Suspicion immediately fixed upon Pung. The ugly toad had long been envious of Rafall’s ease and camaraderie with the street youths – a touch wholly beyond him. Many were for going after him themselves. But Gremain, Rafall’s long-time lieutenant and eldest among the thieves and clubbers, reined in the hotter heads, cuffed a few, and ordered them to clean up while he and a few others took word of this to Urquart. It would then be up to him, the man Rafall answered to, to decide on any course of action.
This settled the matter and everyone set to clearing up – simultaneously pocketing whatever they could lay their hands on and searching for any hidden cache. Gremain nodded to a few of his most trusted lads and they came down the ladder after him. He knew that if Urquart were true to form, then all Rafall’s old territory should come to him in an orderly straightforward descent. In the meantime, he’d let the others ransack the man’s quarters. It would serve to help smooth over any resentment among those who might otherwise consider the job theirs.
*
At noon the next day, a battered half-sunk open boat loaded with refugees fleeing Heng pulled up on the south shore of the Idryn. Kanian soldiers met them there and searched for any weapons, while confiscating any valuables they could find. Their captain then read aloud from a prepared document stating that it was solely by the grace of the good King Chulalorn of Itko Kan, head of the Southern League, that the refugees were granted freedom from the Hengan yoke, and that from this point onward they were to consider themselves subjects of said Southern League, and legally owed their allegiance to King Chulalorn.
Among the rag-tag mass of refugees was one rather overweight Hengan with a full oiled beard, his fingers bearing indentations where rings had been yanked away by the soldiers, and bleeding earlobes where other rings had been just as brutally removed. He wore a torn and bloodstained shirt and trousers of fine buff leather. He’d obviously taken a head wound recently as the cloth wrapped there was still red with fresh blood. Long after most of the others had gone their way this fellow stood peering westward, to where the distant walls of Heng were just visible through the trees lining the shore. He sighed, his thick rounded shoulders rising and falling, and he tucked his hands into the belt that held his wide belly and frowned pensively. Then he too turned away, shaking his head, and started on the long walk east downriver to Cawn.
Chapter 9
NOW THAT DORIN had secured the patronage of Li Heng’s black market boss, he was, truth be told, damned bored. Pung wouldn’t let him out of his sight. He had to remain within the compound; couldn’t leave without permission. It was as if the fellow didn’t trust him.
Perhaps Pung was only now realizing that it might not have been a good idea to order Dorin to murder his previous employer.
Certainly there were occasional jobs accompanying regular muscle on routine assignments to collect debts. But these were drying up as the siege dragged on. Indeed, even the thieves now came back empty-handed; it seemed the markets were now almost entirely empty and deserted. Yet Pung had him still remain close, unnamed, the lurking ominous threat. Nothing challenging. No real work. He was beginning to feel like a caged exotic pet. The sneaking suspicion now nagged that perhaps Pung had hired him – if hired was really the right word – just to take him out of everyone else’s hands.
In which case he’d sold himself far too cheaply. In fact, he was beginning to think that he’d made a very serious mistake in accepting anyone’s patronage at all. It just didn’t feel right. It wasn’t his style.
Still, his hobby remained: his pursuit of the mystery that was the Dal Hon mage.
Everyone, it seemed, knew he was down there, chained and locked in the dark. All the children forced to work about the compound, cleaning and running errands, seemed to know; certainly all those looting the tombs did. But none would speak of it. When he put the question to the dirt-faced kids, most looked frightened. A few, however, shot him narrow gauging looks. As if the prisoner were a secret they possessed and he was not to be trusted with it. An odd reaction, that.
His casual request of Gren to be allowed to go below was met with a similar silence and a long, measuring stare. And that was it. Not even a denial. That Gren ignored the question said everything. And of course Dorin couldn’t raise it again; to do so would look . . . suspicious.
So he was powerless. For a time. Then he noticed how many kids were smeared in the greenish silt and clay of the underground tombs. Too many to be accounted for by the few he watched using the one main entrance Gren had taken him through.
