Hunting (28 page)

Ash drew her second knife, then held
out an imperative hand. "Borrow your weapon, Carlyon?"

"Being bigger won't make it impossible
to parry," Thornaster said.

Carlyon won many points by simply
handing over his rapier. Ash took it with her left hand and swung
it to gauge its throwing capacity, then flung the sword at
Thornaster's face and her knife fast and hard for his knee. The
smile dropped off her Aremish Visel's face most wonderfully, and
she almost regretted the speed with which he dived to one side.

"What would happen if I was behind
you?" she asked, watching dispassionately as he picked himself off
the sand.

"It would depend on if he knew you were
there," Hawkmarten said, face merry with suppressed laughter. "Oh,
Thorn, I wish Aria had been here to see that! I really need to find
myself a Montmothian seruilis as well. The sheer entertainment
value is incalculable."

"I'm not sure you'd survive the
experience," Thornaster said, brushing himself off. But he smiled
at Ash and said: "Very well, no drills this afternoon. Hawk and
Lauren can give me a match instead, if you'll bring us another two
weapons."

Ash lifted her brows, but obediently
fetched the rapiers after retrieving her knives. Master Humboldt,
who had been caught up with Mern business, appeared as if summoned
as Thornaster folded his coat onto the bench and began some
loosening-up exercises, and Carlyon warily collected the weapon Ash
had thrown, while Hawkmarten took the last with a wry smile.

"Got your blood up, Thorn?" he said,
then added to Lauren: "Don't hold back."

It wasn't just speed. Ash had assumed
that Thornaster's Estarrel heritage was going to give him some
unnatural advantage, but while she thought he was moving slightly
faster then either of his opponents, she'd learned just enough to
recognise some of the technical skill involved. Precise, controlled
movements, considerable strength and flexibility of wrist, and an
unerring ability to anticipate attacks.

The bout brought Carlyon out from
behind his mask, a fierce competitiveness lighting him up and
making him human. Having discovered her feelings for Thornaster,
Ash was able to appreciate Lauren Carlyon without being distracted
by any irritating skipping of her heart. Though she spent little
enough time looking anywhere but at the laughing eyes and seemingly
lazy movements of her Aremish Visel.

"Touch, Lauren!" the Master of the Mern
called, but Carlyon had already stepped away, acknowledging a
neatly placed blow.

Thornaster discarded his second weapon,
and he and Hawkmarten fought on, the pace increasing, both men
smiling and trading gibes on their lack of condition. Ash saw why
Thornaster kept trying to coax her into appreciating the art of the
sword. It was a sport to him, a game with a deadly context, just as
roof running to her was a matter of exultation and delight, even
when she was hunting down thieves, or skarl.

He would have to be content with their
shared enthusiasm for horse riding, because the main thing this
display of swordsmanship inspired her to was the removal of his
clothing. Since this was not practicable at the moment –
particularly since he had given her no sign he wanted such an event
– Ash instead busied herself with collecting together the swords
and returning them to the weapons room.

"You have most curious boots, Ash."

"You have a most curious master,
too."

"I can't argue with that second one,"
Ash said, turning to consider Frog and Gibrace, together blocking
the doorway. "My boots are quite ordinary, however."

"I beg to differ." Frog bent, and drew
out one of her knives. "You really threw that at him. Luin, just
think if you'd actually hit him!"

"I wasn't aiming anywhere fatal."

"I'm guessing, since the Master didn't
immediately toss you out on your ear, that you've permission to
carry these?" Frog, holding the knife by the wrong end, made
several mock-throws at the opposite wall. "Seruilisi are hardly
ever given permission to carry weapons outside hunts."

Gibrace, however, was not interested in
knives. "Your Visel spoke of not currently being at competition
level. He'll be talking about Aremal's midsummer festival, the
competitions of sword matches and horse riding. Do you know how
good you have to be to even qualify for some of those events? I
wonder if the rumours about him being–"

"Horse riding?" Ash asked. "Do you mean
races? Or jumping?"

