Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (15 page)

‘This is Iko,’ Hallens answered. ‘You are to regard her as my second.’

Iko jerked, stunned, only just managing to keep her mouth from falling open. The arm fell. ‘Very well. We will bring any further orders.’ The Nightblade moved to go.

Iko blurted, ‘And Jerruth? The emissary?’

The Nightblade did not even turn round. ‘He is nothing. He will be found when the city falls.’ Then the man was gone; it was as if he’d dissolved into the night. Many in Itko Kan speculated that these servants to the Chulalorn dynasty were all sorcerers and mages, but Iko had heard that in truth few were, and that plain gruelling training lay behind their rare skills and abilities – just as with hers.

She turned to Hallens, whom she found eyeing her with a playful half-smile pulling at her lips. ‘I cannot be your second,’ she exclaimed.

‘Nonsense. You are my choice. We need your ferocity and dedication. We are trapped behind enemy lines, after all.’

‘And what if they should try to disarm us?’

Hallens barked a raucous laugh and started back to their quarters. ‘They would be fools to try. No, they dare not touch us. And they believe we wouldn’t throw our lives away in an attempt to cut a path through the city. Or that we would be stupid enough to make an attempt upon the Protectress.’ She regarded Iko sidelong. ‘That’s not our job. But,’ and she clasped her hands behind her back, ‘your point about the gate
is
a rather good one.’

Iko said nothing, understanding the unspoken promise – they would see action. Eventually, they would be unsheathed.

WORD ON THEIR
first job came to Rheena and Dorin the next night. They were hanging around the corner of an alleyway, lounging and eyeing the touts, marks, courtesans, clients, and those simply out enjoying the night air as they passed back and forth in this section of the Outer Round. It was what Dorin could only describe as ‘loitering’. Truth was, they were of course advertising their presence, and, more important, keeping any other crew from moving into that section of territory.

He reflected that much of this belonging to a gang consisted of standing about waiting for something to happen. Very different from his previous apprenticeship. That sour old man hadn’t allowed him one hour of time to himself. Here, it seemed that just showing up counted for much of what was expected of them.

Word came via one of Tran’s young street beggars. They were told to get down to the riverside straight away. The wording implied that they were already late; Rheena raised her eyes to the night sky and pushed herself from the wall. She waved Dorin onward. ‘C’mon. Mister high-and-mighty’s all testy tonight.’

Shreth and Loor followed along. Dorin noted that the mutual teasing and joking was gone between them, along with any resentment towards him. Both now carried themselves with a serious watchful air, as if they were bodyguards, or hired muscle.

‘Why do you put up with him?’ Dorin asked as they threaded the crowds of the night market.

‘Who? Tran?’

‘Yes.’

Her shrug was fatalistic. ‘He’s Pung’s chosen man. No going against Pung. He’ll boil your balls, that one will.’

‘Will we see him?’

She shot him a disbelieving glance. ‘Pung? Whatever for?’

Dorin kept his features flat. ‘I want to show him what I can do.’

Rheena laughed. ‘You can be sure he’s heard! Everything gets reported. He has informants everywhere.’

Dorin was quiet for a time. In truth, he hadn’t considered that. The man may even have paid informants and spies among Urquart’s gang. Good thing none of them had ever seen him – except Rafall. Now that he was seeing more of the world, reflecting on Tran’s leadership, or pathetic lack thereof, it occurred to him that such shortcomings might not be all that rare in every walk of life – especially those of the black market and thievery. Individuals who had failed at every other calling, or proved themselves appallingly unreliable, tended to tumble down into the alleyways of the night market as their last option: the addicts, the hopelessly indebted, the serial liars, the foolish, the deluded, the lazy, and the just plain dim.

The grim reality on the street was proving far removed from the jongleurs’ and troubadours’ tales of roguish grinning thieves with hearts of gold. It was a calling, he decided, far too romanticized, and in actual truth full of damaged broken people. And, in the end, in no way admirable. Just rather shabby, seedy, sad – and violent.

And what did that say about him? Here Dorin clenched his jaws and let a hard breath out of his nose.
He
was no thief. He’d never stolen anything. He’d picked up a few things from that ruined merchants’ caravan, but they’d been dead. He was paid for his talents. It was not a job or work. It was his calling. He realized, then, that he didn’t even consider what he did business. Rheena and these others, he knew, were in it for the coin. They wanted to get rich. Preferably as quickly and easily as possible.

