by Helen Lowe
“A signal honor,” murmured Jehane Mor.
“So they say.” Aravenor’s tone was noncommittal. “We will meet with them all soon, but first may I offer some Patrol hospitality in the form of dry clothes and something to eat? Normally I would insist that you be allowed to rest before such a meeting, but I hope you agree that events are too urgent for that?”
Jehane Mor nodded, conscious that Tarathan’s braids were frayed rope down his back and her muddied clothes were not even herald gray. Yet whatever their appearance, however weary they felt, they were still representatives of the Guild. “We agree that events cannot wait,” she said. “But the dry clothes and a meal will be very welcome.”
Chapter 8
The Demonhunter
“We don’t have anything gray,” Arin said, bringing an armful of clothes to the tent where the heralds were to change. “These are clean and dry, but we only wear black.”
“We’ll look like Patrolers ourselves,” Jehane Mor said to Tarathan as the rider left them. “Or assassins,” she added with a grimace.
“It may be wise to blend in for now.” Tarathan was frowning as he rung out his braids. “Did you see the horses beside the Ishnapuri tent?”
Jehane Mor nodded. “Jhainarians,” she replied. The only mirror was a steel shield hung from a tent pole, and although it showed little more than a pale blur of face, she could at least repin her hair. She met the reflection of his eyes, dark smudges behind her shoulder. “Seven of them.”
“Together with a demonhunter.” His mindvoice was sober. “But we can’t avoid this meeting.”
“No.” When they ducked back out into the brightness of the morning, they found a richly dressed youth waiting with Aravenor. The newcomer’s appearance, Jehane Mor reflected as he bowed, was quite magnificent. He wore a jupon of apricot velvet over a gilded breastplate, with the Ilvaine leopard device stitched into the velvet with gold thread. Tight, golden-chestnut curls clustered around a classic profile, and the eyes that lifted to meet hers were flecked with amber.
“Honorable heralds,” the young man said, straightening. “I am Leto Ilvaine. My grandfather, Prince Ilvaine, invites you to join his other guests in our pavilion. He apologizes,” he added, “that you have had no time to rest, but offers refreshment while we talk.”
She and Tarathan inclined their heads. “We are tired,” they said in their one voice, “but understand that necessity drives the prince—as it does us.”
Leto Ilvaine bowed again and walked ahead of them to the Ilvaine pavilion, lifting aside the silken hanging over the entrance. Despite both filtered daylight and the gilded lantern that hung from the central dome, the interior was dim. Jehane Mor’s first impression was of an expanse of thick soft carpets and a throng of richly dressed people. When her eyes adjusted, she saw that many of the rich robes reflected the mix of colors displayed on the banners outside. An Ilvaine standard, its golden leopard rampant on an indigo field, formed one wall of the pavilion: the beast’s eyes glittered topaz and diamond, its forepaws struck at the air. A second leopard gleamed on the long tunic of the man standing at the center of the gathering, directly in front of the banner. A circlet of gold confined his white hair, and his face was all old parchment and sharply etched bones. Leto Ilvaine stopped a few paces in front of him and sank to one knee.
“My grandfather and my prince,” the young man said, “I bring you Aravenor, Lord Captain of the Patrol, and Jehane Mor and Tarathan of Ar, heralds of the Guild from Terebanth.”
The old man’s gaze found the heralds’ faces, where they waited in the shadow of the entrance. “You are welcome,” he said. His voice was deep, with no quaver of age. “The more so,” he added, turning slightly from one herald to the other, “because of the great injury that has been done to you and to your Guild, contrary to Ijiri honor.”
Those who surrounded him stirred, but no one spoke. No one would dare, thought Jehane Mor, looking again at the proud, glittering gaze of the beast above his head. She bowed, mirroring Tarathan at her side, and let her voice speak in unison with his: “We salute you, Prince Ilvaine, and thank you for your welcome. We look forward to hearing your counsel—as well as the message the Masters of Ij wish us to bear to the Guild of Heralds, concerning both redress for our wrongs and restoring the balance of peace within the River lands.”
