Ullara fiercely shook her head. ‘Oh, no. They’re receiving regular convoys up from the south.’
Dorin lowered the bottle to stare at her quizzically. ‘How would you know that?’
She blushed once more, her gaze fluttering about the attic. ‘I . . . heard. In the market.’
‘That’s just gossip. Wild rumours and talk.’
She pressed her lips tight and squeezed her hands between her knees, saying nothing.
He handed her the bottle and cleared his throat. ‘Well . . . Ullara. Thank you so much for all you’ve done. You saved my life – you really have.’
She hung her head. ‘You’re going.’
‘Tomorrow, I think.’
‘You’re not fully healed!’
‘I won’t be for some time. But I can’t stay here any longer. I might be found.’ He lowered his head to catch her eye. ‘Then there’d be some awkward questions for you.’
She turned away, hunching further.
‘I’m sorry, but I have to go. I can’t stay for ever. You know that.’
‘Just a little longer,’ she whispered.
‘Tomorrow, Ullara,’ he answered, just as softly. He wanted to soothe her, perhaps hold her to comfort her, but that did not feel right to him and so he took her hand – so calloused and rough for one of her tender age – and kissed it.
She burst into tears then and ran from the attic.
He was left wondering whether he’d done the right thing. Or the wrong thing.
She did not return with the dusk, nor with the next dawn. He waited into the morning and then, reluctantly, swung out of the gable that offered the most cover, and descended to an alley.
He slipped into the street. It was surprisingly empty for the time of day; the ongoing siege must be taking its toll on business. He would search out his stashes to see if any remained, then strike east for Unta. Perhaps downriver to Cawn then onward by ship. Best to avoid the long dreary overland route.
He was heading north, along the Outer Round, wondering just how much barge traffic there might be downriver from Heng, when someone stepped out and called, ‘Dorin! What a surprise to see you.’
He damned these last weeks of inactivity – they had obviously dulled his senses outrageously – loosened his shoulders, and looked up to see Rheena. The girl gestured, inviting him into a narrow side street. ‘I think we should talk.’
‘I agree.’
Once round the corner of the street she surprised him once more by lunging in close and planting her mouth on his. She said through their lips, ‘They just want to talk, Dorin. Just talk.’
He flinched away, stunned. She glared. He glanced out to the street to see two obvious specimens of street muscle closing. ‘Rheena . . .’ He backed away, drew his blades.
‘Just talk!’ she repeated, pleading.
‘So he may have told you, girl.’
Four big fellows now blocked the alley mouth. Dorin didn’t even have to look behind to know it was a dead end. Rheena had chosen well, damn her.
He readied himself, adjusting his footing. He may be weakened, but he was certain he could still take these plodding amateurs.
Then they raised their hands, empty. ‘Just a word,’ the leader called.
Dorin continued backing away. ‘Say it.’
‘A meeting. Pung might have a proposition for you.’
Dorin spotted a repeating course of raised brick high in one wall. He sheathed his blades and leaped all in one motion. His fingertips caught the course. His side flared with pain. Grunting, he heaved himself up to a higher course and yet another. He paused there, glanced down at the five upturned faces, Rheena included. ‘Sorry, don’t trust your boss enough to come along.’ With the tips of his feet on the courses he made quick progress to the third-storey roof.
‘Name a place, then!’ came a last angry call from below.
Dorin peered over the edge. ‘There’s no place I’d feel—’ He stopped himself. Actually, there was one place in the city where he would feel quite safe from the damned man. He crouched at the lip. ‘Okay. There is one place I’d be willing to meet your boss – should he have the guts to show . . .’
Chapter 7
‘I DO NOT want you here,’ said the black-haired Dal Hon swordsman, practically pouting.
Dorin was leaning against the doorjamb of the mausoleum, watching the empty night-time Street of the Gods. He said, distractedly, ‘I’m really not interested in what you want.’
‘Leave now.’
Dorin cupped a hand at his ear and made a show of listening to the rear of the chamber. ‘I don’t hear the priest objecting.’
