“The only things I believe in, Your Majesty, are my wits and my skill. So I’m to have no choice. I either accept this job or else, is that it?”
“You have a choice. When I have described the job to you, you may either take it or refuse to do so.”
“At which point my head parts company from my shoulders.”
“The man you see is the royal executioner. He is skilled in his work. Death will be quick, clean. Far better than what you were facing. That much, at least, I owe you for your time.” Stephen turned to face Hugh, the eyes in the shadow of the chain-mail helm dark and empty, lit by nothing within, reflecting no light from without. “I must take precautions. I cannot expect you to accept this task without knowing its nature, yet to reveal it to you is to place myself at your mercy. I dare not permit you to remain alive, knowing what you will shortly know.”
“If I refuse, I’m disposed of by night, in the dark, no witnesses. If I accept, I’m entangled in the same web in which Your Majesty currently finds himself twisting.”
“What more do you expect? You are, after all, nothing but a murderer,” Stephen said coldly.
“And you, Your Majesty, are nothing more than a man who wants to hire a murderer.” Bowing with an ironic flourish, Hugh turned on his heel.
“Where are you going?” Stephen demanded. “If Your Majesty will excuse me, I’m late for an engagement. I should’ve been in hell an hour previous.” The Hand walked toward the door.
“Damn you! I’ve offered you your life!” Hugh didn’t even bother to turn around. “The price is too low. My life’s worth nothing, I don’t value it. In exchange, you want me to accept a job so dangerous you’ve got to trap a man to force him to take it? Better to meet death on my own terms than Your Majesty’s.”
Hugh flung open the door. The king’s courier stood facing him, blocking his way out. At his feet stood the glowlamp, and it cast its radiance upward, illuminating a face that was ethereal in its delicacy and beauty.
He’s a courier? And I’m a Sartan, Hugh thought. “Ten thousand barls,” said the young man. Hugh’s hand went to the braided beard, twisting it thoughtfully. His eyes glanced sideways at Stephen, who had come up behind him.
“Douse that light,” commanded the king. “Is this necessary, Trian?”
“Your Majesty”-Trian spoke with respect and patience, but it was the tone of one friend advising another, not the tone of a servant deferring to a master-“he is the best. There is no one else to whom we can entrust this. We have gone to considerable trouble to acquire him. We can’t afford to lose him. If Your Majesty will remember, I warned you from the beginning-”
“Yes, I remember!” Stephen snapped. He stood silent, inwardly fuming. He would undoubtedly like nothing better than to order his “courier” to march the assassin to the block. The king would probably, at this moment, enjoy wielding the executioner’s blade himself. The courier gently drew an iron screen over the light, leaving them in darkness.
“Very well!” the king snarled.
“Ten thousand barls?” Hugh couldn’t believe it.
“Yes,” answered Trian. “When the job is done.”
“Half now. Half when the job is done.”
“Your life now! The barls then!” Stephen hissed through clenched teeth.
Hugh took a step toward the door.
“Half now!” Stephen’s words were a gasp, almost incoherent.
Hugh, bowing in acquiescence, turned back to face the king.
“Who’s the victim?”
Stephen drew a deep breath. Hugh heard a clicking, catching choke in the king’s throat, a sound vaguely similar to the rattle in the throats of the dying.
“My son,” said the king.
CHAPTER 5
KIR MONASTERY, VOLKARAN ISLES, MID REALM
HUGH WAS NOT SURPRISED. IT HAD TO BE SOMEBODY CLOSE TO HIS MAJESTY, TO
account for all the intrigue and secrecy. The Hand knew Stephen had an heir to the throne, nothing more than that. Judging by the king’s age, the kid must be eighteen, twenty cycles. Old enough to get into serious trouble.