Those around the prince stirred again, but he simply nodded, as if their formal words were no more than he had expected. “All these matters shall be addressed.” A gesture drew in the woman to his immediate right, her face humorous and deeply lined above the gold robe of a Master Sage. “May I introduce my kinswoman, Isperia Katran, who is a Master of the Academy. Also my great-nephew, Mykon Ambard.” The man standing on the prince’s left was powerfully built, with a dark, spade-shaped beard and cold eyes. His black and white garb denoted one the School termed “envoys,” assassins assigned to speak in Conclave on its behalf.
“A dangerous man.” Tarathan was grim.
“But here,” said Jehane Mor as they bowed again, outwardly impassive.
The prince raised one hand, a yellow diamond glinting on his finger, and those around him sat while liveried servants set out food and drink on delicate, cross-legged tables. Leto Ilvaine pulled forward chairs for the heralds, and Jehane Mor caught Isperia Katran studying them with shrewd eyes—before the sage’s head turned toward a shimmer of bells from the pavilion entrance. “And here,” Prince Ilvaine said affably, “is another of my great-nephews.”
The hangings were brushed aside and Haimyr the Golden surveyed the assembled company, a smile on his lips. The bow he made the prince was extravagant, and as soon as he straightened he strolled forward and saluted the heralds with equal flourish. “Did I not say that we should meet again? I am glad to see that I spoke true, despite the gloomy forebodings of my cousin here.”
“I prefer to call it realism,” said Mykon Ambard, without inflection. “But I concede that my reservations were misplaced in this instance.”
The heralds rose and bowed to the minstrel, their heads held at precisely the same, ironic angle, although they, too, kept their voices neutral. “We thank you for your faith in our safe arrival.”
The minstrel smiled. “I did have faith—so much so that I brought your horses with me from the city.” He switched the smile to Aravenor. “Although I promise the Lord Captain that all other Guild mounts remain safely stabled by the river port.”
Jehane Mor and Tarathan kept their one voice soft, looking at and through him at the same time. “We also thank you for our horses, but wonder how you knew to bring them? Just as we have wondered at your part in last night’s events, given your words at our last meeting.”
“What words were these?” asked Prince Ilvaine.
Haimyr turned to him. “The merest jape, my great-uncle and my prince, a lighthearted jest between friends.”
“They do not seem amused,” the prince observed. He turned to the heralds. “Do you accuse my great-nephew of designs against your lives?”
“We make no accusation,” they replied. “But we require accountability for the heralds murdered in Ij, wherever that may be found to lie.”
“Ah.” The prince’s faded tawny eyes must have been as golden as Haimyr’s once. “The Lord Captain has already made it clear that he requires the same accountability.”
Mykon Ambard’s brows twitched down, a hard line across his nose, but Haimyr’s smile remained in place. “Where are our other guests?” he asked. “Surely they shall join our council?”
“They have been sent for,” Prince Ilvaine replied. “We shall begin as soon as they arrive.” He sat in a wide chair hung with indigo and gold, waving Haimyr to a place beside Mykon Ambard. The minstrel subsided into it with a world-weary air as the heralds resumed their seats.
“Do you truly suspect him of involvement in last night’s attack?” Aravenor asked quietly.
Tarathan’s answering glance was measuring. “I rule nothing out, at this stage. For that mat
ter, what led you to approach Prince Ilvaine first, once you learned of events in Ij? How did you know the Ilvaine weren’t as compromised as the Athiri seem to be?”
“I didn’t,” said Aravenor. “I sent dispatches to all the Masters of Ij currently residing outside the city. But my rider told me that the Ilvaine hive was already buzzing when he arrived, and they were the first to send men and arms to join us here.”
“My grandfather,” Leto Ilvaine put in, bringing forward chairs for two more Patrol riders entering the pavilion, “has been saying for some time that something was brewing, although we thought it would unfold at Conclave. So we had been gathering anyway and were able to move quickly when word came. Still,” he added, pride clear in his face, “we wouldn’t have been here so soon without the old man driving us.”
“Aravenor’s word?” Jehane Mor asked silently, as the young man moved away. “Or someone else’s?” She did not look at Haimyr, but noted that the focus of Aravenor’s visor was in the minstrel’s direction. The Lord Captain nodded to Arin and his companion as they took their seats, and introduced the second rider, whose device was a mailed fist, as Sarathion. It was impossible to gauge any of their expressions behind the visors, but when he spoke again, Aravenor’s tone was thoughtful.
