The Twilight herald

CHAPTER 15

Through the haze of an ancient memory she saw his face again, fixed on some distant trouble, while she slept. His stern beauty was frighten-ing, almost alien when not smoothed into a smile. She looked down at the hand he was propping himself up on the bed with, so close to her bare belly that she could feel the tiny glow of heat radiating from his skin.

She reached out and ran a finger softly down the back of his hand, watching the emotions wash over his face as contemplation was overcome by surprise and surprise surrendered at last to pleasure. She smiled at him – he was ever wary, alert, when on campaign, constantly listening for the enemy, or reaching out into the air to detect any traces of magic drifting on the winds.

She was young, and smitten with the languid beauty of the shin¬ing king, but she was utterly at ease here in his tent, guarded by the cream of the Dragonguard. Their mission was to map in detail the very north of their borders, and trap whatever great beasts they could before they declared all-out war with the remaining tribes of men: an easy mission, little more than an extended springtime hunting trip that afforded them the privilege of distance from the queen and the two princes.

Their eyes met, then their lips. His smooth fingertips on her thigh, circling her kneecap and trickling down towards her toe. A voice came from outside the tent, words too distant for her to hear, but she fell the canvas roll underneath her as her lover rose and left the bed. She watched his stooped, slender frame struggle to pull on his riding clothes and buckle Eolis to his waist.

She reached out to slide her fingers through his, intent on calling him hack to bed for one last kiss, but as she tried to call his name her throat dried. Something caught her tongue, and the breath in her lungs faded, leaving the words hovering in her mind. She froze, feeling a sense of horror creep down the nape of her neck, unable to even scream.

The image faded as the tent's close walls turned grey and became a dark and troubled sky. She looked around and saw the spilt blood, the ruined bodies and furrowed earth. She herself was on her knees, her hands manacled behind her back and the fire of open wounds on her body. A sword had scraped down her skull and ruined her helm. A lance of flame had hit her arm and thrown her from her horse. She was flanked by her brothers; one was wheezing through a ruined lung, the other was shivering in fear, trying to shake off the blood running freely over his eye. The bones of his ankle jutted out through the skin. She watched in disbelief as a silver corpse, stiff, cumbersome in death, was dragged to the crest of the hill. It seemed an insult to the hypnotic grace that Aryn Bwr had been so lauded for.

Now he was dead, nothing but a filthy shell. They could visit no further indignities on him – or so she thought until the voices began to echo out over the plain. Up above, the air shimmered, reverberat¬ing with each syllable. The eight voices, haunted by the loss of their kin and the exertions of a battle that had weakened them nearly to oblivion, swept down to where she knelt. Her ruined body rocked back at the spoken fury that was building into a crescendo of retribu¬tion. There was nothing more they could do, not to the dead – and yet they found a way.

At last the tears came, not for the defeat and humiliation, nor for the hurt done to her, nor fear of whatever judgment was to come. She cried for the king she worshipped, the lover she was devoted to for all time. And yet his name faded from her mind, the letters carved into her heart no longer intelligible. When the Gods were finished with the corpse and had tossed it into a festering pit, his name had vanished, gone from her heart, gone from the minds of those who had accompanied him for a hundred years, rent from history.

A distant knocking broke Zhia's sleep. Her eyes opened to a new Land, one changed in every way to that time before the war. It helped ease the ache in her heart to think of it as a different place, a differ¬ent world. The loss was a memory she had learned to live with, one for the private moments of her dreams, but rigorously denied even a minute of her waking life. That world was gone, and yearning for its return would do her no good at all.

She yawned and stretched her slim frame, questing down the bed with her toes until they touched the footboard and pushed into the groove cut a few inches from its base. She forced away the later part of the dream by focusing on the happiness of what had gone before, something she had learned to do many years back, the only way to quell the pain enough to be able to carry on. Exercises of the mind soothed and transferred her attention to happier subjects: remember¬ing the feel of his skin on hers, so unlike the touch of a human, the cadence of his voice that had captured her heart the very first moment she heard it, and the feel of his breath on her ear as he whispered to her in the night. She'd almost been frozen with shock when she first saw Lord Isak wearing that armour, killing so smoothly and efficiently. It had felt as if her heart had been torn open for a moment, and all that buried loss flooded back afresh.

She had a few minutes yet before Panro would come to wake her, and Zhia felt a comforted smile creep onto her lips as she recalled the brush of Aryn Bwr's lips on her belly. Despite the intervening years, her mortal life remained bright and clear in her memory and she had no problem remembering that. She slid her palms between the cool linen sheets until her arms were stretched out and her body was spread like a virgin sacrifice.

The room was almost completely dark, the shutters on the windows screwed shut each morning before dawn. It made the room stuffy in the relentless afternoon sun, but Panro aired it well each morning before she went to sleep. It was a small enough inconvenience when compared to the alternative.

