Bloodsongs (17 page)

She stole down one way, feeling with her sword for the expected wires. She followed that course until it opened into another intersecting alley and knew she had chosen wrong. She retraced her steps and decided on another way. It, also, was the wrong choice.

Patiently, she prowled along the third path. Her weapon suddenly scraped on the thin, deadly barrier. She paused for a moment and thought, then fastened her sword belt around her hips and drew the blade. The metal made a silver blur as it rose and fell. The barbed wire snapped with a cold
ting
that was instantly smothered in the jingling of the warning bells. She took her time, though, located the lower trip wire, gave it similar treatment. Sparks flashed as her sword's point struck a cobblestone.

The way was clear if she needed a quick retreat.

She knew, now, where the Rathole was this night. She crept silently along until she arrived at the door. Light showed beneath the jamb; the sound of merriment echoed softly within. Perhaps they had not heard the bells. It was a night for thieves, the gate sentries had told her. They must be celebrating their pickings.

The alley was narrow, the opposite wall close. Frost leaned her back against it, felt the strength swell within her. She sucked her lip, reached out, and rapped firmly on the old wooden door. Muscles tensed; her body fired with purpose and power. Her fingers flexed around her sword's hilt.

The door opened a crack, spilling light into the alley. Illstar's doorman peered out with one eye. Frost's booted foot lashed out with terrific force. The door smashed inward, crushing the doorman's nose, sending him sprawling in a spray of blood and squeals of pain.

“Illstar!” She stepped over the threshold. The firelight from the lamps rippled along the length of her bare blade. She counted them at a glance: eleven men, a handful of women, and Dromen on his throne, King of Thieves. Her voice rolled through the room, chilling. “You owe me, Illstar!”

Raul reached her first. More bluster than brains, he had never been much of a thief. Despite his impressive build, he was even less of a warrior, and she wondered how he had ever managed to kill two soldiers. His sword hissed free of its sheath, carved an arc through the smoky air toward her head. She gave him barely a notice, dropped to one knee, and raked the edge of her weapon through his taut gut. He staggered, his mouth forming a wide, round hole, with scarcely time to acknowledge the spreading red wound before her blade slashed again upward and through his throat.

She stepped away from him, and her eyes locked on Dromen Illstar. Two more men attacked her from either side. The flash of metal in the corner of her eye warned her. She spun, bringing her sword up and across, to intersect not her foe's blade, but the hand that held it. A scream of shock and agony ripped from the unfortunate fool as he collapsed to the floor, groping for his severed limb.

She turned to meet the third attacker. His sword went up. So did her foot, ruining his manhood. His weapon tumbled from numbed fingers; he doubled, clutching between his legs. Her sword bit deeply through the exposed back of his neck.

A rush of motion on all sides, and the Rathole was suddenly empty. Only Dromen Illstar remained and a whimpering wretch curled in a corner insanely trying to rejoin hand and wrist.

Dromen gazed at her, outwardly calm, but the blood had drained from his face. “I told you,” he said, unable to keep a slight quaver from his voice, “it comes back. No matter how old you get or how long it's been, it all comes back.” He lifted his cup to her and drank.

“It comes back,” she agreed. She strode up to him, gathered a handful of his robe, and wiped her blade clean. “You cheated me, Dromen,” she said. “You told the garrison, and they were in Soushane before me, waiting for my son. I never even got near Kel. Your information was useless!” She took the wine cup from his hand and drank, watching him carefully over the rim, almost daring him to try something. When the vessel was empty she cast it over her shoulder. It clattered on the floor.

“Now you're going to make up for that by giving me different information.” Dromen started to protest, but she pushed him backward into his seat. “Don't tell me about keeping confidences or privileged sources, either. You were gone more than a month searching for word of my son, and I'll bet you know a lot more than you told me.” She waved the point of her blade under his nose. “I know you, Dromen Illstar, and you always keep something back for yourself.” She caught his hand in an irresistible grip and began to squeeze. “Well, this time you're going to share, old friend.”

Dromen said nothing, just stared at the blade and licked his lips when she slowly set the razor edge on the delicate webbed flesh between the two smallest fingers of his captured hand. “Oroladian cut off my husband's fingers from his right hand,” she told him coldly. “But I'm not going to cut yours off. . . .” She smiled grimly, a cruel smile full of dark promise. “I'm going to saw between your bones until the edge of my sword meets your wrist. Then I'll separate the next two fingers.”

