Blackguards Read online

  The chairs were thickly padded and covered with expensive red brocade, the floor was gleaming marble, and the table made of a polished wood so dark it looked like a patch of a starless night sky come to ground. Soft music drifted from behind a silk curtain, a reed instrument and a harp, and a third instrument she couldn’t identify. Everything seemed carefully designed to delight all the senses.

  She thought to compliment her host, but remained silent, not wanting him to know she was pleased and impressed. If she’d been in her home city she would have made arrangements to talk to the chef and urge him to share a recipe or two, for the pike in particular. But she was a full day’s ride from home, visiting the port city of Nyrill. So she simply continued to savor the meal, take in the surroundings, and scrutinize her host.

  Ilarion was a noble of the merchant house of D’multek, a handsome man with oiled, dark hair, even olive skin, and wide, dark eyes that caught her stare and held it. Despite his voluminous robe, she could tell he had a muscular build. She’d researched him, a man born to wealth who in his relatively short life had managed to considerably increase his family’s holdings. Even his upcoming wedding would further expand his business and influence. He had chosen a bride from the nearby country of Crullfeld, from a family nearly equal to his own in riches. Mainon learned of the bride, too—Erleene Hawe—who, at twenty-two, was a dozen years younger than Ilarion. She was said to be the oldest daughter of a cloth merchant. Erleene was not present at this feast.

  Mainon was far from her own beautiful self this day. Her long black hair was coiled around her head in a tight braid and tinted by a simple magical glamor that rendered it a flat earthen brown. The same spell made her brilliant green eyes a dull gray and gave her a scar that ran from the base of her right ear down her neck. She wore ash-colored silk robes with a faint green trim, making her appear almost drab.

  “I nearly did not come to this meeting, Ilarion,” Mainon said. She took a sip from a crystal goblet filled with a pale gold wine. The wine was a little too dry; the only spot of imperfection in the elaborate meal. “I prefer to meet clients on my own terms and in places of my choosing. It is rare I make an exception. And I did not appreciate dealing with messengers upon messengers to set this up.” She took another sip and found it a little better. Perhaps it was an acquired taste.

  Ilarion quietly regarded her before speaking, creases forming in his brow as if he measured what to say. “There was no choice regarding the situation, the messengers upon messengers, milady.”

  His voice was rich and deep and Mainon wondered if he sang.

  “Given my position in this city, this meeting had to be on my terms, and with my requirements.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on either side of his plate. “But obviously my messengers intrigued you just enough. You are here, after all.”

  Mainon allowed herself a slight smile. “I am here until I finish this meal. Speak quickly.”

  Before he could continue, the waiter brought dessert, and Mainon did not hesitate to sample it. A mashed pear tart, baked in butter, rose water, and sugar, it was dusted with cinnamon and ginger and served in a small pie shell.

  Ilarion watched the server depart. “I’ve a need to hire you, milady.”

  “And the target?”

  “I have a seer in my employ who I consult on various matters. Three days past he relayed to me a vision most disturbing. He warned me that an assassin has been hired to kill me before my wedding to Erleene. She is not at this dinner because I do not want her to know about the assassin. I wish no worries on my new bride.” His once musical voice was strained now. “The seer believes someone does not want our houses joined and my power expanded. Thus I had my messengers find you, she who is said to be the best assassin in this part of the world. I want you to kill the one who has been hired to kill me. Kill the killer, so to speak.” He leaned back in his chair and waited for Mainon’s response. “You haven’t much time. The wedding ceremony is in two days. Please, milady, help me.”

  She glanced at the men around the table and stationed in corners; considerable security for Ilarion. It would be difficult for an assassin to get past them. With a silent spell, she discerned the noble wore magical baubles to further protect him, as did some of his guards. She wondered why such a man with so many layers of insulation would fear that an assassin could succeed.

  Could she succeed?