A discreet rap on the door heralded Panro's arrival. The tall man entered and walked to the side of the bed. Zhia hadn't bothered to move; he was alone. She listened to his footsteps, trying to detect his mood. Her powerfully built manservant had a peculiarly dainty manner of walking, treading softly, taking great care over each step. Today, detecting nothing unusual in the neat patter, she assumed his mood was as placid as usual.

'Coffins,' she declared, rolling over in bed as he placed her chilled tea on the bedside table. In his hand was a candlestick that he used to light the lamp beside her bed. Her smile widened.

Cffins, Mistress?'

'Coffins,' she confirmed, nodding with mock emphasis. A long curl of hair fell over her face. 'Why do people think we sleep in them? They're small, and hardly comfortable.'

'You told me your spirit would return to your tomb when your body died, that only there would you regenerate,' Panro reminded her as he swept the curl away with one deft finger.

Zhia ignored what might be considered impertinence in a servant; her hold over him was magical, so he couldn't be blamed for the love he held for her – and a man's touch, however slight, was delightful, particularly after her dreams of Aryn Bwr. She stretched again, and said, 'But that's when I die. Why would I want to spend every damn day in a coffin when this bed is just so deliciously comfortable? Waking up like this is one of the few pleasures I have left.' She grimaced and added, 'It takes a few foggy moments before the years catch up with me, and for that I am inordinately grateful. I would be utterly miser-able if I had to wake in a coffin instead.'

'Yes, Mistress.'

Zhia gave him a coquettish smile. When one awoke in a mood this good, there really was only one thing to do – but first, she should check on who was waiting downstairs. 'Who have we for this evening, then?' she asked.

'Mistress Legana and Mis- the woman Haipar have come, with a nobleman they called Aras.' Haipar had made it plain she didn't want the usual honorific, and Panro, a stickler for the correct forms, heartily disapproved.

Zhia gave a groan. 'Ah, Count Lurip Aras. A pretty little man, but dear me, he is dull. Unfortunately, he is also rather useful to me, and one of the few decent soldiers this city has, so an enchantment of bonding was well worth the effort. I assigned Teviaq to his command staff, thinking any daughter of that morose bitch Amavoq might teach him the value of silence, but I think it's only encouraged him.' She brought her hands up behind her head and looked Panro up and down. Her manservant had an athletic frame and towered over her, but she had always preferred men far larger than herself. It's probably Aryn Bwr's fault, she thought with a grin. After all, most things were.

She pursed her lips and blew softly at the sheet covering her. Only a shred of magic was needed to make it slither over her body to the fool of the bed, leaving her naked, exposed to the lamplight. She glanced down, admiring her smoothly tinted flesh; the previous night she had

succumbed to the latest fashion; bathing in rustroot-infused water had stained her skin the colour of a true Fysthrail woman (though there were few enough of those about in Scree), instead of her normal deathly pallor. The effect greatly amused her.

It obviously had an effect on Panro too, for his rapt gaze was sending a tickle of delight down her spine. He appeared particularly entranced by the curve of her buttocks, so she shifted position a little, the better to enhance his view, and smoothed a slender hand up her thigh. A pert rosy nipple was just visible as she turned towards him.

As a slight gasp escaped his lips, she reached up to take his hand and pull him towards her, whispering, 'Well then? I wouldn't want to keep my guests waiting long.'

'Ladies, my dear Aras, I do apologise,' Zhia called as she swept down the broad staircase that faced the open entrance to her reception room. She was clad in a flowing white dress, with elbow-length gloves, and an evening stole draped over one arm. The house was of the classical design – wide, open rooms, narrow windows running from floor to ceiling – and Zhia thought it suited her perfectly, for she too was 'classical': ancient, yet still beautiful, and very desirable.

Her guests rose to their feet as she swept in. She took note of the contrast in clothing: the count was immaculately turned out, his ash-blond hair fashionably loose about his shoulders, while Haipar, her usual linen shirt dirtier than usual, had clearly spent the day in the field. Legana trod the middle ground, for her tunic, though finely tailored, was also stained. She had heeded some of Zhia's advice, for she had obviously attended to her hair and make-up before returning to (he city. Honestly, Zhia thought, Lesarl is a fool at times. He sees a beautiful woman and simply assumes she's capable of infiltrating any organisation by blinding them with her looks.

'Mistress Ostia, you look ravishing as always,' Aras oozed, earning a blushing smile from the vampire. Her bonding enchantment ensured slavish devotion, but not mindless thrall, which would have rendered him useless to her.

'You look a different colour, at any rate,' Legana commented, trying to stifle a smirk. Zhia had promised to teach her to blush or cry on demand; she claimed few things turned a man's mind like the blush ol a beautiful woman.

'I know. I thought I would give the gossips something to wonder about,' Zhia said as she held out her hand for Aras to kiss. 'I'm hoping Siala will take this as a reminder of the Circle's earliest traditions; she's foolish enough to be distracted by such matters.'

'I thought you'd been impressed by her,' Legana said. 'She appears competent enough whenever I've spoken to her.'

'My dear, your benchmark has been set by Farlan spies – perfectly competent at whatever Chief Steward Lesarl sends them off to do, I have no doubt, but you must agree that they lack sophistication.'

