Prison of Night

A man who had been a little too eager, a little too inexperienced and so had made the lethal mistake of underestimating his victim. His casual disregard of protocol, the lack of elementary courtesy, his challenge, his very attitude had jarred with his adopted pose. Now he was dead and his secrets with him.

Dumarest said, "How did you know I was a target?"

"Rumors. Whispers in the dark. Hints dropped over wine-does it matter?"

"It matters. You mentioned Hoghan. I never saw you there. You fought under Haiten, you say?"

"Haiten lost. I was with Atlmar." Gartok reached for the bottle and poured himself more wine. "And we never met-did I claim we had? I learned of you from a captain who was greatly impressed. Listening to him I gained the impression that you watched a soldier lift his rifle, waited until he had fired then dodged the bullet. An exaggeration, naturally, but stories gain in the telling. And later I saw you as you walked in the town." He glanced at Lavinia. "You were not alone."

"A woman, Earl?" Lavinia had caught the subtle shift of inflexion. "Were you with a woman?"

Looking at the mercenary Dumarest said, "Describe her."

"Tall, well-made, beautiful if your interests lie in the patrician mold. She had red hair and her nails were tipped with metal. Her name-"

"I know her name." The man was either well-schooled or telling the truth. "Why are you here?"

"I told you. To carry a warning." Gartok stared at Dumarest for a long moment, then sighed. "There is more, naturally. Sometimes in life a man recognizes an opportunity. If he is wise he takes it. And if others aid him in his ambition, well, what else can he do but follow the tide? On Ilyard I heard rumors of the situation here on Zakym. Of an heir eager to claim his inheritance-or a man claiming to be that heir. You see the difference?"

"Go on."

"There was a monk who died. An old man but tough as monks always are. Why should he have died? I was curious and went to his cremation. I saw there a man with his wife and both seemed unduly distressed. The woman was almost hysterical. Again I wondered why she should have been so upset at the death of an old man. So I investigated and found something, an old book which the monk had kept. A record of sorts. I borrowed it."

"And?"

"I will make it plain, my friend. Gydapen had a partner as surely you must have guessed. His name is Charl Erabris and he is one of the largest dealers on Ilyard. You want men, guns, heavy equipment in order to wage a war? He can supply them. Credit? He can supply that too. Offer him the loot of a world and the prospect will fill his universe." Gartok drained the last of his wine then added, quietly, "You can appreciate why such a man would be your enemy."

"He sent the assassin?"

"Yes."

"And the monk?" Lavinia leaned forward over the table. "What had he to do with it?"

"Nothing. He was a victim and that was all. Lady Othurine, Embris's wife, was distraught and sought comfort from the church. The old monk attended her. She would have told him things others wanted to remain secret. Her husband for one. Her son for another. Especially her son."

"The false heir?"

"You are shrewd, my lady. When Gydapen died an excuse had to be found to continue with the original plan. The original heir provided it. He is dead, of course, and his identity has been adopted by another. A vicious murder for the sake of greed, but what intelligent man would set another on a throne when he could take it for himself? The Lady Othurine loved her son and is afraid for him. She spoke of this to the old monk." Gartok stared into his empty glass. "For that he died."

Assassinated in order to close his mouth. Such things were easily arranged on a world devoted to the pursuit of war.

But the mercenary-where did his interests lie?

"You mentioned a book," said Dumarest. "Which you borrowed."

"And which the monks reclaimed. The Church abhors violence, Earl, but justice is another matter. We came to an arrangement. Armed with knowledge they had given me I visited Embris and came to an understanding. He thinks I am here on his behalf."

"Are you?"

Gartok lifted his glass and turned it in his thick fingers, a single drop of wine moving sluggishly over the crystal; blood won from a reluctant wound.

"I am a gambler, Earl, what else can a mercenary be? To work for Embris is to work for the man who hopes to make this world his own and for what? Small pay and high risk and, when the prize has been won, scant thanks and small reward. Now, if I were to work with you… ?" He let his voice trail into silence.

"I have nothing, you realize that?"

"You have yourself."

Lavinia said, sharply, "What do you hope to gain?"

"Money, my lady." Gartok was blunt. "A high place, lands, certainly rich compensation-all conditional on victory. If we lose I get nothing."

"If we lose Earl could be dead!"