He shot her a glance. She was watching him with a knowing, openly mocking grin. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t play all coy. I seen the blades you got hid. You can use them?’
Dorin allowed a wary nod.
‘You with a crew?’ He shook his head. She sighed at his monumental ignorance. ‘Gotta join a crew, man. You’re a nobody otherwise. Me, I’m with Tran. Me ’n’ the lads. Can you keep a lookout? Think you can manage that?’
Tran. A minor street boss associated with . . . Pung. A plan – one so very elegant and simple – suddenly appeared to Dorin, and he mentally kicked himself for being so stupid as not to have thought of it before. He offered the girl a shy smile.
‘Count me in.’
* * *
Iko listened to the roar of celebration out in the streets of Heng. She stood at the open latticework window of a covered walkway. Even from this distance she could make out individual laughter, cheers, and drunken singing. The majority sounded as if it were coming from furthest away, the outermost round.
Some sort of religious festival, she imagined. Though she’d heard nothing of it through the day.
She tapped the carved latticework: gold-painted wood. Hardly the stuff of prison bars.
Why, then, her restiveness? Shrugging, she returned to her pacing. Down the way, four of her sisters were on guard over the Sword-Dancers’ chambers – they had no need for reinforcements. Still, sleep would not come, and she had exited their suite of interconnected rooms.
Guest chambers, the chamberlain had explained.
Iko had taken one look at the fountains, the many scattered carpets, the cushions and divans, and felt her lips tighten with distaste.
More like the concubines’.
The chamberlain knew; how he’d smirked as he drew shut the doors upon them. Their captain, Hallens, demonstrated her displeasure by promptly kicking them open. The Hengan servants had jumped, dropping trays and towels, but at least the doors hadn’t been locked.
Now Iko walked a roofed path that crossed the gardens. Night birds called from ornamental trees and bushes bearing dark heavy blossoms. Frogs murmured and insects clouded round torches set about the trails. At the far end of the walkway, where doors led to the complex of the palace proper, a single man stood guard. Or perhaps was merely as restless as she. The slim, immaculately dressed figure of the city mage, Smokey.
Well. A single guard would be all that was required – if he or she were a mage of such a reputation. Steeling herself, she approached, and offered a slight bow of greeting. This the mage answered, only a touch condescendingly. Closer now, she saw that his shirt was of the finest brushed cotton, his footwear of the highest quality soft leather, and that his hair and beard were too evenly black – dyed, in point of fact, to hide a premature grey. Vanity was what she read in this. Vanity and an underlying insecurity. ‘A warm evening,’ she offered. ‘Is it always so warm this late?’
‘The plains can get quite hot, Sword-Dancer.’
She gestured out to the darkness beyond the decorative latticework of the walkway. ‘There is some sort of religious festival?’
The mage shook his head. ‘The locals are feting the arrival of the Crimson Guard . . . rumours are flying that they have come to save the city from you Kanese.’
Iko considered the mage’s words. ‘But they have not.’
‘They have not. They have come escorting a Grisian prince. He is keen to make a name for himself and has come to hunt the man-beast Ryllandaras. As so many have before – and failed.’
Iko grunted her rather shocked amazement at this.
‘Indeed. He and the Red Prince, K’azz, are close friends, so the talk goes. K’azz grew up in the Grisian court.’ The mage shot her a strange look. ‘A hostage, you understand.’
‘I see.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, they are only mercenaries. And the entire corps numbers only a thousand, yes?’
The mage inclined his head once more. ‘Indeed. They only take in new members when one of their number dies. And then only the greatest of those vying to enter.’
Iko now wondered what it was the mage was truly talking about; she decided it was war. She returned to studying the dark. ‘Mercenaries are untrustworthy and duplicitous allies. When it looks as though the cause is lost they will always betray or desert their employer. Sometimes they even offer their services to the opposing side.’
The mage nodded sagely. Iko thought she detected a hint of wood smoke in the air. It was not unpleasant; it reminded her of kneeling next to her family’s hearth, her mother cooking.
