, then clapped them together, trying to keep them warm. He stepped into the pitch-black outhouse and edged his foot forward until he reached the gutter.

His breeches unbuttoned, Grisat pulled out his cock and sighed with relief as the hot stream began to splatter unseen over the floor around the gutter. Two seconds later, he felt the prickle of a knife-tip in the back of his neck.

The stream of urine stopped almost immediately as Grisat froze. He’d seen and heard no one, so that meant someone had been waiting for him in there. So not one of his group, that was for sure.

‘Aren’t you glad I waited?’ said a deep voice in his ear. The accent was like none he’d ever heard, overly precise, like a foreigner, and a nobleman at that. ‘If I’d put my knife there before you started, the opposite would have happened.’

Grisat managed a gurgle in reply. This was someone completely comfortable with a weapon: that dagger hadn’t moved a fraction as the man had leaned in to speak to him. He felt fingers grabbing a lock of his hair and decided not to move; he’d drunk too much to be fast enough to reach his own dagger and the unseen stranger didn’t appear to be in any great rush to kill him. The dagger point withdrew for a moment - presumably for the stranger to cut off the hair - and then returned. Grisat kept as still as he could all the while.

‘At least you’ve got the brains not to try it,’ the voice continued conversationally. ‘Who wants to take their last breath face down in an outhouse?’

Grisat grunted. He realised the dagger had nicked him and resisted the urge to nod as well.

‘Now, if your eyes aren’t open at the moment open them now. Don’t turn round.’

Grisat blinked. At first all he could see was the darkness, which gave way to a green glow which illuminated the interior of the outhouse enough for him to be able to make out the gutter running down the centre of the room and the two thin pillars holding up the poor excuse for a roof. He looked down. His cock had withered to half the size of his thumb. Despite the cold night air he felt a warm flush of embarrassment as he waited for more instructions.

‘See the light? That tells you I’m a mage, so you will know I haven’t taken a lock of your hair to keep as a memento.’

Grisat stiffened, and felt the dagger dig a little further into his skin.

‘I see you grasp the situation; good. Now, I know who you are and I know who your employer is. What I want you to do is return to the temple and act the good penitent again.’

‘You were sent after us?’ Grisat croaked in disbelief.

‘Not quite, but I want you back there all the same. The clerics have been broken, but there’s still some life left in the cults, and you are going to be the one to organise unrest in the city - at my direction, of course. I intend there to be a secret war in Byora, a guerrilla resistance to Natai Escral’s inevitable measures against the cults.’

‘Father Hiren is in charge and he hates me,’ Grisat began. ‘I don’t know that he’ll even take us back.’

‘If he doesn’t, go to the Temple of Karkarn - you will need to be convincing, but at least the warrior-priests will be useful for more than just political backing.’

‘Why me?’

He heard a soft laugh. ‘One monkey is as good as any other. I choose the one who pisses highest.’ The dagger pushed a little deeper and Grisat gave a small yelp. ‘I will be keeping track of your progress - you have one week, or I shall prove just how adept a mage I am. You’ll find a little hair goes a long way.’

Without warning the pressure on the back of his neck was lifted and the faint green light winked out. Grisat listened to the rapid, insistent thump within his own chest for a dozen heartbeats before he turned around. He wasn’t surprised to discover the outhouse empty and the yard beyond it as silent as the grave.

‘Shit,’ he muttered as he took a step back away from the shadows and into the gutter.

‘Opening at dusk, Harys? Are you practising for something?’

The broad-hipped woman gave a gasp of shock and whirled around in a flurry of green silk. Kohl outlined her pale blue eyes and her blonde hair was piled elaborately on top of her head. She stood in the centre of a room too poorly lit to betray the threadbare state of the sofas to normal eyes. A pair of teenage whores hovered at her side.

One of the girls gave a small cry of surprise when the shadows fell away to reveal two other figures in the room. At a look from Harys the whores both fled past the heavy curtain that served as a door, and Zhia caught a glimpse of the hallway, which was considerably less ornate - and less garish - than this room. She could see why the lighting was so bad in here, where the house’s patrons were plied with drink whilst enjoying the talents of the singers Harys employed; with their clothes on, people had enough time to notice their surroundings.

‘Mistress, I apologise - you startled me. I had not known you were even in the city,’ Harys gabbled as she sank into a deep curtsey and looked up at the newcomers as though squinting at the sun. ‘My Lord.’

‘We did not want to announce our presence to the city,’ Zhia replied. She didn’t bother to add that they’d been listening to Harys’ conversations for the last hour, gauging not just the state of the brothel business, but also ensuring there were no other loyalties binding the woman.

‘Shall I have wine brought to the high room for you?’ Harys asked.

‘And food.’

Harys hesitated, then started, ‘I have a new girl here - ‘

‘Oh don’t be such a fool, woman,’ Zhia snapped impatiently, ‘actual food; a meal to go with our wine. I intend to talk over supper. Now do get up and see to it, if you would.’

‘Of course, Mistress,’ Harys said hurriedly, retreating towards the doorway. She stopped and turned back. ‘Ah, Mistress - will you be wanting Diril there too?’

