The Tyranny of Shadows Read online

  “Where’s your imagination?” she said. “It’s a new tracking spell. You keep one and I keep the other.”

  “Clever,” he said. “A guard might take a weapon, but who would confiscate a little piece of cloth?”

  “Precisely. Here, keep it tied around your arm. I’ll have mine. They will seek to rejoin no matter the distances between them. It came to me because, well, they say Pauloce has a hundred cells below the Keep. I’ll be damned if you get caught and make me search through every single one to break you out. So don’t let them take the cloth from you!”

  Gillis tied the strip of cloth around his upper arm, then rolled his sleeve back down.

  “Worry not, I won’t let them catch me in the first place,” he said. “Now put that bird away.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve brought something for you as well.”

  “Food from the kitchens?”

  “I’m making my evening meal here tonight. You should have some,” Gillis said.

  “Charity? From you?”

  “It offends me the lack of care you take with your food,” Gillis said, gesturing to the blackened pheasant.

  “Eat what you want, I like pheasant.”

  “You’ll regret it.”

  Gillis drew out a skin of water, purple and white root vegetables, spherical Valda nuts, a braid of garlic, a vial of mixed spices, and a couple of smooth, round pebbles. The pebbles were dusted all over with tiny white crystals. Gillis explained that they were rich in salts which would come out in the cooking, but Amelia was taking her pheasant off the fire and seemed not to listen. Gillis peeled and cut the vegetables, crushed some garlic, sprinkled in Valda nuts and spices, and placed the filled pot on the campfire. He took the pebbles and placed them around the base of the pot. The smell of the simmering broth filled the camp, causing Amelia to slow in eating her pheasant, and then she stopped altogether. Gillis pretended not to see her, and continued working.

  The soup smelled at once fresh and bright like a cool morning breeze through a forest, and dark and earthy like a damp hollow in the earth filled with roots and mushrooms. Gillis’ own mouth watered, and he imagined from the way Amelia now peered into the pot that hers was too.

  He took the pot from the heat, poured soup into two bowls, and left them to cool on the ground. Amelia made to take a bowl, but he stopped her. He took the pebbles that he had placed in the fire, using his sleeves as a buffer from their heat. He brushed the ash from them, then dropped one into each of their bowls. They steamed and bubbled violently, and the broth went from pale brown to bright yellow.

  “What in blazes are you doing?” Amelia said.

  “It’s called hot-rock soup.”

  “You eat pebbles?”

  “No, they impart flavor. They are rich in salts. Let it cool before you eat.”

  Amelia did not wait long. She took the first steaming spoonful, gasped, and fanned her mouth. Gillis blew on each spoonful and ate without spilling a drop. He sat rigidly straight, yet he was calm, as though he was meditating.

  “This is…” Amelia said, then shoveled more soup into her mouth.

  Gillis smelled the steaming broth deeply, letting the earthy, fresh scent soak into him. Everything was cooked to the point of softening without losing their essential textures. The root vegetables were a little sweet, the broth earthy and savory, the Valda nuts bright and creamy.

  “I have no idea,” Amelia said, between hastily scooped mouthfuls, “why in the world, you, an assassin … could know how to make a thing like this.”

  “I often had no food in my youth. I think perhaps there was no boy hungrier on the streets of Ghelder City. Verandert found me, saved me, and made sure there was always food for me in the Monastery,” Gillis said. “One tends to treat a thing with care after long scarcity.”

  “And now you can poison those who eat fine,” Amelia said.

  “I am useful in that way.”

  Amelia refilled her bowl and continued eating.

  “I learned a bawdy joke in the kitchens. Want to hear?”

  Amelia, cheeks round with soup, made a scoffing noise. She swallowed and pointed at Gillis.

  “You? A joke?” Amelia said. “Stick to cooking.”

  “A chicken farmer’s wife went looking for her husband. She needed him for chores and … other, more intimate things. The farmer’s wife was demanding in that way. She found him hiding behind the barn with a rooster tucked under his arm. Asked him why he was hiding. Farmer says, ‘I’m afraid the cock and I are a tad hen-pecked.’ ”

  Amelia made a noise like Gillis had physically hurt her. Her lip quivered. Then, she burst into belly-shaking laughter. Gillis smiled.

