Saldur didn’t appreciate the disrespectful tone, but what did he expect from this one? “Killing isn’t murder when done in the name of Novron. Everyone must die, and die they will-when Novron or his father Maribor decrees it. What difference does it make should the hand of Novron be a lightning bolt or a dagger? I was concerned about your ability to weather the storms necessary to take the throne and rule Melengar. Your age has always been a concern. You’re very young. Perhaps I chose poorly?”
“No.”
Saldur got up and placed another log on the fire. Feeding his own hearth was just one more indignity he had to endure, but he certainly couldn’t allow anyone in his office during this meeting, and they couldn’t meet in the high tower anymore. And it was cold. He hated winter. This looked to be a long, dark one, made colder by the fact that he’d expected to be spending it in the luxury of the castle.
“It seems like a defeat,” Saldur said, trying to sound positive, “but we’re actually closer. Much closer.”
“Maybe.”
“So skeptical.”
This brought a smirk.
“The next time we won’t miss. We’ll wait a few years, let things settle down, let people forget.”
“We can’t have another fire. There’s already been two.”
Saldur considered this. “And we can’t afford to miss again. We’ll have to literally stab him in the back.”
“If we do that, the people are going to want us to find the killer.”
“That won’t be a problem.” Saldur smiled. “We’ll just pin it on someone.”
“Not another traitor. I’m not sure people will stomach that either.”
“No, we’ll find someone else. Someone without a name, someone unimportant and easy to attach the blame to.”
“Like who?”
“A couple of thieves perhaps-that way nothing can go wrong.”