  “I have no faith in seers, Ilarion. Oracular magic is unreliable, and most who claim to command it are fakirs. Prophecies speak only to possibilities. The future is not guaranteed.”

  Could she succeed in assassinating Ilarion?

  Perhaps, she decided, that would be the way to approach it. How would she go about killing Ilarion? That might lead her to the one sent to kill him.

  “Nonetheless, Ilarion, consider me hired.”

  #

  Nyrill’s poorest lived near the docks. Mainon saw that the colors were dreary, the air filled with the scent of fish and filth, and many of the people looked beaten down by their own misfortune. Some had no homes and wore and carried all their possessions; it was the same in her home city, they were just spread out in various districts there, not concentrated in one place.

  Farther from the sea, the view improved and the air smelled cleaner. As the land rose, so did the level of society. Like cream, the wealthy floated to the top.

  Ilarion’s manse was perched high atop the bluffs that overlooked Nyrill. The richest of the city’s residents built their homes on the bluffs; the higher their elevation, the more wealth they commanded. Only a few mansions were farther up than Ilarion’s.

  A veritable palace, she considered his manor house, for it was that lavishly decorated. She spotted crystal and gold in every room, expensive incense burning, and not the smallest speck of dust anywhere. She shook off the unaccustomed envy of his great wealth; she’d been in several such dwellings before, though admittedly none were quite this opulent.

  Mainon decided to make a much more thorough inspection of the manse and grounds when she finished meeting Ilarion’s staff. She was introduced to advisors and guards, accountants, librarians, poets, artists, musicians…so many people she could recall only a few names and conjure up flashing images of faces.

  Xeno Icculus, however, she had no trouble committing to memory.

  The seer politely bowed and extended his hand. “I told Ilarion to hire the very best assassin his coin could buy.” Xeno’s voice was commanding, but raspy, and that coupled with a yellow tinge to his thin fingers and the corners of his lips showed that he indulged in smoking water pipes. “My incantations revealed that to be you.”

  “Then reveal something of yourself to me,” Mainon returned almost too quickly. “It would only be fair.”

  The pair sat in a room filled with gilded harps and other musical instruments that appeared to be more for show than intended for use. The walls were painted a dark burgundy, matching the rugs on the floor, but enough light spilled in through the window to reveal the faint lines on the seer’s patrician face.

  His brown hair and beard were cut short, a little gray showing throughout, but mostly at his temples. Well into middle years, she judged, but striking in appearance. His fair skin, made all the paler by rich brown robes so dark they appeared black, suggested he was from a faraway land, and his thin arms and long neck made him look birdlike.

  “I am a true seer,” he began, waving a hand with a theatrical flourish.

  Or a good actor, Mainon thought. He had the voice and manner of a thespian. Did he really see Ilarion’s demise? Could he in truth foresee the future?

  “I work the caravan routes occasionally, not wanting to limit myself to any one city for an extended length of time. Ilarion would like to consider me one of his employees, but this is not the case. While I accept coins from the man—for my services—it is not a formal or permanent arrangement. I spend a fair amount of my days in Crullfeld…and in a few nearby countries as well.”

  A silence settled between the t
wo, Mainon studying Xeno’s eyes. They didn’t blink. He didn’t look away. There was no nervous twitch, only a steady gaze, and she swore she saw herself mirrored in his pupils. She pulled in a deep breath, casting an enchantment at the same time, and scenting the magic about him.

  “And I am a more powerful wielder of the eldritch energies than most in this city,” he continued. “Certainly more practiced than those in Ilarion’s steady employ. Stronger in the arcane arts than you. But no doubt you’ve just discovered all of that.”

  She cocked her head. There indeed was that much magic about him.

  “Are you still skeptical of me, Mainon?”

  She released a breath she’d been holding and turned to look out the window. “I am always skeptical of seers.”

  “Safer that way,” he said. “But safer for Ilarion that he is not so skeptical and believes my vision. Had he not believed me, he would not have hired you. Had he not hired you, there would be no wedding, only a funeral.”