‘This is true – for most of the companies that have come and gone here in Quon. But not elsewhere. Have you not heard of the Grey Swords of Elingarth? The Guard are just as they. Can you think of a single reported incident when either deserted an employer? Or betrayed a contract? No?’ She shook her head. ‘Exactly. They dare not. It would destroy their reputation and none would hire them.’
‘Yet, in the end, war is not a profitable business.’
Iko waited, but the mage did not answer. She glanced to him and saw him eyeing her with a new expression in his eyes – a new respect.
He finally spoke, nodding to himself. ‘Indeed it is not – for those caught in it. And so I offer you advice, child . . . Urge your king away from this war. It will not win him the rewards he imagines. But more important, many southerners will die. And all for nothing. If he truly cared about the welfare of his people he would abandon this campaign.’
Stung, Iko faced him directly. ‘I am disappointed, old man. So speaks a city mage of Heng. What is next – base threats?’
But the mage merely stroked his beard, shaking his head. ‘It is I who am disappointed. Perhaps, in time, you will understand my words. I hope it will not be too late.’
Iko waved a curt farewell. ‘It is already too late, mage. I bid you good night.’ She turned away and stalked off. His last words came wafting through the darkness.
‘Remember. All that comes he has brought upon himself . . .’
Chapter 3
THE RED-HEADED GIRL’S name was Rheena. She and her two loyal followers, Shreth and Loor – Loor being the younger – played thieves’ games long familiar to Dorin. He recognized buttoning, fishing, and the crooked cross. Rheena picked the marks and usually served as the distraction. She sometimes asked for coin, or she’d catch a man’s roving gaze and offer herself. During the negotiations the mark would get run into by Shreth, or the two lads would start a fight right on top of him. She also proved a shrewd judge of character as, after eyeing one finely dressed fellow, she immediately started yelling that the bastard had felt her up. Under the surrounding hostile stares the embarrassed mark practically begged her to take a quarter-round to go away.
But theirs was a dangerous game. The streets were crowded with revellers and she made a mistake with one big fellow, who snatched Loor’s quick hand and twisted, sending him on his way with a kick. Shreth swung at him but was quickly laid out with a blow to the head. The man snatched Rheena by the arm and dragged her into an alley. Loor picked up a board but Dorin pulled him back, motioned for him to wait, and followed them himself.
In the narrow way the fellow had her up against a wall, one hand clutching her throat, the other holding her up by her crotch. Dorin cleared his throat. The fellow turned his head; his gaze was full of lazy confidence. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
Dorin motioned up the alley. ‘Put her down and walk away.’
The man dropped Rheena to the cobbles where she lay gasping for breath. He pointed a stubby finger at Dorin. ‘Dumb-fuck kids. Shouldn’t play with grownups.’
Dorin flexed his wrists to allow the thin blades he carried there to ease into his palms. The light in the alleyway was dim and flickering as revellers passed on the street waving torches and lanterns, but a change in the man’s expression told Dorin he’d seen them and knew what they meant. ‘Not worth it,’ Dorin told him. ‘Plenty of other girls out there. Walk away.’
A strange sort of knowing smile crept up the fellow’s lips and he opened his arms wide. ‘You gonna kill me, little man?’
‘No.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘I don’t kill for free.’
The other man frowned at that, stroked his chin with a wide paw. ‘Hunh. Makes sense.’ He kicked Rheena, who’d sat up. Shreth and Loor pressed up close behind Dorin, snarling their rage. ‘You, girl,’ the fellow demanded, ‘who do you work for?’
Rheena was rubbing her neck. ‘Fuck off.’
‘It ain’t Odd-Hand, I’m sure of that.’
Rheena started, surprised, and dropped her hand. ‘Tran,’ she spat, resentfully.
The big fellow grinned without humour. ‘Thought so. Well, you tell Tran to keep his brats off our streets. Right?’
‘Fine!’
‘Good for you. Not so stupid after all.’ He brushed his hands together. ‘Now run along.’
Still unsteady, Rheena climbed to her feet. Shreth and Loor rushed forward and helped her limp away. Dorin did not move.
‘You too, knife-boy.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Unimportant, lad. This is just business. Now g’wan.’
