It was a crevice just large enough to provide a handhold. So, the Patriarch has an escape route, she thought. The rope would have been unnecessary. Then again, he might have cut them at a distance spaced too far for her to reach. She was a petite woman, and most men towered over her.
With a shrug, Azmei eased the window closed again. The handholds changed nothing, unless the Patriarch made a break for the window when she attacked. She would just have to make certain he didn't have the chance. Azmei slipped behind the curtains that hung around the bed. She fit easily between the wardrobe and the headboard, where she settled her shoulders against the wall, pushing herself into the aware state of half-meditation.
Carrying out justice is not a part of your teachings, O god of peace, she thought, but your followers believe that injustice can be anathema to peace. If you could see my actions as bringing peace to Meekin, to the Perslyn family, perhaps even to Tamnen, would it be wrong?
This mission was what Master Tanvel had decreed for her final passage. Azmei felt no sense of guilt or misgiving. She merely wished it to be finished.
Outside the house, the bell rang the warning for evening curfew—half an hour for honest citizens to return to their homes. Azmei lifted her head and drew in a long breath. Soon now, the party would be breaking up. The guests who planned to return home would leave. Those who planned to stay overnight would retire to more private gatherings in their rooms. What would the Patriarch do?
Footsteps hurried past the door to the bedchamber. Laughing voices reached her ears. A young woman shrieked in amusement or excitement. A deeper voice teased. Azmei couldn't hear his words, but she recognized the sounds of flirtation. That would be the middle son—Kesh. From what Azmei had seen, he was fond of women, wine, and cards. He was a trained killer as much as the others—as much as Orya had been—but he seemed to have no cruelty to him. The Patriarch and the eldest son, Rith, thought Kesh weak and lazy. Azmei hadn't formed an opinion yet, but she suspected he was strong enough to surprise them all. She just hoped he could be reasoned with. She didn't want to have to kill them all.
Assured footsteps strode to the door and stopped. Azmei adjusted her grip on her dagger. Here was the man she had been waiting for.
The doorknob turned and light spilled into the bedchamber from the passage beyond.
"You're sure you won't join us, sir?" The low, grating voice belonged to Rith.
The Patriarch laughed. "I have had enough of dancing in my life. At my age, I am more interested in warm wine than a willing woman."
Rith barked a laugh. "As you say, sir. I'll send a servant up with a drink."
"Never mind. I've already given the kitchen my orders. Go enjoy your party, Rith."
The door closed and the Patriarch's footsteps approached the bed, then paused. Azmei blinked slowly, praying that the god would protect her, hoping that at least her meditation had centered her.
She heard the Patriarch shuffling things around on top of the chest of drawers. He yawned loudly and glass clinked against glass as he poured himself a drink. He took a few steps towards the wardrobe, then stopped.
"You might as well come out," he said. "I know you're here."
Damn. What had given her away? Azmei shifted her dagger hand so her sleeve would hide the blade. She stepped out from behind the curtain.
The Patriarch looked amused, curse him. He was rapier-thin, his eyes steel mirrors that reflected her own inadequacy. "A veil and a hood both? You must not want me to recognize you. I already know you aren't Orya, despite what you seem to wish everyone else to think."
Azmei blinked. Why would they think she was Orya? They had been informed that Orya was dead. "Of course not," she murmured.
"I am the Patriarch of the Perslyn family," he said. "But you already knew that. And your name?"
"You do not need it."
"Ah, then I already know you," he mused. "I simply don't realize I know you."
Azmei inclined her head, keeping her gaze on his face. Her peripheral vision would tell her if he made any move. She would have to be careful of the wine glass he held. It could sting the eyes and blind her long enough for him to escape—or kill her.
"It might be easier if you removed your veil."
"I doubt it," Azmei said. "You have likely never seen my face." She smirked behind the veil. She didn't want him to see her face. It was an honor he didn't deserve.
"You wear kohl around your eyes. Is it because you are vain?"
She rolled her eyes. "It cuts the glare of the sun."
"Ah, so you believe yourself a practical person."
