Steelflower

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Even if you starved, Kaia, you would not do such a thing. “The boy?” Darik sounded so utterly certain of me.

  Was this what it was to have a s’tarei? To feel a man’s faith in me?

  “If I may watch for myself, I may watch over him as well. And you gave your oath.” The reality of what I had heard hit me like a mailed cestus to the pit of my stomach.

  I could not believe it. Rikyat had betrayed me.

  Betrayed me.

  Yet I had sworn, and my companions would be hostages to his pleasure, led blindly into the trap by me alone.

  I had to follow Rikyat, at least until I had repaid the debt or found some other way to ease us from an army’s hold. Then I was free.

  “I did promise my adai I would watch over the small one. It pleases you, I will do so.” He unbuckled his own weapons harness, slowly. Something tight in my throat eased a little. Darik looked intent, thoughtful. “Shall I stand watch?”

  “We are safe enough tonight.” I toed back the blankets someone—perhaps Janaire—had thoughtfully piled for a sleeping-nest. The braziers did a more-than-tolerable job of warming the air. In winter the plains would be miserable with coastal rain, even if the presence of the seawind kept snow away. “And I sleep lightly in an army camp, always.”

  I settled down, working my boots off, and Darik stood, watching me. Indecisive.

  I knew what he could not ask me, unwilling to press.

  I patted the rugs next to me. “Tis a chill night.” It could have been interpreted as an invitation or an explanation. Either would do. I had almost forgotten we conversed in my birthtongue.

  He eased himself down, more gracefully than I had, and laid his dotanii within easy reach. He yanked off his boots with quick, hard movements. “You are a mystery to me, K’li. Where has all the armor gone?”

  As soon as he said it, he tensed, perhaps wishing he had not reminded me. I shrugged, yanking on my boot. “Do you wish me to keep you at swordpoint? I will, if you like. We are surrounded by potential enemies, and Rikyat seeks to use me as a knife to the heart of Azkillian. I have been betrayed by the one person in this camp I was certain I could trust. I would much prefer you to guard my back than have to set myself against you as well.” I finished working my other boot free and stretched out, yawning. The haka pounded in my head. Haka and some other, deeper pain.

  Darik lay on his back, his hands laced behind his head. It was a strangely vulnerable position, and I settled myself down on my side, carefully not touching him, but able to see his face in the darkness when I propped my head on my hand. My braids were twisted up out of the way, a heavy weight.

  “I will tell you, I do not like to see you used thus.”

  “I do not either.” I yawned again. “Rikyat is gods-touched, though.” My eyelids were heavy, I felt them dropping. “And this whole quest seems gods-touched as well. Too much luck flying about, both good and bad. I have grown used to traveling alone.”

  “Well, no more.” Darik settled himself more securely, relaxing muscle by muscle. “Now you have a s’tarei.”

  Indeed. And glad I am of it, though I wonder why the gods saw fit to bring you now. I dropped my head down onto the bolster, and Darik pulled the blanket up over me, tucking me in. “So it is. Sleep, D’ri. Who knows when we shall sleep again?”

  He did not reply, but I felt his watchful silence. In that darkness, before I let myself sleep, it was more than I had ever wanted.

  It was enough.

  Chapter 40

  Another Knife In The Dark

  I woke to confused motion, the sound of steel meeting steel, and the wet thud of a body against unforgiving earth. I gained my feet, my dotanii clearing its sheath before I finished waking. I found myself staring down at the remains of a Shainakh man bleeding out on the rug. Darik pushed me aside, his face full of rage.

  “What the—” Redfist struggled to his feet, grasping his axe.

  I wiped the sleepsand from my eyes and stared uncomprehendingly down at the Shainakh. He was not dressed as a guard, and there was a stray breath of sorcery on him. Something I had smelled too recently for my comfort.

  I wanted to bend down and pull back his tunic, to see if he had a small blue glyph tattooed on his chest. Yet as soon as I moved Darik moved too, crowding me back with his body until I almost stumbled over the blankets.

  “’Ware.” Atyarik stood guard over Janaire, who stretched and yawned as prettily as a snow maiden, her black hair falling down in a series of dainty braids. “Are there more?”

  “Just the one, and he wanted Kaia. Or at least he walked straight for her, through the rest of you.” Darik’s eyes were flinty, burning black.

