by David Weber
Kenhodan groaned mentally as the wind lashed a volley of raindrops into his face—large, fat, wet raindrops, he thought, well chilled by the mountain clouds. They burst over him like a breaker, and Glamhandro snorted his own displeasure as they hit.
The driving rain made the steep hillside treacherous, but they reached bottom without mishap. Thin leaves and early buds tossed about them, wind and water whipping new foliage as their horses shouldered through tangled laurel and rhododendron. Kenhodan shivered, cursing the weather as the slender branches dragged at his riding boots and the raw chill burrowed into his bones.
It took an hour to reach the South Road, for runoff had completed the demolition of an earthen bank already undercut by the spring thaw and a wet wall of muddy boulders clogged the best trail. The horses were hock deep in the water racing down the only other route to the high road, and everyone was thoroughly muddy and miserable by the time they reached it.
At least the South Road offered secure footing, and rain bounced and bounded on its hard surface and ran down its broad gutters almost cheerfully. That was the only cheerful thing about the morning, however. Sheets of water blew into Kenhodan’s eyes, and Glamhandro’s mane ran with rain. The big horse snorted water from his nostrils occasionally, sharing his rider’s misery. There was no lightning, no thunder—just steady, beating rain, sluicing down with all of nature’s blind persistence. Only the wind had a purpose, and that was to get the maximum amount of rain into the travelers’ eyes in the minimum amount of time.
Rain and wind paced them as the horses ate wearily at the leagues. Even the coursers lowered their heads and seemed to hunch their shoulders as they pushed into the teeth of the wind, and the riders dripped and shivered, inventing new curses as water picked a way through ponchos and jerkins. Kenhodan watched his drenched companions and the gusting rain and told himself that every weary hour brought journey’s end an hour closer, and so was worth its cost in misery.
He told himself that repeatedly; he never believed it at all.
* * *
Umaro crouched under Ashwan’s spread cloak and opened the oiled leather tube carefully. That tube had protected its contents this far, and he had no intention of exposing them to the rain now.
He smoothed the parchment and peered at it. It was Chernion’s cipher, all right, and he frowned, shifting mental gears to decode the message. His face was bitter by the time he’d finished, and he balled the long note in a disgusted fist.
“Phrobus!”
“Orders?” Ashwan asked.
“Among other things,” Umaro growled. He gestured for Ashwan to reclaim his cloak and glowered moodily as the dripping assassin struggled back into its windblown folds, managing somehow to retain a bedraggled elegance.
“What other things?” Ashwan asked.
“I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know Chernion approves his agent’s actions in the Unicorn. Can you believe that?”
“Yes. I told you what I thought happened.”
“Well, Chernion agrees with you,” Umaro conceded glumly.
“Is that all he says?” Ashwan asked the question confidently—as well he might, given his status as one of the Guild Council’s senior field agents—but his tone was droll enough he managed not to lacerate Umaro’s nerves still further.
“Not by a long chalk,” the Craftmaster snorted. “He and this Elrytha found an opportunity to talk during the night watches, and he’s changed plans on us again.”
“Another change? That’s…unlike Chernion.”
“Aye, but he says this is like no other assignment, too.”
“Well, I’d certainly agree with him there!” Ashwan snorted.
“Aye. At any rate, we’re supposed to stay close but unseen. Elrytha will continue to mark trail for us, and we’re to watch for message drops. Unless we get different orders, though, we’re not to attack this side of the pass even if an opportunity seems to present itself.”
“Does he say why not?” Even Ashwan sounded a little surprised by Umaro’s last sentence.
“He does.” Umaro lowered his voice. “If the brothers ask, we’re to say the targets are too alert. When the time comes, we’ll have to attack openly, with Chernion’s agent to stab them in the back. For that to work, we have to give her time to gain their complete acceptance. That’s the official reason.”
“Ah!” Ashwan’s eyes met Umaro’s knowingly. “And the real one?”
