He shivered anew as he paced and clasped his hands behind his back to warm them. Hengan winters could be chill, but this was unusually cold for autumn. And firewood was at a premium as high as food. He spotted ahead the familiar profile of Smokey, his hair neatly pulled back and tied in a long oiled queue, a thick wool cloak tight about him. He was peering out over the ravaged southern fields, the siege lines, and dotted tents beyond. Silk came and rested his forearms on a crenel next to him.
‘Good to see you up and about.’
The mage of Telas blinked in his reverie and scowled anew at the reference to his wound. He reflexively rubbed his chest. ‘A little higher and that would’ve been the end of it.’
Silk noted a touch of grey in the man’s slightly ragged goatee. Standards of personal grooming were falling everywhere, it seemed; or perhaps it was new – the shock of the near-death experience. He gestured out over the fields where low white scarves of smoke from the many campfires rode the slow winds. ‘Quiet today.’
Smokey scratched his goatee. ‘Yeah. For now. But they’re cookin’ up something. I can smell it.’
Silk nodded his agreement, shuddered, and wished he’d brought a damned cloak of his own. ‘Can’t just call it a bad job and walk away, I guess.’
‘Sadly no. Too much invested. Can’t be seen to be broken here. Outer provinces might start getting ideas, hey?’
‘Chulalorn was stupid to have committed as much as he did.’
The older mage gave a small shrug. ‘All in, hey? Full of confidence, he was.’ He ran a speculative eye over Silk. ‘I hear the monster’s wandered off.’
Silk nodded once more. ‘So it would seem. A few reports of sightings to the east. Just word of mouth, mind you. Rumours, nothing more. Everyone has gone to ground. Our vagabond mage. Even the assassin when Ho offers a real damned contract. Crime is at an all-time low.’
‘Except for smuggling, hoarding, extortion, price-gouging, war profiteering, and black marketing.’
‘Unless you call all that shrewd marketing,’ and Silk smiled winningly, winking.
Smokey turned away with a sour expression. ‘Sometimes I wonder, Silk. I really do.’
‘I am merely a product of the times, friend Smokey.’
‘So you tell people – but don’t start believing it.’ Peering past him, the mage raised his brows and directed Silk’s attention along the wall. Silk glanced over to see Mara approaching.
‘It was quiet,’ he murmured to Smokey, then, turning, said: ‘Mara! What a pleasure!’
‘Put a bung in it, Silk,’ the woman growled.
He knew the mage possessed what artists would call a voluptuous figure, but she appeared even larger now as she was wrapped up in layers of robes and a thick cloak. She noticed him eyeing her dress and scowled. ‘Fucking cold.’
‘Not like the plains of Dal Hon, hey Mara?’ Smokey commented.
‘Not a bit. What are you two plotting about?’
‘Our escape,’ Silk answered. ‘We’re thinking of running away. Joining the Crimson Guard.’
Smokey looked surprised. ‘I was thinking ’bout that, actually. Some time. Like to travel. Sick of squatting in the same place. They have a standing invitation for any mage to join, you know.’
Mara hunched her shoulders against the wind, shivering. ‘All that riding. I hate riding. Chafes my arse.’
Silk clenched his lips tight against a number of possible comments.
Mara noted this, growling, ‘Wipe that stupid smirk off your face.’
Smokey cleared his throat, glancing about. ‘How is she doing?’ he asked Mara, his voice low.
‘Better these days. Must’ve been some kind of shock or something. Strange, anyway.’
‘Her past . . . I think,’ Silk said.
Mara eyed him sceptically, then shrugged. ‘Maybe. Who’s to know? Word of her craziness didn’t get out, thankfully. Would’ve been a bitch.’
‘Perhaps she has reason to be afraid,’ Silk said, rather impatiently.
‘That thing – whatever it was?’ Mara answered, sneering. ‘A no-show if you ask me.’
‘Koroll has a theory—’
‘Hot air,’ the woman cut in. ‘I don’t see the connection.’
Silk was angered at the dismissal, but took a moment to calm himself and responded, neutrally, ‘Don’t just reject our considered opinions.’
Mara snorted, eyeing Silk dismissively. ‘I got no time for the hand-wringing of lightweights.’
