Dancer's Lament

Chapter 6

A SHAKE OF her shoulder woke Iko. She found herself staring up at a dishevelled Hallens.

‘We must go,’ the woman demanded. ‘Now.’

Iko rose, dressed swiftly. ‘What is it?’

Her commander glanced sideways to the other sisters in the sleeping chamber and Iko understood; she clenched her lips tight and followed as the woman hurried out.

It was not yet mid-night. Beyond the high walls of the palace compound the noises of the surrounding city were loud with the crowds and carts of the distant night markets. Voices raised in song and in drunken anger reached her. The grounds, however, were deserted as always. Iko caught up with her commander and whispered again, ‘What is it?’

‘Word from the Nightblades. We must meet immediately.’

Iko accepted this and refrained from any further bothersome questioning. Hallens led her to the wildest, most remote section of the gardens and here they waited in silence.

Though Iko was expecting the Nightblades, and strained her senses to listen and to watch, even so they rose about her like shades emerging from the night. Fear of such sorcery shuddered through her; in the south, all were frightened of the witches and warlocks whose powers only worked ill.

Hallens started forward. ‘What has happened?’

Her commander’s urgency shocked Iko. Then it came to her: sudden word from the Nightblades, this unseemly haste. By the countless forgotten gods! Not the king!

‘There is no threat,’ one assured her. ‘For now.’

Hallens straightened as if slapped. ‘Meaning?’ she demanded.

‘A flight of our Blades engaged city mages. With them was another. A young man. An obvious trained assassin.’

Iko’s breath left her in a clenched hiss. An assassin! Then . . . Gods, no! She took Hallens’ elbow. ‘We will cut our way out at once!’

Her commander’s voice was clenched and fierce as she demanded, ‘The king?’

The Blade raised a placating hand. ‘We think not.’

‘You think not?’

‘While we were observing the city mages, they tried to kill the assassin.’

Relief flooded Iko – a falling-out! Of course! There would be no honour among such filth.

‘We believe it a dispute over payment.’

‘Well? What of it?’ Hallens said. ‘You are a hundred or so. Why are you not hunting him down even now?’

The fellow shifted uncomfortably. He began, carefully, ‘Our master happened to be present to witness the engagement. He saw the youth’s style and later examined the wounds delivered by him. He is of the opinion that we are facing a student of Faruj.’

Iko choked down a scoff of disbelief. Faruj! The legendary master assassin of the Talian Iron Crown himself? Hood! The power behind the crown, many said. ‘Surely he must be dead by now,’ she let go. ‘He served, what, three Talian kings?’

‘Some believe he died during the wars of independence. Others are of the opinion that he fled west. Probably to Tali itself.’

Iko was amazed. A student of Faruj himself! The man whose name made kings tremble on their thrones. And the student might carry all those ancient teachings lost in the fall of the Iron Crown . . . Iko’s gaze sharpened upon the Nightblade. ‘You would offer him a place.’

The Kanese assassin inclined his head in assent. ‘Our master would pursue the possibility.’

‘And you wish our help,’ Hallens finished for him.

He nodded again. ‘We and the city mages are both hunting him now. If we can reach him before they do, we could force him to the ground and there we would need your help in subduing him. Or perhaps you may negotiate – as a non-practitioner.’ The man’s obscured shoulders rose and fell as if in mild embarrassment. ‘Trust is not something cultivated between those of our . . . vocation.’

‘Failing this, you will kill him, of course,’ said Hallens.

‘Of course.’

She gave a curt nod of agreement. ‘Very well. However – should there be any hint that he is moving upon Chulalorn you will alert us immediately.’ She raised a finger in warning. ‘Otherwise, I shall hunt you down and flay your flesh from your bones.’

The Nightblade merely backed away, whispering, ‘He is our king as well.’

