Gods of Nabban (63 page)

Whatever kind of willow this was, it flung up multiple leaning trunks, reached out branches near-horizontally, seeking light. They made it across two trees before they had to take to the ground again and there it was drier, less tangled. Ghu took the lead, keeping his back to the river. Ahjvar followed, watching the wider field of view while Ghu dealt with finding the immediate path, slipping around bushes, under the snagging pink-flowered whatever-it-was. When Ahjvar seized his shoulder, he froze. Ahjvar moved in close, pointed, but Ghu was already looking where he wanted him to, sliding aside, reaching behind for the hilt of his forage-knife.

Ahjvar kept his hands free. Certainly no place for a sword or the crossbow. For all their care, they were leaving a clear trail behind them, and something else had as well, angling up their way from further downstream, heading, like them, for the higher ground, but with less certainty. Too broad a path for any smaller woodland animals and this was no country for bear or boar. Not broken enough for cattle or buffalo, no sharp-pointed hoofprints in the mud, either. Not the old track of some hunter; the crushed plants were still green. Someone else had come from the river and was trying to strike through. Come up the river? Nobody had passed them in the night, that was certain. If whoever it was had gone down the western channel, odds were they'd have found a canoe or some such vessel hidden like their own.

Ghu gave way to him and they made a slow and near-soundless progress. A muddy puddle in the deep shade of a tree gave them the footprints of two people wearing soft shoes, not horseman's boots, but they'd come by water, of course.

He doubted any fisher or hunter of the village would wear anything better than sandals, if that, for this season.

The light brightened, trees thinning; the ground, though not rising enough to be noticeable to the foot, was drier. The undergrowth thickened with the strengthening of the light. Coming to the edge of the woods. Narrow enough that they could slash a way through and lay the trunks and brush to make a roadbed in hardly the time it would take to bring up a company or two. Better if the empress's forces weren't warned they were coming, of course.

Knife in his hand now, moving very slowly, watching all ways. And up. Up was where a man lay along the broad, sloping branch of one of those willows. Watching up the river road with the patience of the hunter. No weapon ready, though, no bow or crossbow. The other, another man . . . sitting at ease beneath the tree, leaning on it. Ahjvar couldn't see his face, only one shoulder, the outstretched legs, crossed at the ankle. Rough sandals. The shoes . . . had been replaced. The feet were clean, too clean for anyone who had walked that path in sandals. Their clothes were hempen trousers and smocks, shabby. They could have been any of Prince Dan's rebels.

Waiting for the army. They might have been scouts sent to count Ghu's army, judge its pace, if the Lai commander had some warning of their coming, which he might very well have. Gar Oro might not be the only one of Ontari's scouts to have had too close an encounter with the enemy, and another might not have been lucky enough to escape them. But scouts would not come prepared to join the march and pass as followers of the holy one, and how the Wind in the Reeds knew where to lie in wait . . . with all their careful shielding of their march and the river from wizardrous watching. But perhaps what Ghu could summon, the shadowing essence of the river, was not enough against the empress's devil. Or perhaps it was simpler than that, rumour travelling down the eastern shore.

He wanted one alive. Not even a whisper, though. Slid his knife away again, touched Ghu's hand, pointed to the man on the ground. Ghu nodded. Deep breath, running the tree in his mind, branch, handholds, feet, knees. Surged up it, a foot against the angled trunk, sideways to a branch, another, seizing the man's far arm, flipping him, flinging him—the man twisted, falling, so that he landed crouched on his feet, but Ahjvar kicked him as he rose, knocked his head back, not hard enough to kill—he hoped—followed in as he fell. The man rolled and staggered up, unsteady as a drunk, fumbled a knife. It slipped from his fingers and Ahjvar kicked him down again. He struggled weakly, tangled in the whippy branches of a bush. Ahjvar dragged him out, dropped him facedown in the trampled mud and green, cut his rope belt and used it to lash his arms behind his back. Took the time to tie his ankles, too, since all was quiet beyond the tree. He rolled the man to his back. The eyes wandered a bit and he panted, but he didn't seem likely to die in the next little while. Went around the tree to find Ghu crouched by a body. Bloody mess, literally. The forage-knife was not a weapon for neatness and Ghu must have been face-to-face with the man when he slashed his neck half through. Ahjvar prodded the narrow-bladed knife dropped in the old leaf-mould. That, and a short sword. Neither showing any staining or oiliness to the blade. Well, you wouldn't poison a weapon you might have to carry around with you a day or more yet. The sword's point was bloody, and not with spatters.