So he kept watch. Very carefully of course, from the most distant vantages available. And soon enough he noticed how many of the child labourers disappeared around certain woodpiles yet didn’t emerge. How many appeared from certain run-down storage huts without being seen to enter.
Pung and his crew of dim thugs didn’t seem aware of what was going on. But then they had nothing but contempt for the children, kicking and beating them at will. Why should they suspect them to be capable of their own deceptions?
One evening he started following them. Eventually one girl in filthy baggy rags, or at least what he thought was a girl, slid into a gap between piled logs and disappeared. It was a tight fit but he was quite lean and had trained for such narrow passages himself.
The gap led to a hole and a choice. Dive in headfirst and see what might await? Hadn’t the girl? Yet who knew what might lie in store for trespassers below? A pit? Sharpened stakes?
Lying there in the dark he decided that perhaps he was letting his imagination get the better of him. They were, after all, only kids. He sidled forward, lost his grip as his palms slid and slipped on clay, and was taken by the slick wet slope.
He thanked the gods he didn’t yell. He landed in utter darkness amid a litter of trash that he recognized by feel as rags, sandals, torn shoes, wooden slats and rope. Reflexively, he gathered his feet beneath himself and stood, only to bash his head on a timber. He ducked, biting back curses and biting his lips as well. Stars danced in the blackness of his vision.
He knelt in the dark, bent forward, gripping his head, and waited for his vision to adjust. Slowly he made out that he occupied a crude room, or cellar, hacked from the dirt. What glimmers of natural light there were shone down from the chute above, while the weak flickering yellow of lamplight glowed from a tunnel ahead. He tried walking hunched over, but found that the roof was still too low and so was reduced to shuffling forward on all fours.
He crawled for a time, cautiously, wary of detection – though why he should be wary of a pack of children he wasn’t certain – and was surprised to find a veritable warren of tunnels running beneath the compound, and no doubt beyond. At one corner he detected the murmuring of a voice and paused, listening, then followed the sound.
The raw dirt tunnel ended at a junction with a much larger, properly excavated and stone-lined one. He straightened, carefully, and padded forward to another corner. Here the voice was much stronger, amplified perhaps by the semicircular stone walls. He peeked round the corner and so confused was he by what he saw that it took him a moment to understand that he was looking at a horde of kids all sitting in a crowd before one door, all leaning forward, straining to hear the voice that Dorin now realized was coming from within.
He cocked his head as well, listening. ‘Gather round, gather round, my pretties,’ the voice was murmuring. ‘Listen to me and none will dare raise a hand against you, I swear. But we must stay together. United. A family.’
Dorin’s brows rose as he identified the voice as that of his Dal Hon rival.
‘So you always say,’ objected one boy, ‘but they still beat Jawan and came for little Rill and did those icky things they do to her.’
‘But they don’t enter our tunnels,’ answered the voice from beyond the door.
‘They’re too damned small for them!’
‘Exactly. Those are ours. How goes the digging beneath the main house, Deel?’
‘They don’t suspect nothing. But Gr
en’s poking round – he’s sharp, that one.’
‘Listen,’ objected the first youth again. ‘No more digging till you deliver on our protection. I say that’s fair.’
Many of the matted mops of dirty hair bobbed as the children nodded and murmured their agreement.
The voice behind the door was silent for a time, then the Dal Hon spoke again. ‘Very well. I was hoping to wait longer before having to resort to such measures. But I will summon a daemon out of the darkness . . . if I must.’
The kids’ eyes glowed brightly as they shared awed glances.
‘Really?’ one whispered in amazement. ‘You c’n do that?’
‘Of course!’ the Dal Hon snapped, quite annoyed. ‘I am not to be trifled with. As I shall demonstrate.’
Dorin decided he’d had enough of this ridiculous shadow-puppet show and stepped into the open. ‘That seems to be your problem,’ he said. ‘You promise more than you can deliver.’
The gathered diggers all gaped up at him, then, as one, let go shrill shrieks and ran pell-mell up the catacomb tunnel, disappearing. All that was left behind was the nacht. It eyed him malevolently and bared its fangs, hissing.