Once more they were alone with the wind through the tree boughs and the surrounding murmur of the busy city. As they walked back to their chambers, Iko took the time to reconsider the news with a cooler head and it struck her as almost inconceivable that Shalmanat would actually plan on assassinating a king – any king. She couldn’t think of any historical precedent. Such a step would surely be a dangerous threat to any ruler. She cleared her throat. ‘Do you really think this Protectress would actually hire such a one?’

Hallens slowed and halted. ‘I do not believe so. But prudence dictates that we prepare. It would be a serious escalation. All the attacks I have faced have been soldiers and hirelings of Chulalorn’s cousins and rival clans and families. None were true professional killers. These royal families are all related and intermarry. They take each other hostage, as Chulalorn has. And the old Talian rulers as well. A Grisian king was held for ten years once, and even continued ruling the entire time – as was his right, of course.’ She shook her head, frowning. ‘Yet Shalmanat comes from no such shared aristocratic family background. And she is a sorceress . . . who knows how she might think?’ She motioned Iko onward. ‘No word to the others, please. I do not wish panic or worry.’

Iko nodded, relieved; such an evaluation meshed with her own. In war it was always the practice that nobles be held and ransomed. Few were ever killed, except perhaps in single combat. And she had heard before that the Talians held their conquered kings hostage rather than murdering them. All the better to control the many royal houses, of course. The ugly truth was that rulers usually had more to fear from their own relatives and peers than any stranger.

* * *

It had been a week since Silk and Ho cleared the rooftops of an incursion of Kanese Nightblades. Of the young assassin, nothing had surfaced. Silk imagined that the Blades must have taken care of him. He himself suffered no injury in the ambush other than the loss of his favourite jacket, while Ho had handily proved the truth of all the many stories Silk had heard of him. Stories he had always dismissed.

Namely, that the other mage was impossible to kill. And so it seemed, as bolt after bolt hammered into the fellow while he crushed the throats and broke the backs of every Nightblade he could catch hold of. It had been an astonishing display of prowess, and Silk was still quite impressed, even though he was of the opinion that he’d performed none too shabbily himself. He thought that between them they had, rather dramatically, given King Chulalorn the Third something to think about.

This night he stood on the west wall. The officer had proved an unctuous fellow with the annoying habit of winking as he made vague intimations regarding Silk and Shalmanat. In the end, Silk had silenced the oaf by suggesting he go hump a goat. The man went white and his hand clenched his sword grip, only to hold there, shuddering. In the end, he had spun and marched away. Silk knew he’d made a blood enemy. He’d shrugged internally. Such was life.

It was past the mid-night bell when a runner came dashing up to him, exhausted, bloodied, and cut. ‘The south,’ the woman gasped, near to collapse. Silk climbed a nearby merlon for a look. All was dark. Cursing, he jumped down, waved to his bodyguard, and ran. Smokey had the south. And normally, wherever that man was stationed a firestorm of boiling flames blazed throughout the night.

As he neared the southern curve of the Outer Round, he heard a much louder roar of battle than he was used to. The Kanese had reached the fortifications, he realized, astonished. He bounded up the nearest stairs only to find his way blocked by a squad of Hengan regulars crouched behind a barricade they’d assembled. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded of the nearest ranked guard.

The man saluted, clearly surprised to be facing a city mage. ‘We’ll stop them here, sir,’ he assured him.

Silk barely managed to refrain from slapping the fellow across the face. ‘Charge them now, man! That’s an order!’

The sergeant gaped at him. ‘But . . . they’ve taken the walk.’

‘Sweep them off. Now. Go!’ And he pointed, waiting. ‘Well?’

Swallowing his unease, the sergeant gestured his troop up. ‘And you are with us, I suppose?’ he commented quite acidly, forgetting in the heat of the moment whom he addressed.

‘I will be behind you, sergeant. And if you wish to ever see again, do not turn round. Is that clear?’

The fellow paled, now understanding his position. ‘Yes . . . sir.’ He drew his shortsword. ‘Up and at ’em!’ he roared, and kicked his way through the barricade.

