The Swordbearer - By Glen Cook Page 0,70

and muttering to himself as he stole to the cellar door. He grabbed a nearby keg, knocked its bung out, started splashing liquid around.

Some sort of combustible, Gathrid realized. The assassins had been written off. The backup plan was to burn the inn with everyone inside. "That's getting a little carried away," he whispered. Aarant agreed.

Gathrid sprinted toward the arsonist. The man just had time to look surprised . . . . Another ignorant hireling.

Gathrid raced down the alley, into a side street, then round front, where he found another arsonist at work. A warning hooted from a rooftop. An arrow burred behind Gathrid's head and thunked into the inn wall.

So. Bowmen to prevent escapes through the windows. Very thorough.

The arsonist ran like all the imps of Hell were after him. Gathrid chased him a few hundred yards, then doubled back. He hoped to pick up the director of the team.

Luck ran with him. He crossed the trail of a vagrant who gave himself away by moving with too much speed and suspicion. He glared at every shadow. Gathrid narrowly avoided betraying himself.

The man led him to a small, neat house guarded by dogs. The animals fled from him without a whimper. He listened at the one window revealing a light.

The vagrant reported to an underworld chieftain whose name, Suftko, Gathrid had heard in faraway Kacalief. In Torun he was as powerful as any prince. Once the vagrant guaranteed his unnoted escape, he took the failure of his agents philosophically.

A short time later the crime baron took to the streets. Four bodyguards accompanied him. He led Gathrid to a large church. There he met briefly with another man. The bodyguards made it impossible for Gathrid to eavesdrop. The meeting ended. Gathrid had to make a choice of pursuits.

He chose the paymaster, reasoning that if another attack had been ordered it would find Rogala wakened and on guard.

His man went on to another church, a tiny chapel hugging the skirts of Torun's royal citadel. His stride was confident, his attitude bold. He was not concerned about being tailed.

In the chapel he met an early rising monk.

Who was no monk. Gathrid recognized him instantly. He was Bilgoraj's King, Kimach Faulstich. The Kimach Faulstich he deemed responsible for Gudermuth's destruction. "How did it go?" this make-believe monk asked.

"Failed. The Swordbearer didn't respond to the sleep spell."

"Damn!"

"Suftko is willing to try again. For another fee."

"The man is greedy."

"He has his uses. He'll keep trying till he succeeds, till you go broke or there's a shortage of blades. He's got pride. But he won't risk his own people."

"Alfeld, there's gold in the sacristy. I'll send more down if it's necessary. Just get it finished before noon tomorrow. That's when we finalize the agreement."

"It went through, then?"

The King fiddled with a chalice. "It did. Don't ever forget. When Sartain is mine, Torun is yours."

"And the Contessa?"

"Of course. I have no other use for Hildreth's brat."

So, Gathrid thought. Kimach was plotting to usurp Emperor Elgar. Sartain was going to grow crowded with all the pretenders. And this cousin Alfeld was to receive the Bilgoraji crown for his part in the treachery. Meaning he had an eye on the Imperium himself. Elgar had no natural heir. He had declared Yedon Hildreth his successor. The Count's claim would descend through his daughter, the Contessa Cuneo, Fiona Hildreth.

"Is Suftko suspicious?"

"No." Alfeld snickered. "He's convinced we're working against Ahlert. He wouldn't have helped otherwise."

"Patriotic blindness has its uses, too. Pay him. And don't stint. Light a fire under him. I need those people dead."

Kimach turned to the altar, knelt. Alfeld fetched a sack from the sacristy, hurried into the night.

Kraljevac was dead on target, Gathrid thought. He eased out from under the pew where he had hidden. There was a sellout in the script. Though Ahlert probably had other prospects, a great treachery could be smothered in its cradle here. And Gudermuth's demise could be counterbalanced a caratweight.

Kimach glanced up from his prayers as the blade fell. He died before he fully realized that he had placed his bet and lost.

How very vulnerable they become when they get sneaky, Gathrid thought. Had Kimach remained faithful he would have been surrounded by so many bodyguards even Daubendiek could not have reached him. To play foul he had to venture out on his own, baring his neck . . . .

Gathrid swallowed Bilgoraj's politics in one great, sticky, sour, disgusting lump.

There would be hell to pay in the morning. He wished there were