‘He only talks to me,’ the youth ground through clenched teeth.
Dorin crossed his arms, shot a quick glance to the street. ‘You mean like an imaginary friend?’
The youth jerked forward, a hand slapping to the much-worn grip of his sword. Dorin imagined he could hear the wire, horn, and tang creaking in that white-knuckled clench.
He remained calm – outwardly, at least. He’d guessed that the youth slew only those who threatened the temple, or his god, or something like that. In which case, the lad’s own bizarre self-imposed strictures protected him. He’d just have to be careful not to overstep some stupid obscure religious law like eating horse on a new moon, or wearing a pointy hat indoors.
The youth subsided into sullen silence after that, which suited Dorin fine. He kept watch without being further accosted. His one remaining concern was the child – she lay as before amid rumpled old blankets against a wall. Asleep this time, at least. Yet kept in a mausoleum? What was this lad thinking?
‘Yours?’ he asked, pointing to the girl.
The lad’s jaws hardened. ‘My ward. Why?’
‘Just wondering why you haven’t passed her along to some family.’
‘She is safest here with me. None shall harm her here. I’ve sworn it.’
Dorin raised a hand in surrender. ‘Just wondering.’
As the night hours passed, the street emptied of legitimate devotees while a crowd came to gather on the street in either direction from the mausoleum. A rather burly crowd for this particular thoroughfare; not one black-shawled grandmother among them.
Some ten of the sturdy fellows detached themselves from the crowd and advanced. Dorin slipped further into the cover of the stone jamb. ‘Far enough!’ he called. ‘No sense continuing with this unless the man himself is here.’
The street enforcers parted, revealing another figure among them, this one far shorter and broader. The fellow padded forward with a slow rolling gait. His round bald head gleamed with sweat even in the cool night air. His body was just as round, with a great protruding pot belly and thick trunk-like arms. If this was Pung himself, then Dorin wondered why he wasn’t known as Pung the bung. He was dressed rather conventionally for an underworld boss, in plain wide trousers, a dark blue silk shirt and dark green jacket.
‘Are you Pung?’ Dorin called.
‘What is this?’ the black-haired youth hissed from the hall. Dorin ignored him. The man nodded his shiny bullet-like head, then advanced up to the mausoleum’s stone threshold.
‘You wanted to talk?’ Dorin asked.
The man raised a hand for silence, then knelt. ‘First things first,’ he said in a thick, wet voice, like molasses. On his knees, he crossed his arms at his chest and bowed, then extended his arms in front of him. ‘May Hood preserve me,’ he murmured and stood, grunting with effort.
Meaty hands on his hips, he studied Dorin up and down. ‘So. You’re the fella causing all the ruckus.’
‘Depends on the ruckus.’
Pung rubbed his heavy jowls, cocking an eye. ‘Well, let’s see now . . . There’s a baker’s dozen or so on a barge south of the city that included an officer of the Kan Elites. Then there’s a near equal number of Kan Nightblades gutted across roofs and spattered on streets.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
Pung shook his head and
gave him a disgusted look. ‘Lad, I got eyes on the roofs. I see the Nightblades comin’ and goin’. There’s nothin’ that moves in this town that I don’t know about.’
‘That include the city mages?’
‘I’m smart enough to stay out of their way.’
Dorin sensed, rather than felt or heard, the youth come up behind him. ‘Leave our threshold,’ the young man demanded.
Pung raised his wide hands, empty, palm outward. ‘I come offering worship.’
‘You are no devotee of Hood.’
‘Oh, I am, lad. I am.’
Dorin looked to the ceiling and crossed his arms. ‘Is this what we’re here to talk about?’
Pung’s lips drew down in disapproval of such rudeness. ‘I’m thinking you’ve been doing a heap of free killin’ for someone who claims to do it only for pay.’
‘And?’
‘Want to get paid?’ One edge of his heavy mouth crooked up with that question.
