Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (31 page)

She eyed him for a time, as if unsure he wasn’t mocking her, then just sniffed and tossed her hair.

Dorin smiled at that, thinking of the old Rheena. He started walking again, but slowly, strolling. ‘So you’re Tran’s second now, yes?’

‘Yeah.’ She sounded singularly unimpressed by the responsibility. ‘Someone has to tell him what to do.’

‘Well . . . you be careful too.’

She snorted a grim laugh. ‘Yeah, the stupid shit.’

Next to them, an old woman wrapped in a black shawl knelt before a small altar that held a clay figurine of the recumbent sleeping goddess herself. They watched while she lit an array of votive candles and bowed her head. From beneath the black lace headscarf came the sound of muted, stifled weeping.

Dorin urged Rheena on. ‘So they’re going ahead with it despite everything.’ He motioned to encompass the banners and flags.

‘Of course. It is more important than ever to have her favour now.’

He eyed her sidelong. ‘You think she notices?’

She sighed, her gaze lingering on a bouquet of dried wild flowers nailed to a door. ‘Once,’ she began, sounding uncharacteristically wistful, ‘my mother took me on a pilgrimage to the Idryn Falls. There, it is said, the very earth itself was cracked and shifted by
her
restlessness . . .’

‘Yes?’

She shrugged, looking embarrassed. ‘A great spout of water shot up from the pool beneath the falls. The very exhalation of the goddess, they said.’

Dorin wanted to smile but stopped himself. ‘Maybe.’

She shook herself, scowling anew. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’

He motioned to a side alley. ‘I should go.’

She nodded. ‘Yeah. See you around.’

‘Take care.’

‘Sure.’

He lingered a moment, feeling awkward, but finally jerked a nod and crossed to the alley. Glancing back he saw her still there, watching after him, and he raised a hand but she had turned away.

DORIN KNEW – AS
did just about everyone across Quon lands – that the procession of icons and shrines celebrating Burn’s Sleep was the main religious festival of Heng. Preparations had begun long ago, the siege notwithstanding, when the official date was set by the Grand Temple. Pilgrims usually began congregating long before.

But not this year. This year the Kanese forces turned away all comers. Even those travelling by river had been intercepted and warned off. All this despite the High Priest of Burn’s hurrying by litter out to King Chulalorn’s compound south of the city to plead the case for the festival.

When the evening of the appointed day came, curiosity drove Dorin to take a look; as he left the common room the toughs glared but said nothing. They were not the least interested in the festival. It struck him then that perhaps it wasn’t that they were particularly irreligious – every one of them was certainly superstitious – it was that they simply lacked all curiosity and imagination. The shallowness of such a life made him almost pity them.

All the pickpockets and prostitutes were out, of course. Tonight should see the richest shifts of the last month. And thinking of work, he’d come very near to being called out to stick a knife into a few recalcitrant debtors today. Fortunately, the mere threat of his appearance had done the job. Again, Dorin wondered whether he wanted to be the mad dog in the cellar whose presence kept everyone in line.

The main streets were crowded with more Hengans than Dorin had seen in the last three months. They gathered round the many broad platforms that supported effigies of Burn aslumber, together with a number of lesser entities such as the Enchantress, also known as the Queen of Dreams; D’rek the Worm of Autumn; Poliel, who was the Lady of Pestilence and Corruption; and Mowri, Lady of Slaves and Beggars. All similarly sombre entities who shared aspects touching upon fate, futurity, and the struggle of life and death.

The Hengans, it seemed to him, currently shared a rather solemn and sober reflection on mortality; understandable, given their current grim circumstances. The crowds of men and women, even children, took turns supporting the massive pallets while the rest filed behind, waiting their turn. Many carried shaded candles or lamps. Dorin leaned up against a wall, arms crossed, and watched the long slow panoply pass.

In the wavering amber light he saw the final icon making its tottering way up the main avenue. It was the smallest of the lot by far: slim but tall, an effigy of a hooded figure. As it neared, Dorin’s surprise grew as he recognized the young man leading its supporters up the street. It was the dark, half Dal Hon youth from the mausoleum. And the severe looming effigy, carved of wood and stubbornly plain and unadorned, was of the Hooded One himself.

