Dhulyn finished her turn into the new alley, but Edmir stopped, hauling back on his reins as Stumpy tried to follow Bloodbone.
“Wait! Aren’t we going to stop them?”
The Wolfshead reined in and looked over her shoulder at the prince with a frown. “Why?” she said.
Edmir looked from Dhulyn to Parno and back—his head whipped round again at the sound of tearing cloth.
“I’ll go.”
Parno grabbed Stumpy’s reins just in time. The boy didn’t even have a weapon out.
“I’ve no stomach to leave her, my heart,” he said. “It’s not an act I’d find easy to live with.”
Dhulyn turned Bloodbone back to face the opening to the square. “Blooded nobles. We’ll be food for crows ourselves if there are archers in the square. Oh, but we’ll be able to live with ourselves—no, wait, we’ll be dead.” She unhooked the small crossbow from her saddle harness. “Come on, then.”
Dhulyn dug her heels into Bloodbone’s sides and shot straight into the square, screaming out a challenge as she went. As soon as she cleared the buildings, she ducked, leaning far enough out of the saddle that anyone who didn’t know her would think for certain she’d fall off. Parno, riding Warhammer into the square at an angle to Dhulyn’s left, did not see her fire, but the man holding the knife to the young woman’s throat went down with a crossbow bolt through his eye, just as Parno fired and the man on her left caught a bolt of his own. The girl immediately crouched, holding the front of her dress together with one hand, and retrieving the knife from her dead attacker’s grip with the other.
The taller, heavier man still stood, having recovered sufficiently from the kick to the groin to have struck the girl again and torn her gown. He whirled around at the sound of hooves but when he saw Parno bearing down on him from his right, and Dhulyn Wolfshead, standing now in her saddle and howling, waving her long sword in her hand as she flanked him on his left, he turned and ran.
“He’s getting away!” Edmir spurred Stumpy forward but the horse pulled up at Dhulyn’s whistle, almost dumping the prince out of his saddle.
“So would the others have done if they’d been smart enough to drop the girl and go,” Parno said. “As it is, to save one we’ve killed two.”
“But they were going to rape her, perhaps kill her.” Edmir urged Stumpy closer to Warhammer. “We did the right thing.”
“No argument,” Parno said. “I’ve never cared for rapists. I merely point out the cost of doing the right thing.”
Dhulyn had reached the girl and dropped down from Bloodbone’s back to land at her side. With the bruising and swelling already distorting her features, it was hard to tell what expression she had on her face, but she was holding the knife up, ready to defend herself.
“There now, little Cat, sheathe your claw. I am Dhulyn Wolfshead, called the Scholar,” the Mercenary woman said, crouching on her heels just out of striking distance. “That’s my Partner Parno Lionsmane, the Chanter, and our charge of honor. Where are your people?”
The girl lowered the knife, grimacing as her swollen lip interfered with her smile. “I greet you, Dhulyn Wolfshead, and I thank you for your timely rescue. I am Zania Tzadeyeu. My troupe and family has our caravan in the Pine Tree Hostel two streets closer to the gate.”
“Dancers?”
“Players, dancers, and musicians, Lady Wolfshead. If you would accompany me, my father will amply repay you for my rescue.” The top layer of her voice held the cool graciousness of an imperial princess talking to some member of her court who had done her a favor. But under it was the same shock that whitened her lips and made her hands tremble.
Dhulyn helped the little Cat—Zania—to her feet, blood-red brows drawn down. “We are leaving the town, Zania Tzadeyeu, but I thank you for the offer.”
“You are leaving Probic? We could all leave together; there’s safety in numbers.” With a complicated motion of her shoulders Zania shifted her clothing around until she was decently, if somewhat raggedly, covered. Standing at her full height, Parno noted, the girl was rather shorter than his Partner, and more rounded.
“There’s ample space for you to ride on Edmir’s horse,” Dhulyn was saying, but Zania was already shaking her head.
