The Last Mortal Bond (Chronicle of the Unhewn Throne, #3)

by Brian Staveley

Never speak to a crowd. Her father’s words, measured and steady. Especially not a crowd of thousands. Always speak to a single person.

“Where is the art,” he replied, “in blowing air through a hollow reed? In smearing ink on a page? Reduce anything to its elements and the art…” He blew the pipe smoke slowly between pursed lips, watching it eddy in the hot air, then break apart. “It vanishes.”

“It is difficult to hear a thing when your ears are filled with your own words.”

That was the mystery at the heart of all power. Power appeared to be something that a ruler had, that she held, that she had taken from the people. The appearance was false. Power was something people gave, gave willingly, even if they didn’t know it, even if they resented it. The wealthy merchant who paid a tax on every bolt of cloth, the slave who lived day after day under the yoke, the sailors who allowed their boats to be searched by crown officials, the soldiers who refused to break ranks even when their orders were ridiculous, insane—it was these people who gave a ruler her power, offered it up like a sacrifice.

“I suppose it would be too much to hope,” Pyrre said, “that one or both of you might have spent the past year studying something other than pottery or fellatio?” The assassin raised an eyebrow. “No?” She let out a long sigh. “I guess we’ll stick with the same plan as last time, then.” “What plan?” Triste demanded. “You run as fast as you can,” Pyrre replied brightly, “while I kill people.”