DESPERATE ALLIANCES

by Cory Daniells

  Imoshen slipped through the servants’ door and joined the others behind an ornately carved screen at the end of a mirrored gallery. The room was all subtle shadows and wavering candlelight, reflected in the highly polished floor, which glistened like water. On their left, behind another screen, musicians accompanied the mimers who performed for the Amiregent and his courtiers.

  At the sight of one particular ornately dressed man, Imoshen felt a jolt of terror and recognized the Amiregent from the servant’s emotion-laden memory. From his painted face to the tips of his elaborately dressed hair, he was a strange creature. He might look like a court jester, but the man had not hesitated to assassinate the last Amiregent, then blame this murder on Fair Isle’s own ambassadors.

  Imoshen was familiar with the written form of the Ami-rate’s language, so she was able to understand the Amiregent when the mummery ended and he dismissed the performers, calling for servants to remove their meal.

  Imoshen waited until all but the last of the performers had filed past, then caught the man’s arm. “Where is the boy Amir?”

  Her words triggered the man’s recent memory. He stood on a busy street in late afternoon amid a crowd who were watching an old woman and a boy pass by in a gilded carriage. Only Imoshen could see the intangible bars that held them prisoner. She had a strong impression of a tall, thick-based tower, broodingly dark. The tower on the bluff.

  “Didn’t you hear? He’s with his grandmother. They were sent to the tower after the assassination for their safety!” The man looked as if he might add something but shook his head disgustedly.

  She let him go. What had kept him quiet was another memory of a cage suspended from the palace’s walls. Carrion birds whirled around, fighting over its grisly human remains.

  Imoshen’s head reeled with the implications. Opening her T’En senses, she discovered the court of the Amiregent was thick was fear. Its taste was so rich it hit the back of her throat, making her gag. She reined in her awareness.

  So much for taking the boy hostage to ensure the Amiregent’s cooperation. It was more likely the boy and his grandmother would not leave that tower alive.

  “Send for the Dreamspinner,” the Amiregent called. “I will have a foretelling. Dim the candles.”

  After a few minutes a woman entered, carrying a delicate cage. Imoshen could just make out something flashing through the bars. The woman wore a simple gown compared to the courtiers, but she carried herself with pride.

  “Dreamwasps!” gasped a servant.

  “They say it hurts,” another muttered, her eyes and lower face veil illuminated by patterns of light that came through the screen. “But only at first. Then it feels exquisite.”

  “My mistress built up a tolerance to their poison until she could bear the first sting,” the other whispered. “She rewards us with lesser stings.”

  “What visions do you have for us tonight, Dreamspinner?” the Amiregent asked. “I want to know what the General of Fair Isle plans.”

  “My Amiregent, the wasps’ dreams cannot always be spun into cloth of our choosing,” she warned. “But I will see.”

  The courtiers sat forward eagerly, their eyes glittering as the Dreamspinner raised the delicate cage. With a smile she unclasped her gown, letting it fall from her shoulders to bare her breasts. From her pocket she withdrew a small jar. She offered it to the Amiregent, who uncapped it eagerly. Dipping an applicator in the contents, he rubbed a little on the pulse that beat at the base of her throat.

  “I will have the second sting,” he said eagerly. Voices rose, claiming the privilege of the lesser stings. “Quiet, you will have your turn. This must be done properly.”

  When they were sufficiently composed, the Dreamspinner crooned a soft, seductive song. Opening the cage, she coaxed the Dreamwasp out onto her finger. It sat there, large as a small bird. The nobles gasped in envious admiration. It was an exquisite creature, all iridescent wings.

  Imoshen could sense their anticipation. Her heart pounded in sympathy. She had heard rumors of this practice. It was frowned upon in other mainland countries, but the Dreamspinners of the Amirate were trained from childhood to endure the stings and weave a vision from the dreams. It was said many were called but only a few survived the training.

  Was it a true seeing, or wish fulfillment? Imoshen flexed her T’En gifts, questing... The Dreamspinner stiffened. Her eyes widened and her gaze went to Imoshen’s screen.

  Startled, Imoshen reeled in her T’En senses.

