Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (20 page)

The old man’s bushy brows rose and he touched the side of his nose, nodding his appreciation. ‘Right you are, sir. ’Course. Might be important.’

Silk gave them a friendly nod in farewell and continued on. They may, or may not, pursue the matter. But if he knew his human nature, they’d have ten times the information and gossip on this thing when next he came through. In any case, he had a lead.
Like a man, only twisted and bigger
.

He angled for the city walls. Now, just how in the name of the sleeping goddess would he get back in without being seen?

* * *

The day-hunters and the night-hunters, Dorin decided, were very much of two different breeds. The night-hunters, the owls mainly, kept to the darkest and most shadowed corners of the broad dusty attic. If disturbed during the day, they would merely crack open one disapproving eye, peer about, then slip back into their slumber.

On the other hand, the day-hunters, the hawks, falcons and eagles, when disturbed by some night-time noise or commotion, would rear up in a startled manner as if half taking flight. They would then complain and grumble for a long time, adjusting their perches and preening, resentful of the intrusion.

Dorin had time to make such observations while he lay with his torso tightly wrapped, regaining his strength under Ullara’s care. That had been a close call. His closest yet. If not for the two remaining Denul-enhanced unguents he possessed, it might have been the end for him. As it was, he believed he accounted for some six or eight Nightblades himself – not a bad total.

He vowed to do much better should there ever be a next time.

Ullara was pleased to be once more in the role of caregiver rather than receiver. At first he ate hugely to regain his strength, until he noticed that she did not appear to be eating at all. He eventually managed to coax from her the truth that the entire family was enduring a shortage of foodstuffs. He handed over coin then and demanded that she buy for everyone. That day she went to the market and returned with more than the family ever normally bought. Which, she later admitted to him, had been a mistake. Her father had questioned her and she’d had to make up the lie that she’d sold one of her ‘pets’.

At least her father was now more supportive of what he’d always dismissed as a useless waste of her time.

This day Dorin walked about the attic, easing into his usual practice routine – not that he was up to it. But he was approaching it. Each evening he questioned Ullara about the news. A fortnight had passed since that night upon the rooftops and as far as he could tell nothing had changed in the stand-off of the siege. Ullara, however, reported dire shortages in the markets. Surging prices for staples such as flour. The disappearance of fresh vegetables from every stall. Dorin wondered how long the Protectress could hold out.

Noise at the trapdoor sent him dashing to cover he’d erected to shield himself from discovery. Though Ullara had claimed no one else ever came up here Dorin had been shaken to discover she was wrong when the door lifted one day and an older woman emerged. Her mother, he’d assumed.

She had rooted among the boxes then descended, completely oblivious of the screaming signs of his residence in prints among the dust and his rumpled bedding. Not her area of expertise, he supposed. And people tended not to see what they did not expect to see – a tendency he’d been trained to exploit.

This day it was Ullara. Dorin was surprised to see her carrying a bottle of wine. He gestured to the bottle. ‘A special day?’

She blinked, momentarily confused, then blushed, embarrassed. Everything he said seemed to embarrass the poor lass, Dorin thought. She offered it. ‘Oh, no. We’re out of drinking water.’

He took the bottle, sat. ‘But you have a huge river running through the city.’

‘Everyone thinks the Kanese have poisoned the water.’

He found that hard to believe – wouldn’t the poisons merely wash away downstream? ‘Do you think they’d do that?’

‘Who knows what those evil southerners might do?’

There it was again – that strange bigotry against those who lived beyond the next valley or mountain range. It was a common prejudice Dorin did not share. Perhaps because he’d been trained to view everyone equally. As potential targets.

He took a sip, welcoming the fluids. Though it was late in the autumn, the heat the attic collected could be blistering. At such times he hid out on the roof in the shade of a gable.

‘How goes the siege?’

‘The same. Stand-off.’

‘I understand these things can last for years.’

‘Surely that can’t be possible.’

Dorin gestured with the bottle. ‘It’s a question of wills. Theirs or—’ He was about to say ours, but stopped himself. ‘The Kanese’s or the Hengans’. If you are running low on food, then they must be as well.’

Ullara fiercely shook her head. ‘Oh, no. They’re receiving regular convoys up from the south.’

