Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (23 page)

He turned to Greneth, shrugging. ‘Serves him right, then.’ He headed for the door. ‘Let’s go. Stinks in here.’

He pulled up short at the entrance as it was crowded by the child labourers. All peered in, their eyes bright on their dirt-smeared faces. Greneth waved them off. ‘Get back to work!’ They scattered, leaving something in the entrance – something small and furry with tiny eyes. Greneth sent a kick after it and it scampered off, chattering. ‘Damned monkey!’

‘I don’t think that was a monkey,’ Dorin said, amazed.

‘It’s the mage’s pet. No one can catch the damned thing. Now it has the run of the tunnels beneath the city. We’ll poison it yet.’

A slight wind brushed Dorin. It blew hot and dry in the doorway and he frowned, casting a glance to Greneth who seemed oblivious, or simply uninterested. Where could it be coming from? There were no other entrances that he could see. Behind him, the lad had shuffled over to a wall and returned to his sketching, humming and murmuring to himself – even though there was no light at all within his cell.

Dorin felt all the hairs of his arms and neck stand on end. There was something very strange here. Something of the Warrens, but Greneth seemed blind to it. Dorin allowed the man to swing the door shut and lock it, then handed back the lantern. Glancing over his shoulder as he followed Greneth back up the tunnel, he noticed the many child miners edging in from the dark, closing once more on the mage’s cell.

He’d return as well. Sometime. But first he had his own promise to Pung to fulfil.

GETTING OUT OF
Li Heng proved far easier than Silk imagined it ought to be. He received orders to join a foraging party assembling in the pre-dawn hours on a north section of the Outer Round. Here he found Shalmanat, cloaked, her head wrapped in cloth and veil, awaiting him among a crew of their regular scouts and scavengers.

They were let down the wall by rope then jogged off through a maze of burned hovels. ‘What of the Kanese?’ he asked as they ran.

‘They do not chase these parties. I believe they hope to encourage deserting.’ Then Shalmanat raced off, and proved a tireless runner. Silk struggled to keep up. The path she chose took them past the churned dirt of one-time market gardens to surrounding burned fields, and then on to the open plains. Here the land lay gently rolling – uncounted leagues of unbroken grasslands dotted with copses of trees, small streams, and modest lakes stretching all the way north to the Fenn mountains. The country of the Seti horse clans, Ferret, Wolf, and Eagle. And the warrior society of the White Jackal who worshipped Ryllandaras, the Elder Hero himself. Brother, some said, to Treach, the tiger god of summer.

They jog-trotted through the heat of the day, Silk suffering terribly. He was no soldier. His namesake shirt hung from him soaked in sweat, and no doubt ruined by the salt stains to come. His feet in their heeled boots screamed in pain; he was certain he’d scoured all the flesh from his ankles.

Late in the day he commented, ‘We have seen no war bands.’

‘The Kanese have bribed them to hunt elsewhere.’

‘And Ryllandaras? What of him? How will you call him?’

‘He knows already that I have stepped on to his lands.’

‘You make him sound like some patron god of the plains.’

She cast him a long look. Only her dark eyes showed between head-wrap and veil. ‘He is. Of a sort.’

That silenced him. For a time. In the late afternoon she slowed her pace, perhaps out of consideration for him. He was only mildly chagrined – he had not the training, and she was not human, after all. Side by side they pushed through the tall sharp-edged grasses. ‘And what will we eat?’ he asked, by now quite hungry.

‘What did you bring?’

He laughed, a touch uneasily. ‘No one said anything about bringing food.’

‘There are no wayside inns or taverns out here, dear Silk.’

‘You are teasing me.’ At least he hoped she was. She handed him a strip of some fibrous dark material that resembled old burlap. ‘What is this?’

‘Dried meat.’

He sniffed it. It smelled of nothing. ‘What does one do with it, pray tell?’

‘Hold a bite of it in your cheek for the rest of the afternoon.’

He made a face. ‘Gods forgive me, what a disgusting thing to do.’

She laughed. ‘You are an urban creature, Silk.’

‘And urbane.’ He examined the desiccated strip, sniffed it again. ‘What was it?’

‘Horse.’

He put it away, grimacing. ‘I think I’ll wait.’

She laughed again, high and sweet-sounding, and Silk was pleased to hear it.

