Dancer's Lament

Chapter 5

WORD ON THEIR first job came to Rheena and Dorin the next night. They were hanging around the corner of an alleyway, lounging and eyeing the touts, marks, courtesans, clients, and those simply out enjoying the night air as they passed back and forth in this section of the Outer Round. It was what Dorin could only describe as ‘loitering’. Truth was, they were of course advertising their presence, and, more important, keeping any other crew from moving into that section of territory.

He reflected that much of this belonging to a gang consisted of standing about waiting for something to happen. Very different from his previous apprenticeship. That sour old man hadn’t allowed him one hour of time to himself. Here, it seemed that just showing up counted for much of what was expected of them.

Word came via one of Tran’s young street beggars. They were told to get down to the riverside straight away. The wording implied that they were already late; Rheena raised her eyes to the night sky and pushed herself from the wall. She waved Dorin onward. ‘C’mon. Mister high-and-mighty’s all testy tonight.’

Shreth and Loor followed along. Dorin noted that the mutual teasing and joking was gone between them, along with any resentment towards him. Both now carried themselves with a serious watchful air, as if they were bodyguards, or hired muscle.

‘Why do you put up with him?’ Dorin asked as they threaded the crowds of the night market.

‘Who? Tran?’

‘Yes.’

Her shrug was fatalistic. ‘He’s Pung’s chosen man. No going against Pung. He’ll boil your balls, that one will.’

‘Will we see him?’

She shot him a disbelieving glance. ‘Pung? Whatever for?’

Dorin kept his features flat. ‘I want to show him what I can do.’

Rheena laughed. ‘You can be sure he’s heard! Everything gets reported. He has informants everywhere.’

Dorin was quiet for a time. In truth, he hadn’t considered that. The man may even have paid informants and spies among Urquart’s gang. Good thing none of them had ever seen him – except Rafall. Now that he was seeing more of the world, reflecting on Tran’s leadership, or pathetic lack thereof, it occurred to him that such shortcomings might not be all that rare in every walk of life – especially those of the black market and thievery. Individuals who had failed at every other calling, or proved themselves appallingly unreliable, tended to tumble down into the alleyways of the night market as their last option: the addicts, the hopelessly indebted, the serial liars, the foolish, the deluded, the lazy, and the just plain dim.

The grim reality on the street was proving far removed from the jongleurs’ and troubadours’ tales of roguish grinning thieves with hearts of gold. It was a calling, he decided, far too romanticized, and in actual truth full of damaged broken people. And, in the end, in no way admirable. Just rather shabby, seedy, sad – and violent.

And what did that say about him? Here Dorin clenched his jaws and let a hard breath out of his nose. He was no thief. He’d never stolen anything. He’d picked up a few things from that ruined merchants’ caravan, but they’d been dead. He was paid for his talents. It was not a job or work. It was his calling. He realized, then, that he didn’t even consider what he did business. Rheena and these others, he knew, were in it for the coin. They wanted to get rich. Preferably as quickly and easily as possible.

Money, however, held no fascination for him. He was a craftsman. He was interested only in the perfection of his skills.

In silence, they reached the wharf. Torches and lanterns on poles lit the waterfront. Rheena led, walking past barge after barge until she reached the one that not coincidentally was the boat with the largest gang of crew hanging about. Here an older, bearded and pot-bellied fellow sauntered over, pointing a finger. ‘Late as usual, Red.’

‘Busy, Bruneth,’ she replied, airily.

‘Busy my arse. You don’t even know what work is.’ The fellow cast an eye over Shreth, Loor, and lastly Dorin. He snorted his disbelief. ‘If it ain’t mister famous knife thrower. Where we’re going none of your fancy-pants tricks are gonna impress anyone, okay?’

Dorin raised an eyebrow. Rheena waved Bruneth off and jumped down to the barge, sat back against a crate, and stretched out her legs. ‘So let’s get going.’

Bruneth grumbled darkly into his beard, but waved to the lounging crew. The lines were slipped, poles unshipped, and the barge started downriver with the slow current.

Shreth and Loor produced a set of dice and set to whiling away the time. Members of the crew, all Tran’s men and women, drifted over to join them. Rheena had closed her eyes, apparently dozing, or making a great show of it to impress everyone. Bruneth had gone to stand next to the man handling the broad tiller oar at the rear of the barge. Curious, Dorin walked the narrow aisles between the piled crates and barrels of cargo.

Some had been carelessly broken open, perhaps by Bruneth’s people, to verify their contents. Dorin looked in and was surprised to see bundled arrows, weapons, coils of rope, and military supplies and materiel. The barrels held salted meat and other such preserved foodstuffs.

Dorin went to Rheena, touched her foot. ‘These are all taken from the city guard depot.’

She shrugged. ‘Oh?’

‘There’s a siege on, you know. Food is already rationed.’

She hadn’t yet opened her eyes. ‘Look. If some crates fall off the back of a wagon, who’s the wiser? We’re gonna get paid for it, aren’t we?’

‘But you’re undermining the city defences—’

Rheena cracked one eye. ‘Gods, Dorin. I swear. Don’t act like you just arrived with the turnip cart. Where do you think this stuff comes from? Everybody does it. Why shouldn’t we get some of the action?’

He considered her answer. Yes, why should he care? Who was the Protectress to him? No one. Why then did this grate so? Then he had it. It was not a question of one ruler over another, the Hengans or the Kanese. It was that right now men and women were putting their lives at risk to shield him and this was how he was repaying them? And for what? A handful of greasy coins? The meanness of it turned his stomach. He thought it . . . well, beneath him.

They passed beneath the arch of the outer wall over the Idryn. No city guards called down and no crossbow bolts flew. Either the guards didn’t care if someone left the city, or they’d been paid to look the other way.