Dorin lowered the bottle to stare at her quizzically. ‘How would you know that?’

She blushed once more, her gaze fluttering about the attic. ‘I . . . heard. In the market.’

‘That’s just gossip. Wild rumours and talk.’

She pressed her lips tight and squeezed her hands between her knees, saying nothing.

He handed her the bottle and cleared his throat. ‘Well . . . Ullara. Thank you so much for all you’ve done. You saved my life – you really have.’

She hung her head. ‘You’re going.’

‘Tomorrow, I think.’

‘You’re not fully healed!’

‘I won’t be for some time. But I can’t stay here any longer. I might be found.’ He lowered his head to catch her eye. ‘Then there’d be some awkward questions for you.’

She turned away, hunching further.

‘I’m sorry, but I have to go. I can’t stay for ever. You know that.’

‘Just a little longer,’ she whispered.

‘Tomorrow, Ullara,’ he answered, just as softly. He wanted to soothe her, perhaps hold her to comfort her, but that did not feel right to him and so he took her hand – so calloused and rough for one of her tender age – and kissed it.

She burst into tears then and ran from the attic.

He was left wondering whether he’d done the right thing. Or the wrong thing.

She did not return with the dusk, nor with the next dawn. He waited into the morning and then, reluctantly, swung out of the gable that offered the most cover, and descended to an alley.

He slipped into the street. It was surprisingly empty for the time of day; the ongoing siege must be taking its toll on business. He would search out his stashes to see if any remained, then strike east for Unta. Perhaps downriver to Cawn then onward by ship. Best to avoid the long dreary overland route.

He was heading north, along the Outer Round, wondering just how much barge traffic there might be downriver from Heng, when someone stepped out and called, ‘Dorin! What a surprise to see you.’

He damned these last weeks of inactivity – they had obviously dulled his senses outrageously – loosened his shoulders, and looked up to see Rheena. The girl gestured, inviting him into a narrow side street. ‘I think we should talk.’

‘I agree.’

Once round the corner of the street she surprised him once more by lunging in close and planting her mouth on his. She said through their lips, ‘They just want to talk, Dorin. Just talk.’

He flinched away, stunned. She glared. He glanced out to the street to see two obvious specimens of street muscle closing. ‘Rheena . . .’ He backed away, drew his blades.

‘Just talk!’ she repeated, pleading.

‘So he may have told you, girl.’

Four big fellows now blocked the alley mouth. Dorin didn’t even have to look behind to know it was a dead end. Rheena had chosen well, damn her.

He readied himself, adjusting his footing. He may be weakened, but he was certain he could still take these plodding amateurs.

Then they raised their hands, empty. ‘Just a word,’ the leader called.

Dorin continued backing away. ‘Say it.’

‘A meeting. Pung might have a proposition for you.’

Dorin spotted a repeating course of raised brick high in one wall. He sheathed his blades and leaped all in one motion. His fingertips caught the course. His side flared with pain. Grunting, he heaved himself up to a higher course and yet another. He paused there, glanced down at the five upturned faces, Rheena included. ‘Sorry, don’t trust your boss enough to come along.’ With the tips of his feet on the courses he made quick progress to the third-storey roof.

‘Name a place, then!’ came a last angry call from below.

Dorin peered over the edge. ‘There’s no place I’d feel—’ He stopped himself. Actually, there was one place in the city where he would feel quite safe from the damned man. He crouched at the lip. ‘Okay. There is one place I’d be willing to meet your boss – should he have the guts to show . . .’

‘
I DO NOT
want you here,’ said the black-haired Dal Hon swordsman, practically pouting.

Dorin was leaning against the doorjamb of the mausoleum, watching the empty night-time Street of the Gods. He said, distractedly, ‘I’m really not interested in what you want.’

‘Leave now.’

Dorin cupped a hand at his ear and made a show of listening to the rear of the chamber. ‘I don’t hear the priest objecting.’

‘He only talks to me,’ the youth ground through clenched teeth.

Dorin crossed his arms, shot a quick glance to the street. ‘You mean like an imaginary friend?’

The youth jerked forward, a hand slapping to the much-worn grip of his sword. Dorin imagined he could hear the wire, horn, and tang creaking in that white-knuckled clench.