“Chernion’s precious spy’s turned up more information—something about the client betraying the Guild. As nearly as I can make out, Wulfra may’ve laid some sort of spy spell on the Guild and maybe even set Rosper up to get killed to keep us after Wencit. Chernion seems to think this Elrytha can worm more information out of Wencit if he gives her time.”
“I see. Well, I’m not inclined to argue with Chernion or question his judgment. And between you and me, I’m impressed by Elrytha. She’s done better than we have so far, at any rate! We’ve lost twelve men without a single corpse to show for it. If it weren’t for the precedent, I’d say chuck the whole job. It’s already cost more than we were paid, and it’ll cost more before it’s done.”
“Agreed.” Water trickled into Umaro’s beard as he looked up. “But where’s the remedy? You and I can no more stop this than Chernion can. We’ve lost too many, and too many know it. If we give it up as the bad deal it is, what happens to the Guild’s reputation? And without that, where are we?”
“Umaro, you know as well as I do that the Guild’s tried to kill the Bloody Hand more than once without succeeding. For that matter, I’m pretty sure that if we could look deep enough into the archives, we’d find out we’ve even been stupid enough to try to kill Wencit a time or two in the past! Obviously, they’re still here, so it’s not as if previous councils haven’t decided to cut our losses once the butcher’s bill started getting out of hand.”
“No,” Umaro agreed, although he wouldn’t have admitted anything of the sort to anyone besides Ashwan. “But it’s been long enough since those other attempts that most people’ve forgotten about them. This memory’s going to be fresh in their minds, and I have a feeling the Council’s not giving up as easily this time.” The Craftmaster shook his head. “There’s something in the air, Ashwan. Something’s changed—or changing—and I don’t like the smell of it. But what matters right now, to you and me, is that we both know what the Council’s orders would be if we could ask them. Unless Chernion himself orders us off, I don’t see where we have any choice but to continue the hunt. And who knows? We may get lucky after all! I’m not sure about the wizard, to be honest, but champion of Tomanāk or no, the Bloody Hand’s still mortal. He can be killed just the same as anyone else if we manage to get enough steel—or poison—into him. I’m pretty sure the same thing’s true about this Kenhodan, and I can’t think of anyone more likely to be able to kill either of them than the Guild!”
He managed to get the last sentence out with what sounded like genuine confidence in the dog brothers’ ability, and Ashwan nodded.
“I agree,” he said. “I didn’t say we should let them go; I only said it would be good if we could. But since we can’t, I have a suggestion.”
“Which is?”
“Wencit’s headed into Angthyr. If there’s a chance Wulfra’s betrayed us, don’t you think it might be wise to let Wencit do whatever he came to do? Wulfra may succeed in killing him, in which case there’s no need for us to lose more brothers against him. And if the Baroness doesn’t kill him, we won’t have to worry about anything she did to harm the Guild, because Wencit will see to it that she’s dead.”
“I think I agree.” It was Umaro’s turn to nod. “At least it’s a thought, and we’ve had precious few of those of late. If I get the chance, I’ll pass it to Elrytha for relay to Chernion.”
The Craftmaster heaved back into his saddle. Like so much else about him, his patently poor horsemanship was misleading. He scrambled up like a mountain climber and sat the saddle like a lumpy sack, yet
he could stay there for days on end if he must. Now he reined his horse around to his waiting men. The dripping assassins huddled under what cover there was, soaked to the skin. They’d spent a miserable night in the open while the wizard and his companions used the cave, and there were raw tempers amid the dripping scrub that morning.
“Come on, lads,” Umaro growled. “We’ll stop long enough to dry our skins a little and make some breakfast, then be on our way again.” A few faces tightened, but there was no protest. “I’m sorry, Brothers, but we have no choice. You know as well as I do we have to avenge our losses to clear our reputation.”
There was a rumble of agreement. They understood the importance of that; without the terror of their reputation, their victims might remember that assassins, too, were mortal.
Umaro waited with Ashwan as his men’s horses scrambled up the hill.
“There goes the best reason of all for letting that bitch Wulfra kill her own game,” the Craftmaster muttered then, his face bleak as the rain. “How many more brothers can we lose on one assignment?”