Downstream they came to a wooded turn of the river and here Bruneth ordered them to the southern shore. As they approached, a narrow light shone from among the trees, blinking on and off. ‘Ready lines,’ Bruneth hissed. ‘Throw!’

The crew heaved the lines to the wooded shore. Dark shapes moved to gather them up and soon they were being drawn in. The side of the barge scraped up against the man-tall mud cliff that was the southern riverside.

‘Who’s there?’ Bruneth demanded of the dark.

‘No names, I think,’ a man answered, letting himself down to the timbers. Amid the murk, Dorin glimpsed a flash from metal armour and the fittings of a sword sheath. Other shapes moved amid the cover of the treed cliff-top.

By the sleeping goddess – they were selling to the Kanese! Well, he decided, mentally shrugging. Who else would be in need of military supplies?

‘Start unloading,’ the newcomer called up to the trees.

Bruneth huffed his objection. ‘Payment first.’

‘Of course,’ the fellow – an officer? – answered smoothly.

Over the rush of the river and the night wind rustling through the tree boughs, the sound of a crossbow being ratcheted touched Dorin’s ear. He casually crossed over to Rheena and took her arm, drawing her to the barge’s side. ‘This looks very bad,’ he murmured.

She shook off his hand, vexed. ‘I told you – we’re bein’ paid for it.’

‘I think we are,’ he answered, darkly. ‘At the first sign of trouble, jump over the side.’

She eyed him as if he were drunk. ‘What? I can’t swim.’

‘Hang on to the side.’

‘Where is it, then?’ Bruneth grumbled again.

‘Coming. Ah!’ The dark shapes, armoured soldiers, handed down a set of saddlebags. The officer passed them over. They were obviously very heavy. Bruneth knelt to open them and the officer backed away from him as he did so.

Shit was all Dorin managed before multiple crossbow bolts slammed into Bruneth. Dorin pushed Rheena over the side and ducked as further bolts raked the barge deck. He dodged to where Loor and Shreth had leaped behind the cover of some barrels, their eyes white all round in the dark. Bruneth’s crew started firing back. The officer had drawn his longsword and was calmly closing on the nearest crewman.

‘Jump!’ Dorin snarled.

‘Can’t swim,’ Loor stammered back.

Furious, Dorin simply grabbed the two by their shirts and dragged them to the side and heaved them over. ‘It’s shallow here!’ he hissed after them.

He turned round to find himself staring directly at the Kanese officer. He retreated up an aisle between piled crates, drawing his heaviest fighting knives. The man advanced, then lunged, swinging. Dorin edged aside the blow, sending the sword blade slamming into a crate. To the surprise of both, it jammed there. The officer yanked on the hilt. Dorin darted forward and sank his knife into the officer’s neck just behind the chin-strap of his helmet. The man froze. Their eyes met. In the fellow’s gaze Dorin saw the despairing recognition that he was dead and there was nothing he could do about it.

The officer sank to his knees. Dorin moved on past him. He rounded a roped heap of barrels, heading for the side, only to flinch down as a flurry of crossbow bolts slammed into the lashed timbers ahead. Cursing, he backed away to find cover on the side away from shore. The barge rocked beneath his feet as numerous soldiers jumped down to it. He sensed the odds slipping steadily away from him but kept his head, crawling behind cover to search for another way to the side. He pulled himself over dead and dying members of Bruneth’s crew, all punched through by multiple bolts. The living called to him and he silently cursed them for giving away his position.

Soldiers rounded the aisle ahead, spotted him. There was nothing for it now. He charged, blades readied. Surprised, the lead soldier snapped up his crossbow. He shot too early and the bolt struck just ahead of Dorin’s feet.

Then he was among them, knives swinging. He had the advantage in the constricted alley and went for swift killing blows, slicing exposed necks, faces, and throats. The fourth and last soldier of this group he held up as a shield between himself and the shore. The moment he stopped moving bolts began thumping into the corpse and the crates about him. He started shuffling clumsily towards the nearest side.

Before he made it, another clutch of soldiers reached him. These charged with longswords. He heaved the corpse on to the first, entangling him, and closed with the rest. Cursing him, the two at the back dropped their swords – useless in such close combat – and went for their knives. Dorin trapped the sword blade of the nearest and counter-thrust up into the groin. The man went down with a shriek. The second obviously fancied himself some sort of duellist as he held two longswords. Dorin lured him into crossing them then pushed forward, trapping the blades between them. He whipped a knife across the fellow’s throat then turned away just in time to parry knife attacks from the last two.

These proved experienced veterans. Each fought with two gauches. Dorin found himself on the defensive, parrying four blades. They forced him back down the aisle and out past his cover. Crossbow bolts smacked into the barrels and crates about him.

Snarling, he pressed forward against the far heavier and armoured soldiers. This would not do. He’d trained in fighting up to eight opponents at a time. Two would not get the better of him! Feinting, he tricked one into committing ahead of the other and this one he kept busy and in the way of the second. He knew he could take him but the question was how best to do it.

There was no time to be pretty about it – even now the barge rocked beneath new boots – so Dorin took the first opening he had to thrust a blade straight in the throat and kicked the man backwards on to his friend. The two went down in a tangle. Crouching, Dorin stitched the second at groin, stomach and neck in quick succession then ran for the side.

Soldiers yelled behind. Bolts hissed the air. He jumped, rolled, and tumbled over the edge into the murky warm Idryn.

The Kanese fired into the water for some time before eventually giving up. Torch-wielding search parties scoured the nearby shore, but by then Dorin had pulled himself along through the mud and weeds and grass at the river’s edge until he resembled just another heap of muck.

He moved slowly, sliding himself along by tugging at the roots of the stalks about him. Once he judged he’d gone far enough he slithered up the mud slope and entered the woods, confident that his training would allow him to avoid detection. At a sound he paused, listening. Bracken and dry branches broke to the north. He closed on the noise, knives readied.