His first reaction was to steel himself for a riot. Yet the crowd of Hengan citizens did not react as he’d anticipated. True, many halted, just as startled as he, and glared or muttered their disapproval, but a few actually stepped out to join the group as it passed. Most, however, merely accepted this manifestation as just one more god in the procession. One which was also true to the spirit of the festival; for if any god could lay claim to sharing in concerns of mortality and fate, it was the master of the Paths Beyond.

Some dropped to one knee offering their obeisance and their prayers as this new effigy rocked by on its way up the avenue. On an impulse, Dorin went up to walk beside the youth leading this gathering procession. The swordsman shot him a dark look, but did not object. He wore loose worn leathers, his two-handed blade at his side, its grip high. His long black hair was unbound and lightly curled, and again Dorin knew a twinge of envy for the youth’s looks. Then he reflected that in his own calling it was always best
not
to attract attention.

As they walked along, he asked, ‘What is your name?’

‘Dassem,’ the fellow forced through clenched teeth.

‘Dorin. Not still angry, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you do not send me away.’

‘Because while I may not approve of you, this is where you belong – walking with this icon.’

Dorin raised his eyes to the night sky.

They completed their circuit of the Outer Round and now passed through the roofed gates to the Inner Round. A thought struck Dorin. ‘You are comfortable leaving your temple unprotected?’

‘They have given up the siege,’ the youth answered. He sounded disappointed. ‘Things are rather dull now.’

‘I can offer you work,’ said a new, familiar voice from just behind. Dorin glanced quickly back to find a short fellow, cloaked and hooded, following. The figure might be hidden in a shapeless cloak too big for him, but Dorin recognized the voice – and the manner. ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed. ‘We can’t be seen together. I’m supposed to be hunting you!’

The squat Dal Hon mage raised a finger to his lips. ‘Shh. I’m in disguise.’ Dorin resisted the urge to slap the fellow.

‘What work?’ Dassem asked.

‘Don’t listen to him,’ Dorin warned. ‘He’s an utter liar.’

‘Murderer,’ the Dal Hon rejoined.

‘Thief.’

‘Incompetent.’

‘No fighting in the god of death’s presence,’ Dassem warned sternly.

Dorin scowled down at the little fellow. ‘Incompetent? What do you mean incompetent?’

The mage opened his arms wide. ‘Well, you were hired to kill me, weren’t you?’ He wrinkled up his wizened face, squinting at him. ‘Not much of an assassin, I’d say.’

Dorin raised a hand to cuff him, but Dassem stepped between them. ‘He is a bringer of death,’ he assured the mage. ‘He walks at the side of Hood.’

‘Says who?’ the little mage asked, cocking his head and still squinting.

‘My master.’

The Dal Hon – Wu, Dorin now remembered – raised his brows and nodded as if enlightened. ‘Oh!’ he said, drawing the word out. ‘Well, in that case, I yield to such indisputable authority.’

‘Just so,’ the swordsman agreed, either deaf to, or choosing to ignore, the sarcasm.

They walked in silence for a time after that. Dorin kept sensing eyes upon him and glanced once or twice to Wu; the Dal Hon was studying him thoughtfully. Uncomfortable beneath the steady regard, he demanded, brusquely, ‘What?’

A shrug from the youth. ‘So, an assassin. But not for hire . . .’ The lad, who only looked like a greying elder, raised a crooked finger as if in an ‘a-ha’ moment. ‘Or. Should I say one who cannot be bought?’

Dorin merely waved a curt dismissal. He told Dassem, ‘Don’t listen to him. He’s as mad as a cross-eyed rat, I tell you.’

‘They say madness is a gift of the gods,’ the young acolyte answered gravely.

Dorin threw up his hands in frustration.

They were reaching the end of their circuit of the Inner Round and were approaching the covered gatehouse that allowed access to the Central. ‘What sort of work?’ the acolyte asked the mage again.

The fellow airily waved a hand. ‘Oh, bodyguarding, you could say.’

The youth nodded his understanding. ‘I see. I will ask my master and see if he objects.’

‘Your master?’ Dorin protested. ‘That priest? He’s a cadaver.’

The young lad peered at him intently. ‘Yes. He is.’

Dorin studied the two, peering back and forth. Insane, the pair of them. Well, they were welcome to each other.

As they passed from beneath the gloom of the tunnel twin halberds fell, barring their way. They, the effigy supported by its crowd of adherents, and the following file, all came to a bumping halt of crowded bodies. The cowled head of the statue of Hood scraped and grated against the tunnel’s stonework arch. A squad of Hengen soldiery marched out across the avenue, blocking it. Two men strode forward and to his discomfort Dorin recognized one. It was the ragged, burly city mage from the rooftop ambush.