‘Maybe that’s enough for now,’ Smokey said with an edge of warning.
Neither spared the man a glance. Silk faced Mara squarely. He felt strangely elated by the confrontation and realized he’d been waiting a long time for it – though it was arguably foolish and utterly reckless. A smile now touched his lips, and he looked her up and down the way a patron at a bordello might evaluate the merchandise. ‘Lightweight, is it?’
‘You know it.’
‘Not the place for this,’ Smokey hissed.
Silk tilted his head as if puzzled. ‘You’ve never had any time for me, Mara. Why is that?’
She laughed. ‘You disgust me, that’s why. Seducing everyone. Playing with people’s emotions. Ever thought about all the hearts you’ve broken?’
He nodded his understanding ‘Ah, I see. You think I manipulate people’s affections. Well, I have to tell you that what I do has nothing to do with the heart. I seduce no one. Innocence doesn’t interest me. Quite the opposite, I assure you. Such concern for others’ feelings does surprise me, though. Especially from someone who doesn’t even have a heart.’
Fury darkened Mara’s face even further. Silk noticed the stone floor of the parapet vibrating now beneath his feet. Smokey stepped between them and faced Mara, barking, ‘We’re not alone!’
The woman’s shoulders relaxed slightly. She took one step back, as if from a precipice, pointed to Smokey, hissed, ‘Keep this shit out of my sight,’ and marched off.
Smokey turned on Silk, glaring. ‘Coulda got yourself killed, you damned fool.’
‘She’s just a bully,’ Silk remarked and was surprised to find himself shaking uncontrollably.
‘A bully?’
‘She damns me for playing with feelings, but all she worships is power and strength. And she has the bully’s contempt for those who don’t have it. She steps over the people starving in the streets without seeing their suffering.’
‘And you see it, do you?’ Smokey asked, sharply. ‘Not like the old Silk I remember.’
Silk blinked, frowning. Yes. Now I do. He realized that when these people had been fat and content he’d had no time for them. But now that he’d seen their misery and privation he felt a strange sort of closeness with them. He nodded to Smokey. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Hunh.’ Smokey leaned his forearms on the crenel. ‘Sieges are like being thrust into the fire . . . they have a way of changing people.’
For some obscure reason Silk felt insulted. ‘I’ve not changed one whit,’ he objected, bridling.
Smokey sent an amused smile. ‘Sure, Silk. Sure.’
* * *
Dorin knew he was good at moving quietly and secretly but there was little anyone could do when someone was lying in wait. And so he was startled when he climbed down into the alley at the side of Ullara’s family establishment to find Rheena rising from cover to confront him.
He jerked backwards a step, his hands going to the rear of his belt and remaining there. She also didn’t move, a scowl on her face and her arms crossed, her gaze narrowed in a disapproving glare.
They faced one another in this manner for a time until he relaxed, letting his hands fall. He brushed past her, leaving the alleyway. ‘Yes?’
She followed, arms still crossed, her scowl deepening. ‘Just this one warning,’ she murmured, her voice low.
On the street, he turned to her once more. ‘Yes?’
She moved her head in an almost imperceptible negative then brushed back her unruly mane of fiery red hair. ‘
Stop coming. Others might see as well.’
He had to stop a smile from reaching his lips as the sudden realization came. ‘You’re not jealous, are you, Rheena?’
Her eyes widened in shock – or embarrassment, he wasn’t certain which – and her face turned almost as red as her hair. ‘You stupid fool,’ she grated. ‘I’m trying to protect the both of you!’
He thought of the meagre gift of food left above; what could be the harm? He waved her off and turned away. ‘I’m careful.’
She hurried to keep pace. ‘I found you!’ Around them, up and down the avenue, banners now hung from second-storey windows, bunting decorated shop fronts, and a few sparse pots and bouquets of flowers sat out before doors and windows. All, he was told, in preparation for the coming festival of Burn’s Sleep.
‘Well, don’t tell anyone.’
‘Of course not! But others have eyes too.’
‘Fine. Like I said, I’m being careful.’
She muttered, darkly, ‘Not careful enough.’
