Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (53 page)

Haral took the cup. ‘Well, thank you. Really.’

Iko bowed her head and turned back to the royal pavilion.

DORIN DRAGGED HIMSELF
back to the abandoned half-ruined house Wu and his gang were currently using as their headquarters. He thumped down the steps to the cellars and entered Wu’s rooms to find the fellow still puttering among his drawings.

He pressed a hand to his brow and shook his head at the other’s seeming obliviousness. ‘Did you even—’

‘Feel it?’ the Dal Hon interrupted without looking up from his work. ‘Yes. Of course.’

‘Well?’

Wu raised his head, blinking. ‘Well what?’

‘What are you going to do?’

The lad’s appearance as an old man made him look gravely annoyed. ‘Do? What is there to do? What is done is done.’

Dorin wanted to yell that there was a damned lot to do, but understood that this would be lost on the fellow. He shook his head instead, and peered about. ‘Do you have any fresh wine here? I’ve been roasted alive.’

Wu pointed his charcoal stick to a table. ‘You smell like it. Help yourself.’

There was water on the table but Dorin did not trust its freshness and so he poured a glass of wine and sniffed it, but couldn’t detect anything beyond the smoke he carried on him. Shrugging, he sipped while leaning back against the table and studying the hunched mage. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Looting what they can.’

Dorin nodded, then jerked, having nearly fallen asleep on his feet. ‘Ah.’ He drank the wine. ‘What I mean is, doesn’t this finish your stupid plan to take the city? You can hardly match that.’

Wu waved his dismissal. ‘I doubt she can pull another one of those from her sleeve.’

Dorin raised a brow. Painfully glib, but probably accurate. He watched for a time while the fellow squinted at the fluttering shadows the single candle cast upon the bare wall. Then he asked: ‘When will we go back?’

His back to Dorin, the little fellow stiffened as if caught in the act, and slowly turned. He was grinning, which only made his wrinkled face appear even more menacing and unpleasant. He winked. ‘Soon. Those hounds remain a problem.’

‘There must be a way past them.’

Wu pointed the charcoal stick at Dorin. ‘I like the way you think, my friend. Yes, there must be a way. But what?’ He added, muttering to himself, ‘Oleg’s notes held no hints . . .’

‘What was that?’

Wu straightened, fluttered his hands among the papers. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. No.’ He paused, eyed Dorin critically. ‘The question is, what are
you
going to do.’

‘Me? What do you mean?’

Wu gestured expansively. ‘Now is the time to strike, is it not?’

Dorin felt his brows rise. Indeed. He hadn’t considered . . . Still, kicking a man when he was down. It felt . . . dishonourable, although that was a sentiment his old teacher had worked hard to beat out of him. He considered the proposal then nodded. ‘Now would seem the best time.’

‘Exactly. Let us go, before he withdraws.’

Dorin glared. ‘What,
you
? Not after last time!’

Wu held up his open hands. ‘Not to fear. That assault flayed Juage alive. I felt it. He is no longer a threat.’

Dorin considered his wine, finished it. ‘Very late tonight, then. I must rest first.’ He sniffed at a soot-stained sleeve. ‘And bathe.’

‘Later, then.’

*

Though she was exhausted and strangely numb – almost as if she were sleepwalking – Iko cleaned herself further then dressed properly to check in on the king’s command tent. She desperately needed a rest, but she really should report first. She entered the tent and was adjusting the hang of her mail coat and the fold of her belt when Yuna called out, ‘Where have you been?’

Iko raised her gaze and did not flinch from the other woman’s haughty glare. ‘Helping.’

Yuna grunted her indifference and turned away.

Iko joined her sisters at guard. The king was in conference with his generals round a table strewn with maps and parchment notes. As always she tried not to listen, but she could not help an ever-growing disbelief as it dawned upon her that the king was in the midst of organizing an attack.

‘The easternmost gate on the north wall, then,’ Chulalorn reaffirmed, and he pressed a finger to a map. ‘They will not be expecting the attack.’

‘No, they will certainly not,’ one old general muttered, and the king eyed him for a time before he allowed a servant to pull a new shirt up one arm.

‘The north shore, my king?’ another enquired.

