Spy, Spy Again

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Close your eyes, extend your arm, and point to her,” Ahkhan ordered, as if he perfectly well understood that Tory could, in fact, do this. Tory obeyed, and felt Ahkhan doing something at the tip of his finger.

  “Now open your eyes and move to the bed. Prince, if you would do the same?” Ahkhan said politely, and Kee scrambled to oblige. Now Tory could see that Ahkhan simply put the end of a weighted cord at the end of Kee’s finger and marked the place on the map where the cord dropped.

  When they were both on the bed, Ahkhan took something out of a pocket that proved to be a short stick that unfolded into a whiplike baton. Using this as a straight-edge, he drew a line with a wax crayon between the dot that represented where they were now, to the dots where the line had fallen, then extended it beyond. Then he sat back on his heels and contemplated it.

  “Well,” he said, finally. “She is somewhere on that line between the western Karsite Border and the north-eastern Karsite Border. Given that the Prince saw that she was in a desert . . . and this map is reasonably accurate. . . . I would say she is somewhere in here.”

  He made a circle with the crayon on the map in an area that seemed to be mostly surrounded by high hills or low mountains.

  Tory eyed it dubiously. “That’s a lot of territory to search.”

  “Not so much. I know she will be on that line. I merely need to look for a fortified place with a tower.” He began to fold up the map. “I could wish that we had tried this trick back at the northern school of Amber Moon, because now I must backtrack. Cousin, Prince, you have been of inestimable value to us in our search. Consider the bargain sealed. I will send word to my father to that effect before I leave.”

  “Wait—you mean you’re leaving? Now?” Kee demanded. “Without us?”

  “Putting you in danger from Karsites was in no way part of the bargain,” Ahkhan replied calmly. “You will be fine here at Amber Moon for the next moon or so when they again open the Portal. Or if you would rather not wait that long, I am sure they will find you mounts and an escort back to your Border—”

  “We’re not going back!” Kee said firmly, and with great passion. “Our job is not done! The closer we can get to Sira, the more we can see around her, and the better we can prepare you for what’s going on! And the closer we get, the more accurate we can be in figuring out exactly where she is, instead of you wandering around in hostile territory trying to find exactly the right stronghold she’s held in! And on top of that, we can help you! We can help you get her out! We have to help you!”

  This outburst took Tory entirely by surprise, not the least because of the heat with which it had been delivered. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Kee meant every word, and that he was actually restraining himself from throwing himself on Ahkhan and not just demanding to go along, but begging.

  He also had no idea why Kee felt this way.

  But that didn’t matter. Kee was his best friend. And Kee never did anything impulsively. He might be the almost-youngest Prince, but he had been trained as a Prince, and Princes cannot act on mere impulse.

  So if Kee felt that strongly—Tory was going to have his back.

  “He’s right,” he said, looking right in Ahkhan’s eyes. “You need us. Our job isn’t done yet.”

  Ahkhan went very still for a moment, and Tory was afraid he was going to refuse their help.

  But “As you wish,” he said.

  9

  The Karsites left her alone for another day, another day in which she was (presumably) without food or water, which would (presumably) weaken her resolve—or at least, her “impudence.” She still had no idea if the Karsites believed her imposture or not.

  And what did they expect to get out of a roaming hunter if they did believe her? She knew quite a bit about the nomadic hunters that roamed the edges of the Nation, being acquaintances of several, and those hunters really did not know much about the People at all. Nor did they care, to be honest, as long as they had free access to the game and a market for what they killed.

  Certainly they knew nothing about the Mountain stronghold; not where it was, not what it looked like, not how many people lived there—nothing that would be at all useful to the Karsites. Exchanges of carcasses—and bones for the lammergeyers—for money were made at remote sentry points; that was the closest anyone not of the People was allowed to get.

  So what did these Karsite lunatics expect to get out of “Sira, the lone hunter?” Were they that deluded that they thought the People gave access to their stronghold to just anyone who happened to live within the lands they claimed?

  Well . . . they might be.

  Certainly the Karsites had proven themselves to be remarkably ignorant of the ways of the Nation before.

  In which case, she could shortly expect brutality when mere deprivation did not gain the information the Karsites wanted.

  And when they tried brutality, they would certainly discover that she was not a mere hunter. Because, if she looked at things dispassionately, the simple ability to endure brutality would probably convince them she was a Sleepgiver, so why endure it passively? And while in theory she could pretend to break and give them false information, that would convince them that she was a Sleepgiver as well, and then, well, she could imagine a lot of fates they’d consign her to and none of them were good.

  No, allowing them to do what they wanted to her was not an option she’d have taken even if she thought that doing so would allow her to escape. Which it definitely would not.

