The way inside he had hoped to find did exist, but as he had suspected, thin slats of wood barred his way into the crawl space between the tiled roof above and the plaster ceiling of the rooms below. Arakasi drew one of his rare metal throwing knives. The steel could endure the punishment of prying the slats out at their pegged ends, where a Tsurani blade of laminated hide would have snapped. Arakasi worked quickly. He garnered scrapes and splinters as he wormed his way through the small opening, then used the grease of his own sweat to ease the pegs back without squeaking. He allowed himself a moment of silent exultation. He had done the impossible. Although cramped in a space too small for comfort, he was inside the building.
He rested while the guard changed in the platforms outside. Then, he groped his way across the beams until he located the rooftree. He settled in to wait, the day before him to spy out the arrangement of the rooms unseen beneath.
* * *
Arakasi lay supine, listening closely to the dulcet tones of women's voices below him. His success now depended on the chance that the Obajan would be visiting his women, for the Spy Master doubted he could survive another day of sweating in the airless space beneath the roof.
The coarse-cut wood of dusty rafters bit into his thighs and arms, and chafed him through the light cloth of his robe. He endured, flexing one limb at a time to relieve cramps from impaired circulation. The air had grown stifling as the sun heated the roof tiles. Although he had gone without sleep for nearly two days, he fiercely resisted the need to rest. To fall victim to the body's needs in this place was to die. Should he doze, he might roll off the narrow crossbeam and come crashing through the thin plaster ceiling below him. With grim humor he also considered how the sound of his exhausted snores might lead the vigilant guards to his hiding place. Now, ready with his steel in darkness, his cheek and hands tickled by the aimless wanderings of crawling insects, he felt a heady mix of exhilaration and regret: exhilaration that he had won so close without discovery; regret that so many tasks remained undone.
Below him, cracks in the plaster admitted an orange glow of light. Servants had lit the lamps, which meant that night had fallen outside. He could hear the silvery laughter of women; among them now and again sounded a voice that reminded him of another girl, and an afternoon entanglement in silken sheets. Arakasi shifted, irked at himself. Kamlio was on his mind far too much: the feel of her rich hair under his hands, and her creamy skin, and her kisses; the very memory of her made him sweat with longing. Yet what haunted his mind, over and over, was no simple coupling of flesh. He dreamed of her deep eyes, the intelligence in them alternately dulled by boredom and made cunning by abuse. Her manner seemed hard, but it was a cynicism that roofed over a chasm of pain. He knew, as surely as his hands and his body had pleased her, that given time, he could reach the sweet nature hidden like treasure within her.
If he survived this evening's endeavors, he would buy her freedom, maybe show her the headier joys of a free life. If she would have him; if, after a lifetime of pandering to the whims of many masters, she did not find men distasteful . . . Arakasi's lip curled in self-contempt in the dark. He dreamed! He dreamed like a lovesick boy! Had life not taught him never to give credence to the unpredictable desires of the heart?
He smothered an impulse to curse.
It was irony, of the blackest and bitterest sort, that the mission that had caused him to know her might itself bring her to ultimate harm. With stark logic, in the stifling heat under the rooftree, he knew: he would require a miracle of the gods to emerge from his mission alive. The odds now favored his getting the strike at the Obajan he had planned for. But even should his blow prove deadly, evading the best of the tong's assassins — and after them, the vengeful wrath of the Tiranjan, Obajan's successor — was an impossible expectation.
Arakasi shivered from fatigue and tension. He changed grip on a knife handle gone strangely sweat-slick with doubt. How could one enchantress of a courtesan have tempted him to place her well-being above the will of Mara, his sworn mistress, whose life he loved above his own? Yet Kamlio had. For Mara, the Obajan of the Hamoi Tong would die. But if the Spy Master who undertook the deed escaped the consequences alive, he recognised that a small, secretive part of himself must remain his own. His care for the courtesan, which might or might not be love — and could easily be rooted in foolish pity — begged to be explored. The self-respect recovered with the destruction of House Minwanabi demanded this: that he hear his own needs as a man, and reconcile them with the duties that daily led him into danger.
