Cadia. That march would begin in three days. If the White Wolf was murdered, Skanda would be forced to call for an inquiry. No, Malikada’s attempt would be more subtle. A Drenai might be paid to kill him, a man known to harbor resentment against Banelion. And there were plenty of those, common soldiers who had suffered under the lash for minor infringements of discipline, junior officers who felt they had been overlooked for advancement, senior officers who had suffered public rebuke. Then there were men stripped of their rank for incompetence. Banelion smiled. If Malikada offered enough money, the White Wolf could be trampled to death under a stampede of men anxious to earn it.
Banelion poured himself a goblet of water. But if the murderer was taken alive and questioned under torture, such a payment would come to light, and that would throw suspicion back upon Malikada, no matter who he hired to make the transaction. The White Wolf dismissed the idea. It was too unsubtle for the Ventrian fox.
What, then? Banelion lifted the goblet to his lips. He hesitated and stared down at the clear liquid. Poison would be the likeliest answer. Not a cheerful prospect, he thought, putting down the goblet. From now on he would eat at the communal kitchen, standing in line with the rest of his men.
Satisfied he had considered every possibility for attack, he relaxed.
He was wrong.
4
T HE OLD BARRACKS building was three hundred years old, built to house the Immortals, Emperor Gorben’s elite regiment. At the time of its construction it had been one of the wonders of the world. Famous artists and sculptors had been summoned from all over the empire to paint its ceilings and sculpt the masterpieces that surrounded it. Now most of the statues had been removed and shipped to Drenan or sold to collectors to raise money for the king’s wars. The painted ceilings and walls were chipped, cracked, and faded. Most of the Drenai soldiers of the king’s new army were housed in the north of the city in three new barracks.
Here, off the Avenue of Light, the old building was slowly surrendering to the ravages of time and lack of care. Already there were plans to demolish it and erect a colosseum. But for now it remained the temporary quarters of the old men being sent home. Discipline was already nonexistent, and there were no guards at the gates, no bugle call to announce the dawn, no officers to oversee drills or exercises.
Nogusta shivered as he walked across the deserted parade ground and on into the east wing, where he shared a room with Bison and Kebra.
Once upon a time architects from all over the world had visited this barracks to marvel at its design. Now it was a dying place, full of decaying memories no one wanted to share.
Wearily Nogusta climbed the stairs. There were no lanterns here now, the interior lit only by the shafts of moonlightspearing through the high windows of each landing. Slowly Nogusta made his way to the fourth floor.
Kebra and Bison were sitting in stony silence within the room. Nogusta guessed the question of winter debts had been discussed. He moved past his comrades toward a blazing fire in the hearth. Its warmth was comforting.
Nogusta removed his black shirt and allowed the heat to bathe his upper body. The gold and silver charm he wore glittered in the firelight. Something cold touched his back, like the whisper of a frozen wind. He stood and turned, expecting to see the door or the window open. But they were closed tight.
“Did you feel that breeze?” he asked the silent men. They did not answer him. Kebra was sitting on his bed, his face stony, his pale eyes glaring at Bison. Suddenly an icy chill enveloped the room, the heat from the fire dying away. Nogusta stared at the flames, which were high and bright. No warmth came from them. The only heat he could feel was radiating from the crescent moon charm on his breast. It glowed with a bright light. In that moment a terrible fear settled on the
Banelion poured himself a goblet of water. But if the murderer was taken alive and questioned under torture, such a payment would come to light, and that would throw suspicion back upon Malikada, no matter who he hired to make the transaction. The White Wolf dismissed the idea. It was too unsubtle for the Ventrian fox.
What, then? Banelion lifted the goblet to his lips. He hesitated and stared down at the clear liquid. Poison would be the likeliest answer. Not a cheerful prospect, he thought, putting down the goblet. From now on he would eat at the communal kitchen, standing in line with the rest of his men.
Satisfied he had considered every possibility for attack, he relaxed.
He was wrong.
4
T HE OLD BARRACKS building was three hundred years old, built to house the Immortals, Emperor Gorben’s elite regiment. At the time of its construction it had been one of the wonders of the world. Famous artists and sculptors had been summoned from all over the empire to paint its ceilings and sculpt the masterpieces that surrounded it. Now most of the statues had been removed and shipped to Drenan or sold to collectors to raise money for the king’s wars. The painted ceilings and walls were chipped, cracked, and faded. Most of the Drenai soldiers of the king’s new army were housed in the north of the city in three new barracks.
Here, off the Avenue of Light, the old building was slowly surrendering to the ravages of time and lack of care. Already there were plans to demolish it and erect a colosseum. But for now it remained the temporary quarters of the old men being sent home. Discipline was already nonexistent, and there were no guards at the gates, no bugle call to announce the dawn, no officers to oversee drills or exercises.
Nogusta shivered as he walked across the deserted parade ground and on into the east wing, where he shared a room with Bison and Kebra.
Once upon a time architects from all over the world had visited this barracks to marvel at its design. Now it was a dying place, full of decaying memories no one wanted to share.
Wearily Nogusta climbed the stairs. There were no lanterns here now, the interior lit only by the shafts of moonlightspearing through the high windows of each landing. Slowly Nogusta made his way to the fourth floor.
Kebra and Bison were sitting in stony silence within the room. Nogusta guessed the question of winter debts had been discussed. He moved past his comrades toward a blazing fire in the hearth. Its warmth was comforting.
Nogusta removed his black shirt and allowed the heat to bathe his upper body. The gold and silver charm he wore glittered in the firelight. Something cold touched his back, like the whisper of a frozen wind. He stood and turned, expecting to see the door or the window open. But they were closed tight.
“Did you feel that breeze?” he asked the silent men. They did not answer him. Kebra was sitting on his bed, his face stony, his pale eyes glaring at Bison. Suddenly an icy chill enveloped the room, the heat from the fire dying away. Nogusta stared at the flames, which were high and bright. No warmth came from them. The only heat he could feel was radiating from the crescent moon charm on his breast. It glowed with a bright light. In that moment a terrible fear settled on the
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