The night was strangely quiet, given that it marked the culmination of the Gedderone Fete. Most people were still in the taverns and bars, he told himself, even as he fought off a preternatural unease, and even as he noted the taut expres shy;sions of those people he passed, and the way they seemed to scurry by. Where was the revelry? The delirious dancing?
He could hear a distant storm on the plains south of the city. Steady thunder, an echoing wind, and he told himself he was feeling that storm’s approach. Nothing more, just the usual
He hurried on, grimacing at the ache in his chest, still feeling the parting kiss of his wife on his lips, the careless hugs of his children round his waist.
He was a man who would never ask for sympathy. He was a man who sought only to do what was right. Such people appear in the world, every world, now and then, like a single refrain of some blessed song, a fragment caught on the spur of an otherwise raging cacophony.
Imagine a world without such souls.
Yes, it should have been harder to do.
After a rather extended time of muted regard fixed dully upon a sealed crypt, four mourners began their return journey to the Phoenix Inn, where Meese would make a grim discovery — although one that, in retrospect, did not in fact shock her as much as it might have.
Before they had gone five hundred paces, however, Rallick Nom drew to a sud shy;den halt. ‘I must leave you now,’ he said to the others.
‘Kruppe understands.’
And the assassin narrowed his gaze upon the short, solemn-faced man.
‘Where,’ Rallick asked, ‘will this go, Kruppe?’
‘The future, my friend, is ever turned away, even when it faces us.’
To this bizarre, unlikely truism, Coll grunted, ‘Gods below, Kruppe-’
But Rallick had already completed his own turning away and was walking to shy;wards the mouth of an alley.
‘I got a sick feeling inside,’ Meese said.
Coll grunted a second time and then said, ‘Let’s go. I need to find me another bottle — this time with something in it that actually does something.’
Kruppe offered him a beatific smile. Disingenuous?
Seba Krafar, Master of the Assassins’ Guild, surveyed his small army of murderers. Thirty-one in all. Granted, absurd overkill, but even so he found himself not quite as comfortable — or as confident — as such numbers should have made him. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he muttered under his breath. And then he gestured.
The mob shifted into three distinct groups, and then each hurried off in a different direction, to close on the target at the appointed time.
Come the morning, there’d be a newly vacated seat on the Council. Blood-drenched, true, but it would hardly be the first time for that, would it?
Shardan Lim saw before him a perfect future. He would, if all went well, finally step out from Hanut Orr’s shadow. And into his own shadow he’d drag Gorlas Vidikas. They would be sharing a woman, after all, and there would be no meas shy;ured balance in that situation, since Gorlas was next to useless when it came to satisfying Challice. So Gorlas would find that his wife’s happiness was dependent not upon him, but upon the other man sharing her pleasure — Shardan Lim — and when the first child arrived, would there be any doubt as to its progeny? An heir of provable bloodline, the perfect usurpation of House Vidikas.
He had set out alone this night, making his casual way to the Vidikas estate, and he now stood opposite the front gate, studying the modest but well-constructed building. There were hints of Gadrobi in the style, he saw. The square corner tower that was actually higher than it looked, its rooms abandoned to dust and spiders — virtually identical edifices could still be found here and there in the Gadrobi District, and in the hills to the east of the city. Vines covered three of the four walls, reaching up from the garden. If the tower had been a tree it would be dead, centuries dead. Hollowed out by rot, the first hard wind would have sent it thrashing down. This deliberate rejection was no accident. Gadrobi blood among the nobles was an embarrassment. It had always been that way and it always would be.
When Shardan owned this estate, he would see it torn down. His blood was pure Daru. Same as Challice’s own.
He heard horses approach at a dangerously fast canter, up from the lower city, and a few moments later three riders appeared, sharply reining in before the estate’s gate.
Frowning, Shardan Lim stepped out and quickly approached.
Private guards of some sort, looking momentarily confused as they dismounted. Their horses were lathered, heads dipping as they snorted out phlegm.