Towards dusk, however, he began to feel a little worried. No one ever travelled the Seti Plains in such a small party. It was tantamount to suicide. Even the Seti kept to war bands of twenty or more armed warriors. When the sun finally fell below the western horizon and the midges and other such biting insects multiplied into clouds surrounding them, he asked, ‘Should we not start a fire for the night?’

‘I will start a fire,’ she answered, and, peering round, pointed out the tallest of the modest hills about. Silk felt a growing unease; it seemed she was truly determined to invite a visit from the man-beast.

Atop the hillock, she searched about then selected an area and sat cross-legged. He sat next to her, wrapped his arms about his aching knees. ‘Why choose me – to accompany you, I mean?’

She nodded at the question. ‘I could not bring Ho. He and Ryllandaras have fought before.’

Silk’s brows shot up at this casual revelation. ‘Really? They’ve fought?’

‘Yes, once or twice. He and Ryllandaras . . . well, they have much in common. I could not bring Koroll, as the man-beast would take his presence as a challenge. Likewise Mara or Smokey.’

Silk observed, rather drily, ‘You are saying that he will not judge me a challenge?’

‘You are offended?’

‘Just my pride.’

She cast him another long look. ‘I did not think you so easily dismayed by the opinions of others.’

He offered a reassuring smile. ‘I am not.’

‘Good. That is one of the things I value about you, Silk. Your . . . independence of thought.’ She turned her attention to the ground before her then, and Silk said nothing as he recognized the beginnings of ritual preparations – though the exact ritual itself was a mystery to him, as it was of Tiste Liosan. Her slim pale hands danced in graceful designs and her breathing laboured in precise increments. Then she leaned back, her breath levelling in a long exhalation, and rested her hands on her knees. ‘It is done.’

‘I see nothing.’

‘Look through your Warren.’

It was a chill night as the sky was almost completely clear. The stars shone hard and bright. The constellation of the Mariner was high in the east, while the Weaver curved now towards the western horizon. He summoned his Warren. What was revealed drove him backwards like a glimpse into a furnace. A churning pillar of puissance spun before him. He bent his head back but could not glimpse its top. ‘What is this?’ he yelled, awed, though the spectacle was utterly silent.

‘A beacon few can see.’

‘More than he will see this.’

‘And they are welcome to approach – knowing he will be coming as well.’

He shivered despite his patron’s complete confidence. ‘What now?’

‘Now we wait.’

He nodded, accepting this, though unhappy about it. He’d detested the dried meat, but now found himself wishing there was more of it. Or at least a drink. He’d brought nothing of the sort himself. He drew breath and asked, ‘Have you any—’

Shalmanat held out a curved goat-hide waterskin, such as the Seti carry. Now definitely chagrined, he took it and pulled out the wooden stopper and drank. It was plain water, but warm from having been carried next to her body. Perhaps hung over her breast, or her stomach. He savoured the warmth.

Stoppering the waterskin, he handed it back and regarded her, now sitting within his arm’s reach. Her silver hair hung about her shoulders, blown lightly by the weak night winds; her face was long – too long by contemporary Hengan standards of beauty. The eyes too far apart, the lips too thin. But he knew her secret now. She was of the Tiste. An ancient race with a sad history, if he recalled the songs he’d heard correctly.

He cleared his throat and asked, ‘Why Li Heng? I mean, what brought you here? If I may ask.’

She nodded absently at the question and leaned back, setting her hands to the earth behind her. ‘A fair question, Silk.’ Then she was quiet for a time, gathering her thoughts. ‘I fought in the wars, you know.’

‘What wars?’

She turned to him, surprised. ‘Why, the wars of light and darkness, of course.’

His breath was punched from him in stunned amazement.
Oh, of course
. . .

She continued, perhaps unaware of his astonishment, ‘I was a staff aid to – well, to one of Osserc’s officers. They used to call them the Daughters of Light, unofficially. The Andii never did become accustomed to war, you know. But we did. We had the tradition of an older legion to guide us. Yes, we Liosan took to war far too well.’ She clenched her lips then, and lowered her gaze. ‘I, however, lost my taste for it. I came to . . . admire . . . one of the leaders of the Andii. In time I came to see the struggle as . . . self-defeating.’

