*
Irrian made sure his face remained expressionless as the two men approached. It wouldn’t do to reveal his inner thoughts too clearly. Beside him Karch also wore a bland look, his true feelings hidden deep inside. Sometimes Irrian thought the denizens of the Old City could conceal any evil behind their masks, like plotters in a puppet play, and probably did.
“This is Captain Elizur Mandain,” Sarul said as he reached the circle of light thrown by the candelabrum. “Captain, meet Arch-Prelates Irrian and Karch, both members of the Hierocracy.”
“An honour,” the soldier said with a smooth bow.
“The honour is ours, of course.” Irrian studied him from behind steepled fingers. Elizur was muscular and looked awesomely fit, and like many of the best soldiers he moved on cat’s feet, always poised and balanced. The soldier looked back flatly. “Hmm. I thought you would be bigger.”
Elizur’s cheek twitched, and anger flashed hot in his eyes before he could cover it. “I am as big as I need to be, Arch-Prelate.”
So. The reports Irrian had read suggested the man was sensitive about his stature, which was evidently the case. And that a tic showed in his cheek under stress. If that much was correct then it was likely that the rest was too. Irrian lidded his eyes and watched as Sarul pointed the soldier to an armchair and then sat himself, arranging the folds of his robes.
This is a dangerous man, he thought inwardly, behind the studied mask of his face. Any fighting man was dangerous, but with Elizur there was more to it. Under his outward litheness ran a thick thread of tension, something hot and tight and barely restrained. It showed in the sharp snaps of his movements: that revealed his grace as a learned skill, not nature’s gift. Irrian thought he would not like to be nearby when that rage broke loose.
He laughed suddenly at himself. Elizur might be dangerous, in his way, but that was not unusual in the Old City. Sarul’s desire to be the next Hierarch ate the man alive every day of his life: there was a genuine inner heat, and it would scorch and scald anyone who tried to baulk him. Karch could not dream of such rank – he knew his colleagues saw him as a fussy little stick of a man, and would never elevate him further – but his frustration at that emerged in envy and petty jealousy. There were dangers everywhere in Coristos, some of one kind and some of another, but any might be deadly to a careless man.
“What we are about to discuss,” Sarul said in that magnificent voice of his, “must not be spoken of outside these walls. Understand that, Master Elizur. Mother Church commands it.”
The soldier nodded once.
“Karch,” Sarul said.
The bony man was quick to take up proceedings. “This morning the Crusade army on the river Rielle received new orders. I don’t doubt you’ve heard the rumours?” He raised his eyebrows but didn’t wait for a response. Irrian knew why: Karch had learned long ago that if he paused for breath someone else would begin to speak, and the little man would be forgotten. “They are true. The All-Church has called Crusade against the heretics of the Duality, in Sarténe, and will erase their foulness before the summer is ended.”
“I am certain all God-fearing children of our Mother Church will be delighted at the news,” Elizur said.
“Of course they will be,” Sarul said dryly. “Our beloved children are always so very eager to accede to our interventions, after all.”
Irrian swallowed a great gust of laughter, though the effort made him break out in a sudden fit of coughing. He fished a handkerchief from inside his robe and wiped at his nose, peering over it at the others. “A touch of hay fever, I’m afraid. Don’t concern yourselves.”
“You suffer hay fever?” Karch asked dubiously.
“I’m a martyr to it,” Irrian assured him solemnly. “A perfect martyr. It grieves me that the beauty of summer is so marred for me, but no doubt the Lord has his reasons.”
“No doubt,” Sarul said, his tone now frosty. “Is it vaguely possible we might move on, do you think? Thank you so much.”
“There is a difficulty we had not anticipated,” Karch said, hurrying over his words with a quick glance at the other Arch-Prelate that almost made Irrian laugh again. The little man was like a child trying to please a grumpy uncle. “Somehow, the Hand of the Lord in Tura d’Madai learned of our intentions some time ago, and has returned to Sarténe already.”
Elizur blinked, visibly discomfited for the first time. “All of it? That will leave our forces in Elorium short. Especially if the reinforcements are sent to Sarténe and not Tura d’Madai.”