"Enough," she snapped. "I have no time for your guessing games. You don't need to know my name. It is enough for you to know that tonight I am your death."
"Do you think so?" He threw the wine cup. Azmei ducked and turned her head. She raised her dagger to deflect the cup, and as soon as it was past, she lunged at the Patriarch.
The Patriarch turned and threw himself towards the large urn standing in the corner. Azmei smiled at his choice. His having to turn gave her time to close the distance between them.
The Patriarch thrust his arm shoulder deep into the urn. A moment later he tensed. But he wouldn't be defeated by such a small thing as a missing stiletto. Any good assassin knew how to make a weapon out of anything. True to expectation, he tipped the urn over with a crash and rolled it at her so Azmei had to leap over it. She drew her sword with her right hand while she was still in the air.
She landed lightly, teeth bared. He was cornered. He'd chosen the wrong direction unless he wanted to retreat out the window, but Azmei was close enough she thought he wouldn't risk it. He would have to turn away from her, at least part way, to unlatch the window. That would expose him to a lunge, and he wouldn't want to take that chance. Still, someone had to have heard the urn fall, which meant Azmei was running short on time. She paced closer.
"You have more skill than I expected," he grunted. His hands were reaching behind him, scrabbling for anything that might be a weapon. "You searched the room before I arrived."
"I had a good teacher." Azmei smiled. "Necessity."
"Who are you?" he demanded. He threw an ash collector at her.
Azmei deflected it with her elbow. "Someone you tried to have killed." Her smile hardened. "The attempt failed, but it made me angry."
The Patriarch was out of options. He folded his hands in front of him in seeming acquiescence. "Please tell me. I am at your mercy. What have you to lose?"
Azmei's sword flashed out. It sliced his throat. The Patriarch's eyes widened. He staggered and fell against the wall. As he did, his hands flew apart, scattering a coarse dust into the air and across Azmei's face. Most of it was deflected by her veil, but her eyes instantly began to burn. Shit.
She kicked his feet out from under him and stepped on his wrist as she drew near. "Princess Azmei Reera Corrone," she said, and stabbed him in the heart.
Her eyes were streaming. She swore and wiped her blade on his robe, then sheathed it. She could hear footsteps pounding along the passage. Thank the gods she had prepared her escape route before entering the house. She ran to the window and pushed it open.
Azmei swung out onto the rope and pushed the window closed. She couldn't latch it, but at least it would take them a moment to figure out how she had escaped. With any luck, the first person into the room would think the Patriarch's attacker had fled through the halls.
She sheathed her dagger and climbed the rope. Upon reaching the rooftop, she pulled the rope, leather sack attached, up after her, coiling it around her waist like a belt. Now to reach the safe spot she chose yesterday. There she should be able to wait and watch. She wanted to see what the household did when the Patriarch's death was discovered.
She would have to return for Rith. But she didn't enjoy killing, no matter how good she had become at it over the past three years. Followers of her path did not kill without reason. Lawless killing never served peace. Judicious killing, such as this one tonight, o
ften did. But any attempt to reach Rith tonight would almost certainly require her to slice her way through the rest of the household. She couldn't think of a single instance when killing house servants served peace.
When she reached her safe spot, nestled snugly against a chimney, she crouched and wiped her eyes. They were still burning. The chimney funneled raised voices up to her, but she only caught a few: "Murder!" Then there was a lot of arguing, and someone shouted, "Orya—"
Azmei shook her head. How could any of them truly believe Orya had survived her attack on Princess Azmei? Not only survived, but escaped and gone into hiding? The royal family would never have allowed the princess' assassin to go free. Why would anyone think it possible? And yet if Azmei judged by the Patriarch's words, some did. Had the Patriarch encouraged that? But why would he do that?
Someone shouted orders. People spilled into the courtyard below. Azmei listened to the voice shouting. She thought it was Rith, though she wasn't sure. Then he bellowed, "Get Yarro here now!" and she knew it was Rith. Who else would think to involve Yarro in this? The man seemed to hate his little brother, for no reason she could discern.
