we could to make you a wetboy. I suppose it’s to your credit that we failed. You mean more to me than I ever thought another person could.”
Kylar blinked back tears. There was no way he could kill the man who’d written this. Durzo Blint was more than his master; he was his father.
“Tonight it ends,” the letter continued. “If you want to save your friend, you’d better find me. —A Thorne”
A thorn? Well, Blint was certainly prickly enough to call himself a thorn, but he was also usually a good speller. And what did he mean about saving my friend? Did Durzo know where Elene was? Why was he threatening her? Or was he talking about Jarl? The blood drained from Kylar’s face.
The animals were gone. Everything else Blint owned was still here, so he wasn’t moving.
The animals would look fine to a cook, and the taste tester who tried the foods wouldn’t be affected for hours—long enough for the foods to be served at a dinner.
Blint only drank after he finished a job.
The animals were gone. All of them. There weren’t many places that could take all of them.
“Oh shit.” Blint was poisoning the nobles at the Midsummer’s banquet. Elene wouldn’t be there, of course. Neither would Jarl. Blint must have known something he didn’t. It must mean that Logan would be there.
Roth was attempting his coup. Tonight.
Kylar felt dizzy. He threw a hand down on the table to steady himself and set the glass vials and beakers to clinking against each other. His eyes raised to one he’d stared at for years. The asp poison was there. It was low. Blint had really meant the threats. For a while after talking with him at the arutayro, after seeing the letter, Kylar might have thought Blint wouldn’t kill him. But he would. It was all professional for Blint. He’d crossed a line years ago when he let Vonda die, and there was no going back.
It was classic Durzo Blint. He was giving Kylar a chance now, giving him enough information so that he would show up, enough motivation so he’d fight, but when it came to the fight, Blint would do everything in his power to win. He always had.
Kylar’s body knew what to do even though his mind was far away. He threaded cotton through the tiny holes on a tiny poisoner’s knife and dripped asp venom on it.
Logan didn’t like rabbit, so Kylar prepared the antidotes for the poisons they’d fed the pheasants and starlings and hoped that Logan didn’t touch the pork. Alone, it wouldn’t be fatal, but there was no antidote for it. If Logan got really sick, there was no way Kylar could carry him.
He scoured his body without soap so as to have as little scent as possible. He strapped knives to his bare forearms and a tanto to one calf. Pulled on his trousers and tunic, both tight, mottled black, made of Gandian cotton. Buckled his weapons harness. Checked the belt for his poisons and grappling hooks. Slid home the poisoner’s knife in its special sheath. Slapped home daggers and his Ceuran hand-and-a-half sword.
Then he saw Retribution. Blint had left the big black sword on the wall. He’d left his favorite sword for Kylar. Doubtless, he’d make some quip about either taking it off his body, or if things went the other way, not needing it anymore.
He really means it. This is really to the death. Kylar lifted the sword reverently and strapped it to his back. It was heavier than he was used to using, but with his Talent, it would be perfect.
Finally ready, he walked to the door, then stopped. He put his head against the wood and just breathed, breathed. How had it come to this? Tonight, either he or Master Blint would die. Kylar didn’t even know what he was going to do when he got to the castle. But if he didn’t do something, Logan would die.
51
D urzo crept along the rafters supporting the roof of Castle Cenaria’s Great Hall, cloaked in shadows. His work had a lot of variety. He’d always liked that. But he’d never wanted to be a maid.
Yet somehow, he found himself pushing a damp rag over wood, scooping up dust meticulously, scooting forward slowly as he cleared each inch. Strangely enough, hovering fifty feet over the floor of the hall, the rafters hadn’t been dusted recently. And Durzo hated being dirty.
Still, no matter how careful he was, he couldn’t help but