Beyond the Shadows
Page 43
“Do you know what those are?” Quoglee asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve made my living telling lies and you know it. Because the truth is damning enough. Because you’re renowned for winkling out the truth on your own.”
“So if you can’t dam the river, you wish to channel it. How do you propose to buy me off?”
“You want more than coin?” she asked, knowing the answer.
“Oh yes.”
“Then I’ll give you what you wish,” she said.
“I want your story. You will answer every question I ask, and if you lie in any particular, I will use your tale to cast you in a devastating light.”
“Now you tempt me to take my chances with prophecy and signal the wetboy I have waiting behind that curtain to kill you. A whore’s truth has too many sharp edges. I will tell my story and not spare myself, but I will not share the secrets of the men I could destroy with what I know. It would be my death, and some few of them deserve better. I will give you more of my story, and more about the Sa’kagé, than you could ever learn alone, but that is all. And you will not tell it for at least a year. I have work to do first.”
Quoglee’s skin had turned green, making the impression of a frog complete. “You don’t really have a wetboy behind that curtain, do you?” he asked.
“Of course not.” Quoglee was a coward? Odd. “Do we have a deal?
He inhaled deeply, as if trying to smell the wetboy, and slowly he regained his balance. “If you tell me why you’re doing this. I don’t believe it’s because of some whore’s dream.”
She nodded. “If Logan Gyre were king, Jarl’s dream of a new Cenaria might come to pass. Things wouldn’t have to be how they were for my sister and me growing up, or how they are for the guild rats now.”
“Sounds awfully . . . altruistic,” Quoglee said.
Momma K didn’t let his tone anger her. “I have a daughter.”
“Now that I didn’t know.”
“I’m the richest, most powerful person in this country, maestro. But a Shinga’s power dies with her, and my wealth will be taken by whoever finally murders me. Having a daughter has cost me the man I love and quite nearly my life. But as much as she endangers me, I endanger her much more. I need Logan Gyre to become king because that’s the only way I can go legitimate, and going legitimate is the only way I can pass anything on to my daughter except death.”
Quoglee’s eyes were wide. “You don’t just mean to be a merchant or even a merchant queen, do you? You mean to establish a new noble house. How would you buy such a thing?”
“That’s a tale I’ll tell after the coronation. Do we have a deal?”
“You want me to learn a queen’s darkest secrets and make a song of it . . . in three days? That’s ridiculous. Impossible. There isn’t a bard in Midcyru who could do such a thing. But.” He paused theatrically, and Momma K had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. “But I am no mere bard. I am a genius. I’ll do it.”
“Sing fearlessly, maestro. I will make sure your song isn’t interrupted.”
Quoglee blinked rapidly and he sniffed again. “That’s it. Head notes of bergamot and galbanum with a third I can’t recall. The heart notes are jasmine and daffodil over base notes of vanilla, iris, amber, and forest. Nuec vin Broemar, the royal Alitaeran perfumer himself showed me that perfume. He said it was his queen’s own perfume. No one else ever . . .” he trailed off, his eyes widening.
Momma K smiled, glad the gesture hadn’t been wasted.
A small tongue wet his wide, fleshy lips. “May I just say, Madame Kirena, you frighten and intrigue me in almost equal measures.”
She chuckled. “I promise you, maestro, the feeling is mutual.”
Scarred Wrable was on time. He always was. This time their meeting was in the castle’s statue gardens. Scarred Wrable wore the hundred-colored robe of a hecatonarch, the long sleeves covering his ritually scarred arms and hands, the chasuble covering the lattice of scars across his chest and neck. He smirked at her. “Yes, my child? Do you have sins to confess, or sins to contract?”
Terah Graesin favored him with a contemptuous stare. “You blaspheme, coming as a priest.”
“Out of a hundred gods, there’s got to be one with a sense of humor. What’s the job, Your Highness? If people see you talking to me too long, they might think you really are confessing. They might wonder why.”
“I want you to kill Logan Gyre. Sooner is better.” She itched her bandaged arm. It was healing from where that damned shadow had stabbed her, but slowly.
Scarred Wrable spat on the brushed white gravel, forgetting he was supposed to be a priest. “Yah, right.”
