After the cold salt water on the Sea Dancer it was sheer luxury to bathe in the hot tub and the mild embarrassment he felt at sharing his ablutions with the freesword was rapidly forgotten as he sank into the steaming liquid.
"Tomorrow we find a stable,” Bracht said through the steam. "How far to Nhur-jabal?"
Calandryll pushed wet hair from his eyes and shrugged. "Some weeks. Less to Kharasul."
Bracht nodded, grinning. "At least we travel in a civilized manner. It'll feel good to get back on a horse."
"A boat could reach Kharasul faster," Calandryll murmured.
"You think of that warboat?"
He nodded and Bracht said, "That wind blew it away. Even if it rode that storm, how could she know we travel to Kharasul?"
The Kern's spirits were raised now that he was on land again and Calandryll felt somewhat guilty for his own vague apprehension. "How did she know we were on the Sea Dancr?” he asked.
"Azumandias's spies," said Bracht, refusing to allow his good humor dampened. "The warboat hid along the Lyssian coast and set out after us when she got word. And now she's likely blown back to Lysse."
"You're probably right," Calandryll allowed.
"If not," said Bracnt, "we'll face her when the time comes. But until then, let's make the best of things. I'm hungry for decent food after ek'Jemm's slop."
He climbed from the tub, toweling himself cheerfully, and Calandryll followed suit. Then, dressed in clean shirts, they found the dining hall, where the innkeeper's promise concerning the standard of Mother Raimi's cuisine was fulfilled. She served them a rich fish soup, and then thick slabs of a gamey pie accompanied by cold vegetables. Cheese and fruit followed, and they drank three bottles of some tangy Kandaharian wine, after which they both felt pleasantly replete and more than a little drowsy. The prospect of exploring Mherut'yi held little interest, and as they preferred to remain anonymous they decided to find their chambers and make an early start come morning.
Calandryll undressed and propped his sword beside the bed, tucking the satchel beneath the pillows. He snuffed the lanterns and climbed gratefully beneath the sheets, delighted to find them clean and free of dust. He grew daily less concerned with such comforts, the luxury he had known in his father's palace dimming in his memory—and given what lay ahead, that was to his advantage—but it was still pleasant to once again sleep in a bed wider than the Sea Dancer's bunks, with crisp linen and soft pillows. He yawned, listening to the faint droning of the gaheen outside the shutters, and drifted readily into sleep.
He was not sure what woke him, thinking at first that he roused from some dream and rolled over with a sigh, slitted eyes ascertaining that no light showed at the window to herald dawn, grunting comfortably as he composed himself to return into slumber. Then faint sound drew him back from that tempting threshold. He grunted again, less comfortably, and forced his sleep-blurred eyes to open. The room was dark, his adjusting vision slowly picking out the dim outlines of the window, the ewer on the table, the wardrobe, the chest of drawers. The gaheen murmured through the sleeping streets and he decided it was that he heard: he burrowed his head deeper into the pillow, hand reaching to touch the satchel beneath. And heard a board creak. Sharp, cold fingers of apprehension danced the length of his spine. The hair on his neck prickled as realization forced him to acknowledge that someone—or something—was in the room. He shivered as he thought of the wolf-headed creatures Azumandias had sent to the caravanserai, suddenly—incongruously— aware that he was naked. He forced himself to lie still, resisting the impulse to snatch at his blade, savoring the air. It smelled hot, but there was no scent of almonds. Would there be, had the conjuration already manifested? He clenched his teeth, feigning sleep as he opened his eyes a fraction, peering from under hooded lids into the gloom. The room was still. There was nothing there that should not be: perhaps he had dreamed it all.
Then a shadow moved between the wardrobe and the door, detaching itself from the angle of the cupboard and the wall. It was a man-shaped shadow, a more solid black than its surroundings, and it moved toward him.
He could contain himself no longer: with a shout that was part outrage and more fear, he lurched from the bed, snatching at his sword. ,
His fingers locked about the hilt and he swung the weapon up, sending the scabbard flying across the room. It clattered against the door and dropped to the floor. The shadow was on the far side of the bed and he saw steel glint briefly as it propelled itself across, agile as some hunting cat. It rolled over the crumpled sheets, landing on its feet before him, a long, narrow-bladed dagger darting at his ribs. He swung the sword again, hearing steel ring on steel, and jumped back as the shorter blade thrust for his belly. He sucked his stomach in, bending and turning, and felt a brief stab of pain that was instantly forgotten as the blade drove at his throat. He danced away, tenor lending him strength as he countered the blow, cannoning against the shutters, the latch stabbing viciously beneath his shoulder.
