Traitor's Moon

by Lynn Flewelling

  “I’m guessing what we’re after is in here, if it still exists at all. Either way, we’re not getting our hands on it. This is held shut with magic.”

  “We should have brought Thero—” Alec broke off, hearing the sound of approaching footsteps. Hissing a quick warning, he ducked out of sight behind the door. Seregil rolled silently under the bed and Alec made a mental note; if he ever suspected intruders in Aurënen, that was the first place to look. Their unseen visitor paused a moment in the courtyard, then walked back the way he’d come.

  “So much for your Bash’wai protector,” Seregil complained, brushing dust from his coat as he emerged. “Not a whiff of ’em, eh?”

  “I’m afraid not. What do you suppose that means?”

  “Who knows, with the Bash’wai.”

  He moved to the sitting room off the bedchamber. After a few moments he emerged with a wrinkled sheet of parchment held triumphantly aloft. “This just might be of use,” he whispered, examining it with the lightstone. “It’s the beginning of a letter, but a large splotch of ink has spoiled the page after a few lines. He’s not so fastidious as I thought, to leave this lying about.”

  Alec craned his neck for a look. “That’s not Aurënfaie lettering.”

  “Plenimaran.” Seregil’s brows shot up as he scanned the first lines. “Well now, how small the world is sometimes. The salutation is to one ‘honored Raghar Ashnazai.’ ”

  “Ashnazai? Kin to Vargûl Ashnazai?”

  “Oh, yes. Plenimaran families are very close-knit, especially the powerful ones. Necromancers, spies, diplomats, influence peddlers; what a charming lot the Ashnazai must be around the supper table.”

  He replaced the parchment where he’d found it. “Well, it’s better than nothing. At least we know whom he’s dealing with. We’d better get back now. I imagine Thero’s running low on tricks. They do require a sense of humor, after all.”

  Returning to the central courtyard, they parted ways and entered by different doors.

  Apparently Seregil had been right about Thero, Alec thought, finding the wizard in conversation with a small group that included their host, Klia, and the khirnari of Khatme. Adzriel and Säaban were with them, too, and everyone looked decidedly tense. Lhaär ä Iriel was actually shaking a finger at Thero.

  “There you are,” Klia muttered as he stepped in beside her. “Poor Thero could do with a bit of support.”

  “But I’ve seen Aurënfaie themselves use magic for innocent entertainment,” the embattled wizard was saying. “I assure you, I meant no offense.”

  “Fools and children, perhaps,” Lhaär ä Iriel retorted sternly. “The power granted by Aura is a sacred thing, not to be toyed with.”

  “Is laughter not a gift of Aura, too, Lhaär ä Iriel?” Ulan í Sathil asked, coming to his guest’s defense.

  “Indeed, I’ve spent a good many rainy afternoons doing such tricks for the children of my own household,” Säaban added.

  Alec stifled a grin. “Dear me, Thero, whatever have you been up to?” The wizard pointedly ignored him.

  “Come now, this is my house and I declare no harm done,” Ulan said. “We must be tolerant of one another’s differences, must we not?”

  The Khatme gave him a dark look and glided away.

  Ulan winked at Thero. “Pay her no mind, Thero í Procepios. The Khatme are of a different mind on so many things. I am honored that you should exercise your talents for the benefit of my guests. I pray you do not let her harshness reflect insult on my house.”

  Thero bowed deeply. “If I have in any way repaid your magnanimous hospitality, Khirnari, then I am satisfied.”

  Alec remained with Thero as the rest of the group dispersed.

  “I was actually enjoying myself, until the Khatme took me to task,” Thero admitted. “You remember that trick Nysander had of making the wine jugs sing? I believe I carried it off rather well.” Pausing, he slipped Alec the hand sign for “any luck?”

  Alec nodded, then froze as the hint of a familiar scent tickled his nostrils.

  “What is it?” Thero asked.

  “I—I’m not certain.” The smell of the Bash’wai, if that is what it had been, was already gone. Alec turned, sniffing the air.

  “What are you doing?” Seregil asked with a bemused smirk, coming over to join them.

