Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (21 page)

The man’s small eyes narrowed in their deep pockets, then the edge of his mouth curled up again in appreciation of the comment. ‘Soon.’ He backed away. As he did so, he raised a finger to the youth. ‘Your time will come, lad.’

‘Not before yours,’ the young man answered with what Dorin thought a strange tone of certainty.

The two watched Pung’s guards encircle him once more, and all move off with many glances back over their shoulders.

Once they were alone, the youth’s blade was suddenly across the threshold, barring the way out. The speed of the move shocked Dorin. ‘Do not follow this man.’

Blinking to recover, Dorin grated, ‘Or . . . you will do what?’

‘I will do nothing. It is what I see.’

‘And that is?’

‘Death. There will be death.’

‘That’s the general idea. Or do you mean mine?’

‘No, not yours.’

‘Whose?’

‘Hood commands my silence in this.’

Dorin pressed a hand to the flat of the blade and edged it away. ‘Then stand aside. And never interfere with me again. Or I will kill you. Is that clear?’

‘It is very clear.’

The way the youth spoke disturbed Dorin, but he could not pin down the reason. He nodded to emphasize his point and walked out, slipping round the side of the mausoleum to head in the opposite direction from the toughs. Frankly, the lad’s entire manner made him uneasy. He had to wonder whether the fellow was actually sane. Perhaps he wasn’t just pretending to hear voices to delude the gullible. Perhaps he was hearing them, and he was the deluded one. Or, far scarier, perhaps he was hearing them and they were real.

* * *

Just because they were hostages didn’t mean that Iko and the rest of the Sword-Dancers neglected their training. Their daily routines had even become something of a local attraction as city aristocrats and members of the rich merchant families made a point of gathering to watch, as if the display were some sort of sport. Sitting after a long run of twelve katas, Iko worked on recovering her breath and watched as well. It occurred to her that one reason for the crowds might be that many of the girls chose to exercise in a tight chest wrap and loincloth only. Because they wished to soak up the last of the sun, they would say. But Iko knew some enjoyed showing off.

Hallens, sweaty herself from recent sparring, came and sat next to her. Her eyes were on the ongoing matches, but she said, beneath her breath, ‘I have word the king is becoming impatient and that tonight the Blades will see employment.’

‘Who?’

‘The one herself.’

Iko sat back, surprised and, for a fleeting instant, a touch disappointed. Chulalorn would order such a move? Still – it wasn’t as if she was nobility. ‘We will be on alert all through the night.’

‘No. Nothing out of the ordinary. We must not be seen as complicit.’

‘Then . . . what?’

‘Take one of your midnight walks. Take someone with you. One you trust. Watch for any alarm.’

‘I would chose Rei.’

‘Good choice.’ Hallens stood, stretching, and Iko sat back, now quite distracted from the bouts. He is the king, she reminded herself. The Nightblades serve him as they served his father. It was not her place to judge. She was also a mere servant sworn to serve.

Still, the idea that the Protectress would stoop to such a dishonourable deed had earlier disgusted her. Now she must serve as a near accessory when the king orders the same thing? She clenched her lips tight and eased her shoulders. He was the king. His was the right, as ruler. Hers was to obey.

She could not help being rather subdued through the day and later as they sat together for the evening meal. This they took cross-legged on the floor of their quarters, serving one another; in Itko Kan, and many other southern cities, chairs were looked upon as rather odd and awkward contrivances.

After, she waited aside, quiet. This too was easily accomplished, for in the eyes of her sisters she was Hallens’ new whipping-girl, unable to do anything right, and constantly in need of correction.

When the appointed hour neared she rose and approached Rei where she sat among the sisters, talking and laughing about gods knew what. Iko couldn’t fathom how anyone could still have anything to talk over after living together for so many years.

‘Walk with me, Rei,’ she said.

The tall sister – almost all were taller than Iko – waved her off. ‘Find another chaperon.’

‘I choose you.’

Rei made a face and peered round for Hallens. Iko pointed. ‘She’s over there.’

Rei went to her and Iko watched while Hallens waved her off in turn. She stalked back, picked up her sword, and marched off. ‘Fine!’

They walked the grounds. Or rather, Iko walked the grounds, while Rei shambled after, sighing and huffing her annoyance. Iko tried to keep her gaze from the tall dome of the Inner Focus, which some named the temple, with its single tall tower behind. But she kept glancing that way, wondering just what was transpiring behind those stone walls.

