knife rested near the door to the House of Agabyzus.
###
“I don’t drink coffee,” said Morgant.
“Don’t you?” said Kylon.
“It makes you too jittery,” said Morgant. “Ruins your nerves. Why, I remember once, I was in Cyrioch, and I…”
Kylon suppressed a sigh. Morgant would interpret a sigh as a sign of weakness, which would only encourage him to talk more. It amused the assassin to put on the guise of a rambling, absent-minded artist, but Kylon could sense the cold flicker of the ancient assassin’s emotions, and the icy iron of his sense never wavered, his pale blue eyes keeping constant watch on the crowds around them.
“You could make bad decisions,” said Morgant. “Come down in the world like a brick dropped into a pond. Go from one of the most powerful men in a small nation to a caravan guard standing in a bazaar next to a stall selling,” he glanced over, “glassware of questionable quality.”
“If you are so subtle,” said Kylon, “I shall never grasp your point.”
“I suppose I shall have to use shorter words,” said Morgant, “considering my audience.”
“Or your skills lie in painting,” said Kylon, “and rhetoric is quite beyond you.”
Morgant’s teeth flashed in a grin. With his pale, gaunt face, it made his features look almost skull-like. “That’s better, Kyracian. I thought your wits might have abandoned you after drinking so much coffee. Made you forget things.”
“Such as?” said Kylon, wondering where this was going.
“Your wife, for one,” said Morgant.
Anger blazed through Kylon like a wildfire, and he almost drew his sword and ran the assassin through. Almost. He heard something creak and realized that it was the knuckles of his sword hand, which had balled into a fist.
He met the assassin’s pale eyes. “Go on.”
Morgant smirked. “I suppose a Kyracian nobleman is used to certain comforts of the flesh. You could buy a slave woman, but the price has gotten prohibitively expensive. Perhaps you could go to the Crimson Veil and rent a room for an hour or two. Or you could continue to charm our mutual friend, though that seems like so much work.”
The rage pulsed through him. “Jealous?”
Morgant scoffed. “Not at all. She’s pretty enough, aye, but she’s dangerous. There are flowers in southern Anshan that are stunningly beautiful, their colors more vivid and bright than anything found anywhere else in nature. One brush from their thorns is enough to bring about an agonizing death.”
“Is that what you think she is?” said Kylon. “A poisoned flower?”
“Perhaps,” said Morgant with a shrug. “It’s not my concern. You’re the one who keeps staring at her, Kyracian. Especially at her backside.”
“Why are you talking about this?” said Kylon.
“A man needs to know his reasons for doing a task,” said Morgant.
“Then your reason must be to catch my fist in your face,” said Kylon, “because that’s what is going to happen if you bring up my wife again.”
Morgant grinned at that. “I know my reasons, Kyracian. I am going to keep my word. What is your reason? Because you want to seduce her? Or you want vengeance for your wife?”
Kylon scowled…and then it clicked.
“Gods of storm and brine,” he muttered. “That’s what you’re worried about? You think my wish for vengeance might disrupt your promise?”
“If you want to get yourself killed avenging your wife, well and good,” said Morgant. “You can do what you wish…but if your desire for vengeance or your lust for the Balarigar interferes with my ability to keep my word, then I will kill you.”
“No,” said Kylon. “Malik Rolukhan and Cassander Nilas murdered my wife…but they were just the tools of Callatas. This isn’t going to be finished until his plans are broken and he is dead at my feet.”
“Good,” said Morgant. “Clarity of purpose is always refreshing, don’t you think?”
“Try to kill me if
###
“I don’t drink coffee,” said Morgant.
“Don’t you?” said Kylon.
“It makes you too jittery,” said Morgant. “Ruins your nerves. Why, I remember once, I was in Cyrioch, and I…”
Kylon suppressed a sigh. Morgant would interpret a sigh as a sign of weakness, which would only encourage him to talk more. It amused the assassin to put on the guise of a rambling, absent-minded artist, but Kylon could sense the cold flicker of the ancient assassin’s emotions, and the icy iron of his sense never wavered, his pale blue eyes keeping constant watch on the crowds around them.
“You could make bad decisions,” said Morgant. “Come down in the world like a brick dropped into a pond. Go from one of the most powerful men in a small nation to a caravan guard standing in a bazaar next to a stall selling,” he glanced over, “glassware of questionable quality.”
“If you are so subtle,” said Kylon, “I shall never grasp your point.”
“I suppose I shall have to use shorter words,” said Morgant, “considering my audience.”
“Or your skills lie in painting,” said Kylon, “and rhetoric is quite beyond you.”
Morgant’s teeth flashed in a grin. With his pale, gaunt face, it made his features look almost skull-like. “That’s better, Kyracian. I thought your wits might have abandoned you after drinking so much coffee. Made you forget things.”
“Such as?” said Kylon, wondering where this was going.
“Your wife, for one,” said Morgant.
Anger blazed through Kylon like a wildfire, and he almost drew his sword and ran the assassin through. Almost. He heard something creak and realized that it was the knuckles of his sword hand, which had balled into a fist.
He met the assassin’s pale eyes. “Go on.”
Morgant smirked. “I suppose a Kyracian nobleman is used to certain comforts of the flesh. You could buy a slave woman, but the price has gotten prohibitively expensive. Perhaps you could go to the Crimson Veil and rent a room for an hour or two. Or you could continue to charm our mutual friend, though that seems like so much work.”
The rage pulsed through him. “Jealous?”
Morgant scoffed. “Not at all. She’s pretty enough, aye, but she’s dangerous. There are flowers in southern Anshan that are stunningly beautiful, their colors more vivid and bright than anything found anywhere else in nature. One brush from their thorns is enough to bring about an agonizing death.”
“Is that what you think she is?” said Kylon. “A poisoned flower?”
“Perhaps,” said Morgant with a shrug. “It’s not my concern. You’re the one who keeps staring at her, Kyracian. Especially at her backside.”
“Why are you talking about this?” said Kylon.
“A man needs to know his reasons for doing a task,” said Morgant.
“Then your reason must be to catch my fist in your face,” said Kylon, “because that’s what is going to happen if you bring up my wife again.”
Morgant grinned at that. “I know my reasons, Kyracian. I am going to keep my word. What is your reason? Because you want to seduce her? Or you want vengeance for your wife?”
Kylon scowled…and then it clicked.
“Gods of storm and brine,” he muttered. “That’s what you’re worried about? You think my wish for vengeance might disrupt your promise?”
“If you want to get yourself killed avenging your wife, well and good,” said Morgant. “You can do what you wish…but if your desire for vengeance or your lust for the Balarigar interferes with my ability to keep my word, then I will kill you.”
“No,” said Kylon. “Malik Rolukhan and Cassander Nilas murdered my wife…but they were just the tools of Callatas. This isn’t going to be finished until his plans are broken and he is dead at my feet.”
“Good,” said Morgant. “Clarity of purpose is always refreshing, don’t you think?”
“Try to kill me if
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