The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  Tirorn took another casual survey of their surrounds. “Concentrating their forces,” he said, almost below his breath. “But why?”

  Tarathan shook his head, his eyes flicking from street, to rooftop, to alley. “I don’t know. But staying with the crowd is still our best chance.”

  They let the throng carry them onto a bridge that crossed another narrow canal, but turned at the thud of running feet and a horn blare from behind them. Along the canal, open shutters slammed closed as a grim-faced detachment of the city guard pounded toward the bridge. It was not clear who or what they were pursuing, but Tarathan nodded casually toward an overhanging rooftop and the shadow that dropped back behind the ridgepole. Tirorn grunted. “Sloppy lot,” he said, as they pressed against the side of the bridge to let the guards pass. “Or they’re not concerned about being seen.”

  “Either way,” Tarathan replied, “they’ll not live to make old assassins.”

  As if in answer to his comment, there was another rush of footfalls, this time across the tiled rooftops as five, black-clad figures raced toward the bridge. They did not stop or even pause to look down but leapt the gap above the bridge and ran up the roof slope on the other side. The shadow that had ducked behind the ridge sprang up and away and other black-clad figures joined it, fleeing south. The pursuers blew a series of short, sharp whistle blasts and more assassins appeared, racing along another set of roofs to intercept those in flight. Overhead, shutters began to open again.

  “Oi! You with the bow! What d’you think you’re doing?” Four of the guard contingent had backtracked toward the bridge, their leader glaring at Tirorn. “Weapons are forbidden on the streets during festival!”

  The heralds and Tirorn looked at each other. “But not, apparently, on rooftops,” Jehane Mor observed.

  “Not his problem,” Tarathan replied. “Run!”

  They took to their heels again amidst a shout from the guards, followed by the immediate bray of their horn. Soon the streets around them were full of guards, with more horns sounding. On the rooftop, the assassins abandoned their initial pursuit and came streaming after them.

  “Not good,” muttered Tirorn. “Oh, not good!” He had flung the cloak aside and was unslinging his bow as he ran, but a quick glance back showed Jehane Mor that the assassins were closing and had their crossbows ready. Shielding, she reflected, would be useless here, and she channeled air instead, funneling it beneath the roof tiles. Terra-cotta and slate began to slip and slide so that the assassins’ teetered, desperately trying to keep their balance as tiles flew off the roofs like missiles, crashing onto the street and the pursuing guards.

  “Unsubtle, but effective!” said Tarathan, as they fled around a corner. “Ah!”

  A small band of bravos was gathered on the street corner ahead of them, all heavily armed and wearing the livery of the Athiri. “Now what—” began Jehane Mor, breaking off as the men turned their way. Shouting in excitement, they fumbled for their weapons until Tirorn loosed an arrow that flew past the leader’s face. The others fell back, their excitement evaporating, but Tarathan continued running toward them. Jehane Mor swirled a wind ahead of him, spiraling dust and rubbish into the Athiri retainers’ faces. The bravos batted it aside and shouted again, not at the fugitives this time but at a small band of green-and-black clad soldiery that was advancing along a side street.

  “Katrani colors!” exclaimed Jehane Mor as they fled past the Athiri unhindered. “This is street war.”

  As if to underline her words, another band of assassins appeared from behind the Katrani soldiery. Completely ignoring the imminent clash between the retainers of Ath and Katran, they swarmed up onto the rooftops and began firing on the pursuing assassins. “No,” Tarathan said shortly, “this is mayhem.” He glanced back over his shoulder to where the city guard was trying to separate the Athiri and Katrani factions. “Time to make ourselves very scarce,” he said out loud.

  “No one’s paying attention to us anymore,” replied Jehane Mor, “but getting to the North Gate may be even more of a challenge than we thought.”

  “It’s a running fight,” Tirorn said calmly, looking back, “but at least it’s moving in the right direction.”

  Jehane Mor risked another look back herself and saw that he was correct: the Athiri retainers were retreating down one of the side streets, and the roof battle, too, seemed to be moving away. She shook her head. “Faction war—and division within the School, which answers one question. But Ijiri faction war has never touched the Guild before.”

  “Times change.” Tarathan’s mindvoice was flat. “And not necessarily for the better.”