It was Loor, stumbling through the dark. Dorin moved quickly, before the lad’s fumbling could alert any Kanese. The lad jumped as he appeared and he barely had time to slap a hand across his mouth before he shouted his surprise.

‘What are you doing?’ he hissed into Loor’s ear. He released his mouth.

‘Looking for you,’ the lad answered – not quietly enough.

‘Make for the river gate, you fool.’

‘Shreth’s wounded. Rheena’s with him.’

Dorin clamped his lips shut. Damn this night to Hood’s dark laughter! Oponn must be howling. ‘Lead the way,’ he snarled.

Allowing Loor to go ahead, Dorin soon realized, was a mistake. The lad was completely lost. Dorin finally took hold of his shoulder and forced him to a halt. Loor drew breath to speak but Dorin silenced him, listening.

It had surprised him how easily the Kanese had given up the search. Now that he listened to the night noises of the woods, chilled to the bone as his sodden clothes wicked away his body heat, it came to him that perhaps they weren’t supposed to be here any more than he. That possibility allowed him to relax just a touch, and let himself breathe more deeply.

‘Where did you leave her?’ he asked, his voice low.

‘The river bank.’

‘Okay. This way.’

After reaching the river’s edge he doubled back, thinking that the wounded Shreth hadn’t gotten this far. They found them lying in the water. Rheena was holding Shreth’s chin up above the surface as he lay on top of her. Dorin drew him up the mud slope. He was awake but weak with blood loss; he’d taken a bolt in the leg and another had gouged his scalp. Both wounds still bled badly. Dorin set to binding the leg then wrapped the youth’s head. He and Loor walked him through the woods, an arm over each of their shoulders. Shreth kept blacking out but there was nothing they could do for that.

Dorin kept finding Rheena staring at him. ‘What is it?’ he finally asked.

‘You killed them soldiers,’ she said, awed. ‘All of them. I saw.’

‘Not all of them.’

She turned away. ‘Stupid Tran and his dumb deals. Pung’s going to hear about this, I tell you.’

‘I’m sure he will,’ Dorin said grimly. Who else arranged for the theft of those goods, after all?

‘What’re we gonna do?’ Loor whined, breathless.

‘If we can make it to the river gate before dawn, I can get you in.’

‘Okay,’ Rheena answered with a fierce nod. ‘We’ll make it. Let’s go.’

In the last hour before dawn, Dorin swam them one by one through the river gate. Shreth was now unconscious, his breathing shallow. Dorin eased him into the flow and drew him along on top of him, swimming on his back, a hand under Streth’s chin. If the Idryn had had any stronger current it would have been impossible to manage.

Pre-dawn fishermen on the easternmost dock were astonished that morning as three bedraggled, filthy and sodden figures climbed up the bank, lifted a fourth member of their party, and staggered up the dock leaving behind clots of river mud and a trail of wet tracks.

Being such a sight, they kept to the back alleys as much as possible, Dorin and Loor carrying Shreth between them. As they neared Tran’s territory, Dorin slowed, wondering just what he should do. The idea of entering the man’s headquarters and being surrounded by his crew did not appeal. It would be too much like surrendering – especially after such a disaster.

Rheena cast him an irritated glare, hissed, ‘What is it?’

He stopped, and Loor had no choice but to stop with him. ‘I don’t think you should go back to Tran.’

She gaped at him, peered round as if asking for witness to his idiocy. ‘Why ever not?’

‘He’ll have to blame someone for this failure, Rheena. And if none of Bruneth’s people got away, you’re the likely candidate.’

She laughed. ‘He can blame me all he wants. Truth is, he’s the one in charge. It’s on his head.’

Dorin frowned a negative. ‘He’ll offer you up in his place – make up some damned lie. Accuse you of cutting a deal with the Kanese. Anything to squirm out of the blame.’

She was shaking her head now, her muddied mass of frizzy, mud-streaked hair hanging lopsided. ‘Don’t do this. If you run, you’re the mark. Pung will hunt you down.’

He gently lowered Shreth. ‘You can blame me. Say I blew the deal.’

‘We’d never—’ Loor began, but Dorin cut him off.

‘You’ll do whatever you have to do to live! Okay, Loor?’ The lad actually looked hurt by Dorin’s vehemence, but he nodded, biting his lip. Dorin turned to Rheena. ‘See you around.’

She was glaring, hands on hips, but her eyes were wet. ‘Fine. Go ahead. I will blame you, then. You dumb asshole!’

Dorin bowed, dipping his head. ‘Take care.’ He jogged off the way they had come.

From behind him, up the alley, came a last shout, ‘Damn you!’

* * *

Silk had never before been asked to attend the Protectress during one of her interviews, and so when the request came he was quite surprised, and a touch curious. As ordered, he entered the audience chamber only to find it empty. Nonplussed, he halted, staring about. Did he have the hour wrong?

A palace retainer came padding up the hall towards him and bowed. Rather distracted, Silk hardly gave him any attention. ‘Yes?’

‘The Protectress requests your presence at the Inner Focus.’

Now Silk turned. The Inner Focus? Truly? He’d only been there once before. Since when was Shalmanat interviewing within her most private sanctum? He started at once for the doors that were guarded day and night.

As he approached up the hallway the guards stamped their spears and opened the door. Bright white daylight glared, momentarily blinding Silk as he advanced. The door shut behind him. Blinking, he was just able to make out the broad circular chamber, unadorned, and the figure seated at the very centre. He started forward; the heels of his fine leather boots resounded rather loudly on the white marble floor. Reaching the middle, he bowed to Shalmanat who was seated on her private chair – not the white stone monstrosity of the audience chamber meant to impress the gullible. Rather, the slim woman was seated on a plain leather camp stool. The sort that might stand next to any fireside across the Seti Plains.

