“I am Petro Amafi.”
“Amafi? That’s Quegan. But you speak the language of the Isles.”
“I have resided in Salador many years now, and, to tell the truth, my command of the Roldemish tongue is lacking, so I employ the King’s Tongue.”
“Tell me, Amafi, why are you following me,” Tal repeated.
“I am an assassin by trade. I have been paid to kill you.”
Tal took a step back, leaving his blade against the man’s throat, but gaining a perspective on him.
Petro Amafi was a half head shorter than Tal’s two inches over six feet, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His clothing marked him as a foreigner; he wore a curious long tunic, gathered at the waist by a black leather belt, and rather than the long wide-bottomed trousers affected by the style-conscious in Roldem that season, he wore leggings and a courtier’s slippers. He sported a mustache and goatee, and upon his head he wore a felted wool beret with a clasp and feather on the left side. His face was narrow, with deep eyes that revealed his menace more than his vulpine appearance. “You mean me no harm, but you’re an assassin sent to kill me. Something of a contradiction, don’t you agree?” observed Tal.
“I gain nothing by hiding the truth, Magnificence. My life is preserved by your ignorance. Should you kill me this moment, you will wonder who hired me.”
Tal chucked. “That is true. So, then, we are at an impasse, for should you tell me, then I must kill you. So it is to your benefit not to tell me. But as I cannot spend the rest of my life waiting for you to divulge who sent you, so I gain nothing by keeping you alive.”
“Wait!” said Amafi, holding out his hand in a conciliatory gesture. “I did not come to kill you. I was hired to do so, but I have been observing you since nearly a week before you departed Salador, and I wish to bargain.”
“For your life?”
“More, Magnificence. Let me serve.”
“You’d take service with me?” said Tal in dubious tones.
“Willingly, Your Magnificence. Any man of your skills would be a worthy master, for I have seen you duel in the Court of Blades in Salador, and I’ve watched from the corner as you play cards in the alehouses; you win just enough to raise no suspicions, yet you are a master cheat. You are welcome in the homes of the great and near great. You are admired by men and desired by women. What’s more, no one has ever done what you just have, turned me from hunter to hunted. But most telling of all, you are Champion of the Masters’ Court, the greatest blade in the world, and a rumor circulates that you are secretly in the service of Duke Kaspar of Olasko, and one who serves such as Kaspar can only prosper greatly. I wish to prosper greatly with you.”
He gently moved the tip of Tal’s blade away from his throat with one finger, and Tal permitted it. “As you can see, Magnificence, I am getting on in years, nearly sixty of them. The assassin’s trade requires skills that are fading as I age. I must think of my latter days, and while I have kept some part of the fees paid me over the years, it is not enough. I have fallen on hard times.”
Tal laughed. “Bad investments?”
Amafi nodded. “A trading concern out of Salador, most recently. No, I wish to take my bloody skills and use them to a more permanent advantage. Were I your man, then I would rise with you. Do you see?”
Tal put away his dagger. “How can I trust you?”
“I will swear an oath in whatever temple you require.”
Tal considered. Few men would willingly break oath, even if they weren’t as honor-bound as the Orosini. “Who told you I was in Kaspar’s service?”
“A rumor here, there, nothing more. You were reported to have been seen in the region of Latagore where Duke Kaspar has interests, and it is well known he sought you out after you won the competition at the Masters’ Court two years ago. Duke Kaspar employs only the most gifted and ambitious young men, so it is assumed you are his.”
“Well, I’m not,” replied Tal, intentionally turning his back on Amafi. He knew he took a risk, for as much as the assassin claimed age was slowing him down, Tal judged him capable of a swift attack from behind if given the opportunity. The attack didn’t come.
Instead, Amafi fell into step beside Tal. “You wish to know who sent me?”
“Yes,” replied Tal.
“Lord Piotre Miskovas, though I am not supposed to know this.”
“He does hold a grudge,” observed Tal. “I haven’t slept with his wife in more than two years.”