Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (18 page)

Dorin stilled himself, listening for any others.

Tiles shifted from the opposite edge and the wrestler reared up there. Dorin noted they were on either side of him. He drew two mid-weight throwing blades, called, ‘Close enough.’

The fop bowed. His smile glimmered bright in the moonlight. ‘What news?’ he asked.

‘The priest is dead.’

The fop brushed at his silk jacket. ‘Really? What proof do you bring?’

This threw Dorin for an instant until he waved a hand in dismissal. ‘No one takes the heads any more.’

‘Then how can we know?’

‘Because I say so, and my word as a professional should be good enough.’

This maddening fellow now studied his fingernails. ‘Do you have any references?’

Dorin extended a blade to each of them.
Should’ve taken half in advance
. ‘I’m not the thief here.’

The fop just waved to his cohort who started forward, hands out, in a wrestler’s advance. Dorin was puzzled once more. Did this fellow really think he could just walk up and grapple him? Unsettled, he shifted, retreating across the rooftop. ‘What is this? I’m the one who should be stalking you.’

‘Your time in the city is over, little night-blade,’ said the fop. ‘We’re here to send you on your way. Go, and live. Stay . . . and die.’

Run? Run from these two? He could take them. Still, their manner unnerved him. He started angling his retreat over towards the fop. The man raised his hands as if straightening his jacket, but Dorin’s teachings from his old master included typical preparatory gestures from the main Warrens, and he recognized a Thyr summoning of power. He threw up an arm over his eyes.

Blazing pink-tinged light struck him almost physically. For a flash of an instant he thought he glimpsed the length of his ulna through the flesh of his forearm. Then starry shimmering darkness. He was blind.

He spun, but not quickly enough, as burly arms closed round him in a crushing embrace, yanking him from his feet. Mages! Damned mages always caused him such trouble! His arms were clenched to his sides but a number of hidden pockets remained in reach. He chose one, twisted, and drew his arm up between them, then tore the packet in his fingers and blew the last of his breath straight out in a great gust of air.

He was tossed aside in a roar of coughing and spluttering. He staggered off, blinking, his eyes watering uncontrollably. He was blind – but not utterly so. He could see shadings now: blurry slabs of light and dark.

The wrestler was gasping and coughing off somewhere. ‘What is the matter with you?’ demanded the fop. The side! Where was the roof’s edge! If he could just reach the lip . . .

Someone tripped him from behind and he fell sprawling.

‘Would you
get
him?’ the fop sighed, exasperated.

‘Dried powder of the essayan flower,’ the wrestler grumbled in his far deeper voice. ‘Been a long time since I’ve felt that.’ And he coughed anew, gasping.

‘Get him!’

‘Couldn’t we just break his arms and throw him out of the city?’

‘Fine. Do it.’

‘Okay. Come here, little man.’

Dorin shuffled away on his back to buy time, as already his vision was returning. He’d had just enough warning to prepare for that blast of Thyr-summoned light, and now his eyes were recovering. The wrestler was closing. His tread was heavy on the tiles, his hands extended to either side.

‘I am sorry, little man,’ said the fellow in his gravelly voice, ‘but m’lady will not tolerate assassins in her city.’

City mages! He was facing
two
blasted city mages! But why then the contract?

Showing startling speed, the wrestler closed, snatching his ankle. Dorin readied to cut through the fellow’s entire forearm and wrist in what would normally be a mortal wound.

Three crossbow bolts thumped into the man’s chest and he staggered backwards, releasing Dorin’s ankle.

Dark figures fell one by one to the rooftop and straightened. Their black gauzy wrappings rippled and blew about them like clouds of obscuring murk.

Nightblades. A full flight of them.

The Kanese had arrived.

Dorin tensed to run but, rubbing his eyes, he saw that not one of the Kanese assassins was focused upon him. Now that the big fellow was down, all were closing on the poor wretched fop who surely wouldn’t last an instant. Yet, somehow, a veritable storm of shot bolts and thrown blades blew past the skinny mage as he calmly turned his shoulders and tilted his head in a dismissive, almost lazy, dance of avoidance.

The man was not running from a full flight of Nightblades, Dorin realized, almost in awe.

Then the mage raised his hands.

