Wings of Omen - Thieves World 06 (8 page)

Chenaya clenched her fists; scarlet heat rushed into her cheeks. "On Rankan soil I come and go as I please," she answered low-voiced, moving closer until only an arm's length separated them. Then, she turned the chalice and slowly poured the remainder of her wine on the floor between them. It shone thick and rich on the luxurious white tiles, red as blood. "And no one orders me." Her fingers tightened about the gold chalice as she held it under the Beysa's nose. The gold began to give and bend as she squeezed; then it collapsed under her easy exertion.

Chenaya cast the cup aside and waited for its clattering to cease. She no longer bothered to contain her fury; it found a natural vent in her speech. "Now, you understand me, you highborn slut. You think you're running things around here right now. That doesn't matter a bird's turd to me. If Kadakithis has developed a taste for painted tits, that's between you and him." She raised a finger, and a small, threatening little smile stole over her mouth. "But if I find he doesn't approve of your residence or your highhanded attitude, if he's not a fully agreeable party to your presence in his city"-the little smile blossomed into a grin of malicious promise-"then I swear by my Rankan gods I'll hook you and scale you and clean your insides like any other fish sold in the market." The Beysa's only response was an icy, unblinking stare. Then, a tiny green snake crawled up from the folds of her skirt and coiled around her wrist like an emerald bracelet. Eyes of vermilion fire fastened on Chenaya. A bare sliver of a tongue flicked between serpentine lips. It hissed, revealing translucent fangs that glistened with venom.

"Quite a pet," Chenaya commented, undaunted. She stepped away then and drew a slow breath, willing her anger to abate. "Look," she said. "I've no great desire to make an enemy of you. I don't even know you. If you care for Kadakithis, then you have my good will. But if you're using him, watch out for yourself." She drew another slow breath and sighed. "I'm leaving now. I'm so glad we had this little talk."

She turned her back on the Beysa and strode from the apartment. The guards waited in the hall beyond and escorted her through the palace, across the grounds, and to the main gate. Her litter and four immense and heavily muscled men clad only in sandals, crimson loincloths, and the broad, carved leather belts that were the fashion of Rankan gladiators waited just beyond.

"Dayme!" she hailed the largest of the four. "Come see the fish-eyes they hire for guards around here!"

Coming to his mistress's side, Dayme laid a hand on the pommel of his sword. A nasty grin, not unlike the one Chenaya wore, twisted the comers of his lips. He towered head-and-shoulders above the tallest of the Beysa's men. "Not much to them, is there. Lady?"

Chenaya patted the closest Beysib on the shoulder before she stepped through the concealing silks of her conveyance. "But they're very sweet," she replied.

"Shupansea!" Molin Torchholder raged. His normally reserved and passive face reddened, and he shook-a fist at his niece. "She rules the Beysib people. When will you ever learn to hold your cursed tongue, girl?" Chenaya muttered an oath. Her father had brought Molin home after concluding the purchase of the estate, and she'd made the mistake of mentioning her exchange with the Beysa. She hadn't had a moment's peace in the past hour. Not even the sanctity of her dressing room gave her reprieve as he followed her through the house, questioning, berating.

She gave him a blistering glare. If the old priest had the balls to invade her chambers, he was going to get an eyeful. She ripped the silken garments from her body with an angry wrench and cast them at his feet.

Molin sputtered and kicked the shredded clothing aside, ignoring her bare flesh.

"Damn everything, you spoiled brat!" He grabbed her arm and spun her around when she started to turn away. "You're not in Ranke anymore. You can't lord it over people as you once did. There are different political realities here!"

"Brother," Lowan Vigeles spoke from the threshold, "you are in my house, and you'll speak civilly to my daughter. And you'd best release her arm before she breaks yours."

Molin gave them both a frosty stare, but he abandoned his grip. Chenaya flashed a false smile and moved to one of many chests pushed against the walls. There had been no time to unpack, but she knew the right one and opened it. She pulled out a bundle of garments, finely sewn fighting leathers, and began to dress.

"Brother," Molin began again in a more moderate tone. "Niece. I beg you to trust my judgment in these matters. You're very new to the ways of Sanctuary." He folded his arms and made a show of pacing about the room. "Your news of the Emperor's murder is terrible, indeed."

