The Complete Empire Trilogy (198 page)

Then he crashed atop the sweating mass of the Obajan and his women, and sheathed priceless steel in flesh. Arakasi felt his blade turned by sinew and bone. He had missed a killing blow.

The Obajan was huge, but none of his bulk was fat. His groan of pleasure became a shout of pain and alarm. Arakasi was thrown off his prey like a fish tossed from a bait boat. His heel caught on a woman’s leg and he fell. Besides being strong, the master of assassins was fast. His hand shot out to a pile of weapons beside the bed. Three darts smacked into silken sheets, even as Arakasi rolled away. A girl screamed in pain and fear.

The oil lamp went out. A vielle fell with a crash, and the singer broke off, screaming. Feet pounded in the corridor, while Arakasi shoved free of entangling bedclothes, and threw off a girl who clawed his shoulder with her nails. His second knife slid into his hand as if it had life and breath
and a desire to match his need. He flicked his wrist, and released, and the blade flew true, into the Obajan’s neck.

The master of the Hamoi Tong bellowed again, enraged. But the blade kissed the artery, and blood fountained. He raised his hand to staunch the flow, and all but lost his thumb on the keen edge still exposed. Against the pale square of the door screen, Arakasi saw the man’s shoulders quiver in the stress of ebbing life. His scalp lock fell loose over his back as he crashed to his knees, his chest wet with the fast flow of blood.

Arakasi twisted around, flinging girls and sheets one way and another in the darkness. He rolled, tossed a cushion in the direction of pursuing footsteps. Someone tripped and hit with a fleshy smack against the tile. Mistaking him for the assailant, four incoming guards sprang and bore the unfortunate man down. His protests masked Arakasi’s movements as, hand to the wall, the Spy Master scuttled to the far side of the chamber.

He had just enough starlight to see by. Careful to keep any chance gleam of steel from betraying his position, Arakasi drew another knife from his belt loop. He threw, and one of the guards went down, clutching his belly, and howling. His noise distracted the rest, allowing Arakasi to draw more knives and dispatch the four guards who entered from the outer hall. They died, one after another, between the screaming of the pleasure women and the cries of the wounded sentry on the floor. The Obajan lay in the sheets, motionless in death.

Arakasi slipped through the screen and ducked out of sight around the lintel. He dared not wait to see if any of the girls had seen him go, nor if they had the wits to make outcry. With a leap driven by adrenaline, he sprang up and caught the corner beam of the roof. Dangling by his hands, he pulled himself into the shadows under the eaves, his last blade gripped between his teeth.

He was barely established in his hiding place when feet pounded into the room from the direction of the adjoining hallway.

‘Outside!’ shouted one of the assassins. ‘The man who killed our master fled into the garden!’

Desperate, Arakasi clawed a fragment of shingle from the gutter. With an underhand toss he pitched the bit of tile into a flower bed. The sharp-eared sentry who bolted through the door dashed headlong into the bushes, hacking the vegetation with his sword. Arakasi could have brushed the man’s head with his fingertips as the man passed below.

More assassins rushed out. ‘Where is he?’

The swordsman paused in his slashing. ‘I heard movement.’

‘Quickly!’ called the second guard. ‘Bring torches! The killer makes his escape while we delay!’

They fanned outward, combing the garden, while men with lights converged to aid in the search. Arakasi slung himself off the roof. A moving shadow in darkness, he sidestepped and ducked into an adjoining screen, back inside the house where the pursuers had not yet thought to check.

More men exploded from the bedroom. They met the first man, returning. ‘He must have gone over the wall. Patrol the perimeter, quickly, before he gets away!’

Shouts of inquiry issued from inside the harem. News of the Obajan’s death roused the servants, some of whom gave way to panic. The tong was swift and merciless in retribution, and in a house this well guarded, the members would suspect that whoever killed their master must have an inside accomplice. The entire staff might be put to death to ensure elimination of any traitors. The more intelligent servants understood their best course of action was to flee. Fear alone bound these wretches to service with this murderous brotherhood;
most preferred to chance an uncertain future than face dishonorable death.