Dorin decided to let it go. He backed away, all the while keeping his eyes on the other man. The fellow – an enforcer? – watched him go, his amusement quite obvious.
Out on the street, Dorin asked, ‘What was that all about?’
Rheena waved it off. ‘Just a little border scuffle.’
‘Who was he?’
‘He works for Urquart.’
Urquart. Pung’s main rival for control of all the city’s black market and thievery. Rafall, he knew, worked for Urquart.
Rheena suddenly laughed uproariously. She tossed her flame-hued hair, the familiar fey light once more shining in her eyes. ‘Forget all that!’ She held out a fistful of coins. ‘Let’s get shit-faced drunk!’ Shreth and Loor howled their enthusiasm, joining their voices to the surrounding roar of revelry and singing.
With dawn, Dorin slid out of the dive where Rheena and her small loyal crew had finished their drinking. As the coin dwindled, the quality of the dives had slid precipitously, until they’d crashed in this dingy basement among snoring drunks. Dorin didn’t even think it a true business, just an abandoned room where you could find watered beer and the cheapest of narcotic chew and stale old d’bayang powder.
His head throbbed from the one tankard of disgusting beer he’d nursed and the smoke he couldn’t avoid inhaling. He rubbed his stinging eyes and headed off for the main street of the Outer Round. He circled pools of spilt beer and vomit, and stepped over unconscious revellers. Shop-owners tossed trash and the contents of night buckets into the streets. Hengans walked the streets holding their heads and groaning. He overheard stories of one large gang of celebrants, overcome with alcohol and confidence, that sallied out into the field in the pre-dawn. They’d been armed only with what they could pick up, and made a charge for the Kanese camp. Cooler heads had prevailed, however, or perhaps it was the chill prairie wind in their faces, or rumours that Ryllandaras had been seen in the vicinity, but they thought better of the assault and retreated. The mounted Kanese pickets had kindly allowed them to go with only a few jabs of their lances to hurry them along.
What made everyone twice as sick was the news on all tongues of the Crimson Guard’s being seen riding out of the north gate, the Gate of the Plains, that very morning. Evidently, as he and Rheena had deduced, they’d not come to rescue Heng but to escort a Grisian royal brat on yet another of those idiotic campaigns to hunt down the man-beast, Ryllandaras.
Walking the main way, Dorin found he was close to Ullara’s family stable. He jiggled the few poor coins in his pouch – his share of the remaining takings, hardly worth his bother, but she could clearly use them.
Though it was light, he risked the climb up the side and ducked into the open gable window. Within, the usual crowd of birds of prey roosted. They stirred uneasily at his entrance, but soon calmed and returned to cleaning their feathers. The night-hunters among them eased back into sleep. Dorin peered about for the gigantic raptor he’d glimpsed on earlier nights but saw no sign of it. Not surprising, as he doubted it could even fit through any of the windows. He bunched up some straw and lay back to join the other night-hunters in their rest.
He awoke to the birds’ muted mutterings and yawned, stretching. It was mid-day.
‘Good morning.’
He turned over. Ullara was sitting on a box, feet tucked up beneath her, watching him.
‘Morning.’
‘You were working last night,’ she said.
He nodded, then frowned; that hadn’t been a question.
She jumped up. ‘I’ll get some tea.’
‘Well . . . my thanks.’
‘Thanks?’ Her brows shot up. ‘Again? Your manners are improving.’
He searched for a response but she was gone down the trapdoor. Alone with the birds, he studied one stately russet plains falcon – the namesake of one of the Seti tribes. It returned his gaze with the cutting superiority that only a bird of prey can manage. Ullara returned with a cup of weak green tea, and a bowl of yogurt and bread.
‘My mother makes the yogurt,’ she explained. ‘We have goats.’
Dorin sat cross-legged and scooped up the mix. ‘It’s very good.’
‘Thank you, Dan—’ She stopped herself, blushing.
‘What was that? Dan?’
She plucked at her threadbare tunic, her head lowered, obviously mortified.
He cleared his throat. ‘You don’t have to say . . .’ Her hair, he saw, had dirt and straw clumped within, and hadn’t seen a brushing in a good long time.