  I re-sheathed my blade and moved as if to kneel by the dead Shainakh. He had stopped bleeding, and his sloe eyes were glazed. I did not recognize him. “You killed him.” I sounded sleepdazed.

  Darik moved again, shoving me back from the body. It had all the quickness of a reflex action. Of course—twas the reflex of a s’tarei, pushing me away from danger. “Darik, he is dead. Cease this.”

  He stepped aside, unwillingly, and began cleaning his dotanii. He had only used the one. “Your pardon, Kaia’li. I am a little disarranged, this early in the morn.”

  A laugh boiled in my throat, but I bit it back. “Perhaps we should brew you some kafi.” I knelt next to the body, avoiding the large pool of blood. Darik had opened the man’s throat, quietly and effectively. I tweezed down his shirt, grimacing as hot blood slipped against my fingers.

  There, on his chest, the small blue tattoo. A Blue Hand.

  Gods above. I chewed at my lower lip.

  “What is it?” Janaire yawned again. I suppressed a flare of irritation. Would she sleep through a pitched battle?

  The minstrel did not snore, which meant he was awake and listening. Diyan curled into a tight little ball. Atyarik’s eyes moved over the interior of the tent, slowly, and he finally re-sheathed his knives. “An assassin,” he said, flatly. “Meant for the princess.”

  He spoke in G’mai, and his tone held a faint challenge. The word he used was reserved for the adai of a male Heir, a term unused for many summers. I pushed my braids back, I needed to twist them up out of the way again before I faced the official inquiry into this event. My mind began clicking through alternatives as my fingers, nimble and habitual, commenced searching the assassin’s clothing.

  “Now you rob the dead?” Atyarik, shocked, in G’mai. “Truly you are a—”

  “Hush.” I used the rudest possible inflection. “Aught I find will tell me who he is, and what he wanted here. Armed with that knowledge, I may keep all of us—including your adai, honorable one—safe and alive. Were I pretty and useless, I would have remained in G’mai and you would be still searching for your princeling. Take a little more care in how you speak to me, Tyaanismir.” I cut the assassin’s purse free and my fingers found several other small items, all of which I swept into a hank of cotton cloth from my clothpurse. “Redfist?” I switched to commontongue. “When I give the word, go outside and strike up a bellowing about an attack. Janaire, look as shocked as you can. Atyarik, do not speak. Your tongue will cause us all trouble. D’ri—” I looked up to find his eyes on me. His face was set and white, and he made a small movement, as if seeking to touch me. “My thanks, s’tarei’mi. Collect the boy. Wake him gently.”

  He nodded, his jaw set, and Redfist yawned, stretching. “Ai, K’ai, yer a fine general. What should I bellow?”

  “Something about an attack, then switch to Skaialan and rant as filthily as you like.” I swept the entire bundle—cloth, purse, and one of the man’s knives—to the side, tossing it against the side of the tent, right next to my saddlebags. “Go, now.”

  He rumbled to his feet and lumbered outside. Darik spoke softly to the boy, who murmured a reply. Darik, I said to him privately, my thanks. My thanks, s’tarei’mi.

  You are most welcome. The set of his shoulders eased. I am happy to have defended you.

  What
was he seeking? How did you wake?

  I woke upon hearing him enter the tent. Darik threaded his fingers through the boy’s hair, murmured to him in G’mai. Diyan blinked sleepily, still a child in waking. He unerringly chose you as his target, Kaia, and approached with his blade already drawn.

  I nodded, flipped out one of my own knives. Darik half-turned, hearing the sound of metal clearing the sheath. Janaire said something, low and fierce, to her s’tarei, who rumbled a response.

  I steeled myself, motioned to Atyarik. “Come here, if you please.”

  He obeyed. I handed him my knife. “Here.” I pointed at my left shoulder—that side had been closest to the door. Once outside, Redfist began yelling, his barbarian voice booming in commontongue. “Cut me, a shallow slice. Now.”

  He glanced at Darik, who went white under his caramel G’mai coloring. Janaire gasped.

  “Lady—” Atyarik began.

  “I do not have time to bandy words!” I snapped. “Do it!”

  Darik, his face chalk-pale, nodded once. “Mind you cut her shallow, if at all, Tyaanismir.” Yet his voice was strained. Diyan blinked, his eyes round and dark. The minstrel lay still as death.