He ignored the beast, leaned up against the curved wall opposite the door, crossed his arms. ‘I’m right . . . aren’t I?’
After a long silence, the lad answered, grudgingly, ‘Maybe . . .’
‘You promised Pung too much and now look where you are.’
‘Maybe I’m right where I want to be.’
‘I don’t think so. But at least you’re making the most of where you are, anyway.’
‘True. That’s what I believe I’m best at. This locale is rife with possibilities. Something you can be part of . . . if you wish.’
Dorin rolled his eyes in the dark. ‘Partner of a lying charlatan chained in a cell. Very promising.’
‘I’m no charlatan!’ came the answer, quite heated. ‘And I can prove it if I have to.’
Dorin pushed himself from the wall. ‘You’re good with shadows and images and throwing sounds maybe – illusions and delusions out of Mockra and Thyr, perhaps. But that’s it. You can’t even magic yourself out of a cell, let alone summon some daemon.’
‘Don’t make me! I swear!’
Dorin made talking motions with his hand as he walked off. ‘I know, I know. You’ll be sorry and all that.’
‘You will be sorry. What’s to come is on all of you, then. Listen – whatsyourname – our box. The one from the crypt. I believe it contains the key to incalculable power. Really. It does. Are you listening?’
Dorin paused, shaking his head. This lad’s tenacity knew no bounds. ‘Gods. You really are crazy, aren’t you? Completely Oponn-taken mad.’ He waved an unseen dismissal and ducked into one of the hand-dug tunnels.
‘You’ll regret this!’ the lad yelled after him, his voice breaking. ‘All of you! Your lack of vision! You’ll regret the day you turned your back on me! You’ll see!’
The words receded into unintelligible noise, muted by the yards of dirt as Dorin shuffled along. He was furious with himself. He wanted to strangle the damned Dal Hon for piquing his interest to begin with. Yet another mistake in judgement. He couldn’t believe the time and effort he’d wasted on that useless fake. This town kept wrong-footing him somehow. But no more. Even though the lad did seem to be up to something here below. Stealing his share of the catacomb’s funerary loot, no doubt. Still, there had been something about him. His illusions had been amazingly real – he must have some talent, if only for that.
Dorin stopped as he came to a fork in the tunnel. Now, how to find his way out of this damned maze . . .
* * *
It surprised Iko that she was now being treated with a new measure of respect among her sisters. Grudging, in some cases, but a new respect all the same. The change in attitude seemed very strange to her; all she’d done was beaten one of the corps’ hotheads. Then the new thought came that prior to this bout she’d kept her distance from the sparring matches, choosing instead to watch and gauge weaknesses.
What hadn’t occurred to her before was that others might interpret this as weakness. As if she didn’t wish to expose her own incompetence. Stupid. She wouldn’t have been chosen for the corps if she couldn’t fight.
So too were her walks with Hallens being viewed in a different light. Some sisters even came to her to ask what their plans were, as if she and Hallens were discussing strategy.
The resentful and evil-minded among the sisters, however, did not relent. Iko caught a hint of the rumour that it was Hallens she was busy seducing now, instead of the guards. To this she could only shake her head. Those who delighted in insulting or working to smear others would not change their ways, even after repeatedly being proved wrong. It was the only manner they knew to deal with the world, warped, bitter, and pathetic though it was.
This day her commander was even more quiet and reserved than usual; she walked slowly with her hands clasped at her belt, her head lowered, perhaps studying the patterns in the gravel path. Iko was careful to allow her some distance, and remained quiet as well. The weather was cool with the autumn, fat clouds passing overhead. Shadows were chill, though the sunlight yet held a summer’s heat.
Hallens paused, raised her flat profile to the sky – her nose had been crushed in a fight long ago – and said, ‘You have heard the news regarding the north?’
‘Yes.’ The Hengan palace servants hadn’t been shy about reporting Ryllandaras’s progress in slaughtering the Kanese forces across the north.