“You need not concern yourself with that,” Sarul intoned from the depths of his chair. “Would you direct the armies of the Lord now, my son? Have you sat in our solemn convocations, and prayed for the guidance of the Lord God under the White Dome of the Basilica? I thought not.” He flicked long fingers in dismissal. “Leave the decisions of high leadership to those accustomed to their burdens, and go where you are bid.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Elizur said, and his smile was so sudden and bright that Irrian couldn’t keep a flicker of surprise from his own expression. Nobody’s mood changed that fast, except for a madman’s. He hooded his eyes again and let himself sink deeper into his own chair, watching the soldier surreptitiously from the concealing shadows.
“The problem,” Karch went on doggedly, “concerns the men we expect to lead the Hand in the fight to come. Baruch Caraman, Luthien Bourrel, Raigal Tai… and Calesh Saissan.”
By the time the fourth name was spoken Elizur had gone rigid in his chair, his hands tight on his thighs as though only a great effort kept them there. He closed his eyes briefly and took several deep breaths, clearly calming himself. His cheek twitched twice.
“Do you remember the names?” Irrian asked idly.
Karch snorted. “He’d better, or this is all for nothing.”
He did, Irrian was certain. The Hierocracy had known that before the man was brought to the Old City, which of course was why they had chosen him for the task they wanted performed. They had taken some care to be sure they had the right man. An experienced killer, superbly talented with the sword, and with a personal grudge against those four men. Especially Calesh. Elizur’s reaction was enough to tell Irrian the choice was a good one.
“I remember,” Elizur said. His knuckles were white, but no strain showed in his voice. “They are together again?”
“Either that, or they soon will be,” Sarul said.
“Then the All-Church has a problem,” Elizur told them.
Sarul leaned forward in his chair. “Our army is perhaps four times as large as anything the heretics can raise against us. Our forces are rested and supplied, while Sarténe’s are still scattered and unprepared. I fail to see, captain, why it is we who have a problem.”
“Nevertheless you do,” Elizur said. His cheek twitched again. “Those four men are very good. No, I take that back. These four men are magnificent. Alone, they’re talented soldiers, each one of them. Men to reckon with. But together they become something remarkable. And Calesh Saissan,” he shivered when he spoke the name, as though caressing it, “has the most precious gift any commander can possess, better than any possible knowledge of an enemy or a battlefield. He makes men want to fight for him, yearn to fight for him, and because of that they always fight better. Any one of his men would gladly die for him.”
“You sound as though you admire him,” Irrian said smoothly. He’d known that Elizur hated the Sarténi, but not that the hatred ran so deep. All the soldier’s previous aplomb had vanished now.
Elizur frowned, perhaps sensing a threat. “I admire his skill. As to the rest, a good soldier always knows his enemy.”
“And you are a very good soldier,” Sarul said, interceding now they had come to the point. He leaned forward in his chair. “You spent five years in Alinaur fighting against the Jaidi, and never suffered a wound of any importance. After that the Justified attached you to their Highbinders, the elite group of assassins and other specialist killers,
and you were sent to Tura d’Madai. To date –“
“There’s no such group among the Servants of the Justification of God,” Elizur broke in.
Sarul’s eyes narrowed. “And the bone-handled gloves you left at the Gate? What of them?”
“An affectation,” Elizur said, with the air of a man admitting an embarrassing truth. “Sometimes it helps for people to believe I’m more than I am.”
“More than you are,” Sarul repeated softly. “Tell me, Captain Mandein, do you really think we would allow an Order of knights, founded in the name of the All-Church, to form such a highly-trained elite – and not know about it? Captain, do not take us for fools. Or shall I offer more details to persuade you that I do indeed know?” He grinned, a shark’s hungry smile. “The head of your sect is Aravan Gleve, though officially he is only a middle-ranking official in the requisitions department. To date you have received twenty-three assignments, under both Gleve and his predecessor, in various regions from here to Tura d’Madai. Each has been successfully completed. You have been twice decorated, once with the Six-Pointed Star, in silver.” He paused, then gave a thin smile. “And of course, three years ago you won the sword tournament at Caileve, against more than two hundred men from all over the known world. I believe you actually killed your opponent in the semi-final.”
“He was Madai,” Elizur shrugged. “How do you know these things about my Order? Our group is highly secret.”
“All the Orders are formed in the name of the All-Church, and exist only with our blessing,” Karch said prissily. “Do you really think we would not concern ourselves with the things they do?”
That came close to admitting there were spies among the Justified, and to judge from Elizur’s slitted eyes he took it as such. Irrian didn’t like the soldier’s behaviour: it was too intense, from the jumping cheek muscle to his white-knuckled hands. He watched and kept silent, waiting to learn more. The hardest thing about patience is the waiting, he’d joked as an acolyte, long ago. The jest hadn’t been funny then. Now it was bitter indeed.