She dared a quick glance up, her lip in her teeth. ‘I . . . I name all my . . . rescues.’
It seemed to him that she was going to say something different there, but he did not comment. He waited, instead.
She gestured to the tall plains falcon. ‘That’s Prince.’ She pointed to a savage-looking split-tail hawk. ‘Keen.’ A huge dozing tuft-eared owl, ‘Biter.’ Several more names followed: ‘Swift, Watcher, Fury, Red, Cutter.’
Dorin nodded to each then returned to Ullara. ‘And me?’
She hid her face once more, whispered, hushed, ‘Dancer.’
He raised a brow at that; he had indeed been forced to train for a time as a dancer – for flexibility and speed. And his teacher had always treated duels as a dance as well. ‘Well, thank you, Ullara.’ His hand rested on his coin-pouch and he jumped, remembering. ‘Oh, yes. This is for you.’ He held it out.
She eyed it but made no move to take it. After a moment, he laid it on the boards of the floor amid the straw and bird shit. ‘It isn’t much . . . I just thought . . .’
‘Thank you. My little brother is sickly, and we can’t . . . my thanks.’
‘I see. Well. I ought to be going.’
‘Yes.’ Again, so sad. How was it that he seemed only to make her sad? She reached to take up the bowl and his breath hissed from him in shock. ‘Your hands!’
She tried to hide them but he was far quicker and took both, turning them over. The flesh of the fingers, backs and palms was cracked so severely that dried blood filled most of the deep crevasses and much of the ridged flesh was white – dead and hardened. ‘You work with lye and other such chemicals?’
‘It is my job to clean all the tack, and treat the leather for softness.’
‘It’s eating your flesh to the bone – you will lose your fingers.’
She yanked her hands away. ‘I’ll not let my mother do it! Nor my sisters!’
He raised his own hands in open surrender. ‘No – I’m not suggesting. I’m just . . . Here.’ From his shirt he drew another pouch and pulled out a packet wrapped in waxed parchment. ‘Use this.’
‘What is it?’
‘A healing unguent. Here – let me.’ He urged her to give him her hands. She extended them like a scared, wary animal, and he
kneaded the honey-thick preparation into them. It softened with the heat, like a wax. He rubbed her fingers, careful to get it between.
‘This is alchemy,’ she said, her voice rising in alarm. ‘You bought this.’
‘Yes.’
She almost succeeded in yanking her hands from his. She hissed, ‘We – I – cannot afford this!’
‘Never mind. Consider it a gift.’ He returned to rubbing her hands. ‘Relax now.’ He hardly had to say it, as her shoulders had fallen, easing, and her eyes slowly shut. A dreamy smile came to her lips as he worked the unguent into the wounds.
‘This is infused with Denul magics,’ she murmured, seeming half awake.
‘Yes.’
‘You are wasting it on me.’
‘No. This is what it is for. Now . . . better, yes?’
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice barely audible. ‘Better.’
‘I’ve got to go. Will I see you again?’
She shook herself, blinking and straightening. ‘Yes. Certainly.’
‘Good. Now, take care of yourself.’ He rose, and, peering down at her, fought an urge to take her head in his hands and press a kiss to her forehead and whisper It will be all right. You will see. Everything will be all right. He shook himself instead and retreated to the window, waved, and started down the side of the stable. As he made the alley, it occurred to him that perhaps their roles were now reversed – he the rescuer and she the wounded trembling bird.
Alone, Ullara remained sitting. She allowed her eyes to close once more and tucked her hands under her chin and held them there, rocking. A smile came to her lips again, only this time much more fierce. She curled up among the scattered straw and breathed in the scents rising from her oh so warmed hands.
* * *
Silk knew of three hidden entrances to the catacombs far beneath Heng. One was through the sewers behind the palace, another was via a tunnel accessible along the riverside, while the third was theoretical: a door barred and secured in the very wall of the Outer Round. He opted for the riverside. He owned several river crafts and selected the one he used for his more clandestine journeys; one little more than a long narrow dugout. He unmoored it and paddled out among the forest of pilings that supported the countless docks, wharves, and waterside businesses.
Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 Page 8