"We've already seen enough of
Thornaster to know never to fight him, Gibbers," Frog said. "This,
however–" He waggled the knife. "This is something else – not
exactly a sporting weapon. Don't tell me we have a real, stone-cold
killer in our midst? How many should we mark on your tally,
Ash?"

"None," Ash said, forthrightly. "Not
directly, at least. I..." She decided on the truth. "It gives me
the horrors, actually, the thought of killing someone. Taking away
all that they could become. A knife in the thigh stops anyone
coming at me handily enough."

"Didn't Thornaster just demonstrate
that you can't rely on that?" Gibrace pointed out. "Sometimes you
don't have a choice."

"Bah, we can't all be as cold-blooded
as you, Gibbers. Stick to your principles, Ash." Frog returned the
knife. "But be careful."

"Advice for us all," Ash said
neutrally, hating her inability to be sure, even with these two
very likeable boys, whether she was among friends or enemies.

She returned to Thornaster, who
promptly told her she could have the rest of the day free and
headed off with Hawkmarten to enjoy the palace bathhouse. Ash
frowned at his retreating back, wondering what he was thinking. It
had seemed to her that Thornaster, as much as possible, had hidden
his strengths since arriving in Montmoth. He'd taken no weapon on
the hunt, kept his Estarrel heritage to a trusted few, and chosen
not to display his skill with the sword. With so few leads, had he
decided to set himself up as a target? Would that really make any
difference to their opponents?

Puzzled and worried, Ash visited Arth
and Cloud Cat, and took her mind off conspiracy with a currycomb
and plenty of elbow grease. Arth particularly loved being groomed,
and fussed in his stall while she worked on Cloud Cat, until a
hovering stable hand bribed him with molasses and oats. Heading
back, Ash amused herself unjustly comparing master and horse.
Really, Thornaster had been behaving a little like Arth today, not
quite prancing about with an arched neck, but–

Ash stopped. Stopped right where she
was, staring at nothing, the whole of her body jolted as if with
lightning.

"He was showing off.
Showing
off
."

"Ash? Why are you standing here
grinning?" Cassia, resting an inevitable basket on her hip, nudged
her with a foot. "Ash?"

"Because I think I just received the
biggest compliment anyone's ever offered me," Ash replied. "Only
took me a decem to notice."

"Not from Sera Arpesial, I hope,"
Cassia teased. "Or is this the start of a new and even more
exciting rumour?"

"Who knows?"

About to change the topic, Ash caught a
glimpse of black and gold out of the corner of her eye. Lauren
Carlyon, pausing casually by the corner of the Mern, fiddling with
his cuff, then moving on. It was out of character for Carlyon to
hesitate or fidget so and, intrigued, Ash bid Cassia a good evening
and set off to follow Carlyon, wandering along as if she were out
for a meander, keeping her stops and starts as inconspicuous as
possible.

Caught between suspecting Lauren
Carlyon and feeling thoroughly sorry for him, Ash had made little
progress in discovering the truth behind the perfect first seruilis
mask. The Rhoi trusted him, and it was true enough that any Carlyon
was exceedingly unlikely to be put forward as a candidate for Rhoi,
but Ash still struggled to produce any kind of impartial judgment.
Eward Carlyon's son. Part of the conspiracy, or victim of it?

Carlyon hesitated at the entrance of
the Gods' Hall, and Ash ducked back, out of sight. What was he
doing? Why this of all places? Coincidence? Or had that chance
meeting with Eward Carlyon been more significant than she'd ever
realised?

Impossible at this angle to see whether
Carlyon had stayed among the glass and metal gods, or gone through
the intersecting walls to whatever lay beyond. If this was finally
the chance she'd been waiting for, the opportunity to catch a
conspirator in a moment of betrayal, Ash needed to get closer
without being spotted.

Unable to approach the building's
entrance without crossing the empty space before it, Ash chose to
move directly, and then stood with her back to the wall beside the
open doors, listening.

Nothing.

In such a large room anyone speaking
wouldn't necessarily be audible, so all Ash could do was risk a
glance inside. And then, seeing no one, she stole across the
circular room and repeated her performance at the outer of the two
criss-crossing rear walls.

