The Sapphire Crescent soa-1

by Thomas M. Reid

  When the trio of guests drew close enough, Xaphira darted out of the protection of the undergrowth, as though she was fleeing from something behind her. She paused for a moment, staring back, waiting for the guests to take note of her.

  "Hey there!" the man in the group called as both of the women gasped. "You're quite a frightful little spook," he added, laughing, the women joining in.

  Xaphira whirled to face them, letting a low snarl escape her. She raised the crossbow and fired, aiming low, right at the wide skirts of the first woman, the one who had originally been calling for Rodolpho. She squeezed the release on the weapon and felt it jerk as the bolt jumped free. The missile whistled through the air, slicing through the expensive dress, and struck the trunk of a large pear tree behind her with a loud and solid thunk. The woman gasped again.

  "Beware!" the other woman cried out, realizing Xaphira was truly threatening them. "He means to strike us down!"

  With those words, the woman stumbled backward, trying to flee from the would-be assassin. Beside her, the man and the woman with the ruined dress stared in confusion for a heartbeat, then they, too, began to retreat, shouting for help in frantic voices. Xaphira made a defiant gesture at the three of them, then turned and sprinted away, working to reload the crossbow as she did so.

  That ought to draw everyone's attention, the mercenary officer thought. Now to see if I can get over the walls before the cry is raised in full.

  For a moment, Xaphira allowed herself to think of Vambran, of her family. She prayed to Waukeen that her actions would be enough to draw the attention from them. She hoped that Dregaul would be clever enough to conceal their involvement, to tidy up the loose ends. And she began to doubt the wisdom of her decision, wondering if she had been rash.

  Too late to change my mind now, she realized grimly. Farewell, Vambran, she thought, sending her thoughts out to her nephew. Do good in the world.

  Xaphira dashed around the edge of the pond toward the opposite side, leaving behind the frantic calls for aid, hoping that the moonlight was bright enough for the trio she had threatened to see which way she had fled without making it impossible to hide later. She tore through blooming plants and shoved her way past tendrils of hanging vines, all of which soaked her billowy white shirt and gray trousers with moisture. She was thankful she was not wearing the breastplate then, for it would not only have been cumbersome for such light-footed work, it also would have made her even more miserably hot than she was at the moment. Even without it, she was soon gasping for breath, almost choking on the warm, cloying air. Finally, she broke clear of the dense undergrowth and was running through the orchard itself. The woman turned directly toward the perimeter of the palace grounds, then, sprinting between two rows of tall peach trees, ducking low to avoid the occasional dipping branch.

  As she neared a wall, Xaphira spied a way to get to the top. As she approached, she did not slow down much, but instead slung the crossbow across her back. Reaching the wall, she redirected her momentum upward, planting her feet against the stone and jumping at the same time. As she rose high off the ground, she spun in the air, turning back toward the nearest tree. A single thick limb jutted out from its trunk, parallel to the ground, and it was that branch that Xaphira hoped to grasp. The leap seemed to go on forever, her fingers outstretched desperately as she drifted toward the limb.

  She had given herself just enough of a push to reach the branch, and once she had a hold of it, it was a simple matter to swing her legs back and forth a couple of times until she could fully flip over and get her weight on top of it. Xaphira was just struggling to her feet when the first of the palace guards began to arrive. The mercenary officer knew that, even in the thick, concealing leaves of the tree, her white shirt was too easily seen in the moonlight. She dared not slow her ascent and look back down. She frantically climbed higher in the tree as a crossbow bolt sliced through leaves near her shoulder, working her way toward another limb that might be close enough to the top of the wall.

  A second and a third palace guard arrived, and each of them began to fire missiles at her, even though she was difficult to see. She wasn't bothering much with stealth, so perhaps they were tracking her by the sounds of rustling leaves.