"The entire royal family," Lowan Vigeles reminded, "at least those within Theron's reach. Chenaya and I barely escaped, and they may hunt us here. You too. Brother."

Molin frowned; then the frown vanished. "That's why we need the Beysib. They will protect Kadakithis. They are completely loyal to Shupansea, and she seems to dote on the Prince these days."

Chenaya shot her father a look; a barely perceptible nod of his head silenced her. "What about the 3rd Commando?" Lowan insisted carefully. "They placed Theron on Ranke's throne, and they know Kadakithis is the legitimate claimant to that throne. Did Theron truly exile them, or are they here to commit another murder?"

Molin frowned again and rubbed his hands. "I know nothing about them, except that they were originally formed by Tempus Thales when he served the Emperor." Chenaya stomped into a boot. "Tempus!" she spat. "That butcher!" Molin Torchholder raised an eyebrow. "How many have you slain in the arena since I've been gone, child? For Tempus Thales, death is a matter of war or duty." He looked down his nose at her. "For you, it is a game."

"A game that fattened your own purse," she shot back. "Do you think I don't know about the bets you placed on me?"

He chose to ignore that and turned to her father, extending his hands. "Lowan, trust me. Kadakithis mustn't leam about his brother's death. You know what a young, idealistic fool he is. He would ride straight to Ranke to claim his throne, and Theron would cut him down like late wheat." He turned to Chenaya now, genuine pleading in his voice. "Better to keep him here, safe in Sanctuary, until we can formulate a plan that will give him his birthright." With every word that fled his mouth, Chenaya remembered the small green serpent the beynit her uncle called it-that wound about the Beysa's wrist. Molin was a snake; she knew that from long experience. He did not hiss so horribly, and he concealed his fangs, but nonetheless, she felt him trying to tighten his coils about her.

"Uncle," she breathed, struggling with the other boot, "you make a big mistake to assume me such a fool. I know my Little Prince far better than you will ever know him. I did not go to the palace to tell him of events in the capital, but to see a friend I've missed." She stood up and began to buckle the straps that were more decoration to her costume than utilitarian. "And to get a feel for the grounds and the palace itself. I plan to spend some time there. Your precious Beysib will not be the only protection Kadakithis has to count on." She took a sword from the chest, a beautifully Grafted weapon, gold-hiked with tangs carved like the wings of a great bird and a pommel stone gripped in a bird's talons. She fastened its belt so it rode low on her hip. Lastly, she donned a manica, a sleeve of leather and metal rings favored by arena fighters; a strap across her chest held it in place. "Theron will never reach him; I promise you that."

"My niece is confused about her sex," Molin sneered. "Can a common gladiator guard the Prince better than the garrison? Or the Hell-Hounds? Or our Beysib allies?"

She shook back her long blonde curls and set a circlet of gold on her brow to hold the hair from her face. Mounted on the circlet so it rode the center of her forehead was a golden sunburst, the symbol of the god Savankala. "I am no common gladiator," she reminded him coldly, "as you well know, old weasel." Much as she regretted ever telling him, Molin was the only man to share the secret of her dream and the rewards given to her by the chief of the Rankan pantheon. Himself. But she was very young then, only fourteen, and could be forgiven the foolish confidence. He was a Rankan priest; who better to tell about the dream and Savankala's visitation and the three wishes he granted her? Moi . had tested her; he knew the truth of her dream. She ran her hands teasingly over her breasts, reminding him of the first of those wishes. "Did I not grow into a beauty. Uncle? Truly, Savankala has blessed me."

She saw her father frown. To him, her words were mere boastfulness. Though he disapproved, he was used to such from her. He leaned his bulk against the doorjamb. "You're going out?" he said, indicating her dress.

"It's nearly dark," she answered. "I'm goings to the temple. Then, there's a lot to leam about this city." She turned that mocking smile on Molin. "Wasn't it you. Uncle, who told me nighttime is best for prying secrets?"

"Certainly not!" he snapped indignantly. "And if you go out dressed like that you'll find nothing but trouble. Some of the elements in this town would kill just for those clothes, let alone that fancy sword or that circlet." She went back to the open chest, produced two sheathed daggers, and thrust them through the ornamental straps on her thigh. "I won't be alone," she announced.

