Assassin's Edge

by Juliet E. McKenna

  Temar realised sweat was sticking his own shirt to his back as he half escorted, half dragged Guinalle out on to the main deck. The noblewoman was ashen but the salt-scented breeze saved her from vomiting.

  “It’s working Artifice on water,” she said faintly. “I just need a moment before I go back.”

  “Is he going to die?” Temar dragged clean air deep into his lungs and his own nausea faded.

  “Not just at present.” Guinalle smoothed her braids with shaking hands.

  “Then you work no more healing on him until we are safe on land,” Temar told her bluntly. “You push yourself too hard.”

  “Who else is there?” Guinalle glared at him.

  “For combating the Elietimm enchanters, no one,” Temar retorted. “So I will not permit you to exhaust yourself tending Naldeth. Sailors and mercenaries have lost legs before now and lived through it without aetheric healing. I’m sure Halice and Master Jevon know what to do.”

  “You will not permit me?” Rage lent a spurious colour to Guinalle’s pale cheeks. “How do you intend stopping me? What right have you to command me when your callousness cost that poor boy his leg in the first place?”

  “Me?” Temar gaped at her.

  “You could have had him safe and whole!” Guinalle stabbed an accusing finger in Temar’s chest. “For the sake of some nails and some sailcloth!”

  “And that would have been the end of it?” Temar folded his arms to stop himself slapping Guinalle’s hand away. “Don’t be so foolish! Yield once to a bully and he comes back asking for twice and thrice.”

  “What price a man’s life?” cried Guinalle.

  “What price would Muredarch settle for, once he had me on the run?” countered Temar angrily. “He plans to hold these islands for his own and Kellarin can go hang for all he cares. We stand against him now or he’ll bleed us dry and spit out the husk.”

  “This has been a trying day for all of us.” Usara’s hand closed on Temar’s arm, catching him unawares. “Why don’t you leave this discussion for some other time, somewhere a little less public?” For all his peaceable words, the wizard’s voice was tight with anger.

  Guinalle blushed a ferocious scarlet, turning her face out to sea, back stiff with outrage.

  Temar took a measured breath. “What have you there?”

  Usara carried a haphazard collection of jars and bottles in a frayed wicker basket. “Half the sailors seem to have some shrine-sanctioned cure-all in their sea chest, or a salve with the seal of the Imperial Apothecary.”

  Guinalle looked over her shoulder. “Do you know what’s in them?”

  Usara shrugged. “Not really.”

  “I’ll see what Allin and I can make of them.” Guinalle took the basket without ceremony. Usara would have followed her to the cabin but Temar caught him by the arm.

  “I didn’t start that. It was Guinalle.” Sounding like a whining apprentice again, Temar thought crossly.

  “What has that to do with anything?” Usara was unforgiving. “You’re our leader and you should be setting an example.”

  “By refusing to give in to extortion?” Did no one appreciate his impossible position? Temar shook his head. “Never mind. It’s Guinalle I’m worried about.”

  Usara’s annoyance softened to wary concern. “You and me both, but she insists she’s all right.”

  Temar waved a hand in frustration. “She’s like a lyre some fool’s tuned to too high a pitch. We may get some fine music for a while but she could snap without warning and then we’ll have no strings to our bow at all.”

  “I believe that expression refers to the weapon rather than the music tool.” Usara tried for levity with a resounding lack of success.

  “Adepts are trained to suppress their emotions away from their enchantments. Guinalle’s so very effective at using Artifice because she’s so very good at divorcing herself from her feelings.” Temar hesitated. “But she used to allow herself to feel pleasure, to relax, enjoy a dance, a flirtation, just like any other girl.” He gave the wizard a hard look. “Don’t you admire her?”

  “I hold her in the highest esteem,” Usara said awkwardly. “She has a remarkable mind.”

  “Take it from me, she’s as much woman as intellect,” Temar said fervently. “But she’s forgotten that and that’s just making things worse. You’re probably the only person who can remind her, soothe her to some proper relaxation.” He gave the wizard a meaningful look.

  “Are you suggesting I roll her into a handy bunk and tumble her into a more amenable temper?” Usara was caught between incredulity and outrage.

