“Pasko was intent on getting you out of the bathhouse—” Robert nodded toward the other man in approval. “He managed quite a feat, stanching your wounds with towels and getting you to the carriage before anyone could see how much blood was your own and how much was the girl’s.’’
Pasko shrugged. “You’re generous in your praise, Robert. Most people were running the other way, or confused by the screams and shouts. The bathhouse is not well lit, and . . . well, I just knew it would not do well to have people see Tal lying like a piece of bloody meat on the floor.’’
“You did well.” Robert looked at Tal. “You will know your mission when it is time, my young friend. Rest assured we are happy with your progress so far, and right now your only concern is to win that tournament.”
“Why?”
“When you win, I will tell you why.’’
“And if I don’t win?’’
“Then you’ll never need to know what would come after, will you?’’
Tal’s expression turned to one of dark amusement. “I suppose that is true, Master.’’
“Talon calls me ‘Master.’ Squire Talwin Hawkins can call me Robert.’’
“Yes, Robert,” said Tal. Falling back into his role, he said, “Pasko, fetch clothing to Remarga’s and have the carriage there at the appropriate time.” Turning to the other man, he asked, “Robert, would you care to join me in the baths? They are quite refreshing.”
Robert inclined his head. “I think it might be wise if I was with you. The assassin may not have been magically able, but someone got him into that room using a spell, either one of transport or one of invisibility. If something amiss occurs between now and the contest, especially involving the mystic arts, I need to be close at hand.’’
“Do you have any idea as to who the assassin was?” Tal asked a second time.
“A man,” said Pasko. “No one recognized him, and the City Watch carried the body off.’’
“Do we have anyone at the constabulary we know well enough who might inquire more about this malefactor?” Tal asked.
Pasko said, “You’ve played cards with the Day Constable, Captain Drogan, and could ask without anyone taking too much notice.’’
“Then I will, tomorrow,” said Tal. Turning to Robert, he said, “Let us take a stroll back to Remarga’s and try to put yesterday’s unpleasantness out of mind.’’
“Let’s make it appear we’ve done so,” said Robert, “but I want you always to remember how close these people came to killing you.’’
“Which people?’’
Robert smiled slightly. “We shall find that out soon enough, I think.’’
The two men left, and Pasko began to gather up clothing for the evening.
The morning was overcast, which fit Tal’s mood as he made his way down the narrow streets to the Constable’s office, which was located near the old market at the center of the city. The night before had been uneventful, but he had spent the entire time on edge, anticipating another attack, and found he had not much enjoyed the little things which usually pleased him. The dinner at Dawson’s, a former inn now exclusively serving meals to the nobility and the wealthy who did not wish to dine at home in upstairs rooms converted into private dining salons, had provided its usual excellence, but while the meat was cooked to perfection—the glazes and sauces were equal to any Tal had ever known—and the service was flawless, he and Robert had dined in relative silence. Even the usually fine Kingdom wines imported from Ravensburgh scarcely warranted his comment.
Gambling at the Wheel of Fate club had provided little of note or interest. Tal played indifferently, his mind obviously elsewhere. Even Lady Thornhill remarked to Tal that he appeared distracted. He smiled and reassured her it had nothing to do with the unpleasantness at Remarga’s the day before, and no he was not seriously injured, only looking that way because he was covered in the poor girl’s blood and had struck his head hard upon the tile floor, and, yes, he was mainly lost in contemplation of the coming contest.
He excused himself from the game early, having suffered modest losses, and he and Robert returned to his apartment, where he went to bed early, while Robert and Pasko spoke quietly in the next room for hours.
Now he was seeking answers to a number of difficult questions. He reached the office of the Constable, Dennis Drogan, nephew to a minor palace functionary who had achieved his office through political connection, but who had nevertheless proven to be competent at it.
When he was ushered into Drogan’s office, which consisted of little more than a desk and chair in the corner of the muster room with a wooden screen erected to give the Chief of Constables some privacy, he was greeted with a polite but distant smile. “Tal, I was going to visit you later today.” Drogan was a heavyset man of middle years, with as round a head as Tal had ever seen, which was further emphasized by the way he kept his hair cropped close about his skull, and by shaving clean. He had a blob of a nose which had been broken repeatedly over the years, and half of one ear had been bitten off in a brawl; but his eyes were always focused, never missing much.