Perfect Shadow by Brent Weeks

warded against eavesdropping. Six recovered enough to pull alarum ropes—each of which had been cut.
    Opening the oil channel full, Gaelan waited until the oil circled the entire chamber, then ignited it with a spark. Light flooded the room, astounding in its suddenness.
    He stood in the middle of the chamber, ka’kari coating him in a skin, his arms folded, head down. He opened his eyes, lifted his head, shrugged the cloak off his shoulders.
    The Night Angel was a vision of judgment. Big, frowning, narrowed eyes. Blank face. Mouth a slit. Skin slick. Utterly alien. Without compassion. The darkness seemed to ripple about him as if he were afire with dark flames.
    The men of the Nine had reacted to their terror and surprise differently. One was hiding beneath his table, barely peering out. Pon Dradin, the Basher, was ready to fight, meaty hands folded into fists. Count Drake was seated, pensive, hands tented.
    Gwinvere’s eyes blazed, furious.
    “I,” Gaelan said, “am Sa’kagé. It is time for a change in leadership. Any questions?”
    Gaelan strode to Gwinvere. She expected him to kill her, become Shinga himself. He could see it in her face, her brave, haughty, furious face. “Gwinvere Kirena,” he said. “Shinga Kirena.” He bowed before her.
    A moment later, recovering first, Count Drake bowed low in obeisance before her.
    Pon Dradin moved forward, saying, “Over my dead—”
    Gaelan crossed the distance between tem in a blink, and punched Pon’s fist so hard it shattered all the bones in the big man’s hand.
    “No,” Gwinvere said, as the man sank back, holding his ruined fist. She was recovering already, mentally nimble as a cat. “Not over your dead body, Pon Dradin. Your services are required.”
    * * *
    A pair of stricken bashers carried the old Shinga’s body out of the chamber. A third carried his head. All looked very nervous about the figure standing cloaked in the middle of the room.
    They left as quietly as they could, and shut the door behind themselves, leaving the figure alone.
    Gwinvere pull back her hood. “Where the fuck are you?” she demanded.
    Gaelan shimmered back into visibility. It was just the two of them.
    “You asshole ,” she said. “I didn’t need you to hand me the shadow throne! In one more day, the last piece of my plan—”
    “I didn’t do it for you,” Gaelan said.
    “What?” she snarled.
    “I needed you to know I’m not a threat to you.”
    “So you do it by beheading my predecessor? Pretty fucking clever way to be unthreatening,” Gwinvere said.
    Gaelan let the storm rage right past him, cool. “I don’t want to be Shinga. I could have taken it, just now. You know it, and I needed you to know that I know it, too. This work—working for you—suits me. I want to stay, and you’re the greatest danger to me. Now you know I’m a tool for you, but not a threat to you. You don’t have anything I want.”
    Her eyes were hard. Then she flashed a sudden smile. “I wouldn’t say that,” she said.
    He cocked an eyebrow. Of course he still wanted her body, but it seemed beneath her to mention it now. Too obvious for the subtle Gwinvere Kirena.
    “I found him, Gaelan. I found out where the man who killed your family is hiding.”
    * * *
    “And that’s what took me to Chateau Shayon,” I say.
    “Baron Rikku was the man who hanged your wife and daughter?” Yvor Vas asks.
    I stare at him. Hard.
    Shit, so there were some discrepancies in the story I told him. And usually I’m such a good liar.
    “Sorry.” The skinny redhead gulps. I’ve never given an interview like this to anyone in the Society. He can’t squander this opportunity. If things don’t exactly match up, he’ll just have to puzzle them out later. He’s afraid of me, but he’s ambitious, too. And too focused on the wrong things. “Can I…can I see it?”
    I stare at him.
    He raises his hands in surrender. “I don’t mean touch it or hold it or anything. I just, you know, want to see