The Forgotten War (120 page)

All the chambermaids had been allowed time off to attend the funeral but for their newest recruit it was something she had no intention of doing. It had come as a shock to
Syalin but being a chambermaid, folding linens and blankets, sweeping and tidying, was something she actually enjoyed doing, appealing as it did to her meticulous and fastidious nature. What was
more, the steely-eyed mistress of chambermaids had rather taken to her for, unlike her more skittish charges, Syalin never complained, barely talked, just worked hard and got on with the job in
hand.

Of course, if she knew that the job in hand involved killing Baron Morgan her reactions might have been different.

Syalin had been working there long enough now to know the layout of the keep, its escape routes and hiding places and now, following two events that had occurred that very day, it was time to
put her plan into action.

The first event was the funeral, for it had left her pretty much alone in the keep for an hour, time enough to ready herself for action. The second event was an overheard conversation which had
taken place as she swept the main hall, pushing a pile of grey dust forward with her besom. The Baron Protector and the Lady Mathilde had been talking and, as was usual, had barely noticed the
servant beavering away in the room’s darker recesses.

‘Will you and the boy be all right, do you think? It will be difficult for him especially,’ the Baron had said.

‘He wants to say farewell to his father,’ she had replied. ‘It will be difficult for him as you say but it is his duty to attend. I will watch him. He will be fine.’

‘I dislike funerals at the best of times; the thought that many eyes will be on me today makes it worse.’

‘You get used to it,’ the Lady replied airily. ‘You have no choice in the matter anyway.’

‘What I do have a say in, though, is the feast here afterwards. I will not be attending.’

She sounded both surprised and disappointed. ‘Why ever not? The staff put in a lot of work for the feast; many important people attend it.’

‘And for that I will have to rely on you being the dutiful and gracious hostess. I simply have too much work to do. There are supply inventories to look at, field dispatches, missives from
magistrates...’

‘You have staff to do a lot of that, you know...’

‘Maybe. Maybe once I get a grip of this job I will be more confident trusting others. Right now, though, I need a couple of hours alone, in the study, to go through everything.’

‘Very well, Morgan, but I ask you one favour. At least be here to greet the guests. When all are seated, then leave; I will be happy to take over from there.’

He sounded relieved – had he been expecting a sterner confrontation?

‘Thank you, my Lady; I depend on you more and more with each passing day.’

She laughed. ‘Nonsense! And vain flattery! You depend on no one, Morgan; that I can see most plainly.’

They continued to talk but Syalin had stopped listening. Finishing her duties in rapid time she left the room.

Begging the mistress of chambermaids for the afternoon off, citing a sick uncle with no one to care for him, Syalin retired to her tiny room, which was little more than an alcove holding a bed
with a trunk and small table holding a candle and an icon of one of their goddesses. She waited until everyone had left for the square then strapped on her knives, one for each boot, one at her
side, others in her garter, with throwing knives hidden in the stitching of her cloak. She put on the cloak, covering her face with its hood, then silently made her way to the study, unseen by all
bar the scurrying rats and their feline predators.

She had not yet been allowed to tidy the rooms of the Baron or of the Lady of the castle; this had been frustrating her as it was her original plan to strike him in his own chambers, but on
reflection the study was an even better venue. Just outside it was a flight of stairs to the servants’ quarters. A dash down there and effecting an escape into the courtyard and thus into the
town would be a fairly simple procedure, even if she had to kill a guard or two first. Once out of the castle, they would never find her. Her only regret now was having to leave her armour behind
in her room in Felmere Town. Obviously it could not be worn in the castle but xhikon had one property that she could have used. It could absorb and negate magic and, according to the other
chambermaids, at least two unpoliced mages were running around with the Baron – a troubling thought, but something she had no control over.