Dorin did indeed want to get paid. However, now that he saw which way things were going, he decided to try a little fishing instead. ‘I’m wondering why you need me when you have such a deadly mage.’
The squat fellow’s hairless thick brows clenched in confusion, then he burst out with a harsh guffawing laugh. ‘Oh, yeah! That guy. My fearsome mage. Ha! I’ll drag him out for you if you like.’
Dorin was puzzled by the reaction, but made a show of waving it off as unimportant. He said, ‘Well, I would like to get paid.’
Pung inclined his blunt head. ‘Good. We should talk. But not here. Private, don’t you think?’
‘I’ll pay you a visit.’
The man’s small eyes narrowed in their deep pockets, then the edge of his mouth curled up again in appreciation of the comment. ‘Soon.’ He backed away. As he did so, he raised a finger to the youth. ‘Your time will come, lad.’
‘Not before yours,’ the young man answered with what Dorin thought a strange tone of certainty.
The two watched Pung’s guards encircle him once more, and all move off with many glances back over their shoulders.
Once they were alone, the youth’s blade was suddenly across the threshold, barring the way out. The speed of the move shocked Dorin. ‘Do not follow this man.’
Blinking to recover, Dorin grated, ‘Or . . . you will do what?’
‘I will do nothing. It is what I see.’
‘And that is?’
‘Death. There will be death.’
‘That’s the general idea. Or do you mean mine?’
‘No, not yours.’
‘Whose?’
‘Hood commands my silence in this.’
Dorin pressed a hand to the flat of the blade and edged it away. ‘Then stand aside. And never interfere with me again. Or I will kill you. Is that clear?’
‘It is very clear.’
The way the youth spoke disturbed Dorin, but he could not pin down the reason. He nodded to emphasize his point and walked out, slipping round the side of the mausoleum to head in the opposite direction from the toughs. Frankly, the lad’s entire manner made him uneasy. He had to wonder whether the fellow was actually sane. Perhaps he wasn’t just pretending to hear voices to delude the gullible. Perhaps he was hearing them, and he was the deluded one. Or, far scarier, perhaps he was hearing them and they were real.
* * *
Just because they were hostages didn’t mean that Iko and the rest of the Sword-Dancers neglected their training. Their daily routines had even become something of a local attraction as city aristocrats and members of the rich merchant families made a point of gathering to watch, as if the display were some sort of sport. Sitting after a long run of twelve katas, Iko worked on recovering her breath and watched as well. It occurred to her that one reason for the crowds might be that many of the girls chose to exercise in a tight chest wrap and loincloth only. Because they wished to soak up the last of the sun, they would say. But Iko knew some enjoyed showing off.
Hallens, sweaty herself from recent sparring, came and sat next to her. Her eyes were on the ongoing matches, but she said, beneath her breath, ‘I have word the king is becoming impatient and that tonight the Blades will see employment.’
‘Who?’
‘The one herself.’
Iko sat back, surprised and, for a fleeting instant, a touch disappointed. Chulalorn would order such a move? Still – it wasn’t as if she was nobility. ‘We will be on alert all through the night.’
‘No. Nothing out of the ordinary. We must not be seen as complicit.’
‘Then . . . what?’
‘Take one of your midnight walks. Take someone with you. One you trust. Watch for any alarm.’
‘I would chose Rei.’
‘Good choice.’ Hallens stood, stretching, and Iko sat back, now quite distracted from the bouts. He is the king, she reminded herself. The Nightblades serve him as they served his father. It was not her place to judge. She was also a mere servant sworn to serve.
Still, the idea that the Protectress would stoop to such a dishonourable deed had earlier disgusted her. Now she must serve as a near accessory when the king orders the same thing? She clenched her lips tight and eased her shoulders. He was the king. His was the right, as ruler. Hers was to obey.
She could not help being rather subdued through the day and later as they sat together for the evening meal. This they took cross-legged on the floor of their quarters, serving one another; in Itko Kan, and many other southern cities, chairs were looked upon as rather odd and awkward contrivances.