“All right?”

Ghu shrugged. “He came up at me like a shark. So fast. I didn't mean to kill him.”

Ahjvar hooked a finger through a tear in the breast of Ghu's coat, four fingers broad, and hot and wet beneath. He didn't think that was the assassin's blood, though Ghu wore a mask of it. The man must have heard something, probably Ahjvar's rush up the tree, and been rising into his own attacker. Hadn't meant to kill him but hadn't had time to think through any other choice, Ahjvar judged. His fingers were busy with the knotwork buttons of the coat, ears strained for any sound, but there were only the birds of the morning singing, now that the scuffle was over. What had he taught the boy? To defend himself without hesitation for thought. Ghu batted him away.

“He didn't touch me.”

“Yes, he did.”

The proof was in his slashed shirt beneath the coat, but yes, the main force of the blow had been struck aside. There was a cut running along the ribs, ugly and bleeding more than he wanted to see, welling up and streaming down, but not the deep thrust that would have, and Great Gods Ahjvar felt sick, likely killed him.

They should have backed off. He could have shot the one in the tree and gone after the other himself.

“Doesn't hurt.”

“It will. Now who needs sewing up?”

But a pad of torn shirt and the rest of the shirt as bandage around the chest to hold it was going to have to do.

“Tattoo,” Ghu said. He hooked his left hand through the sash of the coat to keep his arm steady, with his right, cleaned his knife methodically. “And his soul—I lost it. He was terrified. I don't know what he saw, but as he died he was suddenly terrified. Of me, of dying, of something else, I don't know, but I tried to hold him, Ahj; I'd killed him and for a moment he clung on to me, to the road through me, but he was torn away. I—didn't dare follow. There was—light. White, but murky. Darkness. Like water. A weight. I don't know.”

Ahjvar would take Ghu's word for the tattoo. Wind in the Reeds, though. Ghu's knife had snagged and ripped the fine chain of the man's badge.

“Sit,” he ordered, but Ghu was already sitting. The blood on his face was drying and cracking. Never an obedient servant, he grabbed Ahjvar's arm and pulled himself up, stood, head low, finding his balance. He was too pale around the eyes, but he let Ahjvar move his supporting hand to the tree instead, turned loose from that after a few breaths to follow to their prisoner, who had gathered his wits enough to be trying to scrape the ropes loose. Ahjvar put a foot on his chest.

“Wind in the Reeds,” he said. “Any more of you?”

The man just glowered, but his eyes kept sliding to Ghu, bare-chested and bathed in blood. Ahjvar sat down, picking up a broken willow switch. Eyes back to him, following the knife that began peeling off strips of bark. “Be good and answer, or I'll let him have you.”

Ghu's lips tightened. He didn't find that funny.

“Maybe,” the man said. Ahjvar stood the knife in the earth at his side and twisted bark strips, knotted them. Cornel cherry.
Truth.
Dropped the sign on the man's chest. He flinched, expecting who knew what. Maybe the knife. Ghu had turned to watch the other way. Nothing moved.

“Others. Anyone at all.”

“No,” the man spat. “Not on this side of the river. Damned devil-deluded barbarian—”

He didn't hit him, just poked him with his toe.

Ghu turned back, leaning over Ahjvar's shoulder.

“Your empress,” he said, “is the one devil-led.”

“The Exalted is the chosen daughter of the Old Great Gods.”

“They were alone,” Ahjvar said. “Leave him to me. Go wash your face. Don't fall in.”

He thought Ghu might warn him off, but he only nodded, faded away, shadow into shadow. Ahjvar could hear nothing of his passage.

“You were sent to join the holy one's followers, that much is obvious. Where did you come from?”

“Kozing Port.” The man sneered.

“Did I ask where you were born?” He would really want to hurt him if he kept that up. Started weaving another character, a triad, cornel interwoven with blackthorn for
strength
, walnut for
secrets
. Laid it, more carefully, over the man's heart.