“I’ll pay you twice what I paid you to kill Durzo Blint.”
“Funny how you didn’t tell me I was killing Blint until afterward.”
“It turned out all right, didn’t it?”
“Only ’cause I caught him unawares,” Wrable said.
“I thought you said you fought him man to man,” she said coolly.
He flushed. “I, I did, but it was a near thing. And you didn’t pay me half enough.”
“Oh, so that’s it. Bargaining. How tiresome. Name your price, assassin.”
“I’m a wetboy, as you should damn well know. I killed Durzo Blint. As to bargaining,” he shook his head. “This ain’t bargaining.”
“How much?” Dammit, she’d worn high, thick sleeves to conceal the bandage on her arm, but it hurt, and she didn’t dare touch it—not in front of Wrable, who’d tell the Sa’kagé.
“It would be a hell of a job, wouldn’t it? They say Duke Gyre killed an ogre fifty feet tall at Pavvil’s Grove. They say he’s served by a madman with filed teeth who’s ripped men clean in half and a two-legged wolfhound and a thousand sword whores. I even heard tell of a demon that came looking to save Logan, back during the coup. That’s a fearful lot of fearful friends that man has, and a fearful lot of fearful enemies a wetboy would make by killing him.”
“I’ll give you ten times the usual, and I’ll make you a baronet, with lands.” It was a princely sum, and she could tell Scarred Wrable was stunned at the amount.
“Tempting. But no. The only wetboy who’d take this job would be Hu Gibbet.”
“Then send him to me!” Terah snarled.
“Can’t. He’s feeding the fish for taking jobs Mother Sa’kagé didn’t approve. And Mother Sa’kagé has told all her little chicks, no jobs on Gyre.”
“What?” Terah asked. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“I will tell the Nine you tried.”
Fury washed Terah to her toes. “If the Sa’kagé stands against me, so help me, I will destroy you all.”
“By the High King’s beard, woman!” Scarred Wrable said. “We said no to one job. There’s a big difference between turning down a job and being your enemy.”
“You will do this, or I will stamp you out,” Terah said.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve made my living telling lies and you know it. Because the truth is damning enough. Because you’re renowned for winkling out the truth on your own.”
“So if you can’t dam the river, you wish to channel it. How do you propose to buy me off?”
“You want more than coin?” she asked, knowing the answer.
“Oh yes.”
“Then I’ll give you what you wish,” she said.
“I want your story. You will answer every question I ask, and if you lie in any particular, I will use your tale to cast you in a devastating light.”
“Now you tempt me to take my chances with prophecy and signal the wetboy I have waiting behind that curtain to kill you. A whore’s truth has too many sharp edges. I will tell my story and not spare myself, but I will not share the secrets of the men I could destroy with what I know. It would be my death, and some few of them deserve better. I will give you more of my story, and more about the Sa’kagé, than you could ever learn alone, but that is all. And you will not tell it for at least a year. I have work to do first.”
Quoglee’s skin had turned green, making the impression of a frog complete. “You don’t really have a wetboy behind that curtain, do you?” he asked.
“Of course not.” Quoglee was a coward? Odd. “Do we have a deal?
He inhaled deeply, as if trying to smell the wetboy, and slowly he regained his balance. “If you tell me why you’re doing this. I don’t believe it’s because of some whore’s dream.”
She nodded. “If Logan Gyre were king, Jarl’s dream of a new Cenaria might come to pass. Things wouldn’t have to be how they were for my sister and me growing up, or how they are for the guild rats now.”
“Sounds awfully . . . altruistic,” Quoglee said.
Momma K didn’t let his tone anger her. “I have a daughter.”
“Now that I didn’t know.”
“I’m the richest, most powerful person in this country, maestro. But a Shinga’s power dies with her, and my wealth will be taken by whoever finally murders me. Having a daughter has cost me the man I love and quite nearly my life. But as much as she endangers me, I endanger her much more. I need Logan Gyre to become king because that’s the only way I can go legitimate, and going legitimate is the only way I can pass anything on to my daughter except death.”