* * *
The object of Umaro’s bitterness was at that moment thinking of the dog brothers. Wulfra hadn’t been watching Chernion when the assassin had actually summoned Umaro, but she was certain the Guildmaster had called for reinforcements. Unfortunately, Chernion was the only surviving assassin Wulfra was able to locate, so she had no idea who those reinforcements might be or where they might be found.
But now that her defensive spells were complete, Wulfra’s mind turned more often to the killer. Little though she cared to admit it to herself, she did feel a slight sense of unease about the trap link. Each time she used it, she increased the chance Chernion might sense it, and sorceress or not, only a fool wouldn’t feel uneasy at the thought of turning the entire Assassins Guild into her mortal enemy. Despite that, the baroness longed to know what the assassin was doing about Wencit. The wild wizard’s steady approach to Angthyr was enough to guarantee that!
She chewed delicately on a knuckle as she considered the problem. Caution pulled one way, curiosity the other—and, as wasn’t uncommon with wizards, curiosity won in the end.
She bent over her gramerhain and muttered the incantation. Power rippled through the crystal, flickering for a second…then for several seconds…then over a minute. Wulfra frowned in consternation and tapped the crystal gently. Nothing happened, and her frown deepened as she considered blanking the stone.
She was about to do just that when the gramerhain suddenly cleared, but it took her some moments to recognize the image. Then she gasped in astonishment. She wasn’t looking down on Chernion—she was looking out of the assassin’s own eyes!
She bent low, almost pressing her nose to the stone, and pouring rain seemed to flick into her own face. The slim, gloved hands on the reins could only be Chernion’s, and Wulfra trembled as she realized what had happened. She’d read about this effect, but she’d never actually experienced it. Her simple scrying spell had connected her directly to Chernion, and that happened only in certain special cases—such as when the trap link’s object was inside another wizard’s glamour. And only one wizard would be simultaneously maintaining a glamour and attracting Chernion’s attention.
Wulfra held her breath, torn between exultation and disbelief as she watched for confirmation of her wild hope. If only she could have controlled the assassin’s gaze! Unfortunately, she couldn’t, but—
Chernion’s head turned, and wildfire eyes glowed in the crystal.
Wulfra gasped in triumph, and then Chernion’s head turned the other way and Bahzell’s face filled the crystal. Not only had Wulfra found Chernion, but the audacious assassin had actually infiltrated Wencit’s ranks!
Wulfra blazed with triumph, and blood pounded exuberantly in her temples. Why, she could fix Wencit’s exact location whenever she wished!
She gloated over her unexpected achievement like a miser. She could attack at any time she chose! And even if her attacks failed, she could chart his exact progress! Let him maintain his glamour—what did that matter while she commanded that precious set of eyes within his camp?!
She threw back her head and laughed, blanking the crystal with a wave. She had to consult her patron. The opportunity to attack was too good to pass up, but first she must clear it with the cat-eyed wizard and ask for aid.
Her urgent request for contact was ignored, briefly. But eventually, the cold cat-eyes blinked lazily in the depths of her stone.
“Greetings, Wulfra,” his mental voice purred. “You have news?”
“I do,” she replied, fighting to restrain the triumph in her response.
“Then by all means amaze me with it, my dear.”
“Very well. As you know, all of my attempts to pierce Wencit’s glamour have failed,” she said flatly, and paused, half-daring him to explain his refusal to aid her efforts.
“Agreed,” was all the cat-eyed wizard said.
“Well, I can do it now.” She abandoned the effort to hide her soaring sense of triumph. “One of my hirelings has managed to join him, and I have a trap link to her. I can establish his exact position!”
“A sterling achievement. But what do you wish to do about it?”
“I have to attack! Attack at once—before he has an opportunity to realize what’s happened! And for that, I need your help. No spell of mine could succeed at such a long-range, but the opportunity’s there. It must be taken!”
She seemed astounded by his lack of enthusiasm, and rightly so, he thought…from her perspective.
“Allow me a moment of thought.”