A bead of sweat rolled on his temple. “You're not in a very good mood, are ye, Captain?”

She shook her head.

Dromen's pink tongue darted out, dampened the corners of his mouth. “Of course, I'll tell ye everything.”

She didn't free his hand or even remove her blade. “You were always a reasonable man,” she admitted grudgingly.

“That wasn't very reasonable of ye.” He gestured to the several bodies whose blood had spoiled his floor. “If ye needed somethin' more than what ye laid out in the original agreement, ye shoulda known ye only had t' ask.”

Her sword nicked his flesh. A tiny drop of scarlet welled and seeped down the back of his hand over his wrist. Dromen's eyes widened fearfully; he tried to pull away, but she held him firmly. “I thought it best to impress you, old friend,” she said. “You betrayed me, and I lost another friend because of that. The garrison must have known hours before you told me. They were already hidden and in position when Telric and I arrived.” She twisted the blade a little, drawing another cut on the inside of his smallest finger. “And I'm very mad about that, Dromen. You'd better tell me where I can find Kel again, or give me the name of someone who can. You have contacts who can find out if you don't know yourself.” She smiled, fixing him with a hard look. “Though I suspect you do know.”

Illstar sat stiffly, tense, though he put on a broad grin. With his free hand he pointed to the corpses. “They've gold on ‘em,” he said lightly. “Do ye plan to take it?”

Again, she shook her head.

“In that case, let me pour us some wine,” he suggested with uncertain calm, “then I'll sing ye a song and tell ye a tale. Anything t' please my favorite captain.” He waved at the dead men again. “There's the coin t' pay my fee.”

Frost glanced slowly around the Rathole. The man whose hand she had severed lay unconscious, very pale, bleeding freely from the wound. He would be dead shortly. She backed to the entrance, stepping over Raul's body, threw the lock bolt, and dropped a security bar across it. She glared at Dromen, folded her arms, and waited, still grasping her bare blade.

Illstar affected an air of calm, poured wine from a sectarius into small vessels that rested nearby on a side table. He offered her one, smiling, and relaxed on his throne.

“You taste it first,” she ordered.

Dromen cocked an eyebrow and frowned. Then his smile returned. He raised the cup he'd extended to her, placed it to his lips, and drank delicately.

She crossed the room and took the wine from him. She sipped a little. Dromen Illstar stocked only the best for his customers—the best he could steal, anyway. The wine's heady bouquet filled her senses. She sipped again, savoring the nectarous delight. The point of her sword came to a rest on the floor; she leaned slightly on the hilt. “Sing me your song and tell me your tale,” she ordered her unwilling host, “and the melody better please me.”

A racking cough shook Dromen before he could speak; his wine sloshed from his cup, soiling his sleeve. A sound rustled in his throat like dry leaves in a wind. His hand trembled violently. But finally, he managed to control himself and he downed a swallow of liquor. That seemed to still his seizure. The old man sagged back into his seat.

“The wages of sin . . .” he said with a sigh. He drank more wine, then with a smirk gave a wry twist to a popular saying of philosophers in his Korkyran homeland. “Are fun, frivolity, and joyful self-indulgence.” He waved a hand at nothing in particular and smacked his lips. “The lung rot gets the pious man and the profligate. Best t' fill life's cup t' the brim while ye can, right, Captain?” So saying, he refilled his vessel and raised it in a silent toast.

Her sword's point rose from the floor, came to rest on the inside of Illstar's thigh. She ran the flat of the blade suggestively back and forth as she spoke. “Don't stall me, Dromen. You'll make me irritable.”

His gray head shook. “You've been in the streets tonight, Captain. You've seen how empty they are? People are scared. Your son did that t' them.” He took another drink. A dribble rolled down his chin, and he wiped it away with his sleeve. “Ye know how many garrison troops made it back from Soushane?” He waited until she shook her head. “Only two,” he informed her. “Two men out o' more than a hundred. And they sang such a song, ye should know. All o' magic an' sorcery an' such.” Suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed. “An' it spread like fire through the streets an' taverns.”

“A different kind of fire spread through the streets of Soushane,” she said. “The garrison never had much of a chance. It was magic all right, and a goodly number of soldiers burned to death before they got the chance to draw steel.”

