His backup man wore the garb of a Lashiki bowman — a mercenary guard from the northern province. As with Arakasi, his outer trappings came no closer to his true identity than any of a dozen guises he had worn and then shed over the years. Nor was his real name Sabota. Arakasi never pressed him on this foible; his true origin was his own affair, for he had proven himself a reliable courier countless times over. Of all the agents near Ontoset the Acoma Spy Master could call upon, Sabota was the most trustworthy. And Arakasi had to give this man a mission as critical to the Lady's survival as his own.
A month's beard masked the Spy Master's face. He appeared more like a beggar than anything else, from the weeks spent in the countryside. Yet had there been a watcher close enough to see his eyes as he began a second, more complex signal with the stick, he could never have been mistaken for other than what he was: a supremely dangerous man about to embark upon a mission he did not expect to survive.
At the treeline, the man called Sabota studied the Spy Master's message. His memory was impeccable. He nodded once and left without a glance backward.
Crouched behind a thin screen of thorn, Arakasi closed his eyes. He did not pray. He substituted hope. For Sabota took with him instructions to the second-in-command of the Acoma spy network, a man Mara had never met whom Arakasi had designated his replacement should he fail to return from this endeavor.
The stakes were now set. If a countermessage was not sent within a specified number of days, a new Spy Master would present himself to Lady Mara. Every detail on the tong that Arakasi had managed to uncover would be passed along, and plans would begin afresh to seek the destruction of the Hamoi Obajan and counter the infiltrations attempted by Chumaka of the Anasati.
Arakasi closed his eyes. His head ached from tension, which was not normal. Life to him had always been a bloodless, calculated dance, with danger his dispassionate partner. It bothered him to think he might have held Sabota with him longer than necessary: he had discerned the key to the patrols two days ago. The waiting he had done since had not been for precaution; in fact, it had only increased the risk that the tong might alter its habits to foil just the sort of study he had finished. Arakasi rubbed his temples. Unused to self-conflict, he drew a series of breaths to calm himself.
Arakasi had been driven by an abiding loyalty to Mara since his long-sought vengeance against the Minwanabi had been completed by the Acoma. Concerns for his Lady's safety haunted him now, for if he died in this insane task, a man of even lesser gifts would be left to undertake his post. After the attempt to infiltrate the City of the Magicians had been abandoned, signs of tampering had surfaced since the agents in Jamar had returned to active status. This could only be the work of Chumaka of the Anasati. Through sleepless nights watching the tong's patrols, Arakasi had worried on the timing. With the net compromised, who knew how deeply, this was a frightening moment to contemplate handing over the reins. Arakasi gave himself a mental jab of reproach. Were he to die, what did his life matter? Never before had he wasted himself with worries that had no bearing on circumstances outside his control.
It was past time to be moving. Pushing aside another maddening incongruity, a memory of his hands sliding through the honey-gold hair of a courtesan he should have forgotten, he forced his thoughts to track the immediate. The next lull in the patrols was upon him. If he was to act tonight, he must not tarry, for by every indication gleaned through weeks of observation, the high, painted litter that had arrived at the estate house that afternoon had carried the long-absent master.
The Obajan of the Hamoi Tong was once again in residence at his pleasure retreat.
Arakasi wormed out of the ditch, pressed through the low bushes, and raced, bent over, down a garden path. He threw himself belly down in the shadow of a low tile wall, aware, now, that he was irrevocably committed. There were no more gaps in the patrols along the perimeter, and would not be, until daylight made it impossible to cross without being observed from one of the guard posts set in wooden balconies that jutted from the house's peaks.
The wait under the wall would last an hour. To use the time, Arakasi reviewed all of his preparations, turning over each success and frustration that had marked his mission to its current moment.
It had been a painstaking trail, which had begun with the tracking of the honey-haired courtesan's sister. The slave trader who had brokered the girls had been easy enough to find, but at the market where Kamlio's sibling should have been turned over to her tong purchaser, all traces of her vanished.
