A wide, dangerous grin spread across Dalan d’Cannith’s features. “You are a shrewd negotiator, Seren Morisse,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “There may be room for you on Karia Naille after all.” He sniffed the air tentatively. Seren detected the faint aroma of cooking-Gerith’s, probably. “You may remain among us, for the time being. Now let us discuss the details of your employment over lunch.”
CHAPTER 6
Captain Marth stood in the middle of Dalan d’Cannith’s study, his expression one of disappointment and irritation. He ran one hand along a nearby shelf as he examined the titles of the books.
“Captain,” called one of his guards from the doorway.
Marth looked up, his hood falling back upon his shoulders. He wore his natural face again, smooth and white except for the unsightly pink burns that crawled across his cheek.
“Speak,” he commanded, beckoning to the guard.
“We discovered very little of interest in the rest of the house, Captain,” the guard reported. “Only a few guild logs detailing Cannith operations in the city. Many items were hastily removed, including much of the clothing in Master d’Cannith’s wardrobe and the food in his larder. Even the servant’s quarters are empty.”
Marth nodded. The servants would know nothing. Dalan would have already fled. While Dalan obviously bore interest in his uncle’s work, the guildmaster had discovered nothing of true value. It came as no surprise. The Canniths were meddlers by nature, but ultimately harmless. They never understood Ashrem’s work. Marth’s fingers rested for a moment on the binding of one of many volumes bearing the House Cannith gorgon seal, and he remembered.
He had stood in a house much like this one, the modestly appointed home of a wealthy noble. The smell of smoke hung in the air, along with the shrieks of terrified children and servants. The fires blazed all around him, but Marth cared little. He wore the face of a Cyran soldier as he advanced on his former commanding officer, sword in one hand and wand in the other. Bright red blood shone on the steel blade.
“Cargul, what is the meaning of this?” Lieutenant Keiran demanded. Sweat and soot streaked the old soldier’s face. He held his broadsword unsteadily in one hand, the other hand pressed up against his bleeding side as he backed fearfully away, trying to distance himself from both his attacker and the fires.
“I’m not Sergeant Cargul,” Marth corrected. His face became smooth and gray. He was younger in those days, his natural face unscarred. “You remember me, sir.” It was not a question, only a statement awaiting confirmation.
“You.” Keiran hissed. “The changeling spy! By Khyber, if you’ve harmed my wife …”
“She is safe, sir,” Marth answered calmly. “I showed your family greater mercy than you offered mine.”
Keiran sneered and charged Marth with his sword held high. The changeling pointed his amethyst wand at the floor, summoning a wall of green fire between them.
“Face me without your magic, changeling!” Keiran demanded. “Face me with your sword, coward!”
“This is not a matter of courage, nor a demonstration of strength,” Marth said. “This is revenge. Burn, as they did.”
Green fire blazed within the purple crystal again, and the room filled with intense heat. Lieutenant Kieran screamed, vanishing within the blaze. Marth stood where he was, unharmed by the smoke and fire, and listened until the screams faded. Then, slowly, he made his way through the burning house and outside again. Huddled men and women gathered on the grass outside. Their clothing was seared and blackened with soot. They held their children close as they watched Marth with undisguised terror. He ignored them, walking past the crowd to the one man who stood apart from the rest. Marth looked up, his soot-blackened face marked now by trails of tears.
“You didn’t stop me, Ashrem,” Marth said to the old man.
Ashrem d’Cannith looked back sadly. The old man’s crystal blue eyes reflected only sympathy. “Perhaps I did not want to,” he whispered. “But it ends now, Marth.”
“What happens now?” the changeling asked.
“Come with me, and face justice for what you have done,” Ashrem said.
“Justice?” Marth repeated with a bitter laugh.
“If you come with me, I will stand by you, and defend you to the last,” Ashrem said. “If you refuse, you will be hunted. I cannot stop them, Marth, not after what you have done.”
“Why not just kill me, Ashrem?” Marth asked, dropping his sword and wand in the grass. “Why not end it here? I have my vengeance. I have nothing left and would rather die at your hands than a stranger’s.”
“I have hope for you, Marth,” Ashrem said. “You are a good man, no matter what this war has forced you to become. The world is not done with you yet.”
“You were right, d’Cannith,” Marth whispered, returning to the present.
The changeling hurled the books from the shelf with a savage sweep of his arm. Reaching into one of the many pouches at his belt, he drew out a handful of pink crystalline powder and sifted it over the fallen books. He clapped the remaining dust from his gloved hands and reached into another pouch, drawing out another handful of chalky black dust. The chemical burned his skin as it mixed with the remaining pink residue, even through his silken gloves. Marth stood where he was for a long moment and studied the scattered volumes, offering no reaction even when a robed figure entered the room behind him.
“I have dispatched several of the men to determine where Dalan d’Cannith has fled,” the newcomer said. He was a small, portly man garbed in flowing silken garments of burnished copper. His head was shaved in the manner of a monk, and he wore a long beard woven into a thin braid. “Doubtless he has covered his trail well, but someone might have seen something.” He looked at Marth’s hand, still holding the corrosive powder over the books. “Why do you hesitate?” he asked.
“Destroying knowledge does not sit well with me, Brother Zamiel,” Marth said. With a sigh, he scattered the black dust over the scattered books. Where it touched the pink powder, paper, leather, and even the wooden floor began to smoke.
“An admirable sentiment, but a necessary evil,” Zamiel answered. “Dalan d’Cannith is an enemy. We do not have the time to search his home properly, thus we must destroy whatever he might still hide here. We cannot afford to leave him any advantage, any security.”
“Dalan is like his uncle,” Marth said, stepping away from the smoke. “He is no fool. He would not have left behind anything we can use. This is a pointless, destructive gesture.”
“An enemy who cannot be destroyed must be intimidated,” Zamiel said. “Consider this a message-a warning to a respected rival. Dalan will look upon the ruins of his home. He will witness the destruction of so many beloved possessions. He will recognize that he should have left well enough alone. D’Cannith is no warrior. He is a bureaucrat, an academic, a coward. If he is wise, he will withdraw from this race and be content that he has only lost his home.”
“Unlikely,” Marth said with a frown. “I think we will face Dalan again before this is done.”
“Then he will die,” Brother Zamiel said.
Marth did not reply. His smooth face was thoughtful as he watched the first tongues of flame emerge from the fallen books. He turned and made his way down the stairs. Three of his soldiers stood at the door, postures tense, hands on their weapons. One peered cautiously out the window just beside the back door. He looked back at Marth with an uncomfortable expression.
“Captain Marth, there is a problem,” the soldier said.
Marth moved to the window. The soldier quickly stepped aside. The first light of morning had only just begun to paint the street outside in pale, pastel colors. The rains had started again but now fell only in a meager drizzle. Few dared the muddy streets at this early hour, but Marth picked out a handful of armored men gathering in the shadows of an alley behind the house. Their eyes were on the Cannith home.