  So her best course of action was to go ahead and reveal herself while she still had an advantage; she had that advantage right now because she could use this cell as her high ground. It was the best she could do, under the circumstances. Access to the cell was limited to the door. They were unlikely to unleash any of their demons on her inside this structure—if she had been informed correctly, they couldn’t do it by day in the first place, and in the second place, the creatures were known to be indiscriminate, and would attack anything, friend or foe, that was in their immediate vicinity. And that was assuming that either of the Karsite priests was able to summon their demons at all. She was under the impression that this was an elite ability, limited to a fraction of the priests, and she couldn’t see such elites being wasted on a desert prison.

  Even if they did think she was a Sleepgiver.

  All things being equal . . . when (not if) they made their move, she thought she was ready for them. What she hoped was that they would simply allow the guards free access to her, to do as they pleased. If that happened . . . that would be the best possible thing for her. Not good, but the best possible course out of many that were much worse.

  At least she thought she had found the right place in the binding spell on the first of the bronze talismans to stick a proverbial “spike.” And if whatever was in there did not immediately turn on her—

  Her head went up, thoughts interrupted, as she heard a single set of boots on the stone outside the door, and the key turning in the lock.

  One Karsite, one of the guards she was familiar with by now, entered the cell and locked the door behind himself. Big, muscular, bearded. Clearly thought himself to be quite the man. She pretended to shrink back into the corner as he strolled toward her. “Well, little rabbit,” he said, smirking. “They gave me some orders about you. Said they’d give me a turn of the glass with you all alone and see if I couldn’t persuade you to be more cooperative.”

  She was coiled up as tightly as a spring. He had moved to within a hands-breadth of her feet. He pulled off his belt with its weapons and pouches, dropped it to the floor, and took his eyes off her for a half a breath to loosen his trews.

  And that was when she uncoiled, lashing out and up with both feet together, smashing both of them into his crotch with all the considerable power of her legs.

  His mouth gaped, he gasped for breath and started to double over. Sta
rted, because she’d already pulled her legs under her and launched her head at his chin, lashing out with the heel of her right hand at the same time to smash his larynx. Her hand connected first, her head second, as he was already starting to topple backward.

  He collapsed, choking, eyes bulged, and the back of his head hit the floor with a solid—and wet—thud.

  He immediately went into spasms.

  But she was already moving again.

  She wasted no time, pulling his trews down around his ankles before he fouled them, pulling his tunic up to his armpits a moment later. And predictably, he voided his bowels and bladder moments later, but by that time she had gotten his boots and trews off, saving them as well as the tunic.

  Working quickly, she stripped him of everything but his soiled breeks, found the keys, dragged him over to the door and out onto the landing, then retreated to her cell to make the most of her time with her loot. By the time that “turn of the glass” was done, and his fellows came up to see what he’d done with her (and maybe get a turn with her themselves), she’d turned part of that sack they’d given her into a comfortable breechcloth and breast-wrap, used the rest to bind the bottoms of the trews tight around her calves, pulled on the tunic and shortened the arms, stuffing the excess into the toes of the boots, and belted the lot tight. She waited for them with a smile on her face and knives in both hands, standing where they could see her from the door.

  But of course, the first thing they saw was their very dead comrade, stripped of everything but his shitty, soaked underwear. Their eyes followed the wet red streak on the floor from his head to where he’d died in the cell. And then their eyes tracked up to see her.

  “Hello, boys,” she said in Karsite. “Want to play a game? Your friend did, and lost.”

  “Vkandis’ Cock!” choked one, and slammed and locked the door. Which didn’t matter, she had the keys anyway.

  There was a lot of movement, then quiet. She reckoned they’d decided to retreat, probably carrying the dead body of their comrade with them. She took a moment to use a scrap of cloth to clean up the piss and shit from the floor and pitched the rag down the latrine-hole. When no one appeared immediately, she kept one ear tuned for the sounds of footsteps in the stairwell while she took stock of her loot.

  Besides the clothing and the two fighting knives, she had a pouch with a horn spoon and a small eating knife in it, another with some extremely welcome dried meat, a third with a set of knucklebones and some coppers and a couple of silvers. There had been some extra rawhide thongs laced to the belt that would come in handy as well. The belt was a single piece of leather long enough to go around the waist twice, then pull tight through a set of double iron rings. The boots were strong, soft, and well-made; either the Karsites issued their guards with extremely good boots, or he’d done the sensible thing and invested good money in a pair himself.

  When she finally heard shouting and babbling at the foot of the stairs, she readied herself, moved a little closer to the door, and ran over her plan in her mind as many times as they gave her, while the guards decided what they were going to do. She listened closely to the boots on the stairs, visualizing who was coming up, and in what order, and how many.

  A very big man in the front, followed by two more, trailed by a third. So, just four. She stepped to one side of the door; it crashed open, and the first man charged through with a roar—

  Only to land flat on his face as she tripped him. At the same time, she plunged her right-hand knife into the throat of the second man as he got all tangled up with the third, both of them trying to get through the door at the same time. He dropped his sword to bring his right hand to his throat, she grabbed the sword before it had fallen more than a finger-breadth and slashed up and back across the inside wrist of the third man’s sword-hand, cutting it down to the bone, slashing arteries and tendons. They both staggered backward, blundering into the fourth man, giving her just enough time to stab the man on the floor in the back before the second man dropped to the floor outside the cell, gurgling and choking on his own blood. The sword dropped from the hand of the man with the severed wrist, and he began screaming, clutching at his wrist as blood poured from it. The fourth man stared at her in total shock, then she got him in the eye with her left-hand dagger. Then she finished the third by half-decapitating him with the sword.

