Venedi, Seventh of Sund'im, 445 A'A'diel
Jarle pushed open the door to Tan'os' bedroom with his boot. Moonlight filtered through a row of lancet windows, bathing the spacious room in a bluish glow.
Tan'os' chamber had none of the luxurious trappings of his daughter's bedroom. Every piece of furniture was functional and austere in its design. Two claw-foot chairs with threadbare cushions faced a giant stone hearth whose dying embers still glowed hot. In the center of the room, upon a blackwood four-poster bed with columns as thick as tree trunks, the Vise of Reyza lay dead. Tan'os was sprawled sideways upon plush furs, one hand clasping at his bare chest.
In the moonlight, the Vise's blood shone black. It glistened upon the bed curtains, the pale furs, his arms, and legs. There were no signs of a struggle. Mast had harpooned the Northman's heart with deadly accuracy. It was a surgical strike that relied on Tan'os' heart to do most of the dirty work.
Jarle had only seen the Vise from a distance, on the rare occasions when he addressed the people from the parapets of Chancellery Square. He had seemed larger than life-a pale juggernaut amidst the olive-skinned, slim-fingered peoples of Reyza. In person, the distinction was even more pronounced. Tan'os was the epitome of the Bissatiel bloodline, blond-haired, broad-chested and tall-easily one and a half times Jarle's height. Bulging blue veins, visible beneath his alabaster flesh, ran the length of his arms, culminating at his thick neck. Strands of his blood-smeared hair hung over the edge of the bed like a shimmering cascade.
Looking at him, Jarle felt a pang of sadness. He could not recognize the noble lord or the brave sea captain who had once defended Reyza from the scourge of pirates. He saw only the face of a man plagued by a thousand troubles and his last, harrowing seconds spent among the living.
The sharp planes of Tan'os' face were chiseled in a silent howl.
Jarle blocked the door, preventing Avaren from entering the room. "You do not need to see this," Jarle said, his voice low. "Your father is dead. We should go."
"No! I must see him." Avaren pushed past him. She rushed into the room, clambering upon the bed to her father's side. Hot tears ran down her cheeks as she smoothed back her father's hair. "Papa!" Avaren cried, cradling the dead man in her arms. "Oh, Papa."
Jarle winced at the sight of the grief-stricken girl. In the moonlight, her pallor held a radiance, not unlike the marble quarried in the Canyon of Parryos, whose flawless white sheen was coveted the world over. Her long hair fell over her bare shoulders, glowing as if possessed by some mysterious luminescence. Jarle squeezed his eyes shut, but the strange aura surrounding the girl remained. He blinked again, rubbed his eyes, and forced himself to look elsewhere. As he did so, his mind cleared.
Suddenly it dawned on him-there had been no struggle because the Vise had been poisoned. The corded, cramped muscles along Tan'os' arms and his facial expression were the results of paralysis.
Jarle crossed the room and seized Avaren's wrist, pulling her hand away from Tan'os' face. "Poison," he cautioned, sniffing the air. Alongside the smell of blood, oiled wood, and Avaren's alluring perspiration, Jarle's trained nose picked up a faint, bitter smell. It reminded him of Esh'fah sauce, a fermented condiment favored by the Ghossians. Jarle narrowed his eyes, surprised by Mast's choice of poison.
"Forkleaf," Jarle said. "It paralyzes the body." The rare herb grew high on the frozen peaks of Blackspur, the Thrommish capital's mountain hold, where the air was thin. The substance induced excruciating pain, followed by debilitating spasms that caused the heart to beat faster until it stopped from exertion. Forkleaf explained the copious amount of blood that had gushed from the wound in the Vise's chest. "Your father died quickly," he lied.
Avaren looked at her bloodstained fingers, then at Jarle. "We can't just leave him here," she said, her voice cracking. "We must give him a proper burial so that his soul may cross the River of Dust."
Jarle covered the dead man's body with one of the furs. "We don't have much time. Here," he took two sequins from his pocket and placed them in her palm, "say a prayer for him and see that he makes it to the halls of his ancestors."
Avaren placed the coins over her father's open eyes, careful to avoid contact with his blood. "Leave me a moment."