The work then had been hampered by its proximity to Ontoset, where the new network begun to replace the one disrupted by the silk warehouse mishap was still in its building stages. Weeks of following false leads had yielded the conclusion that girls selected for the tong never reached the Ontoset marketplace.
Arakasi had backtracked along the route, and from a drunken driver's chance remark had learned that slave wagons bearing girls of unusual beauty were on rare occasions diverted into the rolling foothills to the north of the city. More weeks had been spent scouting out that area, to follow and map each footpath, game trail, and swamp in the wide lands north of Ontoset. Sabota and three other agents had done this, living off the surrounding land like bandits, stealing jigabirds or vegetables from farmers, fishing the brooks, even eating berries and nuts. One had been killed as he attempted to purchase grain in a village miles to the northwest - which had been a loss that yielded knowledge, for it marked that settlement as subject to the tong's control, where strangers were not welcomed. The 'farmer' who had done the killing had taken the Acoma agent from behind with a knife; an expert in his own right with dagger work, Arakasi had examined the corpse fished out of the river. The murder was the work of a trained assassin. Arakasi had lain in the loft of a mill downstream, listening to gossip: the villagers who had observed the death never commented, but continued with their daily affairs as if nothing untoward had occurred.
No one had caught wind of the Spy Master's presence; no one had noticed the trail he had erased when he left. He reviewed again the checks he had run in Ontoset, counting the farm carts that entered, and noting what color dust filmed their wheels as they presented themselves at the guard gate. He had not been followed, for a certainty. More weeks had been spent in a roadside ditch, living off dried cakes and fruit. Months after the murder of his agent, Arakasi had traced three carts from that village. Back in Ontoset, he had worn a drover's robes and gone out for hard nights of drinking. Carts came and went, until finally one of those he had been seeking pulled in. A trip outside the tap with three swaying, singing companions: he had leaned on that wagon to piss, and with a knife concealed in his other hand had notched the hardened leather that bound the cartwheel's rim.
Sabota, watching at the roadside, had waited more days for rain. Then at last, that distinctively marked wheel's track had led to the location of the tong's pleasure palace.
Arakasi knew his work was good. No one should have connected his drunken binge in the tavern with another poor, traveling laborer walking between harvests with his head drooping in the heat. Still, he sweated. The man he sought to take was the most secretive individual in the Empire, and by far the best guarded. There were Lords who had died for merely beholding the Obajan's face.
Tasaio of the Minwanabi had been the singular exception, and the bribes he had paid in metal were the stuff of legend, if a man did not know he had purloined illicit contraband during his years of war service across the rift.
The break in the patrol would come soon. Arakasi chewed a strip of dried meat, though his appetite had fled. Food was for survival now; or else this would be the last meal of his life.
He swallowed the last of his stores and lay flat upon damp soil. Eyes closed again, he tuned his senses to the night, hearing every sound and insect, and smelling the moisture-laden air. Any change would find him instantly at the ready. His timing required absolute concentration. He waited, sweating harder. His thoughts sought to wander, marred by some new,
formless apprehension he could not name.
That anomaly troubled him sorely, but could not be examined, for the moment had come. The crunch of sandals crossed the gravel path just the other side of the wall; ten seconds, twenty seconds, thirty: Arakasi flowed through the night like a phantom.
Over the wall in a vault, he crossed the garden, leaping over the paths and keeping to slate borders of the flower beds that his step not disturb the raked gravel. Light flickered through the trees. Arakasi dove belly down and scraped under the arch of an ornamental bridge. The water in the little stream was high at this time of year, its trickle hiding his splashing. He barely had enough headroom under the center beam to keep his face clear of the surface. The sound of current over a rock underneath masked his fast breathing as he froze, his heartbeat racing. Up the path came a group of men. Four were wearing the black of assassins, white sashes proclaiming them to be of honored rank. Two more moved through the garden, flanking the party as guards. Of the pair they protected, one was thin, clad in silk woven in the hamoi-flower pattern, his eyes roving back and forth in nervous review. But it was to the other man that Arakasi's attention was drawn.