He looked at her, and remembered that this was the second time he’d come upon her this close to Ullara’s home; she must have known for some time now. So far she seemed to have kept it to herself. He nodded to her then, granting her the point. ‘Well . . . thanks for the warning.’
She eyed him for a time, as if unsure he wasn’t mocking her, then just sniffed and tossed her hair.
Dorin smiled at that, thinking of the old Rheena. He started walking again, but slowly, strolling. ‘So you’re Tran’s second now, yes?’
‘Yeah.’ She sounded singularly unimpressed by the responsibility. ‘Someone has to tell him what to do.’
‘Well . . . you be careful too.’
She snorted a grim laugh. ‘Yeah, the stupid shit.’
Next to them, an old woman wrapped in a black shawl knelt before a small altar that held a clay figurine of the recumbent sleeping goddess herself. They watched while she lit an array of votive candles and bowed her head. From beneath the black lace headscarf came the sound of muted, stifled weeping.
Dorin urged Rheena on. ‘So they’re going ahead with it despite everything.’ He motioned to encompass the banners and flags.
‘Of course. It is more important than ever to have her favour now.’
He eyed her sidelong. ‘You think she notices?’
She sighed, her gaze lingering on a bouquet of dried wild flowers nailed to a door. ‘Once,’ she began, sounding uncharacteristically wistful, ‘my mother took me on a pilgrimage to the Idryn Falls. There, it is said, the very earth itself was cracked and shifted by her restlessness . . .’
‘Yes?’
She shrugged, looking embarrassed. ‘A great spout of water shot up from the pool beneath the falls. The very exhalation of the goddess, they said.’
Dorin wanted to smile but stopped himself. ‘Maybe.’
She shook herself, scowling anew. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’
He motioned to a side alley. ‘I should go.’
She nodded. ‘Yeah. See you around.’
‘Take care.’
‘Sure.’
He lingered a moment, feeling awkward, but finally jerked a nod and crossed to the alley. Glancing back he saw her still there, watching after him, and he raised a hand but she had turned away.
Chapter 11
DORIN KNEW – AS did just about everyone across Quon lands – that the procession of icons and shrines celebrating Burn’s Sleep was the main religious festival of Heng. Preparations had begun long ago, the siege notwithstanding, when the official date was set by the Grand Temple. Pilgrims usually began congregating long before.
But not this year. This year the Kanese forces turned away all comers. Even those travelling by river had been intercepted and warned off. All this despite the High Priest of Burn’s hurrying by litter out to King Chulalorn’s compound south of the city to plead the case for the festival.
When the evening of the appointed day came, curiosity drove Dorin to take a look; as he left the common room the toughs glared but said nothing. They were not the least interested in the festival. It struck him then that perhaps it wasn’t that they were particularly irreligious – every one of them was certainly superstitious – it was that they simply lacked all curiosity and imagination. The shallowness of such a life made him almost pity them.
All the pickpockets and prostitutes were out, of course. Tonight should see the richest shifts of the last month. And thinking of work, he’d come very near to being called out to stick a knife into a few recalcitrant debtors today. Fortunately, the mere threat of his appearance had done the job. Again, Dorin wondered whether he wanted to be the mad dog in the cellar whose presence kept everyone in line.
The main streets were crowded with more Hengans than Dorin had seen in the last three months. They gathered round the many broad platforms that supported effigies of Burn aslumber, together with a number of lesser entities such as the Enchantress, also known as the Queen of Dreams; D’rek the Worm of Autumn; Poliel, who was the Lady of Pestilence and Corruption; and Mowri, Lady of Slaves and Beggars. All similarly sombre entities who shared aspects touching upon fate, futurity, and the struggle of life and death.
The Hengans, it seemed to him, currently shared a rather solemn and sober reflection on mortality; understandable, given their current grim circumstances. The crowds of men and women, even children, took turns supporting the massive pallets while the rest filed behind, waiting their turn. Many carried shaded candles or lamps. Dorin leaned up against a wall, arms crossed, and watched the long slow panoply pass.