  “You might actually be genuine.” There was hesitation in her voice.

  He didn’t reply.

  “So I will take this threat against Ilarion very seriously.”

  “Safer that way for him.” Xeno stood and brushed at the folds in his robe until the garment hung straight. “As I said, my spells revealed that you are the best. This evening I will show you my vision that led to your hiring. First, I trust you’ll want to more closely explore the grounds. I understand that you’ve been to the city before, but never so high up on the hill.”

  #

  One day to go until the wedding, and the kitchen buzzed with hushed conversations from a dozen men and women working to prepare complicated pastries that were being kept chilled by a wizard in Ilarion’s employ. Castles made of sugar, swans sculpted of various confections, lilac-tinted pie crusts that would hold…what? Berries? Chocolate? Something deadly for the groom?

  Mainon’s sense of smell was acute and her eyes keen, but she did not pick up anything amiss. Spell after spell revealed nothing poisonous…nothing poisonous at this particular moment in time. Did Ilarion have tasters who would first be sampling everything on the wedding plate? Of course, she told herself. Still, poison remained a possibility; it was a method she would have considered were the contract to kill him hers.

  The laundry was next, an oppressive, hot, stone room below ground where the steam swirled as thick as fog on an early-morning river bank. Here only women toiled, hair plastered to the sides of their heads and sweat stains deep in their garments. From time to time a long-nosed man came in to observe and bark orders. Mainon found no trace of poison in the soap or water, nothing anywhere.

  She spiraled up and out, discovering magical wards that nearly caught her, guards stationed in shadowy niches, paintings with false eyes where more guards peered through to watch those who traipsed the halls. In the courtyards beyond she found enchanted snares—nothing lethal, but all of them designed to catch and firmly hold a trespasser. A good assassin could get by them all, she noted. She had. And no doubt many of the wards would be rendered ineffective on the wedding day, Ilarion not wanting any guests to be offended.

  A good assassin could get onto the grounds and into the manse, especially someone well dressed and appearing to have an invitation.

  She strolled by neighboring manor houses, pressing herself against garden walls and listening to pieces of conversation when “Ilarion” or “Erleene” were mentioned.

  “He marries not for love,” someone said. “He marries only to add to his wealth.”

  “She is beautiful. I could spend the rest of my days living in the glow from her smile.”

  “Ilarion wants to own the very top of the bluff, to have no one perched above him. This wedding will guarantee that.”

  “There were local women he could have had his pick from, beauties all of them. And from good families, too.”

  “Our daughter…he once considered her.” Mainon made note of this particular residence. She would discover who lived here and if there was animosity between them and Ilarion. “Too close to his own age, our daughter. Not young enough.”

  “Ilarion will put on a display the likes of which this city has never seen. I’ve heard they’ve been preparing cakes for weeks.”

  “He’ll not live to see his first child born. There’s talk of an assassin.” Mainon found more than one home where this rumor flowed.

  A good assassin could indeed succeed, she decided as she picked her way back to Ilarion’s manse. But it would take a very good assassin to get back out undetected. The assassin would have a masterful disguise, perhaps looking like one of the groom’s close friends or guards, and would need a considerable amount of magical talent.

  Mainon’s mind churned with the possibilities of how she would approach it. Perhaps Xeno’s “vision” would give her a clue.

  #

  “Welcome, skeptical Mainon.” Xeno gestured to a velvet-covered cushion in the center of a small room.

  There were no pieces of traditional furniture, just cushions spread across thick rugs. The room was heavily draped and lit by lamps that hung from the walls at regular intervals. Oil residue streaks extending up the walls from the lamp bowls hinted that the drapes were rarely opened.

