Assassin's Edge

by Juliet E. McKenna

  Sorgrad muttered something sounding vaguely liturgical in Mountain speech too archaic for me to understand.

  Untroubled, ’Gren gazed down into the pit. “The Maker can hold his bones until the Mother takes back his spirit.” He used the same terms as the Elietimm had.

  “Misaen and Maewelin?” I guessed. Those two gods had been sufficient for the ancient Mountain Men and even these days, the uplands paid scant respect to the rest of the pantheon.

  Shiv drew a deep breath and continued to concentrate on the pit. The soil sank down, smoothing itself to the sides of the hole, soon as compact as if it had never been disturbed.

  “Nicely done, Shiv,” Ryshad approved from the far side of this new grave. “Now let’s go and steal a boat.”

  Suthyfer, Sentry Island,

  3rd of For-Summer

  Halice came striding across the beach, the early sun throwing a long shadow behind her. “You’re not scrying, are you?” She looked into the pool left shining among the scoured slabs of rock by the retreating sea.

  “No,” Usara assured her. He dusted sand off his hands. “Though Guinalle thinks working with a natural pool would make it harder for the Elietimm enchanters to find me.”

  Halice looked uncertain. “I thought you needed antique silver bowls and priceless inks.”

  “Hedge wizards and charlatans can’t work without them,” Usara told her with some amusement. “And granted, ink or oil makes it easier but I can scry in anything.”

  Halice looked at Guinalle who was swathed in a soft grey cloak against the dawn chill. “Have you any Artifice to show you how they’re getting on?”

  “I think it best to let well alone,” Guinalle said without emotion. “Shiv was taking them to a place well outside Ilkehan’s domains. If some mischance shows these enchanters my interest there, that could just give him reason to go looking.”

  “It’s not worth the risk,” said Usara firmly. “For anyone.”

  “You didn’t feel any hint of that Ilkehan noticing them arriving?” Halice looked out at the placid ocean barely troubled by so much as a rippling wave, gilded by the sun huge and orange on the horizon. The tide had washed away most of the evidence of the slaughters.

  “Not a suspicion.” Guinalle looked north and east to the unseen Ice Islands as well.

  “His kind suspect everyone and everything, every waking moment,” Halice said sourly. “That’s how they avoid knives in the back.”

  “They’ve got Shiv,” Usara pointed out. “He can bespeak wizards from here to Hadrumal if they fall foul of Ilkehan’s malice.”

  “Which could leave him no better than a drooling idiot.” Halice put her hands on her hips.

  “Not if he’s careful, and he will be,” insisted Usara. “And now we’ve worked together, it need only be me, Larissa and Allin bringing them back. We don’t even need Shiv in the nexus.”

  “Ilkehan won’t be able to touch mages at this distance, not with Artifice warding them,” Guinalle added.

  “As long as he doesn’t somehow rope in those adepts of his to help.” Halice scowled at the central islands of Suthyfer secretive across the dark blue waters.

  “The best way we can keep Ilkehan from realising he has enemies close at hand is to keep his attention turned to his people’s fight here.” Usara nodded at Guinalle. “We’ve been discussing how best to do that. Do you fancy working a little magic, Halice?”

  “Me?” The mercenary was startled.

  “You can hold a tune can’t you?” Usara asked innocently. “Sing a marching pace or a rope song along with a ship’s crew?”

  Guinalle had a book in one hand, her fingers pale against the age-darkened patina of ancient leather. Whatever gold leaf had once illuminated the spine was worn to an indecipherable shadow. “The Artifice in these songs is ancient but none the less effective for that.”

  “What are you thinking of doing?” Halice was intrigued, despite herself.

  “The pirates have one sailing ship left. It’s only a single-masted sloop but it could make a break for the open sea,” the noblewoman replied composedly. “We’re discussing how we might discourage it.”

  Halice looked out to sea again. “The Eryngo, Nenuphar and Asterias have closed off escape to the south. We’ve the other three ships keeping watch up here.”

  Usara raised his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t six ships north and south be better? Maybe nine?”

  Halice folded her arms, head on one side. “How?”

  Usara’s grin widened. “Aetheric illusion.”