The shutter banged open a fraction, permitting pale silver moonlight to enter the room. In its band he saw a lean figure dressed in shirt and loose pantaloons of midnight hue, the head wrapped round with a bandagelike hood in which only the eyes were visible. They were cold and dark; implacable. He backed away and his attacker dropped to a crouch, advancing with a silent, scuttling motion, the dagger weaving a hypnotic pattern before his face. He raised nis sword defensively. And felt it swept aside by the dagger, twisting his head barely in time to avoid the blade that stabbed at his eyes.
Turned, he had no chance to avoid or deflect the foot that lashed at his knee. He shouted as he felt the kick slam hard against the bone, pain erupting in a fiery explosion, paralyzing his leg so that it gave way under him and he fell heavily to the side. He struck the wardrobe and thudded to the floor, struggling to raise his sword as he saw the dagger flash toward him.
Then halt in midstroke as the door burst open and Bracht charged into the room. The Kem was naked, his long hair wild about his face, the falchion outthrust. His blue eyes took in Calandryll, helpless on the floor, and the black-clad figure poised above him, and he roared a battle cry, turning the direction of his charge toward the assassin. The dagger rose to parry his attack, but the momentum of his charge drove the figure back, clear of the fallen Calandryll. Sparks glittered as falchion and dagger met. The assassin backed, seeking room to maneuver; Bracht followed him—or her, Calandryll was not sure— across the chamber. A second time, a third and then a fourth, the dagger turned the freesword's blows. Calandryll pushed awkwardly to his feet. Fire burned in his knee and he could feel warm liquid oozing down his belly. He ignored it as he leaned against the door, the straights- word held before him. He saw Bracht cut at the assassin's head and the figure duck, slashing at the Kern's abdomen. Bracht danced clear and cut again, his stroke again deflected. The shadowy shape rolled back across the bed, darting toward Calandryll even as the falchion slashed the sheets. Chaipaku burned in his mind. He raised his sword, knowing he had no chance against one of the Brotherhood. And yelped as fire blazed in his damaged knee and he felt his leg give way.
Time seemed to slow then and he saw the deadly game played out as if he were a spectator, indifferent to his own fate, protected by the very knowledge that he was about to die. He fell below the assassin's thrust and saw the force of the blow lodge the dagger deep in the paneling of the door. Saw Bracht roll, no less nimble than the Chaipaku, over the bed to land on his feet behind the assassin. Saw the falchion driven forward by all the strength of the freesword's powerful shoulder, all his weight behind the blow. He saw the killer turn, spinning with inhuman speed, left hand dropping to sweep the blade aside, right sting stiffened fingers at Bracht's face. And saw that not even the Chaipaku was fast enough to beat the Kern.
Bracht swung his head clear of the murderous blow, stabbing his sword at the killer's midriff. The falchion pierced the rib cage. Calandryll saw the tip emerge from the assassin's back. Then the door shuddered in its frame as
the body was slammed against the wood. He saw Bracht snarl with animal ferocity as he twisted the blade loose, and winced as hot blood splattered his naked chest. A strangled moan erupted from beneath the hood and the figure took a single step forward. Bracht swung the falchion in a savage cut and more blood sprayed from the belly. The assassin tottered. The Kern cut back and the figure grunted, abruptly limp, the knees folding, clawed hands dropping. It fell heavily to the floor. Bracht drove the falchion into its back and it jerked, bare feet drumming briefly on the bloodstained carpet. Then it was still. Bracht tugged his sword loose and turned to Calandryll. "You're wounded?"
"I... Yes ... I don't know ..
He shook his head as time resumed its normal passage and he realized that he heard a fist pounding on the door, Mother Raimi's fluting voice demanding entry.
Bracht tossed the falchion aside and hauled him to his feet. He groaned as he put weight on his knee. The Kem lowered him to the bed. He was dimly aware that he still clutched his own sword. The door opened to reveal Mother Raimi, dressed in a loose gown of iridescent green that shimmered in the light of the lantern she held. Its glow showed her the body and the two naked men, the blood that oozed darkly over her carpet. She screamed, and two more faces, one male, the other a woman's, appeared behind her. The woman echoed Mother Raimi's scream; the man mouthed an oath.