Legana scowled. Zhia had several times chastised her lack of educa¬tion and her quickness to violence.

'Siala differs from you, Legana,' Zhia continued, ignoring the girl's colouring cheeks, 'because she is intelligent and educated, but she is unable to use that properly. You have not had the correct instruction, but since you've come under my wing you've responded admirably. By the time you reach Siala's age, I will have made a queen of you. Siala is what one hopes for in an opponent, intellect without imagination, but I will not accept that from my allies.'

She bade her visitors be seated again, and settled herself on a chaise longue, arranging her skirts decorously around her. She nodded for Haipar to begin her evening report.

The shapeshifter wiped the smile from her face and cleared her throat. 'We have received the weekly reports from the legions, but there's nothing of particular interest. The training programmes are running well, but they're far from battle-ready. One colonel has ad¬mitted seeing the benefits of merging mercenary companies with our recruits.'

'And the others?'

Haipar grinned. 'The others are still bitching about it, of course – I believe the words "affront to our honour" have been mentioned several times.'

'Madam,' Aras interrupted, almost spluttering in indignation, 'your orders are gravely insulting to a military man – you force the city's finest to stand alongside common mercenaries, men who will hire their swords to the highest paymaster without considering the wrong or right of it, and you place savages on the command staff, where they give orders to noblemen!'

Ah yes, how are the Raylin settling in to their new roles?' As she spoke, Zhia allowed a trickle of magic to slide over her fingers to In-certain the enchantment on the count still held. There were so many mages and spies around that she would have been foolish to simply assume he was still hers – and Zhia Vukotic was not a fool.

Haipar chuckled. 'It rather depends on who you're talking about. My companions are greatly enjoying themselves – Tachos Ironskin was a ranking soldier in the Chetse army anyway, and my friend Matak Snakefang has thrown off his usual surliness to become the consummate general. As for the others, some are less encouraging. Veren's Staff is causing chaos by forcing every religious observance he can think of onto the men. Apparently he called a halt to manoeuvres yesterday and made four thousand men perform the devotionals!'

Haipar couldn't stop laughing when she saw Zhia's expression.

Exasperated, Legana broke in, saying, 'Bane hasn't yet grasped your orders. He's with the Second Army, but he spends his days wandering the camp in a daze. His single accomplishment has been to execute a soldier he believed to be a vampire. On the training ground. At midday. Under the sun.'

'Don't underestimate either of them,' said Zhia softly. 'They're both quite mad, but their value on the field will be great. Ironskin is happy with the training, I trust?'

'Hah, Ironskin is,' Legana scoffed. 'The colonel commanding him is less so. Apparently he has restructured the entire army into Chetse battle-order… without actually mentioning that fact to his com¬mander. There has been no talk of duels yet, but I have no doubt they're trying to find a way to murder him. Do you want me to step in?' Legana's position in the army structure was indeterminate, but she was a potential Circle member, and Ostia's aide, so the officers assumed she was in effect Siala's voice, and thus obeyed her orders without question.

'No, Tachos Ironskin knows war better than most, in this city or elsewhere, so he can do as he sees fit. A phalanx requires intense training, and if he can provide it in a matter of weeks, I will be delighted.' Zhia smiled. 'I can't believe they'll manage to kill him, and it does a Raylin good to be kept on his toes; they're a quarrelsome breed and a good conspiracy will stop him starting any other trouble. If you find anyone running a book on the matter, do back him on my behalf.'

'The others are happy enough by Raylin standards and causing no real trouble yet. As for the Third Army,' Legana said, 'I really can't say. We're kept well away from them. Siala has the Fysthrall troops under total control, though she's brought more into the city these past few days.'

Zhia was far from surprised. 'She knows I have control over the city guards now. I was expecting her to boost her strength within the city. She will want to test her authority, so make sure the guards do nothing to antagonise the Fysthrall – they must back away from any conflict. Have any that don't obey flogged.'

'She is paranoid about assassins,' Legana added. 'For some reason she suspects the city has been overrun with foreign agents, all looking to kill her.'

Zhia gave the Farlan assassin a stern look. 'In that case we should keep an eye open.' She looked thoughtful for a moment. 'But this might be a useful distraction. I shall get one of the Jester acolytes to make the threat appear real. They are skilled enough to narrowly fail, and playing the assailed sovereign will keep Siala busy.'

The Jesters, the sons of Death, made their home in the deepest part of the Elven Waste where they were worshipped as Gods by the local tribes. They demanded martial excellence from their followers, very like the original Raylin. Zhia had secured the services of six of their acolytes, half-brothers, sons of some chieftain. She spent most evenings walking the night streets with them. They were skilled and loyal warriors, and perfect for the more delicate spying missions.

'Which reminds me,' Zhia continued after a pause, 'one of our aco¬lytes – I forget which one; it is starting to annoy me that they refuse to give their names, and the white masks make them all look alike – but whichever it was, he said last night that they are noting a number of illegal entries into the city. Since this is not their city, they do not care, but they felt they should inform me.'