  The strike came as a lick of fire. I seized my knife from him, flicked a little blood onto my bedding, and motioned Atyarik away. “Go tend your adai. You have my thanks.”

  “For a prince you give insults, and for a blow you give thanks?” His tone was sharper than I thought even he could muster. “You are truly strange.”

  “Go to your adai. D’ri, come here.”

  “That was not courteous of you.” Darik’s jaw set.

  “No. It was not. However, now you truly appear frightened.” I watched as he picked his way across the tent, moving stiffly. When he reached me, I threw my unwounded arm around him. He jerked in surprise and slid his arm around my waist, holding me close. The physical contact helped, eased the tension in him. My left arm throbbed. Atyarik had sliced true. “Have I not earned your trust, D’ri?”

  He nodded, once, shortly, his sleep-tangled hair falling over his eyes. “Indeed you have, adai’mi.” His arm tightened around me, steadying me as I took an experimental stagger.

  The clangor of alarums from outside reached a high pitch, and Redfist burst back into the tent, Rikyat on his heels, steel drawn. “Kaahai!” Rik bellowed, and stopped short, seeing the body and my blood-sopped shirtsleeve. Four of his personal guard, with the white horse badge on their leather jerkins, piled into the tent after him.

  I shook free and crossed the tent in four strides, Darik shadowing me, until I reached Rikyat and grabbed his jerkin, shaking him. I knew my golden eyes were wide and full of fury. “Is this your hospitality?” I raged. “A Blue Hand, here? In the midst of your camp? The second Blue Hand I have seen in two days? What says your god, Ammerdahl Rikyat?” Five more sentries crowded the tent door. “What game do you play with me?”

  I reached a screeching pitch to make an Antai fishwife proud. Rikyat looked at the assassin, at me, at Darik’s white-lipped fury, at Janaire’s wide-eyed paleness and Atyarik’s stone-set jaw.

  He sheathed his sword. “I crave your pardon, Kaahai,” he said, with far more dignity than I expected. “You are right to be angry. I have not told you all.”

  “This is true. Tis very true. I am not happy, Rikyat. Why would your Emperor send his Hands after me?” Was this your “second act”, Rik? The one meant to push me into your arms, as a tool to do your bidding?

  He considered me for a long moment, I let loose of his jerkin with a final shake. “How badly are you wounded?” he asked, anxiously. But not nearly anxiously enough.

  My temper snapped, coldness spilling through my stomach. He could have told me the truth at that moment. Instead, he chose to turn the question aside.

  “Not badly enough to matter,” I said. Darik tensed behind me, responding to the clipped brittleness of my tone. “You have much to tell me, Ammerdahl.”

  He nodded once, a short sharp movement. The bone beads danced. “My apologies, Kaahai.”

  I showed him my teeth in a grimace nowhere near a smile. “Remove this waste from my sight. I will tend my wound and have breakfast and perhaps some decent kafi, then you may tell me what this is about. And mind you hold nothing back, Rikyat. My temper is none too smooth this morn.”

  Ammerdahl Rikyat put his palms together and bowed, in the Shainakh way. His twin braids, with the bone beads in them, swung forward. “The army will be on the march soon—two days, if all goes aright. If I cannot convince you by then to stay with our cause, you may keep the gold and go whither you will.” His gods-touched eyes did not speak to what his mouth was saying. Those eyes…

  I did not shiver, but twas perilously close. This was not the Rikyat I had known.

  The first Hand I could understand, to make me think the Emperor wanted me dead or merely to unbalance me. Would Azkillian truly wish me dead, though, if he received word from his spies that I was commissioned to assassinate him? Though I had taken commissions and proved myself one of the best assassins on the Lan’ai Shairukh coast, twas still not enough to trouble an Emperor. Declaring me anathema or setting a bounty on me inside Shainakh borders would have kept me away from even Shaituh for long years, if not forever. Twas not even necessary for Azkillian to be bothered, one of his spymasters could have sent out the orders easily enough.

  How many other assassins has Rikyat sent after the God-Emperor, that he would find me necessary? Would he have told me of another assassin’s death? Or am I intended as a distraction, whether I succeed or fail?