  “That was the worst, “Amelia said, still laughing.

  Gillis’ smile dropped away.

  “The very, very worst joke I’ve ever heard,” Amelia said.

  “It can’t be all bad. You’re laughing.”

  “Never joke again. I cannot take it.” Amelia massaged her stomach. “And I forbid you to say ‘cock.’ ”

  She stopped laughing for a moment, and then they caught each other’s eyes. They laughed together for a long while, until Gillis felt his stomach muscles burn. Finally, when the laughter had died down, Gillis collected the bowls and the pot and packed them away. He left the circle of firelight and its warmth, a new wind whipping leaves past his feet. A nice dinner and a moment of laughter notwithstanding, he thought that he should watch Amelia closer than any he watched at the Keep.

  Chapter 3

  Ardent Momaenta

  The Principle of Secrecy

  The King’s law and the hangman both are known to the murderer, the slaver, and the Blood Mage. To escape them, these criminals must only escape the sight of those that watch by day. We Mordenari, unseen and unknown, are the eyes of the night and the dark places.

  Let them fear the rumor of our eyes as we pierce the veil through which the hangman cannot see; let them fear the shadow of our tyranny.

  Verandert.

  Gillis paused outside Pauloce’s stone kitchen, took the small vial of poison from his apron, and transferred it to a concealed leather loop in his sleeve. He then pushed wide the doors and set about inspecting the workers, acting every bit the kitchen tyrant they thought him to be. Lord Pauloce guffawed loudly in the adjacent and very crowded Feast Hall. The steam and smoke of the kitchen drew sweat that stung Gillis’ eyes. Despite the annoyances, he focused on the coming assassination.

  Workers brought roast pheasants to a large, central table. One by one, Gillis pared excess flesh from the legs so the bone showed; pierced them at the thighs to inspect the juices that ran out; tightened the dressing where it was loose; ensured the texture and sufficiency of stuffing; prodded the outsides for plumpness until he was satisfied on all counts. He then impaled them upright on the central spikes of silver platters. The largest, Pauloce’s bird, went on a larger one with gold edging.

  Gillis scratched his wrist, close to the vial, and gazed around at the shuffling, chopping, sweeping workers. No eyes were on him. He made the slight movement of unstopping the vial and leaned to upend it onto Pauloce’s meal.

  The kitchen door swung open and the Prime Steward entered. Gillis quickly stoppered the vial. Raucous laughter from the feast poured loudly into the kitchens for a moment, then quieted when the door closed. The Prime Steward was an ancient man, with lines on his face like he wore a permanent scowl, and though he was short he had a manner of inspecting all those around him over his nose. He approached Gillis.

  “Beldas,” he said. “Surely the feast is ready.”

  “It is moments away,” Gillis said.

  “Time is short, and the Lord is growing restless.”

  “As I say, he won’t wait long.”

  “He won’t wait at all. Come!” the Prime Steward called.

  A number of attendants who had been waiting by the doors, dressed in red and yellow tunics and matching leggings, milled about to take the dishes. The Pr
ime Steward reached for Pauloce’s conspicuously gilded platter, but Gillis stood in his way.

  “A moment, Steward. It is not yet ready.”

  “It looks a fine bird. You are delaying me.”

  “It is not yet worthy of Lord Pauloce. Forgive me, but I wish not to meet the same end as my predecessor. It is my neck on the block.”

  “It is my jaw that bruises if there are delays. Get out of my way,” the Prime Steward snapped.

  “A moment, there is a final seasoning,” Gillis lied. He turned and looked frantically around the kitchen. He could not drip the poison on with the Steward standing so close. What seasoning could possibly mask his movements, and yet also seem at home on the pheasant?

  A bowl of lemons lay on the far table. The Prime Steward prodded Gillis and cleared his throat. If Gillis moved to get one, the Steward would surely whisk the unpoisoned pheasant away. As it was, they were nearing a wrestling match. The attendants stood holding the heavy silver platters, averting their eyes from the two Primes. Gillis hoped their reluctance to get involved would last. He hoped harder that none of them would see anything.

