‘Careful?’
‘The rooftops are crowded these days,’ she whispered.
‘Crowded?’
‘The Nightblades of Kan are here.’
He laughed – quietly – at that subject of song and stories. It was said that the fearsome Nightblades, servants of the kings of Itko Kan, flew through the dark at a word from the king, penetrated the very walls, and slew his enemies. He waved a hand. ‘Those are just stories.’
Her warning gaze was fierce. ‘No, it is true! Kan is coming. They are here. I have seen—’ She stopped herself, glanced back within the attic and lowered her face once more. ‘That is, I have – heard – in the market.’
Dorin knew he spent too little time listening to the talk in the streets below. He knew this was an unavoidable flaw deriving from his strengths – and weaknesses. By nature and preference the rooftops were his territory. And he was a solitary hunter. He shrugged, allowing, ‘Well . . . I have heard nothing. But . . . my thanks.’ He ducked over the lip and began lowering himself down the wall.
Knowing he would not hear, Ullara murmured, ‘Have a care, my Dancer,’ then retreated within. She tightened her arms about her chest as if fighting to keep some vast explosive force constrained. She fell heavily on a crate and rocked herself, her head lowered. Finally, as if no longer able to suppress a burgeoning eruption, she flung her arms outwards letting loose a great cry and at once every bird of prey leaped to the air, echoing her call with their shrill hunting shrieks, and sped off into the dark. Alone now among the churning dust she fell to the timber floor and curled herself up into a protective ball to lie panting and weeping.
*
Dorin traced the rooftops of the Outer Round. This was not as difficult as perhaps in other large cities such as Unta or Cawn, for space within Heng’s walls was at a premium and every building pressed up against its neighbour – most, in point of fact, shared common walls. At one moment he ran the knife-edge of a lead-sheathed roof crest and here he paused, thinking he heard the call of a raptor. This troubled him, as most night-hunters, he believed, were silent. He studied the star-dusted night sky, the bright sickle moon, then ducked and hurried onward. He knew his path was taking him once more to his usual night-haunt: a compound a good third of the way round the walls, close to the north gate. Here, a large warehouse and yard carried out a seemingly aboveboard trade in timber, clay for bricks, and other such mundane building materials.
But this compound was the property of the black marketeer Pung the child-stealer. Here children captured from across the lands were held, and here they were assigned to their various fates: to work chained in mines where almost none would live to see their fifteenth year; to be cast among the poisonous chemicals of the leather-curing and dying vats where most choked out their lives even sooner – or to be broken to the sex trade where many met their ends in even worse manners.
This compound Dorin now overlooked from the flat brick roof of a three-storey tenement across the Plains Bourse, a sprawling smoky marketplace specializing in leather goods and metalworking that wound its course to abut the north gate.
He crouched behind the shallow lip of the flat roof and renewed his study of the compound’s buildings and the comings and goings of Pung’s guards and hirelings. Behind him, in piled rattan cages, pigeons cooed to the night. How to get in? That was the problem. Three times he’d tried an approach, and each time he’d been spotted long before getting close enough.
He edged forward to peer down into the torchlit crowded market below. The main warehouses were closed for the night, but food stalls lined the way, and inns and drinking houses were just now picking up business – most drawing trade from travellers who’d entered from the vast Seti Plains to the north. He settled in for another long watch. Eventually, one of these nights, his quarry would show himself. The bastard couldn’t stay hidden in there for ever, surely.
For even he had heard the stories making the rounds of the taverns and corner idling-spots.
The news that Pung had hired the services of a new mage. Some had him a towering magus with eyes of fire; others, an aged oldster crippled and bent from the soul-twisting horrors of his wizardry; still others named him only a faint voice in the darkness whispering of things that made one’s blood freeze. Some swore he could kill with a look, or a word. His Warren was variously speculated to be that of Rashan, D’riss, or Thyr; some claimed that he was a mystic shaman, or a necromancer with access to Hood’s own paths.
Yet upon one feature all these differing accounts were in accord: the mage hailed from the sun-scorched savannahs far to the south, from Dal Hon.