Without further words, Jarle crossed the room. He stood beneath the eave of the door, his back to her to allow her some privacy. Behind him, Avaren began to sing in a language foreign to his ears. Though he could not understand her words, the melody caused Jarle's heart to swell with grief.
For a moment, Jarle was transported to the dingy confines of his childhood home–a soot-stained hovel by the docks. He'd been twelve when he'd knelt by his old man's side hoping for a miracle that never came. His father, a second-generation curskin, had died in a flea-infested bed, coughing up blood, without even a song or a coin to usher him to the next world. No funeral pyre had marked the passing of Tulot Jadien—the man who had taught Jarle what little honor he had. Kindness had earned his father nothing but maggoty bread, threadbare pockets, and a watery grave.
The melody stirred him. As the song ended, Jarle blinked away tears.
Avaren moved past him like a ghost and walked down the hall as if caught in a trance.
Jarle caught up to her. "What are you doing?"
"There is a secret passage beneath the stairs. We can take the servants' stairwell to get there. But first, there is something I must do."
Jarle looked around the empty hall. "Whatever it is, do it quickly."
Avaren stopped before a door. Her hand paused just shy of the latch.
Sensing Avaren's trepidation, Jarle pulled her aside and opened the door.
The scene that greeted him was as morbid as the last. Upon the bed, half covered by a sheet, lay an olive-skinned youth whose complexion had grown ashen in death. Beside him, strewn like a rag doll, lay a pale, naked girl with hair the color of summer wheat. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot. Mottled bruises circled her neck where Mast's hands had wreaked their havoc. The valet's clothes had come off in a hurry and were strewn about while the woman's dress was draped neatly over a chair. The pale blue silk was embroidered with pearls and dotted with topazes. It was the gown of a queen, not a servant's.
Outside the room, Avaren brought a hand to her mouth. "Please tell me he isn't dead."
Jarle shifted to let her pass. "I am sorry."
As she stared at the entangled, naked bodies, Avaren looked as if she might vomit. Betrayal, grief, and fear twisted her features into a mask of anguish. She reached out and brushed back a strand of the youth's hair, before turning her back on the massacre. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she shook like a leaf in the wind. "He lied to me! She lied to me. They all lied to me!"
"Quiet," Jarle hissed.
"Do not speak to me, mongrel!" Flailing arms followed Avaren's outburst. She smashed her fist into Jarle's face.
Jarle squinted against the pain. He grabbed Avaren and shook her. "What in Ven's name are you doing? Do you want to get us both killed?"
Avaren struggled against his hold; kicked Jarle solidly in the thigh.
An icy thrill ran down Jarle's spine as he heard the sound of footsteps. Clinking chainmail echoed in the stairwell. If he didn't silence Avaren, he would be slaughtered by the guards. He needed to think-fast.
Jarle spun the girl around and pinned her against his chest. He clamped his hand over her mouth and nudged the door closed with his boot. "By Ven's scaly cock, be quiet."
Outside, the guards emerged from the stairwell. The sound of the chain maille clinking quickened as they charged past the valet's room toward Tan'os' bedchamber.
Cold beads of sweat ran down Jarle's neck as he sought to silence Avaren. She writhed against his grasp, croaking muffled curses into his hand.
Jarle released her shoulders and grabbed Avaren in a chokehold. When she brought her hands up to struggle, Jarle swept her feet, throwing her off balance. Slowly, he eased her down while tightening his hold. He applied gradual pressure to her neck until she slumped into his arms.
Jarle lay Avaren down and rolled to his feet. He approached the door. Down the hall, the guards had assembled in the Vise's room and were locked in a heated discussion. Jarle strained to hear, but couldn't make out their words. With any luck, they would tarry over Tan'os' body long enough to allow him to slip down the service stairs.
Jarle returned to Avaren's side. Still feeling the sting of her blow, he wiped the sweat from his brow. He ran his fingers along her face and felt a strand of her hair. The torn robe she wore had parted to reveal the tops of her thighs. A hand lay on her belly lending the impression of peaceful repose. Jarle slipped his arms under her and hoisted her to his chest. "By the fires of Y'rth!" Jarle swore. Never had a woman compelled him to such folly.
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