“Why do you tell me this?” Elizur asked after a thoughtful pause. “You must realise I’ll tell my commanders, and we’ll find your agent among us if we can.”
“We admit to the existence of no agents,” Karch said, far too quickly, and then wilted under Sarul’s burning stare.
“We know perfectly well what you will do,” the older clergyman said. Every word he spoke seemed intoned, as though he was reciting the most holy rituals of the Church under the White Dome of the Basilica itself. “We judge it worth the risk, in view of the prize we aim at. The Hierocracy wishes you to undertake a mission for the All-Church, Master Mandein.”
“What mission?” the soldier demanded.
“We want you to go to Sarténe,” Sarul said. “You may requisition anything you need, any weapon and whatever supplies you believe you will need. Once there you are to kill Calesh Saissan, his three friends, their families, and anyone else you find with them. Any measure you deem necessary will be supported, and the rewards will be great.”
Elizur’s reward would be to find himself abandoned the moment disaster struck, if Irrian had learned anything about how the Church worked, and all knowledge of his actions denied. By the Hierarch himself, if necessary. Even if he succeeded, the soldier was likely to find himself bound and stuffed in a sack, then tossed in a river to drown. That way the Hierocracy could be sure their actions would always remain secret. Another mask, Irrian thought, another cruelty done in the name of God, and then hidden behind a smiling clergy which spoke of forgiveness and love.
Elizur didn’t appear to register any of that. His lips had curved into a tight smile. “I can kill Saissan.”
“Yes,” Sarul said. “And his friends.”
Irrian doubted that the other three mattered very much to Elizur. It was Calesh he wanted above all, because despite Sarul’s earlier words the highbinder had not succeeded in all his assignments. He had failed in one, a twenty-fourth mission whose existence was denied by the Justified – even those few Irrian had found who admitted the Highbinders existed at all. That mission had been in Tura d’Madai, against the enemy captain whose brilliance threatened to destroy everything the All-Church armies had achieved, and drive them back into the sea. Against Cammar a Amalik.
As far as Irrian could discover, it had been Elizur’s third assignment in Tura d’Madai, and it had come because he was in the right place at the right time. That was often the way: whoever was closest was given the task, if possible. One highbinder was as expendable as the next. Only the very best, the most brilliant of the expert killers recruited into that select group, could choose their missions. There might be two men so favoured, three at the most, and killing Amalik would take Elizur to the very top. He would join the elect, doing the Lord’s work from the shadows, much as Sarul was doing now. Atrocities excused by necessity, and later denied.
All he had needed to do was kill one man. There was no way to creep up on Amalik, surrounded as he always was by dark-skinned Madai. So Elizur had delayed until the next battle, in a valley known as Gidren Field, and placed himself with a unit of Justified in the centre of the Crusade line, where Amalik liked to strike. Then he waited for Cammar a Amalik to come to him.
He would have done, except that the soldiers around Elizur gave back, the unit rippling with incipient panic, and the assassin had to retreat with them. It might not have mattered… but then someone raised a shout, a unit of the Hand of the Lord came rushing in, and everything changed.
Elizur had been heard to say, with contempt, that Calesh had been lucky. That he’d made a mistake, abandoned his position in the line because he panicked, or had no regard for orders, or some other character flaw. Fortune favours fools was the phrase he used, but not forever.
All the Justified were equally dismissive. What couldn’t be denied was that the death of Amalik had turned the battle, perhaps even the war, and it was Calesh who had killed him. The soldiers knew that, those who had been there, and neither the Glorified nor the Order of the Basilica had reason to lie. Calesh’s fame spread. Honours were proposed for him, one after the other, and the Justified blocked them when they could while Calesh himself never seemed to notice, or to care. In the meantime Elizur Mandein stood to one side and nursed his own bitterness, while his commanders showed with sidelong looks and veiled hints that they blamed him for all of it.
He wanted Calesh dead, on his own blade, to expunge that shame from his memory, and made no secret of it. That was why the Hierocracy had picked him for the task. Elizur would do it, so single-mindedly that he wouldn’t stop to think of anything else until it was done. And by then, of course, the trap would be closing around him in its turn.
Irrian watched from the recesses of his chair, and wondered whether Calesh would be a match for this man.