'So there really are assassins in the city?' Aras asked.

'One would presume so. The interested parties will be augmenting their own households. King Emin won't be able to keep his sticky little paws out, and the Farlan consider this their territory. The only questions are whether the Devoted are going to bring a significant presence to the table, and who else might get involved. Are the Menin also gathering intelligence this far north? If I were in charge in Circle City or Raland 1 would certainly have put some agents in play.'

'Yet with all this going on, still you find time for your little project, this theatre in Six Temples?' Haipar didn't try to hide the snap in her voice.

'Which remains as mysterious as ever,' Zhia said pointedly. 'There have been rumours of hauntings throughout that district, a number of out-of-the-ordinary murders-'

Does that mean out-of-the-ordinary by the standards of your own daily routine?' Haipar continued.

Zhia raised an eyebrow and Aras half rose from his seat, hand on his rapier's hilt. 'Haipar, do I detect a note of displeasure in your voice?' Zhia asked smoothly, motioning for Aras to sit back down.

He glared at Haipar, but they all knew the threat was empty

though he could best Haipar with a blade, she wouldn't bother with a sword; her own claws would have split him groin to gizzard almost before he'd drawn his weapon. His magic-imposed loyalty to Zhia was not so great that he would test Haipar in her lioness form. He had no false illusions there.

'Well, you did turn the head of the Prefecture – I wouldn't think we have to look too far to explain unusual deaths.'

'I Ie is under control, I assure you. As for your personal feelings about vampires-' Zhia started.

'You know I don't give a damn about them – except when they couId cause us difficulties,' Haipar replied hotly. 'You know better than anyone how they can suddenly snap – if they can't withstand the pressure of the change, they explode into murder.'

'And I repeat: it is under control,' said Zhia, very quietly.

Legana sighed; she couldn't understand why Haipar kept prodding; Zhia's anger was not to be taken lightly but the Raylin was constantly argumentative whenever the subject of the theatre came up.

Zhia rose gracefully and walked to the windows. 'These deaths have nothing to do with me or my breed. There is something else afoot. The acolytes have been watching the theatre. This company doesn't spend much time rehearsing, but the players have made some interesting contacts amongst Scree's criminal element. And surely you hive heard the tales of the Dark Man who walks the streets, snatching children – in the slums, of course, but nonetheless, the result is a state of panic in four districts of this city.'

'And you should attend to this personally?' Haipar muttered.

Zhia leaned forward in her seat. 'This is a situation I do not under¬stand. I have lived for millennia; I have founded half a dozen cities, and I've lost count of those I have ruled. Believe me when I say it is rare that I do not understand something.'

Her companions all subconsciously moved back at the frosty tone of her voice.

'What do you want to do?' Aras asked, hoarsely.

Zhia turned suddenly and beamed. 'To do? I want us to go to dinner now, and afterwards, you may accompany me to the theatre's first night for a little culture – I suspect the experience will be illuminating.'

'What meat is this, Mayel?' The abbot was looking quizzically at the lump of indeterminate meat in his spoon.

The young man grimaced, his own spoon halfway to his mouth, and tried to avoid the abbot's gaze. 'Rabbit, Father. Good rabbit stew.'

The abbot took another tentative mouthful. 'Are you sure?'

Of course I'm sure it's not rabbit, you stupid old bastard. You should be glad it's actually dog, considering what some folk are eating these days. He shrugged. 'The butcher told me it was rabbit, Father, but folk are saying that food's getting scarce. If this heat continues, who knows what we'll be dining on soon.'

The abbot didn't press the point. He was too tired. This summer was the hottest anyone could remember, and every day the heat sapped more strength from the abbot's frail body. Whatever magic he was doing in the cellar of their tumbledown house, it was compounding the problem, and if he were not careful, he would run himself into the grave. It was always the old ones who went first, collapsing in the street, never to get up again.

These days they ventured outside only after the sun had gone down, and even so, it was still humid enough to bring on a sweat. Mayel wiped his face on his sleeve again, but it didn't have much effect, for his clothes were sodden with perspiration. That was about the only thing about the monastery he did miss, fresh habits to wear – even if it was the novices who did the cleaning. He took another mouth¬ful of dog stew. Suddenly life in the monastery didn't seem all that awful.

'I did hear some interesting gossip from the butcher though,' he piped up, hoping conversation would stop them focusing on the grim stew. 'Some madman is saying the prophecy of the Flower of the Waste has been fulfilled; that the tribesmen in the Elven Waste have joined under a king and have marched on the Elves – or the Siblis, the butcher wasn't sure which. Not that he thought it was really true – but he did swear that he'd had it on good authority that the Devoted have started fighting amongst themselves. The Knight-Cardinal ordered troops from Embere to attack their forces in Raland, and Telith Vener was waiting for them. Word is that Vener would have wiped them out if it hadn't been for a third Devoted army that stopped it all and forced the Knight-Cardinal's troops to return to Embere.'

'And why is that interesting exactly? The squabblings of soldiers means nothing to me, and should not to you either.'

