Lord of the Shadows (13 page)

He turned to leave, but something occurred to Kirsh that he had not thought to ask earlier. “The new High Priestess, Dirk? You didn't say who it was.”

Dirk hesitated his hand on the doorknob before he turned back to look at Kirsh. “You haven't heard?”

“Would I be asking if I had?”

“I'm sorry …”

“You've no need to apologize, Dirk, just tell me who I'll have to suffer across the dinner table for the next decade or so. I hope it isn't Madalan Tirov. She's a sour old hag.” He smiled. “My father might find himself suddenly otherwise engaged on Landfall if he has to take her to his bed.”

“It wasn't Madalan, Kirsh.”

“Then who was it, Dirk?”

Dirk remained silent. His reluctance seemed rather odd.
“For the Goddess's sake! I'm beginning to think you don't want me to know.”

“You'll find out soon enough, I suppose, when they make the announcement.”

Dirk's unwillingness to divulge the identity of the new High Priestess was making Kirsh suspicious. Maybe it was because a new High Priestess had not been appointed, but a High
Priest
.

“It's you, isn't it? Is that why you're here? Because you know the way through the delta? Because the Goddess supposedly gave
you
the information?” Kirsh shook his head in disgust. “Did you murder Belagren, too, just to make it look good?”

“It's not me, Kirsh.” He was a long time adding: “It's Marqel.”

Kirsh stared at Dirk uncomprehendingly.

“Marqel is the Voice of the Goddess. The High Priestess of the Shadowdancers.”

“It can't be!”

“It's true, and believe me, I'm no happier about it than you are. The Lord of the Suns has confirmed it. I'm sorry, Kirsh…”

“Get out!”

Dirk did as Kirsh ordered and the prince sagged back in his chair, closed his eyes and let the fantasy world he had been living in come crashing down around him.

he Hospice was not equipped with prison cells, so they had had to make do with the isolation rooms where the mentally disturbed patients were confined during psychotic episodes. With the growing prevalence of poppy-dust addiction, the rooms were in demand more often than the Shadowdancers liked to admit.

Boris Farlo proved to be a rotund, jolly little man, who
jumped to his feet and immediately began protesting his innocence as soon as Dirk stepped into the padded room. Dirk dismissed the guard, heard the cell door lock behind him and then turned to the basket maker. He had been roughed up a bit and sported a rather spectacular black eye, but other than that, he seemed none the worse for his incarceration.

“Shut up,” he ordered impatiently.

“But, my lord…”

“I'm not interested in listening to your lies,” Dirk told him. “In fact, I'm quite disgusted by them. Surely, you could have come up with something more convincing than a misplaced basket? I always thought the Brotherhood was smarter than that.”

Boris met his eye with an innocent shrug. “I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, my lord.”

“I'm sure you
do
.”

The basket maker studied him curiously. “I've not seen you around Tolace before. Who are you?”

“My name is Dirk Provin.”

Boris hesitated, and then dropped all pretense of innocence. “What do you want with me?”

“I want a deal. With the Brotherhood.”

“Then perhaps you should speak to someone from the Brotherhood, my lord,” Boris suggested with a sly little smile.

“I'll take my chances with you.”

The fat man shrugged, as if it made little difference to him. “You can tell me of the deal you wish to make, my lord, but I can't guarantee it will reach the ears of those who might want to hear it.”

“I'm sure if I arranged for you and your wife to be released, they'd get word of it somehow.”

Boris looked at him with new respect. “You can do that?”

“I'm the Lord of the Shadows, Master Farlo,” Dirk told him. “I can do pretty much anything I want.”

Boris considered his offer silently, and then nodded. “What's the deal?”

“I want them to call off the assassins they've set onto me.”

“Once a contract is accepted, the Brotherhood does not
renege on its promises, my lord,” Boris warned, and then he added with a smile, “At least, that's what I've heard.”

“I can make it worth their while.”

