How long he waited, he could not be sure, except that when he finally picked up the trail again, Bedor was ascending over the eastern range, a trail of light behind him.

39

For Ren everything in life was a prop, part of a potential disguise. The chief magistrate’s office held an array of such things. His lord had never invited him inside before, but today was different. While his lord inspected the latest samples, Ren took in every detail of the office. There might be something useful.

Ledgers sat neatly stacked at the corner of a large desk, beside another stack of documents with silver-black wax seals. There were pens and ink bottles, the usual boring scribe utensils. On a far wall beside a narrow door, three diviner robes hung with care. The other pegs were empty.

Ren twisted his lips with pleasure. He’d never worn such a robe. The one on the leftmost peg had three silk stripes on the sleeves and silver embroidery. The other two were plain, for low-level diviners. But that elaborate one, now that would be something to try on. It was the most difficult disguise, though. Not a painted skull, of course, but a real diviner.

Unnoticed, he brushed the fabric with his fingers. The cloth was deceptively thin. He didn’t think the robe would take up much space at all. The small pouch on his left hip would do.

Shadows flickered at his fingertips.

A thrill ran through him to do this in his lord’s presence. A death wish, his mentor would call it. He turned his attention back to his lord.

Maunyn was half-smiling, as he did when pleased.

“Well done,” he said, holding up the samples to the lamp’s pale light. “You’re certain they’re Verxaen’s?”

Ren nodded. “Sure as I live, milord.”

“And the women he was with?”

“Couldn’t make them out, but gathered what I could.”

“You won the servant’s uniform in a game of chance?”

“Yes, milord. From a foolish lad.”

That lad would regret this event for years to come. Would he even put the two things together? Would Zauhune even mention the death? So near the Young Bear, Vaudin Lor’Baronar! Ren couldn’t decide whether to be terrified or to giggle hysterically.

“Their security is lax,” Maunyn mused. “Zauhune feels safe now that it has such a great champion.”

“He wasn’t that great, milord. Sloppy, if you ask me.”

Maunyn shifted, nearly knocking Ren over. “Sloppy enough to cut you in half?”

Ren looked down. Never trust our lord, his mentor would say. He’ll kill you at the slightest offense. He shook away the thoughts. It wasn’t true. Not now, not at this moment of approval.

“Keep yourself grounded, Ren,” Maunyn said, his tone softening. “There are things outside your grasp—for now. Being Mornae means knowing the difference.”

“Yes, milord. I understand.”

He didn’t, but Maunyn's assurance was all that mattered. Goddess above, he’d be a consort within the year if he continued succeeding. No more desperate priestesses for him. No more slumming.

That lovely hair he’d picked up still glowed with goddess-light. He still hid it in his breast pocket. He’d not part with it except for the future he craved. The report about that encounter would seal his future. Using an exotic southern ink he’d bought in the underdark market, he was committing the memory of that writhing couple to a sheet of fine vellum. That night, even the shadows had been luminous, accenting every thread of their clothes, the sigils hidden in the pattern, the glistening hair, and the beautiful bodies. The man’s form was unmistakable. Ren had seen him fight in a festival tournament in the south valley. He could only guess at who the woman was, but his chest swelled with excitement if his reasoning was correct: a Vakayne! Oh, how they’d reward him!

Who could ever believe a Vakayne meeting with the Son of Baronar in the Rilanik, of all places?

“Off with you,” Maunyn said, stashing the samples in a vest pocket. “Fetch a package from Gravas. Bring it to me in the citadel. No delays. Take the crater path. Gravas will also give you your next assignment. You’ll need to be at your best.”

He didn’t look confident.

Ren nodded. While Maunyn turned away to speak with a scribe, he deftly snagged the diviner’s robe and stuffed it into the linen pouch. As he hoped, the fabric had collapsed into his fist.

Magic. He sneered; jealous he didn’t have such tools. He was certainly worthy of them. He started for the door, buoyant with excitement.

“One more thing,” his master said.

He turned, lightheaded. “Yes, master?”

Maunyn frowned at his strangeness. “Take this as well.” Maunyn handed him a tiny pouch. “Read the glyph in private. Take care with the vial.”

Ren took the pouch. Inside was a glass ampule.

“I have my own… potions… milord,” he said.

Maunyn glanced at him, irritated. “This one is better. Made especially for the target. It won’t kill anyone but him.”

Ren stared unbelievingly at the pouch.

“Take care of it by the next dawning, Ren,” Maunyn said over his shoulder. The next goddess-dawning was three days away. “Do not fail me.”

Ren bowed and left the warehouse, new vigor in his limbs, purposeful, pushing through the throng toward Halkamas. What kind of poison could kill a specific person? The ampule tempted him, but if he damaged it….

He swallowed hard and set the idea aside as the east gate loomed ahead.

He’d never been to the citadel. Finally! Finally, he was becoming the thing he needed to be. He pushed aside all his failures and mistakes—no point regretting them now when he was so close to setting his foot on the path to an endless life.

Mine will be the cycles, he thought with a grin.

He entered the east gate, head high. No one stopped him or questioned why he had entered. He bore a mantle with Ilor’Hosmyr’s weave and that was enough.

From now on, the crater would become his playground.

Still, there were threats and dangers. He was at a disadvantage within the kith bowl. Every inch of the place seemed imbued with enchantments or plated with glyphs. Knights patrolled, and much worse. Assassins, warriors of pure shadow, defended their house’s territory. He’d not seen a Dark since that time down south, but he knew they lurked there. So much danger! The folk in the east valley were clamoring for justice for Lor’Benthrae, even though it was a south valley house pledged to the second high house, Ilor’Zauhune. In fact, this apparent Naukvyrae attack on a faithful house had roused all four valleys.

His spirit sagged. The Naukvyrae would seek retribution. This was bad propaganda for them. They were the faithful, not random murderers and thieves. He rubbed the pommel of his black-stained dagger. He’d be no match for a Dark. He ducked into an alley and peeked around the corner. A shadow rippled, undulating with power he’d not seen before. Then the shadow shifted like a flock of swallows, darting in all directions. It was searching for him!

A Dark! It must be. Goddess above, they’d found him.

Sprinting away, he flung himself from shadow to shadow. It was still early. Most crater-folk were abed. This was the assassin’s hour, but he too was an assassin… of sorts. Not that he’d ever killed anyone important. Nomads and border folk didn’t count. They were easy pickings.

His chest twinged at the memory of those poor sods sent to clean up the arena, and the waiter at the Rilanik. No one had even mentioned he was missing yet. At the Rilanik, the servants were people with house badges. Was his house keeping it secret to hide their weakness? One less knight or squire to bolster their power. In the valleys, they cared less for hiding; they knew they were weak. Their power lay in clamoring and upsetting trade.

His heart caught in his throat as something skidded behind him. The street was empty. He’d made sure of it. Running now, bouncing between shadows, he turned into an alley and didn’t stop until he reached the villa with the secret trapdoor.

If anyone dared follow, his ribs would meet Ren’s daggers.