She was dressed as usual in her long linen shirt and trousers. But there was a sternness about her eyes this day. Silk bowed. ‘M’lady.’

She gestured to her right. ‘Stand here, please, Silk. I will be interviewing a very . . . special . . . sorceress today. I would like your impressions afterwards.’

Silk bowed once more, now very curious indeed. ‘Of course, m’lady.’ He moved to Shalmanat’s right. The woman brushed back her long pale hair in a gesture Silk would almost have named nervous, then clapped her hands. The door grated open.

A single unprepossessing figure entered the chamber. Silk was first struck by her very plain unremarkableness. If Shalmanat had not described her as special, he would have passed her on the street without a second glance. Yet he noticed that she did not pause or blink as she entered the glare of the chamber, but walked forward unhesitatingly.

As she closed, Silk’s earlier impression was reinforced. Her clothes were cheap and rumpled, and her night-dark hair was poorly cut and in a tangle as if she’d been camping roughly these last days. Her feet and sandals were caked in dried mud. It seemed to him that she was strangely negligent of her appearance, especially for such an important audience. But it was her face that caught his attention. He would have thought her ugly were her features not so very odd indeed. The face was broad and flat, the eyes strangely far apart, the lips thick and downturned, as if always clenched in a grim line.

The woman halted a discreet distance off and bowed to Shalmanat, as was proper. ‘Protectress,’ she began, ‘my thanks for this audience.’

Shalmanat answered the bow with the slightest of nods. ‘It is my duty.’ She indicated Silk. ‘One of my city mages: Silk.’ The woman flicked her dark eyes to him and the power of her gaze struck him like a hammer blow to his brow. He swallowed, quite shaken, and inclined his head. Shalmanat asked, ‘And you are?’

As if caught off guard by the question, the woman tilted her head, pursing her lips. ‘You may call me Lady Night.’

Shalmanat nodded graciously. ‘Very well, Lady Night. What can we in Heng do for you?’

‘I ask permission to reside here for a time. Pursuing my . . . research.’

‘We welcome all scholars and magi. May I ask as to the nature of your research?’

She tilted her head once more, quite obviously searching for words. At last, she allowed, ‘It involves the nature of the Warrens.’

‘How very esoteric.’ The Protectress leaned forward ever so slightly. ‘Such as?’

Shrugging, the woman reached into the folds of her shirt and produced a card that was about the size of her hand. It was of the sort one might find in any set of the divinatory Deck of Dragons. She let it fall to the polished marble flags between them, face up. It was blank.

The Protectress raised her gaze. ‘A blank card. How very interesting.’

Lady Night invited her to take it. ‘Feel it.’

Shalmanat gestured to Silk, who picked it up. He pressed a hand to it, summoned his Warren powers, and was astonished when the card answered, turning chill to his touch. He turned his wondering gaze to Shalmanat. ‘It is awake – yet unresolved.’

The Protectress’s brows rose, impressed. She looked to Lady Night. ‘There has been chaos among the talents of late . . .’

Silk had heard of no such disquiet, but the cards and readings held no interest for him, so he would be the last person to know of it.

Shalmanat had extended a hand to the door, indicating an end to the audience. ‘You are of course welcome to pursue your research, Lady Night. Good luck in it.’

The woman bowed, and, in an odd mistake of etiquette, simply turned and walked away. Silk watched her go, one eyebrow raised.

When the door shut behind the sorceress, Shalmanat turned to him, cocking her head. ‘Well?’

Silk blew out a breath. ‘I don’t know what to make of her. For the life of me, I can’t even place her background. Is she of distant Genabackis?’

‘She is from very far away indeed,’ Shalmanat answered, as if speaking to herself. Studying the door, she murmured, ‘I will not fool myself into thinking that she has failed to take my measure. But what I will suspect is that she is not aware that I know of her.’ She swung her gaze to Silk. ‘Keep an eye on her, but on no account must you confront her, you understand?’

Silk bowed. ‘As you so order.’

‘Very well. I could hardly refuse her entry, but I’ll not remain ignorant of her intent.’ She stood abruptly, started for the door. ‘And what of the siege?’

Silk stumbled after her. ‘Ah – settling in for the long game. Spies report steady convoys of resupply from the south.’

‘And their mage corps?’

‘Thin, at best. Which surprises me, given Itko Kan’s reputation as a breeding ground of talent.’

Shalmanat nodded her thoughtful agreement. ‘Yes. It may be that our King Chulalorn the Third is holding out on us.’

Silk considered that. With the walls effectively stalemating the military, Kan would have to have another option, else would not have come at all. The obvious choice would be a cadre of mages to match Heng’s own. But none of them had sensed any such gathering. ‘Perhaps some secret gambit,’ he offered.

She was nodding. ‘Yes. You will look into this?’

Silk bowed. ‘Yes, Protectress.’

As for their new visitor – she hadn’t reacted to him in the least. Indeed, after that first glance, it had been as if he hadn’t existed at all. As they exited the Inner Focus, he wondered whether he was losing his touch.

* * *

Not knowing what to do, or where to go, Dorin wandered the streets as dawn’s light came crawling down the inner walls and hawkers began shouting their morning meals. His feet eventually led him to Ullara’s family establishment, and, having no better option, he climbed hidden from sight in the back alleyway and ducked through the open gable.

At his entrance, the usual crowd of predatory birds shifted uneasily and shook their wings. A few let out piercing calls as they studied him from over their curved razor beaks. Perhaps they knew his scent or appearance, for they quickly settled back down again – at least not one of them went for his neck.

He sat heavily on a box, sank his head into his hands, and considered weeping.

Tears would not come. But the self-loathing would not stop. Failure! Idiot! Even imbecilic Tran has managed to advance! What have you accomplished?

