shouts of soldiers and mercenaries. Alyssa gave one last look at the mansion, knowing in her heart that it would never be hers.
Deep within, Maynard stepped out from the gray tunnels winding throughout his estate. His advisor, the gray-bearded man with shaved eyebrows stood beside him. His name was Bertram Sully.
“I knew the Kulls were desperate,” Bertram said, frowning at the mess the mercenaries were making as they stamped throughout the place. “But to hire faceless women? Have they gone mad?”
“Perhaps,” Maynard said. “And I wonder what they could have offered, but that is not important, not now. The priests of Karak have sworn they would remain out of our war. It would seem that promise has finally been broken.”
Bertram stroked his beard.
“Perhaps not. The left hand does not always know the actions of the right. If this is true, then we might have an opportunity here.”
“And what is that?” Maynard asked. He kicked a nearby chair, knocking it to the floor. He had known the Kulls would try to rescue Alyssa, and he had hoped to capture a few of their kind in the attempt. How he would have loved to shave the head of that pompous Yoren and then hang him with his own golden locks. Instead, his daughter had escaped, and he had over twenty guards dead. From what he had seen, his own men had not scored a single cut.
Bertram saw his master lost in thought and waited until Maynard’s eyes looked his direction.
“Well?” Maynard asked impatiently. “What opportunity is there for us in this calamity?”
“If we confront the priests about the faceless women, they have few recourses of action. They can punish the faceless for disobedience, thereby removing the only weapon the Kulls have against us. The priests may also try to atone for the broken promise by allying with us, perhaps even giving us the service of the faceless. We can smite the Kulls with their own weapon.”
“You forgot a third option,” Maynard said. “The priests deny any involvement while secretly accepting whatever bribe the Kulls offered, and nothing changes.”
“The priests would not be so foolish as to betray the Trifect,” Bertram insisted.
“This war has made fools of everyone,” Maynard said. “But it will not happen to me again. Set up a meeting with high priest Pelarak. We will force the servants of Karak to break their neutrality, one way or another.”
“And if they refuse?”
Maynard Gemcroft’s eyes glinted with danger.
“Then we expose their existence to the city. Let the mobs burn their temple and tear them limb from limb. We shall see if they remain neutral when that is the fate I offer.”
4
Gerand wound his way through the halls of the castle with an expertise acquired over the fifteen years of serving the Vaelor family line. Servants scuffled past him, and he listed off their names silently. Every new scullery maid or errand boy had to be vetted by Gerand personally. If something seemed the least bit off, he sent them away. Ever since the thief war had begun, King Edwin Vaelor had begun fearing poison, a death that could come from even the youngest of hands. Personally, Gerand found the whole ordeal exhausting. Edwin jumped at shadows, and it was Gerand’s duty to hunt them down, and it never mattered that he always revealed dust gremlins and empty corners. The monsters would come back, acid dripping down their chins and dried blood on their dagger-like claws.
Throbbing angrily, the bruise on Gerand’s forehead pulsed with every beat of his heart. He touched it gingerly, wishing Edwin had listened to his advice and outright killed Robert Haern instead of imprisoning him. The Felhorn whelp had escaped because of the meddlesome old man. Edwin’s spine seemed more akin to animal fat instead of bone, and he had been unable to execute his former teacher, no matter how estranged they might have become. Still, he would find ways to punish Robert for the blow his cane had struck him. Gerand would never say so, but he felt the castle was his, not Edwin’s, and he would command its workers and soldiers right underneath the king’s nose.
Up the circling stairs of the southwest tower he climbed, ignoring the creaking of his knees. The night was dark, and although the lower portions of the castle were alive with men cutting meat and women tossing flour and rolling dough, the upper portions were blessedly quiet and deserted. At the very top of the stairs Gerand paused to catch his breath.