The Seascape Tattoo (29 page)

Silith nodded, and the witnesses, who had begun to gather more closely, standing and sitting on the grass next to the cliff, laughed and leaned forward in anticipation.

Ah, well, might as well get this over with.

There was no question that Flaygod was a superb melee weapon, and intimidating to most. It wouldn't be to Silith, and a pointed weapon had advantages against one that depended on momentum. On the other hand, the design might work well for a man with greater speed and sufficient strength. Silith had far greater skill and was almost certainly stronger. But Flaygod actually made better use of strength than the sword. And Aros believed that, if skill was removed from the equation, he was actually faster.

Of course, skill wasn't removed from the equation …

He smiled. “Shall we begin?”

The general had barely said “yes” when Aros charged him, in quasi-berserker mode, trusting that the general's very skill would give him an advantage. The general would not want to injure him … too badly. And that meant that if he attacked full-out, Silith would have to use some of his skill just to keep the engagement safe. It was Aros's job to only
appear
to go berserk, because if there was an opening … if his ferocity did achieve its objective—

He would have to be careful to reserve enough control to prevent injury.

As the initial assault unfolded, the general's back was to the cliff, and as Aros adjusted his charge, the sun coming from the east was in Aros's eyes.

Those things combined to create a moment's disconcertion, a moment when, if Aros had been totally committed, the third clash of club upon sword could have ended in an upstroke that might have ripped away scalp.

Instead, it grazed Silith's hair, close enough that the audience groaned with appreciation. His club came down on the sword near the handle, and only a clever twist by the general kept it from being shivered out of his hand.

Aros groaned. That was all he had, and he knew that this next part would be no fun at all. The general grinned at him. “That … was very good. Try this.”

And then Aros's illusion that he was in any way faster than the general dissolved in a blur of steel. Silith's blade was here, there, everywhere at once. With some bare part of his mind Aros realized he was being paid a singular honor: Silith had been almost embarrassed, and this was a reassertion of dominance. Twice he could have disarmed Aros, but continued to blaze to demonstrate his supreme skill, keeping the Aztec on his toes:
here, there, high, low, left, right …

Never had he seen such a display. Only at the last moment did he realize that he had been too preoccupied with the leaping steel dart. He had been circled around until his back was to the cliff.

Silith paused, grinning, breathing a little heavy as Aros looked back over his shoulder at the waves below. It looked like a
looong
way.

Aros dropped Flaygod to the ground. He was covered with sweat, heaving for breath … but for some reason he was uncertain of, he was pretending, just a bit. He wasn't as tired as he was acting. And he had a glimmer of insight: if, and
if
was a nasty word, he had been able to keep the fight going another minute or two, Silith might very well have become fatigued.

Silith roared with appreciation. “And that was the most fun I've had in moons, young man. You are a righteous challenge!” He put his arm around Aros's shoulders as they applauded.

The food had been cooked in pits, bread and meat and corn and desserts of iced fruits, and there was plenty, and it was a feast such as Aros had rarely known.

Mijista Wile's hand was on his knee much of the feast. Her slanted gaze told him that she anticipated the night beyond as much as she did the meal itself. He liked that.

One at a time, the guests stood and said great things about a great man. At first he thought that this was reserved for those who had known him longest and best, but then realized that there was a pattern to the seating. He was not under the far awning with the guards and servants. He was here, with family and friends.

Somehow, he hadn't let himself understand fully what the meaning of that was until he realized that all eyes were upon him, and that he was expected to say something.

Suddenly unsure of himself, he rose to his feet. His throat seemed to close. What was he supposed to…?

“Go ahead,” Mijista whispered to him.

He nodded. “I came to Shrike,” he said. And laughed, because he noticed that a black shrike had landed on the grass before them, seemed to be watching them. It was a sign, he decided.

“I came here with nothing but my manservant and was welcomed into your hearts. Madam Silith and the general have been more than kind to a poor wanderer, giving me opportunities and connections I could not have found in a lifetime. Because they were willing to look beyond the surface.”

Damn it, he was starting to choke up. He didn't want that, was embarrassed by it, but the faces gazing at him, and the beautiful woman at his side who reached up to take his hand … the face of Madam Silith, with tears sparkling in her eyes, and that of the general himself, his broad face carved with a warm smile …

He felt like utter shit.

And he felt at home. He raised his cup. “To the greatest swordsman, the greatest soldier”—he nodded to Madam Silith—“the greatest husband, and the greatest man I've ever known. Happy birthday, General Silith!” And they applauded as he sat back down.

“That was very good,” Madam Silith said, leaning over.

“You are too kind,” he said.

“No. Not really. If I had been more kind…” She stopped herself, her voice suddenly choked.

But he knew what she had not said, what she wanted to say: “If I had thought of my son, instead of politics, I would not have sent you away. This would be your family.”

As if she knew he was reading her thoughts, without moving her lips, she went on. “But thank the gods, there are some mistakes that can be remedied.”

He did not ask her what she meant. He knew, and she knew that he did.

And there it was.

And if only he hadn't been about to betray them both, his whole world could have begun here and now.

There were three shrikes on the grass now, looking at him. Laughing, no doubt.

 

THIRTY-ONE

The Birds

After the meal, there was music and dancing. Aros was nimble enough but knew none of the court dances that the king and his court knew so well. The old man was spryer than he looked and seemed to enjoy the outing fully.

Aros's feet tangled about one another as he attempted the complex patterns of the various court dances. By the serpent! He preferred the simple quicksteps of the desert folk to these ankle twisters!