  She sat cross-legged on the cushion he’d indicated, back straight and shoulders square. He took up a position opposite her on a cushion that was not so plush. One he sat on often and had mashed down over time? She noted his eyes were glossy, and she detected a trace of flowery tobacco scent on his robes. Xeno had been smoking a water pipe recently. Did he need them for his visions?

  “I trust you completed a most thorough inspection of the grounds?”

  She continued to study him and the surroundings. The room seemed out of place compared to the rest of those in the manse, dark and nothing outwardly valuable in it. She hadn’t noticed the door to it on her first two passes through Ilarion’s home. Perhaps it had been magically masked. She would have to take another walk through the residence, this with a more careful eye and enchantments at hand to discover if there were other such secret rooms where an assassin might find a secure hiding place.

  Xeno said something else, but she missed the first several words, caught up in thoughts about the manse.

  “I came here to see this vision of yours,” she answered. She drummed her slender fingers against her arm, making no attempt to disguise her impatience.

  “My time is limited, too. Shall we begin?” He closed his eyes and rested his elbows against his knees, arms outstretched and palms up, fingers splayed wide.

  Theatrical, she judged, a true wielder of magic needed few gestures or special poses; she needed only her mind and an occasional bauble to augment her natural talents. She peered at him closer, finding all four rings on his right hand pulsing with a steady, but faint dweomer. There was a magical pendant around his neck, and something under his robe that she couldn’t see.

  His lips moved and he spoke an archaic language that sounded vaguely familiar. An incantation, certainly, and when he finished an image formed between them.

  “Ilarion,” Mainon said.

  “As he will be dressed tomorrow on his wedding day.”

  “You’ve seen the cloak and shirt?” They were shot through with gold thread, the fabric a creamy silk that shimmered in a light that cut through swirling shadows and came from somewhere within the vision.

  The seer shook his head. “His wedding garb is secret, only seen by himself and his closest attendants. I merely know this to be a piece of time plucked from tomorrow.”

  “Before the ceremony?”

  He shrugged. “Yes, but how soon before I cannot say. This sort of magic is not so precise…as I believe you’ve pointed out to Ilarion and myself before. Continue to watch, please.”

  Shadows deepened around Ilarion, whether from candles and lamps flickering or people moving around close, but out of range of the vision. Curtains fluttering? A cape billowing? Mainon strained to make it out, but inste
ad locked onto Ilarion’s face. His once handsome visage suddenly contorted in pain and his mouth opened. He screamed, but no sound came from the image. It was long, and she imagined shrill, his agony obviously intense. He twitched and dropped to his knees, writhing and contorting in ways his limbs weren’t designed to move. Sweat beads blossomed on his skin and dampened his wedding garb. A moment later tiny blossoms of blood erupted on the creamy fabric, as if invisible darts had been thrown at him from all directions.

  The gyrations continued for uncomfortable long minutes before Ilarion stopped breathing. A line of black blood spilled from his mouth.

  A quick death, she favored dispensing. More dignity in it for her and her target. But this assassin? There was malice involved. This assassin didn’t just want Ilarion dead, but to suffer mightily.

  Mainon stared at her client’s face, frozen in torture. A shudder danced down her spine, chasing away the last of her skepticism in Xeno’s arcane skills.

  “And Erleene?”

  Xeno drew his lips into a thin line. “I’ve had no visions of her. I believe she is safe from the assassin’s wrath. She is the eldest of five girls, so killing her would not prevent the houses from merging. Ilarion would simply choose the next daughter in line, then the next. The marriage is for power, milady.” His breath whistled out between his teeth. “But slaying my friend Ilarion ends the potential merger. Ilarion is an only child. Can you stop this? Prevent my vision from becoming real? Can you save my friend?”

  “That is what I have been hired to do.” She rose from the cushion and padded toward the door.

  “Then hopefully his coin is being well spent.”

  Where would Ilarion be when the attack would come? When? Her repeated questioning of Xeno yielded no more information. He’d said if he could provide that information, Ilarion wouldn’t have needed to employ her.