Stormseer (Storms in Amethir Book 3) (14 page)

Hawk glanced over at the baron. The singing was loud enough that their conversation was private, though they could be interrupted at any moment. Arkad's expression, though, was troubled without being furtive; he must not care who might overhear them.

"I wonder if the prince misunderstood his father's intent," Hawk ventured. It wasn't exactly a criticism. Hopefully Arkad would understand.

"Just as likely," Arkad agreed. "Grief does not clarify one's thoughts."

Hawk's heart sank. If Razem had willfully misinterpreted his father's orders, that made Hawk's position more difficult. Arkad had made him aware of the king's will, but Hawk could not disobey the prince's orders.

Wonderful,
he thought dismally.
So it is to be like this all the way to Rivarden
. And once they reached Rivarden, what then? Razem had not asked Hawk why he vowed to return, nor had Hawk volunteered the reason. Would the prince understand that Hawk felt his duty lay there?

"Don't look so glum, lad," Arkad said. "Razem is a smart man. He'll learn from you, if you're willing to teach."

"Given anyone else, perhaps I could." Hawk rubbed a hand over his jaw. "But if he is still so angry over his sister's death three years later, I am not sure. And he is in the position of giving me orders."

"As he was when I served him," Arkad pointed out. "Though," he added reluctantly, "that was before Azmei's death."

Hawk folded his arms across his chest, suddenly aware of the chill of the evening around them. They were climbing the season into summer, but this far from the fire, his thin shirt and light cloak were not enough to warm him. Or perhaps that was just his frame of mind.

"How many more villages do we have?" he asked. "Hedron and Issla and Milbarton..." He cast his mind back to the years he had spent riding between Rivarden and Salishok. "Haess."

"And Undra and Herew," Arkad finished. "Though as Milbarton is my village, I can do somewhat to lighten the burden there. I can pass the word that the singers will have a throat complaint this week—a nasty cough, perhaps."

"Have mercy," Hawk said, grinning faintly. "The prince might order the soldiers to take up the slack, and that would punish us all the more."

Chapter 12

The party on the main floor of Perslyn House was in full swing. The first course of dinner was being served, and Azmei had already seen that the alcohol was flowing freely. She had observed long enough that she knew the Patriarch was in attendance and that he was not indulging. She hadn't expected him to drink much. After all, a drunkard wouldn't last long in charge of the Perslyn Family.

Everything was in place. Finally Azmei was ready to exact justice—which was yet more proof that she was a poor disciple of the god of peace. It was not in her religious code to mete out justice. That dictate came from her blood.

I am still a princess of Tamnen
, she reminded herself.
I cannot let stand any threat to my father's rule. And once this mission is over...

She didn't finish the thought. She still wasn't prepared to think beyond the Patriarch's death.

Instead, she drew her dagger and let herself into the darkened bedroom. A single lamp burned in a globe hanging over the bed. Azmei glanced at the level of the oil and filed it in her memory.

Time to check the room for the Patriarch's safeguards, to locate every trap and remove every weapon. He should notice nothing amiss, but he would have no escape. She began at the right of the door and made a methodical sweep of the room. From behind the wardrobe she withdrew a longsword, while from underneath the wardrobe she removed a loaded crossbow. She removed the bolt, tucking it into her belt next to a dagger sheath. The curtains around one bedpost hid a long knife. The pillow covered a sheathed dagger. She was surprised to see no obvious weapons inside the small writing desk, until she realized what looked like bottled inks were likely poisons instead. Smiling grimly, she swept them, along with the dagger and knife, into the leather sack she had brought with her.

A large urn near the window hid a stiletto and a pouch of throwing stars. Azmei tucked those into her sack as well. She completed her circuit of the room, checked the level of oil in the lamp again; she'd been here approximately half an hour. She should have time for another search. This time she did a quick grid search, which turned up another stiletto strapped to the bottom of the bed, but nothing else. That had taken another twenty minutes at least. Time for her to remove the weapons and take up her post.

She carried the leather sack to the window and the rope she had left in place before entering the house. The top end was tied to a chimney protruding from the roof. She threaded the bottom end of the rope through specially sewn loops at the top of the sack and tied it up high enough that the sack wouldn't show through the window. That would keep the weapons out of the way until she was ready to leave. As she checked the knot a final time, an odd shadow on the wall caught her eyes. She squinted and slid her hand up to touch it.

It was a crevice just large enough to provide a handhold.
So, the Patriarch has an escape route
, she thought. The rope would have been unnecessary. Then again, he might have cut them at a distance spaced too far for her to reach. She was a petite woman, and most men towered over her.