All seemed quiet, so Ash rounded the
wall and discovered a stair to follow down. She descended, quickly
at first, and then slowing as she rounded a full curve and reached
a lantern fixed to the wall of the stair.

Dimly, she could hear a noise. Someone
shouting. And...splashing? Ash grimaced at the gloom below. If she
went further her shadow would be cast down the stair by the light,
putting her at a distinct disadvantage. Drawing one of her knives,
she used it to snuff the lantern's candle, and then sat on the
stair until her eyes had adjusted.

It was not completely dark ahead, so it
was now a question of whether the dousing of the lantern had
revealed her presence even as it hid it. And how much the delay had
cost. The shouting had stopped. It had only seemed to be one voice,
probably Carlyon's, and there was that splashing again, far
distant. How deep did the stair descend?

Pausing on every step, Ash moved
forward, and after another almost complete circle a partial
explanation came into view. A well. A single circular room, poorly
lit by a lantern on the far wall, with a well in the centre, two
ornate semi-circular covers opened out like wings, and a pivoting
bucket suspender drawn to one side.

Carlyon could not have come down here
and simply fallen in. That didn't make sense. But if he'd been
pushed, where was the second person? Hiding flat against the wall
to one side of the bottom of the stair? Or on the far side of the
well?

Working for absolute silence, Ash eased
herself the last few steps downward, craning her neck to see the
blind spots to either side. No-one. The far side of the well,
then?

Shouting again and it was definitely
Carlyon's voice, though she couldn't make out much of what he was
saying. Ash stepped carefully into the room and, keeping her back
to the wall, circled until she could see behind the well's stone
casing. No one. There was no one in the room.

Torn between suspecting there was some
kind of ladder down the well, and fantastic possibilities of ghosts
or invisible people, Ash hesitated, then approached the
wellhead.

"Carlyon?" she asked, in a too-soft
voice, taking a firm grip on the well's rim and looking down.
Black. Peering into Luin's depths would tell her nothing, but if he
really was down there, she needed to lower the bucket to give him
something to hold on to, then go for help.

Too late. Too slow to react to the
flurry of movement behind her. Strong hands grabbed her firmly by
the ankles and upended her. Straight down the well.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Few Luinhallers had any use for
swimming. The public bathhouses were no more than waist deep, and
the Milk was too fast and far too cold. Outside the city there were
streams and pools that were more inviting, at least in the middle
of summer, but Ash, in both her lives, had had little chance to
enjoy them.

She'd even obligingly announced to half
the Landsmeet that she couldn't swim.

Falling, at least, she'd had plenty of
experience with, and she kept herself from flailing, only brushing
a flank against stone as she dropped. Then the water, a chill slap,
and she gasped and choked as liquid rushed into her mouth. She
tried to find some footing, but couldn't even discover which way
was up. Black! and cold! and–!

A hand closed on her collar and hauled.
Ash gasped as she found her head out of the water, but could not
keep herself from struggling anyway, choking and sputtering, and
then trying to keep her mouth above the surface as she coughed.

"Stop fighting, blast it."

With an arm beneath her chin, and one
around her waist, it took sheer force of will for Ash to obey, and
then she found herself crowded into the curving wall, which was a
thing she knew how to deal with, immediately searching out the
ridges in the stonework, her boots scraping beneath the water,
offering a tiny bit of extra support as she clung and shuddered.
The hold on her changed to a supporting hand against her back.

"Carlyon," she said, when she
could.

"Lenthard." He sounded exasperated.

Less disoriented now she had a wall,
Ash managed to look up. The only source of illumination was a grey
circle some measureless distance above them. The shadow of a head
projected from one side of the circle.

"Who is it?" she whispered, the sound
reflecting from the walls oddly.

"Frog."

The shadow disappeared. Then, with a
subdued clang, half of the grey circle did as well. Then the other.
Frog had closed the well's cover, leaving them in total
blackness.

"It's like being damned," she
whispered. "Trapped and helpless as they throw dirt on top of
you."

Long pause. "Thank you, Lenthard,"
Carlyon said, eventually. "I couldn't have put it better
myself."