Reave the Just and Other Tales (17 page)

From the doorway I flung myself into the outer corridor.

_______

Six
of them— If they were allowed to reach Argoyne’s chamber, they might slay him, regardless of his defenses. Theirs was the Art of Assassination. And their weapons were many.

An hour ago, I would have applauded the Dark Lord’s death. But now I did not mean to see the Mage War decided by treachery.

I wished for other weapons myself. My fang’s range was limited. But first I required a vantage from which I could watch over the Archemage without hazarding him. I could not seek out the
ro-uke
—I had recognized none of the corridors revealed in Argoyne’s images. Therefore I must await his attackers.

A quick circuit of the passage showed only one stair rising to this level from below. That was fortuitous. I might be able to hold one stair against six
ro-uke
—although I doubted it—if they came at me singly, and did not take me by surprise.

Already, however, I had made a false assumption. And assumptions of all kinds were fatal. Because the scenes which Argoyne had opened in the air appeared distant, I had believed that the
ro-uke
were likewise distant.

As I hastened down the stair to select my point of vantage, a trident bit into my shoulder, tearing at my flesh with such force that I was thrown to the wall.

My fall became a tumble on the edged stone. I could not yet feel the pain of my wound, but only the shock of impact and the hard stairs. Later, if I lived, I would chide myself for a fool. Now, while I plunged downward, I reached out with my
qa,
measuring the trident’s path toward me, gauging the location of my enemy.

When I struck the floor, he was no more than four paces from me, charging with his
ro-uke
katana upraised to sever the skull from my spine. Masked in black from head to foot, and voluminously robed to both conceal and contain his weapons, he might have been a long scrap of shadow cast by a torch held in an unsteady hand.

But the illumination in Argoyne the Black’s keep shone without wavering, as endless and unmoved as stone.

Within two strides, the
ro-uke
folded at the knees and pitched onto his face with my dagger buried in the base of his throat. His sword slithered from his grasp, skidding its steel across the floor.

Now the pain of my shoulder came to me, and I knew at once that the points of the trident carried poison.

How swiftly the toxin would act I could not guess. And there were five more assassins to be considered. I did what I could, however. Retrieving my fang, and snatching up the katana, I ducked behind the foundation of the stair. There I pulled back my torn robe to examine my wound.

Some poisons were swift—others, slow. Some might be endured by a concentration of
qa
and will. To others I was immune. But the nature of this toxin had not yet revealed itself. Gripping my courage, I dug my fang into the wound until my shoulder bled heavily. Perhaps the worst of the poison would be flushed away.

Past its stone foundation, I saw no one approach the stair. No one advanced at my back. No sound carried from above, where—or so I prayed—Isla guarded Argoyne’s door. After a moment spent to quiet my heart and my fear, I risked leaving the stair in order to peer beyond the corner of the corridor behind me.

My fang I again secreted within my robe. The sword I bore before me, ready for use.

Although I was cautious at the corner, I was not cautious enough. By ill chance, the
ro-uke
creeping toward me caught my gaze as I met hers. She was some distance from me yet. But now I had neither the advantage nor the disadvantage of surprise.

Rather than attempting to foil her by stealth—which was her Art, not mine—I stepped past the corner to confront her formally. With the katana’s point directed toward her heart, I bowed in challenge.

As if by magery, she produced a sword from within her robe. This, too, was her Art, not mine. However, I was not daunted. I was
nahia,
and understood edged weapons. And I had always believed that because the
ro-uke
were proficient with weapons by the score, they were expert with none.

Soundless on the stone, she advanced to assail me.

Her first blow would have cleft me where I stood, but mine was the Art of Circumvention. I slipped her katana away along my blade, then turned my edge against her. She countered fluidly, liquid as a splash of ink.

Point to point, we considered each other.

A low slash followed, and one high. I saw that if I met her blade directly, force against force, I would open myself to her return stroke. However, that was not my nature—or the nature of my training. With each oblique deflection, I disturbed as well the cut which came next.