Arakasi could only hope that the confusion caused by dozens of terrified servants would lend him opening, for while a saner man might seek escape, his mission was yet incomplete. For Mara’s sake, he must return to the Obajan’s study and steal the record journal of the tong.

Stillness had fallen over the adjacent bedchamber. Arakasi risked that the guards had left their dead master in the heat of the search. He reentered the screen he had broken earlier and stepped into a scene of carnage.

Blood splattered everything within ten feet of the bed. Beside the bulk of the slain master, a pair of naked girls remained, starlight limning their forms faintly silver. One of them stared at him, silent. With crazed, repetitive motions, she sought to wipe blood from skin smeared hopelessly scarlet. The other writhed in the sheets, moaning. Struck down by a poisoned dart, she was unable to rise. With grim purpose, Arakasi recovered two metal knives, one from the neck of the Obajan and another from the stomach of a guard who lay sprawled at his master’s feet.

Arakasi stepped past the foot of the bed, his glance passing over the wounded courtesan. He stopped, his attention unwillingly arrested. The girl’s hair pooled like spilled oil in the moonlight, pale gold and glistening. Her face was upturned, exposed to the flicker of torchlight spilling in from the garden. Like a wound to the heart, he saw that her features were the exact same as her sister’s.

They were twins.

Logic could not stay the lurch of Arakasi’s heart. In moonlight, her slim hands worrying at the dart that pierced her breast, she could not be distinguished from the girl he had touched and bedded. Jolted by a pain of the spirit that threatened to choke his breath, Arakasi fought to recapture his icy, analytical nature. He was Acoma Spy Master, on a
mission for the Servant of the Empire. He must keep his wits and locate the Obajan’s scrolls.

But when he most needed steady nerves, his objectivity forsook him. Before one dying courtesan, his own survival suddenly seemed as meaningless as trying to capture sunlight with bare hands.

Arakasi’s intellect screamed that he must keep faith with Mara, while his heart drove him to his knees beside the stricken girl. Time and circumstance were blurred. He could no longer separate which was the courtesan who had bound him to her, and which the twin sister. In the dark, in the moonlight, in the aching loss of the moment, their identities seemed to merge. Against every instinct of self-preservation, Arakasi gathered her body into his arms. He cradled her, wide-eyed and motionless, until she quivered, gasped and, after what seemed an eternity, finally ceased breathing.

Arakasi felt as if he had been beaten. His nails had gouged his palms, and his teeth had drawn blood. The salt-rich taste on his tongue and the death stink that pervaded his nostrils pushed him to nausea. He barely noticed the living woman who muttered amid bloodstained sheets. His mind recorded but did not comprehend her babble. Arakasi snatched a tearing breath and forced himself to unlock his rigid limbs. His heart seemed frozen as the dead girl slipped from his grasp. By rote, he reacted to a sound behind him, turned, and whipped out a knife. His throw was almost true. The servant who sought entry was a castrate who served the harem, returned to look after his charges. The knife caught him a glancing slash across the neck. He gagged and slammed into the door post. Fast Arakasi had always been; but tonight his limbs were clumsy as he stumbled across the dropped girl. His feet caught in soggy sheets and hooked upon cushions. He struck the castrate with a wrestler’s move in the middle, and knocked him sideways. The dying man’s strength was uncanny. Arakasi’s hands
sought a grip, and slipped. He dug his fingers into the wound and, by the spray of blood on his face, knew he had torn his enemy’s artery. Using his knuckles to stop his victim from crying out, he received a bite to the bone.

Had the dead Obajan’s guards not been sweeping the outer grounds for an assassin who by rights should be fleeing for his life, the struggle would have brought notice. As it was, hanging onto a dying man who careened into wall hangings and crashed against chests and tables, Arakasi felt a sense of the unreal. The castrate took a long time to bleed to death. When he at last fell limp, Arakasi reeled out of the room.

He had never seen the inside of the house. What sense of direction he had garnered during his wait under the rooftree now deserted him as he sought the journal that was the heart of the tong. Such a book recorded each contract and its disposition, in a cipher known only to the Obajan. Intermediaries were told nothing beyond the name of the victims directed to die.