  “I thought I smelled it again, just for a second,” Alec murmured.

  “Smelled what?” asked Thero.

  “Some people see the Bash’wai. Alec claims to smell them,” Seregil explained.

  “It’s like a heavy perfume,” Alec said, still sniffing.

  “Really?” Thero glanced around. “I’d be hard put to pick out a ghost here, what with all the other aromas.”

  “It could have been a Ykarnan.” Seregil pointed out several people wearing black tunics and sea-green sen’gai. “They favor a very distinctive scent.”

  “You’re probably right,” Alec said. “Say, have any of you seen Lord Torsin? I expected him to be with Klia, but I don’t see any sign of him.”

  “He left,” Thero told him.

  “Left? How long ago?” Seregil asked.

  “It was just after you two went, I think.”

  “Seregil, Alec!” Klia called, waving to them over the heads of the crowd. “Our host has asked you to play.”

  Alec grinned. “Singing for our supper again? Just like old times.”

  29

  UNEXPECTED DEATH

  Klia and the rest of the hunting party were already at breakfast by the time Alec reached the kitchen the next morning. Braknil’s decuria had drawn the lucky straw, and Nyal was with them, chatting with Kheeta and Beka.

  Heeding Nazien’s advice, Klia had dressed in a military tunic and boots, a few Akhendi charms her only ornaments. Alec smiled to himself; in the soft light of the hearth, she looked like the carefree young soldier he’d first met beside a Cirna horse trader’s corral.

  “Have trouble finding your way out of bed again this morning, did you?” Beka chided good-naturedly, drawing a chuckle from a few of Braknil’s riders, presumably those who’d been on sentry duty two nights earlier.

  Alec ignored her, giving his full attention to a plate of bread and sausage one of the cooks handed him. He’d made certain the balcony door had been tightly shut last night.

  “You should eat, my lady,” Kheeta urged Klia, eyeing the barely touched plate balanced on her knee. “Old Nazien is likely to lead you halfway to Haman and back before dark.”

  “So I’ve been warned, but I’m afraid I haven’t the stomach for food just yet,” Klia replied, patting her belly ruefully. “It’s a sorry thing for a soldier to admit, but I must have drunk a bit past the point of wisdom last night. I still haven’t mastered the wines of your country.”

  “I thought you looked poorly,” said Beka. “Perhaps we should put off this hunt? I could send word to Nazien.”

  “It will take more than a sour stomach and sore head to make me miss this hunt,” Klia said, nibbling a slice of apple without much enthusiasm. “Nazien is as good as won over, I’m certain of it. Time’s running short and this day can buy us more goodwill than a week’s debating.”

  She reached out and ran a finger through the collection of shatta dangling from Alec’s quiver. “You’ve gamed with them, Alec. What do you say? Which will gain us the greatest favor: shooting very well or very poorly?”

  “If we were at Rhíminee, I’d say the latter, my lady. Here, though, I’d say a show of skill is best.”

  “That would be best, if you want Nazien’s respect,” Nyal concurred.

  Alec paused, considering his next question. “Are you sure it’s wise for me to go? The Haman have made it clear that they don’t like me any more than they do Seregil, and I wouldn’t want to get in your way if you think they’re coming around.”

  “Leave that to me,” she replied. “You’re a member of this delegation and a friend. Let them accommodate me for a change.”

  “You’re a
lso our best hunter,” Beka added with a wink. “Let Emiel and his friends chew that one over!”

  “How is Lord Torsin feeling this morning?” asked Nyal.

  “Still asleep, I think,” Klia replied. “I’ve ordered the servants not to disturb him. It’s just as well, really. Another day’s rest will do the poor fellow good.”

  Kheeta finished his meal and left, returning a short while later with news of the Hamans’ arrival.

  “Is Emiel í Moranthi with the khirnari today?” asked Klia.

  “Yes, along with a dozen or so of his supporters,” Kheeta told her. “But Nazien has brought along a number of older kin, too.”

  Klia exchanged a bemused glance with Beka and Alec. “Shoot well, my friends, and smile nicely.”