‘Diril Halfmast? Gods, no; she’ll put me off my supper. Send her up half an hour after the food.’

Harys curtseyed again and fled.

‘Mistress?’ Koezh said softly from the darkness. ‘She isn’t a White Circle agent, is she?’

‘No, just devoted to me,’ Zhia assured him.

‘And Diril Halfmast?’

Zhia gave a small shudder. ‘Another agent of mine here, and the world’s least successful whore - please don’t remind me when we’re eating.’

Koezh gave a soft laugh and gestured for Zhia to lead the way. ‘Isn’t upsetting sisters the obligation of elder brothers?’

Zhia didn’t answer as she led him into the large foyer. Koezh, noticing her tugging at the hem of her cloak, did the same, mouthing the charm to turn away idle eyes. There was an ornate bar on one wall, opposite a door, and in the centre of the room an assortment of men, clerks and young merchants in the main, sat drinking at various small tables. There were no girls mingling here; this was more tavern than brothel waiting room.

A stair on the left of the room clearly led up to the bedrooms. A big, bald man in dark silks sat at the table nearest to it, positioned so he could see the whole room. He was fat, but not so obese as to look slow, or in much need of the cudgel balanced against his chair. The wide grin on his round pink face put Koezh in mind of a carved pumpkin head.

Zhia led the way through a recessed open doorway by the bar to another, smaller staircase. They climbed two flights to a low room at the top of the building, where they found Harys busy shuttering the wide windows that occupied much of three of the walls.

‘I’m sorry about the light,’ she said, seeing them enter. ‘I usually chat up here myself so I can watch the sunset.’

‘It won’t bother us,’ Zhia replied, before adding with a smile, ‘Enjoy your sunsets while you still can.’

Koezh noted the pleasure that blossomed on Harys’s face. Ah, one of those. ‘You always did love to be worshipped,’ he said to his sister in their native tongue.

A look of anxiety crossed Harys’s face, but it vanished when Zhia responded as though he’d told her a joke.

‘Koezh, you were always too impatient with people, even as a boy. That I have little sympathy with her wish to share our curse does not mean it cannot be useful.’

‘And having brothel owners in your pocket helps us how, exactly?’

‘She’s a fine contact, and the best source of information in this city,’ Zhia said, removing her cloak and settling herself in a chair with exaggerated elegance. Underneath she wore plain traveling clothes similar to her brother’s, with a long skirt covering her breeches to conform to local customs. ‘Litse men do love their whores,’ she added, ‘and you know how indiscreet they are.’

He joined her at the table, a long thin piece of mahogany so dark it was almost black.

‘What was it Valije Nostil called you when she found out you were Aryn Bwr’s lover? Whore of the Dawn? You’ve not always been too discreet yourself.’

Zhia’s face became stony. ‘I remember my brothers laughing because he was cheating on a queen with second sight. I thought I heard her laughing from beyond the grave when we faced the judgment of the Gods.’ She sniffed and made a dismissive gesture. ‘Whore of the Dawn indeed.’

She turned to Harys, indicating the woman should join them. ‘Tell me, what is the state of the city? What has changed since I was last here?’

Harys bobbed her head and said, ‘Where would you like me to start, Mistress - the fall of the White Circle?’

Zhia gave a nod. ‘Be brief.’

‘People are calling it the civilised coup, but that makes it sound more dramatic than it really was,’ she said. ‘When we got news of the fall of Scree, it was clear that the White Circle no longer existed, not in any real sense. The ruling sisters fled to Tor Salan, so I heard. The rest of them just took off their shawls and walked away from their public positions. Some people panicked when they saw a division of Knights of the Temples waiting on the border, but the Duchess of Byora intervened.’

‘She persuaded the others easily?’ Koezh interjected.

‘I doubt it was easy, but Sourl and Celao aren’t fools; they’ve both been hearing as much from the south as Natai Escral has. Everyone knows about the Menin conquest - and what’s the old saying? “Where war is found, its brothers soon shall follow.”?’

‘The saying refers to pestilence and famine,’ Zhia said pedantically, ‘but you’ve reached the correct conclusion all the same. Civil war is the last thing the Circle City needs. Its strength comes from trade, and I’m sure Tor Salan will be recruiting erstwhile members of the Chetse armies. Once the balance of power is upset, everything is up for grabs.’

‘Tor Salan won’t be attacking anyone,’ Harys piped up. ‘Word arrived in the city a week or so ago - the Menin overran their defences in a day.’

‘What?’ Zhia snapped, her sapphire eyes flashing in the darkness. ‘You didn’t think to mention that first?’

‘Yet more people underestimate Lord Styrax,’ Koezh said softly, one hand rubbing his shoulder, the site of the fatal wound the Menin lord had given him. ‘At least I was ahead of the pack there,’ he added.

‘I haven’t been able to work out what happened exactly,’ Harys said quickly. ‘Some say the mercenaries defending the city opened the gates to him. The other rumour is that Lord Styrax rode up to the Giants’ Hands alone and created a storm that knocked them all down like stalks of wheat.’