  The clamor fell behind as they progressed northward and into a series of cobbled lanes where houses and shops gave way to granaries and warehouses. They were close to the bridge that led to The Sleeve and were just starting to breathe more easily when Tirorn stopped and spun around, peering intently into the darkness. “Lurker!” he said tersely. “I can always sense the vermin, even at a distance. We need to get off the street.”

  Jehane Mor’s eyes flicked from the silent, shuttered buildings to Tarathan, who hesitated, then nodded at one of the warehouses. “In there,” he said.

  “Round the back,” said Tirorn, and Tarathan nodded. A few yards further on they found an alley that led to the rear of the warehouse, but the narrow back door was locked. Tirorn tested the ground level shutters until he found one loose, prying it open with his knife so they could clamber through. “Upstairs,” he said, while Tarathan secured the shutters behind them. “We need to see what’s happening out there.”

  The building was stuffy and the darkness made it difficult to see, but eventually they found the wide wooden stairs that went up three flights, creaking loudly at every other step. “Let’s hope no one’s here,” Jehane Mor said.

  “No one is,” Tarathan told her, as they reached the topmost floor. Large bales were piled across the wooden floor, and hoists and gantries hung from the ceiling. Very quietly, Tirorn chinked one of the shutters open, and Jehane Mor and Tarathan went to its other side, all pressed sidelong, peering down into the street.

  A clot of blackness, filaments trailing, drifted above the cobblestones, followed closely by a small knot of assassins and the Darkswarm warrior from the Guild House. The assassins seemed edgy, hugging the walls and checking every doorway and entrance before moving past. Several of them kept their eyes and crossbows fixed on the rooftops, but the attention of the watchers, like the warrior’s below them, was focused on the lurker.

  Tarathan stiffened, leaning forward as if to see more clearly. After a moment he turned to Jehane Mor, his mindvoice terse: “Look at their faces.”

  The small band was directly beneath them now, caught in the light thrown by the lantern above the warehouse door. Most of the faces it illuminated were blackened, or concealed by hoods or wrapped cloth, but one of the hoods had slipped back, framing a face that Jehane Mor recognized. Only that morning, she thought, with a queer sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, the Ishnapuri heralds had sat at breakfast with them and Ileyra had exclaimed over the gift of the owl and falcon masks. Now she stood in company with the Darkswarm warrior and the renegade assassins. Jehane Mor saw Tarathan’s hand clench white, and Tirorn looked from one to the other of them, clearly sensing their tension. But he asked no questions, only fingered the string of his bow.

  Three storeys below, the Ishnapuri herald turned, looking all around as though their recognition had caught at her attention. Lanternlight and shadow rippled across her face, and both the Darkswarm warrior and the lurker turned as one to watch her. The three in the warehouse stood very still, scarcely daring to breath, and Jehane Mor felt an icy power reach out, sweeping the night. She slipped away from it, letting her mind blend into the musty dark surrounding them, at one with the shadowy mass of piled bales and the outline of hoists overhead—and let that sense of oneness shield them all.

  Down on the street, Ileyra’s upturned face rippled again bef
ore she shrugged and the whole party moved on, the lurker floating ahead of them. The three in the warehouse relaxed, until Tarathan held up an imperative hand. “Wait!” he whispered.

  Peering out from a different angle, Jehane Mor saw figures creeping close behind roof eaves and parapet walls. These newcomers, too, were hooded and cloaked, but the bows they carried were long, like Tirorn’s. The leader signaled, and the others rose as one and loosed a volley of arrows into the band on the ground. The lurker was hit first and imploded with the same keening whistle that Jehane Mor recalled from earlier in the night. One of the assassins fell to his knees, grasping at the arrow that had pierced his chest, and the Darkswarm warrior shouted. An arrow sprouted in the mail of his upper arm as he spun around, pushing Ileyra back along the street. The Derai continued to shoot as the ambushed party broke and fled. Another two assassins fell, arrows in their backs, but the rest were getting away, Ileyra amongst them.

  The Darkswarm warrior was not so fortunate. A second arrow took him in the back of the knee as he ran, and he reeled, lurching across the street. The Derai followed up with a swift, concentrated volley as the warrior stumbled along the wall. Several arrows bounced off his armor, but one buried itself in the back of his neck, punching its way through the fine metal coif.