Bracht said, "He was attacked," indicating Calandryll.
Mother Raimi said, "Surinim, fetch the lictor. Quick!"
Bracht took the lantern from her and brought it close to Calandryll, studying his blood-splattered torso.
"A scratch. No more." The Kern touched his knee. "A kick?"
He nodded. Bracht glanced over his shoulder and said, "Bring cloths and cold water. There's a healer in this godforsaken town?"
Mother Raimi nodded dumbly.
"Then send for him."
"Her," the silver-haired woman corrected automatically, staring. Calandryll was suddenly aware that she was brought from her sleep to a room where a corpse lay on the floor and two naked men, one smeared with blood, sat upon the bed: he began to laugh.
Bracht slapped his face and said, "Now! Cloths, cold water, and then the healer. Do it!"
The old woman started as though his hand had landed on her cheek. She nodded to the gaping woman at her back and said, "Go, Lyhanna," in a muted voice.
Calandryll stopped laughing and began to shiver. Bracht tugged the sheet across his midriff and he stared as the white linen grew slowly dark. The Kem rose, ignoring his own nudity, and retrieved his blade. "I'll dress," he said, and left the room. Mother Raimi stared at Calandryll, her eyes huge, her mouth moving silently.
"I was attacked," he said, aware that his teeth chattered. "I was asleep and I woke to find him here." He gestured at the corpse. "He tried to kill me."
Lyhanna came back then and set wadded cloth and a pitcher of water on the floor by the door. She appeared unwilling to enter the room.
"He tried to kill me," Calandryll repeated. "He would have killed me had Bracht not stopped him."
Mother Raimi nodded, her eyes not leaving his face. She seemed afraid to move or speak, as if he might spring from the bed and attack her. Bracht pushed her gently aside. He was dressed in his black leathers, the falchion sheathed on his waist, his dark hair bound in its customary ponytail. He crossed to the bed and soaked a cloth in water, wadding it about Calandryll's knee.
"Hold it there," he ordered.
He lit the room's lanterns and knelt beside the corpse. Calandryll watched as he turned the body over. Mother Raimi gasped as the ravaged belly was exposed.
Bracht said mildly, "He was hard to kill. I wonder who he was.”
He drew the hood clear of the face and Calandryll gasped as he saw Mehemmed's features exposed.
"He's just a boy," Mother Raimi said softly.
Bracht said, "He's a dead assassin."
Calandryll said, "Was he Chaipaku?"
Bracht shrugged. "What else?"
Mother Raimi said, "I want no trouble here. Not with the Chaipaku. You'd best leave at dawn."
Bracht glanced at Calandryll and said, "If he can walk.”
Calandryll said nothing: he was staring at Mehemmed with his thoughts in turmoil. Who would employ the Brotherhood of Assassins to slay him? Surely not Azumandias, for he had magic at his disposal. His father? No: By lath might post him outlaw—would surely punish him sorely for his flight—but not even that wrathful rnan would hire killers to hunt down his son. Then Tobias? Would his own brother stoop so low? He licked dry lips as ugly suspicion became cold certainty: Tobias was of such a bent did he but consider Calandryll a potential threat to his accession. And the very fact of Calandryll s disappearance from Secca might well suggest he designed some strategem against his brother. Yes Tobias, jealous of his position, perhaps fearing Calandryll might raise allies to support a claim to Secca's throne, he would use the Chaipaku.
"Why did he wait 'til now?" Bracht murmured. Why not while we were at sea? And the woman on the warboat—did she know him?"
"At sea, he might have been found out, Calandryll suggested dully "Perhaps he waited until now so that he could flee when ek'Jemm sets sail. I think he had nothing to do with the woman. I think he was sent after me, not.. ."He slid a hand beneath his pillows, touching the satchel.
Bracht frowned and said, "Your brother? Your father?"
"Tobias," Calandryll nodded, and laughed bitterly. "My brother! I believe it was my brother, fearing for his throne."
"And the woman serves Azumandias. So it seems we are hunted by wizard and Chaipaku, both." Bracht grinned humorlessly. "It seems I shall earn my pay."