  Nazien í Hari and a score of Haman awaited them on horseback in the street. Their black-and-yellow sen’gai looked fiercely vivid against the hazy morning sky, like the warning colors of a hornet. All carried bows, javelins, and swords. The quivers of the young bloods of Emiel’s faction were heavy with shatta.

  We’re outnumbered, Alec noted uneasily, wondering what Klia thought of this reception. A glance in Beka’s direction told him she was having similar misgivings.

  But Klia strode up to Nazien and clasped hands warmly with him.

  Emiel sat his horse in a place of honor just behind his uncle, his expression carefully neutral. For the moment, at least, he seemed content to ignore Alec’s presence.

  Suits me fine, you arrogant bastard, just so long as you mind your manners, he thought, watching suspiciously as Emiel offered Klia his hand.

  They were about to mount when the khirnari of Akhendi and several kinsmen came into view down the street, out for an early stroll. Amali was with him.

  “Looks like the morning sickness is still with her,” Beka remarked. “She’s looking wan.”

  “It appears you’ll have a pleasant day,” Rhaish í Arlisandin called out, coming to greet Klia and the others. “I trust you rested well, Klia ä Idrilain?”

  “Well enough,” Klia replied, looking at Amali with concern. “You’re the one who looks weary, my dear. What brings you out at this hour?”

  Amali clasped Klia’s hands, smiling. “Oh, I wake with the sun these days, and it’s such a pleasant time to be out.” She cast a quick glance in the Haman’s direction. “I trust you’ll take care today. The hills can be dangerous—for those not used to them.”

  Nazien bristled noticeably. “I’m sure we will keep her safe.”

  “Of course you will,” Rhaish agreed coolly. “Good hunting to you all.”

  A warning, perhaps? wondered Alec, listening to this odd exchange of pleasantries.

  The Akhendi continued on their way, but he saw Amali cast one final look back.

  Bôkthersan servants brought out horses for Klia and her party. Once mounted, Alec found his position of rank threw him in next to Emiel. There was no avoiding him, it seemed. Emiel soon proved him right.

  “Your companion is not joining us?” he asked.

  “I think you know the answer to that already,” Alec replied coldly.

  “Just as well. He was never any hand with a bow. Blades, though—now that was another matter.”

  Alec forced a smile. “You’re right. He’s an able teacher, too. Perhaps you’d like to cross swords with me sometime in a friendly contest?”

  The Haman’s smirk widened. “I’d welcome the opportunity.”

  Nyal sidled his horse closer. “Even practice bouts are forbidden in the city. They fall under the proscription against violence.” He gave the Haman a pointed look. “You of all people should know that.”

  Emiel reined his horse sharply away, followed by his companions.

  Nyal watched them with evident amusement. “Touchy fellow, isn’t he?”

  Watching from an upstairs window, Seregil counted sen’gai unhappily. He hadn’t liked the idea in the first place, and liked it even less seeing how outnumbered the Skalans were. Klia appeared unconcerned, laughing with Nazien and praising the horses.

  You see it, too, don’t you, talí? he thought, reading even at a distance Alec’s attitude of quiet watchfulness.

  The day ahead of him suddenly loomed very long indeed.

  When the hunting party had ridden off at last, Seregil headed down to the bath chamber and found he had the place to himself.

  “Shall I prepare a bath for you?” Olmis asked, rising from a stool in the corner.

  “Yes, and as hot as you can make it.” Keeping his still fading bruises secret had meant doing without proper baths for days. This man already knew his guilty secret, and had kept it, too.

  Stripping down, Seregil slid into the hot, fragrant water and let it lull him as he floated limply just beneath the surface.

  “You’re looking much better this morning,” Olmis observed, bringing him a rough sponge and soap.

  “I’m feeling much better,” Seregil said, wondering if he dared take the time for a proper massage. Before he could make up his mind, however, Thero rushed in. The normally fastidious wizard was unshaven and uncombed, his coat buttoned awry.

  “Seregil, I need your help at once!” he said in Skalan, stopping just inside the doorway. “Lord Torsin has been found dead.”

  “Found?” Splashing up out of the tub, Seregil reached for a towel. “Found where?”