But Mijista Wile got him up when they played a more sprightly tune than what had induced the king and his lady to click their heels. The queen had died years before, and the king's mistress was certainly not destined for the throne. She was a big, handsome woman who supported him inconspicuously during the dance … or did she? Now he was guiding her. Stronger than he looked.

But it was the general and his lady who captured the day. Their affection and mutual regard was so clear and strong that it overshadowed all else. Whatever else was true about General Silith, he and his wife moved as one creature, a thing of grace.

Even the birds seemed to appreciate the day (since the time he had begun dancing, the shrikes seemed to have multiplied, until the trees around them were heavy with black feathers).

As sunset approached, the servants began to pack up the equipment. The king had already made his apologies and returned to the palace, and the rest of them were feeling that they had had a very good, full day … especially the Aztec wandering among them.

The steam carriage was hot and ready to go as he swung up on it, Mijista Wile at his side. He looked back at the trees. “Are they always like that?” he asked.

The trees were heavy with the birds now, like fruit trees burdened until the branches bow low. Thousands of small, bright, beady shrike eyes watched them, enough eyes to suck some of the joy from the day.

Aros's skin was crawling. They needed to be out of here. On their way. The king and his train were already well down the road.

The caravan proceeded with a sense of haste that was at odds with the leisurely way they had arrived. Birds were perched on the rocks, on the branches, and now, as the sun began to set, they wheeled in the sky itself.

Aros was just about to speak when he heard something, one tone that was low and high at the same time, soft and loud. Almost as if it was coming from inside his head rather than from an exterior source. It was unnerving …

It had an immediate effect. The birds attacked.

In their thousands, they swarmed, attacking every human being on that narrow trail and then converging on the general's carriage itself.

Silith had thrown himself over Jade as the shrikes attacked, wave after wave of feathered death, beaks and tiny claws tearing. Thousands darkened the sky. Individually, or even in dozens, they might not have been more than a nuisance.

Aros and the bodyguards did what they could to shield their charges, as the general roared and Madam Silith screamed. Man after man plunged off the edge of the roadway. “Back up the path!” Silith called, his face shrouded with his cloak as the birds dove mercilessly at his eyes and face.

Another scream, and another man plunged off the edge of the cliff, howling as he plummeted onto the rocks.

“Back up, back to the top!” the general screamed. The steam car was the most covered conveyance, and several piled in, while other guests fled down the mountain. Aros guarded his eyes as birds pecked at his arms, but he was able to note that the guests were pursued with less vigor.

This was deliberate. Conscious. A targeted attack.

The birds were after the general, and the rest of them were simply collateral damage. The general's party was almost obscured, and Silith's very attempt to protect his wife was placing her at risk.

Aros dropped out of the carriage so he could swing his
Macuahuitl
. His cloak wrapped around his face, he ran up the trail after the others. By the time he reached the top, the birds were wheeling and diving. Two more guests had fallen and were crawling toward the side of the mountain, birds pecking and clawing at them. The ground was littered with corpses, human and feathered.

With arm and cloak shading his eyes, he managed to spot where they had gone, an opening shaded by a clump of bushes.

“General!” Aros screamed, running faster, and as he neared the wall, the birds swarmed him more ferociously. He was blind by the time he staggered into the bushes.

They were just birds, just damned birds. This was a hell of a way to die …

A brawny arm snaked out of the bushes and dragged him back. The bushes were pushed aside to make room for him, and then tumbled back into place.

Aros lay on his belly, huffing for breath and shaking. Just birds. Birds, damn it!

He rolled over. The general was holding a torch: real fire. He looked at Aros with sympathy, his face torn and bleeding, but somehow managing to smile. “Perhaps they just wanted to wish me a happy birthday,” he said.

Madam Silith clung to him, blood running down her leg, Mijista Wile improvising a bandage.

“What is happening?” Madam Silith asked.

“It's a repeat of what happened in the desert,” the general said.

“Search yourself,” Aros said, and held the torch for the general as he patted himself down. Shadow flickered back in the tunnel. It stretched back farther than the light. “What is this place?” he asked.

“When we were building … certain things,” the general said. He had already removed his cloak and was searching pockets and weapons pouches. “We made a connection to a system of caves and explored them.”

“Why?”

The general looked at him carefully and seemed to be mulling a decision. “The Hundred have a project which must remain secret … for longer than you would believe. This tunnel was one of the means by which it might one day be discovered. So the tunnel must be sealed, eventually. I knew it of old, and in fact it was in investigating it that I found the location for the party.”

“Coincidence.”

The general had finished looking through his clothing. He was bruised and cut, and he limped. “I don't see anything,” he said.

The brush they had piled into the tunnel opening shook as wave after wave of birds thundered into it. They were crawling through, breaking their wings on the branches. Chittered, until Mijista Wile clapped her hands over her ears and screamed, “Make them stop! Make them stop, please!”

“It's that damned hunting lure again,” Aros said.

“Then if I strip?”

“It's too late,” Aros said. “It's all over you now. They'll kill you no matter what.”

Madam Silith clung to her husband. “What are we going to do?” she asked.

Silith stood up, bleeding, leaning back against the wall. “I can lead them away. You'll survive.”

Seven words to say good-bye.

Given the general's enormous vitality, in an hour he might have recuperated enough to be able to do it, but in the current condition there was no chance. None.

Unless.

“Give your clothing to me,” Aros said.

“What are you doing?” Silith was hurrying, stripping off his clothing.

“Here. Mijista, love, take the water. Mix it with earth and smear the general with mud. Dampen the scent.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to lead them away,” Aros said. Would Neoloth rage if Aros saved the general again? Ah, well.

Mijista clung to him, eyes pleading. “You can't. They'll kill you.”

“They have to catch me first,” he replied, wishing he felt as confident as he sounded.