Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (16 page)

He moved slowly, sliding himself along by tugging at the roots of the stalks about him. Once he judged he’d gone far enough he slithered up the mud slope and entered the woods, confident that his training would allow him to avoid detection. At a sound he paused, listening. Bracken and dry branches broke to the north. He closed on the noise, knives readied.

It was Loor, stumbling through the dark. Dorin moved quickly, before the lad’s fumbling could alert any Kanese. The lad jumped as he appeared and he barely had time to slap a hand across his mouth before he shouted his surprise.

‘What are you doing?’ he hissed into Loor’s ear. He released his mouth.

‘Looking for you,’ the lad answered – not quietly enough.

‘Make for the river gate, you fool.’

‘Shreth’s wounded. Rheena’s with him.’

Dorin clamped his lips shut.
Damn this night to Hood’s dark laughter! Oponn must be howling.
‘Lead the way,’ he snarled.

Allowing Loor to go ahead, Dorin soon realized, was a mistake. The lad was completely lost. Dorin finally took hold of his shoulder and forced him to a halt. Loor drew breath to speak but Dorin silenced him, listening.

It had surprised him how easily the Kanese had given up the search. Now that he listened to the night noises of the woods, chilled to the bone as his sodden clothes wicked away his body heat, it came to him that perhaps they weren’t supposed to be here any more than he. That possibility allowed him to relax just a touch, and let himself breathe more deeply.

‘Where did you leave her?’ he asked, his voice low.

‘The river bank.’

‘Okay. This way.’

After reaching the river’s edge he doubled back, thinking that the wounded Shreth hadn’t gotten this far. They found them lying in the water. Rheena was holding Shreth’s chin up above the surface as he lay on top of her. Dorin drew him up the mud slope. He was awake but weak with blood loss; he’d taken a bolt in the leg and another had gouged his scalp. Both wounds still bled badly. Dorin set to binding the leg then wrapped the youth’s head. He and Loor walked him through the woods, an arm over each of their shoulders. Shreth kept blacking out but there was nothing they could do for that.

Dorin kept finding Rheena staring at him. ‘What is it?’ he finally asked.

‘You killed them soldiers,’ she said, awed. ‘All of them. I saw.’

‘Not all of them.’

She turned away. ‘Stupid Tran and his dumb deals. Pung’s going to hear about this, I tell you.’

‘I’m sure he will,’ Dorin said grimly. Who else arranged for the theft of those goods, after all?

‘What’re we gonna do?’ Loor whined, breathless.

‘If we can make it to the river gate before dawn, I can get you in.’

‘Okay,’ Rheena answered with a fierce nod. ‘We’ll make it. Let’s go.’

In the last hour before dawn, Dorin swam them one by one through the river gate. Shreth was now unconscious, his breathing shallow. Dorin eased him into the flow and drew him along on top of him, swimming on his back, a hand under Streth’s chin. If the Idryn had had any stronger current it would have been impossible to manage.

Pre-dawn fishermen on the easternmost dock were astonished that morning as three bedraggled, filthy and sodden figures climbed up the bank, lifted a fourth member of their party, and staggered up the dock leaving behind clots of river mud and a trail of wet tracks.

Being such a sight, they kept to the back alleys as much as possible, Dorin and Loor carrying Shreth between them. As they neared Tran’s territory, Dorin slowed, wondering just what he should do. The idea of entering the man’s headquarters and being surrounded by his crew did not appeal. It would be too much like surrendering – especially after such a disaster.

Rheena cast him an irritated glare, hissed, ‘What is it?’

He stopped, and Loor had no choice but to stop with him. ‘I don’t think you should go back to Tran.’

She gaped at him, peered round as if asking for witness to his idiocy. ‘Why ever not?’

‘He’ll have to blame someone for this failure, Rheena. And if none of Bruneth’s people got away, you’re the likely candidate.’

She laughed. ‘He can blame me all he wants. Truth is, he’s the one in charge. It’s on his head.’

Dorin frowned a negative. ‘He’ll offer you up in his place – make up some damned lie. Accuse you of cutting a deal with the Kanese. Anything to squirm out of the blame.’

She was shaking her head now, her muddied mass of frizzy, mud-streaked hair hanging lopsided. ‘Don’t do this. If you run, you’re the mark. Pung will hunt you down.’

He gently lowered Shreth. ‘You can blame me. Say I blew the deal.’

