Her gaze remained focused on the roof of the warehouse. "According to my sources, the mask was taken from an ancient Illthori temple in the Red Desert." She paused, glancing at him, a gleam in her dark eyes. "They say anyone who wears the mask can control the weather, dispel storms—or even cause them."
Bors snorted. "Please."
She shrugged then turned her attention back to the other building. "Believe what you will, but know that many do think it true, powerful men who will kill to possess it." She reached out and squeezed his forearm. "There, do you see it?" She pointed across the roof with the crossbow.
"See what?" Bors saw nothing but broken tiles and decades of bird shit.
She sighed. "A trip wire running at ankle height from the weather vane to the corner."
Again, he saw nothing. "I'll take your word for it."
"How are you still alive?"
"I'm good at hitting people. So what does it do?"
"I have no idea. Set off an alarm, kill us … nothing we want to see."
"So we avoid it?"
"What a wonderful idea."
"We still need to find a way across."
"Hold this," she said handing him the loaded crossbow before turning and scampering up the sloped tiles of the tannery. She moved quickly and silently, without disturbing a single tile as she made her way to the stone chimney at the summit. Bors shook his head, marveling at her agility. What a scout she'd make. Holding onto the chimney for balance, she reached into it and withdrew a long metal pole at least ten feet in length and as wide as his thumb. Balancing the pole across her shoulders, she scurried back down to him, flashing him another smile. She had known it would be there. It was becoming clear he was far out of his depths among these people.
She slowly extended the pole, resting it upon the lip of the other roof. He stared suspiciously at it. He was a soldier, not a thief, and probably twice her weight. Would it be strong enough to support him? Taking his chances with Dar was starting to look better—until he remembered the Iscari Cradle.
Without another word, she took the crossbow back and danced out upon the pole, which sagged slightly under her weight. In moments, she reached the other side, where she dropped down on a knee, the stock of the crossbow in her shoulder as she scanned the rooftop, looking for threats. The only sound was the rustling of dried leaves blown about by a hot dry wind. Apparently satisfied, she met Bors's eye and nodded.
He ground his teeth as he stared at the pole and the street below. What am I doing here? Placing a foot upon the pole, he slowly transferred his weight onto it. As expected, it sagged, and it took all of his willpower to remain where he was and not scurry back onto the ledge. Long Tam stared at him in puzzlement, as if he had just decided to remove his clothing and dance naked in the street. Frowning at him, she motioned for him to hurry. Once, a lifetime ago, he had seen a travelling circus in the capital with its acrobats and wirewalkers. He tried to mimic how they had performed before the crowd, extending his arms to the side for balance. He took a step and then another. The pole bobbed under his weight, sending a queasy feeling through his gut, but he focused on Long Tam's face, moving fast, practically running the last few steps. He landed heavily beside her, beaming at her. "I made it," he whispered, only half believing it.
She shook her head.
"Well, I did."
She led him around the warehouse's ledge, in the opposite direction of the trip wire she had pointed out earlier, which Bors now finally saw for himself. Then, she pointed out a second trip wire, and they both carefully stepped over it before stopping before a shuttered window. Once again, she handed him the crossbow and peered through the crack of the shutters. "There's a lock on the other side," she whispered. "That's new."
"Do you want me to break it?"
She rolled her eyes at him and then bent closer to the wooden shutters, placing her palms against the wooden boards and closing her eyes. Her lips moved, and her fingers flexed, with several opening and closing. The language in which she whispered was foreign to him, with an odd musical cadence. The hairs on the back of his neck stiffened.
What—
He heard a crack, followed by a soft clunk as something metallic fell on the other side of the window. Long Tam pulled the shutters open, exposing a storeroom. She retrieved her crossbow from him and darted inside.
Bors followed, seeing the two pieces of the broken lock lying on the dust-covered wooden floor. "What are you?" he asked, fearing her for the first time.
"Oh, grip your manhood. That was nothing more than a cantrip, barely magic at all. Most of my mother's teachings didn't stick with me, but some things even I remember."
"Don’t do that again!"
