A lion suddenly bounded in. People scattered, but without real fear now. Rising on its hind legs, it pawed at the air and growled menacingly. Then it padded around the room. A young woman reached out as it loped by, her hand sinking into the beast and passing through it. The lion turned toward her and reared up. She cried out, but the lion suddenly shattered, becoming a flock of golden doves, which circled the room.
The crowd cried out for more, but Eldicar Manushan merely bowed. “I have promised Lord Aric to reserve my finest, shall we say, tricks for the duke’s feast at the Winter Palace in eight days. It was merely my duty tonight to whet your appetite. I thank you for your applause.” He bowed again, and this time the clapping was thunderous.
Climbing down from the table, he retrieved his staff and walked back to where Keeva and the boy were standing. Taking another goblet, he twirled it in his hands before sipping the wine. Then he glanced at Keeva.
“Did you enjoy the entertainment?” he asked her.
“I did, sir. I will be sorry to miss the duke’s feast. What is your page’s name?”
“His name is Beric. He is a good boy, and I thank you for your kindness to him.” Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it. At that moment there was a stir from the far side of the hall. Dressed in a black satin tunic shirt and dark leggings and boots, the Gray Man made his entrance. He was immediately seen by several women, who smiled and curtseyed. He bowed, exchanged pleasantries, and moved across the room.
Keeva watched him and was struck by the easy, confident way in which he greeted his guests. He stood out from them by his lack of adornment. He wore no brooches or rings, and no gold or silver glistened from his tunic. Even so he looked every inch the lord of the palace, she thought. Around him the other men seemed as flamboyant as peacocks.
Moving from group to group, he made his way to the far end of the hall, where Keeva stood holding her tray. Lord Aric and his friend Eldicar Manushan stepped forward and greeted him.
“I am sorry to have missed your display,” the Gray Man told the magicker.
“I do apologize, sir,” he said with a bow. “It was remiss of me to begin while you were not present. However, you will see something far greater at the duke’s feast.”
The music began again, and dancers took to the floor. Several of the guests approached the Gray Man. Keeva could no longer hear the conversation, but she watched his face as he listened to them. He was attentive, though his eyes had a faraway look, and it seemed to Keeva that he was not enjoying the festivities.
At that moment Keeva’s attention was caught by a young noble edging closer to the Gray Man. He looked tense, and there was sweat on his brow despite the cool breeze still emanating from the white globes that hung above the revelers. Then Keeva saw a second man detach himself from a nearby group and also move toward the Gray Man. Their movements seemed furtive, and Keeva found her heart beating faster.
The Gray Man was talking to a young woman in a red gown as the first of the men came up behind him. Keeva saw something glitter in the man’s hand. Before she could cry out a warning, the Gray Man spun on his heel, his left arm blocking a knife thrust, his right hand, fingers extended, slamming into the assassin’s throat. The man gagged and fell to his knees, the long-bladed knife clattering to the floor. The second man ran in, knife raised, but collided with the woman in the red dress, who was trying to back away from the scene. The assassin pushed her aside, and she fell heavily. The music had stopped now, and all the dancers were standing staring at the knifeman. Keeva saw the guard Emrin run at the assassin, but the Gray Man waved him back. The assassin stood very still, knife extended toward his intended victim.
“Well,” said the Gray Man. “Are you intending to earn your pay?”
“I do this for the honor of House Kilraith!” shouted the young noble, charging forward.
The Gray Man sidestepped, slapped away the knife arm, and tripped the young man, who sprawled headlong to the stone floor. He hit hard but rolled and came to his knees. The Gray Man moved in and kicked the knife from the assassin’s hand. The young noble surged to his feet and ran for the terrace. “Let him go,” the Gray Man ordered Emrin and two other guards who had joined him.
Turning his attention to the first of the assassins, the Gray Man knelt by the still body. Keeva glanced down. The man’s bladder had released its contents, which had stained the expensive gray leggings he wore. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly up at the ornate ceiling. The Gray Man rose and turned to Emrin. “Remove the body,” he said. Then he strolled from the room.
“An unusual man,” said Eldicar Manushan. Recovering from her shock, Keeva glanced down at little Beric, who was staring wide-eyed at the dead man.
“It is all right,” she said, kneeling and putting her arms around his slim shoulders. “There is no danger.”
“Will he be all right?” asked Beric, his voice trembling. “He is very still.”
“They will take care of him,” Keeva assured him. “Perhaps you should leave.”
“I shall take him to his room,” said Eldicar. “Once again my thanks to you.” Taking the boy by the hand, the magicker walked across the hall and vanished into the crowd.
The musicians, not knowing what to do, started to play once more, but the music faded away when no one moved. Then the first of the nobles began to leave the area.
Within minutes the Great Hall was deserted, and Keeva and the other servants cleared away goblets, tankards, and dishes before returning with mops, buckets, and cleaning cloths. By the time they had finished, there was no sign that hundreds of guests had danced and dined there.
In the kitchens, as they washed the dishes and cutlery, Keeva listened to the other girls talking about the failed assassination. She learned that the two young men were nephews of the merchant Vanis, but no one had any idea why they should seek to kill the Gentleman. The girls talked about how lucky the Gentleman had been and how fortunate that his blow had killed the first assassin.