Money, however, held no fascination for him. He was a craftsman. He was interested only in the perfection of his skills.

In silence, they reached the wharf. Torches and lanterns on poles lit the waterfront. Rheena led, walking past barge after barge until she reached the one that not coincidentally was the boat with the largest gang of crew hanging about. Here an older, bearded and pot-bellied fellow sauntered over, pointing a finger. ‘Late as usual, Red.’

‘Busy, Bruneth,’ she replied, airily.

‘Busy my arse. You don’t even know what work is.’ The fellow cast an eye over Shreth, Loor, and lastly Dorin. He snorted his disbelief. ‘If it ain’t mister famous knife thrower. Where we’re going none of your fancy-pants tricks are gonna impress anyone, okay?’

Dorin raised an eyebrow. Rheena waved Bruneth off and jumped down to the barge, sat back against a crate, and stretched out her legs. ‘So let’s get going.’

Bruneth grumbled darkly into his beard, but waved to the lounging crew. The lines were slipped, poles unshipped, and the barge started downriver with the slow current.

Shreth and Loor produced a set of dice and set to whiling away the time. Members of the crew, all Tran’s men and women, drifted over to join them. Rheena had closed her eyes, apparently dozing, or making a great show of it to impress everyone. Bruneth had gone to stand next to the man handling the broad tiller oar at the rear of the barge. Curious, Dorin walked the narrow aisles between the piled crates and barrels of cargo.

Some had been carelessly broken open, perhaps by Bruneth’s people, to verify their contents. Dorin looked in and was surprised to see bundled arrows, weapons, coils of rope, and military supplies and materiel. The barrels held salted meat and other such preserved foodstuffs.

Dorin went to Rheena, touched her foot. ‘These are all taken from the city guard depot.’

She shrugged. ‘Oh?’

‘There’s a siege on, you know. Food is already rationed.’

She hadn’t yet opened her eyes. ‘Look. If some crates fall off the back of a wagon, who’s the wiser? We’re gonna get paid for it, aren’t we?’

‘But you’re undermining the city defences—’

Rheena cracked one eye. ‘Gods, Dorin. I swear. Don’t act like you just arrived with the turnip cart. Where do you think this stuff comes from? Everybody does it. Why shouldn’t we get some of the action?’

He considered her answer. Yes, why should he care? Who was the Protectress to him? No one. Why then did this grate so? Then he had it. It was not a question of one ruler over another, the Hengans or the Kanese. It was that right now men and women were putting their lives at risk to shield him and
this
was how he was repaying them? And for what? A handful of greasy coins? The meanness of it turned his stomach. He thought it . . . well, beneath him.

They passed beneath the arch of the outer wall over the Idryn. No city guards called down and no crossbow bolts flew. Either the guards didn’t care if someone
left
the city, or they’d been paid to look the other way.

Downstream they came to a wooded turn of the river and here Bruneth ordered them to the southern shore. As they approached, a narrow light shone from among the trees, blinking on and off. ‘Ready lines,’ Bruneth hissed. ‘Throw!’

The crew heaved the lines to the wooded shore. Dark shapes moved to gather them up and soon they were being drawn in. The side of the barge scraped up against the man-tall mud cliff that was the southern riverside.

‘Who’s there?’ Bruneth demanded of the dark.

‘No names, I think,’ a man answered, letting himself down to the timbers. Amid the murk, Dorin glimpsed a flash from metal armour and the fittings of a sword sheath. Other shapes moved amid the cover of the treed cliff-top.

By the sleeping goddess – they were selling to the Kanese! Well, he decided, mentally shrugging. Who else would be in need of military supplies?

‘Start unloading,’ the newcomer called up to the trees.

Bruneth huffed his objection. ‘Payment first.’

‘Of course,’ the fellow – an officer? – answered smoothly.

Over the rush of the river and the night wind rustling through the tree boughs, the sound of a crossbow being ratcheted touched Dorin’s ear. He casually crossed over to Rheena and took her arm, drawing her to the barge’s side. ‘This looks very bad,’ he murmured.

She shook off his hand, vexed. ‘I told you – we’re bein’ paid for it.’