“Money is not the issue, Lord Provin. It's the principle of the thing. How would it look if we…
they
… were bought off so easily? I mean, what would be the point of employing an assassin at all, if all your target had to do to get rid of the threat was to offer more money?”

“Your moral dilemma truly breaks my heart,” Dirk said. “But I wasn't planning to offer money.”

“Then what were you planning to offer?”

“Information.”

Boris frowned. “What sort of information?”

“When I returned to Avacas, Antonov asked me for the names of every man and woman connected with the Brotherhood I could identify. After two years in the Baenlands, it was quite a list. Even I was surprised by the length of it.”

“And you gave it to him?”

“Of course I gave it to him.”

“Then the damage is done.” Boris shrugged. “What can you possibly offer the Brotherhood that would make them withdraw the contract on a man who has so comprehensively betrayed them?”

“I can give them the names on that list.”

“To what purpose? If Antonov already has them, then it's too late to save anyone.”

“The High Priestess has just died,” Dirk reminded him. “His eldest son has been kidnapped and the Lord of the Suns lies in Antonov's palace on the brink of death, thanks to your bumbling assassin. He has other things to occupy him right now, and there is a limit even to the Lion of Senet's resources. Your people are probably safe until we get back from Mil.”

“And if the Brotherhood refuses to consider your offer?”

“Then I'll let Kirshov kill you and your wife, Barin Welacin can have a free hand with the names on that list, and I'll just have to take my chances with your assassins.”

“You drive a hard bargain, my lord. Perhaps, if you ever
tire of a career with the Shadowdancers, you should consider becoming a merchant.”

“I'll keep it in mind,” Dirk promised, with a thin smile. “Do we have a deal?”

Before Boris could agree, there was a knock at the door. Dirk called permission to enter and heard the door unlocking. It swung open to reveal a short, dumpy and very irate looking woman and a buxom blond girl of about eighteen. The women rushed into the cell and threw themselves at the basket maker, the three of them gushing over each other, checking to ensure each was unharmed.

Dirk smiled at the warmth of the reunion and then turned to the guard. “They'll be all right with me, for the time being. I'll call you when we're done.”

Boris looked up as the door closed and glared at Dirk suspiciously. “Why have you brought them here?”

He did not answer the basket maker, but turned to the older woman. “You must be Gilda, Master Farlo's wife. And this is one of your daughters?”

“Her name is Caterina,” Gilda told him. “And she has nothing to do with any of this.”

“ ‘I'm sure she doesn't,” Dirk agreed. “As for the reason you're here …I brought you here to release you, Mistress Farlo.”

“Why?” Gilda asked skeptically.

“Because Master Farlo and I have struck a deal.”

Gilda turned to her husband questioningly. “What have you done, Papa?”

“Nothing!” he protested. Dirk thought he was more frightened of his wife than anything else he had been threatened with recently. “Lord Provin simply wants me to take a message to someone.”

Gilda turned to Dirk with a scowl. “Lord
Provin
? You are Dirk Provin?”

“Yes.”

She spat on the ground at his feet. “That's what I think of you and your offers, boy. We'll have no part of them.”

Dirk wasn't really surprised by her attitude. In her place,
he would probably feel the same. “I'm sorry you feel that way, mistress. I was going to accept your husband's word on this, but I see now it would be foolish in the extreme to trust him to carry out my instructions if you plan to undermine them. You force me to take more drastic action.”

“What drastic action?” Gilda sneered.

In reply, Dirk knocked on the door and waited for the guard outside to unlock it. Three heavily armed Senetian Palace Guards stepped into the small cell, filling it with their looming presence.

“Take the girl,” Dirk ordered.

Boris and Gilda tried to protect her, but they had no chance of fending off the soldiers. Caterina screamed as she was torn from her parents and dragged from the cell by two of the guards. The third remained to await further orders.

“Have her taken down to the longboat,” Dirk told him. “She'll be going back to the
Tsarina
with me.”

