Two weeks later, Finadd Gerun Eberict, his breath whistling through the new gap in his front teeth, knelt before Ezgara Diskanar in the throne room, and before the assembled masses was granted the King’s Leave. For the remainder of the soldier’s life, he was immune to criminal conviction. He was, in short, free to do as he pleased, to whomever he pleased, barring the king’s own line.
The identity of the person behind the assassination attempt was never discovered.
Since then, Gerun Eberict had been on a private crusade. A lone, implacable vigilante. He was known to have personally murdered thirty-one citizens, including two wealthy, highly respected and politically powerful merchants, and at least a dozen other mysterious deaths were commonly attributed to him. He had, in short, become the most feared man in Letheras.
He had also, in that time, made himself rich.
Yet, for all that, he remained a Finadd in the King’s Guard, and so was bound to the usual responsibilities. Brys Beddict suspected the decision to send Gerun Eberict with the delegation was as much to relieve the city of the pressure of his presence as it was a statement to the queen and the prince. And Brys wondered if the king had come to regret his sanction.
The two palace guards walked side by side across Soulan Bridge and into the Pursers’ District. The day was hot, the sky white with thin, high clouds. They entered Rild’s, an establishment known for its fish cuisine, as well as an alcoholic drink made from orange rinds, honey and Tusked Seal sperm. They sat in the inner courtyard, at Gerun’s private table.
As soon as drinks and lunch were ordered, Gerun Eberict leaned back in his chair and regarded Brys with curiosity. ‘Is my guest this day the King’s Champion?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Brys admitted. ‘My brother, Hull, is accompanying Buruk the Pale. It is believed that Buruk will remain with the Edur until the Great Meeting. There is concern about Hull.’
‘What kind of concern?’
‘Well, you knew him years ago.’
‘I did. Rather well, in fact. He was my Finadd back then. And upon my promotion, he and I got roaring drunk at Porul’s and likely sired a dozen bastards each with a visiting troupe of flower dancers from Trate. In any case, the company folded about ten months later, or so we heard.’
‘Yes, well. He’s not the same man, you know.’
‘Isn’t he?’
The drinks arrived, an amber wine for Brys, the Tusked Milk for Gerun.