A Secret Atlas (34 page)

The knife wielder’s smile vanished as Tyressa leaped from above and smashed both

booted feet into his face. He flew back, hitting the street hard; his knife sailed into the

darkness. She landed in a crouch and came up quickly. She shifted her sword from right

hand to left, then yanked Keles free of the nail.

“Run.”

He took off down the alley toward the livery stable. There was no mistaking his direction;

his training and blood had already let him assemble a map of Asath. Though his previous

visit hadn’t brought him to that part of town, his journey through it earlier had locked the

details in place. Three more alleys down, then turn left and on two more blocks.

Behind him came sounds of fighting, with the occasional clash of steel on steel. He

listened for the sound of Tyressa crying out, or the whirring of more throwing stars, but he

heard nothing of the sort. As the din of combat grew, he was tempted to turn and string his

bow, but he knew he’d be more of a hindrance than help in the dark.

He cut around the corner and the alley widened into a street. Directly ahead of him, a

block and a half down, two men stood in the middle of the street. Ruffians, knives drawn

or swords slipping from scabbards, bled into the street between the pair and Keles. He

stopped and turned, but saw more men behind him. Tyressa had inflicted enough damage

to keep those chasing her at a respectful distance, but they still came on.

She looked at him imploringly and waved him on, but then she turned the corner and

realized why he’d stopped. She immediately dropped to one knee to catch her breath,

then flicked her sword out to bat away a throwing star.

One of the men who had been chasing her took a step forward. “We are not required to kill

you.”

Tyressa stood again. “You’ll get past me no other way.”

The man shrugged. “Kill her. Take his legs.”

The dozen ruffians began to tighten their circle. Tyressa closed with Keles. “Get ready to

run again. We’re going at the stables. Now! Go!”

The two of them started to sprint. Her longer legs gained her a slight lead. The brigands

between them and the stable moved to oppose her. With a backhanded slash, she

battered one man’s sword aside and crushed his skull. She punched another man in the

face, dropping him, but there was no way she could win through, especially not with the

two men coming to reinforce the ones trying to stop her. The duo came with swords drawn

and moved with precision their comrades lacked.

Striding forward boldly, the younger of the pair whipped his sword forward, cutting down

one of the footpads. Another of them turned to oppose him, but the man struck so quickly

his thrust punctured his foe’s chest and withdrew even before his victim completed his

turn. A parry and slash killed a third man and, suddenly, the way to the stable stood clear.

Keles darted through the opening and Tyressa joined him. The two of them turned to see

the swordsmen moving to cut off pursuit. The elder swordsman turned to his companion

and spoke quietly. “You did well, Ciras. Guide them to the stables.”

The ruffians’ leader came to the fore and spared only a brief glance for his wounded and

dying confederates. “You are meddling in affairs not your own.”

The swordsman smiled. “Then you know my affairs?”

“Well, no, but . . .” The head ruffian frowned. “Get out of my way or I shall be forced to kill you.”

“It would seem, then, that our intentions coincide.” The swordsman nodded, then slid a

foot forward and set himself. “Ciras, you should be much closer to the stables than you

are now.”

“Yes, Master.” Ciras tugged at Keles’ shoulder. “My Master bid me to get you to the

stables. Let us go.”

“We can’t just leave him alone. There are seven of them, eight.” Keles shook his head.

“Seven. That one went down again.”

“There could be nine, or nine times nine. Come, we have to get clear.”

Keles backed away along the street with Ciras, and Tyressa came as well, though as

reluctantly as he did. The ruffians began to gather into a tight pack, preparing to rush the

lone man opposing them. Many of them were larger than he was, and almost all were as

well armed. Men wiped moist hands on their overshirts, then tightened grips on their

swords’ hilts. Some shifted and advanced in a formal guard, while others just hunched

forward and snarled. Onward they came, inch by inch, a mob ready to destroy the man in

front of them. Having drawn to within two paces, the leader screamed an inarticulate war

cry, and the human storm broke on the single swordsman.

The ruffians came at their protector in a tight crescent. The two men at each end shot out

and past, coming for the retreating trio. The five who remained came on as a solid wall—

all muscle, steel, and snarls. Keles watched without wanting to, utterly certain that Ciras’

Master would soon be dead.

The swordsman twisted to his right and moved ghostlike through the line of men opposing

him. Their blades flashed in the moonlight, and in such close quarters, it seemed

impossible they did not strike him. Eerily, no ringing of sword on sword sounded, and war

cries swallowed the sound of footsteps in the street.

Then one of the war cries curdled into a whimper. The sound’s shift mirrored the way the

group’s leader curled around a slit belly and fell. The swordsman emerged at the back of

the crescent with the leader’s sword in his other hand, then planted a foot and spun back

instantly. Two quick slashes cut down the central pair of swordsmen as they turned to face

him. Their blades flew as they reeled away, throat and chest opened respectively.

As their bodies thrashed on the ground, the quintet’s last two fighters turned back to

oppose him. The man on the right lunged, but the swordmaster slipped past the quivering

blade effortlessly. A quick cut opened that man from groin to breastbone. A return slash

took his head in time to silence his scream, but without erasing the expression of horror on

his face.

The last man assumed a stance that betrayed some training. He stamped his forward foot

and feinted a lunge. Then he pulled back, recovering from his feint, pulling his blade up to

protect him from waist to crown. Sparks flew as he blocked a forehand slash. He even

began to smile as the swordmaster whipped his right arm forward in a repetition of that

attack. He moved to block again.

The swordmaster’s second blade came around and down behind the block, severing the

man’s hands. Blood spurted as the sword dropped, then a third slash neatly cut the man’s

throat. Gurgling a sigh, the man slumped to the ground.