  Temar blushed scarlet but held his ground. “If that’s what it takes. Don’t tell me you don’t want to.”

  “I’ll tell you to mind your own business.” Usara rubbed a hand over his beard. “And I’ll write off your crashing lack of tact against the stresses of today. And since we’re talking so frankly, Messire, may I suggest you look to your own affairs?” He turned on his heel and disappeared into the stern cabin before Temar had any chance to reply.

  That could have gone better, Temar thought gloomily. No, curse it, someone had to get through to Guinalle and Usara was the man to do it. He wondered about joining Halice on the forecastle where she was talking to Master Jevon. Would she congratulate him for defying Muredarch or blame him for Naldeth’s mutilation? Would she just be furious with him for not killing all the pirates out of hand, parley or no? How many such outrages would Raeponin have tallied against Halice’s name when she came to render her account to Saedrin? Temar wondered sourly. Maybe it was different if you were a mercenary.

  The Dulse sped on, cleaving through the great swells rolling in from the endless ocean. The vessel swayed as the helmsman turned their course to ride the waves. Temar stared at the rise and fall of the waters, catching every detail of windblown spume, every glint and shade of sunlight on the dense blue. How did those birds so blithely riding the vanishing crests find fish in this vast emptiness? Did they sleep on the waters or fly back to land to roost for the night? Had anyone ever seen those birds but those few who’d discovered these isles lost in the deepest ocean?

  No, he decided, he wasn’t going to think about Suthyfer. He’d been telling Guinalle she needed to set her problems aside for a while so the very least he could do was take his own advice. But how was he going to find an answer to Muredarch’s threat? Never pull a rope against a stronger man, that’s what his grandsire had always said.

  A soft step beside him roused Temar from his fruitless thoughts. It was Allin, her sombre brown dress stained with blood and water, a smear of unguent greasy on one sleeve. Her round face was sad, brown eyes vulnerable, and a quiver tugged at the corners of her downturned mouth.

  “Am I needed?” asked Temar, bracing himself.

  Allin shook her head, silent for a moment before answering. “No, Guinalle and Usara are sitting with Naldeth.” She managed a wry smile. “They’re debating theories of magic so I thought I’d get some fresh air.”

  “Theories of magic?” Temar was confused.

  The mage-girl nodded. “Usara recalls some ages-old treatise arguing elemental affinity is an extension of the five physical senses into the unseen realms of nature. They’re trying to decide if there are any correspondences between this theory and this doctrine of the five wits that Guinalle says underpins Artifice. He’s always had this notion that there must be fundamental balances underpinning everything.” She sounded sceptical.

  “Guinalle needs to rest, not boil her brain with puzzles,” said Temar, exasperated.

  Allin’s short laugh surprised him. “Actually, I think they both find a little intellectual debate welcome distraction from the bloody reality we’ve been dealing with.”

  Then they were welcome to it, Temar thought. “How is Naldeth?”

  Allin drew an abrupt breath and squared her shoulders. “Insensible but the bleeding has stopped.”

  “He owes you his life.” Temar sought to comfort her.
/>   “For the moment.” Allin’s mouth pressed into an unhappy line, tears welling in her eyes. “It’s all rags and gobbets of skin and flesh that will turn to green rot given half a chance and that’ll have him dead inside a couple of days. We have to take the rest of his leg off, mid thigh somewhere and find enough skin to cover the stump.” She was struggling not to weep. “But he’s lost so much blood already, I don’t know he’ll be able to stand it. But, if we delay, we risk the wound festering.”

  Not knowing what to say for the best, Temar just gathered her to him, holding her close, silky hair smooth against his cheek.

  “If only we could get him to Hadrumal,” Allin sobbed. “But Guinalle says the enchanters will be watching and we’d all be at risk, Naldeth most of all. What do I tell Planir if he dies?”

  “Why should he blame you?” Temar fumbled awkwardly for his kerchief to wipe the tears from Allin’s face again. “I’m the one bears the guilt for defying Muredarch.”

  Allin gazed up at him, reddened eyes wide. “You couldn’t give in to him!”

  “Thank you for that.” Temar kissed her forehead absently. “I only hope a few others agree with you.” Allin’s arms tightened around his waist in mute support, warming him.