  Thero’s eyes widened perceptibly at the sight of Seregil’s battered body, but thankfully he let it pass for the moment. “At the Vhadäsoori. Some Bry’khans—”

  “By the Light!” Seregil hissed. The last thing Klia or the negotiations needed was another death. “Does anyone know when he went out this morning?”

  “I haven’t had time to ask.”

  Seregil tugged on his breeches and boots, hopping awkwardly from one foot to the other in his haste. “Tell whoever found him that he’s not to be moved!”

  “Too late for that, I’m afraid. The woman who brought the news says her kinsmen are already on their way with the body. They should be here any time now.”

  “Bilairy’s Balls!” Seregil threw on his coat and followed.

  The sound of raised voices guided them to the main hall. A middle-aged Bry’khan woman and two youths had just arrived, carrying a cloak-shrouded body on a shutter. The contorted angles beneath the makeshift pall already suggested that Torsin had not died peacefully. Escorted by Sergeant Rhylin and four riders, they set their makeshift litter down in the center of the room. The woman introduced herself as Alia ä Makinia. The young men with her were her sons.

  “I found this beside him,” one of the boys said, handing Seregil a bloody handkerchief.

  “Thank you. Sergeant Rhylin, post a guard at the doors outside and send someone to inform my sisters of what’s happened.” He turned back to the Bry’khans. “The rest of you stay a moment, please.”

  A welcome sense of detachment settled over Seregil as he knelt by the litter, the body already reduced in his mind to a puzzle to be solved.

  Drawing back the cloak, he found Torsin lying on his back, knees drawn up and twisted to the left. His right arm was extended stiffly above his head, the splayed hand white and swollen beneath a thin layer of drying mud. The left hand was clenched tightly against his chest. The robe was the same one Torsin had worn the night before, but soiled and damp now. Bits of dead grass were tangled in the old man’s hair and in the links of his heavy gold chain.

  Someone had tied a cloth around the dead man’s face. Black blood had soaked through it by the mouth. More blood had dried on the front of his coat and the back of the fist clutched awkwardly to his chest.

  “By the Light, his throat’s been cut!” Thero exclaimed.

  Seregil probed beneath the jaw pressed rigidly to the chest. “No, his neck’s sound.”

  He pulled the cloth from the dead man’s face, certainty already taking shape in his mind. The lips, chin, and beard were streaked with dried blood and flecked with bits of dead grass and mud. Death had cruelly transformed the
dignified features, and insects had been busy in the open eyes and between the parted lips. The left side of the head had turned a mottled purple and was peppered with small indentations. The rest of the face and neck were a leaden hue.

  Thero caught his breath sharply and made a warding sign.

  “There’s no need for that,” Seregil told him. He’d seen more corpses than he cared to recall and knew the marks of death like an alphabet. He pressed a fingertip into the livid cheek and released it. “This side of his head rested against the ground. It’s the settling of the blood after death that discolors the skin this way. See here, on the undersides of his arms and neck?” He pressed the darkened skin again, noting that it didn’t blanch beneath his fingers. “He’s been dead since last night.”

  He looked up at the Bry’khans again. “When you found him, he was lying on his face at the water’s edge, wasn’t he? With this hand outstretched in the water, the other curled under him?”

  The Bry’khans exchanged startled looks. “Yes,” Alia replied. “We went to the Vhadäsoori for blessing water this morning and found him lying just as you said. How did you know?”

  Preoccupied, Seregil ignored the question. “Where was the Cup?”

  “On the ground beside him. He must have dropped it while drinking.” She made a blessing sign over the dead man. “We treated him with all respect and said the words of passing over him.”

  “You and your kin have my gratitude, Alia ä Makinia, and that of the princess,” Seregil said, wishing they’d left Torsin where he lay. “Did you find anything else near the body?”

  “Just the cloth.”

  “Where is the Cup now?”

  The older boy shrugged. “I put it back on the stone.”

  “Go and fetch it at once!” Seregil ordered sharply. “Better yet, carry it to Brythir í Nien of Silmai and explain what has happened. Tell the khirnari I fear poison.”