In the fury and press of the battle, Silk did not discriminate. Anyone facing his way received a full blast of Thyr scorching straight in their faces. Many howled their agony and threw themselves from the wall. Silk followed the detachment of guards in a steady advance, and none dared slow him or turn round.

In this manner they recovered one full stretch of the curtain wall. They relieved a half company of guards surrounded and besieged within a tower. When Silk ducked within – the Kanese archers were now definitely targeting him – a runner summoned him to the small dorm at the top. Here he found the reason why the guards had not abandoned the tower. On a bloodstained cot lay Smokey, his shirt torn open round the shaft of a crossbow bolt to the right of his heart.

Incredibly, the man was conscious, just. Silk knelt next to the cot. ‘Everything’s gone to the Abyss in your absence.’

‘It would, wouldn’t it?’ the man answered in the barest whisper.

‘What happened? I’ve seen you burn every arrow and melt every bolt that ever came your way.’

The mage of Telas gestured weakly to the shaft. ‘Some kind of unburnable fibre. A damned mage-killer.’

Silk flinched from the black shaft. ‘Really? Well, you’re not dead.’

‘Getting there.’

Silk squeezed his shoulder. ‘I’ll take over.’

‘That’s supposed to comfort me?’

Silk straightened, waved guards to him. ‘Take him to the healers. Immediately.’

‘And us?’ asked the sergeant from where his men and women defended the doorway.

‘We return to the fray.’

The man winced. ‘We can hold here till reinforcements arrive.’

Silk was tiring of the ‘always defend’ mentality of the man. But it was not his fault. These Hengan guards knew only how to hide behind their walls. ‘We can’t allow the Kanese to secure their hold. We continue the advance. Ready your troops.’

To his credit, the sergeant saluted – if wearily.

They preceded him out on to the wide parapet. He pressed them onward. They picked up a few Hengan trailers and survivors, but the Kanese were too many. Soon those facing Silk saw through his best trick and advanced with shields or armoured hands raised across their faces. He was reduced to heating their shields and weapons and that took time, and much more energy. His shirt clung to him, sodden in sweat, his heart felt as if it were being crushed and his vision swam with the strength he was draining from himself. Yet the Kanese shock infantry were still spilling over the wall on countless ladders. They had a foothold and wouldn’t release it. His guard was being beaten back despite their natural dread of the city mage behind them.

Arrows nicked him in passing – a sure sign he was slowing. Soon, one would take him.

Then panic disturbed the ranks pressing in upon his men. Many turned to face the rear. Screams of fear and agony came in waves like an onrushing stampede. Something suddenly threw the attackers against the crenellations as if swept aside by a giant’s hand. Armour scraped stone and blood burst from gasping open mouths as Kanese were smeared up the crenels and out over the wall the way one might drag wet laundry.

A girl in a long black dress, of darkest Dal Hon descent, her hair a cloud a black frizziness about her head, now commanded the entire section of the wall alone. Hengan guards came rushing up behind her. Silk straightened his shirt and bowed. ‘Always a pleasure, Mara.’

‘Shut the fuck up, Silk.’ She went to the parapet, and, completely ignoring the smeared blood and gore there, leaned far out, and cursed anew. ‘Stay out of the damned city!’ she bellowed, and gestured fiercely.

Silk felt the surge of power actually sway the stones of the wall. He glanced out, careful not to let any of the blood get on his shirt. All the ladders now lay scattered on the ground among writhing fallen soldiers. ‘Subtle as always, Mara.’

‘Where’s Smokey?’

‘Took a bolt. I had to rescue the situation.’

‘You? Rescue the situation? That’s a laugh.’

‘You are too harsh, Mara.’

‘Kiss my arse,’ she replied. But off-handedly, without heat.