“Haimyr the Golden has an interesting history—a scion of the Ilvaine kin who is famed throughout the River for his music, but chooses to dwell at the end of the known world, on the Derai Wall.”
“So where does his loyalty lie?” Jehane Mor asked softly.
“A question,” Aravenor replied, “that has undoubtedly occurred to his princely great-uncle.” He paused as a young man who could have been Leto Ilvaine’s twin stepped through the entrance. “His Excellency Lord Isrradin, Ambassador of His Imperial Majesty, the Shah of Ishnapur, to the River lands,” the newcomer announced in ringing tones. “The Lady Sarifa of Ishnapur. Captain Sorriyith of the Jhainarian Guard.”
The prince and all those gathered in the tent rose to their feet as a tall man ducked through the entrance and stepped immediately to one side. He was clad in loose, flowing robes over shimmering mail and wore a spiked silver cap that concealed his hair. His eyes, too, appeared silver in his darkly tanned face and they never ceased watching the assembled company, not even when he bowed to Prince Ilvaine.
“So this is a Jhainarian,” Arin murmured, but the ambassador had already entered the pavilion in his captain’s wake and was saluting the prince with grave courtesy, as befits one great lord to another. He was a man of late middle years with a flowing beard and dark, thoughtful eyes in an aquiline face. His expression was austere, although his smile was warm as Prince Ilvaine returned the bow, but it was the woman who slipped into the tent in his shadow who caught and held all eyes. She was clad in a full, deep red robe, her hair concealed by a coif of gold mesh worked with garnet and seed pearls. The face within the coif was quartered with crimson and charcoal paint, both eyelids and lips darkened to black. The effect was both rich and a little frightening, and Jehane Mor heard more than one indrawn breath, although no one spoke.
Demonhunter tricks, the herald thought, but did not risk sharing the thought with Tarathan. The Lady Sarifa’s painted lids were half lowered, but Jehane Mor knew that she would be sensing the room. The demonhunter looked young, although it was difficult to be sure behind the painted mask. She would undoubtedly be strong, having been sent so far from Ishnapur alone—as much as anyone accompanied by a Jhainarian Seven, Jehane Mor reflected wryly, could be described as being alone.
The demonhunter saluted the assembled company with henna-dyed palms pressed together, before allowing her Ilvaine escort to bow her into a seat on the ambassador’s left. The Jhainarian captain moved to stand at the ambassador’s right shoulder, his right hand resting close to the hilt of his curved sword.
Prince Ilvaine steepled his fingers—exactly, Jehane Mor noted, amused, as his kinswoman, Isperia Katran was doing. The prince’s gaze searched the assembled faces and his old eyes were slightly hooded. “Kindred, Lord Isrradin, honored guests, we have much to discuss, most concerning last night’s events in Ij but some attending on the newly arrived—and very welcome—embassy from Ishnapur.” Gravely, he saluted the ambassador again, and Lord Isrradin rose and bowed in his turn. “But what happened last night did not begin when the Lord Captain’s dispatch rider arrived at my door, or even when rogue elements within the School attacked the Guild house. It seems likely that it began several years ago, when emissaries from this so-called Swarm made approaches to our factor in Grayharbor. They spoke of trade, yet had little of value to offer the Ilvaine kin. I foresaw, however, that others might see matters differently.”
The prince leaned back. “I am old and I do not like to be disturbed from my sitting in the sun, but nonetheless, word was sent along the lines and threads of our kin to remain alert for activity associated with this Swarm.” He smiled thinly. “Eventually, the web stirred. First, when my great-nephew, Haimyr, returned from the Derai Wall last autumn and alleged that Swarm emissaries were seeking to foment trouble in Ij. Shortly after that, Mykon Ambard also came to me—in secret, as is the way of his kind.”
All eyes turned to the assassin envoy, but he remained impassive. “One is always pleased to see one’s kin,” the prince continued, “particularly when they have risen high in the Three. And I have always been fond of my niece Cynithia, Mykon’s mother. Still, I was perturbed to hear what he had to tell, which was news of a Swarm alliance with the Athiri and approaches, through their prince, to the Assassins’ School.”