  “I’m not playing this game again.” Halice’s arrival took them both by surprise. Allin would have moved away but Temar resisted and she stayed in his embrace.

  “Muredarch may think he’s got all the runes in his hand but I aim to spoil his fun.” Halice was looking as dangerous as Temar had ever seen her. “He can’t torture us by killing prisoners if we take them off him.”

  “You can’t attack while we’re still waiting for Ryshad and Livak to kill Ilkehan.” Temar just about managed to keep his words a statement rather than a question.

  “I’m talking a raid, on that cursed stockade of theirs.” Halice’s face was hard and cunning. “We loose the prisoners and take them into the forest. That’ll give Muredarch and his cursed enchanters something new to worry about while we wait for ’Gren to have his fun.”

  Temar realised he’d never quite appreciated just what qualities had raised Halice to such pre-eminence among the mercenaries of Lescar.

  Rettasekke, Islands of the Elietimm,

  6th of For-Summer

  These people have some bizarre ideas about what’s edible,” I murmured to Sorgrad. The time of day suggested this was breakfast but we were served much the same food at every meal. “Didn’t we see a lot of this last night?” Olret might consider himself master of all he surveyed but my mother, mere housekeeper to a prosperous merchant, would have scorned serving up the previous night’s leavings.

  “Pickled moss?” Sorgrad innocently offered me a bowl of soused green lumps.

  “Thank you, no.” I reached for some tiny sweet berries, topping them with something halfway between thick cream and underpressed cheese that, remarkably enough, didn’t taste of goat. “Oh, you’re not going to eat that!”

  ’Gren was contemplating a plate of glaucous grey lumps that I’d thought looked unappetising even before I realised that’s where the smell halfway between rancid milk and a plague house privy pit was coming from.

  He raised a golden eyebrow at me. “Why not?”

  “Suit yourself.” I picked up my spoon. “I’m not sitting near you if you do.”

  “All right.” He gave up his teasing and pulled a leg from a vaguely goose-shaped bird. I’d tried some of that the previous evening and would have sworn I’d been eating fish, if I hadn’t carved it for myself.

  “Where’s Ryshad?” Shiv cut into a slab of meat too dark and substantial to be a goat so I guessed it must be some seabeast flesh. Perhaps meals would be easier if I just stopped trying to work out what was what.

  “Just coming.” I nodded towards the door as I took some bread. There was plenty of that and if the grain and texture were unfamiliar, it did at least taste recognisable.

  Ryshad brushed his hand across my shoulder as he passed behind me and pulled up a stool. “This is all very informal.”

  “Compared to last night,” Sorgrad agreed, looking the length of the long table at people we’d yet to be introduced to, gathering in small groups, chatting as they helped themselves from the array of bowls and platters.

  “What were all those stories about?” asked Ryshad. We’d sat through an interminable if well-presented banquet, all of us seated as Olret’s guests of honour, and the evening had rounded off with endless recitations resounding with the heavy rhythms of ancient Mountain sagas. With upwards of a hundred of Olret’s people packed into the hall and all rapt attention, Sorgrad hadn’t liked to translate.

  “Wraiths and wyrms, the usual stuff,” ’Gren answered, mouth full.

  “One warned of travellers who turned out to come from behind the sunset.” Sorgrad chewed and swallowed. “It reminded me of a Gidestan tale about the Eldritch Kin, though that’s not what they called them.”

  “Pass the water, please.” Shiv looked thoughtful. “Geris reckoned myths of the Eldritch Kin were half-remembered tales of the Plains People.”

  I took some of the wonderfully clean-tasting water for myself after pouring a horn cupful for Shiv. “What do we make of that?”

  “Another curiosity for the scholars of Vanam?” Ryshad hazarded.

  “There were a good few tales of life among the Elietimm here.” I looked to Sorgrad for confirmation.

  “Which bear out what Olret was saying about no overlords,” he nodded. “And it seems the lowest born can end up ruling a clan hereabouts if he can convince enough people to back him.”

  “If he’s got the stones for it.” ’Gren was unimpressed. “Half those tales were about someone with a bit of gumption coming to a bad end. Where’s the fun in that?”