‘The boats being built remain hidden in their buildings, do they not?’

‘Yes. Some have been damaged. But most remain.’

‘There are certainly enough now,’ old Mosolan added, and the king glared once more.

Though outraged by what she was hearing, Iko hid a grin at the old campaigner’s barbed comments. Mosolan had served the current king’s grandfather and father, and now the third had no choice but to endure his censure.

They debated the details for some time before deciding upon a predawn launch. Chulalorn waved them out. ‘You have your orders.’ The generals bowed and withdrew.

Alone now but for her sisters and the servants fussing over the king, Iko felt no such devotion to service as Mosolan and the other generals. Perhaps it was her fatigue, or the memory of all the soldiers she’d just worked upon, but she could not stop herself from stepping forward and clearing her throat. ‘My king . . . surely enough has been done. We should withdraw.’

Outraged, Yuna hissed for silence.

Chulalorn turned to her; he was quite astonished at being addressed. He waved a ringed hand indulgently. ‘My child, this is not your concern. Be still.’

Iko was appalled. ‘
Concern
. . . My king, haven’t enough Kanese died serving you here? Perhaps if you were
concerned
you would see how high a price has been paid already.’

Chulalorn’s hand fell from his beard. The servants froze, staring. The king snapped his fingers and Yuna appeared before Iko, glaring, furious. She pointed outside. ‘You are confined to quarters,’ she hissed, ‘until I have dealt with you.’

Iko looked to her sisters for support but saw only disapproval from most, while a few showed a sad sort of mute sympathy. She bowed stiffly to Yuna, ‘As you order,’ and marched from the command tent.

In her quarters she threw herself down on her cot, pulled her writing tablet on to her knees, and considered her future. Her armour rested on its stand next to the cot, looking rather like a decapitated soldier. The image made her head swim and she rose to take down the armour and roll it up. No one she knew of had ever resigned from the royal guard before. It was unheard of. Tantamount to betrayal. What, then, could she do? Years of service to a man for whom she had lost all respect? Yet he was a king – it was not her place to judge. What if this new attack should succeed? Who was to know?

Returning to her cot, she slammed her stylus to the tablet and hung her head. She would request transfer to the teaching halls in the capital. She should be allowed to serve there, instructing new generations of sisters.

Yet could she stomach even that? Sending child after child into the service of men or women who without a thought would sacrifice them to their own overweening ambition?

No, she could not see herself meekly doing that.

She pressed her fists to her face, rocking for a time, and felt hot tears on her palms.

After sitting through the twilight she came to a decision. She reached up and drew a hidden blade from the rear of her jerkin just behind her neck. She examined the bright silver blade in the dimming light. The Short Blade. The last resort of honour – should there be no hope.

Well, she could see no hope now. She had lost the devotion that had been the foundation of her service and had sustained her all this time. She’d cut it away slice by slice in a bloody tent. She held the blade tight in both fists before her, considering its edge.

Yet he was the king, and she had been born into his dynasty, as had her parents and their parents before them. She slipped the weapon home in its sheath. Very well. She would serve – but only because it was her place in the world. Gone was any blind devotion; hers would be a cynical eye cast upon the throne.

A gaze something like that certain light she’d seen in Hallens’ eye. Only now was her old commander’s tone clear to her. The stern cheerlessness that had mystified her before. Had she too experienced this sudden revelation – seen her world turned upside down in an instant?

Had she seen the possibility of it in her?

She set the writing tablet aside. If Hallens could endure such service, then so too would she. Let Yuna come and rage at her; let her sisters scorn and disapprove of her as they would.

She now had the strength not to care at all.

* * *

Slipping through the lines of the Kanese encampment this night was as nothing compared to the last time. In fact, Dorin was at first quite surprised to find these southerners making no effort to retreat. No defences or tents were being broken down, though the outermost ring of pickets had been abandoned. Probably they no longer possessed the troops to maintain it.

Of his companion’s whereabouts on this run he had no idea. Which suited him fine. The young mage was somewhere out among the tents pursuing his own bizarre set of priorities. Thinking of that, Dorin realized this was his first work of any sort with a partner, if it could be called a partnership when he was still so uneasy with the informal arrangement. In truth, it didn’t feel like any sort of arrangement at all.