  The warrior fell, sprawling face forward in the street as the ambushers came down from their rooftop. Slowly and deliberately, one of the Derai walked toward the fallen warrior. His build was as massive as the bow he carried, and Jehane Mor and Tarathan exchanged a glance, recognizing Orth from the Farelle bridge. The Derai circled the fallen Darkswarm, slinging his bow over his shoulder and drawing a long, wickedly curved knife. He waited a moment longer then moved forward in one swift movement, wrenching the helmet off the fallen warrior’s head, jerking his head up by the hair and cutting his throat.

  “Just to be sure,” said Tirorn. “Now, being Orth, he’ll mutilate the rest of the face and take the ears as a trophy.”

  The huge Derai did just as Tirorn had predicted before letting the head fall forward again onto the pavement. He looked down at his fallen enemy for a moment longer, kicked the body, then walked back to his comrades.

  “Two out of three,” said Tirorn softly, then shuddered. “But did you mark the third, the facestealer, who got away? Lurkers are one thing, but a facestealer! The Swarm must have invested a great deal in this alliance with the assassins.”

  “I saw no facestealer,” said Tarathan grimly, “only a turncoat Ishnapuri herald.”

  Tirorn shook his head. “You must have seen the way the woman’s face rippled. On the Derai Wall, we know that as the mark of a facestealer. They are part of the Darkswarm elite and can shape themselves to the face and form of others, both beasts and people—but they have to kill the victim first. The rippling indicates that a facestealer is no longer holding fast to the change, either because the form has been held too long and the spell is wearing thin, or because the facestealer plans to abandon it anyway.”

  “Are you sure?” Tarathan asked slowly. “What we saw was the face and form of a herald from Ishnapur, called Ileyra.”

  “And the Darkswarm warrior did say that they had turned those thought incorruptible,” Jehane Mor pointed out.

  “No one is incorruptible,” Tirorn said shortly, “not once they fall into the power of the Swarm. But in the House of Swords we still learn all the signs that identify Swarm minions, even though we may never encounter them.” He paused, frowning. “It’s possible that the herald you met was still this Ileyra and that the facestealer only attacked her today. But given the strength of the tremors passing over her face—” He shrugged. “It’s more likely that the attack took place days ago, perhaps on the way here, or even in Ishnapur itself.”

  “ ‘It is a long way from Ishnapur to Ij, especially for the unwary,’ ” quoted Tarathan.

  Inwardly, Jehane Mor reviewed every aspect of their dealings with the Ishnapuri heralds. “We have to assume that Salan, Ileyra’s brother, has been compromised as well—which fits with something else.” In her memory, she stepped into the Guild house courtyard again, walking between slumped bodies to the front door. “I was surprised there had been little or no resistance to the assassin attack until the killers reached the house itself. I put that down to the advantage of surprise, but now—” She paused. “What if there was no surprise? What if the heralds in the yard knew their murderers and thought them friends?”

  “Treachery,” Tarathan said heavily. “Or facestealers. Either explanation fits.” He stepped away from the window. “But it changes nothing for us. We still need to get out of the city. What about you?” he asked Tirorn. “Will you rejoin your friends now?”

  “Not just yet.” Tirorn slipped his bow back onto his shoulder. “They seem to be managing well enough without me. Besides, I’ve never cared much for Orth when the bloodlust is on him.”

  “Not a gentle enemy,” agreed Tarathan, heading back to the stairs.

  Tirorn’s smile was tight. “No Derai is a gentle enemy, but Orth is in a category all to himself.”

  “You don’t like him,” said Jehane Mor.

  The Derai had started down the stairs, following Tarathan, but now he glanced back. “Orth excels at killing and that has its uses on the Wall. He is also both blood and sword kin to me, so liking does not come into it. We are bound together, and it is because of that and Orth’s excesses, as much as the lurkers, that we are here.”

  “How so?” she asked.

  Tirorn shrugged. “Orth’s hatreds are not limited to the Swarm, but extend, amongst others, to our own priestly kind.”

  “I thought all the warrior Derai were of that mind,” Tarathan commented, as they descended another flight.