The tong’s records were the inheritance of the Tiranjan, who must take over rulership for the leader just assassinated. The journal would not be unprotected, and even before the commotion of the search died down, the Obajan’s flower-robed adviser would be sending the Tiranjan to collect it.

Arakasi heard distant voices and a scream. His time in the house was now limited to less than a handful of minutes, and his mind remained muddled by the memory of a girl’s tormented death. He whipped himself to review his past surmises, made through the hot hours of waiting under the rooftree. This was the pleasure palace. The Obajan was on sabbatical. The record book that was never beyond his reach would be here, in a place set aside for it. The door screen with the stoutest construction must be the strong room where the tong’s scrolls would be kept.

Arakasi flitted down the corridor, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. He doused lanterns where he dared, shivering and starting at every distant noise. He rounded a corner and all but collided with a man whose back was turned. The chink of steel as he drew his last knife caused the man to whirl. He was a warrior, assigned to guard a locked door. Arakasi launched himself forward and sliced the tendons in the man’s wrist, even as his foe reached down to draw his sword. The Spy Master felt no pain himself as he chopped bitten, bleeding fingers into the guard’s windpipe, and rammed him with a crash against the wood.

Someone shouted at the noise.

Out of time, Arakasi bashed his enemy through the panel. The guard resisted, eyes widened in soul-deep terror. As he overbalanced backward into the confines of the strong room, the hand that still functioned scrabbled in desperation at the wall.

Then he went down. Tripwires mired his ankles, and darts were released from the walls. The floor where he struck dropped down with a grinding sound, and stakes of sharpened, resin-hardened wood erupted through pierced patterns in the tiles, impaling his twitching remains.

Arakasi paid his victim’s death throes no mind. Clued by the man’s last living act, he surveyed the wall, and found a niche between the murals. He recognised the hole for what it was, an opening for a locking pin that would disable the mechanical traps inside the room. He jammed his knife into the gap and rushed ahead.

Chills chased across his skin. He could hear running feet in the corridors, converging upon his position. Ahead of him, lit by a single lamp, stood a tall desk-like structure with a heavy book resting on the top. He leaped over the corpse of the guard, his thoughts racing.

If the door had been trapped, so the desk must be also. It followed that a thief who survived the defenses to get this
far must be gifted, and a master of intricate mechanisms. Therefore, Arakasi chose the unpredictable tactic: he would make his attempt by force.

He swallowed the metallic taste of panic. He grasped the heavy ceramic lamp stand, bent down, and bashed through the inlaid paneling at the bottom of the desk. He looked up to locate and disarm the maze of fine threads and levers that would set off the snare were the book to be lifted, and beneath them found something else.

A tightly rolled scroll lay beneath the trip mechanism. He pulled it from its resting place and glanced at it. The outer parchment was written over in cipher and tied off with ribbons marked with the flower of the Hamoi Tong. The book on the desktop was a fake, set up in plain view as a trap. In his hand he held the true accounts of the tong.

The cries of alarm were now closer. Arakasi thrust the scroll into his robe and hurried to the doorway. He yanked his knife from the hole and ran, away from the voices that converged around the corner from behind.

He made blind haste, shaken to fresh fear by his success. As much as he had planned, as carefully as he had arranged his safeguards, he had never anticipated surviving beyond the moment of the Obajan’s death. Now the stakes were redoubled; for without the journal scroll, the Tiranjan could not assume leadership of the clan. Contracts would go unfulfilled, and the Hamoi assassins would lose honor. In effect, Arakasi held the murderous brotherhood’s natami in his hands. Without it, the tong would lose credibility and eventually drift away like smoke.

Shouting erupted in the corridor Arakasi had just vacated. The broken doorway was discovered, and screams followed, as guards rushed inside and fell to the traps reset when he had removed the dagger used as locking pin. Pursuit was immediate, as the survivors scattered searching through the
house. Arakasi barely slipped out the window ahead of one hard on his trail.