The last two men had slowed their charge as Tyressa and Ciras had moved to oppose

them. With their comrades’ deaths, their attack faltered entirely. As if sharing a mind, each

chose to bolt for the safety of shadows, one going left, the other right. They ran as if the

demons of the fifth Hell pursued them.

Only what pursued them was worse.

The swordsman dashed to his left and slashed, sending that man spinning to the dust with

a split spine. Without pause, he whirled and threw his acquired sword. It spun in a flat arc

and caught the last man in the legs. It tangled there, not cutting him, but tripping him up.

He smashed face-first into a building and rebounded to flop loose-limbed in the mouth of

an alley.

Without saying a word, the swordmaster drew a small knife and slit the throats of the last

two men. He squatted and cleaned his blades on the tunic of the man he’d tripped, then

approached them with his blades still bared. He stopped ten feet from them and bowed,

both deeply and long. “You will please forgive my haste and resulting sloppiness.”

Keles, utterly disbelieving what he had just seen, returned the bow. He would have

matched that of the swordsman in duration, but Tyressa remained down longer, and he

took his cue from her. He had the impression she would have held it for yet longer, but

lingering in the corpse-littered street was not a good idea.

As they straightened up, the swordsman sheathed his weapons. “I am Moraven Tolo. This

is my companion, Ciras Dejote. We do not need your names. Speaking them here would

not be a good idea just now.”

Keles opened his mouth, closed it, then shifted his shoulders uneasily. “How did you find

us?”

“Prince Cyron arranged for us to accompany you to Ixyll. I believe, Tyressa, you have

instructions from the Prince that were only to be opened in Gria?”

Tyressa nodded. “I was given such a packet.”

“It contains a letter of introduction for us. We had planned to reveal ourselves to you there,

but circumstances intervened.”

“I understand and thank you.” The Keru slid her own sword into its scabbard. “I suspected

the Prince would send others.”

Keles frowned. “You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”

She ignored him. “Were you on the
Catfish
?”

Moraven pointed to the stables. “There will be time on the road to explain. We should

hurry.”

The four of them trotted to the stables. Tyressa and Keles waited while Moraven and Ciras

picked out their horses. Part of the money paid to rent the horses would be returned to

them in Urisoti when they left the horses with the agent there. The fees were more than

the animals and tack were actually worth, so any incentive to steal them vanished.

The swordsmen had chosen well and obtained two horses for each of them. That would

allow them to move fast and complete the trip in less than the five days it normally took.

Keles fastened his pack to the rear of his saddle, then mounted up and joined the others.

No one said much until they were well out of Asath, which was when Tyressa repeated

her question about the riverboat.

Moraven nodded. “We were.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“You remember a young priest conducting his maiden aunt back to Gria? She had loudly

exclaimed about the wonders of Festival?”

Keles blinked. He remembered the lady well, for her voice penetrated bulkheads as if they

were rice paper and she repeated each story at least a dozen times. Even the actor

pretending to be him grew terse with her. She had been fat and slow, complaining of gout

and other maladies which, according to her, could be cured only through taking the waters

in some hot mineral spring high in the mountains southeast of Gria.

“That was you?”

The swordsman smiled. “It was. Ciras was the silent, suffering priest.”

Tyressa turned to look at Ciras, then back to Moraven. “If you were in disguise on the

boat, why drop it in Asath?”

Ciras answered. “My Master charged me with the duty of listening to all but himself. There

were two men on the
Catfish
from Asath, and they watched Keles Anturasi very closely.

We were not certain why, but then when the ship docked, an official delegation met Keles

and took him off to Lord-Mayor Yiritar’s house to stay. We suppose that the actor did

something there to let the mayor penetrate the deception.”

“It wasn’t what he did, but what he didn’t do.”

Keles hoped the darkness hid his blush. “When I was here before, I lost a bet with the

Lord-Mayor. He cheated, and we both knew it, so I promised him a dozen bottles of the

best brandy Moriande had to offer. I told him I would deliver it myself, and we both knew I

was lying since I would never return. I’d never mentioned the incident, and had quite

forgotten it. My double would not have known and likely did not respond correctly.”

Tyressa shook her head. “But why send people out looking for us?”

Moraven shifted in the saddle. “The Lord-Mayor, knowing he was deceived, looked for

everyone from the
Catfish
. He wanted to determine if the Prince had sent spies upriver.

He may have even supposed, when he learned the actor was not you, that you were the

spy.”

Keles nodded. “Who better to determine that he’s been taking the Prince’s money and

doing none of the work required? Of course, if he did, the river would be clear and his

town would cease to exist.”

The elder swordsman nodded. “That makes perfect sense. Thank you for solving that

riddle.”

“My pleasure. If you would not mind, you could solve one for me.”

“Yes?”

“Can you tell me what is in the sealed orders Tyressa is carrying?”

“I do not know. I know what I believe they say, but it is speculation.”

Keles smiled. “Go ahead, speculate.”

Moraven shook his head slowly. “No, I think not. There may be many dangers between

here and Gria. To speculate would distract us. What the Prince means us to know will be

revealed when we reach Gria.”

“What if we don’t get that far?”

“Then whatever he would have tasked us with is immaterial, isn’t it, Master Anturasi?”

Moraven laughed quickly. “Let us get to Gria and prove ourselves worthy of the Prince’s

command.”

27th day, Month of the Dog, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Thyrenkun, Felarati

Deseirion

Prince Pyrust pulled his black cloak more tightly around himself and snarled. A glance in a

looking glass reminded him that he now appeared very much like the model for the toy