After a time Rei ceased her complaints. Then she said, ‘You won’t see one.’

Iko jumped. ‘See what? What are you talking about?’

‘A Nightblade. You won’t see one.’

‘Of course I won’t! Whatever made you think that?’

Rei glanced to the walls. ‘I see you watching the roofs and such. But you never see them. Not that you’d want to anyway. They’re not what the songsters make them out to be.’

Iko studied the slim woman, who was pushing back her long straight bangs as was her constant habit. ‘Have you seen them?’

‘No. Not that I want to. They’re just murderers. Romanticized cowardly back-stabbers.’

Iko was almost shocked. ‘Cowardly?’

‘They won’t face anyone honestly. So they come in the night, from behind.’

Iko cast another quick glance to the dome of the Inner Focus. ‘I don’t know . . . I imagine it must take courage to enter enemy territory all alone, without retreat, and know you are dead if you are discovered.’

The woman was unmoved. ‘I hear their graduation test is to strangle a baby.’

Iko stared. ‘Strangle—’ She laughed nervously. ‘Now who is the one listening to stories?’

‘This is what I hear.’

Iko turned away, hugged one shoulder against the chill of the night air. What an absurd claim. Chulalorn would employ such monstrous creatures? Still, after such an act, the only thing left to cling to would be the service that demanded it . . .

She kneaded her shoulder, wondering, could there be similar stories circulating regarding them?

For a time neither spoke, then Rei drew a breath that might have been a sigh. ‘It is . . . pleasant, out here, Iko. The air is welcome. One can almost imagine . . .’

‘That we are not prisoners?’

A laugh. ‘We can escape from here whenever we wish.’

‘So we like to think.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we could.’

‘But we haven’t yet.’

‘You are always worrying. Don’t worry.’

‘I was just considering—’ Iko stopped herself because she saw a shadow. She glimpsed it clearly as a long drawn out lance thrown across the ground in a flash. She spun to see the dome of the Inner Focus dimming like a fading ember.

Behind her, Rei’s breath caught.

‘Did you see that?’ Iko gasped, wondering whether she’d imagined it.

‘I can hardly see now. We should report this.’

‘You report. I will take a look.’

‘Be careful.’ Rei dashed off.

Iko headed to the nearest doors leading to the inner chambers. Two palace guards stood watch. She didn’t know if she should be relieved by this or not. Did it mean that the Nightblades hadn’t made it in? She stopped a good distance beyond sword range and pointed up past them. ‘Did you see that?’

‘See what?’

‘The dome. I thought I saw it glow.’

‘You must be mistaken,’ said one.

‘We saw no such thing,’ said the other.

Of course you didn’t.
She didn’t know what to say to that and so shrugged. ‘Well . . . I guess I was mistaken.’

‘I suggest you stay in your chambers from now on, Sword-Dancer.’

‘Perhaps so.’ She bowed a farewell, and backed away.

She found the rooms a whirlwind of activity as her sisters dashed about, each asking what had happened and no one knowing. She pushed through the crowd surrounding Hallens and Rei. Hallens cast her a questioning glance to which she responded with a negative shake of her head.

The captain’s answering frown was sour. She waved everyone away. ‘Back to bed. Tomorrow.’

‘What is it?’ Yvonna demanded. ‘What is going on?’

‘Nothing,’ Hallens snapped. ‘Nothing happened and no one will say anything. Understood? Now back to sleep.’

Iko nodded her assent. She headed to her bedding. Yvonna grasped her arm and whispered, insistent, ‘You were out there. What was Rei talking about? What did she see? You can tell me.’

‘Nothing. Didn’t you hear? Nothing happened.’

Yvonna glared down at her, then snorted. ‘Of course
you
wouldn’t know, would you?’ Iko just damned her to the Abyss and went her way.

* * *

Silk was kissing the smooth stomach of the daughter of a very rich merchant family when a summons pierced his concentration. It came as white light of a purity far beyond any that a mage of Thyr could fashion. In fact, it came from that other realm that Silk had been privileged to glimpse twice during his most profound incantations. It came not in words, but as an image and a demand.

The Inner Focus – the temple – and his presence.

