Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (36 page)

 
          
Well,
before long they would be riding inland, hopefully away from the gaheen, and so
far they had encountered no madmen. Nonetheless, he was grateful when the bulk
of buildings checked the prickly gusting.

           
They left the taverns behind and
passed a series of shuttered emporiums, the streets empty, ghostlike as full
dark fell. Then lights showed ahead, brighter as they turned into the street
described by Hammadrar. Here, signs clattered listlessly, advertising beds and
food and baths. They saw one bearing an ornate depiction of a peacock, the paint
dulled beneath a layering of dust, and went inside.

 
          
The
windows were shuttered and glass-encased lamps burned on the walls of a sizable
room, its floor spread with gaily patterned carpets, empty chairs and tables
along the walls, a small counter to one side. As the door swung shut behind
them a bell tinkled and a bead curtain hung across an entrance behind the
counter was thrust aside to reveal a small, very dark woman dressed in a robe
of startling vermilion and cyan. In contrast to her tanned skin, her hair was
silver, held in a net of fine gold mesh.

 
          
"Welcome
to the Sign of the Peacock," she said. Her voice was thin and high,
birdlike. "I'm Mother Raimi."

 
          
Calandryll
bowed politely and said, "Hammadrar recommended you to us."

 
          
Mother
Raimi nodded and asked, "You want rooms?"

 
          
"If
you have them."

 
          
Trilling
laughter answered him. "All you want," she chortled. "With the
gaheen blowing, Mherut'yi's empty. You can take your pick."

 
          
He
translated for Bracht and the woman switched to the coastal argot.

 
          
"A
room apiece and dinner will cost you one var each. A bath, fifty decimi."

 
          
"We'll
take it," he said.

 
          
"Good.
Follow me."

 
          
She
disappeared through the curtain, reemerging from a side door to beckon them
into a long corridor running the length of the building.

 
          
"Dining
room. Baths." She swung her head to indicate the facilities, each movement
jangling the necklace she wore. "I'll give you rooms at the back—they're
the quietest."

 
          
Such
consideration seemed unnecessary, given the sleepy atmosphere of the town, but
she showed them to chambers facing one another across the corridor, announcing
that baths would be drawn and dinner served when they were ready. Unlike
Hammadrar, she showed no interest in their origins or their purpose in
Mherut'yi, merely opening each door and fetching a lantern from the hall to
ignite those inside. Calandryll smiled his thanks and examined his quarters.

 
          
After
the cramped cabin on the
Sea Dancer,
the room seemed spacious. A carpet
that was only slightly worn covered most of the floor, the windows were
shuttered and the lantern cast long shadows over the wide bed. Beside it stood
a small table with a ewer, a chest of drawers on the other side, a wardrobe
against one wall. The air smelled vaguely musty. "Not been used in a
while," Mother Raimi explained, "and with the gaheen blowing it's
best to keep the shutters closed." She bustled off. He tossed his baggage
on the bed and sat down, wondering if all the towns of
Kandahar
were as dry and dusty and dull as
Mherut'yi.

 
          
A
knock and Mother Raimi's shrill voice announced that their baths were ready and
he joined Bracht in the corridor, his sword and the satchel in his arms. He was
pleased to see that the Kem took the same precautions, his falchion on his
waist. They followed the woman to the bathroom, where a single vast tub filled
the air with stCcim.

 
          
After
the cold salt water on the
Sea Dancer
it was sheer luxury to bathe in
the hot tub and the mild embarrassment he felt at sharing his ablutions with
the freesword was rapidly forgotten as he sank into the steaming liquid.

 
          
"Tomorrow
we find a stable,” Bracht said through the steam. "How far to
Nhur-jabal?"

 
          
Calandryll
pushed wet hair from his eyes and shrugged. "Some weeks. Less to
Kharasul."

 
          
Bracht
nodded, grinning. "At least we travel in a civilized manner. It'll feel
good to get back on a horse."

 
          
"A
boat could reach Kharasul faster," Calandryll murmured.

 
          
"You
think of that warboat?"

 
          
He
nodded and Bracht said, "That wind blew it away. Even if it rode that
storm, how could she know we travel to Kharasul?"

 
          
The
Kern's spirits were raised now that he was on land again and Calandryll felt
somewhat guilty for his own vague apprehension. "How did she know we were
on the
Sea Dancr?”
he asked.

 
          
"Azumandias's
spies," said Bracht, refusing to allow his good humor dampened. "The
warboat hid along the Lyssian coast and set out after us when she got word. And
now she's likely blown back to Lysse."

 
          
"You're
probably right," Calandryll allowed.

 
          
"If
not," said Bracnt, "we'll face her when the time comes. But until
then, let's make the best of things. I'm hungry for decent food after ek'Jemm's
slop."

 
          
He
climbed from the tub, toweling himself cheerfully, and Calandryll followed
suit. Then, dressed in clean shirts, they found the dining hall, where the
innkeeper's promise concerning the standard of Mother Raimi's cuisine was
fulfilled. She served them a rich fish soup, and then thick slabs of a gamey
pie accompanied by cold vegetables. Cheese and fruit followed, and they drank three
bottles of some tangy Kandaharian wine, after which they both felt pleasantly
replete and more than a little drowsy. The prospect of exploring Mherut'yi held
little interest, and as they preferred to remain anonymous they decided to find
their chambers and make an early start come morning.