“Did you come from the Lai, from Numiya?”

The man licked his lips. “Over the river.”

He did hit him. “Who sent you?”

“Lai Sula. Mulgo Miar.”

“Who? The Pine Lord?”

“Him. Yes.”

“He takes Buri-Nai's orders?”

Treachery, double treachery. Mulgo Miar had fled to Dan's service the previous autumn. Mulgo Miar was supposed to be in Alwu, awaiting Lord Ontari's return. Should be with Dwei Ontari now.

“He obeys the will of the Old Great Gods. The Daughter of the Gods speaks to him in his dreams.”

“So what's their will? You were sent to do what your captain—tall woman, scars of the pox on her face—failed to do?”

“No.”

“What, then? The holy one,” Ahjvar said, when there was no answer, “won't have me hurt you, but you'd rather speak the truth anyway, wouldn't you?”

“
Him?
”

“Yes.”

Silence. Cold consideration of his options. Unlike the woman Meli, the assassin rejected the temptation to offer himself to them, in any capacity. He abruptly bunched himself and tried to kick. Ahjvar hit him again for that. His face was swelling from the first blow that had sent him down.

“Your empress lies. She lies when she says the Old Great Gods speak to her. She lies when she claims godhead. She's the tool of a devil, or the master of one. Tell me, are you tattooed for her? Foreign script like thorns, over your heart. Something stole your comrade's soul as he died, you know. Something takes you all, every one marked with the empress's tattoo.”

“You lie. And the Old Great Gods are the guardians of our souls. If the Daughter of the Gods needs mine, it's hers.”

“So you weren't sent to kill the holy one. What, then?”

The spell still pushed against the man, urging confession.

“To capture him. He's only a man, not even a wizard. Nothing but a runaway slave to beat to obedience, once we get him away from the wizard. And his Northron guardian, the wizard's slave. You. You won't die, she said. A necromancer's slave. Cut off his hands but don't think him harmless even then. Bring him bound in chains.”

“I'm not—Northron.” Don't get sidetracked. “What does she want with us?” No point telling the man he and his partner would have been doomed even if they had succeeded in their abduction, or that their empress—or her master—had likely already written them off for dead. Something knew Yeh-Lin now, even if it hadn't when these men were sent out.

“The Exalted doesn't need to explain herself to me. Her wisdom sees what I can't understand. She does as the Old Great Gods desire.”

“Or the devil ruling her changed his mind. Why?”

A man hearing blasphemy. The rage as he flung himself at Ahjvar despite his bonds was that of a maddened animal. And that was what blind faith gave birth to.

Love, too, Ahjvar supposed. He knocked the man back into the bushes.

“She is no goddess but the puppet of a devil. That's truth for you. How many more of you? Where?”

Ghu had come back, so soft-footed Ahjvar had not heard him. His hair was wet; his coat, rinsed and inadequately wrung out, was draped over his shoulders, dripping. Had he gone right into the river, with that wound? He was clean, but the bandage was wet. A sure way to fever and festering.

His river, he would say.

And how long had he been standing there? The coat was dripping a puddle.

“Enough,” the man said. “You'll find out. There's enough of us. You won't get past Lai Sula, and they'll come to find you.”

“Where?” He pushed. “Where are they hiding?” Truth and secrets pressed. The man snarled, screwed his eyes shut. “Don't need to hide. They're with Lai Sula and the Pine Lord.”

“How far away is the empress? How great an army?”

“Don't know.”

“What does Buri-Nai want with me that dead isn't enough anymore?” Ghu asked.

“How should I know? To send you to a traitor's death and lay out your guts for the birds to fight over while you still breathe. To burn your Northron abomination, I hope, if it can't be killed. She'll know what to do against necromancy. The Exalted is guided by the Old Great Gods. I'm Wind in the Reeds. I serve. To the death, I serve.”

Ahjvar sat back on his heels, spoke Praitannec. “They were sent to take us alive to the empress, you and I. Change of plan from the winter.”

“I heard.”

But he thought Ghu had stopped listening. 
. . . necromancer's slave . . . cut off his hands . . .
 He couldn't have been to the river and back when that was said, could he?
To burn your abomination.
That, Ghu had most certainly heard. Ahjvar wished he hadn't.