His eyes vanished as he withdrew to consider, meshing the new information with knowledge he’d withheld from his minion.
Wulfra’s success puzzled them, though he wouldn’t admit it, for she must be encouraged to think him virtually omnipotent. But he could err. The attack on Wave Mistress, for instance, had been a mistake. He’d helped plan it, even given her of his strength for it, yet its only lasting effect had been to show Wencit he was watched.
The result had been predictable…or should have been, if he’d taken the time to consider things properly. Wencit was no fool, and he was already suspicious of Wulfra’s apparently increased ability, so he’d strengthened his glamour. Indeed, he’d virtually doubled its effectiveness. It cost him something in concentration, but the burden was far from crippling, and the consequences were far worse than any mere inconvenience.
Decades of carefully cherished advantage had been whittled away in an afternoon. Over the years, highly-trained teams of Carnadosans had managed to insert delicate probes through Wencit’s glamours largely because he’d seen no need to raise first-class protection against second-class opposition like Wulfra. It had been a difficult but relatively straightforward task to spy on the wild wizard under those circumstances.
No more. It was still possible to pierce his shields, but also far riskier. What had been like slipping a needle through a soap bubble without bursting it required far more force, and adding force added risk. It was no longer possible to maintain an hour-to-hour watch on him or even on his comrades when he was near. One simply couldn’t manipulate the energy required to breach his new glamour without creating a detectable eddy.
That had resulted from a single miscalculation, and it had gone even further. The morning he left Sindor, his glamour had been so strong not even the cat-eyed wizard had been able to crack it.
The Council had panicked. Wencit’s glamour had been so powerful Wulfra couldn’t have pierced it even with a trap link inside it; that “proved” he knew about them—and he still commanded the spells which had strafed Kontovar.
The panic had eased as Wencit allowed his protection to coast back down to the new level established after the madwind, however, and the cat-eyed wizard had personally relocated him within six hours. His accomplishment had soothed his fellows’ near terror and restored their ability to track the old wizard, although not even he dared probe too closely or too often.
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But even though they’d relocated the wild wizard, and even though it was once again possible to slip at least occasional probes through his glamour, they dared not pass information to Wulfra. Not as long as that glamour stayed too strong for her to have broken it on her own. That iron rule couldn’t be violated, so he’d shut down the flow of information, rendering the wild wizard safe from sorcerous attack until he reached Torfo itself.
But now…
He grimaced in deep thought. All wizards were subtle, and Wencit the most subtle of all. The wild wizard lacked critical information, so his position was ultimately flawed, but another serious error by the Carnadosans might warn him enough to cancel much of the cat-eyed wizard’s advantage. Further, it was clear now that Wencit was engaged upon some deep, carefully planned move of his own, one which seemed to be based on information not available to the cat-eyed wizard. That added to the risks, for one side’s ignorance might tend to balance the other’s. But then, he thought sardonically, if the game was simple, everyone would play.
Yet one thing was certain: Wencit knew about the trap link. He’d have to be senile to miss it. But if he knew, why had he allowed Wulfra to establish it? To misdirect her somehow? Possibly…but then why cut off the link as he left Sindor, if he wanted her to be able to spy on him?
Ahhhh! The cat-eyed wizard smiled as he suddenly found the answer he sought. The object of this ploy wasn’t Wulfra; it was Chernion.
Data clicked into place in his orderly brain. Wencit had taken the measure of Wulfra’s power and discounted her as a threat at such long-range. He’d judged (correctly, as it happened) that nothing she’d produced to date was a serious danger, and so relegated her threat to a secondary status and turned his attention to his merely mortal enemies.
That made sense of the strong glamour at Sindor’s gates. He couldn’t be certain how many other assassins Wulfra might have snared in trap links like the one on Chernion, so he’d raised a protection strong enough to keep her from directing anyone to him. Then something—some deliberate probe of Chernion, perhaps—had convinced him that Wulfra’s only link was to the Guildmaster, and Chernion was under his own watchful eye, thus neatly beheading the Assassins Guild.