  They were all still in the process of dying as she stripped them of everything, throwing it all into the cell, taking the tunics and partial armor by simply cutting it off them. She dragged the first man out onto the landing and left him with the others, then slammed the door shut again, panting.

  And she stood there, still as a stone, listening. She was certain that if the Karsite priests were able to scry, they’d been watching the whole thing—so she painted a feral, half-mad grin on her face as she listened.

  And as she listened, once again, she took mental inventory. Four belts with pouches, daggers and sheathes, and sword sheaths. A metal breastplate from the first man through the door—which hadn’t done him much good since she’d stabbed him in the back. Four swords. Four half-helms. Four sliced-up and blood-soaked tunics—which was all right, since she had a decent set of clothing now, and had other plans for the tunics as well as for the belts. It was a pity she hadn’t had time to get the trews, but . . . oh well.

  Now they knew exactly what they were up against, so far as sheer fighting ability was concerned. They knew they’d never be able to pry her from this cell, because the very construction of it meant no more than one man at a time could come at her through that door, and that was suicide.

  Their next move would probably be to catch her sleeping. They already knew they couldn’t starve her out, nor make her go mad with thirst, though she doubted they had any idea yet how she was managing to do “without food and water.” So their only chance at taking her would be to wait until she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

  But they didn’t know Sleepgivers.

  They didn’t know she could get enough rest packed into short stints; that she could divide a good night’s sleep into small packets spaced throughout the day and night. They also didn’t know that she could set a little spell to jar her awake the moment something as small as a mouse moved in that stairwell.

  They already feared her now, but their masters would probably force them to make one more try, tonight, when they thought she was asleep. And when that foray was over, the guards, at least, would be gibbering in terror at the idea of going up against her, and not even the threat of a demon would make them move.

  Finally, when there was not so much as a whisper of sound in the stairwell, she turned her attention to the pouches on the belts. More of the same; dried meat, money, a couple of amulets that obviously had not done their owners any good, a whetstone (that was useful!), more thongs, a pot of hair pomade (someone had been a dandy), a firestarter.

  Having made her inventory, she sat down in her corner and cut up the tunics into careful, even strips, winding some of the cleanest around her feet until she had crude stockings that made her feet fit the boots properly, and laying the rest aside. Then she waited until night, then apported a loaf of bread, did the same with the dried meat, and had herself the best meal she’d eaten since she came here. Then she took off the boots and unwrapped her feet. What she would do next required bare toes.

  She put herself into short-sleep.

  The alarm spell jarred her awake immediately. She had arranged all but two of the daggers on her belt before she went to sleep; now she put one between her teeth, held the other in her left hand, the best of the swords in her right, and scrambled, lizardlike, up the wall to end up perched on the stone lintel above the door. They probably had no idea when they’d constructed their prison door that they were basically giving someone like a Sleepgiver a perch as comfortable as a full window ledge. She waited there, in the dark, as four more men crept up the stairs, probably thinking they
were as silent as owls.

  Beneath her, the door swung slowly open. And light poured in from the torches they had brought with them.

  Because of course they did. Idiots.

  She immediately slitted her eyes to keep from being blinded by the light. And as the first man crossed the threshold, she dropped on his shoulders.

  Since he was hunched over, she drove him to the ground, hitting the stone with his chin, and she rolled away to stand up against the wall beside the door, as the torch he’d carried in his off-hand fell into the cell and lay there guttering. The second man—they’d learned not to crowd the door at least—waved his torch wildly about inside, completely blinding himself as to where she was until she stabbed him under his arm quillons-deep with her sword. She left the sword in him as he fell, spun out of the way as the third man flailed at her, and the first man got to his feet just in time to get hit by his own man as he flailed with his sword. The first man screamed when the sword caught him across the bicep, and she got him in the throat with her dagger, got the dagger out of her teeth with her right hand, bound the third man’s sword with her right-hand dagger, and punched him in the throat with her left hand. He fell back against the fourth man as she snatched sword and torch out of the third man’s hands, thrust the torch into the fourth man’s eyes, and kicked him down the stairs. He landed on his back with a sickening crack about halfway down, and didn’t move.

  Once again, she stripped what she could from the three men she could reach, shoved their bodies out of the cell, and slammed the door.

  Inventory could wait until morning.

  * * *

  • • •

  Three times that alarm spell jogged her awake. Each time she called out something mocking, like, “You’re not as stealthy as you think you are,” or, “Are you really sure you want an early grave?” Each time she heard hasty retreats down the stairs, then went back to her special Sleepgiver doze.