The two watched it disappear between the rolling hills as the sun broached the east. Shalmanat let go a long sigh and rubbed one arm. Silk thought her mood certainly melancholy, perhaps even regretful. And he, who had never known the emotion in regard to anyone, found himself jealous of a monster.
* * *
She stood on a rooftop in the quiet of night, overlooking a large compound in the north of the outermost precinct of the city. The strange phenomena disturbing Kurald Galain, the Elder Warren of Darkness, seemed to emanate from there.
She wished to solve this mystery, but she was wary as well. Was this a renegade priestess of Elder Dark? Or a gifted thaumaturgic researcher, a sorcerer out of Jacuruku? For all she knew it might even be one of her brothers or sisters. Not all were accounted for. Barging in would force a confrontation . . . one the city surrounding her might not survive.
And K’rul would disapprove.
She lowered her gaze to her hands, turning them over as if examining them for the first time. So clumsy, so ineffectual, these instruments. How hard it was to be the last. The last to give herself over to a role, persona, or manifestation – call it what you would. Not that any choice remained even if she wished to abandon her path. The High King’s curse had seen to that.
The mortal’s realm yet remained open to her. And with it – a mortal’s fate.
She clenched her fists. Felt the slide of the ligaments pulling the bones together; felt the pulse of the blood within. Such a fragile vessel. It was a wonder anything could be accomplished by them. And yet, wonders had.
It was a mystery beyond her kind’s ken. How could this be? Were they missing something? Was there some flaw within them? This was the mystery she had given over her life to solving.
She felt, rather than heard, the light footfalls about her and let her head sink in frustration. ‘I thought your masters and I had reached an agreement,’ she said.
‘We acknowledge only one master,’ a voice responded from her rear.
She turned, took in four black-clad figures ranged about her. ‘Go back and ask him if this is his will,’ she answered.
‘We do not take orders from you,’ said another.
She turned to the second speaker. ‘That was not an order. That was a way out. I suggest you take it.’
‘We suggest you leave the city. We grant no special privileges.’
She drew a hard breath to control her annoyance, then said, slowly and deliberately: ‘I neither have, nor want, any part in your little dispute.’
‘You force us to act, then,’ the second answered, and the four shifted, readying fighting daggers, their blades as dark as night.
She merely stilled momentarily and in that instant the tiles beneath her feet gathered a layer of frost and the air around her crackled. Mist now ran from her in rivulets, curling and streaming. She reached out to a Nightblade and he gasped, clutched at a throat now choked by crystals of frost, and toppled.
The other three rushed at once.
She brushed aside the first’s thrust. The wrist froze and shattered as she blocked. The blade of the second burst into shards as it slammed against her, while the body of the third fell one way and the head another when the woman’s hand brushed through the neck as if it were thin cloth.
The first two tore at their throats, unable to produce a sound, and fell.
The woman knelt over one, considered the man’s cowled upturned face. Ice glittered on the cloth. She watched as a wave of crystals swept over the eyes, turning them into frosted milky orbs as hard as stone. ‘I am Sister of Cold Nights,’ she told the corpse. ‘Do not try my ire.’
Straightening, she examined her hands once again and cursed under her breath. This was not, she knew, what K’rul had intended. She crossed the rooftop and descended to the street, still irritated; that had been one of the best overlooks she’d found.
* * *
Hallens had everyone on full alert in the days and nights following the Nightblades’ intimation of an attack upon the Protectress. Nothing, however, changed at all. No alarms, searches, attempted arrests, or condemnations. No tumult or confusion showed itself among the staff and functionaries of the palace. Food was delivered as before; laundry taken away for cleaning without dispute.
It was, Iko had to admit, the strangest house arrest she’d ever heard of. The only change of behaviour was enforced among the Sword-Dancers themselves: none walked alone during the day; twice the normal numbers stood watch through the night; and a self-imposed curfew was in force.
Questions raised by these new orders were met by silence from Hallens. Iko’s personal status as the sisters’ whipping-girl remained. She found no opportunity for any private conversation with her commander.