Mayel suppressed a sigh at the abbot's stern tone of voice; he could feel another lecture about attending to the divine coming on. 'But Father, we're not in the monastery at the moment, and these are dan¬gerous times. I heard that the Farlan might invade, that the city might become a battle-ground-'

'Pay no heed to what you might hear in a butcher-shop,' the abbot repeated. 'You would do better to spend a little more time here in prayer than gossiping in the street or running errands for your cousin.'

'We have to pay for his help somehow,' Mayel replied hotly. Mayel knew he had proved himself invaluable to the abbot, securing much of what he needed on credit with Shandek. He doubted the abbot would have lasted a week without him; mage or no, you couldn't protect yourself from a knife in the back day and night. 'I've been clerking for him to repay him for the use of this house and the protection he's give us.'

'You are paying him for this ruin? You almost killed yourself going upstairs,' the abbot grumbled, looking at the state of the wall beside him. Mayel had grown to loathe that pinched expression. Since the heal had taken over, the abbot had been impossible to please, despite Mayel's best efforts.

Everyone pays for their living quarters, Father, and not everyone gets the protection we do. Folk know his men are watching us, so they keep their distance, just as you wanted. The slate's far from clear, even with the work I'm doing for Shandek now.'

'Should we be so indebted to anyone?' the abbot asked, queru¬lously.

'I think Shandek's decided we're a safe investment, me being family and you being a high priest. Maybe he thinks that there's money in the monastery, so if he wants a reward he's going to have to get you back here safely.'

'But what use have we for money at the monastery?' asked the bewildered abbot. 'In any ease, the prior is still hunting us, and I do not know if I am strong enough to face him now, not if he has truly allied with a daemon.'

'But he won't be prepared against people he's never met.' Mayel hesitated, but then- Well, he was sure the abbot had guessed Shandek had some criminal connections. 'Shandek's put the word out about Jackdaw, so he won't be able to show his face here – there are more than enough people who'd be glad of the bounty the Temple of Death would pay for a daemon-worshipper.'

'Mayel,' the abbot said sharply, putting his spoon down with a clat¬ter, 'you speak as though you know Prior Corci to be in the city – do you? Is he?'

The novice froze, and then muttered, 'Well-'

'Mayel!' the abbot shrieked. 'Have you seen him? Merciful Vellern protect us, has he seen you? Was it today? Could he have followed you back here?'

'Father Abbot, relax,' Mayel interrupted hurriedly, trying to placate the old man, 'I haven't seen him.'

'Then what is it?' he said, still shaking. 'I can tell there is something you're not telling me.'

'I did think I saw Jackdaw, when I was at the theatre with Shandek,' he admitted. 'But I didn't actually see anything – there was a move¬ment in the shadows, that's all, and I got frightened.' He went on, looking shamefaced, 'Since then, I have felt like someone was watch¬ing me, but I swear, I've never actually seen him.'

'You could have led him back here,' the abbot insisted, fear reduc¬ing his voice to a whine.

'What choice did I have?' Mayel demanded as the abbot rose, knocking his bowl of stew to the floor in his haste.

'I must prepare,' Abbot Doren continued, more to himself than Mayel. 'There's so much to do before he finds me,' he said, pulling open the battered door that led to the cellar. He was gone before Mayel had moved. A muffled bang from downstairs indicated the abbot had slammed the door behind.

Mayel looked at the mess on the floor and sighed. He scraped up the remains of the stew and the shards of pottery and returned the uneaten portion in his own bowl to the big pot simmering above the fire. He couldn't stomach any more of it tonight.

'Balls to this, I'm going to find something better to do,' he growled, and pushed open the kitchen door to reveal the dark city, as caked in

sweat and dirt as he was. Scree had never been considered beautiful, and with the unnatural heat drying everything, the streets now stank like a bloated corpse. He kicked the door shut and went out into the night.

Doranei dropped from the wall and crouched in the shadows, hold-

ing his breath while he listened for sounds of pursuit, taking in the features of the ten-yard-square walled courtyard as he counted twenty heartbeats. No light filtered in from the house that made up two of the sides. The few terracotta pots with withered stems drooping from them and a half-full stone-edged pond with four stone trout rising from the surface suggested the house had been closed up for the sum¬mer months. There was no guard, so there was no one to give him away to the Scree city guards who had been chasing him.

He couldn't hear them any longer. 'Damn,' he muttered, brush¬ing dust from his hands. Normally escaping a city guard so easily was something to be pleased about, but not tonight. He checked the pack on his back, but everything was secure, including his pair of sheathed sworrds.

He was ready to start running again. He walked to the pond, dis¬lodged one of the pots on the low wall and watched it shatter on the flagstones. The King's Man didn't bother to listen any longer. He jumped to reach an iron bracket fixed to the house and hauled himself up, using toeholds in the rough-mortared stone wall to reach the roof three storeys up. There he paused, silhouetted against the hunter's moon to wait for his pursuers.