It was his man – that slippery youth. The damned prick might disguise himself as an oldster but Dorin knew better. It was he. The one who’d laughed at him. Who’d cheated and stolen from him.
And no one got the better of Dorin Rav. Ever. It simply could not be allowed to stand.
So he eased down to his shins for yet another fruitless eve’s watch, hoping to catch sight of his quarry out along the crowded bourse. The night darkened, the hours passed, his head drooped. Startled, glancing up, he noticed a tall shadow at the roof corner – a figure that had not been there before.
He watched while keeping himself absolutely still. Behind him the pigeons had all gone quiet. His hands slowly rose to cross his chest and close on the roughened grips of the slimmest throwing daggers pushed through his baldrics.
The big brass bell in the main temple to Burn began to ring out the mid-night hour. The shape stirred itself, broad wings unfolded, and it fell away to glide off in utter silence. He let out a long breath and relaxed his grip – what had that been? A mere bird? As tall as a youth?
The sight left him uncharacteristically unnerved. Was this the source of all the recent strange night sightings of unnatural daemons, spirits, and flying creatures? Some large predator, lost or imported? Perhaps Ullara knew of it; he’d have to ask . . . his thoughts shifted away, however, as a new sound reached him from the street below: the tapping of a thin sharp walking stick against stone flagging.
He jumped to his feet and ran down the length of the roof’s edge, searching the shifting crowds below. Was it he? What might he be wearing now? He’d been a short fellow – but that stick! That stupid vanity of a walking stick . . .
He thought he caught the glimpse of a short dark figure far down the street before it disappeared from the flickering torchlight. He ran for the side of the building over a narrow alleyway and threw himself over the side to climb down.
In the market he walked swiftly – not too swiftly – yet resolutely towards the north gate. Weaving round wanderers and revellers, he congratulated himself once more on his personal choice not to wear clothing that would mark him outwardly as anything other than one more poor labourer in search of a night’s entertainment: a hookah of d’bayang, perhaps, or the attentions of the lowest of prostitutes. Camouflage, stealth and deceit – such were the superior skills of his trade; only the failure ends up having to knife his way out of a corner. And only the fool advertises his vocation.
So he walked, deferring to the gangs of swaggering Hengan toughs who refused to yield any way, and to the entourages of baton-wielding guards clearing paths for their masters or mistresses in gaudy shaded litters carried by hulking bearers sweating despite the cool of the night. He passed a troop of down-on-their-luck Untan street performers: jugglers, musicians and child dancers. The sight of the painted boys and girls, the cheap bronze bangles ringing on their wrists and ankles, drew unhappy memories of his own training in similar circumstances – both for the punishing physical conditioning and the convenient cover. A smattering of lesser coins glinted among the cobbles before their bare shuffling and slapping feet.
Yet all the while he kept an eye to the east where the swirl of the traffic betrayed a figure making slow progress – one too short to be seen. He moved on. A courtesan stood beside the open door to her quarters, the colourful gauzy scarves of her calling wrapped about her. She be
ckoned him with the supple twist of a wrist, ‘Delights of the Perfumed World await within, O champion.’
Dorin knew this type: too old now to maintain a coterie of steady clients, or remain a mistress. Such ones were reduced to eking out a living here on the streets.
Grinning, he motioned ahead. ‘My sweetheart awaits beyond.’
The courtesan sniffed her derision. ‘Sweetheart? Can mere sighs and blushes satisfy a stallion such as you?’
‘The ways to pleasure are many.’
‘Aye – and I know every one of them. Save your last coin, come back at dawn, and I will give you far more than a chaste kiss.’
Dorin bowed deeply. ‘You shall not be forgotten, O Dispenser of Delights.’
All the nearby courtesans tittered at this epithet for a royal concubine and the woman chuckled behind her hands. ‘You are a very rogue!’ she called after him.
Dorin continued on his way, pleased with the exchange. Camouflage. Always camouflage.
He reached the broad open boulevard that was the North Way, or the Way of the Plains, close to where it led in from its namesake gate. Here he damned his luck, for the night was bright and the traffic nonexistent. He would stand out like a beacon crossing through the moonlight. Nor could he wait for some passing group to trail along behind, for with every heartbeat his quarry was disappearing ahead. Unhappy with the necessity of it, he struck out, hunched, slouching, disguising his walk into the stupefied shuffle of a d’bayang smoker.
