Lord of the Shadows (12 page)

“I'm under house arrest,” Dirk reminded him.

He's really getting desperate
, Marqel thought delightedly.

“I'm releasing you from it. The guard will stay with you while you're still in Avacas for your protection. Besides, you'll be much safer from an assassin at sea than you will be here in Avacas.”

“But,
sire
…”

Antonov looked at him curiously. “You're not reluctant to do this because you still sympathize with your old friends, are you, Dirk?”

“No, sir.”

“Then the matter is settled. You will leave with the fleet on tomorrow's tide.”

Before Dirk could object further, Antonov turned to Marqel. He took her hand and gently raised it to his lips. “I trust you will forgive me for doubting you, my lady.”

“Your doubts were no more than those I had myself, your highness,” she assured him modestly.

Antonov smiled at her and, at that moment, Marqel felt a warm rush of satisfaction.

The Lion of Senet was hers for the taking.

he Hospice in Tolace had taken on the air of an armed camp, and the feeling in the small coastal town was little better as Kirsh sought to uncover the truth behind his brother's disappearance.

The number of people who seemed to know that Misha was a poppy-dust addict had grown alarmingly and, as he had each one put to death to prevent the secret from slipping out, he had to suffer the silent accusation in Alexin's eyes. True to his word, the Dhevynian captain had said nothing further about what the prince was doing. He didn't have to. His unspoken disapproval was enough.

Kirsh should have known it wasn't going to be as easy as simply killing the Shadowdancer who was nursing Misha. One could not acquire a substance like poppy-dust without involving others. There were the guards watching over him—Kirsh thought them deserving of death anyway, considering it was they who let Misha slip through their fingers—and the Hos-pice's herbalist, who had actually provided him with the drug. The servants who delivered the drugs to his cottage. The friends they gossiped to in the local tavern. All of them deserved to die.

Containing the rumor was proving almost impossible. People were already speculating about the executions, and it wouldn't take long, Kirsh guessed, before people started putting the pieces together. Once a good rumor took hold, there was no way of stopping it; no way of preventing it reaching Avacas, and eventually, his father's ears.

He still had another dozen people in custody, and it was his unenviable task to decide which of them was to die next. He
was leaning toward the basket maker and his wife. Although they continued to protest their innocence, it seemed a little too coincidental that it was Gilda Farlo who had brought Tia Veran into the Hospice, and Boris Farlo who happened to pay a late night visit on the flimsy pretext of finding a special basket the same night Misha disappeared. They were not directly involved in Misha's addiction, but that didn't really bother Kirsh. They had helped Tia abduct his brother, and that made them guilty enough for him.

Their deaths were more about vengeance than justice.

How they had gotten Misha out of the Hospice remained a mystery. It seemed logical to assume that Boris Farlo had hidden Misha in his cart, but how had they spirited him out of his room without his permission? Had they drugged him and carried him off? How had they managed such a feat without disturbing the guards in the next room? The alternative—that Misha willingly left the Hospice with Tia Veran—was inconceivable.

Or was it?
Kirsh wondered.
If Misha were an addict and feared discovery, would his fear be enough for him to consider fleeing Senet? Was he so far gone in the drug he would prefer to abdicate his responsibilities as the crown prince, rather than be without it?
Kirsh could not believe that of Misha. But then, neither could he believe his brother was nothing more than a pitiful addict.

It just seemed easier to keep killing everyone who might have been involved.

He tossed the list of captives onto the desk and turned to look out over the Hospice gardens. Hidden among the beautifully landscaped grounds was such a conspiracy of silence and deceit, Kirsh thought his head might explode from trying to unravel it. He had a hangover, which wasn't helping his thought processes much. He had been drinking a lot lately, and mostly alone. His rank and tendency to execute anybody who even hinted he suspected Misha was an addict isolated him from both his men and his captains.

A knock on the door disturbed his rather jerky train of thought. He called permission to enter, hoping it was not
Alexin. He didn't think he could face the look of wordless condemnation Alexin usually wore.

It was not Alexin who entered, however, but Sergey. The Senetian captain was one of the few who did not seem bothered by what Kirsh was doing. In fact, Kirsh had a sneaking suspicion the man enjoyed it.

“What is it, Captain?”

“The ships have arrived from Avacas, your highness. There's been a longboat lowered from the command vessel. It's the
Tsarina
, I think.”

The
Tsarina
had been his father's flagship before the
Calliope
, reinstated after the loss of his new ship in Elcast.

“Do we know who's in command?”

Kirsh knew most of the men his father was likely to send in command of the fleet, and he wasn't particularly looking forward to having any one of them looking over his shoulder.

Sergey shook his head. “I suppose we'll find out as soon as they land. I've sent a party down to the beach to wait for them.” Tolace did not have a dock to speak of, certainly not one large enough to cater to the
Tsarina
.

“Well, whoever he is, make sure you bring him straight here as soon as he lands. We've wasted enough time here in Tolace.”

“Of course, your highness,” Sergey promised, with a sharp salute.

Kirsh picked up his half-empty cup of wine—his third since breakfast—and turned to stare out over the gardens as Sergey departed. With a heavy sigh, he went back to wondering if he should order the execution of Boris and Gilda Farlo.

A little over an hour later Sergey returned with the fleet commander. He opened the door and stood back to let the man enter.

Kirsh rose to his feet to greet his father's admiral. He was prepared for almost anything but the figure that appeared in the
doorway. The man who stepped into the Hospice administrator's office was Dirk Provin.

The two young men stared at each other for a moment, and then Kirsh glanced at Sergey. “Leave us.”

The captain saluted and closed the door behind him on the way out. Kirsh turned his attention to Dirk. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Delivering your fleet.”