“No!” Gilda cried in protest, lunging at him. The guard beat her back effortlessly, knocking her to the floor. Boris bent down to help his wife up, glaring at Dirk.

“The tales about your cruelty hardly do you justice, Dirk Provin.”

Boris managed to make his name sound like an insult. Dirk dismissed the guard and then turned back to the basket weaver and his wife.

“Do as I ask and your daughter will be returned to you, whole and unharmed,” he said. “Cross me, or try to have me killed, and I will leave instructions that she is to be handed over to the crew for their amusement before she is killed. Is that clear?”

The rotund little man wasn't looking nearly as jolly as he had been when Dirk first entered the cell. “How do we know you'll keep your end of the bargain?”

Dirk noticed that Boris said “we.” The basket maker had given up pretending he was not a member of the Brotherhood, which relieved Dirk a great deal. It was bad enough having to threaten these people. It would have been even worse if it had all been for nothing.

“You'll get the list before I sail,” Dirk promised.

“But Caterina …” Gilda began desperately.

“Will be safe as long as I am,” Dirk assured her.

The woman glared at him. “If you harm one hair on my daughter's head you'll be begging for death before I'm finished with you, Dirk Provin.”

“If any harm comes to your daughter, I'll already be dead, Mistress Farlo,” he replied, sounding much more careless of her threat than he actually felt. Without giving her a chance to answer, Dirk turned and knocked on the door again. The guard opened it and stepped inside, waiting for his orders.

“Master Farlo and his wife are free to go.”

The guard looked at him doubtfully. “My lord?”

“You can release them, Sergeant.”

“But his highness said …”

“His highness asked me to come here and determine the innocence or guilt of these people. While I've no doubt they're guilty of something, they are innocent of anything connected with Prince Misha's abduction. Now do as I order, or would you prefer I had Prince Kirshov called down here to give you the order himself?”

After a moment's hesitation, the man nodded and stepped back. “As you command, my lord.”

Dirk turned back to the basket maker and his wife. “Go,” he said sternly. “And don't let me hear anything unsavory about either of you ever again, or you
will
taste Prince Kirshov's justice.”

Although Gilda obviously wanted to stay and argue, Boris grabbed his wife's hand and dragged her from the cell.

Dirk watched them leave, thinking all the people who thought he was a mathematical genius were wrong. His genius was not figures; his genius was getting himself embroiled in plots so complex not even he could be sure how they would end.

And to top it all off, he was now lumbered with the unwelcome and unwilling company of Caterina Farlo.

It was days like this Dirk was sorry that when Tia tried to kill him, she missed.

arqel had given very little thought to what was involved in being High Priestess beyond the prestige and power she imagined she would wield. The reality of her position proved to be rather less glamorous than she expected.

One thing Marqel had not been counting on was that the official residence of the High Priestess of the Shadowdancers was not Antonov's palace, but the Hall of Shadows. Madalan took great delight in pointing out this awkward fact to her the day after Dirk left Avacas with the fleet. The Shadowdancer arrived at her door with a bevy of aides in tow, and announced that, as Marqel was now the High Priestess, she must return to the Hall of Shadows to assume her duties formally.

Marqel was escorted out of the palace with a great deal of pomp and ceremony. She was driven back to the Hall of Shadows in Belagren's coach, with Madalan sitting opposite her the whole way, smiling at her like a spider that had just discovered a particularly juicy fly had landed in its web. It began to rain as they turned out of the palace gates and the drops pounded on the taut leather canopy.

“You'll need to address the Shadowdancers as soon as we arrive,” Madalan informed her loudly over the downpour as they jolted along the slick cobblestones toward the Hall of Shadows. “Have you given any thought to what you are going to say?”

“Why do I have to say anything?” Marqel looked down at her gown. A few stray raindrops had splashed into the coach. They would probably stain the red silk. But it didn't really matter, she supposed. She was High Priestess now. Marqel could afford all the gowns she wanted.