'Bloody wizards.' He looked around at the streets. '"You're a good runner, Doranei," he says. "You'll be a fine decoy," he says. Didn't boody tell me the guards were bloody blind.'

Finally he heard confused, urgent voices coming from the winding streets, and spotted torches bobbing here and there as the men of the city guard fanned out down the side streets. The night air was still, and strangely quiet. Doranei could hear the guards distinctly.

He looked about to fix his location. A domed building, the biggest landmark, that had to be the Temple of Death, half a mile to the south, surrounded by the five grand temples to Nartis, Belarannar, Vellern, Karkarn and Vasle. Around them in turn were shrines to every other God and Aspect the good folk of Scree had been able to think of.

In the dark he'd somehow blundered further than he'd intended, and now found himself well into the district north of Six Temples, where some of the oldest and most splendid houses in Scree were to be found. There were regular patrols, but old money too often had little to spare for expenses like maintaining a city staff when they left for the country, as most of Scree's noble families had done.

A shout came from behind him, taken up by other voices a lot closer than Doranei would have liked. 'There you go,' he said to the night air. 'Now keep up, you bastards – for a bit, anyway. I'll give you a much-needed workout.'

He'd scanned the streets for the best escape route, but he'd picked badly; there wasn't a lot to choose from here. A wide, empty avenue ran towards the hunter's moon, nicely illuminated – and useless for his purposes, for the torches would round the corner and be onto it before he'd managed to climb down and get away. He ran the length of the slate roof-top and hopped the gap onto the next building, and again, until he reached a tall building that protruded out into the avenue, creating a bottleneck with a smaller house on the other side of the street.

This suited Doranei's purposes nicely, for it was the quickest way to cross the avenue and get away from the guards. People rarely bothered to look up in a city, especially where most streets were narrow, with overhanging buildings.

He crouched in the lee of a chimney, assessing the jump, when a splintered crash came from the first house behind him. The city guards had broken in, assuming he was trapped. He couldn't see any movement in the street; this was probably his best chance.

'I think I might be making a terrible mistake,' Doranei muttered as he fumbled in a pocket. He took out two fat leather bands with an iron brace and hook attached to each, slipped the bands over his wrists and pulled the laces tight. He manoeuvred himself onto the dark side of the gently sloping roof as silently as he could.

The hooks nestled in his palms, rough and cold against his skin. They were made of cheap, soft iron, perfect for his need. With luck, he wouldn't have to use them, but this was a long jump and he'd seen what happened to men who were unprepared. It was hard enough to keep your grip when your body slammed into the side of a building, and almost impossible with cut palms from hitting the building's stone edge. There was a low parapet running around the roof edge, so all he needed to do was to get enough of his body over it, then simply fall into the gutter – out of sight, and safe.

He took a deep breath and set off, head low, legs pumping hard. The jump was far enough that he didn't want time to think about it. He kicked off, keeping his eyes fixed on the point he'd chosen, legs and arms wheeling forward. The air whistled past his face as the building lurched up to meet him and almost immediately he realised it was even further than he'd hoped. He wasn't going to make it over the wall.

With only a heartbeat to decide, Doranei dropped his left hand to his chest and turned inward, so his forearm would take the force of the blow. In the next instant he hit the stone facing, just below the wall, his left arm numb, his right arm up and clawing at the stone.

The impact jerked his body around as Doranei got the hook over the ledge. The wind had been driven from his lungs and stars burst before his eyes, but he bit down the pain and let the momentum swing him back, then, hanging precariously from his right-hand hook, he kicked up as hard as he could.

He moaned thanks to Cerdin, God of Thieves, as he swung his leg over the parapet, and with one final burst of strength, he heaved the rest of his body over and into the gutter.

He fell onto his side and lay there fighting for breath as his mind caught up. He tried to ignore his own wheezing so he could hear what was going on around him. Voices in the street were raised, but not shouting, and more importantly, there was no sound of running feet.

I here was no doubt the guards would have heard him hit the rooftop

but if they'd not been in time to see him, it would have simply con-

fused them – after all, a man would have to be mad to try that jump.

It was a fair bet that they'd not even consider the possibility.

Get moving, Doranei shouted in his own head, letting the training of his youth take over when all his body wanted was to stay there and whimper. Move now, or soon you will not be able to move enough to get off this damn roof. He twisted as best he could to inspect the roof. The gutter would take him around the corner of the house, at which point he could risk standing up to find somewhere to break in. There was no way of telling if the house was occupied, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd had to tie up and gag a household before making his escape. He'd certainly distracted the guards for long enough, so now all he had to do was find a dark little hole to hide in. Mistress Siala had posted mages to detect any sort of magic user entering the gates, so King Emin's mages had to be snuck in over the city wall, but they should be safe now. The Brotherhood would have wasted no time in getting the pair away once the guards were distracted.

As he lay there the pain began to grow in his left arm, a hot, sharp throbbing that was fast spreading up towards his fingertips. Gingerly, Doranei eased himself up and tried to move his fingers. He hissed with pain, but at least he could do it, proving the arm wasn't broken. That'd do. The pain he'd live with for the time being.

