by Greg Keyes
Austra frowned doubtfully.
“Not to interrupt,” Cazio said, “but there’s our ship just ahead.”
Z’Acatto, who had been entirely silent since he had joined Anne in the alley behind their building, suddenly grunted. “I know that standard,” he said. “Had you told me, I would never have agreed to this.”
“Hush, old man,” Cazio said in a low voice. “I did what I had to.”
“You don’t surprise me very often, boy,” the fencing master muttered. “But today you’ve managed it.”
“What’s he talking about?” Anne asked.
“Nothing,” Cazio replied quickly.
She turned to z’Acatto and saw that his eyes were very strange, as if he were angry, even furious. And then she realized his sword was already in his hand, its tip just clearing the scabbard. She wasn’t afraid yet, just very curious as to why the old man was going to kill her. But she could feel the fear arriving as he grabbed her.
Z’Acatto pushed, and she stumbled to the cobbles, one knee striking the stone. She gasped at the pain and looked up, trying to understand what was happening.
A man—a man she did not know—was staring at z’Acatto’s blade, which vanished somehow into the fellow’s throat.
Cazio shouted then and drew his own sword, and suddenly men were everywhere, some in armor.
“Run!” Cazio shouted. “Run onto the ship!”
Anne scrambled that way, trying to regain her feet, but suddenly armored boots were there, and she looked up to see a steel visage staring down at her. The knight raised a sword that seemed to be only half there, a blur like the wings of a hummingbird, but moving through the colors of the rainbow with each heartbeat.
She stared up, frozen, as the blade cocked above her.
Cazio’s blade drove over her head and took the knight in the gorget, and Cazio came flying behind it.
“Z’ostato en pert!” he shouted.
The knight stumbled back beneath the force of the blow, but Cazio was still airborne, and crashed into him, punching the man’s visor with the guard of his weapon. The knight toppled and slammed to the ground. Anne scrambled up, helped by Austra, who took her hand, and both ran for the gangplank.
She could see a crowd of faces on the ship, watching in astonishment. Among them was one that seemed a little familiar, a dark, lean mustachioed face.
“Help us!” she shouted.
None of the sailors moved.
Two more men suddenly appeared between her and the ship, and everything seemed to slow to a stop. In the corner of her eye, she saw that the knight with the glowing sword was already up on one knee, dealing Cazio a thunderous backhand with his mailed glove. Z’Acatto was holding off at least four men, but two were starting to push around him. She and Austra were trapped.
Something snarled up in her, and she yanked out the dagger Sister Secula had given her, determined to give at least one cut. The men between her and the ship were more lightly armored than the knight, in chain and leather. They wore no helmets at all.
They laughed when she raised the weapon. Then, oddly, one suddenly toppled, his head grotesquely changing shape somehow as a long pole of some sort struck it. And then something huge exploded into the other man, knocking him away as if he were made of rags and straw.
Even as she realized it was a horse, she also realized it was falling. Another armored figure slammed to the dock a kingsyard away from her with a clang, but for a moment the way to the ship was clear. She bolted for it, tugging Austra behind her.
She hadn’t gone more than halfway up the gangplank when she remembered Cazio and z’Acatto, and she turned to see what was happening.
The horse had regained its feet and was galloping madly about the dock. The knight who had fallen from it had risen, as well, and she suddenly understood by the rose on his helm that it was Sir Neil. As she watched, he cut savagely at the knight with the glowing sword, hitting him so hard, he actually left the ground. Then he turned on the men pushing past z’Acatto and decapitated one.
Cazio hesitated, but z’Acatto didn’t. He quickly disengaged from his foes and charged toward the ship. After the slightest of hesitations, Cazio joined them.
Anne suddenly felt movement beneath her feet and realized the gangplank was being withdrawn. She was turning when two of the sailors grabbed her and yanked her the rest of the way up onto the ship. Not quite knowing why, she screamed and kicked, noticing as she did so that they had Austra, too. Z’Acatto leapt with an agility that belied his years, landing on the retreating ramp and bounding onto the boat, followed closely by a whooping Cazio.