“Please, Lady Wolfshead, with you.” Her voice was steady and clear, but the whites showed around her eyes.
Dhulyn flicked a glance at Parno before she nodded, her mouth twisted to one side. Parno stifled a smile. His Partner always made a large task out of helping someone. She turned and mounted Bloodbone, arranged her weapons behind her, and reached down a hand toward the younger woman.
“Do I look diseased?” Edmir asked Parno out of the corner of his mouth.
“You look like a man, as do I. And you may have noticed that the people who bruised her face and tore her dress—and planned to do considerably more, as we think—were also men. I think you’ll find Zania Tzadeyeu will be wary of all such creatures for the next while.”
Edmir took his lower lip between his teeth. Evidently, that hadn’t occurred to him. He glanced toward the two women, and his lips parted.
Parno rolled his eyes—hadn’t there been any women in his mother’s court? “What do you think, Edmir?”
Edmir flushed red and turned away from watching Zania’s legs as she climbed up onto Dhulyn’s saddle.
“Sorry, Lionsmane, I wasn’t listening.”
“At least you admit it. Are you for traveling with the troupe?”
“There’s sense in what she said, about traveling in numbers,” Edmir said, his eyes returning to Zania.
“I thought you’d say that. Still, it’s for Dhulyn as Senior to decide, so don’t hope too much.”
Tzanek shut the door of his workroom with more force than he intended, and ran to his worktable, holding his temples as he went. His head was throbbing in a most fearsome headache, and any quick movement seemed likely to make it break completely off. He sat down in the chair next to the table and, reaching into the front of his gown, pulled out a key hanging under his clothes by a small chain. He unlocked the oak box that sat to one side on the table and took out the book of poetry the Blue Mage had given him.
Tzanek took a deep breath, and then another. His head pounded with the beating of his heart. His hands trembled as he fumbled the book open to the blank central pages, careful to touch only the very edges of the parchment. He hoped this would work. The Blue Mage had told him the magic was in the book, not in the user, so it should work even though Tzanek was not a Mage, but he’d never had to do this before. And now his head ached so much.
“Lord Mage.” Tzanek cleared his throat and began again. “Lord Mage.”
Avylos looked up from the scroll he was reading, certain that someone had called him. He went to the workroom door, but when he looked out, he could see that the metal-bound door closing off this wing of Royal House was shut. No page was there calling him.
There it was again.
Avylos lifted his eyebrows, tapping his upper lip with his tongue. Was it possible?
He went behind his worktable and reached up to the books on the shelf, hesitating only a heartbeat before selecting the book of poetry with the central pages of albino calfskin. He laid the book down on the table, and as soon as he opened it, writing appeared on the right-hand page.
“My lord Mage. Thank the Caids! You must send help, immediately. The Nisveans are here, they are within the walls already, and the city is aflame—”
Avylos smiled. After all, Tzanek couldn’t see him. “And the Mercenaries, with the imposter they protect, no word of them?”
“It was they who distracted us while the Nisveans attacked, we were—”
“You have them?”
“No, I’m sorry, my lord Mage, they escaped—at least, they must still be within City House. They cannot have gone far.”
“Just a moment, Tzanek. Do not go away, but stay silent until I speak.” Avylos’ fingernails were biting into his palms, and he forced himself to re
lax, to breathe deeply, to ride the waves of his rage, rather than to let them overwhelm and drown him. Edmir kept slipping through every trap he set for him—Sun blast those Mercenaries. This was intolerable. If only he were there, but Probic was five days’ ride . . . he rubbed his fingers across his lips. If he could transport himself there—how could he be sure of having enough power left to do what must be done?
There had to be a way. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, glanced at the window. He could see Probic through the medium of the pond, but seeing it was not enough. He needed a channel through which power could flow. He looked down at the open book before him, where Tzanek still waited for him. That channel already existed.