  “I need one moment,” Gillis said.

  “Out of the way, or I shall report your obstruction,” the Prime Steward said.

  “And I will report yours. I send out only finished dishes, down to the last morsel.”

  “How dare—?”

  “You, boy.” Gillis hastily pointed at a passing kitchen hand. “Fetch me a lemon. Quick.”

  “This is ridiculous. I know not what games you Southerners play, but in our kitchens we expect—”

  The kitchen hand gave Gillis a lemon, and he jammed a nearby knife hastily into the fruit then, and while making a show of squeezing it hard between his palms, he unstopped the vial by dragging his thumb along its top. The yellow liquid of the poison, darker and oily in clear contrast to the lemon, began to drip down his fingers and on the backside of the lemon. The Prime Steward watched Gillis’ hands intently.

  “Wait. Quiet.” Gillis stopped dead. “Pauloce. He’s calling for you.”

  The oldest gambit of all, but not without its use, Gillis thought. It was enough to make the Prime Steward turn briefly and cup his hand around his ear, and in those moments Gillis let the poison run down his hands and onto the pheasant. The attendants said they’d heard nothing when the Steward asked. It was done, and now that it dripped down the pheasant’s skin along with the lemon juice the poison could not be seen.

  The Prime Steward turned back to Gillis, livid and with quivering fists. It looked as though the old man considered striking him. Gillis moved to the back of the table and considered laying his hand on a nearby knife while holding a steady gaze with the Prime Steward. No, that would be too far, he thought.

  A vein throbbed on the ancient Steward’s forehead as he blustered, “I will inform his Lordship of your … your—”

  “Do your worst,” Gillis said softly enough that the attendants would not hear. He smiled widely and bowed to the Prime Steward, who scowled deeper in answer.

  The Prime Steward held his nose ever higher and whisked the gilded platter away. The other attendants followed. Gillis quietly drew in a long, shaking breath, and released it along with the tension that had gripped his entire body.

  Let us see magic resolve something like that, Gillis thought. It is done, thought I loathe being forced to improvise. Improvising brings tension. Even the slightest bit of tension can feel keen enough at my age, and spread through the muscles and show on the face and in the movements. It cannot be allowed to spoil the façade.

  The kitchen hands left, but Gillis lingered. He paced around the kitchen and shook his limbs, which ached as though he had been carrying heavy burdens all day.

  Finally Gillis left the humidity of the empty kitchens and the dying fires of the stoves, heading out into the windy autumnal night. He rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the darkness, sore from the night’s work. The air stank of old cabbage, vinegar, and peat from the decay of the kitchen’s refuse that had been thrown from the door.

  A dark shape moved toward him.

  His heart seized, and he reached for his dagger and braced against what may come—but nothing did.

  “Calm down, old man,” Amelia hissed at him. She was some feet to the left of where he had been looking. The dark shape that had startled him had been Amelia’s shadow crossing over the outer wall of the kitchen.

  Gillis relaxed slightly, then frowned. “Old? I’ve little more than fifty years behind me.”

  “Still, a fright can make a man your age collapse. I’ve seen it.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Don’t breathe a word of this to anybody, but I am a Mordenari, yes, a trained killer, and I am here on a mission of utmost secrecy,” Amelia said in a mock dramatic hush.

  “Enough. You need to get away from here, guards patrol every few minutes.”

  “Come. We can watch.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Gillis could see her in some detail now. She indicated a towering oak tree just outside of the light cast from the feast hall. They could hear the diners’ laughter carried intermittently to them on the wind. Gillis peered at the ghostly grey, swaying oak as they walked together toward it.

  “We’ll see him die from there?”

  “Not exactly,” she said, then turned away and drew her hood close as though bothered by wind.

  “What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”

  “Means ‘not precisely,’ dear.”

  “Do you lack confidence in your poison? I went to great trouble to get it to him undetected.”

  “The poison will have a delayed effect,” Amelia said.