As the dawn was breaking, Keeva made her way to her room. She was tired, but her mind whirled with the events of the night, and she sat for a while on her balcony, watching the sunlight gleaming like gold on the waters of the bay.
How had he known he was in danger? she wondered. With the noise of the music there was no way he could have heard the man move up behind him. Yet his arm had been moving to block the blow even as he turned. His movements had been unhurried and smooth. Picturing the scene again, she shivered. There was no doubt in Keeva’s mind that the death blow to the young man’s throat had not been, as the other girls believed, a fortunate strike. It had been delivered coldly and with deadly intent in a move that spoke of long practice.
What are you, Gray Man? she wondered.
Waylander left the Great Hall and strode down the second level corridor leading to the south tower. As he turned the first corner, he pushed aside a velvet hanging and pressed a stud on the paneled wall beyond. There was a faint creak as the panel opened. Stepping through, he pulled the panel shut behind him and stood in the nearly total darkness. Then, without hesitation, he began to descend the hidden steps. He was angry now and made no attempt to stifle it. He knew both of the young men who had attacked him, had spoken to them on several occasions while they had been in the company of their uncle, the merchant Vanis. They were not of great intelligence, nor were they stupid. For all intents and purposes they were merely pleasant young nobles who should have been considering a lifetime of possibilities.
Instead one was lying in a darkened room waiting for someone to collect his body and place it in the cold ground to feed worms and maggots. And his shade would be wandering the Void, frightened and alone. The second was somewhere out in the night, contemplating his next move and probably not realizing that he was facing death.
Waylander descended the steps, counting them as he went. One hundred fourteen had been cut into the cliff, and as he reached the hundredth, he saw the faintest gleam of moonlight dappling the lower wall.
As indeed would he.
Tomorrow he would see Matze Chai and reveal his plans. The Chiatze would be horrified, he knew. The thought lifted him briefly. Matze Chai was one of the few people Waylander both trusted and liked. The merchant had arrived just before the gathering. Waylander had sent Omri to show Matze Chai the suite of rooms assigned to him and convey Waylander’s apologies for not being present to greet him. Omri had returned looking flustered and annoyed.
“Were the rooms to his liking?” Waylander had asked.
“He indicated they would ‘suffice,’ ” answered Omri. “He then had one of his servants move around the suite wearing a white glove, which he used to see if there was any dust on the shelves.”
Waylander laughed aloud. “That is Matze Chai,” he said.
“I did not find it amusing, sir. In fact, it was extremely annoying. Other servants stripped the satin sheets from the bed, examining it for bugs, while still more appeared with cloths and began cleaning and perfuming the bedroom. All the while your friend sat on the balcony, saying nothing to me but relaying his instructions through the captain of his guard. You told me that Matze Chai speaks our language perfectly, yet he did not say a word to me. Most discourteous. I wish you had been there, sir. Perhaps he would have acted in a more civilized manner.”
“You dislike him?” asked Waylander.
“I do, sir.”
“Trust me, Omri. Once you get to know him, you will detest him.”
“What is it, may I ask, that you like about him?”
“A question I ask myself constantly,” Waylander answered with a smile.
“I do not doubt it, sir, but if you don’t mind me saying so, that is no answer.”
“A full answer would only confuse you more, my friend. So let me say this: There is only one fact for certain that I know about Matze Chai. His name is not Matze Chai. He is an invention. My guess is that Matze was lowborn and clawed his way up from the lowest levels of Chiatze society, reinventing himself at every stage.”
“You mean he is a fraud?”
“No, far from it. Matze is like a living work of art. He has transformed something he perceived as base into a flawless Chiatze noble. I doubt he even allows himself to remember his origins.”
Waylander walked on through the moonlight, angling toward his own quarters. He paused at the edge of the cliff and stared out at the dark sea. The moon was reflected there, broken and shimmering on the gentle waves. He stood in silence as a sea breeze blew gently across his face and wished that he had been as successful as Matze in reinventing himself.
He gazed at the two moons: the high perfect light in the sky and the fragmented twin on the waves. As he did so, he recalled the words of the seer: “When you close your eyes and think of your son, what do you see?”
“I look down on his dead face. He is lying in the meadow, and there are spring flowers around his head.”
“You will not know happiness until you look up into his face,” the old man had told him.
The words had been meaningless then and were meaningless now. The boy was dead: murdered and buried. Waylander would never be able to look up into his face. Unless the seer had been talking about picturing him in some spiritual paradise high above the stars.
Waylander took a deep breath, then moved on along the cliff path. Ahead were a series of terraces covered by flowers and screened by scented bushes. Waylander slowed, then stopped.
“Come out, boy,” he said wearily.
The young, blond noble rose from behind a bush. In his hand was a golden-hilted short sword, a light ceremonial blade worn at official functions. “Did you learn nothing from your brother’s death?” asked Waylander.
“You killed him?”
“Aye, I killed him,” Waylander said coldly. “I crushed his throat, and he choked to death on the floor. As he died, he pissed himself. That is what happens. That is the reality. He is gone, and for what?”
