Silverglass s-1

by J F Rivkin

  Someone peered at her through the palings. “Lady…?”

  “Corson! Good, come in.” She hurried Corson inside and led the way upstairs.

  Corson sprawled on a couch without waiting for permission to sit. She knew that there was nothing Lady Nyctasia could do about her impertinence and she meant to take full advantage of her position. “Are you ready to go?” she asked curtly.

  Nyctasia paced the room restlessly. “I’ve been ready to leave for a long time.”

  “You know, if the gate sentries have guessed who you are, it may yet come to a fight. Are you of any use with that sword?” She eyed Nyctasia’s rapier doubtfully.

  “I’m not a professional murderer, of course, but I’ve trained with the best fencers at court.”

  Corson groaned. “Fencing! This isn’t a duel, Your Ladyship. I only hope your horses are as good as you claim. Our best chance is in surprise and speed.”

  “My stables have the fastest horses in the city,” she said proudly. “Most people don’t understand the principles of breeding. But it’s simply-”

  “Can you ride them?” Corson interrupted.

  “There are not many beside myself who can,” Nyctasia said with dignity.

  Corson looked glum. It was hard to picture the Lady Nyctasia doing anything more strenuous than plucking a harp. It would be so much simpler just to kill her and collect the blood money.

  Nyctasia leaned against he back of a chair and looked searchingly at Corson. “I hope you’ve no weakness for gambling. Your face betrays your every thought.”

  “I always lose,” Corson admitted. “And this looks to be a losing game as well.”

  She badly wanted a drink.

  “Maybe so. But you’ll find me a safer wager than Lady Mhairestri.”

  Wine and water had been set out, but Corson was wary of Lady Nyctasia’s hospitality. “We’ll just have to trust one another, then. Let’s drink a toast to that, shall we?” She poured out the wine and handed a cup to Nyctasia. “After you, my lady.”

  “I don’t drink spirits,” Nyctasia demurred.

  “Please. I insist,” said Corson grimly, her hand on her sword hilt.

  Nyctasia laughed. “Well, perhaps the occasion does warrant some special observation.” She raised her glass. “To the success of our venture.”

  Corson watched her swallow the wine before reaching for her own cup. “To trust and good faith,” she said.

  Nyctasia sat down across from her and drew out the unopened letter. As she broke the seal, she thought again of the unknown messenger, “Corson, did you pass anyone at the corner?”

  “No, but I saw Sandor crossing the thoroughfare. I don’t think he saw me.”

  “Sandor? He should be in Westgate Street by now.”

  “He was coming this way.”

  Nyctasia frowned. Something must be wrong. Her suspicions grew sharper-was Corson herself the danger? “I’ll go down to meet him.”

  “By yourself?”

  “He may want to speak to me alone.” She stood. “I’ll be back directly. We have to start out soon, it’s nearly midnight.”

  As soon as she heard Nyctasia leave the house, Corson hurried to the far wall and drew back the heavy draperies. Ever since she’d discovered the great mirror she’d been longing for another chance to study her reflection.

  Nyctasia could see Sandor lying in the street, not far from the gate. Pulling back the bolt at once she hastened to him, and knelt over the still form, searching for any sign of life-but the man was dead. Before she could rise she was seized roughly from behind and dragged into an alleyway, a knife at her throat.

  A second assailant stood before her, smiling, his sword ready. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you at such a loss for words, ’Tasia,” he said. “You needn’t feel abashed. It took me some time to find you out, though of course I never believed the rumors that you’d already fled the city. Rumors which you no doubt encouraged.”

  “I started them,” Nyctasia whispered. “But I can be gone by morning. Let me go and the family will never be troubled by me again, I swear it!”

  He laughed. “I intend to see that the family is not troubled further by you, my dear cousin. I’m well aware of your plans, but I’m afraid they’ll have to be altered. Think yourself fortunate that I found you before the Teiryns.”

  “Listen to me, Thierran-” Nyctasia began.