Her gaze rose, perhaps tracing the height of the invisible pillar of Liosan magery before her. ‘I fled the bloodshed,’ she murmured, almost dreamily. ‘Found these crossroads. And here I set my seat and tried to establish a peace. Tried to build something rather than destroy. And,’ she lifted her shoulders in a shrug, ‘there you are.’

Silk had no idea what to say. What could one say to such a confidence? He cleared his throat once more. ‘Well . . . we are grateful for all that you have done.’

She smiled, wistfully. ‘Thank you.’

Unable to set his fears to rest, he asked, ‘And Ryllandaras? You do not fear him?’

‘Fear him? Yes, I fear him greatly. However, I know that he will not harm me.’

And what of me, Silk wondered? Perhaps she assumed her personal safety extended to him – in which case he hoped it was more than mere assumption. Nevertheless, he recalled how she had stressed that it was all about challenge with the man-beast, so he resolved not to draw any weapon, and to work on projecting his utter harmlessness, a particular specialty of his.

Was this why she’d brought him? Because of this rather unusual talent? Well, he supposed he would find out soon enough.

The night darkened as they waited. Eventually, it became too much for him, exhausted as he was. His eyes kept drooping, his head nodding. Despite his dread and the cold, he gave in and lay down. He tucked his head on one arm, and slept.

A stink woke him. A pervasive animal musk penetrated his uneasy dreams until it made him wrinkle his nose and nearly cough. The shortage of breath choked him and he started up, making a face. ‘What is that—’

A curt wave from Shalmanat silenced him.

She was standing, facing the west. He clambered to his feet with an effort, kneaded his numb legs. It was light, but the sun had yet to rise above the eastward rim of the world. Thin streamers of clouds high above glowed pink and gold. The wind pulled at his shirt and vest, uncomfortably chill.

Something was approaching. It walked with a slow heavy gait, swinging from side to side, its heavy arms hanging forward, ash-grey in the dim light. While Silk watched – aching to draw a weapon – it paused, raising a black snout to scent the air, warily.

The man-beast wary? This was a new revelation for Silk. But then he considered all the many stories relating the countless hunts that had set out against this one. All of which had come to singularly messy ends.

Evidently satisfied, the beast continued onward, climbing the hillock. Silk could not help but sidle over a touch closer to Shalmanat. As the beast closed, it reared taller and taller until a daunted Silk realized that even hunched over as it was, nearly on all four limbs, it yet stood twice the height of a man; should it straighten fully it would no doubt reach thrice. Its tangled pelt of sandy-yellow fur lightened to creamy white down its throat and chest. Muscles knotted its thick wiry limbs and its long fingers ended in amber claws the length of fighting knives. Its blackened muzzle was long yet thick, carrying something of the jackal, or hunting dog. However, the obvious intelligence in its pale blue eyes suggested wolfishness to Silk. Ryllandaras was an embodiment of the canine-human melding in all its various manifestations.

The creature closed upon them until Silk almost shouted his alarm and shrank away. Then, just as Shalmanat raised a hand in greeting, it halted and, astonishingly, sank to one knee.

Silk thought he had reached the limits of horror until the beast spoke, when it stirred his hair to hear intelligible words issue from such a monstrosity.

‘Shalmanat, I greet you,’ it ground out in a slurred and distorted voice. ‘My enemy . . . and my love.’

‘I do not seek your regard,’ she answered, ‘but I thank you.’

Straightening, the creature now loomed over them like a pale thundercloud. It motioned one clawed hand to Silk. ‘Is this your trap, then, my love? Am I to dismiss this one to my peril?’

The Protectress shook her head. ‘No. No traps. Merely someone to watch my back out here upon these plains. For I hear it is dangerous to travel them.’

Something like a cross between a growling bark and a laugh from the beast answered that. ‘Indeed it is. And as I have said before – no trap is necessary for you have already captured me.’

The Protectress’s answering smile was warm, though tinged by sadness. ‘Is this to be yet another tale of star-crossed lovers? The old story of the terrifying monster captivated by beauty?’

‘To me you are terrifying, this is true.’

Shalmanat laughed so freely that Silk felt a knife-blade of jealousy twist his gut. Her smile fading, she crossed her arms. ‘I invoke our agreement,’ she said. ‘I would have you fall upon these Kanese invaders.’

The creature rumbled a low growl that set the ground beneath Silk’s feet vibrating. ‘There are far easier prey upon the plains,’ it answered, reluctant.