“Ath was always a fool,” Isperia Katran said, “even more so than his father.”
“Exactly,” agreed Prince Ilvaine, “although I had not thought him so lost to honor and the conduct required of a prince of Ij.”
Mykon Ambard stirred. “It may be,” he said, with every appearance of reluctance, “that he has gotten in too deep and they have him under some kind of compulsion.”
“He is still a fool. A wiser man would have perceived the nature of those he dealt with.” The prince waved a hand. “Now we must deal with the consequences of his folly.”
Aravenor leaned forward. “Why, if you knew this storm was brewing, did you give no warning?”
Haimyr, whose eyes had been closed, opened them. “To see the sky grow clouded is not the same as knowing when or how the storm will break. It may even blow over. There are many who seek alliances with Ij and its Three, for a multitude of reasons.” He did not look at the Ishnapuri delegation, but others there did, nodding. “We had a maelstrom of rumors and suspicion, but no sure information. Enough not to be caught completely unprepared, but that is all.” Gracefully he concealed a yawn. “It was almost fatiguing, rousing out the kin to do battle with the renegades, once we learned the first blow had been struck.”
“Against the Guild of Heralds.” Aravenor’s tone was even. “Yet not one of your rumors suggested that this might be coming?”
Haimyr shook his head. “There were many whispers, as I said, but no, not one that led me to think that the Guild house might be a target.”
“There is no sense to it,” Mykon Ambard said abruptly. “No advantage to the School or any of the Three.”
“Or to the Darkswarm,” murmured Haimyr, “at least that I can see.”
“They wished to send a message.” Jehane Mor spoke quietly, but every eye swung to her at once—because they are all watching surreptitiously anyway, she thought, to see how Tarathan and I bear ourselves during this discussion of a wrong done to our own. “We heard a Master of the School speak these words to his new ally: ‘Bringing down the heralds will send a message that no one is beyond our reach.’ ”
There was a collective hiss and more than one head turned to look at Mykon Ambard, who stared straight ahead.
“Striking at the integrity of River law and institutions with the same blow,” Aravenor said, “while one of the Three is set against the other two, and the School—potentially—divided within itself.”
>
Haimyr shrugged, the bells on his clothes tinkling. “Also setting Ij against the other River cities at the same time. We know, Lord Captain.”
“Do we?” Mykon Ambard looked at his kinsman sidelong, a sudden glitter in the cold eyes. “All know, kinsman, how long you have spent on the Derai Wall, tied to one of their dark lords. How can we know that you have not become their mouthpiece? Or that the Swarm are wrong when they say it is the Guild and the Patrol that keep the River divided—easy prey for the Derai, who covet our wealth and fertile lands. Perhaps it is only a matter of time before the Derai pour out of the north and overrun us.” He let his eyes move around the gathered faces. “The increasing number of northerners ‘visiting’ our cities suggest that the Athiri may be right in wanting the River unified.”
“By the School and by force?” Isperia Katran demanded, as several of the Ilvaine kin leapt to their feet, their hands on their sword hilts at mention of the Athiri. The prince shook his head at them.
“We are here so all may speak freely,” the old man said. Slowly, those on their feet sat down again, while continuing to glower at Mykon Ambard. Jehane Mor was watching Haimyr, wondering how he would answer the insult about being a mouthpiece for the Derai. But the minstrel said nothing, just resettled the fall of his golden sleeves.
Prince Ilvaine looked keenly around the pavilion. “It may be true that the Derai covet our River and our wealth. It is certainly true that they have numbers and strength of arms—but this Swarm has sought to destroy us by stealth. That I will not have.”
“It is presumptuous, in fact,” Isperia Katran said. “Ij is not a puppet, to dance at the whim of others.”
Lord Isrradin cleared his throat. “Forgive me, but I am puzzled.” His expression reflected his words. “Surely no one could believe that Ij is weak? The wealth of your city, of the whole River, in fact, is renowned, even in Ishnapur. Today we have seen the vastness of your armies, drawn up on this very plain. Where, then, is the weakness?”