On the dock, Sir Neil was a blade storm, beating the enemy away from the ship. There were at least eight against him, not counting the knight with the glowing sword, who was—against all things natural—rising again.
“Sir Neil!” she shrieked. “Come on!”
The sailors all around her were frantically cutting lines and pushing at the dock with long poles.
“He’ll never make the jump,” z’Acatto said. “Not in that armor.”
“Go back for him!” she shouted. “Go back this instant.” She slapped at the nearest sailor, the one who had looked familiar. “You can’t leave him there!”
He caught her hand and glared down at her. “I am Captain Malconio, and this ship is leaving port. If you strike me again, I will have you hanged.”
“But he’ll die!”
“I see no reason to care about that,” he said.
Through a red haze, Neil cut left, then right, hit a man in chain and breastplate at the shoulder joint and saw it cleave, the blood spurting as he yanked the edge back out. Grasping the blade of his weapon with his mailed left hand, he rammed the pommel into the face of the next opponent, then reversed the weapon and, still gripping it like a staff, plunged the tip down between the lip of the breastplate and chest. He felt the breastbone crack, and the man fell away.
He shifted both hands to the grip and struck at the next enemy, who managed to stumble out of the way, and Neil felt a cut from his left thud against his shoulder. He couldn’t see where the blow came from, but he set his legs wide and sliced that way, waist level. As he felt his blow land, he turned so the fellow was in his field of vision. He was another of the lightly armored ones, and his eyes went wide as blood started from his mouth, and he fell clutching a crushed rib cage.
That turn also brought him back to the knight with the glowing sword who—instead of being dead as he should have been—was stepping up to make a cut at him.
Behind the knight, Neil was vaguely aware that the ship was farther from the dock than it had been. He could see Anne’s red hair, and so knew she had made it aboard.
The oncoming knight chopped down, left to right, and Neil stepped in and thrust upward into the blow with the thickest part of his blade. The jolt of the impact went all the way to his feet—his opponent was strong, very strong, and his blade was moving much faster than it ought. Crow felt strange, too, lighter, and Neil suddenly understood that half his weapon had been sheared away. The glowing sword was coming back up from its downswing. Neil plunged his left arm down and caught the man’s gauntlet, then hammered what was left of Crow into the enemy’s visor.
An armored elbow came up under his jaw, and he lost his hold on the man, stumbling back. The cut came again, this time from the side, and he was too far away to grab the man’s arm again, too slow even to interpose his hand. The witch-weapon sheared into his armor, cutting though it as it had Crow.
Desperately, Neil threw himself in the direction of the blow, even as the pain of the world sheeted through him. He lost the ground, saw the sky, then hit something that yielded strangely, and understood that he had thrown himself off the dock into the water. He twisted to try to see if Anne’s ship was safely far away, but the water closed over his head, and the sounds of tumult vanished.
PART III
STRANGE
RELATIONS
The Year 2,223 of Everon
&n
bsp; The Month of Decmen
Tertiu, the third mode, invokes Saint Michael, Saint Mamres, Saint Bright, Saint Fienve. It evokes the sword, the spear, the clash of battle, the drums of war. It provokes fiery courage, anger, rage.
Ponto, the fourth mode, invokes Saint Chistai, Saint Oimo, Saint Satire, Saint Loh. It evokes the flattering courtier, the sharp-tongued jester, the knife thrust from behind. It provokes jealousy, hatred, deception, and betrayal.
—FROM THE CODEX HARMONIUM OF ELGIN WIDSEL
CHAPTER ONE
ASSASSIN
BREATHING SOFTLY AS SHE might, Muriele felt along the wall until she found the small metal plate she was searching for. She slid it up and latched it, revealing a faintly glowing circle the size of a fingertip. Leaning forward, she brushed her hair from her face, placed her eye against the peephole, and peered into the room beyond.