Eleven
Shrouded
“We were never going to be able to stop it,” Irrian said. He stood with his back to the room, gazing out over the cloisters and spires of the Old City. Evening sunlight gleamed from windows and domes. Quarter of a mile away the Basilica was a red-gold flame. Irrian spent as much time as he could here, in the apartments which were the only place in the entire Old City where he felt truly at peace, and safe. There were traps everywhere in Elorium. One slip, one misplaced word at the wrong time, and you would never be forgiven.
“Truth to tell,” he went on,” I don’t think we’ve had a chance since the priest was murdered by the river. Perhaps since he was sent to Sarténe in the first place. Sarul must have known what an offensive dolt that man was.”
“Of course he did,” Jayan said. He was taking clothes from a large basket by the wardrobe and folding them into neat piles, to be ironed later. He didn’t look over to the window. “Everyone’s known it for years. I take it you’ll still speak against the policy in the Convocation?”
“Of course I will. For all the good it will do.” Irrian rubbed at tired eyes. “I might actually be abl
e to persuade a handful of Arch-Prelates that an invasion of Sarténe is a gross over-reaction. Even an act of crude barbarism against fellow believers. And to what purpose?”
“None at all,” Jayan admitted morosely. He shook his head and smoothed out the sleeve of a white shirt. “A Crusade aimed against people of the Faith. I can hardly believe it.”
Irrian looked at his servant with a wry smile. “They aren’t really people of the Faith, my friend. You know that.”
“Close enough,” the other man muttered. “They worship the same god, and use some of the same canons.”
“And many different, as well.”
Jayan nodded. “I know. And yet, I’ve heard you say the Madai god is the same as ours before now, and the Jaidi one as well, but we share no canons with those faiths at all.”
“True enough,” Irrian admitted. He made a flicking gesture with his fingers to dismiss the subject and threw himself into an armchair, scowling. “The Dualists haven’t helped their own cause, you know. They used to conceal their beliefs, and at least give lip service to the All-Church, but that’s changed. I wish I knew why. If I could only go there and see...” He trailed off, then shook his head. “Well, no use wishing for what can’t be. At any rate, now the Dualists flaunt their beliefs, and never give a thought to what the Basilica might do.”
“Then why do you think it’s wrong to attack them?”
“For many reasons,” Irrian said. “Because I’ve never believed faith can be spread with the sword, for one thing. You can force people to their knees, but you can’t force them to believe. All you achieve is to create resentment, and that will explode in your face, in the end.”
“And why else?” Jayan asked. He was still folding clothes.
“You know as well as I,” Irrian growled. “The All-Church soldiers already in Tura d’Madai need help, or they’ll be overwhelmed. Especially now Calesh Saissan has withdrawn the Hand of the Lord. Five and a half thousand men gone from the lines, just like that! Our army should be sent there, while our best evangelical preachers go into Sarténe, to woo people back to the Faith with words. They work better than swords, in the long run.”
“Sarul doesn’t believe that.”
Irrian’s mouth twisted. “Sarul is a fool.”
He was worse than simply a fool, in fact. Sarul always saw what he wanted to see, and persuaded himself it was true – except where the endless, labyrinthine politics of the Old City were concerned. When it came to matters of personal advancement Sarul possessed a mind like a polished jewel: clear and bright, with a hundred facets, but utterly cold. A fool would not have been such a danger as this ambitious man whose diamond mind saw only what he wanted it to see. Irrian had hated him for a long time, taking care to hide it behind lazy smiles and hooded, watchful eyes. Masks again, he thought; the endless game of deception. He was sure Sarul didn’t know how he felt; if he had, Irrian would have been banished from Coristos on some false charge, or killed, long ago.
“Sarul,” he said, “will join the army himself, as Hierarchal Legate. He will advise the generals.”
“Sarul doesn’t advise anyone,” the servant answered. “He tells them. Or shouts. Or threatens.”
“And he will be the new Hierarch when old Antanus finally dies,” Irrian said. He could taste bitterness in his throat.
This time Jayan did stop folding clothes, and glanced across at the chair with concern clear on his square face. “I was afraid of that.”
“I almost dread to think what Sarul will do when he wears the mitre,” Irrian said. He rubbed his eyes again. “Anyone who wants something that badly shouldn’t be trusted with it. And Sarul doesn’t even want to be Hierarch for anything. There will be no new revelations, no reinterpretations of the faith or edicts of forgiveness. No fresh insights or understandings. Missionaries won’t be sent out to bring new converts into the Faith. Corruption won’t be addressed; and that needs to be addressed, Jayan. If the priests hadn’t been charging for services which ought to be free, the Dualism might never have taken hold in Sarténe.”