A thousand times, he might have died nameless, in the guise of beggar, itinerant priest, sailor, fortune-teller, spice merchant, costermonger, messenger. And a thousand times he faced those risks without hesitation, for he had stared into the abyss and did not fear death. But now, when he needed hindrance the least, he found that it suddenly mattered. If death took him, he wanted his ashes honored on Acoma lands, and the pretty, sullen-eyed courtesan crying his name by his pyre. Now he found himself shackled by sentiment when, at any cost, his identity must remain secret.
The continuance of the Acoma, whose beloved Lady had restored him to honor, and perhaps even the Empire itself depended upon flawless self-restraint. Arakasi had lived such a disjointed existence that love had but once before fettered him, and then more through loyalty to the woman who had restored his pride and honor. And though he adored Mara, she did not trouble his dreams. Arakasi cherished her as a priest loved his goddess. But Kamlio had touched a piece of him that had been hidden from all others. Especially himself, he rued silently.
The laughter of the women subsided. Arakasi tensed, jerked from reminiscence by a tread that grated as it crossed the floor. The sound indicated studded leather sandals, and the weight of a large man. A female called out a welcome, and bare, perfumed feet lisped over tile; cushions and refreshments were being brought for the master's comfort, Arakasi surmised. He shifted position infinitesimally, his grip on his knife hot and dry.
The closeness of his attic perch seemed suddenly, un-endurably stifling. He fought the instinct to gasp for more air, to move, to act prematurely; he willed himself against pain to force each muscle to relax and hold position. The mingled scents of perfumes wafted through the heated air, admitted through the gaps between plaster and beams. Presently Arakasi heard the clink of fine crystal, as serving girls brought refreshment to their master, and later, a vielle player who accompanied a singer for his entertainment. He smelled sweet oils, then, and heard the deep-pitched sighs of contentment of a man being attended by skilled masseurs. The Spy Master's own abused body obliged him by trying to cramp.
Patience, he reminded himself inwardly.
Later still, a light tread betrayed a towel girl's departure, her step shortened by her hamper of soiled linens. His eyes half closed, Arakasi pictured the tableau in the chamber below his rafter perch. The musician had slowed his rhythms, and the singer abandoned lyrics, her voice sliding into a languorous humming. The crystal jug that held the spiced sa wine chimed as it was set on its polished stone tray — nearly empty now, Arakasi judged by the ring of the glass. Wax candles had burned low. The faint light that escaped through the tiny cracks in the ceiling had taken on the warmer tone cast by an oil lamp. He heard the sigh of fine fabric as it fell away, and the master arose with a creak of knees. His sigh was huge as he stretched.
For the first time since his entry into his pleasure harem, the Obajan of the Hamoi Tong spoke. 'Jeisa.' He paused after the name, his eyes perhaps glittering with lust. 'Alamena, Tori.' He waited, cruelly drawing out an interval of palpable tension, while the other, unsummoned women arrayed at his feet waited to know whether they would be chosen or spurned, their disappointment or their joy at their appointed turn of fate carefully hidden.
The Obajan sighed again. 'Kamini,' he finished. 'The rest of my flowers are dismissed.'
Arakasi blinked to clear the sting of what he hoped was sweat. Not Kamini; the gods were not kind tonight. Kamini he wished
far away from the master's bedchamber through this hour, for she was sister to Kamlio, the girl who haunted the Spy Master's dreams.
Fiercely Arakasi wrenched his thoughts from the image of Kamlio's face. Daydream and grow careless, and he would die here.
A screen swished closed in the chamber below; presently another slid open, and Arakasi heard the chirps of evening insects over the hiss of the oil lamp. The attic had not cooled; the roof tiles held the day's heat yet, though the sun had long set, and the night was old enough for dew. The musician and the singer subsided to the barest whisper of a melody, over which Arakasi could hear the slither of silken sheets, and the muffled giggle of a girl. He waited, still as a predator, listening avidly for his prey's contented sighs to become the quickened breaths of passion, and waited yet as a girl began to moan in the throes of pleasure . . . or what seemed like pleasure. Arakasi banished thoughts of another girl, who had been taught since childhood to feign all the subtleties of joy . . .