Doors banged inside the house. They were doing a systematic search. She strained her ears. Running footsteps in the courtyards told her they were searching them as well. Good. Would they search the roof?
No. There was shouting from the courtyard where the Patriarch's windows opened. They'd found the grappling hook she'd left driven into mortar of the windowsill. The rope dangled to the ground, and they would follow the false trail she had laid for them.
Excellent.
What she heard next shocked her, though. Yarro couldn't be found.
"What do you mean, you can't find him?" Rith snarled. His voice carried so far she imagined their neighbors would hear it. Azmei crept from her hiding spot, scanning the rooftop to be sure she was still alone up here.
"He's not in his rooms. He's not in my rooms. He's not anywhere I usually find him." That was Kesh's voice.
"Ask Tish, then! She was supposed to be taking care of him."
"I can't find her, either. Perhaps she's looking for Yarro."
The conversation lulled. Azmei crept closer to the courtyard where Rith and Kesh spoke. She listened to the measured tread of footsteps leaving the household. Rith apparently believed the curfew didn't apply to his family. Azmei suspected he was right; the city guard wouldn't interfere with Perslyn family business.
"I want Yarro. See if he knows anything about this. If it is Orya—"
"You can't think it's her," Kesh interrupted. "She's dead, Rith. We got her personal effects back. Everyone said the Diplomats confirmed it. Her death and Wenda's."
She heard an explosive sigh. "Damn it, who else could it be? Who else could have ferreted out so much information about the family network? Kesh, we've lost too many operatives in the past six months. This morning, Grandfather was furious about some missing papers. Missing from his office here. Someone is waging war on this family."
"No one can say we don't deserve it." Kesh's voice was so quiet, Azmei had to strain to hear.
Rith growled. "Forget about that. Find Yarro. Bring him to me. He'll tell me what he knows or I'll beat it out of him."
"You can't possibly believe he knows anything about this. Leave him alone, Rith."
Azmei scowled and wiped her eyes again. The times she had seen Yarro, he'd been in a world all his own. He seemed unaware of what passed around him. His eyes focused inward, and he responded to very little of what Tish said to him. How could Rith think he knew anything?
"Just find him," Rith snarled.
Azmei shook her head. He was impatient, arrogant, and cruel. It was plain that Kesh recognized his older brother's failings. But how would Kesh react if he were confronted with the woman who had killed his grandfather and older brother? Would he accept Azmei's judgment as just, or would he try to fight back? She felt strangely reluctant about killing the man who, however weakly, tried to stand up for his little brother.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and then stood. Crossing the roofs with blurry vision wasn't the safest thing to do, but she needed to get away from House Perslyn for now. She would be back all too soon.
***
The market was more crowded than Yarro remembered. The sun was high overhead before he'd managed to thread his careful way through the busy streets to make his purchases. Each elbow that bumped his made him jump. Every casual brush of skin or cloth sent his hair crawling.
He hated being touched. And here in the market it seemed impossible to avoid it.
The smell of sweat and cookfires clung in his nostrils despite all the market threw at him. Kazhin spice lingered in a cloud that made his lips tingle and overripe fruit cloyed the air, but always the smell of sweat made him want to snort. And the noise was no better. Vendors shouted all the fine points of their wares or shoved them under his nose, chattering so fast he couldn't follow them.
Yar had managed to buy a map, some food, and two water skins. Between transactions, he'd had to withdraw a space and hide in a dim alley, but he couldn't deny a feeling of accomplishment.
Of course, the most difficult task was still ahead of him. Yar needed a horse.
HORSES? YOU BRING US FOOD!
Yar groaned aloud. It had been foolish to hope the Voices were gone for good, and yet. Not food, he thought. Don't distract me.
Talking back to the Voices rarely made any difference, but he had never been able to break the habit.
YOU HAVEN'T FOUND US YET. The Voice took on a pouting quality.
"Are you close by?" Yar demanded. Then he glanced around. The alley walls towered above him, but they didn't deaden the market noise. A man in a hooded tunic had heard him speak. He shied away.