“Masses and confessions,” Jayan agreed, nodding. “Even for funerals, if the rumours are right.”
Irrian scowled. “The rumours are right. But Sarul hasn’t thought about any of that, and wouldn’t have an idea even if he had. He’s not interested in the future of the Faith, just in his own future, how much he can achieve. It’s enough for him to want, and to him, taking the mitre will mean he’s won another struggle, and proved himself the best.”
“I could deal with him for you,” Jayan said after a moment, his voice a bare whisper.
Irrian sighed wearily. It was a suggestion Jayan had made before, and one Irrian knew he could fulfil. “No, my friend. I won’t condone the Faithful killing each other if it can be avoided.”
“Ah,” Jayan smiled. “I knew that was why you oppose sending the army into Sarténe.”
Well, perhaps it was. The Dualists had changed many of the God-Son’s teachings, even to the point where they denied his divinity. They taught the soul was created by God, but flesh by the Devil, and life was a constant struggle between the two. That was why their Elite forswore all pleasures of the flesh, from wine to sexual congress, in order to purify their souls. All-Church priests were supposed to do the same, though they rarely did. Irrian himself had a weakness for a glass of wine with his supper. Flesh was weak, whoever had created it.
But the Dualists’ belief that flesh was tainted by evil meant the God-Son could not have been divine, clothed in flesh as he was. In turn, that meant he could not have risen from the grave, and the redemption he offered was thus false. One of the Elite had even gone so far as to claim Adjai must have been an agent of the Devil, sent to lead men from the true path. Irrian couldn’t imagine anything more likely to rouse the Basilica to fury, unless it was the speed with which the heresy was spreading. A generation ago nobody had heard of Dualism. Today it had all but pushed the All-Church out of Sarténe, and crossed the Raima Mountains to establish itself in the north of Alinaur. Other fingers had stretched into Rheven and Caileve, and even beyond. Pockets of the new religion sprang up as though out of the earth itself, spawning open air services and green-robed Elite, and leaving Church pews half deserted and the collection plates empty.
In another twenty years it might have gone too far to be stopped. That was the nightmare which haunted Sarul, and which he played on to frighten others into action. It was that fear which had led to Rabast’s mission to Sarténe, and then to his murder by the banks of the river.
Still, even with all that, the Dualists worshipped the same God, and taught lessons from the older books of prophets, the ones which predated the ministry of Adjai. They remained among the Faithful as far as Irrian was concerned, for all that they denied so much that the All-Church taught. What mattered was the search for God, the willingness to accept Him into your life, not the manner of the hunt itself. What did it matter where you prayed, or what words you used? Sending an army against them to enforce a certain method of worship was unjustified. Doing more would be abhorrent.
“Are we right?” he murmured, asking the question of himself more than Jayan. “I wish I could be certain. Is what we do right, or do we sin against God, without even knowing it?”
Jayan shrugged. “We follow our conscience as best we’re able. That’s all God asks of any man. And it’s a little late, Irrian, to start thinking we’ve done the wrong thing all these years.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.” He rose and went restlessly back to the window, wincing slightly as he did so. Arthritis had invaded his left hip some years before, at the early age of forty, since when sitting down or standing up had caused increasing pain. It was unfair that he should suffer twice for one ailment, he thought. “And you, Jayan? Do you ever doubt?”
“Never,” he said quietly. “Not for a second. I saw what the All-Church called salvation when I was a boy.”
So had Irrian, of course. Both of them had grown up in Sarténe, both close t
o the borders, though here in the Basilica they never mentioned that. Irrian thought it likely that nobody remembered it now. Sarul, if he knew, would use half-spoken insinuations to create a cloud of suspicion around them, something he did easily, except this time he wouldn’t be the only one. But Irrian and Jayan had witnessed the priests who gave masses only for those worshippers who could pay, and ignored the pleas of poor folk who feared their souls would be lost. They’d heard priests claim poverty as a virtue and then line their pockets with silver sesters, and eat roasted meats washed down with vintage wine while their parishioners went hungry. It was such abuses which had weakened the grip of the All-Church in Sarténe, and allowed the Dualism to work its roots into the ground.