He could do this. He knew it. And it would ultimately serve his purpose very well. Still, it would take much, if not all his present power. He looked quickly around the room. There were magics here he could undo, freeing the power for his own use. The other books he should leave, the pond likewise. They were his lines of communication, using little power to maintain, but a great deal to re-create. The Stone also, ready with a single word to trigger it. But the casket. He pulled it toward him. Locked and magicked. He traced a design on the lid and sucked in his breath as the lines of fire lifted and flew into his hand. The lock alone would suffice, so long as he left the door to his workroom magicked. Kera could enter, but then she could not unlock the casket, could she?
But the magic that told him who had come to the door, that he could remove and regain. The magic that kept the floor warm, and likewise the one that guarded the door to his sleeping chambers. All these could be renewed when he returned and restored himself. He had used up the talents he still had in Royal House, but there was one he’d been saving for an emergency such as this, a carpenter’s apprentice who was far too lucky with dice.
He sat back down at the book. “I will come myself,” he said. “Place your left hand on the right-hand leaf of the book.”
“But, my lord Mage, your instructions—”
“Are superseded. Do it at once!”
A moment passed, and then the outline of a man’s left hand appeared on the page. Avylos placed his own right hand on it.
A pulling at his skin, a twist of the guts, dizziness and nausea. For a moment he was sure his heart had stopped.
He coughed, and lifted his left hand from the page. He looked around at the unfamiliar room. Stone walls and floor. A truly horrible tapestry evidently created by a right-handed person using his or her left hand. Avylos stood and steadied himself on the back of the heavy, leather-covered chair. He’d forgotten how much shorter Tzanek was.
And the man hadn’t mentioned the towering headache he had. Avylos hated to use any magic to relieve the pain, but he could not afford the distraction. He went to the door of Tzanek’s workroom and looked around. He needed the tallest tower, and it would be . . . he rummaged through the mind he was wearing. This way.
On his way to the tower Avylos met only one guard, whom he dismissed with a short, economic gesture that left the woman unconscious and bleeding from the nose and ears. He had to slow down as he took the stairs to the top of the tower; his breath came short and his heart pounded. Tzanek was heavier and older, and Avylos could not spare any further power to improve the older man’s body. Get me to the top and back down again, he told it. That’s all I need.
The air was cool on his face when he pushed open the door at the top of the tower. Here, five days’ ride from Beolind, the sun was lower in the sky to the west, but Avylos could clearly make out the edges of the battlements, and the colors of the Nisvean soldiers as they took strategic positions in the streets below. He used his Mage’s sight to probe the city, noting where the largest gatherings of soldiers were, where the wooden buildings, where storage houses full of grains, hay, firewood, oil. Of the city’s four gates, two were closed and barred, but there were still Nisveans entering by the other two.
Avylos drew a symbol in the air, the same one he would have used over the pond in his garden. Without the medium of the magicked pond, he could see Edmir, but very little of his immediate surroundings. The boy was on horseback, and the angle of his shadows showed in which direction he must be.
And close. Very close. He could feel it.
When he was sure where he wished to strike, Avylos raised his arms and sketched green fire across the sky.
The wind rose, and the lightning began to fall.
“I must get some damp cloths for my face as quickly as possible—do I look very bad?” the girl said over her shoulder as they turned another corner. “We’ve a performance to give tomorrow in a country holding, and I can’t go on with my face all swollen. Paints can only do so much.”
Since the little Cat couldn’t see her, Dhulyn let her lip curl back over her teeth. Didn’t it occur to the child that with the invasion there very likely wouldn’t be any performance? Dhulyn was already wishing she’d insisted Zania ride with Edmir. The girl’s hostel was closer to the gate, but it wasn’t just two streets over. Either the little Cat couldn’t count, or she simply wasn’t an accurate observer. And she wouldn’t stop talking.
“Here we are.”