The Warhearth was empty, but a few flickering tapers illuminated it, giving just enough light to show the statue of Saint Fienve on a small table near William’s old armchair, and suggesting but not quite revealing the paintings of battle and victory that covered the garish walls of the place.
The room still seemed unoccupied.
She sighed and consigned herself to patience. Erren had shown her the passages within the walls of the castle years ago, not long after she had become queen. The corridors were very narrow and very old. Erren claimed that her order of coven-trained assassins had manipulated the choice of architects when the palace was built, convinced him to include their covert additions, and then made certain that neither he nor the workman who built them would ever tell anyone. Thus the dark hallways were a secret kept only by the sisters of Cer, and a few of their charges.
Muriele had often wondered if such secrecy was truly possible, over the course of centuries. If other queens had been shown the passages as she had, surely a few of them would have told their husbands, daughters, friends.
And yet, in her time, she had never met anyone other than Erren in the recondite halls, which suggested her old friend had known what she was talking about.
They were well and cleverly hidden, the peepholes disguised and clotted with glass to keep them from being easily discovered. The doors were marvels, showing no seam when closed.
She had used them often since Erren’s death. They seemed safer than her own rooms, and without Erren or a trustworthy replacement, she had to do her own spying, if she was to have the faintest idea what was being plotted around her. But tonight she wasn’t merely browsing, trying to catch Praifec Hespero or some member of the Comven in secret conversation; tonight she had a particular business.
It had come to her in the form of a note, folded and slipped beneath her door, written in a clean, simple style.
Your Majesty,
You are in danger. So am I. I have information that can save your life and your son’s throne, but I in turn need your protection. Until I have your pledge, I cannot reveal my identity. If you agree, please leave a note beneath the statue on the table in the Warhearth saying “agreed.”
Well, there was her reply, safely hidden from sight—and here she was playing this childish game—but in five hours, no one had come to collect the note. She had signed the note “agreed,” of course, but she was determined that she would know who the messenger was—the entire affair could be an elaborate ruse of some sort.
Perhaps whoever it was had come earlier, before she had been able to excuse herself from her duties. They might have read the note and then returned it to its hiding place. But the Warhearth was located in the central part of the castle, and while quiet at night, during the day any visitor would attract attention. Besides, why leave the note?
Darkness was just falling, and she had formally retired. She had until morning, and no use for sleep and the dreams it brought.
And so another bell passed before a sound caught her attention, a faint scuff of leather against stone. She squinted through the small hole, trying to see who or what had made the sound, and noticed a shadow edging from the west end of the room. That was peculiar, as the entrance to the Warhearth was on the east end. She waited impatiently for the figure to step into the light, and in due time was rewarded.
It was a woman; she saw that first, with curly chestnut locks, wearing a pale blue dressing gown. Her “friend” was clever, then. He’d sent a serving girl to fetch the note. Perhaps I will recognize her, she thought, and thus know her master. But she had little real hope of that. There were many servants in Eslen Castle, and she knew no more than a tenth of them on sight.
Then the woman turned, and the light caught her face, and Muriele blinked in utter astonishment. She did, indeed, know the girl, but she was no maid or serving girl. No, that youthful face belonged to Alis Berrye, the youngest of her late husband’s mistresses.
Alis Berrye.
Anger, jealous and reflexive, began heating in Muriele, but she fought to cool it, because something wasn’t right here. Alis Berrye had the brains of a leek. She was the younger daughter of Lord Berrye of Virgenya, who oversaw one of the poorest cantons in the country. William had taken a liking to her sapphire eyes and girlish curves when her family had visited two years earlier. Since William’s death, she’d been all but invisible, and though it had crossed Muriele’s mind several times to have her ejected from her old rooms, the truth was that she had far more important things to do than satisfy a pitiable and now irrelevant resentment.