Dorin spun to press his face into the tiles and cover his head. But it was not light that washed over him. What came instead was a furnace roar and wave of kiln heat that blew agony across his back. He turned over to see an arc of smoking heaps. And in the centre stood this fop city mage, smiling. The slate tiles of the roof glowed red in a circle about him, hissing and crackling. As Dorin watched, amazed, the fellow pulled off his jacket, which was aflame, and calmly began rolling up his sleeves as if preparing for a very dirty task ahead.

This was war, Dorin realized. A mage war. One he was woefully unprepared for. He began crawling for the roof’s edge.

More Nightblades landed to his right, drew back their arms to throw at the fop mage. Then, incredibly, the other one rose anew, the wrestler, bearing his forest of crossbow bolts. He smashed two heads together and they burst like ripe grapes, spattering wet mulched fluids across the glowing hot tiles, hissing.

Dorin kicked himself to his feet and jumped to the next roof. In his still blurry vision he misjudged the distance and landed hard. He straightened slowly, winded.

A Nightblade landed ahead of him. He crouched, drawing a throwing blade. Yet even as he did so the words of his old master came to him and he realized his mistake:
Nightblades never work alone
.

Something stabbed into his back, just over his right hip. He staggered to a chimney, let his arms fall. The Nightblades closed.

Dorin snapped up his hands in twin throws, then instantly readied two more weapons. But he did not need to. His aim had been true. Both lay dead.

He limped off, a hand pressed to his side.

A crossbow bolt bit his arm. Another actually passed between his fingers as he staggered. Perched on a steep roof of red ceramic tiles, he turned to confront his pursuers.

Four Nightblades landed about him. He feigned flight, rolled, threw, and straightened. Three now moved in a circle about him while a limp figure tumbled from the roof. He edged his head aside as one gestured. Something kissed his neck in passing.

Close on any fellow practitioner!
came the words of that damned wiry old man, and Dorin faked losing his footing, tumbling, and leaped upon the one slightly lower than him. They fell, exchanged a flurry of blows and blocks, forearms locked against each other, then Dorin braced one foot, skidding, and the other continued on to fall over the lip of the three-storey roof, leaving a smear of bright arterial blood behind.

The remaining two exchanged glances, and slowly edged away from one another, twin blades readied.

Dorin tried to steady his breath but his side was screaming. Cold wetness smeared his leg. He felt at his back and came away with a naked razor-thin blade that he threw at one, who blocked it.

Rage and fear combined were keeping him on his feet. Yet there was also something more.
This
was what he’d been yearning for all these years.
This
was what he’d trained for all his life. These were his peers. Now was his time to finally prove himself.

He struck a ready stance, blades reversed, hidden behind his wrists, and charged the one on his right, who met him with a spinning defence. A kick struck his shoulder sending him down towards the left and he accepted the impetus, accelerating it, dragging his blade across the man’s front as his feet flew over his head. He landed on the tiles as the fellow curled round his midriff, shrinking into a knot and sliding down the steep roof.

Dorin drew breath, steadied himself. A blow struck him exactly at his wound, eliciting a grunt of savage pain, and he staggered, almost losing his footing. He spun to face his last opponent.

This one regarded him from knife-fighting range. He, or rather she, raised the bloodied blade to her face, saluting him.

He answered the salute, but weakly, hardly able to remain upright, his vision dimming.

‘You are good,’ she said. ‘Do you work for the Protectress?’

‘No. I’m independent.’

‘There are no more independents. Those days are gone. Your style is very old, classical. Who was your teacher?’

In answer, Dorin raised both blades and closed. He struck and blocked a series of blows, none definitive. Knowing that he would faint at any moment, his opponent freely gave ground, skidding across the tiles. Enraged, Dorin threw himself at her, but his weakened leg gave and he slipped. She reversed a blade above him for a thrust.

A shocking piercing shriek sounded then, jolting Dorin. The Nightblade screamed as something struck her face, latched hold, and dragged her backwards in a flurry of beating wings. She tumbled off the roof still clutching at her face and howling her agony.

Weaving, his vision darkening, Dorin struggled to blink back the night. He took hold of a ledge and let himself down the side of the building, hand over hand, barely aware. He thumped to the littered alley below and staggered off.