Calandryll looked at the corpse again. Mehemmed was about his own age, likely younger. Did Tobias fear him so much? Was his lust for power so great? He was about to speak when boots thudded in the corridor outside and the officer they had seen on the quay entered, flanked by six soldiers, Surinim peering curiously over their shoulders. Mother Raimi favored him with a grateful look, as if she at last felt safe.
"Who killed him?" the lictor demanded curtly.
"I did," said Bracht.
"He tried to kill me," said Calandryll.
The officer studied them both, his dark face expressionless, then he nudged Mehemmed's body.
"Chaipaku," he said thoughtfully. "Why should the Brotherhood hunt you?"
Calandryll shrugged helplessly. Bracht said, "Our rivals—Lord Varent's rivals. Likely they hired him."
The lictor nodded. "Rahamman ek'Jemm said you were on some secret mission for this lord of Aldarin. Do you bring your trade wars to Kandahar?"
"We sought no trouble," Bracht said. "Calandryll was attacked while he slept."
"But still I have a corpse," the lictor said. "And albeit it's a Chaipaku, there are still questions that require answers. You'd best come with me."
"He's hurt." Bracht spoke quickly, glancing at Calandryll. "He can't walk."
Calandryll groaned in confirmation. The lictor glanced at Mother Raimi, who said, "I've sent Lyhanna for the healer."
"We'll wait," the lictor decided. "If Suleimana declares him unfit to walk, then he can stay here."
"And Bracht?" Calandryll asked.
"Finds lodgings in my cells," said the lictor. "Until the district podesta tries his case."
"What case?" Bracht demanded angrily. "A Chaipaku assassin attempted to kill the man I'm hired to guard—I do my duty, no more."
The lictor shrugged, turning to draw the dagger from the woodwork.
"Likely that's true, but I've a duty, too. And that requires me to hold you until the podesta can investigate. Until then, you're my guest." He smiled briefly. "You'll save a var or two on your bed and board."
"We have business to attend," Calandryll protested.
"If you can't walk, you can't travel," came the unyielding answer. "The podesta should arrive within three weeks and you'll likely be free to go then. But until then ..."
He shrugged expressively. Cala
ndryll and Bracht exchanged glances. The Kem smiled coldly. "It seems we must wait," he said, nodding in the direction of the watchful soldiers.
Calandryll ducked his head, silently cursing Tobias. He had not anticipated their whereabouts would be so quickly discovered!, and the thought of kicking his heels in Mherut'yi until the podesta arrived chilled him afresh: if Mehemmed had been able to find him, despite all Varent's precautions, then so might another of the Brotherhood. Or the mysterious woman.
The soldiers parted then, admitting a stem-featured woman wearing a light cape and carrying a large leather bag. She pushed the hood back to reveal a head of thick auburn hair, glancing at the lictor.
"Well, Philomen, I can see one's beyond repair, so who is it I attend at this ungodly hour?"
The lictor bowed, pointing at Calandryll.
"That one, Suleimana. They say his knee's damaged."
The woman nodded and shed her cape. She wore a plain brown robe beneath, smoothing its folds as she settled herself on the bed beside Calandryll. She glanced briefly at his leg and said, "This may hurt."
He winced his agreement as she probed his knee, then moaned it as she took his ankle in both hands and turned his leg back and forth.
"It's not broken," she declared. Then smiled fleetingly as she added, "You'd have screamed if it were—the knee's a delicate thing."
"Can he walk?" the lictor asked.
"Burash, no!" The woman shook her head. "Not for a day or two, and then he'll be limping a while. I'll set a compress on it, but he'd best stay here in bed for the next two days. After that, I'll see."
She pushed her sleeves back and set the palm of her right hand flat against the cut on his belly, her eyes closing as she murmured softly. Calandryll experienced a faint stinging, then the woman removed her nand and he felt nothing.
"There's no poison," she remarked casually, and set both hands about his knee.
Her eyes closed again and a look of intense concentration gripped her face. He grunted as her hold tightened, then signed as the pain abated. She loosed her grip and opened her bag and began to rummage through the contents. Calandryll watched as she produced a pot from which she smeared some pungent ointment over his bruised flesh. It burned a little, then dulled to a pleasant warmth as she wound a bandage about the joint.
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