  “Why do you delay?” the Amiregent snapped.

  “It moves!” a noble whispered.

  Enticed by the sweet scent of the ointment, the Dreamwasp climbed up the woman’s arm. All eyes focused on its progress.

  The Dreamspinner’s croon changed tone to a higher pitch, almost an insectlike hum. Imoshen realized the Dreamwasp was singing in reply to her, its tone just on the edge of hearing. She wanted to extend her senses to discover what was passing between the Dreamspinner and her wasp but dared not.

  Everyone, servant and noble alike, held their breath as the Dreamwasp’s body pulsed. A buildup of inner light flashed through its dark abdomen in rhythmic patterns. Suddenly, in a flash of radiance, the wasp struck. The Dreamspinner gasped and swayed.

  The Amiregent snatched the wasp, carefully holding the stinger away from him. “The ointment. Quickly. I am next.”

  Someone applied it to his inner wrist and he held the wasp against his flesh. The wasp’s body pulsed and flashed again, then it was passed on. Nobles swarmed around the Dreamwasp, each begging for a lesser sting.

  Imoshen grimaced disgustedly. Perhaps she should leave the Amiregent to his visions. The snap of boots on the stone made her hesitate. Soldiers entered, escorting a captive.

  The Dreamspinner swayed, lifting one hand to point to the captive. “Death’s messenger has come.”

  “Step forward.” The Amiregent’s voice was high and breathless.

  The soldiers moved aside to let through the mercenary leader, Lightfoot. Imoshen bit back a gasp.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Honorable Amiregent.” Lightfoot gave the mercenary bow and tossed his sea-blue cloak over his shoulder. “I carry a message from General Tulkhan.”

  A servant scurried forward to pass it to the Amiregent, bending low. Imoshen shifted impatiently as he read it.

  The Amiregent tossed the message to the Dreamspinner with a curse. “And how does this figure in your spinning?”

  The Dreamspinner caught the scroll, her cheeks flushed, eyes ablaze with inner visions. She did not read it. “I see a kingdom in flux. I see a great leader rise.”

  “I am that leader!” the Amiregent claimed. “Arrest this man. I’ll have his hands—no, his head. That will be my answer to the Ghebite upstart. Protector General of Fair Isle? Let him see how he protects his men now.” The Amiregent paced the floor. “I see visions too. I see the Amirate more powerful than Gheeaba!”

  Lightfoot strode forward. “If you harm me or the ambassadors, General Tulkhan will regard it as an act of war.”

  “War?” the Amiregent snarled. “Your general can’t even put down his half-brother, that snapping pup Gharavan.” He smiled cruelly at Lightfoot. “Put him in with the ambassadors. He can tell them they will die at midday tomorrow and their heads will be sent to General Tulkhan as a token of my esteem!” The Amiregent turned.

  “Well, Dreamspinner, see how I make my dreams come true? What do your dreams tell you?”

  He and his nobles gathered close, but Imoshen had no time for dreams. Slipping out of the room, she went to the servants’ corridor, which led to the tower room where the ambassadors were being held. On the way she passed a long table where trays of half-eaten food had been stacked. Hastily, she selected the best of several meals so that it looked like she had a fresh tray. Even condemned prisoners would expect a meal.

  Waiting in the shadows, she joined the end of Light-foot’s escort. The soldiers met up with the tower guards, where there was
much cruel jesting at Lightfoot’s expense. He endured it in silence. When they could get no entertainment from him, they unlocked the doors and marched into the chamber beyond. Imoshen followed, carrying the tray.

  Miryma and Shacolm stood hand in hand, fear written large on their faces. Theirs was a gilded cage, complete with thick carpets and scented sandalwood screens.

  “We have a friend of yours,” the soldier announced. “He brings you news!”

  They stared at Lightfoot in confusion. When Lightfoot did not speak, the soldier pushed him forward and he fell to his knees. He was slow to move after the bruising they’d given him removing his weapons. Miryma and Shacolm helped him to his feet.

  “That’s right,” the man jeered. “Treat his hurts. Make him well for tomorrow’s execution. Oh, didn’t he tell you his news? The General demanded your safe return. Tomorrow we’ll send your heads as a token of the Amiregent’s regard.”