‘We’d never—’ Loor began, but Dorin cut him off.

‘You’ll do whatever you have to do to live! Okay, Loor?’ The lad actually looked hurt by Dorin’s vehemence, but he nodded, biting his lip. Dorin turned to Rheena. ‘See you around.’

She was glaring, hands on hips, but her eyes were wet. ‘Fine. Go ahead. I
will
blame you, then. You dumb asshole!’

Dorin bowed, dipping his head. ‘Take care.’ He jogged off the way they had come.

From behind him, up the alley, came a last shout, ‘
Damn you!
’

* * *

Silk had never before been asked to attend the Protectress during one of her interviews, and so when the request came he was quite surprised, and a touch curious. As ordered, he entered the audience chamber only to find it empty. Nonplussed, he halted, staring about. Did he have the hour wrong?

A palace retainer came padding up the hall towards him and bowed. Rather distracted, Silk hardly gave him any attention. ‘Yes?’

‘The Protectress requests your presence at the Inner Focus.’

Now Silk turned. The Inner Focus? Truly? He’d only been there once before. Since when was Shalmanat interviewing within her most private sanctum? He started at once for the doors that were guarded day and night.

As he approached up the hallway the guards stamped their spears and opened the door. Bright white daylight glared, momentarily blinding Silk as he advanced. The door shut behind him. Blinking, he was just able to make out the broad circular chamber, unadorned, and the figure seated at the very centre. He started forward; the heels of his fine leather boots resounded rather loudly on the white marble floor. Reaching the middle, he bowed to Shalmanat who was seated on her private chair – not the white stone monstrosity of the audience chamber meant to impress the gullible. Rather, the slim woman was seated on a plain leather camp stool. The sort that might stand next to any fireside across the Seti Plains.

She was dressed as usual in her long linen shirt and trousers. But there was a sternness about her eyes this day. Silk bowed. ‘M’lady.’

She gestured to her right. ‘Stand here, please, Silk. I will be interviewing a very . . . special . . . sorceress today. I would like your impressions afterwards.’

Silk bowed once more, now very curious indeed. ‘Of course, m’lady.’ He moved to Shalmanat’s right. The woman brushed back her long pale hair in a gesture Silk would almost have named nervous, then clapped her hands. The door grated open.

A single unprepossessing figure entered the chamber. Silk was first struck by her very plain unremarkableness. If Shalmanat had not described her as special, he would have passed her on the street without a second glance. Yet he noticed that she did not pause or blink as she entered the glare of the chamber, but walked forward unhesitatingly.

As she closed, Silk’s earlier impression was reinforced. Her clothes were cheap and rumpled, and her night-dark hair was poorly cut and in a tangle as if she’d been camping roughly these last days. Her feet and sandals were caked in dried mud. It seemed to him that she was strangely negligent of her appearance, especially for such an important audience. But it was her face that caught his attention. He would have thought her ugly were her features not so very odd indeed. The face was broad and flat, the eyes strangely far apart, the lips thick and downturned, as if always clenched in a grim line.

The woman halted a discreet distance off and bowed to Shalmanat, as was proper. ‘Protectress,’ she began, ‘my thanks for this audience.’

Shalmanat answered the bow with the slightest of nods. ‘It is my duty.’ She indicated Silk. ‘One of my city mages: Silk.’ The woman flicked her dark eyes to him and the power of her gaze struck him like a hammer blow to his brow. He swallowed, quite shaken, and inclined his head. Shalmanat asked, ‘And you are?’

As if caught off guard by the question, the woman tilted her head, pursing her lips. ‘You may call me Lady Night.’

Shalmanat nodded graciously. ‘Very well, Lady Night. What can we in Heng do for you?’

‘I ask permission to reside here for a time. Pursuing my . . . research.’

‘We welcome all scholars and magi. May I ask as to the nature of your research?’

She tilted her head once more, quite obviously searching for words. At last, she allowed, ‘It involves the nature of the Warrens.’

‘How very esoteric.’ The Protectress leaned forward ever so slightly. ‘Such as?’

Shrugging, the woman reached into the folds of her shirt and produced a card that was about the size of her hand. It was of the sort one might find in any set of the divinatory Deck of Dragons. She let it fall to the polished marble flags between them, face up. It was blank.

The Protectress raised her gaze. ‘A blank card. How very interesting.’