Not a bad idea, he reflected. Maybe that would settle her down a little. Then he recalled the many stories regarding the grisly fates of her lovers. Perhaps it would be best if he avoided being found crushed flat as a crêpe. He adjusted his cuffs. ‘Well, thank you all the same.’

‘I’m not here for you.’

No, you are not. You are here to serve Shalmanat. And why? Not because of any regard for her. No. I know you, Mara of some nameless squalid village in the Dal Hon provinces. You worship power alone. The biggest fist. And the Protectress is the most powerful you’ve found yet.

That wins no respect from me, girl.

He tipped his head. ‘Well . . . seeing as you have everything in hand, I’ll go and get some sleep.’ And he ambled off.

‘Do you even have a prick, Silk?’ she called after him.

Over his shoulder he offered his most boyish grin. ‘You couldn’t afford to find out, dear.’

She cursed him out after that, but he walked off ignoring her, knowing that always infuriated her. Coming to the tower, he found Hengan guards tossing bodies out over the wall. He watched for a time, his head tilted, intrigued. Then he ordered them away. Alone, he searched among the fallen, thinking to himself There ought to be someone my size . . .

With the dawn, a lone Kanese soldier was found wandering the trampled burned fields, his head and face a bloodied caked mess, clearly dazed from the blow. He was of no rank, a lowly impressed infantryman, once probably a town-dwelling artisan or craftsman from the look of his soft hands and pale complexion. Pickets escorted him to the crowded tents of the infirmary quarter and he was set down among the many wounded lying unconscious or sitting hunched, awaiting treatment.

Once Silk’s rescuers had left, he wrapped his head and half his face in a rag and ambled off. He avoided any command quarters, where security would be tightest. Instead, his path took him to the rear of the lines, to the disordered tents of the camp followers – the cooks, servants, petty merchants, harlots, and attending wives, husbands, and children. A veritable roving city that had dragged itself up from the south, trailing the Kanese ranks.

Here he wandered, nodding to people, striking up brief conversations, and moving on as he searched for his bright-eyed Ahn, who had followed him all the way from Laeth. He fell in among the loudest, most raucous gambling and drinking crowd, lost all his coin in games of cards and troughs but held no grudges, then settled in for the rest of the late afternoon and evening to listen.

He heard much complaint of the privations of a march so far north into foreign territory. He heard of shortages of everything, from arrows to food and wood to cook with. He heard himself described in the most uncomplimentary manner, along with Ho and the rest of the city mages. When he casually mentioned the Kanese mages, the dismissal was unanimous. None of this generation, it seemed, were of the stature of the old terrifying ones, such as A’karonys, or the murderous Jadeen of Traly.

He remained at the camp for the rest of that night, listening and evaluating. Exactly what he was listening for, he did not know. He knew only that he would sense it when he heard it – that odd note, strange detail, or fact that did not make sense. He heard no such thing. This first foray into the Kanese camp had uncovered nothing. And so he casually pushed himself to his feet, nodded his farewells to those nearby, and walked off into the pre-dawn glow.

His path brought him past a knot of the lowest of the low among the camp followers, the manual labourers, infirmary cleaners, and cesspit diggers – who were also, not incidentally, the grave diggers – and at last, in passing, he overheard a strange thing. One old fellow was heatedly claiming that a friend of his had seen a monster in camp.

Silk halted and joined the small group hunched round their meagre fire. ‘You mean Ryllandaras?’ he asked, careful to use a friendly and curious tone.

The old fellow puffed up at the question as he’d been receiving only smirks from his companions. He bobbed his head in deference. ‘Oh, no, sir. Not the man-beast. No sir. Kela said it was like a man only all twisted and bigger.’

‘Perhaps your friend merely mistook what she was seeing.’

‘Can’t say, sir. Only know what she said. Works in among the private tents where no one’s allowed. They keep it chained and hidden away, she says. Talks to itself all day and night in a language no one understands.’