‘I think we are,’ he answered, darkly. ‘At the first sign of trouble, jump over the side.’

She eyed him as if he were drunk. ‘What? I can’t swim.’

‘Hang on to the side.’

‘Where is it, then?’ Bruneth grumbled again.

‘Coming. Ah!’ The dark shapes, armoured soldiers, handed down a set of saddlebags. The officer passed them over. They were obviously very heavy. Bruneth knelt to open them and the officer backed away from him as he did so.

Shit
was all Dorin managed before multiple crossbow bolts slammed into Bruneth. Dorin pushed Rheena over the side and ducked as further bolts raked the barge deck. He dodged to where Loor and Shreth had leaped behind the cover of some barrels, their eyes white all round in the dark. Bruneth’s crew started firing back. The officer had drawn his longsword and was calmly closing on the nearest crewman.

‘Jump!’ Dorin snarled.

‘Can’t swim,’ Loor stammered back.

Furious, Dorin simply grabbed the two by their shirts and dragged them to the side and heaved them over. ‘It’s shallow here!’ he hissed after them.

He turned round to find himself staring directly at the Kanese officer. He retreated up an aisle between piled crates, drawing his heaviest fighting knives. The man advanced, then lunged, swinging. Dorin edged aside the blow, sending the sword blade slamming into a crate. To the surprise of both, it jammed there. The officer yanked on the hilt. Dorin darted forward and sank his knife into the officer’s neck just behind the chin-strap of his helmet. The man froze. Their eyes met. In the fellow’s gaze Dorin saw the despairing recognition that he was dead and there was nothing he could do about it.

The officer sank to his knees. Dorin moved on past him. He rounded a roped heap of barrels, heading for the side, only to flinch down as a flurry of crossbow bolts slammed into the lashed timbers ahead. Cursing, he backed away to find cover on the side away from shore. The barge rocked beneath his feet as numerous soldiers jumped down to it. He sensed the odds slipping steadily away from him but kept his head, crawling behind cover to search for another way to the side. He pulled himself over dead and dying members of Bruneth’s crew, all punched through by multiple bolts. The living called to him and he silently cursed them for giving away his position.

Soldiers rounded the aisle ahead, spotted him. There was nothing for it now. He charged, blades readied. Surprised, the lead soldier snapped up his crossbow. He shot too early and the bolt struck just ahead of Dorin’s feet.

Then he was among them, knives swinging. He had the advantage in the constricted alley and went for swift killing blows, slicing exposed necks, faces, and throats. The fourth and last soldier of this group he held up as a shield between himself and the shore. The moment he stopped moving bolts began thumping into the corpse and the crates about him. He started shuffling clumsily towards the nearest side.

Before he made it, another clutch of soldiers reached him. These charged with longswords. He heaved the corpse on to the first, entangling him, and closed with the rest. Cursing him, the two at the back dropped their swords – useless in such close combat – and went for their knives. Dorin trapped the sword blade of the nearest and counter-thrust up into the groin. The man went down with a shriek. The second obviously fancied himself some sort of duellist as he held two longswords. Dorin lured him into crossing them then pushed forward, trapping the blades between them. He whipped a knife across the fellow’s throat then turned away just in time to parry knife attacks from the last two.

These proved experienced veterans. Each fought with two gauches. Dorin found himself on the defensive, parrying four blades. They forced him back down the aisle and out past his cover. Crossbow bolts smacked into the barrels and crates about him.

Snarling, he pressed forward against the far heavier and armoured soldiers. This would not do. He’d trained in fighting up to eight opponents at a time. Two would not get the better of him! Feinting, he tricked one into committing ahead of the other and this one he kept busy and in the way of the second. He knew he could take him but the question was how best to do it.

There was no time to be pretty about it – even now the barge rocked beneath new boots – so Dorin took the first opening he had to thrust a blade straight in the throat and kicked the man backwards on to his friend. The two went down in a tangle. Crouching, Dorin stitched the second at groin, stomach and neck in quick succession then ran for the side.

Soldiers yelled behind. Bolts hissed the air. He jumped, rolled, and tumbled over the edge into the murky warm Idryn.

The Kanese fired into the water for some time before eventually giving up. Torch-wielding search parties scoured the nearby shore, but by then Dorin had pulled himself along through the mud and weeds and grass at the river’s edge until he resembled just another heap of muck.