"I'm taking Reyk."

"Who's Reyk?" Molin asked Lowan Vigeles. "One of those giants you brought with you?"

Lowan just shook his head. "Take care, child," he told his daughter. "The street is a very different kind of arena."

Chenaya lifted a hooded cloak from her chest and shut the lid. As she passed from the room, she raised on tiptoe to peck her father's cheek. She gave nothing to Molin Torch-holder but her back.

It wasn't sand beneath her boots, nor was there any crowd to cheer her on, yet it was an arena. She could feel the prey waiting, watching from the shadowed crannies and gloom-filled alleyways. She could hear the breathing, see the dull gleam of eyes in the dark places.

It was an arena, yes. But here, the foe did not rush to engage, no clamor of steel on steel to thrill the spectators. Here, the foe skulked, crouched, crawled in places it thought she couldn't see: tiny thieves with tiny hearts empty of courage, tiny cutthroats with more blade than backbone. She laughed softly to herself, jingling her purse to encourage them, taunting them as she would not a more honorable foe in the games.

They watched her, and she watched them watching. Perhaps, she thought, ;// throw back my hood and reveal my sex.... Yet she did not. There was much she had to do this night and much to leam.

The Avenue of Temples was dark and deserted. She located the Temple of the Rankan Gods easily, a grand structure that loomed above all others. Two bright flaming braziers illumined the huge doors at its entrance. However, hammer as she might with the iron ring, no one within answered. She cursed, m the capital the temples neverclosed. She slammed the ring one last time and turned away.

"Father of us all," she prayed tight-lipped as she descended the temple stairs,

"speak to me as you did that night long ago." But the gods were silent as the city streets.

She paused to get her bearings, and realized the high wall on her right must be part of the Governor's compound. The park on her left, then, would be the Promise of Heaven, or so she had heard it called earlier as she rode past it to her home. There, men who could not afford a higher class of prostitute haggled for sexual favors from half-starved amateurs. She shrugged, passed the park by, following the Governor's wall until she came to another street she recognized from her day's tour, the Processional.

She stopped again, looked up at the sky, and marveled at how brightly the stars shone over this pit of a city. Though she prayed to Savankala and swore in his name, the night fascinated her. It had a taste and a feel like no other time. She whistled a low note. A fleet shadow glided overhead, eclipsing stars in its path, and plummeted. She extended the arm on which she wore the manica, and Reyk screeched a greeting as he folded his wings and settled on her wrist. She smacked her lips by way of reply and attached a jess from her belt to his leg.

"Do you feel it, too, pet?" she whispered to the falcon. "The city? The dark?

It's alive." She smacked her lips again and Reyk fluttered his wings. "Of course you do." She looked around, turning a full circle. "It seethes in a way Ranke never did. We may like it here, pet. Look there!" She pointed to a shadow that slipped furtively by on the opposite side of the street. She hailed it; it paused, regarded her, moved on. Chenaya laughed out loud as it passed into the gloom.

With Reyk to talk to, she wandered down the Processional, amazed how the few strangers she spied crept from doorway to doorway in their efforts to avoid her. She walked in the middle of the paving, letting the moonlight glint on the hilt of her sword, both a temptation and warning to would-be thieves. A peculiar odor wafted suddenly on a new breeze. She stopped, sniffed, walked on. Salt air. She had never smelled it before; it sent a strange shiver along her spine. The sea was often in her thoughts. She dreamed of it. Her steps faltered, stopped. How far to the wharves, she wondered? She listened for the sound of surf. In the stories and tales, there was always the surf, foaming, crashing on the shore, pounding in her dreams.

She walked on, sniffing, listening.

At last, on the far side of an immense, wide avenue she spied the docks and the darkened silhouettes of ships in port. Bare masts wagged in the sky; guy lines hummed in the mild breeze that blew over the water. No crashing surf, but a gentle lapping and creaking of wooden beams made the only other sounds. New smells mingled in the air with the salt: odors of fish and wet netting, smoke from fishermen's cook fires or from curing, perhaps. She could not spot the fires if they still burned. Only a dim-lighted window here and there perforated the dark.