The situation was almost more of a trial to her patience than she could bear. Her sisters’ disdain and superior airs galled her more than she ever imagined it would have. Was status among her sisters so important to her after all? She was, she decided, a disappointment to herself.
All this time she’d been so certain that common opinion meant nothing to her. That she knew her value and those who could not see it were fools. Now, staring out of a barred window, her arms crossed fiercely, fists knotted beneath her upper arms, she wondered who was the fool after all. When all those around you considered you a fool, so you were, by all accounts. And thus to history as well. For when people were questioned regarding the past they would say, ‘That little fool? She was no use.’ And so it would be recorded, and so is history shown to be as accurate as those consulted in its compiling.
To add to her foul mood the worst of the offenders among her sisters, led by Yvonna and Torral, now came crowding around her. ‘Is this your doing, then?’ Yvonna sneered.
Still facing out of the window, and knowing full well what they meant, she answered, ‘Is what my doing?’
‘All these new rules. The curfew.’
‘What do you care? You never went out anyway.’
‘Did you try running off?’ Torral taunted. ‘You a traitor to our lord king?’
Iko rounded on this one – not the best swordswoman of them, but one of the stronger, and certainly the most gleefully brutal. ‘Don’t push me today, Torral,’ she said, sounding tired even to her ears.
The woman’s eyes lit up with the chance to deal pain. ‘I wouldn’t even break a sweat.’
‘Just take your stupid games elsewhere.’
Torral pursed her full lips into a moue of petulance. ‘Oh, poor little Iko. Poor little baby girl. Run to Hallens now, won’t you?’
Iko raised her eyes to the roof and hissed a long-suffering breath between her teeth. ‘Fine.’ She waved Torral to follow. ‘C’mon. Let’s do this. I’m bored to death anyway.’
Torral’s one-sided smile climbed even higher. ‘You’re stupider than I thought.’ She pushed on ahead to the main hall of their rooms, trailed by her gaggle of hangers-on. ‘Practice blades here!’ she shouted.
Iko followed, alone.
All the sisters gathered round. Furniture and rugs were hurriedly pushed aside. Iko stripped down to loose trousers and a tunic, slipped off her sandals. One of her sisters, Rei, crossed to her carrying a wooden practice blade.
‘She’ll go for the ribs,’ Rei warned, speaking low.
‘I know. And thanks.’
Rei just gave a sour smile. ‘Better win, or she’ll be unbearable afterwards.’
‘Don’t I know it.’ Iko glanced about, saw Hallens among the crowd, her arms crossed, looking on with barely concealed disapproval. But not interfering. No, better to let them vent a little steam, Iko imagined. Not that that would help her when she was lying on the ground with a broken skull.
Torral’s gang urged her on and laughed at muttered comments too low for Iko to make out.
No one offered her any encouragement. Most, however, were quiet.
Torral stepped out quickly, making the air hum with cuts from her blade. ‘Let’s go, little one. No chance to run away now.’
&n
bsp; Iko couldn’t believe how infuriating the woman was; she decided to come out fighting. ‘Does it look like I’m running, you stupid cow?’
Torral’s brows shot up and her hard smile widened. ‘Oho! The kitten’s trying out its claws! Have to slap her down, I think.’
Iko stepped out and struck a ready stance, her body sideways, the blade extended, its tip resting at just over the height of her nose. Torral bowed mockingly then responded. She eased forward until a single sword-length separated them – they were now, effectively, committed to a mutual kill zone.
Iko waited, her attention on her opponent’s chest – her centre of gravity. At the same time, however, she took in the wider picture as a sort of flowing commentary on where that centre of gravity might be headed.
Torral shifted into an overhead ready position, blade held downward in a vertical line bisecting her shoulder.
Iko ignored the invitation to enter into the dance of stance, pose, and counter-pose. The dance might be stylish and impressive to onlookers – especially the ignorant ones – but in her view it had no place in a real fight. Torral, she knew, wanted the fight. And so she would wait; Torral would have to come to her.