Kirsh hurled the pottery goblet he was holding at Dirk, who ducked the missile nimbly. He glanced at the spreading stain on the wall for a moment before turning to look at Kirsh.

“It's nice to see you, too, Kirsh.”

“You smug little bastard. This is your fault.”

“My fault?” he asked. “What's my fault? I only just got here.”

“You made me let her go. You knew what she planned.”

“Ah,” Dirk said, with dawning comprehension. “You think I asked you to let Tia go so she could kidnap your brother? Is that it?”

“Don't treat me like a fool, Dirk.”

“Then stop acting like one, Kirsh.”

“You
knew
,” he accused, in a slightly more reasonable tone, his anger spent for the moment. “You must have known.”

“How must I have known? I didn't even know Misha was here in Tolace until I got to Avacas. Neither did you. Tia escaped days before then.”

“You probably put her up to it,” Kirsh insisted, determined to pin the blame for this on someone.

“I had no idea what Tia Veran was going to do when she escaped,” Dirk repeated patiently. “And if I had known what she was planning, I would have told her not to do it.”

“Really?” Kirsh scoffed. “Why?”

“To avoid exactly what's happening here now, Kirsh. I hear you're having a high old time executing innocent bystanders.”

The accusation shocked Kirsh. It wasn't like that at all. He was doing this to protect Misha. But how could he explain without revealing the truth? And who was Dirk to censure him,
anyway? Despite his protestations of innocence, Kirsh would go to his grave thinking that somehow Dirk was involved in Misha's abduction. There was just no way to prove it.

“Don't you dare stand there and accuse
me
of being dishonorable, Dirk Provin.”

“I wasn't accusing you of anything,” Dirk said. “I was just curious about the executions, that's all. You had a Shadowdancer put to death. I am the right hand of the High Priestess. She deserves an explanation.”

“Sonja was lax in her duties.”

“So you killed her?” Dirk asked with a raised brow. “That's a little harsh, don't you think?”

“If she had been more vigilant, Misha wouldn't have been abducted.”

“You're sure of that, are you?”

Kirsh sat down and made a show of picking up his quill to continue his work. “I don't have to explain myself to you. Aren't you supposed to be under house arrest?”

“I've been seconded to the navy.” Dirk shrugged. “Not that it actually required much effort on my part. Your father's sea captains are more than competent. I just had to stand on the foredeck looking aristocratic and nod in agreement when somebody asked me to confirm an order they were going to carry out anyway, whether I agreed with it or not.”

“What did you do to get the job, Dirk? Who did you sell out this time?”

Dirk shook his head ruefully. “You wouldn't believe the lengths I went to in order to get out of this, Kirsh. I have no desire to be here, and if you want to send me back to Avacas, then do it. I'll gladly leave right now.”

Kirsh frowned. “I don't think so. If my father sent you here, then he had good reason to send you away from the city.”

“It might have something to do with the Brotherhood assassin who took a chunk out of my ear.”

“There's a Brotherhood contract out on you?”

“Apparently. You didn't hire them, did you?”

“No,” Kirsh snapped. “But only because it never occurred to me.”

“We'll know soon enough who's paying them,” Dirk said. “Barin Welacin and Ella Geon were having a high old time, too, last I saw of them, figuring out ever more imaginative ways to torture the information out of the assassin they caught.”

“I hope they have more luck getting the truth out of him than I'm having here,” he muttered unhappily.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Kirsh looked up, surprised by the offer. “Like what?”

“Maybe I could talk to the prisoners,” Dirk suggested. “See if I can learn anything.”

“What makes you think you could get anything more out of them than I could?”

“You're still pretty new at this, Kirsh,” Dirk reminded him. “I, on the other hand, am the Lord of the Shadows, the right hand of the High Priestess. And the Butcher of Elcast. Perhaps having their immortal souls threatened will work where mere physical pain has failed.”

Kirsh wasn't sure he trusted Dirk's offer of assistance, but he could see no harm in it. At the very least, it would get him out of Kirsh's sight for a while. He was in no mood for Dirk and his glib answers for everything. “Very well, you can start with these two,” he told him, handing him the list he had been going over earlier.

“Gilda and Boris Farlo,” Dirk read. He looked at Kirsh. “Who are they?”

“The local basket maker and his wife. She claims she was simply hired by an anonymous man she conveniently can't identify to bring Lady Natasha to the Hospice, and the night Misha disappeared, her husband made a late night visit to the Hospice in a cart on the pretext of looking for a basket that had been delivered by mistake.”

“Coincidental, but hardly enough to condemn them,” Dirk said.

“There's a rumor around town they're both well placed in the Brotherhood, too,” Kirsh added.

Dirk nodded thoughtfully. “I'll talk to them. We don't want to waste too much time on them, though.”

“Why not?”

“Don't you want to invade Mil?”

“We have to find out how to get through the delta first.”

Dirk looked at him in surprise. “Your father didn't send you a message?”

“A message about what?”

“We know the way, Kirsh. The night Belagren died, the Goddess chose a new voice and gave the instructions to her.”

“You have the route?” he gasped in surprise. Suddenly his anger at Dirk was forgotten. This changed everything. Now he could do something really useful. Now he could actually do something to get Misha back.

“Every little tack and turn,” Dirk confirmed. “I don't know about you, but I'd rather be on my way to Mil than stay here tormenting the local basket maker.”

“So would I. We'll leave at second sunrise tomorrow,” Kirsh agreed, glad to be given an escape from his current, thankless task.

Dirk nodded and smiled thinly. “I thought you might see it that way. I'll have a little chat with your basket maker anyway, just to see if I can learn anything useful, but I suspect it'll be a moot point once we reach Mil.”