  “Don’t waste words with her!” the other man broke in, and Nyctasia recognized the voice of Mescrisdan, Lord Thierran’s brother. “She’ll keep us talking here

  ’til dawn. I say kill her and have done with it.” Suddenly he gasped, and Nyctasia felt his grip slacken. She broke free, dodging to the side, and saw him fall as Corson wrenched her broadsword from his back.

  Corson met the other man’s attack with cold precision. She turned aside his blade and followed through with a thrust that tore his arm to the bone. The sword dropped from his grasp and he made a frantic lunge to retrieve it, but Corson dealt him a sharp blow across the back of his neck with her free hand. As he fell to the ground Nyctasia snatched the sword from his reach.

  Dazed, he tried to crawl toward Nyctasia, his wounded arm hanging limp and useless. Corson kicked him onto his back, looming over him in the narrow alleyway. “No!” he cried. “Please-”

  “Corson, don’t!” gasped Nyctasia.

  Corson put up her sword. “Next time remember to guard against attack from the left hand,” she advised him. Her boot caught him under the jaw and he lay as still as his companion.

  They carried the bodies into the courtyard, and for the first time Corson could see that the two men who’d attacked Nyctasia were identical. “There have always been twins in my family,” Nyctasia said, noticing Corson’s stare.

  “Do you have a double, too?” Corson asked suspiciously. Perhaps this wasn’t the singer after all.

  “I’ve often wished I did-it might have been useful. But there won’t even be one of me if we’re not gone from here soon.”

  Nyctasia paused for a moment to look down at the still form of Thierran ar’n Edonaris. “He’s hated me ever since I refused to marry him,” she remarked.

  5

  At that hour of the night the streets were usually empty, save for noisy drunkards and silent thieves. Yet they soon realized that someone was following them on horseback.

  “Do you have any of your people behind us?” Corson asked.

  “Yes, but they’re on foot,” Nyctasia said worriedly.

  They passed a group of shouting roisterers, and Corson suddenly joined in the uproar, singing as loudly as any of them:

  “I once knew a soldier so skilled with his sword

  That they sued for his service, both lady and lord!”

  Nyctasia clutched at her arm. “Are you mad?!”

  “I’m being inconspicuous. Sober folk wouldn’t ride out this late.

  “I once knew a fisher so skilled with her net

  There was nary a fish that the wench couldn’t get!” she roared.

  Nyctasia had to acknowledge the sense in this. Silence might be suspect. She resigned herself to Corson’s performance.

  Without warning, a figure lunged at them from a nearby doorway, and they both reached for their weapons in alarm. “Get out of here, you sotted curs!” screamed a large man in a nightshirt. “Decent folk are trying to sleep!”

  “All right, we’ll go,” Corson said hastily, but he had already seen their half-drawn swords.

  “Threaten an unarmed citizen, will you, you vermin,” he shouted after them.

  “Warder! Arrest those cutthroats!”

  The rider behind them broke into a trot, and they realized that they’d been followed by an officer of the night watch. Nyctasia suddenly turned her horse and started back before Corson could stop her. “I’ll show you who’s vermin,” she muttered.

  Corson was aghast. She caught up with Nyctasia and grabbed her bridle. “What are you doing?!”

  “I’m being inconspicu
ous. Do you want the City Guard chasing us through the streets?”

  The watchman rode up to them. “What’s the matter here?”

  “We-” Corson began, but her horse suddenly swerved to the side and reared, as Nyctasia surreptitiously jabbed her spur into its flank.

  “Good evening, warder,” she said in her haughtiest tone. “I’m afraid my servant has had too much to drink,” She sounded bored and annoyed, and her bearing proclaimed her a personage of the highest station. It was too dark for him to see how poorly she was dressed, and she kept her face well back in her hood.

  “Ah, forgive me, Your Ladyship,” the guardsman said anxiously. “There was a complaint, but I’m sure…”

  “I’m not drunk,” Corson protested, swaying in her saddle.

  “Be still!” Nyctasia ordered. “I’ll see that she doesn’t bother anyone else, warder. I don’t recall the fine for causing a public disturbance, but I’m sure this will suffice.” She pressed a few heavy coins into his hand.