  I nodded, my right hand clamping over the shallow slice Atyarik had gifted me. My own blood slipped hot against my fingers. The four sentries sheathed their blades, set to work lifting the assassin’s body. “You may merely tell me who you wish to contract me for. Two Blue Hands in two days will be a brew easier to swallow once I know what they wish to kill me for.”

  Admirably, he showed no sign of surprise. Rikyat shrugged his lean shoulders. “Are you certain you are hale, Kahaai?”

  “Very certain, Rikrik.” Now I sounded tired, and Darik’s hand closed over my left shoulder, over the pressure I kept on the wound. It hurt to prove Rikyat had betrayed me. I could not let the hurt show—I was practiced at keeping the agony of betrayal from showing in my eyes. Darik was a solid, warm presence behind me.

  He will not betray me, at least. Twas a strange thought.

  “I think she requires kafi,” Darik said mildly, and Rik’s eyes shifted past me to touch his.

  “I believe she does. It seems the flower has a sword to guard her.” A line of Shainakh poetry, a little clumsy in commontongue but still almost a challenge coming from the leader of the army.

  Had Rikyat planned seducing me into more than violence? It seemed likely. He had always been a companion of mine, and gossip had paired us several times. I had never been lonely or drunk enough to fall into his arms, and now I wondered if he took it hard.

  I also wondered how neatly I would have fallen into Rikyat’s plans had it not been for Darik, and the luck of picking a barbarian's pocket.

  I felt the smile touching Darik’s lips. “A sword is proof against trouble, indeed,” he replied in commontongue.

  Perhaps only I heard the disdain in his tone. Twas a good response—a little unimaginative, but just the subtle phrase a prince would politely say to warn a man away from the prince’s consort. A G’mai would find Shainakh poetry crude, to say the least.

  Rikyat laughed, and sobered. “My apologies, Kahaai.”

  The adjii carried the body of the assassin out, and someone muttered the man had joined from one of the caravans. I winced. If the Blue Hand had truly arrived without Rikyat's behest, the corresponding reprisals could be severe. If Rikyat had brought the Blue Hand in himself through a caravan, my making a fuss here would make the reprisals necessary for the sake of the army’s rumor-mill. Rikyat would use this opportunity for a purge, if necessary.

  Even in this, I was serving h
is purpose.

  I nodded, seeming to accept the apology. Ammerdahl Rikyat had matured from a spendthrift noble in the irregulars to a true leader, and one that would not hesitate to use me without my knowledge if he saw fit.

  If he can. If I were disposed to let him.

  Rikyat took one last look at the tent interior and stalked out. I blew out a long breath between my teeth and turned to Janaire. “I need hamarai. Please.”

  She nodded, and closed her eyes. She was still far too pale, and Atyarik watched me as if I were an adder under a child’s bed. Redfist was unwontedly silent and serious, his brow crinkled with thought. Mercifully, nobody said a word until Janaire opened her dark eyes and nodded. “Hamarai. We are enclosed in silence.”

  The hamarai—the wall of silence—was the best way to guard against prying ears. It took a little Power, and a little skill—both of which I lacked at this point. The air turned soft and motionless, heat suddenly collecting in corners and folds. I slumped, Darik caught my shoulders.

  “Wha’ was that, lass?” Redfist asked. “Ye bore no mark when I stepped out.”

  I nodded. “I needed a legitimate cause to blame Rikyat. Blood is the only thing that qualifies. He is the commander, so he is responsible.” I shook my head, forcing myself to think. “What a mess. What a gods-blighted fuchtar mess.”

  “Your Highness,” Atyarik said, stiffly, “it appears I was mistaken.”

  I thought he spoke to Darik, so I took no notice. “I do not like being pressured into a contract. The bastard set two Blue Hands on me.” I put my hand over my left shoulder again. “Cha, Diyan, bring me my clothpurse. I need to bandage this.”

  “Your Highness.” Atyarik stood steel-straight to catch my attention. “It appears I was mistaken.”

  I measured him from head to foot. What was he thinking? Janaire peered up at him. She had not even pushed her blankets back, just sat up in her sleeping-nest and regarded us with her dark, perfect eyes.

  Mother Moon, Atyarik, close your mouth. I am not in the mood to be baited now. “What ails you, Atyarik? If you seek another way to tell me I am an honorless outcaste, save your breath for singing.”