“It is expected of you.”

“Can't
you
say something to them?” she asked, not wanting to confront that sea of hostile faces. Marqel knew her elevation
to High Priestess would be unpopular among the other Shadowdancers. It was the reason she wanted to stay at the palace, where she had Antonov's protection.

Madalan wasn't interested in making this easy for her. “What would you have me say to them, Marqel?
I'm sorry, but your High Priestess couldn't be bothered with you right now?
”

“That's not what I meant,” she said, guessing Madalan would really get angry if she didn't at least give the impression she cared. “Can't you just tell them I'm so overwhelmed by the honor of speaking to the Goddess that I can't bring myself to face them…or something like that?”

“And what will be your excuse the next time?” Madalan asked impatiently. “No, Marqel, you can't and shouldn't put this off if you expect to hold onto your rather tenuous grasp on the position of High Priestess.”

“It's not tenuous,” she objected. “I'm the Voice of the Goddess.”

“You are a pawn, Marqel,” Madalan told her harshly. “And a highly disposable one at that. Until Kirshov returns from Mil, your position is
very
tenuous.”

“What do you mean?”

Madalan looked at her for a moment, and then laughed. “You have no idea, do you? Foolish girl! Why do you think I agreed to this preposterous arrangement? Because I thought you were worthy of replacing Belagren? You're not usually so stupid!”

“You've got no choice but to go along with it,” Marqel pointed out with a pout, rather hurt by Madalan's attitude. “Dirk told
me
the way through the delta, not you.”

“And have you considered the possibility he's lying to you, Marqel? That boy can't be trusted as far as you could spit him into a headwind. For all you know, you are simply a puppet in some twisted game he's playing to get back at Antonov for killing his mother.”

Marqel hadn't actually thought about it like that. “Why would he lie about it?”

“If the instructions he gave you are false, Marqel, then Senet's entire naval capability will be destroyed in one hit,
trying to get through the delta. How much do you think the pirates in the Baenlands would enjoy seeing that happen?”

“But if he's lying, then Antonov will—”

“Blame you,” Madalan finished for her bluntly. “As far as the Lion of Senet is concerned,
you
are the voice of the Goddess. Dirk Provin will remain blameless. You really shouldn't underestimate that boy, Marqel. It may end up costing you your life.”

“Do
you
think Dirk is lying?”

“Ask me again, if and when the fleet returns from Mil.”

Marqel was silent for a time, considering what Madalan had told her. It made a frightening amount of sense that Dirk would use her in such a fashion. All his promises about making her High Priestess … she thought they'd seemed too good to be true. Perhaps they were.

“What should I do?”

“Start thinking up a reason why the fleet was destroyed,” Madalan advised. “And make it a good one, because if you have to stand before Antonov explaining why the Goddess sent his ships to be wiped out in the Baenlands, it had better be convincing.”

Now she was really worried. “Do you think he'd have me dismissed as High Priestess?”

“You should be so lucky,” Madalan snorted. “He's more likely to have you disemboweled with a spoon, girl, and then strung up by your intestines.”

“But what if Dirk is telling the truth?”

“Then I have misjudged the boy and I will beg his forgiveness. I'll even do something nice for him, once I'm Lady of the Suns. Speaking of which, you might recall you swore to Paige Halyn in front of a number of witnesses you would be guided by him. And by his successors.”

Marqel remembered the promise and had no more intention of keeping it now than she had when she made it. But she realized something else, too: for the time being at least, she needed to keep Madalan Tirov on her side.

“I'm glad you're here to guide me, my lady.”

Madalan looked at her suspiciously for a moment and then
shrugged. “We'll see.” She leaned forward as the carriage came to a halt outside the Hall of Shadows. “We've arrived. For now, Marqel, you're High Priestess. So you'd better start acting like one.”