  “Bad and bold got exiled or worse while meek and mild got enough to eat and saw his grandchildren thrive,” I said to Ryshad.

  He considered this. “So while anyone could rise to rule in theory, in practice, the strong hand their power to their sons?”

  “Sort of.” I frowned. My knowledge of the Mountain tongue had been found wanting a good few times. “I wasn’t quite clear on the daughters, Sorgrad.” According to Mountain custom, the wealth of their mines and forests was always passed down the female line, which did make sense when you wanted to keep such resources within the family. There will always be women to vouch for a child being born to a particular mother but independent witnesses to a conception are never going to be easy to come by.

  “From what I could work out, marrying into an established clan bloodline certainly strengthens a claim to power but it’s not set in stone like Anyatimm tradition.” Circumspect, Sorgrad surveyed the hall and the people coming to and from the table.

  “They don’t like their women getting above themselves,” I commented. Several tales had mentioned in passing wives who’d abandoned their husbands for some intrepid lover and either starved in exile or died a bloody death with every hand raised against them.

  Sorgrad was still considering Ryshad’s question. “Their songs praise hard work and keeping your head down but if you don’t, just as long as you win, no one condemns you for it. That final song started with a woman who shirked her duty to expose a child born to her husband’s concubine. The boy lived, ran wild as he grew and finally returned from exile to burn his father’s house down around his ears, killing everyone inside. The son ruled and no one gainsaid his right, by conquest as well as by blood.”

  “That was the song Olret cut short?” asked Shiv.

  I nodded. “Doubtless because that’s the kind of tradition Ilkehan relies on.”

  “And there’s no overlord or union of the other rulers to keep anyone inclined to abuse his power in check.” Ryshad grimaced. “It used to be any two leaders with a dispute would agree on a third to act as mediator, lawspeaker,” Sorgren looked grim. “But that’s a tradition Ilkehan seems to have killed off.”

  We all fell silent as a maidservant appeared to collect empty p
lates and make up full dishes from half-emptied ones.

  A resounding blow on the double doors interrupted everyone’s meal. The leathery-faced retainer Maedror entered, swinging his bone staff as if he’d like to hit someone with it. A liveried guard followed, apprehension naked on his face as he dragged in a cowering hound. Brindled and bred for coursing by its long slender legs and narrow head, it was a pitiful-looking beast, cowering on its creamy underbelly. As it fought against the leash with heart-rending whines, we all saw the bloody socket where some scum had gouged out one of its eyes.

  Furious, Maedror shouted at a maid who took to her heels. We all sat tight, along with everyone else caught unawares by this turn of events. Those servants who could, vanished behind the wall hangings. Olret soon came into the hall at a run, tunic unbelted over loose trews and shod in slippers of soft cured hide rather than his lordly boots. He skidded to a halt when he saw the brindled cur.

  “What is that?” With Olret spacing his words with deliberate cold calm, I easily understood.

  Maedror’s reply was too hasty and stumbling to be clear but I caught the word Ilkehan. A chill ran through the room as if someone had opened a window on to a blizzard.

  Olret walked slowly down the hall. He circled the whimpering dog, bending to look more closely at its rump. The beast crouched low, tail tucked between its legs. Infuriated, Olret snatched Maedror’s staff and smashed the wrist-thick bone down on the dog, snapping its spine with an audible crack. The beast howled its uncomprehending anguish, back legs useless, bowels and bladder voiding on the floor. Its front paws scrabbled at the flagstones for a nerve-shredding moment then Olret brought the butt of the staff down to stave in its skull. But that was not enough. He pounded the sorry corpse, blood and brain spattering everywhere. Heedless of his footwear, he kicked the ruined mess of skin and bone time and again, sending gory smears across the floor.

  Revolted, I didn’t dare look away. No one else had moved so much as a hair, not even the guard with the leash biting into his fingers. Maedror stood as still as a statue, even when Olret, panting with exertion, flung the staff at him. The heavy bone, dull with blood and muck clattered to the floor as Maedror failed to catch it. Olret glared at his retainer with almost the hatred he’d shown for the dog. Maedror bent to recover the staff and even halfway down the hall, we saw the fear in his face.