The study was a medium-sized room full of tables and half-empty bookcases, a room masked in shadow. It also held many wide beams and it was to these that she now looked. She stood on a table and
had just enough reach to hoist herself on to a beam, using a knife for purchase. She then climbed on to a higher beam, one smothered in darkness. If she lay flat atop it and made no sudden
movements, she would be seen by no one, least of all a solitary man bent over his work. Brushing away dead and living spiders and their webs she checked for ways to climb back down silently. There
were many sturdy bookcases and many dark corners. It was near perfect. Now all she had to do was lie there. Lie there and wait. She lay on her back and took a sliver of blackroot, slowly passing
into a light trance in which all focus was on her ears and what she could hear – the creak of shutters in the breeze, the nibbling of mice on parchment, little or nothing else. Wait, Syalin,
wait – the time will come soon enough.

Morgan was chafing to get away. A funerary banquet had been prepared. Most of the guests were already seated but still he had to smile at newly appointed magistrates or at one
of the many exiled members of the Lasgaart clan, all relatives of Mathilde and all deserving of some of his time, especially if the incumbent Baron Lasgaart were to prove false and need replacing.
Eventually, though, Mathilde gave him the nod and he was off like a stoat chasing a rabbit. Passing through several large rooms, up some stairs and down a dimly lit passageway, he came near to his
destination. The main bedrooms were close by, so it was no surprise when he nearly walked into Cheris, sitting reading by lamplight in a small room used as a lounge, strewn as it was with couches
and other comfortable seats chock-full of cushions.

‘Not banqueting?’ he asked hurriedly and ignorantly.

‘A large formal gathering is no place for a mage without her knights,’ she replied, wrinkling her brow at having to state the obvious. ‘I would scare your guests. The castle
staff are fairly accepting of me but people from outside the city are here. It would not be right, surely?’

‘You have me at a disadvantage; I was not thinking. Maybe the day will come when things will be different.’

‘But not in our lifetimes,’ she said, smiling sweetly at him.

‘No, I suppose not. Where is Rosamund?’

‘Gone for a wander. She has not gone far; she can smell the kitchens, so knows I will be looking for snacks for her later.’

Morgan politely excused himself, climbed a short flight of stairs, passed some bored-looking guards on routine patrol and finally got into his study, leaving the door slightly ajar in his
eagerness to start working.

The room was dark; it had only a couple of small leaded windows, so he lit a lamp and gathered up a sheaf of papers that he had prepared earlier. Pulling up a chair and with his back to the
larger part of the room he started to read.

By the Gods it was dull stuff. Perhaps Mathilde was right; it was all best left to the clerks. Never in a million years could he see his predecessor doing this. Lukas was a clever man but one
completely devoid of patience. Morgan laughed at the thought of him trying to wade through these turgid reports.

He heard a noise behind him, a soft impact of some sort, like a feather pillow thrown on to a bed. He turned and held the lamp up. Nothing but bookshelves and darkness; the evening was pressing
on. He continued to read.

He did try; he tried really hard but was finding everything he looked at stodgy and indigestible. He was feeling hungry, too; the kitchens weren’t that far away down the stairs and the
aroma of cooked meats was teasing him mercilessly. He was of a mind to ask someone to bring him up some food. Perhaps he could ask Cheris to join him; perhaps a little company would be agreeable,
after all. He stood and started to make his way to the door, which was close by. Just at that moment, though, something brushed his leg. He looked and saw little Rosamund purring away merrily. He
twisted and bent forward to pick her up to take her to Cheris, a movement that saved him from instant death, for it was at that very same moment that Syalin chose to strike.

Annoyed by the noise she had made in alighting from the beam, she had stayed stock still for minutes until Morgan was back at his work. Then, seeing him so occupied, she crept slowly and
noiselessly towards him, stiletto in hand. The back of the chair was protecting his heart and she was just wondering whether to change her knife and cut his throat when he stood and made to leave
the room.

She had a couple of steps to make up to get close to him but she moved swiftly, closing the ground in a trice. Without hesitating, she thrust her blade at his back, ready to pierce his heart.
Who would have known that at that very second he would bend ever so slightly to his right?

The blade drove into him regardless, punching through his entire body with its tip poking through his chest. He was wearing a light cotton shirt, pale in colour and offering no protection at
all.