  He bowed. “Certainly-thank you, Your Ladyship. If you should require an escort

  …”

  “No need,” said Nyctasia indifferently. “I assure you she’ll be disciplined for this.” She turned away, leading Corson’s horse by the bridle.

  “Come along,” she snapped.

  Corson swayed again and leaned in closer to Nyctasia. “As soon as I have the chance, I’m going to slit your throat.”

  “Wits may be a sharper weapon than any sword,” said Nyctasia with a smug smile.

  As they approached the gate, Nyctasia hugged the wall, keeping to the shadow of the watchtower. She watched the quiet streets for signs of danger as Corson rode ahead to meet the sentry.

  Corson dismounted and handed the woman a pouch, then helped her to pull back the heavy bolts. They both pushed their weight against the gate, and the guard in the watchtower paid no heed as the portal slowly swung outward.

  Only then did Nyctasia emerge from the shadows and follow Corson through the narrow gap that opened onto a rough pasture track. By the time the gate had been shut behind them, they were halfway across the field.

  Looking over her shoulder, Corson was not surprised to see the bright flash of a lantern from the sentry tower. “Arm yourself!” she shouted to Nyctasia. “They’ve signaled someone-make for the forest!”

  Soon they heard hoofbeats behind them, echoing their own. But Nyctasia’s horses were all she’d claimed, and they’d put a good distance between themselves and their pursuers when a second band of riders broke from the cover of the forest just in front of them.

  “Ride that way,” Corson called, “divide them.” Nyctasia swerved to the right, spurring her mount to even greater efforts. Corson fell back, trying to draw the enemy after her, but two of them broke away and followed Nyctasia.

  For a time, Nyctasia led them a hard chase, but they were too close upon her to be outdistanced. The ground was uneven, broken by small hills and ravines-good grazing land but unsuited for galloping horses. Her mount plunged down a slope and easily leapt the swollen stream, but as it tried to scramble up the steep embankment on the other side, it could find no footing in the slippery mud. It slid back twice, then balked at a third attempt. Nyctasia had no time to urge it on before one of her pursuers was upon her.

  She turned to attack, but her blow glanced harmlessly off the other’s shield. He quickly thrust in beneath her upraised arm to pierce the light chain mail over her ribs. Doubling over with a cry, she fell from the saddle onto the soft mud of the bank and lay motionless as her horse nuzzled her shoulder, nickering softly.

  The man dismounted and approached her cautiously. Her sword lay unsought by her open hand, and he stepped firmly on the haft as he bent down to look at her.

  Nyctasia’s dagger lashed out wildly, barely scratching his hand, but a burning pain seared through his arm, leaving it numb. In moments, the poison reached his heart, and he was dead before he fell to the ground.

  Nyctasia dragged herself into the stream, hoping the cold water would slow her bleeding. On the crest of the slope above her, two riders clashed and she saw one of them knock the sword from the other’s grip. As the disarmed warrior turned to flee, Nyctasia raised herself on one elbow and screamed, “Corson! This way!”

  Corson hesitated, anxious to give chase, but instead she leapt from her horse and clambered down the embankment. Nyctasia struggled to rise, clutching at her side. She gave a hiss of pain as Corson grabbed her under the arm and pulled her upright.

  “Can you ride?” Corson demanded brusquely. Without waiting for an answer, she led over Nyctasia’s horse and helped her to mount. “No matter. Just keep your seat. I’m warning you. If you fall off, I’ll leave you behind.”

  Nyctasia leaned against the animal’s neck and moaned. “Vicious bitch,” she said faintly, but she held on as Corson seized the reins and led the way to level ground.

  They reached the forest unchallenged and rode in stony silence for some time before Nyctasia sat up and took the reins. “Corson, you must be a demon in battle. There were at least a score of swords after us-how many of them did you kill?”

  Corson considered. “It’s hard to say to a certainty, but not more than four, I should think.”

  “But what became of the rest?”

  “The sentry must have taken her story to both parties. Don’t you see?” Corson started to laugh. “The Teiryns and the Edonaris both had their henchmen waiting to waylay you-and when they met, they started warring between themselves.

  They’re so busy slaughtering each other back there that they’ve forgotten about us. Isn’t that funny?”