Escaped an ambush, yes – while emerging as the prime candidate for the failure. And now he was no closer to Pung . . . much further away, in fact.

The trapdoor opened. Dorin recognized the sounds of Ullara’s movements. The scent of tea and fresh-baked bread made his mouth water. Sighing, he raised his eyes past his fingers.

She sat on the box opposite, her feet tucked up under her skirts, regarding him, chin in hands. A tray with tea and bread rested among the straw on the boards between them.

‘How did you know I was here?’ he asked.

‘The birds – that is, I heard them.’

‘Well . . . thank you.’ He studied the steam rising from the tea.

‘You look terrible.’

He examined his mud-streaked hands, his torn and filthy shirt and trousers, now stiff and stinking of the river. ‘Yes. I do.’

‘What happened?’

He rubbed his hands over his face. Flakes of dried mud fell like tears. He sighed again. ‘Nothing’s going the way I imagined it would.’

‘Nothing ever does.’

Words of wisdom from a child. Well, isn’t that the old saying?

He picked up the cup of tea, sipped, regarded her over its rim. ‘Why are you being so kind to me?’

The girl blushed furiously, looking away. She reached over and ran a hand down the chest of a tasselled eagle, one far from its home on the south savannahs. A bird big enough to consider her a meal. ‘I take care of all my orphans.’

‘Well, my thanks.’

‘What isn’t going the way you expected?’

‘Everything. These small-minded locals! No one seems to want my talents. There’s no room for me. Everything’s taken or spoken for.’

She shrugged her bony shoulders. ‘Of course all the good roosts are taken – that’s why they’re taken. No one’s going to give one away.’

A half-smile pulled at his lips from this bird-logic. But he supposed it was true. He took a mouthful of bread. ‘Well . . . I tried to take one and it went poorly. Now this town’s ruined for me. I’ll have to move on. I think I’ll try Unta. They say the pickings are rich there. At least the wine is better.’

‘What makes you think it’ll be any different there?’

He slowed in his chewing, swallowed hard. ‘I suppose I’ll have to go and find out.’

She said nothing but he saw how tightly her thin pale lips were clenched. He motioned to a nearby brown falcon, its right wing obviously broken. ‘What happens to your orphans after they are healed?’

At first she would not look up, but her lips quirked and she rolled her eyes. ‘They fly away.’

‘Yes, they do.’

‘But not all!’ and she buried her face in the eagle’s chest, wrapping her arms round it. Over her head, it seemed to glare down its beak at him. He was amazed to see her lack of concern for the murderous scimitar-like weapon poised directly above her.

‘I have one last job to do tonight. Money for the journey.’

‘Then you will come to say goodbye?’ she asked from within the downy white chest feathers.

‘Yes.’

‘You swear?’

‘Yes. I swear I will say goodbye before I go.’

She pulled away from the eagle’s breast, wiped her nose on her arm, sniffing. ‘All right, then. Tonight.’

He stood, finished his tea. ‘Thank you.’

‘You could sleep here – I mean, if you wished.’

‘Thank you, but I need to prepare. I will see you later.’ He crossed to the gable.

‘You promise?’ she called, and he nodded as he let himself down.

Alone, Ullara turned to the eagle. She set her hands on her slim hips. The fierceness of her gaze matched the bird’s. She pointed to another, larger, gable opening. ‘Gather them all,’ she told it.

The great eagle raised its beak and let go its shrill hunting call, then spread its wings and swooped through the aperture, disappearing.

*

Dorin washed in a public bath on the river shore, then rested in one of the small rooms he’d rented around the city – rents he could no longer afford to maintain. He drew out his gear and dressed very slowly and deliberately. First went on his lightweight armoured vest, which now bore loops for more than twenty weapons, then a dark padded undershirt and thin dark trousers. He selected twelve matched daggers of various weights and dimensions, and coils of graded weights of wire and cotton rope. Some of these he wrapped round his arms, others round his waist. He pulled on lightweight leather shoes, soled in hemp cord, then wrapped his legs in cloth swathings and leather strapping. Through the leather went half the daggers; the rest he sheathed in his two baldrics. Into tiny pockets hidden about his shirt and trousers and vest went small vials and packets of various chemicals and unguents. Pitch for his fingertips; charcoal for his face; dust that could be blown into a pursuer’s path to sting their eyes, and another that caused uncontrollable coughing.

Throughout, his old master’s scornful impatient voice battered him: Should’ve stretched first, boy! When’s the last time you practised with those knuckle-blades? You’re right leg’s stiff – took a hit last night, did you? Remember to compensate. Why not the climbing hooks? Too good for them, are we?

He could almost feel the beating of the bamboo switch across his shoulders and back. Of course the strikes had hardly hurt at all, the ancient fellow had been so infirm. It was his pride that was wounded.

Yes, I should’ve stretched, and yes, I shouldn’t go out on two consecutive nights. And yes, I haven’t been practising enough lately . . .

Resting on his knees, he tested the edge and ease of draw of each weapon. Satisfied, he threw on a loose shapeless overshirt and a hooded cloak, then went to the open window and swung himself up on to the roof. The sun was just setting. Its amber beams still struck the city’s single tall tower, above the central palace. Crouched, Dorin padded off for the section of the Inner Round known as the Street of the Gods.

When he neared the precinct, he took to the narrow back streets. These proved mostly residential, peppered with the occasional temple or shrine to some foreign or lesser known god or spirit. Shops catered to the worship and upkeep of the temples: candle-makers, funerary houses, dealers in rare aromatic woods and spices for incense and embalmment.

After some searching, he found a vantage point on the decorated roof of a temple to the hoary old beast gods. He knelt between the tall stone boar of Fener, god of war and ferocity, and a rough likeness of Togg, the wolf god of winter. Across the way and up a few decrepit buildings lay the plain run-down abandoned mausoleum that everyone in Heng knew held a newly consecrated temple to Hood, the ancient god of death himself.