Dromen regarded her with cool respect. “I've known ye, Captain, an' because ye say it, I'll believe ye. I remember that dagger ye used t' carry. Beautiful thing, but horrible, an' reekin' o' sorcery. Still, it made the difference in many a fight.” He pointed to her weapon belt, where Demonfang used to ride her hip. “What became o' the thing?”

Her sword's point slid higher along his thigh, more eloquent than words.

Dromen lifted the blade carefully between thumb and forefinger and placed it on a less threatening part of his anatomy. When he released it, he smiled. The smile vanished as the blade slid right back.

“Well, no matter,” he admitted. “I digress. Ye want t' know about your son.” He winked over the rim of his cup. “An' you're right. I know somethin' that might help.”

Dromen paused and refilled his cup yet again. His eyes betrayed a fine, alcoholic glaze as he lifted the beverage and drank. Frost wondered if it calmed his fear. Did he think she meant to kill him? Did he know how close to hell he was? She felt the leather wrapping on her weapon's hilt, suddenly damp with the sweat of her palms. Her eyes met his, and she saw something there.
Yes
,
he knows
, she realized,
and he plays with it
,
dares it and invites it
.

“Ye know, the Keleds are like naive little children in matters o' magic. There isn't much o' it in this land. Gods know why. The steppes just don't seem t' breed wizards the way mountain country or forest lands do. When the people o' Kyr heard it was magic that crushed the garrison, they went running for their homes and bolted the shutters. It was almost funny t' a more experienced man o' the world like myself.”

He winked at her again, sipped his wine, and continued. “I did wonder why ye ever named your son after this land. Keled-Zaram is a nation o' sheep. But he's no sheep, that one. Your Kel is a wolf.”

She removed her sword from the old man's thigh and reached for the wine sectarius. She didn't want Illstar drunk before he completed this meandering tale. She raised her own cup to her mouth and downed some of it. “Do you speak Rholarothan?”

“Never had your gift for tongues,” he confessed.

“Funny you should mention it in just that way.” One hand strayed to the leather bag suspended on the thong under her tunic. She felt the outline of Kimon's finger, and a chill passed through her. “His father named him,” she explained. “It's a Rholarothan tradition for the father to name his sons, and the mother has no involvement at all. He didn't insist on many of his homeland's traditions, so I gave in on this matter, and never questioned his choice. But in the language of Rholaroth
Kel
means ‘wolfling.' I honestly don't know if my son is named for Keled-Zaram or for a wolf cub.”
Or
, she thought grimly,
for the father of the demon baby I once carried in my body
.

Illstar nodded. “He is aptly named, then. Your wolfling has grown, however, an' he leads a mongrel pack of misfits and malcontents, mercenaries no respectable army would hire.”

“But why?” she pressed. “To what purpose?”

He shrugged. “That's the mystery, Captain. The obvious answer would be that he wants the throne. But he goes about it in a peculiar way. His attacks have no focus. He strikes at random from one part o' the kingdom t' the other. Lately, he's been workin' these parts.” He tapped his chin with a finger. “It makes no sense, though. Soushane, for example—jus' a small town with only their fields and flocks t' support ‘em. No industry, no armory, no garrison. No threat o' any kind. Why even bother?” He stared down into his cup, but he didn't drink. “Some say your son is the chaos-bringer himself, Gath, the god o' madness. He kills and pillages for the pleasure in it.” He waved a hand and looked away from her. “He's your flesh and blood. Maybe ye can understand him.”

“I can't,” she admitted. “But I intend to get some answers.”

Dromen twirled his cup between his hands and smiled. “Then your supply sergeant will supply ye one more time. But I'll warn ye, Captain. The man who gave me this information has long since departed Keled-Zaram. Fail this time, an' I can do nothin' more for ye.” He drained his cup and gestured for the sectarius. Frost held it away a moment, then relented and surrendered it. “My informant gave—or rather, sold—the names o' two towns unfortunate enough t' have attracted your son's interest. Soushane was one.” He filled his cup again, talking as he poured. “In three nights you'll find him again at Dakariar.” He set the sectarius aside and fixed her with a sharp gaze. “I've a daughter in Dakariar, Captain. That's the real reason I told the garrison about Soushane. I wanted him stopped.” Dromen peered into his cup, then suddenly tossed it away. Red wine splashed on the walls, staining them. “Damn stuff has made me maudlin,” he rumbled, scowling.