Again she brought her point to mine and paused.

There I might have died, but the alternation of her
qa
gave me warning. By the standards of the
nahia,
her skills were too thinly spread. She had not the gift of launching an attack without discernible preparation.

Warned, I flinched aside as she flung a shuriken at my face. Her stroke skidded from my blade. Unbalanced by the angle of my deflection, as well as by the force of her throw, she extended more than she had intended.

At once, I stamped a kick into the side of her knee, and felt the tendons tear as she collapsed.

Alive,
I had told Isla.
We must have one of them alive!
But a growing numbness had taken hold of my shoulder, and four more assassins still crept the keep. In desperation the
ro-uke
cast another shuriken, but I stepped past it and cut her chest apart.

Dark death spilled and pooled beneath her as though her black attire melted to shadows.

A moment of dizziness swept through me. Fearing for my life, I slashed a strip from her robe and bound it tightly about my shoulder. Its pressure weakened my arm, but might also slow the toxin’s progress.

If mine was the Art of Circumvention, clearly I must find some means to circumvent another direct contest. My dizziness receded, but did not pass entirely, and my heart had acquired an unsteadiness which alarmed me. After a moment’s deliberation, I compelled myself to cut into the fallen
ro-uke
’s robe and search her until I discovered a rope and grapnel, which a stealthy assassin might use to scale a sheer wall.

Coiling the rope, I returned warily to the stair.

In my absence, any number of intruders might have ascended to the level of Argoyne’s chamber. That I could not alter, however. If Isla did not choose to defend him, then the Archemage must defend himself. I could do nothing more than guard the stair.

Among the outer chambers, I found one with its door unlocked. From within the room, with the door nearly closed, I could watch the stair unseen. Failing to imagine an alternative, I accepted the disadvantages of surprise—which had slain my first opponent—and secreted myself to wait.

While I crouched at the slim crack of the door, numbness slowly sank its teeth into the side of my chest. A renewed wave of dizziness bore with it the bitter sensation of despair.

The young
shin-te
still lived, of that I was certain. If he—and Argoyne—had fallen, some sign of it would be felt in the mage’s keep. Such powers did not pass lightly from the world. But how long could the
shin-te
endure? How long could I?

Focused and feverish in my confusion, I did not notice the
ro-uke
as he gained the stair. I had seen him approach—and yet he appeared to arrive like an act of magery, without transition.

With my strength ebbing, I waited in silence while the assassin crept upward. I could not challenge him openly, and did not trust my stealth to equal his. Despite the danger that he might ascend beyond my reach—or that another
ro-uke
might come behind him—I did not move until his head had risen into the stairwell, out of sight. Then I eased open the door of my covert and hastened toward him.

By good fortune, he paused where he was, no doubt studying the hazards of the floor above. Whirling the grapnel by its line, I flung it at his legs.

Again by good fortune—for I could not claim skill in my condition—I had cast true. The grapnel caught him securely. At once, I hauled on the rope, heaving him off the stair in a rush.

The snapping sound as he struck the floor told me that he had broken bones. He flopped nervelessly at the impact, then lay still. When I ventured near him, I saw that he was dead. The fall had crushed his skull, or his neck.

Giddy with relief and poison, I stumbled to the foot of the stair, seated myself, and rested my head on my stronger hand.

_______

Three
ro-uke
remained. In a moment, I promised my weakness, I would rise to my feet and consider how I might oppose them. But first I must breathe. So that I could estimate the progress of the toxin, and concentrate my
qa
against it.

“Asper,” Isla called softly from the head of the stair. “How many?”

I lifted my head to peer upward. A haze clouded my sight—apparently Argoyne’s lamps had begun to smoke—and I could not see her clearly.

“Three,” I told the stairwell.

“Then come up.” She sounded impatient. “There are three here. One used the stair—I thought you were dead—but the other two must have climbed up the outer wall. They came at me from rooms across the passage.

“Asper, what’s wrong?”

I had been foolish. A
ro-uke
must have gained the stair while I fought around the corner.