‘Chulalorn must answer this,’ Hallens said, ‘or the siege is lost.’
‘Yes?’
Hallens nodded at the implied question. ‘I fear the struggle has entered dangerous new territory. There are those who say the Protectress controls Ryllandaras and it was she who unleashed him upon us. Whether that is true or not, Chulalorn must answer in kind or retreat. Escalation, dear Iko. I fear it.’
‘You mean sorcery – battle magics? But we cannot match the city mages.’
‘True. Our king’s resources are stretched thin. A’karonys is engaged in the south, and Ghula-Sin rarely leaves Horan. His presence there keeps the Dal Hon in check, after all. Yet pacts have been signed. Agreements that go back to Chulalorn’s grandfather’s time. Our king did not come out of the south empty-handed, Iko. He brought with him . . . things. Things that I fear he may unleash upon Heng, should he be pressed too hard.’
Iko stared in wonder at what almost sounded like criticism, even near infidelity, towards their king. ‘Such as?’ she barely breathed.
Her commander glanced to her, softened the exchange with a smile, albeit a sad one. ‘I do not know, Iko. Let us just say that in the columns were covered wagons and sealed carriages that even I was not allowed to search.’
Iko nodded her understanding. ‘I see. But it may not come to that.’
‘It may not. Though I fear it already has.’
‘How so?’
‘The emissary is dead. Slain last night.’
Iko was stunned for an instant, then recovered. ‘Really? Here? But the city mages’ protection . . .’
‘They obviously didn’t give a damn about some Kanese turncoat.’
‘Ah. But . . . we’ve heard nothing.’
‘They wouldn’t announce it, would they?’
‘No. I suppose not. It was the Nightblades, then?’
‘They let me know. But curiously, they did not take the credit for the execution. I suspect some third party. A hired killer.’
Iko shivered at the thought of someone brought in to take on work not even the Nightblades could accomplish. ‘Escalation,’ she said, affirming Hallens’ fear.
Gravel crackled as her commander walked on. ‘Yes, Iko. And we may no longer be safe.’
* * *
Dorin sat slouched in the common room of Pung’s quarters. He’d been doing a lot of that lately, slouching. Unfortunately, it also meant having to listen to Pung’s assembled thugs,
enforcers and bodyguards as they talked. If their dumb grunting could be named talk. Of this or that tough guy who wasn’t so tough after all, was he? Or the girls they’d had, willing or usually not at all willing. Or last night’s dog fights and the great bags of coin won or lost. It was all so very trivial and astonishingly repetitive, when one examined it objectively.
If the toughs addressed him, which was rare, they usually called him ‘knife-boy’ or ‘little killer’. They seemed to think that their size – and they were large fellows, mostly fat – somehow meant that he was no threat to them. He ached to show them the error of their thinking. The second type of thug was the short and bony tiny rabid dog sort; these Dorin thought a far greater danger as they seemed especially resentful of his status. They had fierce defensive glares that intensified if he happened to glance their way. Often before he knew it his gaze would be caught by one’s bulging, daggers-drawn unblinking glower, and he would have to break the implied challenge by shifting his gaze to the ceiling and rolling his eyes. The owner of said glare would then settle back into his chair, snorting, or mutter some comment to his fellows who would guffaw on cue.
But they all worked for Pung. And Pung would be displeased if he cut them open. He was frankly finding it more and more difficult to conform to the narrow rules and expectations that came along with working for someone.
He was sitting in the common room, trying to avoid catching the eye of any of the short fierce thugs, wondering just what he got from throwing in his lot with Pung. Room and board, obviously. But as yet no pay. No coin. No wages. A cut of the proceeds, he supposed, not that he’d seen any distribution among the rest.
What seemed to be offered by being in Pung’s gang, or any band or organization, was security – and perhaps a crude sense of belonging or identity. One could lay one’s head down to sleep in the reasonable expectation of not waking up with one’s throat slit. You could, well, if not rely on your companions, at least turn your back on them with some measure of security.
Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 Page 20