He knew he was almost delirious with shock and loss of blood. He limped on, sliding along the brick walls. Faces gaped at him then disappeared. Narrow alleyways tilted and swam in his vision. Waves of darkness pulled at him. Yet he fought to remain upright, a hand pressed to his side, his leg numb.

A girl took his arm, whispered, urgent, ‘This way . . . come.’ He had no choice but to submit to her pull. A set of plain wooden stairs reared before him like a fortification. Small hands pushed at him. A voice was begging, weeping, ‘Come, come!’

A final insurmountable barrier: a ladder. He pressed his face against the wooden upright, slurred, ‘Could you make this any harder?’

A burst of choked laughter. Then, fierce, ‘Climb! Don’t you know how to do that?’

He managed to say in a very slow and measured manner: ‘I’m not having my best day.’

‘Get up there! Or you are dead!’

‘I met Hood already. He was dead.’

‘Just climb. Yes, that’s right.’

‘He had a sword.’

‘Yes. That’s what everyone’s saying.’

Dorin slammed his head into some low crossbeam, blinked. ‘What?’

‘Hood’s Sword is here,’ explained the voice behind. ‘Everyone says so.’

‘I haven’t heard.’

‘You don’t have a mother or a grandmother here.’

‘That’s . . . true.’ He was crawling now on a dirty floor of wooden slats. Why was he crawling? Easier to sleep. So he laid his head down and went to sleep.

A SHAKE OF
her shoulder woke Iko. She found herself staring up at a dishevelled Hallens.

‘We must go,’ the woman demanded. ‘Now.’

Iko rose, dressed swiftly. ‘What is it?’

Her commander glanced sideways to the other sisters in the sleeping chamber and Iko understood; she clenched her lips tight and followed as the woman hurried out.

It was not yet mid-night. Beyond the high walls of the palace compound the noises of the surrounding city were loud with the crowds and carts of the distant night markets. Voices raised in song and in drunken anger reached her. The grounds, however, were deserted as always. Iko caught up with her commander and whispered again, ‘What is it?’

‘Word from the Nightblades. We must meet immediately.’

Iko accepted this and refrained from any further bothersome questioning. Hallens led her to the wildest, most remote section of the gardens and here they waited in silence.

Though Iko was expecting the Nightblades, and strained her senses to listen and to watch, even so they rose about her like shades emerging from the night. Fear of such sorcery shuddered through her; in the south, all were frightened of the witches and warlocks whose powers only worked ill.

Hallens started forward. ‘What has happened?’

Her commander’s urgency shocked Iko. Then it came to her: sudden word from the Nightblades, this unseemly haste. By the countless forgotten gods!
Not the king!

‘There is no threat,’ one assured her. ‘For now.’

Hallens straightened as if slapped. ‘Meaning?’ she demanded.

‘A flight of our Blades engaged city mages. With them was another. A young man. An obvious trained assassin.’

Iko’s breath left her in a clenched hiss. An assassin! Then . . .
Gods, no!
She took Hallens’ elbow. ‘We will cut our way out at once!’

Her commander’s voice was clenched and fierce as she demanded, ‘The king?’

The Blade raised a placating hand. ‘We think not.’

‘You
think
not?’

‘While we were observing the city mages, they tried to kill the assassin.’

Relief flooded Iko – a falling-out! Of course! There would be no honour among such filth.

‘We believe it a dispute over payment.’

‘Well? What of it?’ Hallens said. ‘You are a hundred or so. Why are you not hunting him down even now?’

The fellow shifted uncomfortably. He began, carefully, ‘Our master happened to be present to witness the engagement. He saw the youth’s style and later examined the wounds delivered by him. He is of the opinion that we are facing a student of Faruj.’

Iko choked down a scoff of disbelief. Faruj! The legendary master assassin of the Talian Iron Crown himself?
Hood!
The power behind the crown, many said. ‘Surely he must be dead by now,’ she let go. ‘He served, what, three Talian kings?’

‘Some believe he died during the wars of independence. Others are of the opinion that he fled west. Probably to Tali itself.’

Iko was amazed. A student of Faruj himself! The man whose name made kings tremble on their thrones. And the student might carry all those ancient teachings lost in the fall of the Iron Crown . . . Iko’s gaze sharpened upon the Nightblade. ‘You would offer him a place.’