Its door was open, its threshold dark and empty. Even the street before it lay empty of all traffic. This surprised Dorin, as dusk was a traditional time of worship for acolytes of Hood. Then he had his answer as he spotted a gang of thugs turning away anyone heading in that direction.

Intrigued, he went to the back of the roof, let himself down, and circled round to approach the main street from an alleyway. Here he waited until one such person passed by, when he called from the shadows: ‘Friend! I am come to bow before the Great Hooded One, yet I find myself turned away. What is the meaning of this?’

This fellow halted, gestured back up the way. ‘Hunh. The fools. Criminals feuding with the true servant within. Imagine! Picking a feud with Hood! He will visit them for their irreverence, I tell you.’

Criminals? This is Pung’s territory . . . ‘Thank you, friend.’ Dorin circled back to his vantage point and settled in for the night to deepen.

Shortly before the mid-night bell, the gang, carrying torches, came up the street and faced the mausoleum. Swords out, four tentatively edged their way forward into the dark opening. A moment later came the sound of blows taken and four bodies rolled out, one after the other, on to the street.

‘Come out, y’damned coward!’ shouted the leader of the gang.

Not bloody likely. Not when you have to go in to get him.

‘Fine!’ The gang leader gestured curtly and his crew threw objects that crashed on the threshold. After this came torches, and flames flickered to life in the open doorway.

What good is that, Dorin wondered? It’s made of stone. Maybe they mean to smoke him out.

The leader then browbeat more of his gang into charging the doorway. They leaped the dying flames and in the light the defender met them. His blows were clean and efficient. All went down. Two fell in the flames and caught fire, screaming before unconsciousness took them.

All this Dorin watched with care, especially the man’s astonishing speed. But what truly surprised him was the fact that he knew him. The firelight had revealed a slim dark lad with black hair. It was that caravan guard who claimed to have fought Ryllandaras out upon the Seti Plains. Dorin now wondered if perhaps he truly had. In which case, he supposed he’d have to be damned wary of him.

The thugs pulled their fallen fellows out of the remains of the fire and beat out the flames. Their leader cursed and stamped about. More flammables were thrown at the mausoleum, to similar non-effect. Dorin eased himself down to sit them out. They yelled insults, threatened the fellow, cursed him up and down, threw rocks, fired arrows, and finally resorted to heaving garbage into the dark opening.

Silence answered them. The silence of the grave, Dorin mouthed to himself, smirking.

Pung’s siege appeared to be proceeding as successfully as that of the Kanese.

Finally, tired and frustrated, the useless street muscle wandered off. Dorin gave it a few minutes longer, then rose up to study the stone door, now soot-blackened. Nothing moved that he could see. Considering that, he drew out a slim packet of greased paper, opened it, and touched a fingertip to the balm within. He dabbed the fingertip to his eyes, blinking at the sting of it. Slowly, the night brightened about him. The effect would linger for about two hours. He moved to the rear and let himself down.

The problem with mausoleums, he reflected, was that they had only one entrance. The dead, it seemed, had no use for windows or back doors. Because of this, he was forced to come sidling up one wall and edge along the front to approach the opening. At least his enhanced night vision showed the threshold empty of any lurking swordsman. Still, the fellow could be waiting just inside, sword raised. Unhappy with the necessity of it, Dorin drew his two heaviest fighting knives. Holding one to parry high and the other low, he slipped round one jamb to hug the wall just inside.

No figure lunged, swinging. He slid along until he reached the inner corner of the main hall. He felt the openings of funerary sconces against his back, each sporting a grinning ancestor. The balm allowed him to see more lining each wall. Of the lad, he detected no hint. At the far end of the hall he could just make out some sort of shrine. Distant pillars there looked to provide the only interior cover. A figure sat slumped up against the shrine – not the swordsman, though: too old and skinny. The priest no doubt. His target.

A quick in and out, then. Dash in, strike, dash out. He silently exchanged one of the knives for his longest and thinnest stabbing dagger. Crouched, he edged forward one careful step at a time, silently cursing the tiny shards of ceramic his foot accidentally brushed, and the tossed debris he had to take such care to step round.

He reached the figure without hearing any betraying noise of movement elsewhere in the mausoleum. The old man’s head hung in sleep. He knelt to thrust the blade straight in through the chest, then paused. His breath left him in a long exhalation of wonder and he let his hand fall.

From behind, a longsword’s blade kissed the side of his neck. ‘You do not strike,’ the lad said.

‘I see there is no need.’

‘You see truly.’

With great care, Dorin sheathed his blades then extended his arms, hands empty. ‘I am done, then.’

The blade held firm, cold, and so sharp Dorin felt it cut his neck with every slight move he made. ‘You are not here for me?’ the lad asked.

‘The priest was my target.’

‘So you claim now.’

‘Were I after you, I would have edged round the sides to flush you out.’

The weapon held for three more heartbeats, then withdrew. ‘True. That is what I would have done.’

Hands still straight out, Dorin very slowly turned to face the lad who held his blade readied between them.

The youth scowled, recognizing him in turn. ‘You. The one who cares nothing for the dead.’

‘The dead care nothing for me.’

‘How would you know?’

‘How would you?’

The blade’s keen point lurched forward a touch, but stilled. ‘You are lucky, little back-stabber, that I have a use for you.’

‘I’ve stabbed no one in the back.’

‘Yet that is what assassins do.’

‘Back-stabbings, betrayals, ambushes and poisonings are many. Some call these assassinations – we do not.’

‘Hunh. A discriminating murderer. You also deal in trivial hairsplitting, I see.’

Dorin looked to the ceiling. ‘Kill me or let me go. But please do not torture me with your chatter.’

The blade was once more at Dorin’s neck, and he blinked. No one is that fast.