  Shacolm lunged, but the nearest guard struck him with the flat of his sword, sending him staggering into Miryma’s arms.

  “Enjoy your meal,” the soldier said, shoving Imoshen as they left. She recovered her balance and the door closed behind the guards.

  “He can’t execute us. Fair Isle will not allow it,” Miryma insisted.

  “Fair Isle’s anger does us no good after our execution,” Shacolm told her, then turned to Lightfoot. “You are Vaygharian by your accent, but I don’t know your colors. How do you come to be carrying my general’s message?”

  “Lightfoot.” He gave the Vaygharian bow. “I am the General’s man, and I wear his new colors.”

  “I fear General Tulkhan’s message will be the death of us, Lightfoot,” Miryma whispered.

  Imoshen put the tray aside. She had meant to find the Amiregent’s weakness, then bargain for their release, but events had forced her hand. “How many men guard your door?”

  They turned in surprise.

  “How many?” Imoshen pushed back her servant’s headdress, letting the veil fall.

  “Dhamfeer!” Shacolm hissed, and Lightfoot made the Vaygharian sign to ward off evil.

  Miryma ran to hug her. “Imoshen! You have come for us.”

  “It is pure chance that I am here tonight. Lucky chance for you and for Fair Isle. I did not know the General had moved to confront the Amiregent.” Anger tightened Imoshen’s voice. Suddenly ravenous, she devoured the sweet flesh of a roasted bird. “And nothing more marvelous than a sleek merchant ship brings me to you. It lies off the port, awaiting our return. Now, the guards?”

  “Two, no more,” Shacolm said. “But there is the palace and the town to get through.”

  Tossing the bone aside, she wiped her fingers. “The townspeople dare not peep outside their doors. The servants go about, eyes downcast in fear. The nobles are drunk on Dreamwasp visions, and we can deal with the guards. There is an old T’En saying that translates, Why use force when deceit will do?” She smiled at their confusion. “Miryma, last winter you took a part in the entertainments.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I want you to pretend you are furious with Lightfoot. Try to scratch his eyes out. Shacolm, you call for help. Here, take this.” She handed the young Ghebite her own knife. “We will lure the guards in, attack them, then slip away.”

  “How will we get out of the palace?” Lightfoot asked.

  “Trust me.” Imoshen resumed her headdress.

  She met their eyes one by one. Their fear and faith mixed oddly, sitting on her tongue with a bittersweet tang. She no longer felt hungry and shaky. The tension they exuded was enough to sustain her. “Now, Miryma. Scream!”

  The young woman opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Imoshen slapped her. Shacolm shouted and started toward them. Imoshen thrust Miryma into Lightfoot’s arms so that he stumbled.

  The girl sprang to life, uttering a bloodcurdling scream. “You’ve killed us. You and your arrogant Ghebite general!”

  Lightfoot stood stunned by the attack, then her nails raked his cheek, drawing blood. He caught her wrists and bellowed with rage as her teeth sank into his hand. “Get her off me! I swear I’ll strangle her!”

  Shacolm glanced to Imoshen, who had moved to one side of the door.

  “Help, guards,” Imoshen cried. “They’re going to kill each other!”

  The soldiers opened the door. They laughed as Miryma, whose head came no higher than Lightfoot’s shoulder, kicked him in the shin. He cursed her. The guards plowed in. One grabbed Miryma and threw her across the room. She careened into the table, sending crockery and food onto the carpet.

  Imoshen swung the door shut and darted over to help Miryma to her feet. Miryma bit back a scream and pointed. Imoshen spun in time to see Shacolm dodge the guard’s lunge. The man’s own momentum carried him onto Shacolm’s knife. The guard plucked futilely at the blade’s hilt as he staggered and fell. Suddenly Imoshen felt a rush of heady warmth as the life force left him. She reeled in her T’En perception, unwilling to partake in death.

  Businesslike, Lightfoot broke the neck of his guard and let him drop. Silently, he went over the body, removing all weapons. He straightened. “Let’s go.”

  Imoshen fixed on his sun-lined face. He did not kill for pleasure, yet he killed without compunction. She went to touch him and discover how he could extinguish life without remorse, then thought better of it.