Marqel got through the address to the Shadowdancers with some nonsense about believing in the Goddess and being guided by her words. She couldn't later recall what she said, but even Madalan had not been able to fault her, so she must have said the right things.

After they left the main temple, she was led not to the High Priestess's luxurious suite, but to her office. Marqel wasn't really paying attention to their destination. She was remembering that Belagren had owned an awful lot of jewelry.
I wonder what happened to it. It really should come to me. I'm her successor.
There had been a particularly pretty bracelet she had always coveted, made of gold inlaid with diamonds.
Perhaps it's waiting for me in her rooms, along with all of Belagren's other stuff.

If Marqel thought delivering a speech was the worst that could happen to her, she was sadly mistaken. Four secretaries awaited her in the office with a pile of documents. She would be lucky to find her bed before tomorrow's second sunrise.

Madalan stood beside the new High Priestess, gloating over the look on Marqel's face, positively relishing the prospect of Marqel having to deal with even half of the business laid before her. There were requests for money from Shadowdancers from all over Senet and Dhevyn; for personnel to be sent or transferred, from various duchies for assistance, demands from Omaxin for more scribes and better accommodation now that it seemed they were to be stationed there permanently … the list went on and on …

“How did Belagren deal with all this?” Marqel asked, throwing her hands up in despair. She had dismissed the secretaries before they could dump any more work on her.

“By being conscientious,” Madalan told her. “You don't
think Belagren stayed in power as long as she did by swanning around making proclamations, do you? She kept her position because she was good at what she did, Marqel. She was a brilliant administrator and a clever politician. And she kept her eye on things. Nothing happened in the Hall of Shadows she wasn't aware of. She could walk through these halls and greet every Shadowdancer she met by name. She remembered the names of their families, too. Even the debtor slaves who clean the privies weren't beneath her notice.”

“I thought she kept her position because she was screwing Antonov,” Marqel remarked.

Madalan's slap caught her by surprise. “Don't you dare belittle her memory, you grasping little slut! You still live only because I need to find out if Dirk Provin is lying to us. And make no mistake, that's the
only
reason you've gotten away with Belagren's murder. Make one more comment like that, my girl, and Voice of the Goddess or not, I will kill you myself.”

Marqel rubbed her face and scowled at Madalan, but said nothing. The news Madalan knew what had happened to Belagren had taken her by surprise. She thought Dirk had covered it up. She certainly had not expected him to tell Madalan what had happened. Nor had he even hinted he
had
told her. It made her wonder what else he had neglected to mention. It also, for the first time, drove home how dangerous a situation she was in. The gloss of her new position was being rapidly sanded away by Madalan's abrasive manner.

“I'm sorry, my lady,” she muttered, mindful of the need to retain Madalan's support.

“You will be, Marqel,” Madalan promised.

“I'd better get to work,” she added meekly, turning back to face the pile.

Madalan glared at her, trying to detect any hint of mockery in her tone. When she found none, she seemed satisfied that Marqel was sufficiently chastised. Madalan took the seat on the other side of the desk and began to sort through the papers.

“You're going to have to refer this one to Antonov,” Madalan said, thrusting a document at her.

“What is it?”

“A request for troops. The Sidorians have taken to raiding the camp in Omaxin again. We had the same problem with them a few years ago. You'll have to draft a letter to the Lion of Senet and ask him to send some soldiers north to put down the trouble.”

“Don't we have our own guard?”

Madalan sighed heavily. “Yes, Marqel, we do. But they are almost entirely ceremonial. Besides, why should we bear the cost of such a venture when it's the Lion of Senet's responsibility to protect his borders?”

“I never thought about it like that,” Marqel replied. “Suppose he says no?”

“He never says no.”

Marqel looked up from the letter with a frown, realizing just how far out of her depth she was. “Will you help me write the letter, my lady? I don't think I can deal with any of this without you.”

Madalan nodded her agreement and continued to sort through the pile, and the new High Priestess got her first lesson in the art of governing the Shadowdancers.