Vaguely I indicated my shoulder. “Poison.”

Like the
ro-uke
, and Argoyne himself, she had lost her need for transitions. I alone still required movement from moment to moment. She appeared at my side, tugged me to my feet. “We don’t have much time,” she said as she urged me upward. “The
shin-te
is losing. Maybe Argoyne can help you.” Rents marked her robe. Blood dripped from a cut in her scalp. Her cheek showed a bruise so deep that it must have covered cracked bones. “I kept one of them alive for you. I stunned her, but she’ll recover soon.”

Alive— She had succeeded where I had failed.

I could hope again. Gratitude swelled my
qa,
and a measure of stability returned to my limbs. “I am in your debt,” I murmured as I amended my pace. “You are a tribute to the
mashu-te
.”

“I hope they’ll think so,” she replied. Apparently her scruples disturbed her yet.

However, they no longer troubled me.

_______

In the chamber of the Archemage, I saw at once that Isla had spoken truly. Argoyne’s young champion stood near defeat. The resilience was gone from his movements, his eyes were empty of purpose, and his
qa
seemed to flutter within him like a torn rag. He still kept his feet, still blocked and countered. And he had exacted a price from his opponent. The
nerishi-qa
fought with one eye swollen shut, two broken fingers, and a falter in all his steps. The arrogance was gone from his gaze. Yet it was plain that the
shin-te
would be the first to fall. If I had not felt the proximity of his death like an emanation from Argoyne’s image, or read it in the vehemence of his opponent’s
qa,
I would have seen it on the faces of the White Lords, and of Goris Miniter. Anticipations of triumph defined the sunlight in their eyes. The young master had received blows which his flesh could not withstand.

The remaining
ro-uke
had recovered consciousness. Isla and I kept the woman between us, pretending to hold her captive. Perhaps Isla did so. For my part, however, I clung to her for support. Unsteadiness surged and receded in my head, and I could not trust my legs to sustain me. Like Argoyne’s champion, I would soon fall.

Without delay, Isla informed the mage, “Asper needs help.”

Reluctantly Argoyne turned from the meadow to consider my plight. His obscured vision regarded me as though I had lost my place in his attention.

“No,” I said at once. “His need is greater.” I indicated the
shin-te
. “Send us there. While you still can. We must go now.”

The Archemage appeared to understand me. “They won’t listen to you,” he warned.

I sighed. “Then we will not speak to them.”

Isla glared a question at me, but I had neither the heart nor the will to answer her. The outcome of the Mage War lay between warriors now,
shin-te
and
nerishi-qa
. Goris Miniter and the White Lords no longer had any part to play.

Argoyne nodded, reaching among his scrolls. “After all,” he muttered as he found the one he sought and opened it, “I have nothing more to lose. If you wanted me dead, all you had to do is wait for it. And it’s always easy to trust warriors. That’s why,” he finished cryptically, “they’re called ‘the Fatal Arts.’”

I could not have asked him what he meant if I had wished to. He and his chamber and the stone keep were gone.

_______

Washed by morning sunlight, we stood in the meadow, surrounded by Miniter’s horsemen. Isla still held the
ro-uke
by one arm, and I clung to the other, concealing my weakness as well as I was able. Five paces from us, both the young
shin-te
and his opponent had paused to stare in confusion and mistrust at our sudden interruption.

Around us, horses flinched and reared, snorting their alarm. Several of the riders prepared to charge against us until the King called them back to their places. The White Lords made warding gestures in our direction, but sent no magery to harm us.

Again haze dimmed my sight, as though the smoke of some vast and fatal bonfire had clouded the meadow. Yet I could see well enough to determine where we were. The meadow lay in a broad valley among the abrupt foothills of the Scarmin. Beyond them, crags and mountains shrouded by distance towered into the sky. And there, distinct against the high cliffs, stood Argoyne’s keep.

This struggle for the fate of Vesselege took place at the boundary between the domains of magery, separated by height and stone—the borderland between the White Lords and the Dark.