  The mercenary officer swallowed hard and flinched as a bolt struck the trunk of the tree near her head, showering her with splinters of bark. Thankful that the sash wrapped around her head protected her from the stinging chunks of wood, she eyed her jump. It didn't seem terribly far, but then again, if she missed, it was a long way down, and the fall would drop her into a hornet's nest of guards, too. Mentally urging herself on, Xaphira took three quick but careful steps along the branch, propelling herself forward toward the wall and thrusting her arms out slightly to each side to try to keep her balance. As the branch began to sag under her weight, she took one additional step, practically running, and leaped again, lunging up and forward.

  She ignored the scratching of leaves and branches along her face as she dived out into space, reaching forward toward the edge of the wall, where a walkway traversed its length. She heard the sound of another crossbow firing, felt the bolt zip past her ribs, rustling the cloth of her shirt, but she steadfastly kept her attention on the edge of the walkway. Her hands hooked over the edge of the stone and held tight as she slammed against the wall with a grunt.

  "He's getting away!" one of the soldiers called from below. "Shoot him! Shoot him, damn you!"

  "To the wall, to the wall!" another guard shouted.

  Gasping for breath, Xaphira smiled slightly to herself, glad that her pursuers still mistook her for a man. Her deception was intact, at least for the moment. Deftly, she began to swing her legs side to side. After three or four times, she had enough momentum that she was able to get a leg up and over the side of the walkway. From there, she quickly pulled herself up the rest of the way and rolled out of sight, just as two more crossbow bolts clacked against the stone wall where she had been.

  Xaphira lay on her back, taking two or three deep breaths to regain some of her endurance, but she could not tarry. Already, she could see more soldiers coming at her along the walkway, having gained the top from farther along its length. Never hesitating, she arose to her feet once more and peered over the far side of the wall.

  It was a long drop, longer than the side Xaphira had ascended, but that did not stop her. Swiftly, the mercenary officer swung herself out over the edge, just as another shot was fired at her, whistling past her head and into the night. Holding firmly to the parapet top, she dropped out of sight and hung there, stopping her momentum for a heartbeat. Then she let go and dropped the rest of the way down to the soft ground below, using her hands and feet against the wall to slow her fall a bit.

  The woman was on her feet and running almost instantly after touching down, looking back only once to spot soldiers converge on the point where she had eluded them.

  Xaphira had thought that, once she had escaped the confines of the Generon, she would have been able to disappear into the city. But it was not the case. Somehow, the patrols all throughout Arrabar knew to look for her, and the easy stroll she had expected turned into a desperate flight. She had at first thought to return to the Matrell estate, to perhaps gather a few things before vanishing, but it quickly became apparent to the woman that she would be lucky to reach the docks unscathed.

  About two streets from the quay, that luck ran out. Xaphira was half walking, half jogging along one of the streets toward the docks, ducking from shadow to shadow, when a patrol appeared suddenly from around a corner just ahead of her. The four soldiers were surprised for a heartbeat longer than she, which gave her the chance to react.

  Spinning on one foot, she lashed out with her other boot at the closest soldier, raking her heel across the side of his jaw and snapping his face sharply to the side. At the same time, Xaphira reached out and grabbed the soldier's weapon arm, which was just bringing a slender short sword up and into play. Using her own torque from the kick and lever
ing her hip underneath the soldier's, the mercenary officer drew the young watchman forward, between herself and the other soldiers. The move prevented two other guards from attacking, as they had leaped forward to cut at her with their own blades, pulling up short at the last possible moment to avoid striking at their mate. Xaphira continued the throw, flipping her off-balance soldier completely around and away, but before she released him, she yanked his blade free of his grasp and sent it flying across the street with a clatter. The watchman tumbled to the street several feet away, grunting in pain. She ignored him and pivoted back around to face the other three adversaries.

  The fourth member of the group, who had not yet engaged Xaphira, fired a crossbow at her from perhaps ten paces away. She shifted her weight reflexively and slashed out with her hand, slapping the bolt aside just enough to redirect it past her hip. The remaining two watchmen who had been forced to pull their attacks short before fanned out and dropped into defensive crouches, waiting to see what she would do. Xaphira did not hesitate, for she wanted to flee, not fight. Before the soldiers could maneuver around to surround her, the mercenary officer feinted a punch at one then spun and kicked low toward a second foe.