With a shrug, Azmei eased the window closed again. The handholds changed nothing, unless the Patriarch made a break for the window when she attacked. She would just have to make certain he didn't have the chance. Azmei slipped behind the curtains that hung around the bed. She fit easily between the wardrobe and the headboard, where she settled her shoulders against the wall, pushing herself into the aware state of half-meditation.

Carrying out justice is not a part of your teachings, O god of peace,
she thought,
but your followers believe that injustice can be anathema to peace. If you could see my actions as bringing peace to Meekin, to the Perslyn family, perhaps even to Tamnen, would it be wrong?

This mission was what Master Tanvel had decreed for her final passage. Azmei felt no sense of guilt or misgiving. She merely wished it to be finished.

Outside the house, the bell rang the warning for evening curfew—half an hour for honest citizens to return to their homes. Azmei lifted her head and drew in a long breath. Soon now, the party would be breaking up. The guests who planned to return home would leave. Those who planned to stay overnight would retire to more private gatherings in their rooms. What would the Patriarch do?

Footsteps hurried past the door to the bedchamber. Laughing voices reached her ears. A young woman shrieked in amusement or excitement. A deeper voice teased. Azmei couldn't hear his words, but she recognized the sounds of flirtation. That would be the middle son—Kesh. From what Azmei had seen, he was fond of women, wine, and cards. He was a trained killer as much as the others—as much as Orya had been—but he seemed to have no cruelty to him. The Patriarch and the eldest son, Rith, thought Kesh weak and lazy. Azmei hadn't formed an opinion yet, but she suspected he was strong enough to surprise them all. She just hoped he could be reasoned with. She didn't want to have to kill them all.

Assured footsteps strode to the door and stopped. Azmei adjusted her grip on her dagger. Here was the man she had been waiting for.

The doorknob turned and light spilled into the bedchamber from the passage beyond.

"You're sure you won't join us, sir?" The low, grating voice belonged to Rith.

The Patriarch laughed. "I have had enough of dancing in my life. At my age, I am more interested in warm wine than a willing woman."

Rith barked a laugh. "As you say, sir. I'll send a servant up with a drink."

"Never mind. I've already given the kitchen my orders. Go enjoy your party, Rith."

The door closed and the Patriarch's footsteps approached the bed, then paused. Azmei blinked slowly, praying that the god would protect her, hoping that at least her meditation had centered her.

She heard the Patriarch shuffling things around on top of the chest of drawers. He yawned loudly and glass clinked against glass as he poured himself a drink. He took a few steps towards the wardrobe, then stopped.

"You might as well come out," he said. "I know you're here."

Damn. What had given her away? Azmei shifted her dagger hand so her sleeve would hide the blade. She stepped out from behind the curtain.

The Patriarch looked amused, curse him. He was rapier-thin, his eyes steel mirrors that reflected her own inadequacy. "A veil and a hood both? You must not want me to recognize you. I already know you aren't Orya, despite what you seem to wish everyone else to think."

Azmei blinked. Why would they think she was Orya? They had been informed that Orya was dead. "Of course not," she murmured.

"I am the Patriarch of the Perslyn family," he said. "But you already knew that. And your name?"

"You do not need it."

"Ah, then I already know you," he mused. "I simply don't realize I know you."

Azmei inclined her head, keeping her gaze on his face. Her peripheral vision would tell her if he made any move. She would have to be careful of the wine glass he held. It could sting the eyes and blind her long enough for him to escape—or kill her.

"It might be easier if you removed your veil."

"I doubt it," Azmei said. "You have likely never seen my face." She smirked behind the veil. She didn't want him to see her face. It was an honor he didn't deserve.

"You wear kohl around your eyes. Is it because you are vain?"

She rolled her eyes. "It cuts the glare of the sun."

"Ah, so you believe yourself a practical person."

"Enough," she snapped. "I have no time for your guessing games. You don't need to know my name. It is enough for you to know that tonight I am your death."

"Do you think so?" He threw the wine cup. Azmei ducked and turned her head. She raised her dagger to deflect the cup, and as soon as it was past, she lunged at the Patriarch.

The Patriarch turned and threw himself towards the large urn standing in the corner. Azmei smiled at his choice. His having to turn gave her time to close the distance between them.

The Patriarch thrust his arm shoulder deep into the urn. A moment later he tensed. But he wouldn't be defeated by such a small thing as a missing stiletto. Any good assassin knew how to make a weapon out of anything. True to expectation, he tipped the urn over with a crash and rolled it at her so Azmei had to leap over it. She drew her sword with her right hand while she was still in the air.