  “I’m certain the jalquezan in the ballad of Garidar and his hundred sheep creates mirror images to baffle an enemy.” Even Guinalle, tired as she was, couldn’t restrain a smile.

  Halice nodded but frowned an instant later. “There’s no chance these enchanters are making fools of us with some Artifice masquerade? Showing you what you want to see while Muredarch’s lads come sneaking up the strait?”

  “No chance at all.” Guinalle shook her head. “That’s one advantage aetheric far-seeing has over scrying.”

  “You’re sure?” Halice plainly wasn’t. A new thought occurred to her. “If you could see through any illusion they wrought, why won’t they just see straight through this trick?”

  Guinalle looked affronted. “Because I can ensure that they don’t.”

  Usara stepped in. “Halice, please allow we’re as competent in our duties as you are in yours.”

  “Of course.” A rueful smile lightened the mercenary’s severe expression and she bowed with mock solemnity. “I beg your pardon, both you and your lady mages. So, how will this work?”

  Guinalle held the book up. “We convince one man on every ship that this will defend them and then he can lead the rest in singing it as they work.”

  “Then you want the boatswains. They love their ships better than their mistresses.” Halice stretched out her well-muscled arms before easing her broad shoulders with a grimace. “Very well, we’ll have mystical ships as well as wooden ones to blockade these wharf rats. The next thing we need to make is a plan for attacking their hole.”

  Usara was watching Guinalle who had paled. “We need to be ready to act as soon as Ilkehan dies,” he said gently.

  “I wish I knew how long it’ll take them.” Halice was looking out to sea again. “The sooner we can attack, the less time Muredarch’s mob have to dig themselves in. On the other hand, the more we can drill Temar’s haymakers and Sorgrad’s dock-sweepings, the more chance we’ll have something approaching a corps. Well, that’s something I can make a start on. Let me know what your far-seeing shows you.”

  Mage and noblewoman watched Halice walk away across the beach, kicking sleeping feet, pulling resentful blankets away from blinking faces aghast once they realised how early it was. “All of you, boots on. Let’s see if you’re as good with those weapons as you are with your boasts. As soon as we get the word, I’ll want you going through those pirates like scald through a cheap whorehouse!”

  Usara smiled before turning serious once more. “Shall we ask the Maelstrom’s master when the best time to contact the other ships might be?”

  Guinalle didn’t reply and when the mage looked to see why, he saw desolation in her eyes. He held out an impulsive hand but she affected not to see it, hugging the ancient songbook close to her breast like a talisman. Usara looked away, tucking his hands through the braided leather strap he wore buckled around his waist. He hesitated before continuing with studied casualness. “You said something about finding a way to knock the wits out of those enchanters?”

  Guinalle closed her eyes before replying with determined composure. “The question is, which wits should I harass first?”

  Bemusement replaced the faint injury in Usara’s eyes. “I’m sorry?”

  Guinalle looked at him, puzzled in her turn. “What do you mean?”

  “You say ‘which wits’?” Usara spread uncomprehending hands. “I don’t understand.”

  “I cannot decide which of the five
wits I should try undermining first,” said Guinalle slowly.

  “Five wits?” asked Usara with lively curiosity.

  “Are you going to repeat everything I say?” Amusement animated Guinalle’s weary face.

  “Please explain,” Usara invited. “Talk of five wits means nothing to me.”

  “It was the first thing I was taught at the Shrine of Ostrin. The least of adepts would have known it before—” Guinalle bit off her words. “Very well. There are five wits that make up the whole mind, as I was taught anyway. Common wit; the everyday intelligence that we use to live by.” She tucked the songbook under one arm and held up a hand, ringless fingers spread. She tucked her thumb to her palm before continuing. “Imagination; weaving ideas of the practical kind. Fantasy; giving free rein to unbounded notions. Estimation; the sense to make a judgement. Memory; the faculty for recollection.” Guinalle folded her little finger down and considered the fist she had made before opening her hand as if releasing something. “Artifice is the working of stronger and more disciplined will upon the wits of another. Surely Aritane told you that? You said you’d been working with her all winter.”