  The first target flinched back, but the second one, thinking his quarry was turning her back on him, stepped in too confidently. He barely managed to hop over her kick when she suddenly shifted her weight over and brought her other foot up and back around toward him. The heel of her boot raked inches from his nose and he stumbled back, scowling. With him out of range, the woman darted in close to the last of the four, making several quick jabs and kicks designed to drive him back a step or two, while at the same time she rotated her position around him, placing him between herself and the last remaining threat. Then she darted in quickly, striking at the flat of his weapon with her palm open and snapping his blade free of his hand. At the same moment, Xaphira went low with a sweeping kick and hooked his heel, tripping him.

  With a second soldier down, Xaphira ran forward, leaping high over his prone form and at the crossbow-man standing a bit farther back, who had just reloaded and was about to fire again. Before he could get the weapon up and aimed properly, Xaphira planted her right foot squarely into his chest and kicked off of him, sending him skidding backward several feet and reversing her own direction in the process. The woman used her momentum to spin and kick at the only soldier still standing, snapping the instep of her left foot into his ribs. He flinched sideways and crumpled to the ground, moaning.

  Xaphira landed on her feet and turned quickly in place, noting that all four of the soldiers were prone but not seriously hurt. She turned to jog off, leaving them to recover on their own, when a crossbow bolt whistled out of nowhere and plunged into her thigh. The mercenary officer gasped in pain and went down to her good knee, swearing. Her hidden opponent had fired from a rooftop across the street, and she could see the silhouette of a figure crouched there, reloading. At the same time, a shrill whistle erupted from nearby.

  Xaphira turned to see the first of the four soldiers she had downed up on his knees, holding a whistle in his mouth. She shook her head in frustration. Reacting quickly, the woman mouthed a quick prayer to Waukeen while making a slight undulating gesture with both hands to either side of her body. A thick, damp mist rose up from the cobblestones, thicker than the light fog that had risen up naturally from the cool night air. In a couple of breaths, the mist had completely enveloped Xaphira.

  Not waiting to see what the crossbowman on the roof would do, she turned and limped away, fleeing down the closest alley, then along another street and into a second alley. From there, Xaphira sought a place to hide, ducking down behind the barrels near the net mender's shack.

  Thinking quickly, Xaphira grabbed one of the bolts from the quiver hanging from her shoulder and considered it carefully. It would do, she decided, and wedged the thick wooden shaft of that bolt between her teeth.

  Biting down hard on the wood, Xaphira prepared to jerk the bolt from her leg. She closed her eyes and placed both hands on it, gripping the end of the missile firmly. She took one, two, three deep breaths and, before she could think about what she was doing, withdrew the shaft from her flesh.

  The motion was like burning steel sliding through her, and she gave a deep-throated howl of agony, biting down hard into the wood of the bolt in her mouth. She had to bury her face in her shoulder to stifle the cry. A single shudder passed through her body as she trembled from the pain, breathing hoarsely. Finally, the initial nauseating waves of torment subsided enough that she was able to refocus.

  Grabbing at the medallion that hung from a small chain down inside her shirt and between her breasts, Xaphira kissed the image of the Merchant's Friend and softly muttered a second prayer to the goddess of trade. Then she pressed both of her hands palms down against the freely bleeding wound and held them there for several moments. As she felt the slight tingle of healing course through her leg, Xaphira breathed a sigh of relief. When she removed her palms, all that remained was the torn and bloodied breeches and a pink, puckered scar on her flesh.

  Xaphira examined the bloody bolt that had wounded her. As she gazed at it, her eyes narrowed and she gritted her teeth in anger. She tucked the missile away for safekeeping and prepared to flee the city. Peeking up over the top of the barrels, she saw that the alley was clear. Rising slowly, she tested her leg, putting weight on it gradually. It felt a bit weak, but she could stand on it.

