Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (22 page)

She lifted her thin shoulders. ‘Who knows? A bribe? A threat? They need only suborn one guard.’

‘You are not safe.’

The lips quirked upwards again. ‘On the contrary, dear Silk.’ She gestured to the streaks. ‘I am very safe.’

Silk answered the wry smile. Yes . . . well. ‘I mean, what will we do?’

‘Yes. Good question.’ She hugged herself. Her long arms reached far beyond each shoulder. ‘Yes. Chulalorn poked the hornets’ nest. Now he will find himself facing far more than he bargained for. This is an escalation, Silk. And thoughtless. Overweening.’ She was nodding to herself now. ‘Very well. The child must be taught that there are far older powers in this world and that he is but an infant among them. The north, I think. Their grip is weakest in the north. We still get foraging parties in and out there. Tomorrow, Silk. You shall accompany me tomorrow night.’

‘To the north?’

She was still nodding. Her gaze held somewhere far past Silk now. ‘Yes. I will summon Ryllandaras.’

* * *

Dorin sought out one of his few remaining rented safe-rooms and lay back on the straw-stuffed pallet. Sleep, however, would not come. He wondered how to enter Pung’s compound. Simply walk in the front door? No. He must not be spotted meeting the man. It was already regrettable that a few of the toughs had seen him. Unavoidable, he supposed.

He would pursue the best option he’d planned during those long vigils overlooking the black market boss’s compound. He would gain entry to the larger open compound among the returning crews of street thugs, beggars and cutpurses. From there, he would try to push into the main quarters that held Pung’s offices. Failing that, he would circle round and try for another entrance. And failing that, he would climb to the second storey or the roof.

Very well. That would have to do. If he was cornered, he would simply reveal that he was expected. Yes, much easier to enter a defended position if you didn’t have to worry about how you would get out.

That resolved, he eased into relaxation and allowed himself to fall asleep. The last thought that came to him was what Pung had meant regarding his old acquaintance – that Dal Hon mage. It sounded to him as if the fellow was not sitting quite as comfortably as he’d imagined.

With the sixth bell of the next day the shift of returning crews came trickling in through the doors of Pung’s compound. With them came a well-dressed lad, walking straight in. A guard raised his truncheon to stop the fellow. ‘Who’re you?’

‘Toben.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I take things from people.’

The guard gestured, inviting him to show what he had. The lad drew out a very fat bag and opened it. The guard took a handful of the clinking contents then urged the lad onward. ‘Okay. You can go.’

The lad didn’t move. Others pushed in past him. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘Do what?’

‘Just grab a bunch of my coin.’

‘Got no idea what you’re talking ’bout, kid. G’wan.’

‘I’ll complain.’

‘You do that and I’ll beat the crap out of you every time I see you – okay?’

The lad tossed a rude gesture and marched off. The guard turned to his fellows. ‘Did you see that? The nerve of some people, I tell you.’

The nearest guard held out his hand and the first looked to the sky, groaning, and began portioning out shares.

Inside, Dorin turned away from the main stream heading to what looked like the largest of a series of dormitories. He angled towards the open-fronted warehouses and great piles of gravel, bricks, and other building materials, throwing off his jacket as he went.

He was reaching behind his back, in the process of moving the weapons he’d brought to more accessible places, when he turned a corner of piled lumber and almost ran straight into a guard.

Inwardly, he cursed. He’d known Pung kept four wandering compound guards – just his bad luck to run into one here. He slapped a hand to his forehead, jumping. ‘Gods! You frightened me!’

‘What’re you doin’ here?’ the older fellow grumbled, his mouth turned down beneath a huge moustache.

‘My girl’s waiting for me at the back. It’s our only chance to . . . you know . . . get together . . .’

The guard snorted, peering round. ‘Got a hot date, hey?’ The moustache drew down. ‘How hot?’

Wincing, Dorin held out a single Hengan round.

The guard sneered. ‘Not so hot. What do you get? Just a stroking?’

Dorin added three. The guard looked mildly impressed. ‘Lookin’ better – but not quite all the way.’

Letting out a hissed breath, Dorin added one more. The guard swiped them into his hand. ‘There you go. Worth your while, I’d say.’

Dorin forced a nervous laugh. ‘Oh yeah! That’s for sure.’ He edged past the guard and jogged onward. That had cost him dear, but it was worth it as the plan was to wait into the night and come upon Pung in the pre-dawn hours. A slain guard would’ve forced his hand.

He found a ready hiding spot among the odds and ends of piled wood, sat cross-legged, and dozed, waiting for the appointed time.