He angled into the deepest shadows across the way, then sped along with the hope of catching a glimpse of the youth. He was in luck, as there the fellow stood, inspecting a torchlit stall front. Dorin eased back into the dark and waited. Presently, the youth walked on. He tapped and swung his walking stick jauntily as he went. Dorin followed. Coming abreast of the modest stall, he peered at the many amulets and charms. ‘What are these?’
‘Wards ’gainst the man-beast, good sir. Some blessed from the temples. You’d do well to carry one. Might I suggest—’
‘I’m not leaving the city.’
‘And what if the walls should fall?’
‘Why should they fall?’
The old man shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘There is talk of war – who is to say what might happen? Best to be prepared, yes?’
From the edge of his vision, Dorin watched his quarry amble on. ‘There is always talk of war. Good for business, I suppose.’
The old man pursed his lips as if to say Throw your life away, then. Dorin moved on again. The road was narrow and contained no active night market or inns. Only isolated shops and stalls lit the mostly residential tenement fronts. He would have lost his quarry in the darkness were it not for the click of the walking stick from a flint cobblestone. He turned up a slim alleyway, and here he almost ran into the fellow, who stood motionless, his back to him, apparently studying the night sky above.
The man turned and Dorin was shocked to see the wrinkled aged features of an ancient – the disguise was masterful. The withered face screwed up even more as its owner squinted. ‘So . . . a mere footpad, I see. A clubber, as I understand is slang for you here.’ He raised a warning finger. ‘Well, have a care. For I’ll have you know I work for—’
‘I know who you damned well work for,’ Dorin cut in savagely. ‘Don’t you recognize me?’
The fellow squinted his ferret-like tiny eyes. ‘Did I perchance buy some shoes from you? Because if I did, I have a complaint—’
‘No!’ Dorin snarled. ‘I did not – that is—’ He wiped his hot slick forehead and saw that he’d already drawn his best dagger. ‘All these wasted nights,’ he murmured aloud in wonder. ‘And he doesn’t even . . .’ He shook his head at his own foolishness.
‘Is this a robbery or have you stopped me just to babble on?’ The fellow set his hands atop the walking stick and rolled his eyes to the sky. ‘Oh, please do not tell me this is about some god you saw in a stain on the tabletop. I really am quite busy.’
Dorin stepped away as if to go. As he did so he threw the dagger, which struck the fellow high in the chest and lodged there. ‘You’re no longer busy,’ he said, and he watched the youth’s eyes widen in shock.
The fellow slumped back against the wall. He frowned at Dorin, coughed and murmured, hurt: ‘That was . . . unnecessarily . . . brusque . . .’ Then he slid down the brick wall to settle propped up, as if asleep.
Dorin knelt on his haunches before him. ‘This is to teach you that no one steals from me. Or thinks he’s gotten the better of me – yes?’ He studied the disguised face. A weak breath, wet with blood, eased from the lips. Dorin passed a hand before the beady eyes, which did not track. He sat back. ‘Well, then, let’s see what you’ve got on you.’ He reached in under the cloak.
A sudden screech of rage and a sharp jab of pain jerked him to the opposite wall where he stood squeezing his hand, his heart hammering at the surprise. A monkey now occupied the fellow’s lap. It glared its rage at him, waving him off; bared its curved yellow fangs.
Dorin shook his hand. Damned thing bit him! What kind of lunatic travels with a monkey under his cloak? But it wasn’t a monkey, it was that creature from the tomb – the nacht. A kind of miniature ape from the wretched island of Malaz. He stalked out of the alley while sucking the gouges at the meat of his palm. Blasted creature could’ve taken his thumb! Then what would he do? At the alley mouth he paused, wiped a sleeve across his face. Damned heat. It was too hot here on the plains, even though it was autumn.