In the wavering amber light he saw the final icon making its tottering way up the main avenue. It was the smallest of the lot by far: slim but tall, an effigy of a hooded figure. As it neared, Dorin’s surprise grew as he recognized the young man leading its supporters up the street. It was the dark, half Dal Hon youth from the mausoleum. And the severe looming effigy, carved of wood and stubbornly plain and unadorned, was of the Hooded One himself.
His first reaction was to steel himself for a riot. Yet the crowd of Hengan citizens did not react as he’d anticipated. True, many halted, just as startled as he, and glared or muttered their disapproval, but a few actually stepped out to join the group as it passed. Most, however, merely accepted this manifestation as just one more god in the procession. One which was also true to the spirit of the festival; for if any god could lay claim to sharing in concerns of mortality and fate, it was the master of the Paths Beyond.
Some dropped to one knee offering their obeisance and their prayers as this new effigy rocked by on its way up the avenue. On an impulse, Dorin went up to walk beside the youth leading this gathering procession. The swordsman shot him a dark look, but did not object. He wore loose worn leathers, his two-handed blade at his side, its grip high. His long black hair was unbound and lightly curled, and again Dorin knew a twinge of envy for the youth’s looks. Then he reflected that in his own calling it was always best not to attract attention.
As they walked along, he asked, ‘What is your name?’
‘Dassem,’ the fellow forced through clenched teeth.
‘Dorin. Not still angry, are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you do not send me away.’
‘Because while I may not approve of you, this is where you belong – walking with this icon.’
Dorin raised his eyes to the night sky.
They completed their circuit of the Outer Round and now passed through the roofed gates to the Inner Round. A thought struck Dorin. ‘You are comfortable leaving your temple unprotected?’
‘They have given up the siege,’ the youth answered. He sounded disappointed. ‘Things are rather dull now.’
‘I can offer you work,’ said a new, familiar voice from just behind. Dorin glanced quickly back to find a short fellow, cloaked and hooded, following. The figure might be hidden in a shapeless cloak too big for him, but Dorin recognized the voice – and the manner. ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed. �
�We can’t be seen together. I’m supposed to be hunting you!’
The squat Dal Hon mage raised a finger to his lips. ‘Shh. I’m in disguise.’ Dorin resisted the urge to slap the fellow.
‘What work?’ Dassem asked.
‘Don’t listen to him,’ Dorin warned. ‘He’s an utter liar.’
‘Murderer,’ the Dal Hon rejoined.
‘Thief.’
‘Incompetent.’
‘No fighting in the god of death’s presence,’ Dassem warned sternly.
Dorin scowled down at the little fellow. ‘Incompetent? What do you mean incompetent?’
The mage opened his arms wide. ‘Well, you were hired to kill me, weren’t you?’ He wrinkled up his wizened face, squinting at him. ‘Not much of an assassin, I’d say.’
Dorin raised a hand to cuff him, but Dassem stepped between them. ‘He is a bringer of death,’ he assured the mage. ‘He walks at the side of Hood.’
‘Says who?’ the little mage asked, cocking his head and still squinting.
‘My master.’
The Dal Hon – Wu, Dorin now remembered – raised his brows and nodded as if enlightened. ‘Oh!’ he said, drawing the word out. ‘Well, in that case, I yield to such indisputable authority.’
‘Just so,’ the swordsman agreed, either deaf to, or choosing to ignore, the sarcasm.
They walked in silence for a time after that. Dorin kept sensing eyes upon him and glanced once or twice to Wu; the Dal Hon was studying him thoughtfully. Uncomfortable beneath the steady regard, he demanded, brusquely, ‘What?’
A shrug from the youth. ‘So, an assassin. But not for hire . . .’ The lad, who only looked like a greying elder, raised a crooked finger as if in an ‘a-ha’ moment. ‘Or. Should I say one who cannot be bought?’
Dorin merely waved a curt dismissal. He told Dassem, ‘Don’t listen to him. He’s as mad as a cross-eyed rat, I tell you.’
‘They say madness is a gift of the gods,’ the young acolyte answered gravely.
Dorin threw up his hands in frustration.
They were reaching the end of their circuit of the Inner Round and were approaching the covered gatehouse that allowed access to the Central. ‘What sort of work?’ the acolyte asked the mage again.
Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 Page 24