  “It is indeed,” said Nyctasia. But it hurt to laugh.

  6

  “hlann asye, but that hurts!” They had ridden till dawn, then made camp by a stream where Nyctasia was bathing her wounded side.

  “You were lucky. I thought it was worse than that.”

  “I’m known for my luck,” Nyctasia said with a grimace. She cut a strip of cloth from the hem of her shirt and bound the wound tightly, cursing like a peasant.

  Corson was surprised to hear her swear by the name of Asye, the deity of the common people. Most of the nobility and the educated considered the worship of Asye a vulgar superstition, and professed belief only in the Indwelling Spirit-the vahn.

  “You’re a follower of the Hlann?” Corson asked curiously. It was an old word meaning either “Lady” or “Lord,” but it was used now only for the androgynous Asye.

  The Lady Nyctasia looked embarrassed. “Oh, when I was younger, mainly to annoy my family. Oaths are just habit. Folk wouldn’t use the name of Asye so freely if they really believed.” As if to herself, she added, “and it’s not always those who swear by the vahn who believe in it.

  “But aren’t you hungry, Corson?” Nyctasia changed the subject deliberately.

  “‘Feed the flesh and the spirit thrives,’ you know.”

  This was one proverb with which Corson wholeheartedly agreed. Their saddlebags were packed with smoked meat, bread, dried fruit, and cheese. “I brought along a flask of wine for you, since you have such a taste for it,” Nyctasia said. “It’s in my satchel, there.”

  Corson pulled over the bag and rummaged through it impatiently, pushing aside some leatherbound books which were locked with clasps.

  “Be careful with those books! No, that’s ink-the other flask.” Corson uncorked the wine, but then hesitated. “It’s not poisoned,” laughed Nyctasia.

  “It might make me sleepy. I have to keep watch.”

  “Do you want me to drink some first?” Nyctasia asked provokingly.

  Scowling, Corson shoved the flask back into the satchel, dislodging the clasp on one of the books. To spite Nyctasia, she picked it up and opened it, but the writing baffled her. “This is gibberish!”

  “It’s Old Eswraine, a dead language-the mother tongue of the languages of the coastal countries. That’s why they’re all so much alike, and-” she paused in her explanation. “But
do you know how to read?”

  Corson was not insulted by the question. People of her station were rarely literate. “I traveled about with a student when I was first out of the army. We traded lessons in sword-play for lessons in letters, but I think I got the better of the bargain-he’d never have made a swordsman. I’ve never met a scholar yet who was good for anything much,” she added pointedly.

  “What a shame that you didn’t learn any manners while you were about it,”

  Nyctasia remarked with a yawn. She pillowed her head on a saddlebag and pulled her cloak over her. “Good night… if you still want to cut my throat, this is your chance.” She did not really expect to sleep, oppressed as she was with fear and uncertainty, but her weariness soon overcame her.

  She dreamt that Lady Mhairestri had sent for her. The matriarch had refused to see her for months, and Nyctasia was certain that at least one of the attempts on her life had been carried out at Mhairestri’s behest, yet she did not hesitate to obey the old woman’s summons. Though Nyctasia might defy her wishes, she would never show her the slightest disrespect.

  Lady Mhairestri rarely left her own apartments. She received Nyctasia in her bedchamber, seated stiffly upright by the fire, her face hard and forbidding.

  Nyctasia dropped to one knee before her and formally kissed her hand, but when she raised her head she found herself facing a stranger. This aged lady only resembled the matriarch.

  She looked down at Nyctasia kindly and said, “Truly it is remarkable, child. You could be one of my own daughters.”

  Bewildered and grateful, Nyctasia leaned her forehead against the old woman’s knee, “I wish that I could,” she said earnestly.

  “But you must not stay here. You are in danger.”

  Nyctasia realized suddenly that this was so. She had to get away at once, yet she did not rise. “You will give me your blessing. Mother, before I go?” she whispered, bowing her head again, humbly.

  The old woman touched Nyctasia’s hair lightly with one frail hand, murmuring a ceremonial phrase, then said, “Now you must be gone, child,” and pushed her away with surprising strength.