  “Yes, to get the food past the poison-tasters. That is common.”

  “More delayed.”

  “How delayed?”

  They reached the oak. Gillis stopped and stared at her.

  “Before you get all in a rage—”

  “I do not rage, but I do get impatient.”

  “Remember the words of the writ: ‘Lord Pauloce is to be served poison on the night of his feast.’ ”

  “We have done that.”

  “Well,” Amelia said. “It is true that the vial contained a poisonous liquid. It is also true that you served it on the night of his feast.”

  “Where lies the falsehood? Out with it!”

  Amelia turned and shot up the trunk, as nimble as a squirrel. Gillis pressed closed his eyes until winking lights burst in his vision, and a swiftly mounting anger heated his head. Behind them, at the far corner of the Feast Hall, bobbing orange light spilled across the ground from the torches of two plate-armored halberdiers. Gillis hid behind the tree and waited for them to pass.

  What manner of deceit has Amelia tangled me in? Gillis thought. Whatever it is, I upheld my role in the writ’s execution. I will not hang for this, nor will I allow my standing as a faithful Mordenari to be compromised. She will pay the moment I return and …

  “Climb up,” Amelia hissed down at him.

  He waved his arms and pressed his finger to his lips, urging her to be silent. The guards were perhaps fifty feet from them and would likely not hear Amelia over the wind, but needless noise was foolish. She is as foolish here as she was in the inn when she watched me with Beldas.

  “Hurry! He’s done with his drink, he’ll finally be eating,” Amelia said, louder than before.

  Gillis drew a deep breath, in part to calm himself, and in part to prepare for the exertion of climbing the tree. The ascent was hard, and after only a few feet his limbs burned. Finally, as he reached the bough on which they could both comfortably sit, Amelia spoke.

  “What you gave Pauloce was not a deadly dose,” she said.

  “Fool! What has possessed you to—”

  “It is called Hearing Oil, and with it we can eavesdrop on Pauloce. You have heard nothing in the kitchens, and in this way we can report something useful back to the Monastery without breaking the word of the wri
t.”

  “He was to be poisoned on the night of the feast. You have brought this kill to ruin and put us both in danger.”

  “A second dose will kill him.”

  “I’ve no sure way of delivering it! I planned every movement for this night. I do not like to improvise,” Gillis said.

  “Fortunately for you, I improvise every moment of my life,” Amelia said. “It is my most honed talent.”

  “I will not hang for this. One must never disobey the words of the writ.”

  “I tell you we haven’t! If worries were gold, you’d shit out a heap big enough to buy this entire Keep.”

  “Swear to me you will come forward as the one who changed the manner of Pauloce’s death,” Gillis said through gritted teeth.

  “None will blame you. Now, quiet. He’s about to eat. We’ll be able to hear well enough from the Hearing Oil on the pheasant’s skin. Then once he’s eaten it, we’ll hear everything he hears.”

  From their vantage point on the bough, they could see into the hall through the many narrow, clear-glassed windows that stretched nearly from the top to the ground. The Lord and his men were all deep in their cups. Many were red in their faces and their teeth, and they slapped the table and cocked their heads back in laughter. Lord Pauloce himself was a lump of a man around sixty, square-jawed and with a keen gaze.

  Amelia drew out a vial, identical to the last but much larger, and held it between them. She pressed her ear near the vial, and Gillis did the same. The sounds from the Hall came through as clear as if they were sitting beside the Lord.

  “Have I told ye the story of my first meeting with Lady Pauloce?” Lord Pauloce said.

  Lady Pauloce squawked in protest, but the men cheered and pounded the table for Lord Pauloce to continue.

  “There I was, a dashing young lad all of muscle and clinking pockets, just returned from a boar hunt with my da. And here,” Lord Pauloce said, holding his pheasant aloft, “was Lady Pauloce, visiting along with her father.”

  Pauloce walked the bird along the table. Gillis’ long-belabored burnt lemon and sage stuffing fell out. The nearby men howled with laughter, tears streaming from their eyes as Pauloce moved the bird toward himself in a mockery of a seductive gait.