Iko was a counter-attacker by instinct. She tended to wait for her opponent to commit herself then responded in the most deadly and efficient manner. She also knew that her waiting suited Torral; the woman loved to rush in to overbear and punish her opponents. In short, Iko had the advantage of knowing Torral better than Torral knew her.
After a series of pretty stances – all technically very well executed – meant to impress her lackeys and admirers among the Sword-Dancers, Torral turned serious. She struck the forward ready pose, a power stance, her favourite. Iko noted the tensing of the shoulders, the flaring nostrils as Torral drew in extra air for the rush.
The flurry came so fast she had no chance to think. At this level everything moved beyond conscious thought; the body ran on muscle memory, moving instinctively, while the mind . . . well, the mind floated, attempting not to interfere just yet. No one this proficient planned what to do. You did not plan . . . you waited. Waited for an opening.
The staccato clack of the training swords rang like an avalanche of clattering rocks within the chambers. Torral would have driven Iko right across the great main central plaza if Iko were not so true to the rule of always stepping sideways, always circling round. Torral followed raining blow after blow that Iko slipped and parried while she watched . . . waiting.
Iko almost felt sorry for her sister. For they were in truth dancing now.
And she was leading.
Her opening came when she was piqued to see Torral employ the same series of cuts twice in a row. Was this how low her opinion was of her, she wondered, that she should be so careless? Or perhaps it was a measure of how sure she was of winning. In any case, Iko had one possible key and waited, watching.
Torral continued in her relentless attack, ever swinging, her blade clacking from Iko’s in an unremitting display of aggression. Another would have bided her time, waiting for the woman to pause out of utter exhaustion, but Iko knew better. This was Torral’s natural pace – she could maintain it all day. Keep and hold the initiative was the woman’s credo.
And so Iko circled, ever watching for the first of that repeated series of cuts. It appeared, and in that instant Iko’s body twitched in muscle memory. She slipped the second cut to ride over the extended blade and strike the woman across the left of her face with the crack of wood against bone.
Torral staggered backwards, more in shock than pain. She pressed a hand to her mouth and came away with blood. Her dark pupils, fixed upon Iko, grew wide in outrage. ‘You little shit,’ she breathed, nearly in disbelief, and charged once more.
The bout should have been over at the moment of that killing blow. But none intervened as Torral’s blade was a blur against Iko’s, hammering and thrusting in a dizzying display of fury and technical brilliance.
And still Iko circled, giving ground, leading her opponent in another dance.
Until she saw a chance to counter, this time across the gut. Winded, the other woman fell to her knees, gasping for breath. Iko considered the bout finished then.
Yet Torral struggled to rise once more, gasping and spitting, slurring curses.
Iko had had enough. She stepped in, sword raised, meaning to strike at half-power across the back of the skull to knock the fool out, when a shout of command from Hallens froze her arms.
‘Enough!’
She backed away from where Torral still struggled to rise. The swordwomen parted for Hallens. ‘We will need all swords for what is to come,’ she told Iko, waving her off. She yanked Torral up by the arm, shook her. ‘A good bout. A good lesson – yes, Torral?’ Wiping the spit and blood from her chin the dazed woman gave a curt resentful nod. ‘Yes. Very good,’ Hallens answered for her. She pushed her into the arms of her followers among the Sword-Dancers then walked off without any acknowledgement of Iko’s performance.
Across the way, grinning like a cat, Rei mouthed a silent Well done.
Iko handed over the battered wooden blade and stormed away. What stupidity! What a useless unnecessary waste of time and effort. None of this was bringing them any closer to an answer to their current predicament.
She returned to the barred window, crossed her quivering, numb arms. She didn’t even feel good about winning. It could be bad for the unit’s cohesion. Torral might just be dense enough to be resentful of the beating, though she’d brought it upon herself. Iko feared she might have made an enemy among her sisters. Better, perhaps, if she’d simply taken a hit and gone down. Then it would be over. Everyone would be satisfied and leave her alone as not worth their time.