  “Not all,” said Tirorn, “and certainly not to the same extent. We had a civil war long ago, which some see now as warrior against priest, but the House of Swords did not stand with the other warrior Houses at that time. Since then, we have always been far less bitter toward those with old powers. But there are still some whose antagonism is as virulent as anything you would expect from either Night or Blood. Particularly Blood,” he added, half under his breath. “Orth is one such, but our Earl is not. He holds to Sword’s longtime treaty with the House of Peace, which is the smallest of the priestly Houses and our near neighbor. Peace is an order of healers, followers of the god Meraun, and has no place for warriors, so they get all those born to our House with priestly powers and we get all theirs who have none. Their healers serve us as required, and in return we patrol their boundaries as well as our own and provide armed escorts for their people whenever they travel.” He shrugged. “The arrangement preserves the Blood Oath that binds the Derai, and keeps our dealings with each other at arm’s length.”

  Tarathan paused as they reached the ground floor, his eyes checking the shadows. “But that does not sit well with Orth?”

  “No,” said Tirorn. “He sees this approach to the Oath as lax.” His voice turned grim. “Unfortunately, I misread the depth of his hatred and gave him command of a company that was to escort a contingent of healers from Peace’s Keep of Bells to the Towers of Morning. I knew his brutality, but had no reason to believe that he could hold the honor of our Earl and House so cheap.”

  “What happened?” asked Jehane Mor softly. They had reached the door and Tarathan had his hand on the bolt, but despite their own danger, or perhaps because of it, they were both caught in the spell of Tirorn’s story.

  Tirorn rested one gauntleted hand on the doorjamb, speaking with his face half turned aside. “The priests had a small escort from Bells to the rendezvous with Orth, but were ambushed by darkspawn not far from that point. One of the escort managed to reach Orth, but he refused to move until it was certain he would arrive too late. Everyone in the Keep of Bells’ company died. Naturally, Orth hunted down and slew every one of the ambushers, slowly and painfully in most cases, I’m told. A highly satisfactory outcome for Orth in all respects.” Tirorn’s fingers moved re
stlessly against the jamb. “But not for our Earl. He held all our lives forfeit for the stain on his own honor and the integrity of our House.”

  “But—I thought you weren’t even there,” Jehane Mor protested.

  “No” said Tirorn, “but I gave the command to Orth, a grievous error of judgment. And we are blood and sword kin, as I said, each bound in honor to the actions and deeds of the other. The Earl would have had all our lives, except that the House of Peace intervened. It seems that the Law of Meraun forbids the taking of life, which I suppose explains their arrangement with us. Anyway, their High Priest, who is also their Earl, sent a message saying that enough Derai blood had already been spilt and we should be required to atone for Orth’s misdeed instead, cleansing our stained honor by that means. So here we are, on this quest to hunt down the lurkers and flush out whoever is using them.” He grinned, with a flash of genuine humor. “Of course, our own Earl made it clear that he would be perfectly happy if none of us ever returned.”

  “I take it you don’t share that view,” Tarathan said.

  “Not entirely,” admitted Tirorn. “I do accept that we have to set right the blight on our honor, but I have always questioned the merit of death, whether by execution or ritual suicide, as a means of setting such misdeeds right. What does it mean in the end but one less Derai to keep the watch? And there are not so many of us now that we can afford to throw lives away.”

  “So you would like to bring everyone home safely?” Jehane Mor asked. “Even Orth?”

  “Even Orth,” agreed Tirorn, “although that, in the end, may prove the greatest stain on my own honor.”

  “I’m surprised you dare let him out of your sight.” Tarathan was very dry.

  “I have made his limits perfectly plain, both to himself and the rest of our kin,” said Tirorn evenly, “and he has no doubt of the consequence if he exceeds them. That should keep him in check for at least one night without my actual presence.” Now he did look at them directly and his expression was sardonic. “But I don’t think I’d like to test Orth by reintroducing him to you. He’s better than any wyr hound at smelling out the sort of power you’ve been using.” He smiled a little as Jehane Mor’s brows went up. “We have been trained from birth to hunt the Darkswarm on the Wall of Night. We may not have power ourselves, but we learn to recognize its taint and stay so still that those who rely on it miss our presence—until it’s too late.”