‘You will return to your pathetic masters and give your report. Perhaps then they will leave us alone.’

Dorin realized that the fellow assumed he worked for Pung. Disgusted, he drew a sharp breath to deny the charge but then clamped his lips against saying anything. Naturally, he was not allowed to betray any confidence regarding his employers. So he merely tipped his head in a stiff nod of agreement.

The fellow smoothly slipped aside to allow him out.

Dorin circled round, keeping his face to the swordsman, and keeping his arms out. He backed towards the entrance. As he retreated he glimpsed a dark bundle of ragged blankets up against one wall, and, from within, the face of a small girl, her dark eyes watching. The child from the caravan.

Surprising, and damned macabre, but what else might this fellow do with . . . what, his sister? Daughter? He returned his attention to the swordsman. ‘You have quite the rich scam here, friend. Good luck with it.’

‘Scam? There are no scams, lies, or deceits when one stands before Hood.’

Dorin slipped outside. Jogging off, he raised his eyes to the night sky once more. Gods, the fellow actually seems to believe the patter. But then, maybe that’s what really sells it.

In the darkness of the mausoleum the swordsman eased out of his ready stance, released a hissed calming breath. Too good by half, that one. Hard to let him go.

The rubbish and flakes of ash scattered about the flags stirred then, a wind hissing among the lingering embers, raising a glow. A noise that might have been no more than that wind murmured, I saw your temptation. Your forbearance is noted, servant. That one knows it not, but he serves as well.

The lad fell to one knee before the slumped figure. ‘As you say, master.’

‘Who are you talking to?’ the child asked.

‘No one. Try to sleep. It is safe now. I promise you.’

*

Dorin reached the appointed rooftop after the mid-night bell but paced there anyway, hoping his employers would not care too much for punctuality. After waiting two bells his patience was rewarded by the brushing of cloth from one side of the flat expanse, and the fop straightened up. The fellow adjusted his shirt and trousers.

Dorin stilled himself, listening for any others.

Tiles shifted from the opposite edge and the wrestler reared up there. Dorin noted they were on either side of him. He drew two mid-weight throwing blades, called, ‘Close enough.’

The fop bowed. His smile glimmered bright in the moonlight. ‘What news?’ he asked.

‘The priest is dead.’

The fop brushed at his silk jacket. ‘Really? What proof do you bring?’

This threw Dorin for an instant until he waved a hand in dismissal. ‘No one takes the heads any more.’

‘Then how can we know?’

‘Because I say so, and my word as a professional should be good enough.’

This maddening fellow now studied his fingernails. ‘Do you have any references?’

Dorin extended a blade to each of them. Should’ve taken half in advance. ‘I’m not the thief here.’

The fop just waved to his cohort who started forward, hands out, in a wrestler’s advance. Dorin was puzzled once more. Did this fellow really think he could just walk up and grapple him? Unsettled, he shifted, retreating across the rooftop. ‘What is this? I’m the one who should be stalking you.’

‘Your time in the city is over, little night-blade,’ said the fop. ‘We’re here to send you on your way. Go, and live. Stay . . . and die.’

Run? Run from these two? He could take them. Still, their manner unnerved him. He started angling his retreat over towards the fop. The man raised his hands as if straightening his jacket, but Dorin’s teachings from his old master included typical preparatory gestures from the main Warrens, and he recognized a Thyr summoning of power. He threw up an arm over his eyes.

Blazing pink-tinged light struck him almost physically. For a flash of an instant he thought he glimpsed the length of his ulna through the flesh of his forearm. Then starry shimmering darkness. He was blind.

He spun, but not quickly enough, as burly arms closed round him in a crushing embrace, yanking him from his feet. Mages! Damned mages always caused him such trouble! His arms were clenched to his sides but a number of hidden pockets remained in reach. He chose one, twisted, and drew his arm up between them, then tore the packet in his fingers and blew the last of his breath straight out in a great gust of air.

He was tossed aside in a roar of coughing and spluttering. He staggered off, blinking, his eyes watering uncontrollably. He was blind – but not utterly so. He could see shadings now: blurry slabs of light and dark.

The wrestler was gasping and coughing off somewhere. ‘What is the matter with you?’ demanded the fop. The side! Where was the roof’s edge! If he could just reach the lip . . .

Someone tripped him from behind and he fell sprawling.

‘Would you get him?’ the fop sighed, exasperated.

‘Dried powder of the essayan flower,’ the wrestler grumbled in his far deeper voice. ‘Been a long time since I’ve felt that.’ And he coughed anew, gasping.

‘Get him!’

‘Couldn’t we just break his arms and throw him out of the city?’

‘Fine. Do it.’

‘Okay. Come here, little man.’

Dorin shuffled away on his back to buy time, as already his vision was returning. He’d had just enough warning to prepare for that blast of Thyr-summoned light, and now his eyes were recovering. The wrestler was closing. His tread was heavy on the tiles, his hands extended to either side.

‘I am sorry, little man,’ said the fellow in his gravelly voice, ‘but m’lady will not tolerate assassins in her city.’

City mages! He was facing two blasted city mages! But why then the contract?

Showing startling speed, the wrestler closed, snatching his ankle. Dorin readied to cut through the fellow’s entire forearm and wrist in what would normally be a mortal wound.

Three crossbow bolts thumped into the man’s chest and he staggered backwards, releasing Dorin’s ankle.

Dark figures fell one by one to the rooftop and straightened. Their black gauzy wrappings rippled and blew about them like clouds of obscuring murk.

Nightblades. A full flight of them.

The Kanese had arrived.

Dorin tensed to run but, rubbing his eyes, he saw that not one of the Kanese assassins was focused upon him. Now that the big fellow was down, all were closing on the poor wretched fop who surely wouldn’t last an instant. Yet, somehow, a veritable storm of shot bolts and thrown blades blew past the skinny mage as he calmly turned his shoulders and tilted his head in a dismissive, almost lazy, dance of avoidance.

