seat?” Jassion offered between clenched teeth. Scarcely had Salia done so, placing the box she carried at her feet, than he continued. “Shall we cut the shit, Salia? We both know damn well that I’ve had nothing to say to the Guilds since you dethroned the regent and sent me on this wonderful sojourn back home. You want something from me, and since you know that I’d sooner sit on a hot poker and then mount a horse than spit on you if you were on fire, I’m honestly at a loss as to what it might be.”
“How colorful,” the Guildmistress muttered. Then, “First, my lord Jassion, I regret to inform you that I have bad news.”
“Oh,
there’s
a surprise.”
“I fear Vantares has welcomed several of your fellow noblemen into the underworld, Jassion.”
That
brought him up short. “Who?” he asked in a startled whisper. “Among quite a few others, Duke Halmon—”
“The regent’s dead?”
Salia let that pass, even though both of them knew he’d not held that title for some time. “And Duke Edmund.”
Jassion sagged back in his chair, one hand plucking at the cushioned armrest. “I knew Edmund well,” he murmured. “We fought together during the Serpent’s War.”
“I know.” And then, her tone suggesting that she might actually have meant it, “I’m sorry.”
“Cephira?” he demanded. “I’ve heard rumors …”
“Some of which are true, I’m sure. They’ve taken several of our border towns, and if we’re not formally at war already, I imagine we will be by the time I get back to Mecepheum. But no, they’ve shown little interest in our territories beyond the borderlands so far, and anyway, this was no Cephiran assassin.”
“Then who?”
Salia glanced once at her companion, who shrugged casually, seemingly more interested in picking at something under his nails than involving himself in the conversation.
“There were several survivors among the guards,” she said hesitantly, “so most of what we know comes from them. The most helpful of them was a fellow by the name of …”
Marlo stood tall, back stiff as a spear, and tried to ignore the chafing of the hauberk across his shoulders, the sting of smoke in his eyes and chest. Many of the others were amusing themselves trying to stare down the other soldiers, but Marlo was new to the ranks of the Cartographers’ Guild’s men-at-arms, and sufficiently inexperienced—
puffed up
might have been a better term—that he took himself far too seriously for such games. The fact that he’d been chosen to stand guard over a secret summit between select Guildmasters and nobles of the realm wasn’t doing his ego any disfavors, either.
Perhaps it was his disdain for the antics of his fellow soldiers, or maybe it was just blind luck, that caused him to look away—to watch aimlessly, so far as the clinging smoke and flickering shadows would permit—down the hall from which they’d all initially arrived. And thus it was Marlo who saw him first.
The young soldier was convinced that he was imagining phantoms in the dark, for how could anyone have followed them down here? Yet the figure refused to dissipate into the shadows; in fact, it was growing quite obviously solid, remarkably fast.
Marlo was reaching for his blade, drawing in a lungful of sooty air to shout warning or challenge, when the new arrival raised a hand. Marlo swore he saw a flash of bloody crimson from the vicinity of the man’s chest.
Behind Marlo, half a dozen soldiers screamed, hands flying to their heads as though to hold their skulls atop their necks. Bone shattered, spraying blood and brains from within useless helms, and six men collapsed without ever knowing what had killed them. One of the bodies rocked back on its heels and slid to the floor, spasming muscles holding its hands aloft beside a head that simply wasn’t there anymore.
Even as his brain gibbered and his limbs trembled, Marlo was moving, for he alone had seen the danger coming. Broadsword in
“How colorful,” the Guildmistress muttered. Then, “First, my lord Jassion, I regret to inform you that I have bad news.”
“Oh,
there’s
a surprise.”
“I fear Vantares has welcomed several of your fellow noblemen into the underworld, Jassion.”
That
brought him up short. “Who?” he asked in a startled whisper. “Among quite a few others, Duke Halmon—”
“The regent’s dead?”
Salia let that pass, even though both of them knew he’d not held that title for some time. “And Duke Edmund.”
Jassion sagged back in his chair, one hand plucking at the cushioned armrest. “I knew Edmund well,” he murmured. “We fought together during the Serpent’s War.”
“I know.” And then, her tone suggesting that she might actually have meant it, “I’m sorry.”
“Cephira?” he demanded. “I’ve heard rumors …”
“Some of which are true, I’m sure. They’ve taken several of our border towns, and if we’re not formally at war already, I imagine we will be by the time I get back to Mecepheum. But no, they’ve shown little interest in our territories beyond the borderlands so far, and anyway, this was no Cephiran assassin.”
“Then who?”
Salia glanced once at her companion, who shrugged casually, seemingly more interested in picking at something under his nails than involving himself in the conversation.
“There were several survivors among the guards,” she said hesitantly, “so most of what we know comes from them. The most helpful of them was a fellow by the name of …”
Marlo stood tall, back stiff as a spear, and tried to ignore the chafing of the hauberk across his shoulders, the sting of smoke in his eyes and chest. Many of the others were amusing themselves trying to stare down the other soldiers, but Marlo was new to the ranks of the Cartographers’ Guild’s men-at-arms, and sufficiently inexperienced—
puffed up
might have been a better term—that he took himself far too seriously for such games. The fact that he’d been chosen to stand guard over a secret summit between select Guildmasters and nobles of the realm wasn’t doing his ego any disfavors, either.
Perhaps it was his disdain for the antics of his fellow soldiers, or maybe it was just blind luck, that caused him to look away—to watch aimlessly, so far as the clinging smoke and flickering shadows would permit—down the hall from which they’d all initially arrived. And thus it was Marlo who saw him first.
The young soldier was convinced that he was imagining phantoms in the dark, for how could anyone have followed them down here? Yet the figure refused to dissipate into the shadows; in fact, it was growing quite obviously solid, remarkably fast.
Marlo was reaching for his blade, drawing in a lungful of sooty air to shout warning or challenge, when the new arrival raised a hand. Marlo swore he saw a flash of bloody crimson from the vicinity of the man’s chest.
Behind Marlo, half a dozen soldiers screamed, hands flying to their heads as though to hold their skulls atop their necks. Bone shattered, spraying blood and brains from within useless helms, and six men collapsed without ever knowing what had killed them. One of the bodies rocked back on its heels and slid to the floor, spasming muscles holding its hands aloft beside a head that simply wasn’t there anymore.
Even as his brain gibbered and his limbs trembled, Marlo was moving, for he alone had seen the danger coming. Broadsword in
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