Syrarys dropped the letter to the floor. Then she threw back her head and laughed.
"Rom Rulf! This good and simple man! What was his price, a new shop window? Some other chemist driven from town?"
Reclined next to her, Sandor Ott shook his head. "Rulf does love Chadfallow. But there are those he loves more. His daughter, for one. We took the precaution of kidnapping her months ago. The good doctor has left messages with Rulf before, you see."
They lay together on a bed heaped with fine cushions and silks, sharing a little jug of wine. Through a broad window the sun was setting over the Quiet Sea. This was one of the simpler rooms of Tressek Fortress, carved out of the living rock above the city of Tressek Tarn. Centuries ago it had been a great keep; now it was a resort where rich Arqualis soaked in water piped from the boiling tarns beneath the hills. The whole place felt warm and wet.
"As for the tarboy, Pathkendle," said Ott, "the good doctor is lying. His concern stems from more than a promise to the lad's mother, even though he loved her. No, Chadfallow has some special use in mind for that one."
"Then you must get rid of him."
"The beauty of it, darling, is that your dear admiral will do it for us. They are racing toward a collision, haven't you noticed? And when they do collide, and Pathkendle is tossed ashore-well, I have arranged for his reception."
"You're a monster. Even I fear you at times."
Noises touched the room like whiffs of smoke: dogs, gulls, blacksmiths hammering steel. A closer sound-that of Eberzam Isiq, moaning strangely-came from the floor below.
"You're certain he can't hear us?" she said.
"That man hears nothing but his own sweet dreams," said Ott. "Deathsmoke is bliss-until it kills you. In a hot bath such as his, the leaves of the deathsmoke vine make the body numb, the heart beat slower and slower. The steam, meanwhile, keeps the mind in a perfect trance, even to the moment of death. We cannot risk that, of course. Isiq can be left for one hour, no more."
"An hour isn't long enough with you," she said.
Ott kissed her, but his voice was stern. "One hour. Remember that he must live through his daughter's marriage."
"And not a day longer," growled Syrarys. "How I wish I could tell the world! All those fat and fancy lords would think twice about buying young slave-brides if they knew what we were capable of."
"Tell the world you've been poisoning an admiral for years and even I won't be able to protect you," said Ott calmly. "But I must be off soon, too. Niriviel must be sent ahead, to find out what Chad-fallow is up to."
She snuggled against him. "He's an insufferable pest! You should have killed him months ago."
Ott stroked her loose black hair. "In Etherhorde the man's death would have drawn too much attention. He was to be Chathrand's surgeon, after all. Besides, the Emperor adores him."
"But he saw me at the castle. In the pillow room!"
"And so signed his own death warrant. Fear not: he will never speak to the admiral again. My men will be waiting for him in Utur-phe. As for our true mission, though-just look at his pitiful guesswork! The Nilstone! By Rin, it is to laugh!"
"I've never heard of the Nilstone. What is it?"
"A myth, or something as old as myth. A relic of the ancient world. Poor fool! He might as well have said we were looking for the rainbow's end."
"Chadfallow's a pest, Sandor, but he's never a fool. He cured your army of the talking fever."
"This time he's a fool," said Ott. "He was the one man I thought might deduce that the Shaggat was still alive, and in our plans. Instead he's frightened of a little sphere that darkens the sun."
Syrarys raised her head, no longer smiling. "A black sphere? The size of a plum, but heavy as a cannonball?"
"So the stories claim."
"The gummukra," she said. "You're talking about the gummukra."
Ott smiled. "There's a name for it in your tongue as well?"
"Of course. They say it's the eyeball of a murth-lord. It lets the one who holds it command the Black Bees."
"Black Bees, eh?"
"Don't laugh, you brute! We were terrified of them."
"The Rinfaithful have a different story. They say the Nilstone is like the cork on that wine jug-give it here, my sweet-plugging a tiny hole through which the Swarm of Night entered this world to lay it waste, and escaped again when the Gods rose in fury. And the Mzithrinis say the Nilstone is pure ash-the ash of all the devils burned in their Black Casket, before the Great Devil broke it asunder. That is why I laugh: each country tells a different tale. And here is Dr. Chadfallow, the scientist, joining the game."
"I wonder how the idea entered his head."
"Who knows?" said Ott. "Let us just be glad it did. Now then, about Zirfet."
Syrarys laughed, and bit his ear playfully. "Zirfet. Your enormous, handsome disciple."
"A negligent disciple," said Ott severely. "He was to have killed Hercуl by now, without fail."
"But I told you, love, that was my fault. You know you ordered Zirfet to obey me in your absence."
"A kill order takes precedence, as Zirfet should have recalled." He raised his head and looked at her. "I should think you would have welcomed the Tholjassan's death."
"Eventually, of course. But Hercуl is a good valet-he ran errands for me in every port. Besides, you left without a word. I had no idea that Hercуl was the reason for your absence-and the dear boy didn't dare speak to me of your plans."
"Zirfet is not a boy, Syrarys. He's a member of the Secret Fist. An assassin, like me. And until he proves it I shall be forced to move with great caution about the Chathrand. You must keep Hercуl twice as busy, until Zirfet finishes the job."
Syrarys caressed the back of Ott's neck, tracing an old knife-scar with the tip of her finger.
"He's never killed, then?" she asked softly.
Ott shook his head. "No, Zirfet has not yet killed, though he came closer than he knew with me." He rubbed two knuckles along his jaw. "Very well, I'm off."
"You think so, do you?"
She pounced on him. The wine spilled down his side, soaking the bed as she kissed his neck, eyelids, ear. All at once he was returned to his youth-but not a youth of love and caresses. His memory was of battle. He was thirteen, the army's creature already, fighting Sizzies on a cold plateau thousands of miles from the sea. His sergeant dead, his squadron decimated. He himself about to die. A Sizzy boy on top of him, a knife in his ribs, his life gushing into the sawgrass. One arm broken, the other pinned beneath his foe. Bright blue sky, like today.
Syrarys was laughing-so young, so perfectly lovely. Did she really love him? Could he ever allow himself to hope?
Gently, he rolled her aside. He placed a finger on her pouting lips.
"Go and pamper your Admiral," he said. "Isiq must never suspect you. Not once."
Minutes later he was on the fortress roof, looking down at the Chathrand. A sailor high on the mainmast was lowering the Emperor's flag for the night. Gold fish, gold dagger: they had loomed over his life for six decades, given meaning to his scars and his conquests, to murders and betrayals, to sweet feminine lips. Arqual, thought the spymaster. My love is Arqual, till death do us part.
He had torn that boy's throat out with his teeth. What choice did he have?