He cut the laces with his dagger and stowed the hooks back in his pocket. He crawled to the end of the gutter, eyes focused on his destination and teeth gritted as he fought the fire in his damaged arm, but once he'd made it to the back of the house, he realised Cerdin – to whom every member of the Brotherhood prayed for luck – had not abandoned him. Here was a balcony, with steps leading down to the courtyard below.

Doranei hauled himself upright, took a moment to recover his balance, then trotted down the steps until he could climb onto the wall that encircled the courtyard. The walls were all connected, and while he would be more exposed, he could run along the top much quicker than if he stayed on street level, where he would be forever clambering over these same seven-foot-high walls. He headed towards Six Temples until he spotted an alley that offered the seclusion he was searching for. The only problem was that there were voices up ahead, and the smell of spices hanging in the air – cloves and cinnamon. He sighed and shrugged. He'd be past the diners before any of them could call out.

Doranei glanced down as he passed, catching sight of a private dinner for a handful of well-dressed nobles – and, oddly, a woman dressed more like an infantryman. His momentary lack of attention was his undoing.

Something smashed into his shoulder, knocking him off balance and spinning him around. One foot slipped and he flailed wildly for a moment before the other went from under him and he fell, clipping the wall with his injured arm before crashing onto a thick shrub grow¬ing below.

He groaned as pain flared all over his body and fading yellow trails of firelight smeared across his vision. The scuffle of stools scraping over stone heralded a boot landing on his chest. Doranei froze, antici¬pating a cold blade slicing bis throat or sliding info his gut.

Instead, someone chuckled. The boot was removed from his chest and the person stepped back to allow the light to fall on his face.

'A handsome, if somewhat battered, man falling at my feet,' declared a woman in a pretty, cultured voice. 'This day has been a remarkably pleasant one. Haipar, help my young suitor up so I can see him better.'

The dazed Doranei felt strong hands grip him by the shoulders and lift him into a seating position. Very slowly, the Land came back into focus. One of the women was still seated, a goblet in her slender fingers and a smile on her face. Looming over him was the only man in the group and the female soldier, both with their hands on their hilts. A third woman, remarkably pretty, stood on the other side, her dagger drawn.

'Legana, my dear, your aim is impeccable,' said the seated woman. ' I must remember to give a glowing report of your skills – though not your taste. We now have no wine to offer the gentleman.'

'Offer him wine?' exclaimed the man. 'He's a common thief! We'll send for the city guard and be done with him.'

Bugger, thought Doranei, I could take one, if I'm lucky, but not both, not with my arm like this.

The woman rose and approached Doranei, crouching down to look him in the face. The King's Man blinked to clear his sight, and got a jolt of surprise. The woman was stunning, even more arresting than her beautiful companion. Her skin was a dusky red, similar colouring to the Fysthrall soldiers he'd fought in Narkang. Her eyes were shin-ing sapphires in the dim light, and so piercing he could feel her gaze prickle over his skin.

'He's no thief, Aras. This one is much more interesting.' She peered closer and Doranei could see her note the tattoo on his ear. 'I suspect your heart is not in a life of crime?'

The emphasis was not lost on him and Doranei nodded. She was obviously of the White Circle, but he wondered how she knew so much. Only a very select group knew anything of the Brotherhood.

'What would you like me to do, then?' asked the woman soldier, her hand still on her sword. As Doranei's mind cleared, he took in the appearances of the other diners. The man was handsome, and stood like a soldier, despite his frippery. Much the same could be said for the woman whose aim had proved so inconvenient. Legana? A Farlan woman, he now saw. The soldier, Haipar, looked like a savage from the Waste. For a while he wondered whether his brain had been addled by the fall, but no matter how much he tried to blink it away, Haipar's appearance didn't change.

'I want you to see if he's injured, and if so, tend to his wounds,' the woman who was so obviously in charge ordered. 'If he is whole, fetch him a seat so that he may join me in a glass of wine.'

The one she'd named Haipar gripped Doranei's tunic and hauled him to his feet, not bothering to ask how he was feeling. He managed to stay standing, despite the cacophony of complaints from different parts of his body, but he failed to stifle a low moan; his ribs were burning with pain now.

'Legana, if there are any of the city guard out there looking for someone, tell them to stop and return to their posts. I will deal with this one.' She looked speculatively at Doranei and appeared to make up her mind about something.

'And then you can all leave us,' she added, waving them away.

'Mistress, he's carrying weapons,' protested Aras.

And here I am, a helpless little girl? Go away, and ensure we're not disturbed. If you want to be useful, fetch some more wine.'

The nobleman jumped to obey. The two women didn't appear cowed, as Doranei would have expected in a White Circle city, but neither protested. Doranei felt a foreboding curiosity – even injured, he was pretty sure he would be able to overpower so slight and unarmed a woman, though her confidence was disconcerting, and strangely disarming.

Haipar hovered at his elbow as Doranei hobbled unsteadily to the nearest chair and eased himself down, then she left, passing a servant scurrying in with another jug of wine. The girl set it carefully on the table, then fled, pulling the wooden door shut behind her.

