Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno (2 page)

“Not judging by what was done here. In self-defense you might have stuck the man, even slashed him a little, but what then? Why didn’t you stop?”

“You can see I’m not a soldier, my lord. That staff’s my real weapon. I sell knives, but I don’t know their use—not in this way, not to fight with them. I panicked is the truth of it, sir. Panicked and struck out in a way I don’t like to think of.”

Epion might have believed him, so convincing was he, if it were not for the details he had already noticed: the positioning of the body and the style and nature of the cuts. And then there was something in the way the man hung his head . . . Epion was suddenly reminded of a troupe of players who had visited the Tarkin’s court the year before.

“You’ll have to do better than that, man,” Epion said. “I’ll have the real story, and we won’t be leaving here until I’ve heard it.”

Epion saw decision come into the man’s face. A firmness that had up until now been lacking. He stood a little straighter, and his face became less like that of a servant and more like that of a man of means.

“It
was
self-defense,” he said finally. “But not in any way that can be readily understood by the common person. I’ll tell you, my lord, but not these.” He indicated the guards with a tilt of his head. “What I have to tell you may be of great use to you.”

“My lord,” Callos began.

“Tush, man, I’m only asking that you go out of earshot. His lordship’s in no danger from me. He’s armed, for one thing, and for another, he has no darkness in him. That’s a lucky thing, a very lucky thing. The same cannot be said for all your men, I’m afraid,” the stranger said, turning back to Epion after he had waved his guards away. “That tall one—Callos?
He
has secrets.”

“And the dead man, did he have secrets?”

“He did indeed.” The man’s eyes wandered back to the body. He stood, shoulders relaxed, with his hands clasped in front of him. A wrinkle formed between his eyebrows. “I followed him here, to see what the secret might be, and once I knew it, I could release the darkness,” he said. “Let it out into the light of day before it killed him.” Still facing the body, the stranger moved his eyes back to Epion. “And now you will arrest me. Put me to death.” He tilted his head to one side. “Or will you?”

Epion Akarion smiled. “You have told me the truth, and you were right to do so.” Epion waited, but the man did not move, except for the widening of his smile. The flickering torchlight gave movement to his eyes. “I cannot use a man who stops to help people,” Epion continued. “Nor a man who defends himself so clumsily. But I
can
use a man who knows what to do about people with dark secrets. I can help such a man, and he can help me.”

The stranger turned finally to look Epion fully in the face. “Know some people with dark secrets, do you?”

“I think so,” Epion said. “And I’m sure you will agree with me.”

T
HE BRIGHT AUTUMN sunshine made Parno Lionsmane blink at the view from the rooftop terrace of the Mercenary House in Lesonika. The normally dark, pine-covered hills to the north looked a brilliant green, and the whitewashed walls of the town itself were almost blinding. A young page ran across the courtyard below, drawing Parno’s eyes from the view, but he had to squint to make out any detail in the deep shadows.

From this vantage point it was obvious that Lesonika’s Mercenary House had once been a private home. The building fronted west on a small square, with its northern wall running along a side street and the courtyard making up the east end of the structure. Its southern wall was shared with the building next door, the residence and workplace of Lesonika’s foremost Mender.

Of course, once the Mercenaries had taken it over, the building’s defenses had been strengthened. The front door was sealed with stone from the inside, as were the ground-floor windows; the upper windows were barred, even those on the third floor, and the staircase leading to the rooftop terrace had been removed and replaced with a ladder—easier to kick over should the need arise. The courtyard, with its iron-reinforced gate, had been restructured into the House’s only entrance.

Everything planned. Everything familiar. Parno grinned. That was one of the pleasurable things about the Mercenary Brotherhood. The Common Rule was the same everywhere you went.

“There,” his Partner’s rough silk voice murmured from behind him. Still smiling, Parno turned around.

Dhulyn Wolfshead lifted her hand from the vera tile she had just lined up on the small wooden table to the right of the trapdoor. Meant to hold arrows and spare crossbow bolts in time of trouble, it doubled nicely as a gaming table in time of quiet.

“Blood,” said Dhulyn’s opponent from the other side of the table. “You have the Caids’ own luck.” Kari Artagan pulled from her belt a pair of fine leather gloves, dyed a dark red with an intricate pattern of silver embroidery on the gauntlets, and dropped them on the array of tiles.

