“But why are you helping me? A lot’s changed since we were guild rats stealing bread.”
Jarl shrugged, looked away again. “You’re my only friend.”
“Sure, when we were children—”
“Not ‘you were.’ You are. You’re the only friend I’ve ever had, Kylar.”
Trying to beat back his sudden guilt—how long had it been since he’d thought of Jarl?—Kylar said, “What about everyone here? The people you work with?”
“Coworkers, employees, and clients. I’ve even got something like a lover. But no friends.”
“You’ve got a lover and she’s not your friend?”
“Her name’s Stephan. She’s a fifty-three-year-old cloth merchant with a wife and eight children. He gives me protection and beautiful clothes, and I give him sex.”
“Oh.” Suddenly the whore’s muttering about hoeing the other row made a lot more sense. “Are you happy here, Jarl?”
“Happy? What the hell kind of question is that? Happy doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
“I’m sorry.”
Jarl laughed bitterly. “Where’d you get your innocence back, Kylar? You said Azoth was dead.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you going to leave now that you know I’m a bugger?”
“No,” Kylar said. “You’re my friend.”
“And you’re mine. But if I hadn’t seen you nearly kill Gerk just now, I’d wonder if you really were a wetboy. How do you kill people and keep your soul intact, Kylar?” He gave the name a little twist.
“How do you keep your soul intact and whore?”
“I don’t.”
“Me neither,” Kylar said.
Jarl went quiet. He studied Kylar intently. “What happened that day?”
Kylar knew what Jarl was asking. A tremor passed through him. “Durzo told me if I wanted to be his apprentice, I had to kill Rat. After what he did to Doll Girl . . . I did it.”
“Easy as that, huh?”
Kylar debated lying, but if anyone deserved the truth, it was Jarl. He’d suffered more at Rat’s hands than anyone. After holding back about Doll Girl, he couldn’t do it again.
Kylar told him the whole story, like he hadn’t told anyone since Master Blint.
The description of the gore and how pathetic Rat had been didn’t move Jarl. His face remained passive. “He deserved it. He deserved it and then some,” Jarl said. “I only wish I’d had the nerve to do it. I wish I could have watched.” He dismissed it with an effeminate wave of his hand. “I’ve got a client coming, so listen,” Jarl said. “Khalidor is going to invade. Different parts of the Sa’kagé have been mobilized, but they’re mostly smoke screens. Probably only the Nine know what’s really happening, maybe only the Shinga. I can’t even tell which side we’re going to take.
“The thing is, we can’t afford for Cenaria to lose this war. I don’t know if the Nine realize that. The Ursuuls have put forward claims on Cenaria for generations, but several months ago Godking Ursuul demanded a tribute of some special gem and free passage, claiming to be more interested in taking war to Modai than here. King Gunder told him where he could go—and it wasn’t across the king’s highways.
“A source told me the Godking vowed to make us an example. He’s got more than fifty wytches, maybe many more. I don’t think King Gunder can field ten mages to stand against them.”
“But the Sa’kagé will survive,” Kylar said. Not that he gave a damn about them. He was thinking about the Drakes and Logan. The Khalidorans would kill them.
“The Sa’kagé will survive, Kylar, but if all the businesses are burned down, there’s no money to extort. If all the merchants are broke, they can’t gamble or go whoring. Some wars we could profit from. This one will ruin us.”
“So why tell me?”
“Durzo’s in the middle of it.”
“Of course he is,” Kylar said. “Probably half the nobles in the army’s chain of command are trying to off their superiors so they can take their places. But Master Blint wouldn’t take a job that would seriously endanger the city. Not if things are as bad as you say.”
Jarl shook his head. “I think he’s working for the king.”
“Master Blint would never work for the king,” Kylar said.
“He would if they had his daughter.”
“His what?”
32
Lord General Agon stood in the middle of the brushed white gravel of the castle’s statue garden and tried not to look as uneasy as he felt. Damn fine place to meet an assassin.
Ordinarily, he would think it was fine place to meet an assassin. Though Blint had ordered him not to bring soldiers, if he had been of a mind to do so, there were any number of places for them to hide. Of course, that this meeting was happening within the castle grounds should also have made Agon feel better. It might have, if Blint hadn’t been the one who suggested it.
The night wind blew a cloud across the moon and Agon strained to hear the slight crunch of gravel that would herald Blint’s arrival. He had no doubt that Blint could make it into the castle. His memory was as sharp as the daggers that they’d once found under the royal pillows. Still, he had his orders.
He looked at the statues around him. They were heroes, every one of them, and he wondered what he was doing in their company. Usually this garden was a haven. He would walk on the serene white and black rock and stare at these marble heroes, wondering how they might act if they were in his shoes. Tonight, their shadows loomed and lingered. Of course it was his imagination, but he still remembered that Blint had been in his bedroom ten years ago, ready to do murder. Nothing was safe with a man like that.
There was the slightest crunch of gravel under one of the statues. Agon turned and without thinking gripped his sword.
“Don’t bother,” Durzo Blint said.
Agon whipped back around. Durzo was standing not two feet away. Agon stepped back.
“The noisy one was one of yours. Not me.” Blint smiled wolfishly. “But wait, didn’t I tell you not to bring men?”
“I didn’t,” Agon said.
“Mm-hmm.”
“You’re late,” Agon said. He had his equilibrium back now. It was unsettling dealing with a man who didn’t value life. He believed that Blint really didn’t, now. There was a rationale behind it, too. The only way he himself could deal with Blint was to realize that he could be killed but that that wasn’t important; his life or death wasn’t why he had summoned Blint; his life or death wasn’t vital to what they would talk about. Still, a part of him asked, how can wetboys live like this?
“Just making sure I knew where all your soldiers were hidden,” Blint said. He was wearing a killing outfit, Agon realized queasily. A tunic of mottled dark gray cotton, thin but cut for easy movement, pants of the same material, a harness with a score of throwing weapons, some of which the general didn’t even recognize. What he did recognize was that the points of some of those weapons bore more than steel. Poison.
Is he bluffing? Agon hadn’t brought soldiers. Even if his life wasn’t vital to this discussion, he wasn’t going to throw it away. “I keep my word, even to a Sa’kagé thug,” he said.