NOT CLOSE AT ALL. AGES AND AGES AWAY. The Voice had turned gleeful. HIDDEN FROM EVERYONE.
Yar snorted. That's why I need a horse. Not to eat. To ride.
FIND US! FIND FIND FIND—
Yar crouched, clutching his ears and squeezing his eyes shut. This couldn't happen here. Not before he'd acquired a horse. Not before he'd found a place to hide from his brothers tonight. He rocked a little, pushing against his temples. Leave me alone. Just stop, he pleaded.
A golden chuckle rippled through his head. LEAVE THE LITTLE BROTHER ALONE, said a warm Voice he loved. HE IS COMING TO US.
The hungry Voice whined, but they faded away from his thoughts. Yar cracked one eye to see the man in the hooded tunic peering at him again.
"You all right, lad?"
Yar shuddered and stood up. "My head hurt." He shrugged, trying to loosen the tension in his shoulders. "It's all right now."
The man looked unconvinced, but he moved on. Yar didn't really care if the man believed him. He was no one. It was the traders Yar would have to convince. If they didn't believe he had the gold to buy a horse, he would be in trouble.
He straightened up and made himself stand tall. Orya had always carried herself like the gods themselves owed her their attention. Yar knew he couldn't pull that off, but he could at least imitate her. He thought he heard one of the Voices chortling in the back of his head as he strutted out of the alley.
Most people didn't use horses inside the city walls. The canals made it unnecessary as well as inconvenient. The horse market, therefore, was located at the far edge of the market, close to the inns and the Dry Gate, which led out to the foothills. Yar had hoped to leave Meekin today, but he could tell from the sun's angle that he'd lost some time arguing with the Voices. He scowled as he threaded his way between stalls. Tomorrow, then, but that meant he would have to find a place to spend the night. Probably no one had realized yet that he was missing, but eventually one of his brothers would look for him. He wanted to be far from Meekin when that happened.
He heard the snorts and whinnies a few moments before the smell of horse reached him. Yar wrinkled his nose and followed the fence around to where the traders had set up their awnings. Only two horse pens were f
ull. Yar looked from one to the other, shrugged, and went to the closest one.
"Good day, young master! I can see you are in need of a fine mount." The man bustling towards him had a thick mustache and beady eyes. Yar didn't want to look at him, but he forced himself to meet the man's shiny gaze.
"I need a good, hardy horse," he said, pushing his shoulders back. "A beast that can carry me and my pack a long distance."
"Ah, a journey, is it?" The man's smile showed a missing tooth. Yar wondered if he'd been kicked by one of his horses. "Traveling north? Or does the young sir merely dislike the crowding on the boats to the capital?"
Yar didn't want to answer. What if his brothers looked for him here? The trader might talk. But how to get out of it? What would Orya say? He lifted his chin. "I hardly see that it matters, so long as I have the gold."
The trader was already coiling a lead rope around his hand. He didn't even look back at Yar. "Quite right, young sir. I was only making conversation." He let himself into the horse pen, Yar following at a distance. "Let's see, the brown mare might do. She's sweet-natured and calm." The man gestured to a sway-backed mare.
"Sweet, perhaps," Yar said, "but hardy, she is not. Not with that back." He knew little about horses, but he knew what they should look like. He knew their backs and feet were the most important parts to watch.
"Ah, keen eyes, young sir. It's true she has seen better days. What about this bay stallion, then? He's strong, right enough, and spirited enough for two." The trader disappeared around the mare. When he came back, he was leading a red horse that had its ears pinned back.
A charge bolted down Yar's spine as he and the horse locked eyes. A red horse with a black mane and tail looking straight at him. Yar sucked in a breath and stared back. The horse snorted, one foot stomping the ground. It was the horse from his vision. This must be a sign. He reached for the lead rope.
From behind him came the sound of a woman's laughter. "Not that one, boy. See the set of those ears? He's mean as a scorpion."
Yar ignored her and took the rope. "Hello, you," he whispered to the stallion. "Do you know me?"
Stormseer (Storms in Amethir Book 3) Page 13