The fellow was clearly very eager to glow in the status such secrets brought their bearer and so Silk allowed himself to appear suitably impressed. He lowered his voice, whispering, ‘If it’s a secret then we’d best not talk of it, hey? Who knows who might be listening.’

The old man’s bushy brows rose and he touched the side of his nose, nodding his appreciation. ‘Right you are, sir. ’Course. Might be important.’

Silk gave them a friendly nod in farewell and continued on. They may, or may not, pursue the matter. But if he knew his human nature, they’d have ten times the information and gossip on this thing when next he came through. In any case, he had a lead. Like a man, only twisted and bigger.

He angled for the city walls. Now, just how in the name of the sleeping goddess would he get back in without being seen?

* * *

The day-hunters and the night-hunters, Dorin decided, were very much of two different breeds. The night-hunters, the owls mainly, kept to the darkest and most shadowed corners of the broad dusty attic. If disturbed during the day, they would merely crack open one disapproving eye, peer about, then slip back into their slumber.

On the other hand, the day-hunters, the hawks, falcons and eagles, when disturbed by some night-time noise or commotion, would rear up in a startled manner as if half taking flight. They would then complain and grumble for a long time, adjusting their perches and preening, resentful of the intrusion.

Dorin had time to make such observations while he lay with his torso tightly wrapped, regaining his strength under Ullara’s care. That had been a close call. His closest yet. If not for the two remaining Denul-enhanced unguents he possessed, it might have been the end for him. As it was, he believed he accounted for some six or eight Nightblades himself – not a bad total.

He vowed to do much better should there ever be a next time.

Ullara was pleased to be once more in the role of caregiver rather than receiver. At first he ate hugely to regain his strength, until he noticed that she did not appear to be eating at all. He eventually managed to coax from her the truth that the entire family was enduring a shortage of foodstuffs. He handed over coin then and demanded that she buy for everyone. That day she went to the market and returned with more than the family ever normally bought. Which, she later admitted to him, had been a mistake. Her father had questioned her and she’d had to make up the lie that she’d sold one of her ‘pets’.

At least her father was now more supportive of what he’d always dismissed as a useless waste of her time.

This day Dorin walked about the attic, easing into his usual practice routine – not that he was up to it. But he was approaching it. Each evening he questioned Ullara about the news. A fortnight had passed since that night upon the rooftops and as far as he could tell nothing had changed in the stand-off of the siege. Ullara, however, reported dire shortages in the markets. Surging prices for staples such as flour. The disappearance of fresh vegetables from every stall. Dorin wondered how long the Protectress could hold out.

Noise at the trapdoor sent him dashing to cover he’d erected to shield himself from discovery. Though Ullara had claimed no one else ever came up here Dorin had been shaken to discover she was wrong when the door lifted one day and an older woman emerged. Her mother, he’d assumed.

She had rooted among the boxes then descended, completely oblivious of the screaming signs of his residence in prints among the dust and his rumpled bedding. Not her area of expertise, he supposed. And people tended not to see what they did not expect to see – a tendency he’d been trained to exploit.

This day it was Ullara. Dorin was surprised to see her carrying a bottle of wine. He gestured to the bottle. ‘A special day?’

She blinked, momentarily confused, then blushed, embarrassed. Everything he said seemed to embarrass the poor lass, Dorin thought. She offered it. ‘Oh, no. We’re out of drinking water.’

He took the bottle, sat. ‘But you have a huge river running through the city.’

‘Everyone thinks the Kanese have poisoned the water.’

He found that hard to believe – wouldn’t the poisons merely wash away downstream? ‘Do you think they’d do that?’

‘Who knows what those evil southerners might do?’

There it was again – that strange bigotry against those who lived beyond the next valley or mountain range. It was a common prejudice Dorin did not share. Perhaps because he’d been trained to view everyone equally. As potential targets.

He took a sip, welcoming the fluids. Though it was late in the autumn, the heat the attic collected could be blistering. At such times he hid out on the roof in the shade of a gable.

‘How goes the siege?’