After, she waited aside, quiet. This too was easily accomplished, for in the eyes of her sisters she was Hallens’ new whipping-girl, unable to do anything right, and constantly in need of correction.
When the appointed hour neared she rose and approached Rei where she sat among the sisters, talking and laughing about gods knew what. Iko couldn’t fathom how anyone could still have anything to talk over after living together for so many years.
‘Walk with me, Rei,’ she said.
The tall sister – almost all were taller than Iko – waved her off. ‘Find another chaperon.’
‘I choose you.’
Rei made a face and peered round for Hallens. Iko pointed. ‘She’s over there.’
Rei went to her and Iko watched while Hallens waved her off in turn. She stalked back, picked up her sword, and marched off. ‘Fine!’
They walked the grounds. Or rather, Iko walked the grounds, while Rei shambled after, sighing and huffing her annoyance. Iko tried to keep her gaze from the tall dome of the Inner Focus, which some named the temple, with its single tall tower behind. But she kept glancing that way, wondering just what was transpiring behind those stone walls.
After a time Rei ceased her complaints. Then she said, ‘You won’t see one.’
Iko jumped. ‘See what? What are you talking about?’
‘A Nightblade. You won’t see one.’
‘Of course I won’t! Whatever made you think that?’
Rei glanced to the walls. ‘I see you watching the roofs and such. But you never see them. Not that you’d want to anyway. They’re not what the songsters make them out to be.’
Iko studied the slim woman, who was pushing back her long straight bangs as was her constant habit. ‘Have you seen them?’
‘No. Not that I want to. They’re just murderers. Romanticized cowardly back-stabbers.’
Iko was almost shocked. ‘Cowardly?’
‘They won’t face anyone honestly. So they come in the night, from behind.’
Iko cast another quick glance to the dome of the Inner Focus. ‘I don’t know . . . I imagine it must take courage to enter enemy territory all alone, without retreat, and know you are dead if you are discovered.’
The woman was unmoved. ‘I hear their graduation test is to strangle a baby.’
Iko stared. ‘Strangle—’ She laughed nervously. ‘Now who is the one listening to stories?’
‘This is what I hear.’
Iko turned away, hugged one shoulder against the chill of the night air. What an absurd claim. Chulalorn would employ such monstrous creatures? Still, after such an act, the only thing left to cling to would be the service that demanded it . . .
She kneaded her shoulder, wondering, could there be similar stories circulating regarding them?
For a time neither spoke, then Rei drew a breath that might have been a sigh. ‘It is . . . pleasant, out here, Iko. The air is welcome. One can almost imagine . . .’
‘That we are not prisoners?’
A laugh. ‘We can escape from here whenever we wish.’
‘So we like to think.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we could.’
‘But we haven’t yet.’
‘You are always worrying. Don’t worry.’
‘I was just considering—’ Iko stopped herself because she saw a shadow. She glimpsed it clearly as a long drawn out lance thrown across the ground in a flash. She spun to see the dome of the Inner Focus dimming like a fading ember.
Behind her, Rei’s breath caught.
‘Did you see that?’ Iko gasped, wondering whether she’d imagined it.
‘I can hardly see now. We should report this.’
‘You report. I will take a look.’
‘Be careful.’ Rei dashed off.
Iko headed to the nearest doors leading to the inner chambers. Two palace guards stood watch. She didn’t know if she should be relieved by this or not. Did it mean that the Nightblades hadn’t made it in? She stopped a good distance beyond sword range and pointed up past them. ‘Did you see that?’
‘See what?’
‘The dome. I thought I saw it glow.’
‘You must be mistaken,’ said one.
‘We saw no such thing,’ said the other.
Of course you didn’t. She didn’t know what to say to that and so shrugged. ‘Well . . . I guess I was mistaken.’
‘I suggest you stay in your chambers from now on, Sword-Dancer.’
‘Perhaps so.’ She bowed a farewell, and backed away.
Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 Page 16