ONEGH watched the vek from the shadows as he dismissed his valet, telling the old man, “Thank you, Gim, but I won’t be changing into my evening clothes—not just yet. I’ll call you, when I need you.”
“As you wish, Your Grace,” Gim said. The valet bowed and took his leave.
Worlen went to the glass-paned doors that opened onto the balcony and looked out upon the city, apparently lost in thought. But when Donegh stepped silently from the shadows behind him, Worlen spoke. “Have you come to kill me?”
Donegh froze in place as the vek turned—unhurriedly, almost casually, though he drew his sword in the same motion. “No, Your Grace. Thuna sent me, on behalf of the Taaweh.”
“Is that so?” Worlen slowly stepped forward, menacing him with the razor-sharp tip of his blade. “Forgive my skepticism, assassin, but I came too close to losing my son to you. What proof can you offer of your alliance with the Taaweh?”
“I am wearing one of their robes, Your Grace.”
“Are they impossible to steal?”
At that, Donegh allowed himself to fall through the floor and then popped up a footstep closer to the vek . The point of Worlen’s sword now hovered a mere foot away from his chest.
“That is more difficult to fake,” Worlen conceded. “But why, of all people, should the Taaweh send the boy who tried to assassinate my son?”
Donegh rankled at being called a “boy,” but he knew enough about Worlen to know there was little point in correcting him. “Your Grace, I was under contract at the time. Since I am no longer samöt , that contract is null and void.”
“So you’re a reformed assassin now?” Worlen said icily, circling slowly around Donegh, while still keeping the sword between them. “How heartwarming.”
“I am not reformed. I am simply no longer samöt . Now I am allied with the Taaweh and cannot hear the ömem .”
“A hobbled assassin, then.”
Donegh felt his hackles rise, but he forced himself to remain calm. “The Taaweh have given me an alternative to the ömem , Your Grace. In order to serve you.”
“To serve me?”
“Yes, Your Grace. In your plan to assassinate the emperor.”
“Be silent, you fool!” Worlen snarled, sliding forward until the point of his blade hovered less than an inch from Donegh’s breast. “Anyone might be listening at the door!”
Donegh remained calm. He could drop out of sight and out of the reach of Worlen’s sword, but he knew the vek wouldn’t attempt to run him through—not without thoroughly assessing the situation first. He rarely moved without careful consideration. “Marik can see through the shadows in every room around us, Your Grace, and I can see through her eyes. There is nobody near enough to overhear.”
“So you say.”
But the vek seemed to accept that they were safe nonetheless, because he sheathed his sword and walked back to the window. Donegh sensed it was now safe to follow, and he did so.
“Contract or not,” Worlen said quietly, looking out over the city rather than at Donegh directly, “I should never forgive you for threatening the life of my son—my only son, thanks to one of your companions. But sour milk becomes butter in a famine, so they say.” He paused, seeming lost in thought for a moment. “The emperor has been without an heir since the death of his son, Tull dönz Nesharr. But my spies in the royal palace have informed me that this may not be the case for much longer.”
Donegh suspected he knew more about the death of the fifteen-year-old heir than the vek did. Few were aware that the boy’s fall from the castle battlements had been contracted by one of the emperor’s own concubines, in the hopes that she would bear him a son of her own. Under normal circumstances, the assassination of a royal would have been far too expensive for anyone but the wealthiest of nobles to afford, but the ömem had accepted a ridiculously low commission for the job—one of the hidden costs of the
“As you wish, Your Grace,” Gim said. The valet bowed and took his leave.
Worlen went to the glass-paned doors that opened onto the balcony and looked out upon the city, apparently lost in thought. But when Donegh stepped silently from the shadows behind him, Worlen spoke. “Have you come to kill me?”
Donegh froze in place as the vek turned—unhurriedly, almost casually, though he drew his sword in the same motion. “No, Your Grace. Thuna sent me, on behalf of the Taaweh.”
“Is that so?” Worlen slowly stepped forward, menacing him with the razor-sharp tip of his blade. “Forgive my skepticism, assassin, but I came too close to losing my son to you. What proof can you offer of your alliance with the Taaweh?”
“I am wearing one of their robes, Your Grace.”
“Are they impossible to steal?”
At that, Donegh allowed himself to fall through the floor and then popped up a footstep closer to the vek . The point of Worlen’s sword now hovered a mere foot away from his chest.
“That is more difficult to fake,” Worlen conceded. “But why, of all people, should the Taaweh send the boy who tried to assassinate my son?”
Donegh rankled at being called a “boy,” but he knew enough about Worlen to know there was little point in correcting him. “Your Grace, I was under contract at the time. Since I am no longer samöt , that contract is null and void.”
“So you’re a reformed assassin now?” Worlen said icily, circling slowly around Donegh, while still keeping the sword between them. “How heartwarming.”
“I am not reformed. I am simply no longer samöt . Now I am allied with the Taaweh and cannot hear the ömem .”
“A hobbled assassin, then.”
Donegh felt his hackles rise, but he forced himself to remain calm. “The Taaweh have given me an alternative to the ömem , Your Grace. In order to serve you.”
“To serve me?”
“Yes, Your Grace. In your plan to assassinate the emperor.”
“Be silent, you fool!” Worlen snarled, sliding forward until the point of his blade hovered less than an inch from Donegh’s breast. “Anyone might be listening at the door!”
Donegh remained calm. He could drop out of sight and out of the reach of Worlen’s sword, but he knew the vek wouldn’t attempt to run him through—not without thoroughly assessing the situation first. He rarely moved without careful consideration. “Marik can see through the shadows in every room around us, Your Grace, and I can see through her eyes. There is nobody near enough to overhear.”
“So you say.”
But the vek seemed to accept that they were safe nonetheless, because he sheathed his sword and walked back to the window. Donegh sensed it was now safe to follow, and he did so.
“Contract or not,” Worlen said quietly, looking out over the city rather than at Donegh directly, “I should never forgive you for threatening the life of my son—my only son, thanks to one of your companions. But sour milk becomes butter in a famine, so they say.” He paused, seeming lost in thought for a moment. “The emperor has been without an heir since the death of his son, Tull dönz Nesharr. But my spies in the royal palace have informed me that this may not be the case for much longer.”
Donegh suspected he knew more about the death of the fifteen-year-old heir than the vek did. Few were aware that the boy’s fall from the castle battlements had been contracted by one of the emperor’s own concubines, in the hopes that she would bear him a son of her own. Under normal circumstances, the assassination of a royal would have been far too expensive for anyone but the wealthiest of nobles to afford, but the ömem had accepted a ridiculously low commission for the job—one of the hidden costs of the
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