She landed lightly, teeth bared. He was cornered. He'd chosen the wrong direction unless he wanted to retreat out the window, but Azmei was close enough she thought he wouldn't risk it. He would have to turn away from her, at least part way, to unlatch the window. That would expose him to a lunge, and he wouldn't want to take that chance. Still, someone had to have heard the urn fall, which meant Azmei was running short on time. She paced closer.

"You have more skill than I expected," he grunted. His hands were reaching behind him, scrabbling for anything that might be a weapon. "You searched the room before I arrived."

"I had a good teacher." Azmei smiled. "Necessity."

"Who are you?" he demanded. He threw an ash collector at her.

Azmei deflected it with her elbow. "Someone you tried to have killed." Her smile hardened. "The attempt failed, but it made me angry."

The Patriarch was out of options. He folded his hands in front of him in seeming acquiescence. "Please tell me. I am at your mercy. What have you to lose?"

Azmei's sword flashed out. It sliced his throat. The Patriarch's eyes widened. He staggered and fell against the wall. As he did, his hands flew apart, scattering a coarse dust into the air and across Azmei's face. Most of it was deflected by her veil, but her eyes instantly began to burn. Shit.

She kicked his feet out from under him and stepped on his wrist as she drew near. "Princess Azmei Reera Corrone," she said, and stabbed him in the heart.

Her eyes were streaming. She swore and wiped her blade on his robe, then sheathed it. She could hear footsteps pounding along the passage. Thank the gods she had prepared her escape route before entering the house. She ran to the window and pushed it open.

Azmei swung out onto the rope and pushed the window closed. She couldn't latch it, but at least it would take them a moment to figure out how she had escaped. With any luck, the first person into the room would think the Patriarch's attacker had fled through the halls.

She sheathed her dagger and climbed the rope. Upon reaching the rooftop, she pulled the rope, leather sack attached, up after her, coiling it around her waist like a belt. Now to reach the safe spot she chose yesterday. There she should be able to wait and watch. She wanted to see what the household did when the Patriarch's death was discovered.

She would have to return for Rith. But she didn't enjoy killing, no matter how good she had become at it over the past three years. Followers of her path did not kill without reason. Lawless killing never served peace. Judicious killing, such as this one tonight, often did. But any attempt to reach Rith tonight would almost certainly require her to slice her way through the rest of the household. She couldn't think of a single instance when killing house servants served peace.

When she reached her safe spot, nestled snugly against a chimney, she crouched and wiped her eyes. They were still burning. The chimney funneled raised voices up to her, but she only caught a few: "Murder!" Then there was a lot of arguing, and someone shouted, "Orya—"

Azmei shook her head. How could any of them truly believe Orya had survived her attack on Princess Azmei? Not only survived, but escaped and gone into hiding? The royal family would never have allowed the princess' assassin to go free. Why would anyone think it possible? And yet if Azmei judged by the Patriarch's words, some did. Had the Patriarch encouraged that? But why would he do that?

Someone shouted orders. People spilled into the courtyard below. Azmei listened to the voice shouting. She thought it was Rith, though she wasn't sure. Then he bellowed, "Get Yarro here now!" and she knew it was Rith. Who else would think to involve Yarro in this? The man seemed to hate his little brother, for no reason she could discern.

Doors banged inside the house. They were doing a systematic search. She strained her ears. Running footsteps in the courtyards told her they were searching them as well. Good. Would they search the roof?

No. There was shouting from the courtyard where the Patriarch's windows opened. They'd found the grappling hook she'd left driven into mortar of the windowsill. The rope dangled to the ground, and they would follow the false trail she had laid for them.

Excellent.

What she heard next shocked her, though. Yarro couldn't be found.

"What do you mean, you can't find him?" Rith snarled. His voice carried so far she imagined their neighbors would hear it. Azmei crept from her hiding spot, scanning the rooftop to be sure she was still alone up here.

"He's not in his rooms. He's not in my rooms. He's not anywhere I usually find him." That was Kesh's voice.

"Ask Tish, then! She was supposed to be taking care of him."

"I can't find her, either. Perhaps she's looking for Yarro."

The conversation lulled. Azmei crept closer to the courtyard where Rith and Kesh spoke. She listened to the measured tread of footsteps leaving the household. Rith apparently believed the curfew didn't apply to his family. Azmei suspected he was right; the city guard wouldn't interfere with Perslyn family business.