  Cautiously, the mercenary moved out from behind the wall of barrels and prowled toward the end of the alley. She peered around the corner into the street itself and saw no one. Carefully, fearful that she was being watched from some unseen place, she took the first cautious step out into the open. Then another. She slowly worked her way to the end of the street, down to the docks. When she got there, she slipped into the water and swam toward a ship that sat at anchor a few yards off the pier. Carefully and quietly, she climbed up the side of the ship and slipped over the side onto the deck.

  By dawn the next morning, the ship and Xaphira were well gone from the port of Arrabar.

  CHAPTER ONE

  10 Tarsakh, 1373 DR

  Only the glow of the waxing moon shining through vine-covered trellises shielding the balcony where Emriana crouched let her see her surroundings. Even with such muted light, she could clearly make out the grounds of the estate far below her. She spotted three house guards wandering along one of the paths that meandered through the hedges and trees of the gardens. There to keep unwanted guests from gaining the grounds, they were usually easy to elude when coming from the other direction, from inside the house. The panthers were another matter. She knew that they would catch wind of her if she got too close.

  The breeze carried the smell of bougainvillea and passion vine blossoms, of wandering hearts and orchids. There were so many of the blooming vines and plants-climbing the trellises, dangling from hanging planters, and overflowing from large pots and basins-all around the balcony that their fragrances were almost overwhelming, blending together with the fainter scent of the citrus trees in the gardens below. She hoped they would help to mask her smell from the great cats.

  Beyond the walls, in the streets of Arrabar, the girl could hear throngs of people celebrating Spheres. The sounds of the festival were muted from where she crouched, but they wafted in just the same. She imagined the crowds, all dressed in bright clothing and dancing in the streets, waiting for the parades. She craned her neck to hear the voices and the music drifting across the warm, damp air like the cloying scent of the large blossoms all around her. Hints of laughter and singing rose up from time to time, clearer than the general din. Perhaps that would help muffle any unintentional noises she herself made.

  With a faint smile, Emriana checked to make certain the three guards had passed, then she turned and crept over to the last trellis in the row, reaching out and giving it a gentle shake to make sure it was still firmly anchored to the wall. When she was satisfied at its stability, she deftly hoppe
d up onto the balustrade, swung out and around to the outside of the trellis, slipped her foot into one of the small openings, and began to climb.

  Careful to disturb only minimally the leafy vines coiled about the trellis, Emriana rose at a steady pace, ascending all the way to the top of the frame, where it was attached to the overhang that protected the balcony below. Easing herself up, she swung one leg over the top of the portico and went flat on the gently sloped roof, catching her breath for a moment and peering back down to see if anyone in the gardens had been close by and managed to spot her. Satisfied that she had not been discovered, she spun on her stomach and shimmied to the top of the roof line.

  At the high end of the inclined porch roof, the wall of the estate rose up another two stories. To either side of the space where she hunched against the wall, windows pierced the surface, broad openings that let light into a long hallway inside the building. The window frames themselves were formed of blocks of stone that protruded outward from the wall itself perhaps the width of Emriana's hand when she spread her fingers wide.

  Standing with her back to the wall and keeping herself as flat against it as possible, the girl let out one deep, calming breath and lifted her left foot up, jamming it against the side of the window frame at an angle. Then she shoved upward and planted her right heel against the opposite frame, so that her legs were in an inverted V shape and her own weight kept her wedged and prevented her from slipping back down. She shoved her hands into a similar position, bracing herself firmly. Carefully, a little at a time, Emriana began to climb up, shifting her weight back and forth and inching her hands and feet higher on alternating sides.

  The going was slow and nerve-wracking, for Emriana had to keep herself pressed flat against the wall to avoid tipping forward and losing her balance. She thus could not lean out to peer down and monitor her progress. It all had to be done by feel. Fortunately, she had climbed that wall a number of times and no longer felt her insides doing flip-flops at the thought of slipping and falling.