‘All worshippers may proceed,’ this city mage announced, ‘but Hood is not welcome within the central precincts of the city.’

‘He is present none the less,’ Dassem answered, and he pushed forward until his chest touched the crossed hafts of the halberds.

‘In spirit only,’ the other city mage answered. He bore a neatly trimmed goatee and his long hair was pulled back in a braided queue.

‘Do not make a scene,’ the first one continued. ‘You’ve made your point. Participated in the procession. Now go in peace.’

The swordsman raised a hand, gesturing to encompass the city ahead. ‘You cannot keep him out.’

The city mage shrugged. ‘None the less – go your way.’

The Dal Hon, Wu, pushed forward from Dorin’s side. He pointed at the heavy-set dishevelled mage and called out loudly: ‘If Hood be forestalled, Shalmanat shall fall!’

Dassem turned on him, ‘
What?
’

The city mage’s eyes widened and he pointed back. ‘
You!
’

Wu glanced shiftily right and left. ‘Me?’

‘Arrest that mage!’ the big fellow yelled.

Wu retreated to Dorin, who nearly flinched away as everyone’s attention followed. The city mage’s gaze found him and widened even further. ‘You as well! Arrest that one next to him!’

‘And that swordsman!’ the other city mage shouted.

As one, the guardsmen drew their blades and hiked up their shields. Dassem raised his empty hands. ‘This is a religious procession honouring the gods. I offer no violence.’

Dorin muttered to Wu, ‘
I’m
not going so peacefully.’

‘I predict we will not have to,’ Wu answered. ‘I sense . . .’ He threw up a hand, pointing skyward, shouting, ‘Look out!’

Heads snapped upward. Out of the night sky came dropping a file of black-clad figures who lit lightly on the street cobbles. They straightened with knives readied and glinting. ‘Get the city mages!’ the lead one ordered, and charged.

Utter panicked chaos exploded across the entire avenue. Citizens screamed their terror, ran in all directions, crashed against one another and surrounded the two city mages. The halbardiers rushed to join the guards who now pushed through the terrified crowd to close with the Kanese Nightblades. The metallic tings of thrown blades striking stone echoed all about the avenue. Someone shrieked in pain, while another yelled something that sounded like a loud death rattle.

Dorin, along with the swordsman and the Dal Hon mage, now stood completely ignored. He found it nearly impossible to keep track of the Nightblades through the shifting, pressing crowds. He glimpsed one or two dark figures dashing off into murky unlit alleyways. Meanwhile, the city mages fought to escape the horde of clamouring citizens pressing against them, all begging to be saved.

The worshippers of Hood hastily set down the effigy and retreated down the tunnel. The tall statue effectively blocked the way out of the Central Circle, rather like the grimmest of guardians. The complete panic and confusion now escalated into a riot as benches and barrels went crashing into shop fronts and a general pillaging began.

Dassem turned to the other two, crossed his arms, and cast a gimlet eye on Wu. The little mage peered nervously right and left again and opened his hands meekly. ‘What?’

The swordsman gestured to invite them down the arched tunnel. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Indeed!’ Wu answered, and he edged round the effigy. ‘I do like these night outings,’ he enthused. ‘So invigorating. And the locals. So energetic.’

As they descended the empty street, Wu in the centre and Dorin and Dassem to either side, Dorin offered, ‘Something to remember. When the Nightblades attack, they don’t take the time to shout “Get this fellow” or “Get that fellow”. They already know their targets.’

The little mage, moving in a sort of crouched monkey-like shuffle, and with a walking stick now – where had that come from? – sighed the tired impatience of a long-suffering teacher. ‘It’s all about the
perception
of reality, my friend. Not the slavish recreation of a true reality.
That
is boring beyond belief.’

* * *

A ferociously cold wind buffeted Silk where he stood next to the Protectress on a narrow ledge atop the palace tower. He hugged himself for warmth; he longed to raise his Warren for a touch of heat, but that would only advertise his presence and perhaps invite a sniping crossbow bolt, or an assassination attempt from the Nightblades. Shalmanat, at his side, wore a thick fur-trimmed cloak bunched about her shoulders; her long frost-white hair whipped and lashed about her.