  Miryma ran to Shacolm. “You are unhurt?”

  He caught her to him, laughing shakily.

  “What’s the next step of your plan?” Lightfoot asked.

  If she could get them safely down to the docks and out to the boat where Reothe waited, the Amiregent would have no leverage on her, but she still had none on him.

  “One thing at a time,” Imoshen said. She opened the door to peer out. The anteroom was empty. The cards lay facedown, the game never to be resumed. “Bring the bodies.”

  Imoshen arranged the dead guards in the chairs with their backs to the entrance so that they appeared to be dozing. A casually thrown cloak obscured the worst of the blood. At a quick glance it seemed they would spring to attention and apologize for sleeping at their posts.

  Locking the prison door after them, Imoshen turned to the others. “Into the hall, and keep to the shadows.”

  “This way,” Shacolm urged. He was headed toward the public rooms of the palace.

  “No. We want to pass unnoticed. We go through the servants’ passages.” Now she wished she had thought to take three of the household tabards. “Hold hands. I will lead us down only the empty passages.”

  Miryma grasped her hand, fingers trembling. Shacolm was next and Lightfoot last. Even now Imoshen could feel the need of these three people sustaining her. She called on that T’En part of herself that had wanted to feast on the death of those guards. Tension built in her. The corridor as far as the steps was empty.

  “My head hurts,” Miryma whispered. “Am I supposed to feel like this?”

  “Come,” Imoshen urged. She guessed Miryma was more susceptible to the gifts than most.

  Relying on her senses to tell her if a corridor was empty, she led them back to the storerooms just off the kitchens and from there into the deserted courtyard. When Imoshen had entered the palace, the larger gates had been open for delivery wagons; now these were closed and only a small gate stood open, manned by a single sentry.

  Lightfoot reached for his knife. “I’ll—”

  “No. You deal too freely in death. We’ll do it my way. Hold hands.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Miryma warned.

  “Just a little longer.”

  The guard grimaced, then strode off around a corner. In a moment they could hear him relieving himself.

  “Quickly.” Imoshen darted through the gate.

  They hurried after her, keeping to the shadows of the narrow street, until at last they reached the wharves and the boat. It looked inviting. Imoshen was weary, but she would achieve nothing if she did not have a lever on the Amiregent.

>   “Go quickly now. Once you round the bluff, you will see the lights of my ships. Tell Reothe to send the boat back for me. I’ll look for it here.”

  “You’re not coming with us?” asked Lightfoot.

  “No.” Imoshen moved into the shadows as the boat slipped quickly away on the dark water.

  The sky was lit only by starlight and the large moon. The small moon had already set. Silhouetted against the stars was Imoshen’s destination: the tower. She picked her way through the quiet streets.

  Away from the town, a path wound toward the bluff. There was not enough light to cast a shadow on the grass. Imoshen slipped off her shoes to walk over the bare earth of the wheel ruts and opened her T’En senses. The grandmother and the boy Amir had passed this way. The old woman did not expect to leave the tower alive.

  When Imoshen heard horses approaching, she stepped into a hollow and watched as two riders passed. They roused the guard and he opened the gate. Torchlight fell on the men’s faces. Foreboding gripped her as she recognized the Amiregent without his court finery.

  He swung down from the saddle, saying, “I have not been here this night, guard. Whatever you hear, do not climb the stairs.”

  The man nodded and took the horses aside. Imoshen slipped inside the courtyard.

  The light of a single flaming torch danced on the stonework as the Amiregent climbed the tower stairs, followed by his companion, who carried something under a silken cover. Imoshen clung to the shadows just beyond the curve of the steps.

  “If we are to have war with Fair Isle, I want no civil unrest. No one will use this brat to unite the people against me. He and his grandmother die tonight. And there must be no one to claim this was anything other than suicide. Kill that gate guard before you leave,” the Amiregent ordered softly.

  “Then it will be war?”

  “Oh, yes. Fair Isle is ripe for plunder. And whether Gharavan or Tulkhan wins, the Ghebites are a spent force. Internal strife will consume their empire.”