‘The same. Stand-off.’

‘I understand these things can last for years.’

‘Surely that can’t be possible.’

Dorin gestured with the bottle. ‘It’s a question of wills. Theirs or—’ He was about to say ours, but stopped himself. ‘The Kanese’s or the Hengans’. If you are running low on food, then they must be as well.’

Ullara fiercely shook her head. ‘Oh, no. They’re receiving regular convoys up from the south.’

Dorin lowered the bottle to stare at her quizzically. ‘How would you know that?’

She blushed once more, her gaze fluttering about the attic. ‘I . . . heard. In the market.’

‘That’s just gossip. Wild rumours and talk.’

She pressed her lips tight and squeezed her hands between her knees, saying nothing.

He handed her the bottle and cleared his throat. ‘Well . . . Ullara. Thank you so much for all you’ve done. You saved my life – you really have.’

She hung her head. ‘You’re going.’

‘Tomorrow, I think.’

‘You’re not fully healed!’

‘I won’t be for some time. But I can’t stay here any longer. I might be found.’ He lowered his head to catch her eye. ‘Then there’d be some awkward questions for you.’

She turned away, hunching further.

‘I’m sorry, but I have to go. I can’t stay for ever. You know that.’

‘Just a little longer,’ she whispered.

‘Tomorrow, Ullara,’ he answered, just as softly. He wanted to soothe her, perhaps hold her to comfort her, but that did not feel right to him and so he took her hand – so calloused and rough for one of her tender age – and kissed it.

She burst into tears then and ran from the attic.

He was left wondering whether he’d done the right thing. Or the wrong thing.

She did not return with the dusk, nor with the next dawn. He waited into the morning and then, reluctantly, swung out of the gable that offered the most cover, and descended to an alley.

He slipped into the street. It was surprisingly empty for the time of day; the ongoing siege must be taking its toll on business. He would search out his stashes to see if any remained, then strike east for Unta. Perhaps downriver to Cawn then onward by ship. Best to avoid the long dreary overland route.

He was heading north, along the Outer Round, wondering just how much barge traffic there might be downriver from Heng, when someone stepped out and called, ‘Dorin! What a surprise to see you.’

He damned these last weeks of inactivity – they had obviously dulled his senses outrageously – loosened his shoulders, and looked up to see Rheena. The girl gestured, inviting him into a narrow side street. ‘I think we should talk.’

‘I agree.’

Once round the corner of the street she surprised him once more by lunging in close and planting her mouth on his. She said through their lips, ‘They just want to talk, Dorin. Just talk.’

He flinched away, stunned. She glared. He glanced out to the street to see two obvious specimens of street muscle closing. ‘Rheena . . .’ He backed away, drew his blades.

‘Just talk!’ she repeated, pleading.

‘So he may have told you, girl.’

Four big fellows now blocked the alley mouth. Dorin didn’t even have to look behind to know it was a dead end. Rheena had chosen well, damn her.

He readied himself, adjusting his footing. He may be weakened, but he was certain he could still take these plodding amateurs.

Then they raised their hands, empty. ‘Just a word,’ the leader called.

Dorin continued backing away. ‘Say it.’

‘A meeting. Pung might have a proposition for you.’

Dorin spotted a repeating course of raised brick high in one wall. He sheathed his blades and leaped all in one motion. His fingertips caught the course. His side flared with pain. Grunting, he heaved himself up to a higher course and yet another. He paused there, glanced down at the five upturned faces, Rheena included. ‘Sorry, don’t trust your boss enough to come along.’ With the tips of his feet on the courses he made quick progress to the third-storey roof.

‘Name a place, then!’ came a last angry call from below.

Dorin peered over the edge. ‘There’s no place I’d feel—’ He stopped himself. Actually, there was one place in the city where he would feel quite safe from the damned man. He crouched at the lip. ‘Okay. There is one place I’d be willing to meet your boss – should he have the guts to show . . .’