Sniffing, she moved away, crossing the room to place an ear against the closed door. With the gray dawn light through the opened window, even Bors managed to avoid stumbling into the wooden boxes and barrels inside the storeroom. He stared at the back of Long Tam's head as she carefully edged the door open and peered through the crack. Magic? Matron help me, what have I gotten myself mixed up with?
She slipped out the door, and Bors followed, pulling his fighting axe from his belt. A wooden hallway cloaked in darkness led to a set of stairs leading down. Long Tam crept down the steps, with Bors just behind her. The stairs came out into the main warehouse, where stacks of boxes and barrels, and half-loaded wagons sat about, seemingly without any order. For a charity kitchen, it was surprisingly quiet at this time of morning, when it should be bustling with cooks and volunteers. Nor, now that he thought about it, had he seen any beggars waiting outside. Long Tam had been correct: this was a front.
She grabbed his arm, pulling him down with her behind a stack of boxes that reeked of old potatoes. Moments later, a sentry stepped out from the shadows and sauntered toward them, a hack-sword resting atop his shoulder. Bors held his breath, remaining silent behind the boxes. The sentry paused for a moment but then moved on, now softly whistling to himself. Long Tam rose and raised the crossbow to her shoulder, but Bors pushed it aside and shook his head. She glared at him, clearly frustrated by his stupidity, but he ignored her, moving in a crouch on the outer edges of his feet. Despite his stealth, he must have made a noise, or perhaps the man simply sensed something, because just as Bors reached him, he spun about, his eyes widening. Bors kneed him in the balls and then cracked him in the back of the head with his axe handle—hard enough to put him to sleep without shattering his skull. He caught him and dragged him behind the boxes where Long Tam waited, displeasure wafting from her like heat.
She could be unhappy if she chose, but Bors didn't kill needlessly, not anymore.
Long Tam then led him around the base of the warehouse to another set of wooden steps leading up to what had the look of offices. At the top of the landing, light shone through the closed crack of a wooden door. Long Tam paused before the stairs and then whispered into his ear. "Walk only where I place my feet. Sly Tor will have a secret way out. We can't give him the chance to take it."
Bors nodded.
Long Tam slipped up the stairs.
11
Sly Tor paced within his office, a cup of tea in his hand. Fast Bran, his cheek freshly stitched with catgut, sat nearby, holding a blood-soaked rag against his shattered front teeth. The man was lucky he still lived. How could he have messed up so badly? Perhaps Sly Tor needed to make some further changes in his organization.
While much had gone according to plan this night, with three of the five guild masters already dead, the single most important death had eluded them—Long Tam. Someone had saved her, a new player in this bloody game, and Sly Tor didn't like new players. Still, her power had been shattered, her supporters dead or in hiding. Sly Tor would soon rule undisputed in an all-new Shadow Guild.
"'ell runn," Fast Bran mumbled. "Shesh no 'hoice."
Sly Tor glared at him, shaking his head.
Fast Bran looked away, wincing in pain.
Sly Tor sipped the last of his tea and then gazed into t
he dregs. His mother had been a fortune reader who could read the residue of tea. What would she say if she saw his cup? "When the sun rises, I want you to spread the word. Tell those in hiding that if they present themselves to me and swear allegiance, I will spare them. Say there's been enough blood spilled, and I'd have peace."
"'ill uu?"
Sly Tor sighed. "No, of course—"
The door to his office opened, and Long Tam slipped inside, a crossbow raised to her shoulder. Behind her, a dark-haired, bearded man with a fighting axe followed. Sly Tor's breath caught in his throat, and he hesitated. Before Fast Bran could even sit forward, Long Tam released her bolt, and it slammed into his enforcer's face, just above his nose, punching through the back of his skull and coating the painting on the wall behind him with his brains. Fast Bran and his chair fell backward onto the floor.
Sly Tor stumbled back, his fingers reaching for the knife on his belt, but the bearded man, a foreigner by his looks, swept forward, his axe held ready to strike. "Don't do it," the man warned.
Sly Tor showed him his palms.
"Not so fast after all," said Long Tam, dropping the crossbow atop Fast Bran's still-twitching corpse before drifting over to Sly Tor to glance at the teacup in his hand. "Is there more tea?"
