overwhelmed by the magnificence of this place when sheâd first come here to live after she married Stellan. Now she barely even noticed it.
âLady Desean!â the spymaster exclaimed with a grin, turning from the fireplace to greet her. Heâd been staring up at the stern countenance of Stellanâs great-grandfather Rocard, larger than life and dressed in gilded armour in the portrait; a severed head lay at his feet while fires raged behind him, destroying what Arkady assumed was some sort of crude village. The Bloody Duke, they used to call him. He was the one credited with hunting the Scards of Lebec into virtual extinction.
Arkady hurried across the room and threw her arms around her old friend, hugging him tightly. âTides, Declan, we havenât seen you for ages. What are you doing in Lebec?â
âBusiness brings me here. And your husband was kind enough to offer me a roof for the night.â
âWhy didnât you tell me he was coming?â she asked Stellan over her shoulder.
âI didnât know myself, until he arrived,â Stellan informed her, taking a seat in one of the overstuffed leather armchairs facing the desk, which he moved to face the spymaster. Stellan tolerated her friendship with Declan Hawkes, butâfor obvious reasonsâher closeness with the Kingâs Spymaster made him more than a little nervous. Sheâd told Stellan any number of times that sheâd not shared his secret with her old friend, but he still worried about it. Heâd never said or done anything to indicate he knew about her husband, but still, deep down, Arkady suspected Declan knew the truth.
Stepping out of his embrace, Arkady looked up at Declan expectantly. Rain pattered softly against the tall windows either side of the fireplace, not nearly as heavy as the earlier downpour that had come with the thunder and lightning.
âWell, what are you doing here? Itâs too much to hope, I suppose, that youâre simply here for the pleasure of my company?â
âActually, Iâm here for your expertise.â
Arkady looked at him oddly.
âDo you remember a dreadful murder in the village of Rindova several months ago?â he asked. âA whole familyâseven brothersâwas slaughtered.â
She was puzzled by the question. It certainly wasnât what sheâd been expecting. âI remember. The killer was a foreigner, wasnât he? A Caelish tradesman of some sort? Didnât they catch him at the scene of the crime, standing over his victims, still covered in their blood?â
âThey did,â the spymaster agreed. âHe was a wainwright. His name is Kyle Lakesh. He was tried and condemned for the murders, too.â
âIs there some sort of problem with his trial?â Arkady glanced at Stellan. âIs that the reason you wanted the Caelish Ambassador invited to dinner this evening?â
âThere is something wrong, Arkady,â Declan informed her, âbut the ambassador has nothing to do with it. Not yet, at least. You see, they hanged the criminal several days ago.â
âAnd the ambassador is upset because weâve executed one of his citizens?â
âHeâs got nothing to be upset about,â Stellan remarked, brushing an imaginary fleck of dust from his trousers. âHe didnât die.â
âWho didnât die?â
âLakesh,â Declan said. âThe murderer. They hanged him and he didnât die.â
âYou mean the hangman botched the job?â she asked, not at all certain she understood what they were telling her.
âNo, as far as I can tell, the hangman did a fine job. The man just refused to die.â
Arkady looked at her husband, hoping to detect a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, thinking this must be some sort of joke. But Stellan was quite serious. So was Declan Hawkes.
âHow could he refuse to die?â she asked, looking from one man
Learning to Kill: Stories