Arakasi reproached himself silently. He had sweated too much, and dehydration was making him perilously light-headed. He forced concentration, every muscle corded with tension. The knife in his hand felt like an extension of his living flesh as the Obajan, entwined in hot girls and damp silk, opened his mouth and cried out in the fulfillment of his release.
In that instant, the Spy Master shoved off, plunging downward through warm air. He struck the plaster ceiling and broke through, in a shower of fragments, and chips, and dust. His eyes, long used to the dark, saw clearly in the lamplight the humped mass of entangled forms on the mat below as he fell. He chose the uppermost, the most massive, and angled his knife accordingly.
He had but one instant to pray that the only time the Obajan of the Hamoi Tong would be more than a hand's reach from his weapons and guards would be in nakedness, in the act of coupling.
Then he crashed atop the sweating mass of the Obajan and his women, and sheathed priceless steel in flesh. Arakasi felt his blade turned by sinew and bone. He had missed a killing blow.
The Obajan was huge, but none of his bulk was fat. His groan of pleasure became a shout of pain and alarm. Arakasi was thrown off his prey like a fish tossed from a bait boat. His heel caught on a woman's leg and he fell. Besides being strong, the master of assassins was fast. His hand shot out to a pile of weapons beside the bed. Three darts smacked into silken sheets, even as Arakasi rolled away. A girl screamed in pain and fear.
The oil lamp went out. A vielle fell with a crash, and the singer broke off, screaming. Feet pounded in the corridor, while Arakasi shoved free of entangling bedclothes, and threw off a girl who clawed his shoulder with her nails. His second knife slid into his hand as if it had life and breath and a desire to match his need. He flicked his wrist, and released, and the blade flew true, into the Obajan's neck.
The master of the Hamoi Tong bellowed again, enraged. But the blade kissed the artery, and blood fountained. He raised his hand to staunch the flow, and all but lost his thumb on the keen edge still exposed. Against the pale square of the door screen, Arakasi saw the man's shoulders quiver in the stress of ebbing life. His scalp lock fell loose over his back as he crashed to his knees, his chest wet with the fast flow of blood.
Arakasi twisted around, flinging girls and sheets one way and another in the darkness. He rolled, tossed a cushion in the direction of pursuing footsteps. Someone tripped and hit with a fleshy smack against the tile. Mistaking him for the assailant, four incoming guards sprang and bore the unfortunate man down. His protests masked Arakasi's movements as, hand to the wall, the Spy Master scuttled to the far side of the chamber.
He had just enough starlight to see by. Careful to keep any chance gleam of steel from betraying his position, Arakasi drew another knife from his belt loop. He threw, and one of the guards went down, clutching his belly, and howling. His noise distracted the rest, allowing Arakasi to draw more knives and dispatch the four guards who entered from the outer hall. They died, one after another, between the screaming of the pleasure women and the cries of the wounded sentry on the floor. The Obajan lay in the sheets, motionless in death.
Arakasi slipped through the screen and ducked out of sight around the lintel. He dared not wait to see if any of the girls had seen him go, nor if they had the wits to make outcry. With a leap driven by adrenaline, he sprang up and caught the corner beam of the roof. Dangling by his hands, he pulled himself into the shadows under the eaves, his last blade gripped between his teeth.
He was barely established in his hiding place when feet pounded into the room from the direction of the adjoining hallway.
'Outside!' shouted one of the assassins. 'The man who killed our master fled into the garden!'
Desperate, Arakasi clawed a fragment of shingle from the gutter. With an underhand toss he pitched the bit of tile into a flower bed. The sharp-eared sentry who bolted through the door dashed headlong into the bushes, hacking the vegetation with his sword. Arakasi could have brushed the man's head with his fingertips as the man passed below.
More assassins rushed out. 'Where is he?'
The swordsman paused in his slashing. 'I heard movement.'
'Quickly!' called the second guard. 'Bring torches! The killer makes his escape while we delay!'
They fanned outward, combing the garden, while men with lights converged to aid in the search. Arakasi slung himself off the roof. A moving shadow in darkness, he sidestepped and ducked into an adjoining screen, back inside the house where the pursuers had not yet thought to check.