Finally. Dhulyn slowed to a stop. The hostel itself was a modest one, as befitted a company of strolling players who had their own caravan. They’d want comfortable beds as a change from traveling, and someone else’s cooking, but they wouldn’t be inclined to pay much for it. It was not the size of the establishment that made the hairs on Dhulyn’s neck rise.
“The gates to the stable yard are open,” she said, as Parno came up on her left side.
“Any other day, I’d expect it,” Parno said in a voice that indicated he shared her thoughts. “But this would be the only open doorway we’ve seen since leaving City House.”
Dhulyn tilted her head back and widened her nostrils.
“Smells wrong,” she said. “Get down, little Cat, and stay back.”
For all her chattering, Zania must have been well-trained, probably by her actor parents. She caught Dhulyn’s tone and obeyed, swinging her leg nimbly over Bloodbone’s head and sliding to the ground without argument or questions.
Dhulyn caught Parno’s eye and jerked her head toward the open gateway. He winked his left eye, dismounted, and took up his stance at the left of the gate.
“Edmir,” she said, as she pulled her sword from its scabbard across her back. “Stay with the dancer.” She turned and rode through the gate.
Edmir dismounted and concentrated on looking as innocent and harmless as he knew how. He needn’t have bothered. Zania, lower lip sucked into her mouth, had her eyes fixed on the gateway.
“What are they doing?” She took a determined step forward, and Edmir swung in front of her with his hands raised, palms outwards, resisting the urge to grab her by the arm.
“They said to wait, we’d best wait.”
“You’re not a Mercenary Brother.” She looked at him, meeting his eyes for just a second before glancing away. Her eyes were a startling violet color, all the clearer for the darkening around the left side of her face.
“No, I . . .” For some reason his tongue felt thick. “No, they’re my bodyguards. It, uh, it was my idea to stop and help you.”
“I thank you, good sir, for your courtesy.” But she had turned her eyes back to the gateway, and her words sounded rehearsed. In fact, Edmir thought with a twist to his lips, they probably came from some play she had acted in.
Even Edmir was beginning to wonder whether they should go in when Wolfshead and Lionsmane finally came out of the stable yard on foot. The Lionsmane’s face was impassive as he picked up Warhammer’s reins, except for a tightening around his mouth. His Partner was smiling her wolf’s smile, lip curled back from her teeth. Seeing their faces, Zania cried out—the sound strangely natural and real after her affected tones. Edmir took a step toward her and stopped, not knowing what he meant to say.
Dhulyn Wolfshead caught Zania by the arms as the girl tried to run through the gates. “How
many in your troupe? Zania!” She shook her until Zania blinked and focused on her. “How many?”
“Seven—six and me.”
“There are eleven dead. One is wearing a Nisvean tunic, and four look like they belong to the hostel. You had better come and look, we have covered the worst of it.”
What they’d left uncovered was quite bad enough, Edmir thought as he followed the Mercenaries and the girl into the stable yard and the smell hit him full force. For a moment he was back in the battlefield, he swore he could hear the same flies. His stomach sank under a wave of guilt and fear. Then Parno coughed, and Edmir was back in the yard of the hostel.
The stable yard had not been purpose-built, but was formed by the walls of the surrounding buildings. There was no entrance to the hostel at the ground level, though a set of rough wooden stairs led to an upper balcony. A handful of rough stalls lay along one side, and the stable yard was made tiny by the presence of a gaily painted caravan, built like an elongated coach. The coppery smell of blood was everywhere, and the iron smell of burning was following drifts of smoke from the open windows on the second floor.
The Mercenaries had laid out the bodies roughly where they’d found them. The Nisvean and two others in the back rooms of the hostel they’d left inside; of the rest, three were in the public room and five on the cobblestones of the stable yard. Heads and faces were covered with scraps of blankets and other cloths. Six were dressed in the same bright colors and flowing style that Zania herself wore; except for the Nisvean, the rest were in plain dull homespun.
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