He remained calm – outwardly, at least. He’d guessed that the youth slew only those who threatened the temple, or his god, or something like that. In which case, the lad’s own bizarre self-imposed strictures protected him. He’d just have to be careful not to overstep some stupid obscure religious law like eating horse on a new moon, or wearing a pointy hat indoors.

The youth subsided into sullen silence after that, which suited Dorin fine. He kept watch without being further accosted. His one remaining concern was the child – she lay as before amid rumpled old blankets against a wall. Asleep this time, at least. Yet kept in a mausoleum? What was this lad thinking?

‘Yours?’ he asked, pointing to the girl.

The lad’s jaws hardened. ‘My ward. Why?’

‘Just wondering why you haven’t passed her along to some family.’

‘She is safest here with me. None shall harm her here. I’ve sworn it.’

Dorin raised a hand in surrender. ‘Just wondering.’

As the night hours passed, the street emptied of legitimate devotees while a crowd came to gather on the street in either direction from the mausoleum. A rather burly crowd for this particular thoroughfare; not one black-shawled grandmother among them.

Some ten of the sturdy fellows detached themselves from the crowd and advanced. Dorin slipped further into the cover of the stone jamb. ‘Far enough!’ he called. ‘No sense continuing with this unless the man himself is here.’

The street enforcers parted, revealing another figure among them, this one far shorter and broader. The fellow padded forward with a slow rolling gait. His round bald head gleamed with sweat even in the cool night air. His body was just as round, with a great protruding pot belly and thick trunk-like arms. If this was Pung himself, then Dorin wondered why he wasn’t known as Pung the bung. He was dressed rather conventionally for an underworld boss, in plain wide trousers, a dark blue silk shirt and dark green jacket.

‘Are you Pung?’ Dorin called.

‘What is this?’ the black-haired youth hissed from the hall. Dorin ignored him. The man nodded his shiny bullet-like head, then advanced up to the mausoleum’s stone threshold.

‘You wanted to talk?’ Dorin asked.

The man raised a hand for silence, then knelt. ‘First things first,’ he said in a thick, wet voice, like molasses. On his knees, he crossed his arms at his chest and bowed, then extended his arms in front of him. ‘May Hood preserve me,’ he murmured and stood, grunting with effort.

Meaty hands on his hips, he studied Dorin up and down. ‘So. You’re the fella causing all the ruckus.’

‘Depends on the ruckus.’

Pung rubbed his heavy jowls, cocking an eye. ‘Well, let’s see now . . . There’s a baker’s dozen or so on a barge south of the city that included an officer of the Kan Elites. Then there’s a near equal number of Kan Nightblades gutted across roofs and spattered on streets.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

Pung shook his head and gave him a disgusted look. ‘Lad, I got eyes on the roofs. I see the Nightblades comin’ and goin’. There’s nothin’ that moves in this town that I don’t know about.’

‘That include the city mages?’

‘I’m smart enough to stay out of their way.’

Dorin sensed, rather than felt or heard, the youth come up behind him. ‘Leave our threshold,’ the young man demanded.

Pung raised his wide hands, empty, palm outward. ‘I come offering worship.’

‘You are no devotee of Hood.’

‘Oh, I am, lad. I am.’

Dorin looked to the ceiling and crossed his arms. ‘Is this what we’re here to talk about?’

Pung’s lips drew down in disapproval of such rudeness. ‘I’m thinking you’ve been doing a heap of free killin’ for someone who claims to do it only for pay.’

‘And?’

‘Want to get paid?’ One edge of his heavy mouth crooked up with that question.

Dorin did indeed want to get paid. However, now that he saw which way things were going, he decided to try a little fishing instead. ‘I’m wondering why you need me when you have such a deadly mage.’

The squat fellow’s hairless thick brows clenched in confusion, then he burst out with a harsh guffawing laugh. ‘Oh, yeah! That guy. My fearsome mage. Ha! I’ll drag him out for you if you like.’

Dorin was puzzled by the reaction, but made a show of waving it off as unimportant. He said, ‘Well, I would like to get paid.’

Pung inclined his blunt head. ‘Good. We should talk. But not here. Private, don’t you think?’

‘I’ll pay you a visit.’