Until now. Now Alis Berrye was once more very much her concern. Even Erren had thought the girl too stupid and frivolous to harbor political motives beyond keeping the king’s favor. Gramme had always been the dangerous one. Berrye didn’t even have issue, and had apparently never tried to conceive any.
That meant her first guess had been right, and Berrye was someone’s servant in this. But whose? Besides William, she’d never shown obvious ties to anyone in the court. Still, there had been plenty of time for that to change, and in the present climate, with everyone scrambling for whatever position and advantage they could, someone had clearly found a use for the girl.
Berrye retrieved the message, read it, nodded to herself, and then turned again toward the west end of the room. A moment later there was a very soft sound, but it lifted the hairs on Muriele’s neck.
The only exit from the west end of the room was a secret one that let into the very corridors Muriele now occupied. Alis Berrye knew about it.
She knew the girl used to meet with William in the Warhearth, at times. But William hadn’t known about the passages at all.
Or maybe he had, and Muriele hadn’t known her husband as well as she had supposed.
She felt a pang of loss so sudden and deep, it was shocking. She and William hadn’t married for love, but they had found it, at least for a time. And even though she had always resented his mistresses, she’d always felt that one day, somehow, they would settle into their love again.
And she missed him—his laugh, the smell of his clothes, the silly names he called her in private.
All gone. And now it seemed he had known about the passages all along, and never told her, never trusted her with that information. That wouldn’t be so bad—after all, she hadn’t told him—but that he had told Alis Berrye of all people, the silliest, most irrelevant of his whores—that hurt.
It also worried Muriele. What if he had told Gramme, too?
She waited a bit, both hoping and fearing that the girl would come down her passage, so she could strangle her and hide the body where it would never be found, but after several minutes, when no one appeared, Muriele padded back along the long, winding way to her own chambers, feeling for the raised signs on the wall that gave the directions.
When she opened the secret door that led to her bedchamber just a crack, she knew something was wrong. She had left a lamp burning in her room, but no light greeted her. The room was utterly dark. Had her maid Unna come in and put out the light? Why would she do that?
She stood frozen for an instant, her eye pres
sing through the crack at the darkness. Maybe the lamp had gone out on its own.
Someone said something. A single word, too low to hear. She gasped and shut the panel, backing away, knowing whoever it was must have heard her, but her mind was cluttered with spidering fear-webs, and she couldn’t do anything but gape at the blackness in front of her.
She could only think how wrong she had been. Berrye knew about the passages of Cer, so others did, too. Did the man in her room know? Was it a man?
Something bumped against the wall, and she heard the faint hiss of breath. Her hand dropped to the dagger she wore next to her chatelaine, but it gave her small comfort.
The bump was followed by a muffled tap, and then another, and another, moving along the wall. The chill in her grew so deep, she began to shake. Someone was searching for the door. But that meant that they didn’t know where it was. It would be hard to find, from the other side. Still, she had given away its approximate location.
The tapping grew a little duller as it moved away from her, then began moving back. She could hear his breath now, and suddenly, another whispered word, though still she could not make out what it was.
She backed farther away, trembling, realizing that she was growing light-headed because she hadn’t breathed. She kept her hands against the walls, guiding by them, and when she thought she had gone far enough, she quickened her pace, feeling more panicked than ever, because she didn’t know if he was still in the room, or in the tunnels with her.
She found the doorway to the Hall of Doves, looked in, confirmed that no one was there, and burst into it, then pushed the panel closed behind her, and ran.
After a few moments she slowed to a walk, but being in the common halls didn’t make her feel any safer, even where they were well-lit and populated by servants. Her enemy had an unknown face, and anyone in the castle might wear it. Worse—and this was just starting to sink in—if the person in her room had really come to kill her, this was no mere attempt at murder. It was an attempt at a coup. Which meant she needed help, now, and help she could trust.