The woman now sitting opposite Doranei didn't move. She ap¬peared to be studying his face, noting the dryness of his lips, his eyes darting towards the wine jug, the swelling cheek. It was a full minute before she spoke and by then his throat was burning for a drink.

'My name is Ostia,' she said. 'May I pour you some wine?'

Doranei's throat tightened. Bugger again: Ostia. He knew the name, of course, from the aftermath of the battle in Narkang. Dumbly Doranei nodded his head and accepted the goblet when she passed it. Oh Gods, he thought, Zhia Vukotic herself. What in the name of Ghenna do I do now?

'We wear symbols of those that are now at war with each other,' Zhia continued, oblivious to his stream of thought, 'and yet you seem remarkably quiet. What is your name?'

'Doranei, Madam.'

'Madam? I think Mistress is the appropriate honorific here, young Doranei.'

He blinked for a moment. It was strange to be called young by a woman who appeared less than thirty summers. 'I didn't think you were the strictest adherent to the Circle's code, Mistress Vukotic.'

'You will refrain from using that name, young man,' Zhia snapped before her expression softened into an indulgent smile again. 'It would be an inconvenience to me if anyone overheard you, one that would cause me considerable bother.'

'My apologies,' Doranei said, lowering his eyes briefly. 'That was petulant of me.'

'Ah, the king has taught you some manners as well. How refresh¬ing. I do prefer assassins to be civilised; those who aren't tend to have something to prove. I can't stand men who are just waiting to be provoked.'

'I doubt many of them stand for long.' Doranei regretted the words immediately. King Emin encouraged a loose informality within the IVotherhood that sometimes made them speak their minds too easily. Some men, like the Farlan Lord, Isak, enjoyed being taken aback from time to time, but others had found themselves compelled to call the King's Man out – however stupid an idea that invariably was.

'A soldier's flattery, how sweet of you,' Zhia purred. 'With such a tongue you must have charmed more than your fair share of Narkang's maidens – that is, of course, if your king allows you to mix with ladies who enjoy such compliments. Please tell me he doesn't hide away you pretty young things.'

The King's Man felt his cheeks redden slightly. Despite the mock¬ing tone, Mistress Zhia's velvety voice seemed to run like a feather down his spine, making him shiver in curious delight and dread. He wondered if she was using magic on him – she was quite skilled enough

but he'd always been a fool for a pretty face, magic or not.

'Oh, I've embarrassed you now. I do apologise,' the vampire twit-tered on. Doranei, forcing himself to look her in the eye again, saw she was enjoying acting the foolish noblewoman. 'I'm sure the king doesn't want your sword to be blunted by such activities; weapons must be kept keen, after all. Still, I must make this embarrassment up, for surely I could not live with myself if 1 sent you away without redeeming myself.'

Oh good, a vampire's playing games with me. This is likely to turn out well.

Zhia stood with a flourish and stepped with a dancer's grace to Doranei's side. She took his elbow and, with no apparent effort, lifted him to his feet. Her thin hands felt as solid as oak underneath him, her strength disconcerting in such a delicate form. Upright, Doranei was a good half-dozen inches taller than Zhia, but he felt as brittle as a fallen leaf in her hands. She deftly slipped the straps from his shoulders and drew his pack off him. The movement was surprisingly tender and Doranei found himself suddenly aware of her delicate perfume. As her lips parted slightly, Doranei felt his breath catch.

Oh Gods.

'So now, will you let me make it up to you?' Zhia leaned closer, unblinking as she stared up at him and he inhaled even more of the sweet scent.

Doranei nodded dumbly.

'Thank you,' she whispered. He began to edge towards her lips just as Zhia stepped back. 'In that case we should leave,' she said firmly.

'Leave?'

'Of course,' she said breezily. 'You'll be accompanying me to the theatre tonight, and the curtain goes up soon.'

'Theatre? But I-' Doranei floundered. 'I can't, I've got to-'

'Nonsense,' Zhia interrupted. 'It will be an education for you; trust me that your king will not begrudge you the trip. Now, if you've found your feet, we should be off.'

She didn't wait for a reply but propelled Doranei towards the shut¬tered door. He tried to protest, but the words wouldn't come. Instead he let Zhia guide him through the dim streets, past the glaring eyes of any number of city guards, until they arrived at a theatre surrounded by chattering citizens of all classes, all bedecked in their finest. Wreaths of hemlock cascaded over the walls and scores of torches gave off long trails of scented smoke. As they approached, Doranei looked around with growing trepidation. Flickering shadows reached out around the shuttered barrows that surrounded the theatre.

Whispers skittered around the street, faster than the King's Man could catch to make sense of. The darkness loomed as they approached

the gate, where a pair of albinos scowled at the pair of them but stepped back as Zhia met their gaze. When he passed through, Doranei felt a chill hush settle about his shoulders. As he walked into shadow, his only comfort was the firm grip of a vampire on his arm. Oh Gods.