Irrian still believed that priests – good ones, honest men serving God – were a surer way to end the heresy than violence. But the Hierocracy of the Basilica had set its face against any alternative to its teachings long ago, and it was one thing that would never change, no matter who wore the Hierarch’s mitre. Worshippers could not be allowed to believe the All-Church’s doctrine might be false, or even open to question. The sacred texts were the words of God, divine and infallible. The smallest deviation from them would place souls in peril: it was the All-Church’s duty, its obligation, to save men from such an insidious danger.
Irrian had said before that the All-Church needed to remember that it stood for the worship of God, not for the worship of writings which priests said were holy. A subtle difference, but like most such it was important. But he was swimming against the tide: it was Sarul, and the brand of cast-iron certainty he championed, that was in the ascendancy now. It had been for some time, in truth. Whole treatises of apologetics had been written to justify every word of the Canons, and apocryphal theories were simply not allowed.
“Doubt cracks the façade of faith,” Sarul had said, in a memorable phrase some years ago, “and apostasy slinks through the gaps.”
Sarul might as well be Hierarch already. A third of the Arch-Prelates were already in his camp. Another third, perhaps more, would support him in Convocation because they could smell the changes in the wind, and hoped to share a little in the blessings they brought. It was a majority for anything Sarul might propose short of slaughtering infants, and even that might be approved for babies born outside the Faith. Usually the Old City was a welter of factions arguing for this and that, their alliances shifting from day to day and one Convocation to the next. Sarul’s implacable rise had put an end to that, at least until he wore the mitre. Then it would start again, the Arch-Prelates manoeuvring in the race to succeed him, to achieve power for themselves. It had always been the same. It probably always would be.
It was, Irrian thought ruefully, the worst possible time for all this to have happened. If the priest had not been murdered there might have been a delay, a year at least while the Hierocracy debated what to do, or looked for a plausible excuse to invade. Since old Antanus began to fade there had been an air of inertia about the Old City, while Arch-Prelates and priests waited for him to die and power to pass to new hands, offering a new direction. Even the Convocations were limp things, lacking their usual fire. Left to itself the Hierocracy would have done nothing, and by the time it did the army by the Rielle would have been in Tura d’Madai. It was even possible that when Antanus died, and Sarul had his posterior seated firmly upon the Eternal Throne, he would no longer feel such an urgent need for a great cause to champion. Things might have been different then.
But it was all ifs and buts, because Rabast had been murdered beside the river, by a man with unshaven cheeks and rundown heels. All that was known about the killer were his parting words, overheard by a fisherman down by the water’s edge: the Margrave of Mayence sends his regards. Words so rash and ill-advised that it was tempting to believe they were a lie, concocted by some young zealot in order to advance his career in the Hierocracy. Irrian didn’t believe so, in fact. Such zealots existed, but they weren’t nearly as numerous as common people of utter, stupefying, irredeemable stupidity.
So, events were in motion. They had been for some time. The inertia in Coristos had slowed them though, because Antanus had still not died. He was bedridden now, hardly able to eat even when food was pushed into his mouth, but he lived and he was still God’s advocate upon the earth. The Convocation could discuss and vote all it liked, but until Antanus approved their plans on one of his increasingly rare lucid days, nothing happened. That near-paralysis had granted Calesh Saissan more than two months to bring the Hand of the Lord back from Tura d’Madai. It was more time than Irrian had thought he would have. Perhaps he ought to have had more faith.
But his faith had cracked long ago. He supposed Sarul would say that apostasy had slunk through the gaps.
He sighed and looked back at Jayan. He felt very tired. “Repeat the message back to me before you go.”
His old friend linked his hands together and began to recite, like a schoolboy who has learned a poem by rote. “An assassin is on his way to kill Calesh Saissan and his friends. He’s a Justified highbinder named Elizur Mandain. He plans to blend into a mercenary company and enter Sarténe with them, using a false name and probably a more extensive disguise as well. Meanwhile, Sarul will accompany the army, as Hierarchal Legate advising General Amaury.”
“Good,” Irrian said. Sarul as Legate. God in Heaven, it just gets worse and worse. “Go now, Jayan. Pass the message to the Lady of the Hidden House. Tell our friends what is coming.”
He waited until the door closed before he went back to the chair. These days the constant ache in his hip meant he found it easier to rest sitting up than in bed. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, and as he drifted towards sleep memories played across his eyelids.