More like a temporary alignment of aims and goals.

He didn’t wholly trust the fellow, even now. He was just too erratic and unpredictable. Frankly, Dorin rather suspected the fellow was mentally unstable. He was glad not to have him underfoot while he pursued this mission.

The second ring of pickets Dorin eluded easily; these men and women were obviously still quite shocked and traumatized by the cataclysm that had taken so many of their brothers and sisters. He gained the complex of tents and pavilions that constituted the royal precincts. Here he padded between tents, listening. From his earlier visit, and from questioning Wu, he knew that the king’s private pavilion lay to the rear of the main command tent. Having identified it, he was now manoeuvring to find a sheltered route to its side.

He moved in a crouch, knives readied, stopping and starting, constantly straining to listen and sense about him. The night was still quite chill and his breath plumed; he damned the odd crystals of ice that crackled beneath his soft leather shoes.

After some doubling back he settled upon a path to the hanging cloth side of the royal tent. He waited, crouched on his hams, listening. No guards appeared to be posted at this particular gap, but he would have to be wary, as a random patrol was always a possibility.

He padded forward and slit the nearest rope cinch of a peg then rolled beneath the lip of the heavy canvas cloth. Within, he froze, listening and peering about. He lay behind a travel chest and rolls of what appeared to be extra carpets or heavy blankets. He lifted his head a fraction to peer over the piled rolls of cloth, and saw that he occupied a room in the large pavilion given over to hanging rails of richly embroidered clothes, a gold-filigreed set of scaled armour on a stand, and several chests that presumably held more clothes. He had known he would have to explore to find the king, but he had not expected to find himself in the royal dressing room.

He rose and padded to the hanging of lighter cloth that served as a door. Peeping out, he saw that he was indeed next to the bedchamber, and here was a figure in a long loose shift of pale green silk, kneeling in prayer before an altar. His long midnight black hair was unbound and hung now down over his lowered face, but Dorin recognized Chulalorn.

He stepped out and the man stilled, revealing that he’d sensed him. He turned, slowly, looking up, and Dorin knew he had his target.

‘So you have finally come,’ the man said, nodding to himself.

Dorin moved to keep both the king and the entrance to the bedchamber in view. ‘Finally?’ he said.

Chulalorn lifted his shoulders in a shrug. ‘Let us say no king or queen of Itko Kan has died in their sleep. It is either war, or treachery.’

Dorin edged to the hanging, listened, and heard nothing. ‘So this is treachery,’ he said.

‘How much is she paying you?’ Chulalorn asked. ‘I’ll double it.’

‘You know I can’t accept that.’

A twist of the man’s lips. ‘So, a professional.’ He glanced aside, nodding as if to another party, but Dorin had heard nothing and so did not shift his gaze for that fraction of an instant as the king threw what he’d been concealing in his hand. Dorin twisted his shoulders aside and threw at the same moment.

The king’s dagger missed but Dorin’s did not. A single leap took him to the man to clamp a hand over his mouth to stop any scream or choking gurgle as he fought for breath. He held him there, hand over his mouth, and edged the blade sideways to widen the wound. He let the king down gently as he spasmed, then withdrew the blade. Bright heart’s blood coursed down the front of the pale green shift in a thick wet stain.

Finally, the man stilled and Dorin drew his hand away. He straightened, reached beneath his jerkin and shirts and plastron to a leather thong about his neck and drew it out. He pulled off the object there, the bird’s foot, and dropped it on to the crimson field spread across the king’s chest.

Movement at the hanging spun him round: a woman in fine mail armour, kneeling, head down in deference. ‘My king . . .’

As she lifted her head Dorin threw again. The fine thin blade took her in the eye and she jerked, slumping. Rapid movement beyond her revealed that she was not alone.

He shifted to the tent wall aside of the entrance as two more armoured women burst through. Long thin weapons sliced the air about them in a hum. He reached to his baldric and threw at both. One thin blade struck home in a throat, but the other woman flicked the dagger aside with a snap of her flexing longsword. ‘Aid! Assassin!’ the woman bellowed, and that keen blade now whipped out at him.