  Usara shook his head slowly. “There’s nothing like that in the Sheltya tradition. They liken their true magic to the four winds of the runes; calm, storm, cold dry wind from the north, warm wet wind from the south.” He sighed with frustration. “We really must find time to sit down and go through your initial instruction. If we’re to find any correspondences between aetheric and elemental magic—”

  “I fear that will have to wait.” Guinalle gestured towards the pirates’ cabin. Temar was heading in their direction, picking his way between men hastily cooking scavenged breakfasts.

  “Usara, Allin needs your help.” He waved a hand back towards the rough-hewn hut.

  “Is there word from Shiv?” Usara was instantly alert.

  “No, no,” Temar reassured him. “Allin’s thinking of ways to make the pirates’ lives that bit harder. She was wondering if the pair of you couldn’t combine her fire affinity and your power over the earth to dry up the wells and springs around their encampment.”

  Usara rubbed a hand across his beard. “That’s an interesting notion.”

  “See if you can do it,” Guinalle suggested.

  “It can wait until after breakfast.” The mage looked at her. “You could do with something to eat.”

  “In a moment.” She didn’t meet his eye, turning instead to the sea. “Halice wanted me to work a far-seeing to the southern ships. Temar can spare a moment to help. It’ll put my mind at ease as well.”

  Usara looked as if he’d like to argue the point but settled for giving Temar a warning look. “Don’t take too long about it.”

  Temar watched him go. “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing.” Guinalle coloured and held out a hand to Temar. “Help me?”

  Something in her voice made Temar uneasy. He scanned the encampment. “I see Pered over there. Let’s get you some breakfast first and then we can both support you.”

  “Halice will have Pered copying maps all day.” Guinalle reached for Temar’s hand. “We can do this between us. We’ve done it before.”

  “When we were surveying upriver for Den Fellaemion?” A laugh of recollection surprised Temar. “I was going to say that feels like an age ago, but then it was, wasn’t it?”

  “Not to me.” Guinalle tightened her grasp.

  Temar gasped. “I don’t think this is wise.”

  “Let me be foolish, just for a little while.” Guinalle closed her eyes. “I want to remember something better than all this strife.”

  Memories wrapped Temar in peace and contentment. High on a hillside above an irregular bay, a perfect circle of dry stone devotedly fitted, offered sanctuary from the sternest weather that might storm in from the ocean. On the inland face, away from the prevailing winds, the gate stood open to welcome any seeking knowledge in this distant place. The path to that gate met the lines of rounded tiles covering conduits bringing water from a springhouse some way further up the slope. Within the wall, a neatly worked garden surrounded each modest dwelling, round beneath a conical roof of slate slabs. In the centre, three bigger square buildings with steeply pitched roofs had larger windows to throw light on the adepts within, unshuttered now that winter’s squalls were past.

  Guinalle’s memory bathed the sanctuary in wistful sunlight. She dwelt on the plain house she had shared with two other girls, all of them happy to escape the intricate formalities of noble etiquette and dress. Her mind’s eye turned to the library where nascent aptitude for Artifice won her merit, not blood and heritage. Her piercing sorrow for her gentle, long-dead teachers pricked Temar’s eyes.

  “I was so happy there,” she said softly.

  “You’d never recognise Bremilayne now,” he began bracingly. ”When I was there last year—”

  “I don’t want to know.” Guinalle’s grip was painful. “Don’t you wish it could all be as it was?”

  A rush of recollection assailed Temar. A hammer-beamed hall decked with green boughs, a massive fire roaring in the hearth, silks, jewel bright in candle- and firelight, as dancing gowns swished across the rush-strewn floor, matrons as deft as their slender nieces and daughters. Their partners were just as gaudy, gold and silver buttons bright on doublets and gowns woven with shimmering brocade. Double doors opened into a broad room of tables set with every delicacy and temptation that a noble House could command. Laughter echoed silently in Temar’s head, floating above a merry mix of celebration and flirtation laced with pious thanks to Poldrion for another year safely past.