The man was not running from a full flight of Nightblades, Dorin realized, almost in awe.

Then the mage raised his hands.

Dorin spun to press his face into the tiles and cover his head. But it was not light that washed over him. What came instead was a furnace roar and wave of kiln heat that blew agony across his back. He turned over to see an arc of smoking heaps. And in the centre stood this fop city mage, smiling. The slate tiles of the roof glowed red in a circle about him, hissing and crackling. As Dorin watched, amazed, the fellow pulled off his jacket, which was aflame, and calmly began rolling up his sleeves as if preparing for a very dirty task ahead.

This was war, Dorin realized. A mage war. One he was woefully unprepared for. He began crawling for the roof’s edge.

More Nightblades landed to his right, drew back their arms to throw at the fop mage. Then, incredibly, the other one rose anew, the wrestler, bearing his forest of crossbow bolts. He smashed two heads together and they burst like ripe grapes, spattering wet mulched fluids across the glowing hot tiles, hissing.

Dorin kicked himself to his feet and jumped to the next roof. In his still blurry vision he misjudged the distance and landed hard. He straightened slowly, winded.

A Nightblade landed ahead of him. He crouched, drawing a throwing blade. Yet even as he did so the words of his old master came to him and he realized his mistake: Nightblades never work alone.

Something stabbed into his back, just over his right hip. He staggered to a chimney, let his arms fall. The Nightblades closed.

Dorin snapped up his hands in twin throws, then instantly readied two more weapons. But he did not need to. His aim had been true. Both lay dead.

He limped off, a hand pressed to his side.

A crossbow bolt bit his arm. Another actually passed between his fingers as he staggered. Perched on a steep roof of red ceramic tiles, he turned to confront his pursuers.

Four Nightblades landed about him. He feigned flight, rolled, threw, and straightened. Three now moved in a circle about him while a limp figure tumbled from the roof. He edged his head aside as one gestured. Something kissed his neck in passing.

Close on any fellow practitioner! came the words of that damned wiry old man, and Dorin faked losing his footing, tumbling, and leaped upon the one slightly lower than him. They fell, exchanged a flurry of blows and blocks, forearms locked against each other, then Dorin braced one foot, skidding, and the other continued on to fall over the lip of the three-storey roof, leaving a smear of bright arterial blood behind.

The remaining two exchanged glances, and slowly edged away from one another, twin blades readied.

Dorin tried to steady his breath but his side was screaming. Cold wetness smeared his leg. He felt at his back and came away with a naked razor-thin blade that he threw at one, who blocked it.

Rage and fear combined were keeping him on his feet. Yet there was also something more. This was what he’d been yearning for all these years. This was what he’d trained for all his life. These were his peers. Now was his time to finally prove himself.

He struck a ready stance, blades reversed, hidden behind his wrists, and charged the one on his right, who met him with a spinning defence. A kick struck his shoulder sending him down towards the left and he accepted the impetus, accelerating it, dragging his blade across the man’s front as his feet flew over his head. He landed on the tiles as the fellow curled round his midriff, shrinking into a knot and sliding down the steep roof.

Dorin drew breath, steadied himself. A blow struck him exactly at his wound, eliciting a grunt of savage pain, and he staggered, almost losing his footing. He spun to face his last opponent.

This one regarded him from knife-fighting range. He, or rather she, raised the bloodied blade to her face, saluting him.

He answered the salute, but weakly, hardly able to remain upright, his vision dimming.

‘You are good,’ she said. ‘Do you work for the Protectress?’

‘No. I’m independent.’

‘There are no more independents. Those days are gone. Your style is very old, classical. Who was your teacher?’

In answer, Dorin raised both blades and closed. He struck and blocked a series of blows, none definitive. Knowing that he would faint at any moment, his opponent freely gave ground, skidding across the tiles. Enraged, Dorin threw himself at her, but his weakened leg gave and he slipped. She reversed a blade above him for a thrust.

A shocking piercing shriek sounded then, jolting Dorin. The Nightblade screamed as something struck her face, latched hold, and dragged her backwards in a flurry of beating wings. She tumbled off the roof still clutching at her face and howling her agony.

Weaving, his vision darkening, Dorin struggled to blink back the night. He took hold of a ledge and let himself down the side of the building, hand over hand, barely aware. He thumped to the littered alley below and staggered off.

He knew he was almost delirious with shock and loss of blood. He limped on, sliding along the brick walls. Faces gaped at him then disappeared. Narrow alleyways tilted and swam in his vision. Waves of darkness pulled at him. Yet he fought to remain upright, a hand pressed to his side, his leg numb.

A girl took his arm, whispered, urgent, ‘This way . . . come.’ He had no choice but to submit to her pull. A set of plain wooden stairs reared before him like a fortification. Small hands pushed at him. A voice was begging, weeping, ‘Come, come!’

A final insurmountable barrier: a ladder. He pressed his face against the wooden upright, slurred, ‘Could you make this any harder?’

A burst of choked laughter. Then, fierce, ‘Climb! Don’t you know how to do that?’

He managed to say in a very slow and measured manner: ‘I’m not having my best day.’

‘Get up there! Or you are dead!’

‘I met Hood already. He was dead.’

‘Just climb. Yes, that’s right.’

‘He had a sword.’

‘Yes. That’s what everyone’s saying.’

Dorin slammed his head into some low crossbeam, blinked. ‘What?’

‘Hood’s Sword is here,’ explained the voice behind. ‘Everyone says so.’

‘I haven’t heard.’

‘You don’t have a mother or a grandmother here.’

‘That’s . . . true.’ He was crawling now on a dirty floor of wooden slats. Why was he crawling? Easier to sleep. So he laid his head down and went to sleep.