More men exploded from the bedroom. They met the first man, returning. 'He must have gone over the wall. Patrol the perimeter, quickly, before he gets away!'
Shouts of inquiry issued from inside the harem. News of the Obajan's death roused the servants, some of whom gave way to panic. The tong was swift and merciless in retribution, and in a house this well guarded, the members would suspect that whoever killed their master must have an inside accomplice. The entire staff might be put to death to ensure elimination of any traitors. The more intelligent servants understood their best course of action was to flee. Fear alone bound these wretches to service with this murderous brotherhood; most preferred to chance an uncertain future than face dishonorable death.
Arakasi could only hope that the confusion caused by dozens of terrified servants would lend him opening, for while a saner man might seek escape, his mission was yet incomplete. For Mara's sake, he must return to the Obajan's study and steal the record journal of the tong.
Stillness had fallen over the adjacent bedchamber. Arakasi risked that the guards had left their dead master in the heat of the search. He reentered the screen he had broken earlier and stepped into a scene of carnage.
Blood splattered everything within ten feet of the bed. Beside the bulk of the slain master, a pair of naked girls remained, starlight limning their forms faintly silver. One of them stared at him, silent. With crazed, repetitive motions, she sought to wipe blood from skin smeared hopelessly scarlet. The other writhed in the sheets, moaning. Struck down by a poisoned dart, she was unable to rise. With grim purpose, Arakasi recovered two metal knives, one from the neck of the Obajan and another from the stomach of a guard who lay sprawled at his master's feet.
Arakasi stepped past the foot of the bed, his glance passing over the wounded courtesan. He stopped, his attention unwillingly arrested. The girl's hair pooled like spilled oil in the moonlight, pale gold and glistening. Her face was upturned, exposed to the flicker of torchlight spilling in from the garden. Like a wound to the heart, he saw that her features were the exact same as her sister's.
They were twins.
Logic could not stay the lurch of Arakasi's heart. In moonlight, her slim hands worrying at the dart that pierced her breast, she could not be distinguished from the girl he had touched and bedded. Jolted by a pain of the spirit that threatened to choke his breath, Arakasi fought to recapture his icy, analytical nature. He was Acoma Spy Master, on a mission for the Servant of the Empire. He m
ust keep his wits and locate the Obajan's scrolls.
But when he most needed steady nerves, his objectivity forsook him. Before one dying courtesan, his own survival suddenly seemed as meaningless as trying to capture sunlight with bare hands.
Arakasi's intellect screamed that he must keep faith with Mara, while his heart drove him to his knees beside the stricken girl. Time and circumstance were blurred. He could no longer separate which was the courtesan who had bound him to her, and which the twin sister. In the dark, in the moonlight, in the aching loss of the moment, their identities seemed to merge. Against every instinct of self-preservation, Arakasi gathered her body into his arms. He cradled her, wide-eyed and motionless, until she quivered, gasped and, after what seemed an eternity, finally ceased breathing.
Arakasi felt as if he had been beaten. His nails had gouged his palms, and his teeth had drawn blood. The salt-rich taste on his tongue and the death stink that pervaded his nostrils pushed him to nausea. He barely noticed the living woman who muttered amid bloodstained sheets. His mind recorded but did not comprehend her babble. Arakasi snatched a tearing breath and forced himself to unlock his rigid limbs. His heart seemed frozen as the dead girl slipped from his grasp. By rote, he reacted to a sound behind him, turned, and whipped out a knife. His throw was almost true. The servant who sought entry was a castrate who served the harem, returned to look after his charges. The knife caught him a glancing slash across the neck. He gagged and slammed into the door post. Fast Arakasi had always been; but tonight his limbs were clumsy as he stumbled across the dropped girl. His feet caught in soggy sheets and hooked upon cushions. He struck the castrate with a wrestler's move in the middle, and knocked him sideways. The dying man's strength was uncanny. Arakasi's hands sought a grip, and slipped. He dug his fingers into the wound and, by the spray of blood on his face, knew he had torn his enemy's artery. Using his knuckles to stop his victim from crying out, he received a bite to the bone.
Empire - 03 - Mistress Of The Empire Page 31