This one was massively built, his wide girth carrying not one ounce of fat. He wore a flowing brown robe, the hood thrown back to reveal the face that would never be uncovered away from home. The man who might earlier have posed as itinerant priest or monk proudly displayed the long topknot and fall of hair that proclaimed him of supreme rank. His shaved scalp bore the complex red tattoos that adorned only an Obajan.
In the darkness under the bridge, as footsteps thumped and creaked across the boards above, pressed tight between the structure and damp mud, Arakasi grinned to know his work had not been wasted. He was within striking distance of the ruler of the Hamoi Tong.
But now was no time to strike. The flanking guards were beating the bushes on either side of the path. The abnormally high water made the cranny under the bridge too small to shelter a full-sized man without backing up the flow. And indeed, no ordinary skulker could have wedged himself clear of the streamlet by bracing his elbows on the side beams. Arakasi ignored his aching muscles. Now there were twenty-four assassins in residence at the estate. He held back elation. Even a chance gleam of light on his teeth could betray him. Eighteen or twenty-four assassins, he was sticking his head into the mouth of a harulth and daring the most dangerous predator in Kelewan to bite down.
The Obajan's party passed, probably on its way to enjoy the evening in the covered gazebo near the wall. Arakasi had the night left yet to wait. At the last hour before sunrise, he would attempt to enter the estate house. For there was only one way he had determined to infiltrate this nest of murderers, and after that, he grimly acknowledged, he had no safe way out.
As deep night at last began to fade, Arakasi trembled with fatigue. Lying now half in the water, he thanked Chochocan, the Good God, that the guard patrols had not changed their routine with the Obajan in residence. He forced himself to gorge his belly with water. The single most desperate act of his life lay ahead, as he prepared to gain entry to the estate house. The next sentry arrived on schedule. Arakasi peered out from under the bridge. As the guard reached the limit of his vision, the Spy Master slithered silently into the open. Heavy dewfall would mask the drips that scattered from his wet clothing. He moved fast, knowing that he must maintain an equal distance between two men intent on killing anyone they found. If the one ahead paused to scratch an itch or the one behind walked slightly faster than normal, Arakasi might die before he knew he had been discovered.
The Spy Master resisted the temptation to hurry. Few situations demanded such precise control. Scrambling as quietly as possible, he moved sideways, forearms, knees, and toes alone touching the ground. The toll on his already depleted strength was tremendous.
After two hundred feet of progress, Arakasi collapsed to the ground. He made himself dizzy choking back his gasps for air, but forced his ears to listen for any indication that he had been seen. No alarm was sounded. He studied the sky. The predawn grey was brightening now. From experience he knew that sentries had the most difficult time seeing at dawn and dusk, when all was reduced to blurred shadows.
Footfalls passed. The guard who had been to his rear passed within a yard of his position. But the sentry had his attention directed toward the outer wall, not upon the ground to the left of his feet. And it was a shadow in the grass beside the main house that Arakasi had become, his breath stopped, and his hands braced to move.
The sentry paused. Arakasi counted, dripping sweat. On a certain number, the guard moved on. At once Arakasi leaped to his feet, removed a cord from his belt, and threw its weighted end upward over a tree branch that arched toward the house between the balconies that housed more guards. Exposed on three sides, he had only seconds before the next patrol appeared around the corner. Luck must be his mistress here. Arakasi hurled himself upward staying close to the thick trunk to avoid any rustling of leaves. He threw himself prone on the branch and reeled in his cord hand over hand.
His observations were now useless. He had had no way to penetrate the life inside the house, and so had no knowledge beyond an estimated floor plan gained by watching the goings and comings of the servants.
Arakasi heard voices and knew the house staff awakened. Soon cooks and body servants would be about their duties and he had to be in place.