“Considering the Caids have long been dust, I think my luck is slightly better,” Dhulyn said, drawing the left glove onto her own hand.

“These are brand new. I’ve only worn them once.”

“I’ll take the greatest care of them, my Brother.” Dhulyn smiled. “You may wish to win them back.”

“Oh, yes, when the sun rises in the east.” Kari stood and stretched, moving her shoulders back and forth. She was much more finely dressed than either Parno or Dhulyn, in blood-red linen trousers and a bright white silk shirt with a silver-embroidered vest over it. An elaborately plumed hat sat on the floor next to her feet. “It’s today, isn’t it?” she said. “Your, ah, your meeting with the Senior Brother.”

“No need to be so delicate,” Parno said. “We’re just waiting to be called in.”

Kari Artagan shook her head. Her red and gold Mercenary badge, identical to Parno’s, flashed in the sun. “And this one cool enough to beat me at Soldier’s Sixes.” She indicated Dhulyn with her thumb as she leaned over, scooped up her hat, and set it at an angle on her brow. Straightening, she rested her hand on the hilt of her sword. “I’m off to find some food,” she announced. “Losing always makes me hungry.” She touched her fingers to her forehead.

“You should lose more often, then,” Dhulyn called out, as Kari lifted the trapdoor and let it fall with a bang. “Soon you’ll be too scrawny to pull back your bow, let alone lift that sword.”

Kari grinned. “In Battle,” she said.

“Or in Death,” both Parno and Dhulyn responded as their Brother stepped into the opening and dropped from view.

“You could have won some money, don’t you think?” Parno said, taking Kari’s empty seat across from Dhulyn. “Not that the gloves don’t look well on you.”

“Nervous, are you?”

“And you’re not?”

Dhulyn frowned down at the tiles while she pulled off the glove she’d tried on and tucked it and its partner into the sash at her waist. She pursed her lips in a tuneless whistle, drumming her fingers on the edge of the table, as if she saw a pattern she did not like in the spread of the tiles. Finally she blew out a breath and swept the vera tiles back into their box.

“What do you think is taking them so long?” she asked, as she closed the box, latched it, and set it to one side.

Parno folded his arms across his chest. “Think of it this way,” he said. “They’ve had months to go over the documents we left them. I’m certain the Senior Brother’s decision is already made. We may as well relax, since there’s nothing we can do about it now but wait to be told.”

Dhulyn stared at him, her blood-red brows raised high over her stone-gray eyes. “I’m the Outlander,” she said, the ghost of a smile on her scarred lips. “I’m the one who is popularly supposed to be naturally phlegmatic. What makes you so cool?” The corner of her mouth crimped, and Parno laughed out loud.

“There,” he said, slapping his thighs. “I knew you weren’t as calm as you looked.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and extended his right hand toward her, waiting until Dhulyn took it in her own before speaking. “What’s the worst that can happen?” he said, lowering his voice.

This was something they’d tossed back and forth many times during the weeks it had taken them to cross the Long Ocean and return to Lesonika, where they knew this hearing would be waiting for them. Dhulyn smiled her wolf’s smile and gave the only answer either of them had.

“They can’t separate us,” she said. “Whatever they decide, that’s beyond them.” Still holding his hand, she leaned back in her chair. Mercenary Brothers Partnered for life, and not even the Brotherhood itself could dissolve the bond once it was formed.

“Since the worst can’t happen,” Dhulyn continued, “anything else they decide will be tolerable. Exile, for example, either to the lands across the Long Ocean—”

“Which would be manageable,” Parno cut in.

“Or to the court of the Great King in the West, which would not.”

“Caids take it, we’ve done nothing wrong.” Parno exhaled sharply and released Dhulyn’s hand.

“Then we have nothing to worry about.”

They rose to their feet as light footsteps sounded in the hall below, and Jay Starfound stuck his head above the landing. Unlike Kari Artagan, Jay was a resident Brother in Lesonika, a dark-haired, oval-faced man with a sharp-pointed beard covering a scar at the corner of his mouth. The colors of the Mercenary badge tattooed on his temples and over his ears flashed a startling green and red in the sunlight.