“For honor,” said the young man. “He died for the honor of the family.”
“Where are your wits?” snapped Waylander. “I lent your uncle money, and when he could not repay, I lent him more. I did this because he made me promises, promises he failed to keep. Whose is the dishonor? Now your brother is dead. And all so that fat Vanis can avoid financial ruin? A man of his stupidity faced ruin anyway.” Waylander stepped in close to the young man. “I do not want to have to kill you, boy. The last time we met, you talked of your engagement to a young woman you adored. You spoke of love and a small estate by the coast. Think on it. If you walk away now, I will take this matter no further. If you do not, you will certainly die, for I offer no second chances to my enemies.”
He looked into the young man’s eyes and saw the fear there and also the pride. “I do love Sanja,” said the noble. “But the estate I spoke of belongs—belonged—to my uncle. Without it I have nothing to offer her.”
“Then I shall give it to you as a wedding gift,” Waylander said softly, knowing even as he spoke that it was to no avail.
Anger shone in the noble’s eyes. “I am of House Kilraith!” he snapped. “I do not need your pity, peasant!” He leapt forward, the sword slashing through the air. Waylander moved in to meet him, throwing up his left arm to block the blow at the noble’s wrist and curling his right hand up and behind the sword arm, clamping onto it and dragging it back. The noble screamed, the sword dropping from his fingers as his arm snapped. Waylander pushed him away and swept up the fallen blade. The young man fell heavily and rolled to his knees. As he started to rise, he felt the cold iron point of the blade against his throat.
“Don’t kill me,” he begged.
A great sadness descended on Waylander as he looked into the frightened blue eyes. He took a deep breath. “Too late,” he said. The blade plunged home, slashing through the jugular. Blood gouted from the severed artery, and the noble fell back, his legs kicking out. Waylander let fall the sword and, turning his back, walked the last few steps to his quarters.
Another man was waiting there, sitting quietly, cross-legged on the ground. He wore a pale gray, checkered robe, and a long Chiatze blade, scabbarded, was resting in his lap. He was a small man, round-shouldered, his face thin. He looked up as Waylander approached.
“You are a hard man,” he said.
“So they say,” Waylander replied coldly. “What do you want?”
The Chiatze rose, pushing his scabbarded sword into the black sash at his waist. “Matze Chai will be returning to his home soon. It is my desire to stay in Kydor. He said you might have need of a Rajnee. I see now that you do not.”
“Why do you wish to stay?” asked Waylander. “Is there not employment enough within Chiatze lands?”
“There is a mystery I must solve,” the Rajnee told him.
Waylander shrugged. “You are welcome here as long as you wish to stay,” he said. “If you arrived with Matze Chai, you will already have been given lodging. But I can offer no work for a swordsman.”
“That is most kind, Gray Man.” The Rajnee sighed. “I must, however, inform you that I am carrying a … a burden.”
At that moment, from the path behind them, came a cry of shock and surprise. Waylander turned. A stocky, bearded Chiatze ran into view carrying a long, curved sword. He was wearing a roughly made garment fashioned from wolfskin. “There’s a body!” he said, his voice shrill. “On the path. Had his throat cut!” He peered around at the surrounding vegetation. “There are assassins,” he added. “They could be anywhere. We should get inside. Call the guards!”
“This,” said the Rajnee, “is Yu Yu Liang, the burden of which I spoke.”
“We fought demons together,” said Yu Yu.
Way
lander glanced at the Rajnee. “Demons?”
The man nodded. “That is part of the mystery.”
“Come inside,” said Waylander, moving past the man and opening the door to his quarters.
Moments later they were seated by the fire, the room bathed in the glow of lanterns and firelight. Yu Yu Liang sat on a rug, while the other two men occupied the only chairs in the room. “The man who owns palace should give you better rooms,” Yu Yu told Waylander. “I walk through palace. Much silver and gold and velvet and silk. Probably he is rich bastard and mean with money.”
“This man is the owner of the palace,” the Rajnee said in Chiatze.
Yu Yu glanced around the bare walls and grinned. “And I am the emperor of the world.”
“You mentioned demons,” said Waylander. Briefly and with no hint of melodrama, the Rajnee told him of the attack, the coming of the mist, and the strange creatures that walked within its depths. Waylander listened intently.
“The arm—tell him about the arm!” said Yu Yu.
“I cut a limb from one of the creatures. The skin was pale, white gray. When sunlight touched it, the flesh began to burn. Within a few heartbeats it had vanished entirely.”
“I have not heard of any such creatures in Kydor,” Waylander told him, “nor any attacks of the kind you describe. I do recall reading about swords of bright light. I cannot remember the tome, but it is in the north library. I will search for it tomorrow.” He looked into the Rajnee’s dark eyes. “What is your name, swordsman?”
“I am Kysumu.”
“I have heard of you. You are welcome in my home.”
Kysumu bowed and said nothing.
“Recently I saw such a mist as you describe,” said Waylander. “I sensed there was evil in it. We will discuss the mystery further when I have searched my library.”
Hero in the Shadows Page 10