He tied a handkerchief round his thumb, knotted it off. Then he turned to stare back up the deep shadows of the alley. His teeth slowly clenched hard enough to creak, and he hissed out a long breath of suspicion. With his off-hand he drew another blade and edged up the alley, crouched, sliding his feet forward silently on their soft leather soles.
He found the narrow way empty but for garbage, pots, and bits of furniture.
Later that night the city Watch received a call to subdue a madman who was howling and bellowing and smashing property in a lane off the Way of the Glaziers. When they arrived they found only garbage kicked and strewn all about, every resident’s pots thrown against the walls, and furniture broken and trampled. They left, but not before demanding a fee, which the locals reluctantly handed over, lest the Watch arrive even later the next time.
Chapter 2
IN THE HONEY light of early dawn the priests and acolytes of Heng’s uncounted temples walked barefoot through the lanes and broad ways of the city. Most carried copper begging bowls, the poorest holy men and women among them holding out mere upturned wicker hats. Shop-owners waited at their thresholds with small leaf-wrapped pouches of food that they deposited in the proffered begging bowls. Silk watched this timeless ritual while he waited for two of his fellow city mages, Smokey and Koroll, here on the main temple thoroughfare, the Street of the Gods. It was a curve of the Inner Round, hard against the wall on the outer side, given over to the many and varied gods, daemons, spirits, haunts, and otherworldly guardians of Quon lands.
At this early hour their devotees crowded the road. They brought offerings to the many temples, altars and shrines: leaf-wrapped pinches of rice or steamed vegetables; garlands woven of flowers, candles, incense of scented wood, tiny cups of cheap liquor; and prayer-scarves to be draped over shrines or tied to corner altar-pieces.
Towering over all, parting the mass like a man-o’-war, came the shambling figure of the inhuman Koroll. Half Thelomen or Toblakai, some said. A great forest of tangled unwashed hair fell about his shoulders. The slanting light cast strange shadows upon his face, seemingly all broken and rearranged in odd planes and angles; over these alien features swirled tattooed symbols and glyphs. Layers of cloth hung draped about him like tenting. And from this bulk extended a stone-like muscled arm and a hand gripping a staff fully as tall as he.
The half-human mage came to stand alongside Silk, planted the staff with a thump, and gripped its haft in both hands. Together they regarded the modest stained an
d aged stone building before them.
‘Greetings, Koroll.’
‘Good morn,’ the giant rumbled.
Silk smelled smoke and turned, crooking a smile.
From up the other way came a young man in a long loose shirt of fine-brushed cotton over white linen trousers. His long dark hair was pulled back and braided in a neat ponytail, his goatee black and freshly trimmed. Silk gave him a nod. ‘Smokey.’
‘Silk.’ The mage turned to the house. ‘So, what have we here?’
‘It was the custom,’ Koroll began in his rough voice, ‘generations ago, for noble families to bury their dead together in mausoleums. One such do we face now. The family name is forgotten, but the cult has chosen wisely, regardless.’
Smokey visibly shivered his revulsion. ‘Hood,’ he spat. ‘Gives me the willies.’
Stone steps led up to twin open doors, possibly of siltstone, but carved to resemble panelled wood. Cluttering the steps lay a collection of offerings: drying foodstuffs, pot shards engraved with prayers, wilted garlands, and carved wooden dolls representing enemies marked for Hood’s special attention.
Silk raised a hand, gesturing forward. ‘Koroll – the honours, if you would . . .’
The giant strode up and thumped the butt of his staff to the threshold. ‘Greetings!’ he announced. ‘In the name of the Protectress Shalmanat.’
They waited. The dark unlit hall paved in black marble remained empty. Smokey shot Silk a glance and rolled his eyes. ‘Bloody cheap theatrics. You first, Silk.’
Silk’s answering smile was tight and humourless. He entered, noting that the walls to each side bore alcoves, eight rows of them, floor to ceiling, down the entire length. Each held a dusty skull. Honoured ancestors. Silk tipped his own head to them, and advanced.
A short distance within, he paused as he came to three sprawled corpses – these far more fresh than the watching skulls. Smokey came to his side and crouched at the nearest. ‘Enforcers,’ he judged. ‘Pung’s, probably. Sometime last night.’
Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 Page 5