Lady Night invited her to take it. ‘Feel it.’

Shalmanat gestured to Silk, who picked it up. He pressed a hand to it, summoned his Warren powers, and was astonished when the card answered, turning chill to his touch. He turned his wondering gaze to Shalmanat. ‘It is awake – yet unresolved.’

The Protectress’s brows rose, impressed. She looked to Lady Night. ‘There has been chaos among the talents of late . . .’

Silk had heard of no such disquiet, but the cards and readings held no interest for him, so he would be the last person to know of it.

Shalmanat had extended a hand to the door, indicating an end to the audience. ‘You are of course welcome to pursue your research, Lady Night. Good luck in it.’

The woman bowed, and, in an odd mistake of etiquette, simply turned and walked away. Silk watched her go, one eyebrow raised.

When the door shut behind the sorceress, Shalmanat turned to him, cocking her head. ‘Well?’

Silk blew out a breath. ‘I don’t know what to make of her. For the life of me, I can’t even place her background. Is she of distant Genabackis?’

‘She is from very far away indeed,’ Shalmanat answered, as if speaking to herself. Studying the door, she murmured, ‘I will not fool myself into thinking that she has failed to take my measure. But what I will suspect is that she is not aware that I know of her.’ She swung her gaze to Silk. ‘Keep an eye on her, but on no account must you confront her, you understand?’

Silk bowed. ‘As you so order.’

‘Very well. I could hardly refuse
her
entry, but I’ll not remain ignorant of her intent.’ She stood abruptly, started for the door. ‘And what of the siege?’

Silk stumbled after her. ‘Ah – settling in for the long game. Spies report steady convoys of resupply from the south.’

‘And their mage corps?’

‘Thin, at best. Which surprises me, given Itko Kan’s reputation as a breeding ground of talent.’

Shalmanat nodded her thoughtful agreement. ‘Yes. It may be that our King Chulalorn the Third is holding out on us.’

Silk considered that. With the walls effectively stalemating the military, Kan would have to have another option, else would not have come at all. The obvious choice would be a cadre of mages to match Heng’s own. But none of them had sensed any such gathering. ‘Perhaps some secret gambit,’ he offered.

She was nodding. ‘Yes. You will look into this?’

Silk bowed. ‘Yes, Protectress.’

As for their new visitor – she hadn’t reacted to him in the least. Indeed, after that first glance, it had been as if he hadn’t existed at all. As they exited the Inner Focus, he wondered whether he was losing his touch.

* * *

Not knowing what to do, or where to go, Dorin wandered the streets as dawn’s light came crawling down the inner walls and hawkers began shouting their morning meals. His feet eventually led him to Ullara’s family establishment, and, having no better option, he climbed hidden from sight in the back alleyway and ducked through the open gable.

At his entrance, the usual crowd of predatory birds shifted uneasily and shook their wings. A few let out piercing calls as they studied him from over their curved razor beaks. Perhaps they knew his scent or appearance, for they quickly settled back down again – at least not one of them went for his neck.

He sat heavily on a box, sank his head into his hands, and considered weeping.

Tears would not come. But the self-loathing would not stop.
Failure! Idiot! Even imbecilic Tran has managed to advance! What have you accomplished?

Escaped an ambush, yes – while emerging as the prime candidate for the failure. And now he was no closer to Pung . . . much further away, in fact.

The trapdoor opened. Dorin recognized the sounds of Ullara’s movements. The scent of tea and fresh-baked bread made his mouth water. Sighing, he raised his eyes past his fingers.

She sat on the box opposite, her feet tucked up under her skirts, regarding him, chin in hands. A tray with tea and bread rested among the straw on the boards between them.

‘How did you know I was here?’ he asked.

‘The birds – that is, I heard them.’

‘Well . . . thank you.’ He studied the steam rising from the tea.

‘You look terrible.’

He examined his mud-streaked hands, his torn and filthy shirt and trousers, now stiff and stinking of the river. ‘Yes. I do.’

‘What happened?’

He rubbed his hands over his face. Flakes of dried mud fell like tears. He sighed again. ‘Nothing’s going the way I imagined it would.’

‘Nothing ever does.’

Words of wisdom from a child. Well, isn’t that the old saying?

He picked up the cup of tea, sipped, regarded her over its rim. ‘Why are you being so kind to me?’