  “Festival’s nothing like how you remember it either.” Temar tried to turn to his own recollections to the summer Solstice he’d passed in Toremal. It was a futile effort. Guinalle held stubbornly to her memory and she was far more adept at this than he. Temar gritted his teeth and summoned the thrill and exhilaration of the vivid, sunlit city of Toremal. He recalled his astonishment at the sprawling districts that dwarfed and surrounded the old walled town they had known, at the elegant Houses Sieurs new and old had built to ring the city with all the artistry gold could buy. “The world’s moved on, Guinalle. You should come and see for yourself.”

  “See what?” Behind the mask of Guinalle’s relentless self-control, Temar felt grief for her family so long dead, rage at the House that had so long forgotten and then disowned her.

  “There’s no use pining for what’s lost.” Temar did his best to quell his unease, trying instead to let Guinalle see how his own sorrow and rage had run their course. “We have to look forward, not back. Tormalin rebuilt itself from the ruins of the Chaos; we’re doing the same for Kellarin.” If the people of Kellarin no longer had any place in this new Tormalin, by all his hope of Saedrin’s mercy, Temar would build them a new home, raise a new power across the ocean.

  “Is that what we have to look forward to?” Guinalle’s low voice was strained. “Some mockery of the colony we planned, built on the charity of these Sieurs who rule this changed new world of yours? Oh, I’ve tried, Temar, I’ve really tried. I spend my days curing bellyaches and dressing blisters while people bring me petty squabbles over patches of dirt or smelly animals. Is this to be my life? I was a princess. Tor Priminale was a name to claim precedence in any gathering, honoured for husbanding vast lands and tenantry numbering thousands.”

  “Which you turned your back on, as I recall.” Temar kept his tone light with some effort. He didn’t want to provoke her to outright hysteria but, curse her, Guinalle wasn’t going to get away with this nonsense.

  “I set my rank aside to study the arts of enchantment. Acolyte of Larasion, Adept of Ostrin: that means nothing now,” Guinalle answered, stricken. “I cannot even reclaim my own Name, I’m just handed over to a House all but dead before we even sailed.”

  “Thanks to the Crusted Pox,” said Temar coldly. “That plague and my grandsire taught me a hard lesson very young, Guinalle. I could weep and howl a
ll day and all night but my father wouldn’t hear me in the Otherworld. No brothers or sisters could repass Saedrin’s threshold to comfort me. All I could do was strive with the life that was granted me, to honour their memory.”

  “It’s just that I miss them all so; Vahil, Elsire, the Sieur Den Rannion, his maitresse, all those others cut down in their blood.” Guinalle’s brittle belligerence crumbled and a single tear spilled from her brown eyes, dark pools of misery. “My uncle, Den Fellaemion, a byword for boldness and success. He had such hopes, such plans, but he always told me, if it all fell to pieces, we could just go home. Now where do we go? Where do we belong?” She choked on a bitter laugh. “You say so much has changed. Not everything. We flee black-hearted invaders and I hide everyone who escapes beneath enchantment, since it can’t be more than a season before help arrives. But we wake to find I’ve condemned us all to a life where everyone we ever knew and loved is dead, but these same foul marauders are still trying to kill us! Then I learn that my enchantment threw the balance of the Aether into such disarray that adepts clear across the Empire were cast into confusion. With that last prop shattered, chaos destroyed our world, Temar, and it was all my doing!”

  “It’s not your fault.” Temar chose his words with exquisite care. “I know how difficult this is, Guinalle. I’ve thought just the same in the silence of the night, and wept for lack of answers and simple misery. Anyway, Nemith did more to bring down the Empire than you ever could. You know what he was like.” He faltered. “But we are alive and where there’s life, there must be hope and however much the world has changed around us, we can still look for warmth and succour to heal our hurts.”

  “Can we?” Guinalle took both Temar’s hands and held them tight.

  Vivid as a dream on waking, he remembered his desire the first time he’d seen her, his nervous awareness that she wasn’t some easy conquest like those many who roused his passing lust in his carefree youth. Memory sped through his painstaking courtship to linger on his astonished delight when she’d first accepted his kiss, permitted his decorous embraces and soon encouraged more. “Oh, don’t, Guinalle.” He tried to curb his embarrassment but felt a blush burning his cheeks.