Arakasi pulled himself along the limb. He had to be careful. This was a takai tree, grown for its lush fruit; the branches of bearing trees were weak and tended to break when more weight was added. The foliage was thin and provided little cover as he shinnied under the beams of a guard balcony. The need to keep quiet knotted his muscles and made his suppressed breath like fire in his chest.
Houses in Kelewan were usually constructed with a breathing space between the inner ceiling and the roof to let the heat under the eaves escape. This house should be no different, but a grating of wood might have been added to increase security. No clear safe haven remained to him, and he was too far inside the estate to turn back with any chance of safety. The sky might be lightening to silver, but the gloom under the rafters was complete. Arakasi groped into the shadow.
The way inside he had hoped to find did exist, but as he had suspected, thin slats of wood barred his way into the crawl space between the tiled roof above and the plaster ceiling of the rooms below. Arakasi drew one of his rare metal throwing knives. The steel could endure the punishment of prying the slats out at their pegged ends, where a Tsurani blade of laminated hide would have snapped. Arakasi worked quickly. He garnered scrapes and splinters as he wormed his way through the small opening, then used the grease of his own sweat to ease the pegs back without squeaking. He allowed himself a moment of silent exultation. He had done the impossible. Although cramped in a space too small for comfort, he was inside the building.
He rested while the guard changed in the platforms outside. Then, he groped his way across the beams until he located the rooftree. He settled in to wait, the day before him to spy out the arrangement of the rooms unseen beneath.
Arakasi lay supine, listening closely to the dulcet tones of women's voices below him. His success now depended on the chance that the Obajan would be visiting his women, for the Spy Master doubted he could survive another day of sweating in the airless space beneath the roof.
The coarse-cut wood of dusty rafters bit into his thighs and arms, and chafed him through the light cloth of his robe. He endured, flexing one limb at a time to relieve cramps from impaired circulation. The air had grown stifling as the sun heated the roof tiles. Although he had gone without sleep for nearly two days, he fiercely resisted the need to rest. To fall victim to the body's needs in this place was to die. Should he doze, he might roll off the narrow crossbeam and come crashing through the thin plaster ceiling below him. With grim humor he also considered how the sound of his exhausted snores might lead the vigilant guards to his hiding place. Now, ready with his steel in darkness, his cheek a
nd hands tickled by the aimless wanderings of crawling insects, he felt a heady mix of exhilaration and regret: exhilaration that he had won so close without discovery; regret that so many tasks remained undone.
Below him, cracks in the plaster admitted an orange glow of light. Servants had lit the lamps, which meant that night had fallen outside. He could hear the silvery laughter of women; among them now and again sounded a voice that reminded him of another girl, and an afternoon entanglement in silken sheets. Arakasi shifted, irked at himself. Kamlio was on his mind far too much: the feel of her rich hair under his hands, and her creamy skin, and her kisses; the very memory of her made him sweat with longing. Yet what haunted his mind, over and over, was no simple coupling of flesh. He dreamed of her deep eyes, the intelligence in them alternately dulled by boredom and made cunning by abuse. Her manner seemed hard, but it was a cynicism that roofed over a chasm of pain. He knew, as surely as his hands and his body had pleased her, that given time, he could reach the sweet nature hidden like treasure within her.
If he survived this evening's endeavors, he would buy her freedom, maybe show her the headier joys of a free life. If she would have him; if, after a lifetime of pandering to the whims of many masters, she did not find men distasteful . . . Arakasi's lip curled in self-contempt in the dark. He dreamed! He dreamed like a lovesick boy! Had life not taught him never to give credence to the unpredictable desires of the heart?
He smothered an impulse to curse.
It was irony, of the blackest and bitterest sort, that the mission that had caused him to know her might itself bring her to ultimate harm. With stark logic, in the stifling heat under the rooftree, he knew: he would require a miracle of the gods to emerge from his mission alive. The odds now favored his getting the strike at the Obajan he had planned for. But even should his blow prove deadly, evading the best of the tong's assassins - and after them, the vengeful wrath of the Tiranjan, Obajan's successor — was an impossible expectation.
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