His heart thudding painfully, Sly Tor smiled and forced calm into his voice. He motioned toward the pot on his desk. "Help yourself."
"Thank you." She poured herself a cup and then sat upon the edge of his desk, sipping it and watching him with those damned strange eyes of hers.
How did this all go wrong so quickly?
Sly Tor assessed the man with the axe. He had a soldier's shoulders and posture, definitely a foreigner, probably from Lyr. The Red Guard had been looking all day for such a man, believing him involved in the raid upon the ship last night. "Who's your friend?"
"Master Sly Tor," said Long Tam. "Meet Bors. Bors is from Lyr. I’m embarrassed to admit, I don't know a great deal about him at all, but I do know he's good at hitting people and rescuing damsels in distress."
Sly Tor snorted. "Whatever she's told you, she's playing you. She only looks beautiful."
Long Tam's smile grew wide. "You think me beautiful?"
"Only on the outside, witch," Sly Tor hissed.
"Now you're just being mean." Her smile vanished. "And rude."
The man, Bors, frowned at her and then stepped closer to Sly Tor. "Where is the Mask of Storms? Tell me, and I'll spare your life."
Sly Tor's eyes darted to Long Tam, but she pointedly looked away, sipping her tea.
"I give you my word," Bors insisted. "All I want is the mask. You can flee the city."
Now, Long Tam met Sly Tor's gaze, a trace of a smile on her lips. "Yes, Master Sly Tor, give us the mask, and you can run away with your life … I promise." The witch's eyes practically glowed with amusement.
"Look. I underestimated you. I see that now. But don't be hasty. Consider the business opportunity before us, just you and me now. We can run the guild by ourselves. Think of the silver."
"I am. I'm also thinking of all the young girls you've put in chains over the years and turned into whores."
"Don't be naïve! It's always been like this. It will always be like this. You think it'll be any different without me? You'll do the same."
"Enough of this!" said Bors. "The mask!"
Sly Tor, feeling the certainty of his death, rounded on the foreigner, his anger growing. "The Mask of Storms? What stupidity! Kamanth Kul, First Councilor Davros, now you? It's nothing but—"
He paused, mid-word, as Long Tam pushed herself onto her feet and wordlessly swept up against him, gripping the back of his neck with one hand and pulling his face toward hers. She kissed him hard, her lips pushing against his. Sudden pain erupted from his chest, as if a fire burned in his heart. Staggering back, he now saw the small bloody knife in her hand. "Desert … witch," he managed to gasp as his legs gave out beneath him and he fell to the floor, his vision already growing dim.
"That's it? No clever last words, Master Sly Tor?" she asked.
The last thing he saw was her boots.
12
"Damn it, woman." Bors's anger flared as he yanked her back by the arm and knelt beside Sly Tor. A moment's glance was enough to see her blade had pierced his heart and Sly Tor was already dead.
"Was I unclear as to our intent this night?" she said from behind him. "We came to kill him, remember?"
"I need the mask," he said through gritted teeth, rising to his feet and glaring at her. "Without it, I'm dead."
"I told you, I'll get you out of the city. In a week or so, this will all be—"
"I don't have a week," he snapped.
"Oh for the love of Lintara's tears." She turned away and approached a tapestry behind the desk showing a storm savaging ships at sea. Gripping the tapestry, she pulled it free of the wall, exposing the wooden paneling behind it.
He moved closer, staring in confusion as she began to tap the paneling with the hilt of her knife. "A secret compartment?"
"Of course he has a hidden compartment," she answered. Then, as she moved over the wall, the tapping abruptly sounded different. She looked over her shoulder and winked. "The man has no imagination."
"Had," Bors said, his anger gone.
She thrust the point of her knife into a seam so narrow his eyes almost passed over it. She applied pressure with her blade, exposing a small hidden cover, a door a foot long and half as wide. "On the other hand," she said softly, peering at the crack, "he was crafty. Move to your right." Bors did as she directed, and with her knife still wedged into the crack, she closed her eyes and began to chant again, the fingers of her free hand making bizarre gestures.