Morgan reacted in a second as he felt the knife being withdrawn. He spun round as a crimson bloom started to spread on his shirt only to see this cloaked figure poised to strike again.

‘Guards!’ he bellowed. There was blood on his spittle; the assassin must have caught his lung. He was in real trouble here, he knew; there was something poised and relaxed in his
foe, a calmness despite the drama of the occasion. In battle it was always the quiet ones, the ones who did not shout and scream to mask their fear; they were the people to be really scared of. And
so it was here as the assassin thrust the knife at him, again a blow directed at his heart. In desperation, he put up his hand in defence only for the blade to pierce his palm. He had done enough
to check the momentum, however; the knife pricked his chest without entering it. He felt weight, though; his would-be murderer was pushing the knife, hand stuck to it and all, trying to push it all
the way to his heart again.

Morgan roared with the pain. He was balanced unsteadily on his feet and decided to take the only option he felt he had left.

He fell backwards on to the floor.

He barely felt the pain of his impact on to the thinly carpeted stone. He was free of the knife, his hand included, and now he had some time, although it was less than a second, to decide what
to do next.

Except that the assassin was faster. Morgan grabbed a chair leg with his good hand, trying to lever himself backwards. And for a split second he saw that the assassin’s cloak had partly
opened, though the hood remained in place – the creature trying to kill him was wearing a dress. If he’d had had time to register surprise, he would have done.

But she was on top of him again, this time with a knife in each hand. One went into his left shoulder, a thin needle of agony. He grabbed her arm with his ruined hand, desperately trying to stop
the killing blow – for this time kill him she surely must.

‘Did you call, my Lord?’ A bored guardsman had entered the room behind him; he heard more than one set of footprints; perhaps there were two of them.

The girl released him for a second; obviously thinking he was no match in his debilitated state and could be finished off later. As she stood, her hood fell backwards and he beheld her face
– fair, with eyes of tempered steel, colder than a northern frost. He watched her pull yet more knives from her cloak and throw them – twin blades hurled with the speed of a falcon
hurtling towards earth, chasing down a hapless pigeon. He heard a grunt and the sound of someone clattering to the ground, maybe more than one person. She seemed satisfied and he realised with
mounting concern that her attention was now directed again at him. She spoke, with an accent he had never heard before.

‘My, you have been trouble – saved by a blasted cat of all things. You will die now, though. Say hello to your gods for me.’

With that she leapt upon him, knife held high, her cruel eyes showing the merest hint of triumph.

‘
Falas Nelea!
’ Another voice, plaintive, female.

Cheris! he thought weakly, shutting his eyes. Too late surely, though. This time the dagger thrust was true; it would cut his heart in twain. He felt it, so hot it burned, burned like
Keth’s furnace. Was he there already?

His eyes opened again. The girl assassin was sitting astride him, staring in dumb amazement at a dagger hilt that no longer had a blade attached to it, merely a mass of shapeless metal. Glancing
at his bloodied chest he saw it covered by even more twisted soft metal. It had burned a hole in his shirt and blackened the flesh over his pectoral muscle. But he was alive. Cheris had melted the
blade; by the Gods, she had melted the blade.

More heavy footsteps and this time a half-dozen men burst into the room. The girl stood and fought them. How she fought them! Her daggers slashed one man’s face and caught the tendons in
another’s wrist. A sword swipe felled her, though, the flat of the blade catching her temple and sending her tumbling. The soldiers raised their swords ready to cut her to pieces.

‘No!’ called Morgan. ‘Take her alive! She has to be questioned! Do as I command!’

Catching a couple of surprised glances from the troops, Morgan finally felt consciousness floating away. Perhaps the girl was going to succeed after all. Was this what dying was like? He felt
Cheris kneel over him, heard her gentle voice.

‘Hold on, Morgan. Astania is coming. Just stay with us, just stay with us.’ She squeezed his good hand reassuringly.

Elsewhere he heard the sounds of the assassin being restrained; none too gently it would appear. His breath rattled in his throat and he spat out a gobbet of blood before drifting finally into
utter darkness.