 
          
Calandryll
undressed and propped his sword beside the bed, tucking the satchel beneath the
pillows. He snuffed the lanterns and climbed gratefully beneath the sheets,
delighted to find them clean and free of dust. He grew daily less concerned
with such comforts, the luxury he had known in his father's palace dimming in
his memory—and given what lay ahead, that was to his advantage—but it was still
pleasant to once again sleep in a bed wider than the
Sea Dancer's
bunks,
with crisp linen and soft pillows. He yawned, listening to the faint droning of
the gaheen outside the shutters, and drifted readily into sleep.

 
          
He
was not sure what woke him, thinking at first that he roused from some dream
and rolled over with a sigh, slitted eyes ascertaining that no light showed at
the window to herald dawn, grunting comfortably as he composed himself to
return into slumber. Then faint sound drew him back from that tempting
threshold. He grunted again, less comfortably, and forced his sleep-blurred
eyes to open. The room was dark, his adjusting vision slowly picking out the
dim outlines of the window, the ewer on the table, the wardrobe, the chest of
drawers. The gaheen murmured through the sleeping streets and he decided it was
that he heard: he burrowed his head deeper into the pillow, hand reaching to
touch the satchel beneath. And heard a board creak. Sharp, cold fingers of
apprehension danced the length of his spine. The hair on his neck prickled as
realization forced him to acknowledge that someone—or something—was in the
room. He shivered as he thought of the wolf-headed creatures Azumandias had
sent to the caravanserai, suddenly—incongruously— aware that he was naked. He
forced himself to lie still, resisting the impulse to snatch at his blade,
savoring the air. It smelled hot, but there was no scent of almonds. Would
there be, had the conjuration already manifested? He clenched his teeth,
feigning sleep as he opened his eyes a fraction, peering from under hooded lids
into the gloom. The room was still. There was nothing there that should not be:
perhaps he had dreamed it all.

 
          
Then
a shadow moved between the wardrobe and the door, detaching itself from the
angle of the cupboard and the wall. It was a man-shaped shadow, a more solid
black
than
its
surroundings, and it moved toward him.

 
          
He
could contain himself no longer: with a shout that was part outrage and more
fear, he lurched from the bed, snatching at his
sword.                                                            
,

 
          
His
fingers locked about the hilt and he swung the weapon up, sending the scabbard
flying across the room. It clattered against the door and dropped to the floor.
The shadow was on the far side of the bed and he saw steel glint briefly as it
propelled itself across, agile as some hunting cat. It rolled over the crumpled
sheets, landing on its feet before him, a long, narrow-bladed dagger darting at
his ribs. He swung the sword again, hearing steel ring on steel, and jumped
back as the shorter blade thrust for his belly. He sucked his stomach in,
bending and turning, and felt a brief stab of pain that was instantly forgotten
as the blade drove at his throat. He danced away, tenor lending him strength as
he countered the blow, cannoning against the shutters, the latch stabbing
viciously beneath his shoulder.

           
The shutter banged open a fraction,
permitting pale silver moonlight to enter the room. In its band he saw a lean
figure dressed in shirt and loose pantaloons of midnight hue, the head wrapped
round with a bandagelike hood in which only the eyes were visible. They were
cold and dark; implacable. He backed away and his attacker dropped to a crouch,
advancing with a silent, scuttling motion, the dagger weaving a hypnotic
pattern before his face. He raised
nis
sword defensively. And felt it swept aside
by the dagger, twisting his head barely in time to avoid the blade that stabbed
at his eyes.

 
          
Turned,
he had no chance to avoid or deflect the foot that lashed at his knee. He
shouted as he felt the kick slam hard against the bone, pain erupting in a
fiery explosion, paralyzing his leg so that it gave way under him and he fell
heavily to the side. He struck the wardrobe and thudded to the floor,
struggling to raise his sword as he saw the dagger flash toward him.

 
          
Then
halt in midstroke as the door burst open and Bracht charged into the room. The
Kem was naked, his long hair wild about his face, the falchion outthrust. His
blue eyes took in Calandryll, helpless on the floor, and the black-clad figure
poised above him, and he roared a battle cry, turning the direction of his
charge toward the assassin. The dagger rose to parry his attack, but the
momentum of his charge drove the figure back, clear of the fallen Calandryll.
Sparks
glittered as falchion and dagger met. The
assassin backed, seeking room to maneuver; Bracht followed him—or her,
Calandryll was not sure— across the chamber. A second time, a third and then a
fourth, the dagger turned the freesword's blows. Calandryll pushed awkwardly to
his feet. Fire burned in his knee and he could feel warm liquid oozing down his
belly. He ignored it as he leaned against the door, the straights- word held
before him. He saw Bracht cut at the assassin's head and the figure duck,
slashing at the Kern's abdomen. Bracht danced clear and cut again, his stroke
again deflected. The shadowy shape rolled back across the bed, darting toward
Calandryll even as the falchion slashed the sheets.
Chaipaku
burned in
his mind. He raised his sword, knowing he had no chance against one of the
Brotherhood. And yelped as fire blazed in his damaged knee and he felt his leg
give way.

 
          
Time
seemed to slow then and he saw the deadly game played out as if he were a
spectator, indifferent to his own fate, protected by the very knowledge that he
was about to die. He fell below the assassin's thrust and saw the force of the
blow lodge the dagger deep in the paneling of the door. Saw Bracht roll, no
less nimble than the Chaipaku, over the bed to land on his feet behind the
assassin. Saw the falchion driven forward by all the strength of the
freesword's powerful shoulder, all his weight behind the blow. He saw the
killer turn, spinning with inhuman speed, left hand dropping to sweep the blade
aside, right sting stiffened fingers at Bracht's face. And saw that not even
the Chaipaku was fast enough to beat the Kern.