He flinched from the bed, wincing, and rubbing his temples. ‘Sorry, dearest. Have to go.’

She stared up at him, utterly shocked. ‘What?’

‘I must go. City mage business.’

She pulled her silk robes about herself, sat up. ‘Bullshit! It’s as they say – you do prefer men!’

He drew on his trousers. ‘If that will soothe your vanity, my sweet.’

‘Or you can’t perform!’

He squeezed his erection through the cloth, showing her. ‘Not an issue.’

She heaved a pillow. ‘Get out! My father will hear of this!’

‘And what details exactly will he hear?’

She fairly shrieked, ‘Just get out!’ and hid her face.

He backed away as he buttoned up his shirt. ‘I’m very sorry, dearest. You really were . . . most tasty.’

A perfume pot smashed into the wall next to his head. He ducked as he exited.

Reaching the street, he turned and made directly for the nearest gate. As it was the middle of the night it would be closed, but it would be manned, and he would be let through. He was confident the girl – what was her name? – wouldn’t give any true account of the night. Rather the opposite, in fact. The truth would quite take away from the glow of her conquest, after all.

He jogged listening for sounds of any disturbance or attack, yet heard nothing out of the ordinary. Now he feared the worst. Could
she
be wounded? Surrounded? Had the others been summoned? He quickened his pace and wished he were a talent of one of those Warrens that allowed faster physical movement, such as Serc.

He charged up the stairs, waving at the guards as he came, and sprinted through the empty halls of the outer palace. Past these, he reached the more private rooms, then saw ahead the doors of Shalmanat’s sanctum, the Inner Focus. Here a mass of guards milled, blocking the way, and he yelled, ‘Make room!’

‘The doors are shut,’ one told him.

He waved them aside. ‘Not to me.’

Fresh blood smeared the stone flags before the doors. Dread clenched his heart.

‘Four dead,’ one guard whispered.

Silk pressed a hand to a door, found it warm to the touch. ‘What happened?’

‘Don’t know. People just report a blinding flash from the Focus. Then silence. No one can get in.’

‘Are the other mages here?’ The guard shook a negative. Mystified, Silk gave the door a push and felt it yield. ‘Bar the way,’ he told the guard, and slipped within, shutting the door after him.

Brilliance assaulted him. He blinked, squinting, his eyes watering, and shaded his gaze. Eventually, as his vision adjusted, he could make out one smear of lesser intensity and he headed towards it. He marvelled as his feet struck the white stone flags invisible to him. It was as if he were suspended within the sun itself. No adept of Thyr could marshal anything near this potency.

He realized that this manifestation transcended his Warren – and then he knew. He knew who, or more accurately
what
, Shalmanat was.

He found her sitting on her camp stool once more. Surrounding her lay eight smears of black ash – as if she had tossed eight handfuls of soot from where she sat. Ignoring these for the moment, he went to her and knelt.

Her eyes were shut and she was weaving gently in her seat, as if in a trance, or a dreaming dance. He reached out to touch her but reconsidered, and withdrew his hand. Instead he called to her, softly, ‘Protectress . . . Shalmanat . . .’

The sinuous dance slowed, halted. The eyes fluttered, opening. Irises lay before him like twin open wells. Yet instead of darkness within, each pupil glowed a bright velvety crimson.

He knew for certain then. ‘Shalmanat.’

The eyes found his, focused. A wan smile touched the lips. ‘You heard.’

‘Yes. And I came. What—’ He started, seeing her shirt sliced open at her side. He drew on the cloth to see the wound along her ribs as a bright sealed gash. Healed as if cauterized instantly.

As if
.

He lowered himself as before to one knee, gestured to each side in wonder. ‘This is more than Thyr. This is Liosan. Kurald Liosan. Elder Light.’ He bowed his head to her. ‘And you are Tiste Liosan.’

Her exhausted smile lifted a touch higher. ‘I am unmasked.’

He indicated the nearest tossed dusting of soot. ‘And this?’

The thin-lipped mouth tightened. ‘Chulalorn’s childishness.’

‘Childishness?’

She took a deep breath, straightened her back. ‘Kings are like children. They expect to be obeyed, and throw fits when thwarted.’

Silk eyed the eight smears.
Light alone did this
. The power that moves all creation, some say. ‘But how could they have gained entry?’