Nyctasia was alarmed to see someone standing at the gate of the corner house.
None of her people knew of this place save Sandor, and he wouldn’t wait about outside; She was to meet Corson here soon, but it was a man who waited there-she could tell little more than that in the darkness.
She walked past the house without a glance or the slightest change in her stride. She was dressed in the shabby clothes and hooded cloak of a student, but the stranger was not fooled, “Lady Nyctasia!” he called after her, his voice low and urgent.
She immediately whirled around, crouched, her arms crossed over her chest, but the other made no move to throw a knife. He only stood in the shadows, waiting, watching her, motionless.
Nyctasia slowly stood and drew her sword. “Edonaris or Teiryn?” she said wearily. It was getting to be a habit.
“Neither the one nor the other, milady. A messenger. I bring you a letter.”
“And why do you faring it here?”
“Such were the directions, my lady.”
“Who gave you those directions?” she demanded.
“Milord Shiastred,” was the answer.
Nyctasia’s heart raced. She expected a letter at any time from Erystalben, and he could well have sent such a messenger as this. Yet her family knew about him.
This letter might be a trap to draw her within arm’s reach of a killer. Nyctasia considered her own kinfolk much more dangerous than the Teiryns.
“Is an answer expected?” she said.
“A token, my lady, that His Lordship may know you received his message. A lock of milady’s hair.”
Nyctasia laughed. “’Ben doesn’t know I’ve cut it. You’ll have to take him this.”
Still keeping her distance, she tossed one of her gloves to the messenger.
“I’ll leave this here, shall I, my lady?” he said quietly, reaching into his jacket. Nyctasia prepared to throw herself fiat to the ground at the first glint of steel, but he drew out only a roll of paper and laid it on the gatepost, then bowed and walked off without waiting to be paid.
Nyctasia examined the letter by the dim starlight. The seal was indeed that of Shiastred and she tucked it inside her shirt, smiling at her own fears. Only Erystalben could have known to send a messenger here.
But then she heard footsteps close behind her and she hastily unlocked the gate and slipped inside the yard.
Someone peered at her through the palings. “Lady…?”
“Corson! Good, come in.” She hurried Corson inside and led the way upstairs.
Corson sprawled on a couch without waiting for permission to sit. She knew that there was nothing Lady Nyctasia could do about her impertinence and she meant to take full advantage of her position. “Are you ready to go?” she asked curtly.
Nyctasia paced the room restlessly. “I’ve been ready to leave for a long time.”
“You know, if the gate sentries have guessed who you are, it may yet come to a fight. Are you of any use with that sword?” She eyed Nyctasia’s rapier doubtfully.
“I’m not a professional murderer, of course, but I’ve trained with the best fencers at court.”
Corson groaned. “Fencing! This isn’t a duel, Your Ladyship. I only hope your horses are as good as you claim. Our best chance is in surprise and speed.”
“My stables have the fastest horses in the city,” she said proudly. “Most people don’t understand the principles of breeding. But it’s simply-”
“Can you ride them?” Corson interrupted.
“There are not many beside myself who can,” Nyctasia said with dignity.
Corson looked glum. It was hard to picture the Lady Nyctasia doing anything more strenuous than plucking a harp. It would be so much simpler just to kill her and collect the blood money.
Nyctasia leaned against he back of a chair and looked searchingly at Corson. “I hope you’ve no weakness for gambling. Your face betrays your every thought.”
“I always lose,” Corson admitted. “And this looks to be a losing game as well.”
She badly wanted a drink.
“Maybe so. But you’ll find me a safer wager than Lady Mhairestri.”
Wine and water had been set out, but Corson was wary of Lady Nyctasia’s hospitality. “We’ll just have to trust one another, then. Let’s drink a toast to that, shall we?” She poured out the wine and handed a cup to Nyctasia. “After you, my lady.”
“I don’t drink spirits,” Nyctasia demurred.
“Please. I insist,” said Corson grimly, her hand on her sword hilt.
Nyctasia laughed. “Well, perhaps the occasion does warrant some special observation.” She raised her glass. “To the success of our venture.”
Corson watched her swallow the wine before reaching for her own cup. “To trust and good faith,” she said.
Nyctasia sat down across from her and drew out the unopened letter. As she broke the seal, she thought again of the unknown messenger, “Corson, did you pass anyone at the corner?”
“No, but I saw Sandor crossing the thoroughfare. I don’t think he saw me.”
“Sandor? He should be in Westgate Street by now.”
“He was coming this way.”
Nyctasia frowned. Something must be wrong. Her suspicions grew sharper-was Corson herself the danger? “I’ll go down to meet him.”
“By yourself?”
“He may want to speak to me alone.” She stood. “I’ll be back directly. We have to start out soon, it’s nearly midnight.”
As soon as she heard Nyctasia leave the house, Corson hurried to the far wall and drew back the heavy draperies. Ever since she’d discovered the great mirror she’d been longing for another chance to study her reflection.
Nyctasia could see Sandor lying in the street, not far from the gate. Pulling back the bolt at once she hastened to him, and knelt over the still form, searching for any sign of life-but the man was dead. Before she could rise she was seized roughly from behind and dragged into an alleyway, a knife at her throat.
A second assailant stood before her, smiling, his sword ready. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you at such a loss for words, ’Tasia,” he said. “You needn’t feel abashed. It took me some time to find you out, though of course I never believed the rumors that you’d already fled the city. Rumors which you no doubt encouraged.”
“I started them,” Nyctasia whispered. “But I can be gone by morning. Let me go and the family will never be troubled by me again, I swear it!”
He laughed. “I intend to see that the family is not troubled further by you, my dear cousin. I’m well aware of your plans, but I’m afraid they’ll have to be altered. Think yourself fortunate that I found you before the Teiryns.”
“Listen to me, Thierran-” Nyctasia began.
“Don’t waste words with her!” the other man broke in, and Nyctasia recognized the voice of Mescrisdan, Lord Thierran’s brother. “She’ll keep us talking here
’til dawn. I say kill her and have done with it.” Suddenly he gasped, and Nyctasia felt his grip slacken. She broke free, dodging to the side, and saw him fall as Corson wrenched her broadsword from his back.
Corson met the other man’s attack with cold precision. She turned aside his blade and followed through with a thrust that tore his arm to the bone. The sword dropped from his grasp and he made a frantic lunge to retrieve it, but Corson dealt him a sharp blow across the back of his neck with her free hand. As he fell to the ground Nyctasia snatched the sword from his reach.
Dazed, he tried to crawl toward Nyctasia, his wounded arm hanging limp and useless. Corson kicked him onto his back, looming over him in the narrow alleyway. “No!” he cried. “Please-”
“Corson, don’t!” gasped Nyctasia.
Corson put up her sword. “Next time remember to guard against attack from the left hand,” she advised him. Her boot caught him under the jaw and he lay as still as his companion.
They carried the bodies into the courtyard, and for the first time Corson could see that the two men who’d attacked Nyctasia were identical. “There have always been twins in my family,” Nyctasia said, noticing Corson’s stare.
“Do you have a double, too?” Corson asked suspiciously. Perhaps this wasn’t the singer after all.
“I’ve often wished I did-it might have been useful. But there won’t even be one of me if we’re not gone from here soon.”
Nyctasia paused for a moment to look down at the still form of Thierran ar’n Edonaris. “He’s hated me ever since I refused to marry him,” she remarked.