Now she had yet one more stupid thing to worry about.
* * *
He decided he would do it before the striking of the mid-night bell. Rafall usually stayed up far into the later hours going over his books. He would not expect a visitor. It would be routine; no different from all his earlier visits.
Rafall would be alone, as he almost always was. He’d enter, strike, and leave with none even being aware of his arrival. Rafall would even greet him as a friend. Invite him to sit. Offer a drink. It would be simple. Comically so. Not a test of his abilities at all, he reflected.
No – this was intended as a test of something very different.
Something Dorin was not certain he wished to succeed in.
He yanked on the cord wrapped round his forearm, tested the tiny collapsed grapnel snug there against his wrist and wondered, why this hesitation?
The test was straightforward, surely.
Yes. A test of his dependability. His degree of, dare he say . . . pliability? Or perhaps . . . prostration?
His teeth were clenched now, and he clasped his hands to either side of his neck, where a hidden iron lip, a slim collar, rose from his armoured vest. It was meant as a channel that could possibly catch a blade – a light one, of course. Something he’d yet had to test, though a compatriot in Tali swore by the precaution.
He ran his thumbs along the cloth-disguised iron ridge and the memory came to him of that prick, Tran, yanking Loor by the hair to a pillar for his test. His initiation, Tran had called it. His initiation into humiliation, degradation, and meek submission in order to belong.
Pung, he believed, suspected some sort of prior patronage or business relationship between him and Rafall. And thus the test. This initiation into Pung’s ranks.
Was this to be his test of submissiveness and self-degradation?
Yet what did it matter? He’d trained as a killer. It was his job. Nothing more. Why then the distaste for this one? It was not a question of morality. No, he’d dispensed with any such artificial external measures of right or wrong long ago. It was internal. It had everything to do with his own self-measure.
The problem was, he’d sworn a vow to himself. More than a vow, really. A pledge to what he considered himself to be. To his integrity. His pri
de.
He might kill any man or woman . . . but he would bend to none.
There. It was out in the open. Now the question was what to do about it. He let go a long hard exhalation and grasped hold of the edges of the window before him and leaned there, breathing loudly into the night. His arms trembled, rigid. As if ready to yank him out instantly – or to hold him back. He felt as if he were drowning.
He’d agreed. He had to go through with it. Yet he’d already decided not to join any crew or gang or party where any sort of submission was the condition of entry. He was too stupidly proud, he supposed, to compromise himself. That’s just how it was.
The answer, it came to him, would be to leave it to Rafall. The man had done right by him so far. Certainly, he’d knocked him down the day he’d entered the city – but that was business, before they’d struck any agreement or professional understanding. He held no grudge for that. It had been a rather bracing lesson, in fact.
There. He would put the point to Rafall. Yes. And the argument would be very pointed indeed.
*
The yell rang through the rooms in the early pre-dawn hours. Rafall’s guards bolted from their chairs where they dozed before the only access to their boss’s rooms – the base of a steep ladder up to the garret chambers. They bashed and hammered the closed trapdoor, but found it blocked by some weight above, and so dashed down the stairs and out to the street to climb up from the outside.
Yet Rafall’s headquarters had been deliberately designed to be near impossible to access from without, and so it was some time before the nimblest and lightest of his boys and girls managed the tricky ascent. Along the way, up gable and overhang, they encountered splashes of fresh drying blood and signs of a struggle in broken slate shingles, scraps of torn cloth, and a dropped bloodied knife – one of Rafall’s.
Within, they levered the furniture from the trapdoor and allowed the guard’s entrance. They searched, but amid the clutter of the struggle found no sign of Rafall himself. Blood lay everywhere, quite liberally so. One girl discovered a crossbow bolt driven into the soft wood panelling of the wall opposite the man’s desk. Their patron’s last ditch defence, missing its mark.
Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 Page 19