The Ring of Winter - James Lowder [31]
Panic shone clearly on Quiracus's delicate elven features. He turned pleading blue eyes on Kaverin, whose face registered no emotion whatsoever. The first mate had seen dark, lifeless eyes like those before, but on a shark, not a man. Quiracus suddenly knew how Kaverin had come to be so infamous, how he could have committed crimes horrible enough to earn him the title "Butcher of Tantras."
"Yes, weighing against all the good you've done for me is this botched assassination. And it is quite a heavy sin." Kaverin closed his eyes to better enjoy the breeze tousling his red hair. "It has most certainly put Cimber on guard. He'll be dangerous now, far more difficult to kill."
From the corner came a coarse laugh. "He's no match for you," snorted Phyrra al-Quim. "Not with the spirit gone."
Kaverin offered her a patronizing smile. "It is a good thing I will be the one to determine when we cross swords with Cimber, Phyrra. He could not have bested someone as bright as you for top honors at that school you both attended if he did not at least possess some native intelligence."
A cloud of silent resentment settled over the young woman. She did her best to hide her emotions by hunching back into the shadowy corner, but Kaverin rarely missed such things. That petty streak will have to be frozen in her soul, he decided, but we'll have time enough for that later.
"No, I'm afraid you'll have to find some way to protect yourself, Quiracus. Our cover as Tantrasan ambassadors will keep Artus himself out of these cabins until we reach Chult, but if you're found here-and Artus will make certain the crew searches everywhere for you-it might endanger our cover," Kaverin concluded, making a halfhearted attempt to appear sympathetic. "That just won't do, you see."
Quiracus was on his feet, pointing at Kaverin with a trembling finger. "I swear I'll tell him you're here if you don't help me. I-"
The elf stiffened, then crumpled to the floor. The bone handle of an ancient Mulhorandi dagger protruded from his back. "Thank you, Phyrra my dear," Kaverin cooed. "He was beginning to give me a headache."
The mousy woman retrieved the blade, wiped it clean on Quiracus's shirt, then slid it back into her boot. Grabbing the elf under the arms, she hauled him to the other side of the small cabin. "Shall we dump him out the window?" she asked. Daggers of light flashed across the room as her round glasses caught and reflected the lantern's radiance.
Kaverin pondered the point for a moment. "No," he said at last, stifling a yawn. "Leave him for my nightly visitors. They'd love that kind of present, don't you think? Perhaps they'll go home early, as a show of appreciation."
The stone-handed man tried hard to mask the apprehension in his voice, but couldn't. He was getting sleepy, and that meant the emissaries of Cyric would soon arrive. "Perhaps if I read something from this enthralling book I'll stay awake… for a while anyway."
Kaverin sat down next to the lantern and opened Artus's journal once more. Like his dark eyes, his angular features betrayed none of his feelings. His mouth was small and tight, with lips as pale and bloodless as the rest of his skin. Like an icicle, his sharp nose slashed down across his face from his forehead. The few who had ever touched Kaverin Ebonhand and lived often complained that forever after they suffered a chill where they'd come in contact with him. It wasn't an icy cold so much as the clamminess of a corpse.
"Are we all comfy?" he asked mildly.
Deftly Feg hopped onto the perch loop standing nearby, fanning his master all the while. Across the room, Phyrra stuffed a towel beneath the elf's corpse to stop the blood from spreading. Then she settled back into her shadowy corner and wrapped her thin arms around herself.
"Another page about me," Kaverin exclaimed. His voice was high and full of excitement, like a child who had just been given a magical toy. "It says: 'Pontifax and I have finally brought Kaverin to justice. As usual,