Quoglee’s eyes were wide. “You don’t just mean to be a merchant or even a merchant queen, do you? You mean to establish a new noble house. How would you buy such a thing?”
“That’s a tale I’ll tell after the coronation. Do we have a deal?”
“You want me to learn a queen’s darkest secrets and make a song of it . . . in three days? That’s ridiculous. Impossible. There isn’t a bard in Midcyru who could do such a thing. But.” He paused theatrically, and Momma K had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. “But I am no mere bard. I am a genius. I’ll do it.”
“Sing fearlessly, maestro. I will make sure your song isn’t interrupted.”
Quoglee blinked rapidly and he sniffed again. “That’s it. Head notes of bergamot and galbanum with a third I can’t recall. The heart notes are jasmine and daffodil over base notes of vanilla, iris, amber, and forest. Nuec vin Broemar, the royal Alitaeran perfumer himself showed me that perfume. He said it was his queen’s own perfume. No one else ever . . .” he trailed off, his eyes widening.
Momma K smiled, glad the gesture hadn’t been wasted.
A small tongue wet his wide, fleshy lips. “May I just say, Madame Kirena, you frighten and intrigue me in almost equal measures.”
She chuckled. “I promise you, maestro, the feeling is mutual.”
Scarred Wrable was on time. He always was. This time their meeting was in the castle’s statue gardens. Scarred Wrable wore the hundred-colored robe of a hecatonarch, the long sleeves covering his ritually scarred arms and hands, the chasuble covering the lattice of scars across his chest and neck. He smirked at her. “Yes, my child? Do you have sins to confess, or sins to contract?”
Terah Graesin favored him with a contemptuous stare. “You blaspheme, coming as a priest.”
“Out of a hundred gods, there’s got to be one with a sense of humor. What’s the job, Your Highness? If people see you talking to me too long, they might think you really are confessing. They might wonder why.”
“I want you to kill Logan Gyre. Sooner is better.” She itched her bandaged arm. It was healing from where that damned shadow had stabbed her, but slowly.
Scarred Wrable spat on the brushed white gravel, forgetting he was supposed to be a priest. “Yah, right.”
“I’ll pay you twice what I paid you to kill Durzo Blint.”
“Funny how you didn’t tell me I was killing Blint until afterward.”
“It turned out all right, didn’t it?”
“Only ’cause I caught him unawares,” Wrable said.
“I thought you said you fought him man to man,” she said coolly.
He flushed. “I, I did, but it was a near thing. And you didn’t pay me half enough.”
“Oh, so that’s it. Bargaining. How tiresome. Name your price, assassin.”
“I’m a wetboy, as you should damn well know. I killed Durzo Blint. As to bargaining,” he shook his head. “This ain’t bargaining.”
“How much?” Dammit, she’d worn high, thick sleeves to conceal the bandage on her arm, but it hurt, and she didn’t dare touch it—not in front of Wrable, who’d tell the Sa’kagé.
“It would be a hell of a job, wouldn’t it? They say Duke Gyre killed an ogre fifty feet tall at Pavvil’s Grove. They say he’s served by a madman with filed teeth who’s ripped men clean in half and a two-legged wolfhound and a thousand sword whores. I even heard tell of a demon that came looking to save Logan, back during the coup. That’s a fearful lot of fearful friends that man has, and a fearful lot of fearful enemies a wetboy would make by killing him.”
“I’ll give you ten times the usual, and I’ll make you a baronet, with lands.” It was a princely sum, and she could tell Scarred Wrable was stunned at the amount.
“Tempting. But no. The only wetboy who’d take this job would be Hu Gibbet.”
“Then send him to me!” Terah snarled.
“Can’t. He’s feeding the fish for taking jobs Mother Sa’kagé didn’t approve. And Mother Sa’kagé has told all her little chicks, no jobs on Gyre.”
“What?” Terah asked. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“I will tell the Nine you tried.”
Fury washed Terah to her toes. “If the Sa’kagé stands against me, so help me, I will destroy you all.”
“By the High King’s beard, woman!” Scarred Wrable said. “We said no to one job. There’s a big difference between turning down a job and being your enemy.”
“You will do this, or I will stamp you out,” Terah said.