Once again, Bors felt an eerie presence in the air. "I don't like this sorcery."
"Shh," she said. A moment later, a hidden lock broke, and the compartment popped open, and a shape hissed and lashed out from the hidden space. Long Tam's hand snapped out, catching a writhing purple-and-gold snake, less than half a foot long and thinner than her finger. She held the snake behind its head as its writhing body tried to wrap itself around her forearm. It hissed again, baring its tiny fangs, but could do nothing. "Well, look at you," she purred, bringing her lips close to the snake.
"Is it venomous?"
She raised an eyebrow. "It’s a Crimson Nitebiter. A single dose from this little darling will kill a bull within five heartbeats."
With her thumb against the back of the snake's head, she snapped its neck and then let it fall to the floor, where it coiled and uncoiled in its death spasms. She peered into the compartment while Bors stared at the still-moving snake.
"I thought so," she whispered, pulling out a dark glass vial. A liquid the consistency of honey coated the insides of the glass.
"What is it?"
"Venom. Harvested from our little friend, probably over a period of many months." She nudged the writhing body of the Nitebiter with her booted toe.
"Why?"
She cocked her head, regarding him with those large violet eyes. "What a peaceful kingdom Lyr must be."
"Hardly," he said. "Put it back."
"Why?"
"Because we didn't come here to find poison so you can kill more men."
She glared at him but slammed the bottle back within the secret compartment, muttering to herself about waste.
He ignored her. "The mask?"
"Well, well," she said as she drew out more items. One was a small leather pouch that clinked when she hefted it in her palm. "About thirty-five to forty gold eagles," she judged. "Enough to keep me in pretty silks and even prettier men for some time." Her lips turned down in a fake pout. "Unless you want me to put this back as well?"
He shook his head in exasperation. "The mask."
The leather sack disappeared under her cloak as she rummaged through the contents of the compartment. She then withdrew a large silver armband, secured with a swinging hasp. Without a word, she slipped it over his bicep and
snapped it closed. It fit snugly and was no doubt worth more than he'd earn in a year on the docks. "Gaudy, but on you it's appropriate."
Bors trailed his fingers over the armband, an unbidden memory flashing before his eyes.
"Ha!" she exclaimed, pulling out the same cloth-bound item that Fast Bran had taken from her. "I knew he'd keep it close. Sly Tor had trust issues."
"The mask?" Bors asked, forgetting the armband.
She tossed it to him nonchalantly. "You can bring it to the Night Commander if you wish, but I wouldn't. He'll betray you."
He pulled the edge of the cloth back, revealing a white porcelain mask of a humanlike face but one with feline features. Had the Illthori truly crafted this?
They both spun about and stared at the door as they heard the sound of pounding heavy footsteps running up the wooden stairs. An abrupt crack of wood splintering resonated through the night, followed by an unearthly shriek of rage and pain.
Walk only where I place my feet, Long Tam had told him, the meaning clear: one of the stairs had been trapped—and someone had just set that trap off.
The cry of pain, though, came from no man.
Long Tam stared at Bors, her eyes wide, and he shoved the mask back into her hands before moving in front of her, his axe held ready in the ox position, the head near his ear. A nightmare burst through the door, literally ripping its frame to splinters as it exploded into the office, and the monstrously large demon shuddered to a halt before them, shaking bits of wood and plaster from its massive shoulders. It stood upright like a man, with two long arms ending in pincers and misshapen legs. A monstrous blending of man and insect, it swayed before them, with a far-too-wide torso wearing plates of iron armor. No, Bors realized in horror, the armor pieces were melded directly to the demon's pale-white flesh—like an insect's shell. A foot-long horn sat atop its bald head, a head entirely missing a neck. Two antennae, at least two feet long, swayed on either side of the horn. The demon glared at them with a single bulbous eye the size of a man's fist. Its other eye was pale white and split in two by a scar. A large open maw, filled with salivating mandibles, clicked grotesquely. Just for a moment, Bors saw a flash of human recognition in its single eye—replaced immediately by hatred.
The Mask of Storms (Blood and Honor Book 1) Page 7