“Brothers,” he said, touching his fingertips to his forehead. “You’re wanted.” Nothing, neither his tone, his choice of address, nor his impassive face told them anything they wanted to know. Dhulyn tucked the box of vera tiles under her left arm and gestured to Parno to precede her.

 

Dhulyn Wolfshead had expected Jay Starfound to escort them to the ground floor hall, the largest room in the House, unaltered from its previous existence and still used for meals. Instead, he led them only as far down as the second floor, where they entered what had once been a private salon. The tiled floor was a warm golden color, and the walls still bore the murals of a forest scene, faded but rich in detail. A worktable had been set up between the two barred windows, and behind it, in a tall wooden chair with padded arms and back, sat the oldest Mercenary Brother Dhulyn had ever seen. His head had been shaved smooth, and his eyebrows were still dark and wiry, but the hair on his arms and the backs of his hands was gray. Those hands were gnarled, the knuckles swollen, and his face was heavily wrinkled, especially around the place where his right eye was missing.

Dhulyn blinked when she took in the faded blue and red of his Mercenary badge. She had never seen those colors before. The Senior Brother of Hellik raised his head as they entered and fixed them with his one pale blue eye.

“I am Gustof Ironhand, called the Boxer.” Gustof’s voice was unexpectedly light and musical. “I was Schooled by Jerzon Horsetooth.” Which explained the old colors of his badge, Dhulyn thought,
and
why she’d never seen them before. “I have fought at Ishkanbar, at Beliza, and at Tolnek.” As was customary, he cited only his last three battles. “I have come from Pyrusa to review your case, as I am the Senior Brother in Hellik.”

And so he would be, Dhulyn thought, if he’d been Schooled by Jerzon. Jerzon Horsetooth had been dead for decades, his School dissolved. Gustof Ironhand could very well be the oldest Mercenary still alive. It was his age, Dhulyn imagined, and not his injury, that had led him to settle into a Mercenary House.

“For the record,” Gustof gestured at Jay Starfound sitting to one side, pen and parchment at the ready. “Would you also formally identify yourselves?”

“I am Dhulyn Wolfshead.” She was pleased that her voice sounded cool and relaxed. “Called the Scholar. I was Schooled by Dorian of the River, the Black Traveler, and have fought at the sea battle of Sadron, at Arcosa in Imrion, and for the Great King in the West at Bhexyllia. I fight with my Brother, Parno Lionsmane.”

“I am Parno Lionsmane,” her Partner said. His voice was deeper and firmer than that of Gustof Ironhand, but equally musical. “I’m called the Chanter. Schooled by Nerysa Warhammer of Tourin. I have fought with my Brother, Dhulyn Wolfshead, at Arcosa, Bhexyllia, and Limona—if that’s to be judged a proper battle.”

Gustof Ironhand’s smile did nothing to settle Dhulyn’s stomach. “That will be one of the things we rule on today.”

Jay looked up. “You should note, my Brothers, that the ship of Dorian the Black Traveler is in harbor at the moment,” he said.

“I doubt I will need to refer to him,” Gustof said. “I have here the documents of your case. Some I understand you provided yourselves before you were . . . diverted by the Long Ocean Nomads. We had testimony at that time from Captain Huelra of the
Catseye
, and the Nomads themselves have since provided witness—” here Gustof Ironhand tapped a rolled scroll to his left—“which supports your own explanation for the delay in these proceedings.” He laced his fingers together and laid his clasped hands on the table before continuing. “To deal with the lesser business first, I rule that the delay was unavoidable and that the actions you took to save the lives of the
Catseye
’s crew were such as maintain the reputation of the Brotherhood.”

Gustof turned a page over. “I note also that relations have been established with both the Nomad traders and the Mortaxa across the Long Ocean, who have asked that Mercenary Brothers be sent to them, as counselors.” Gustof looked first at Parno, then at Dhulyn. “A return to the old ways, it seems.”

“Yes, my Brother,” Dhulyn said, as the Senior Brother seemed to be waiting for a response.

“Their request has been recorded and will be sent to all Mercenary Houses.” Gustof paused, picking out a paper from among the ones laying flat in front of him, while Jay Starfound finished writing.

“As for the more important matter, we have here the request for outlawry from the then Queen of Tegrian, accusing you of the kidnap and murder of her son and heir, Lord Prince Edmir.”