The sky glowing the rosy pink of imminent dawn was his sign to straighten his legs and rub the circulation back into them. Once that was accomplished, he rose and readied the gear he’d brought. First he reversed his shirt and trousers to their inside lining, which was a dull pewter grey. Then he finished moving his weapons and gear to ready-at-hand positions and set off for the main building. The west wall was the least overlooked and here he spotted several possible means of ingress – all windows. He took a running leap and reached the lowest. Its shutters proved too corroded to open. He propped his feet on the sill and launched himself up to the window above. This one had bars, but very far apart. He slid between them, landed on his hands, cartwheeled, and stood. He was in a hireling dormitory. Everyone was asleep. He padded between the bunks to the door. Peeping out, he saw that the hall was empty. He went to find the stairs up to the second floor where he assumed Pung kept court.

The stairs led up to a guardroom, or antechamber, which was empty. He gently padded forward to the inner door, lifted the latch, and pushed the door open. Across a room rested a broad desk behind which sat Pung himself, reading. The many other chairs in the room were all empty.

Pung glanced up from the sheaf of papers he was studying. ‘It’s about time. Everyone’s fallen asleep waiting.’

Determined not to show the least disappointment, Dorin slipped in the door, walked up to Pung’s desk, and sat in the nearest chair. He swung his feet up on to the desk. ‘Seems private now.’

Nodding, Pung opened a drawer, pulled out a tall bottle and two tiny shot glasses and poured two drinks. Dorin ignored the one in front of him. Pung tossed his back, sucked air through his teeth, and regarded Dorin. ‘Been hearing rumours for months now that there was a blade in town. Had to take it slow, though. You’d be surprised how many arseholes show up claiming to be shit-hot deadly knifemen – or women. Full of talk they are. And talk is cheap. The real thing, though,’ he lifted his glass to Dorin, ‘that’s rare.’

Dorin waited, saying nothing; he’d yet to hear any offer.

Pung sucked his teeth once more, regarded him silently for a time. ‘You gonna work for me you have to prove you’re not all talk. Anyone can knife a person. All those I’ve met who like that sorta work are the kind of fellas high on my own list to kill out of pure self-protection – if you see what I mean. So . . . you’re going to have to prove yourself. Kind of like an initiation.’ And he smiled, his thick lips pulled back in a teeth-baring grin.

The word gave Dorin an ugly feeling. It reminded him of that night at Tran’s place and he was taken by a chilling premonition that perhaps he’d made a mistake in coming here.

‘There’s a fella works for Urquart,’ Pung continued. ‘Works well with the young street thieves and such. Too popular. Makes my work harder. Can’t have that.’

Dorin’s feeling of unease grew.

‘You kill him and you’re in. His name’s Rafalljara. But you might’ve heard of him by his street name, Rafall.’

Dorin kept his face flat, but inwardly he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Why not some other damned agent of Urquart? Did Pung know? Was that behind the assignment? He stared at the fellow hard, but the wide-jowled sweaty face revealed nothing. The man was far too experienced in hiding his thoughts. Not trusting himself to speak, Dorin nodded his assent. He suddenly felt as dirty as he had that night at Tran’s.

Pung grunted his agreement and did something behind the desk – pulled a cord perhaps. A moment later the door opened and a tall bland-looking fellow entered and closed the door behind himself.

‘This is Greneth,’ said Pung. ‘He’s my second.’ He asked Dorin, ‘Anybody see you comin’ in?’

‘No one who would remember me tomorrow.’

Pung grunted again. ‘Good. Gren, take this fellow down and introduce him around as a new enforcer – nothing more than that. What name?’

Dorin was startled. ‘Danar,’ he managed, stammering, and damned the stammer.

Pung’s grin seemed to curl briefly. ‘Okay . . . Danar.’ He motioned to Greneth. ‘Oh! And show him our mage too. Danar here was curious about him.’ Now the wide grin was definitely sneering. Pung gestured to the door. Dorin eased himself to his feet. Greneth stepped away from the door. Dorin cast one look back; Pung had returned to glancing through the sheaf of papers.

None of this had gone the way he’d intended at all. Pung hadn’t even mentioned a sum – and he stupidly hadn’t demanded one. It had all somehow twisted, and he couldn’t pin down just when it had happened. He decided it was when he sat down.

Greneth introduced him around. They passed the guard he’d met yesterday and the man didn’t even blink. Dorin could only shake his head: we all see what we expect, or want, to see.

Then Greneth took him out to the works. Here hordes of kids ran about making bricks, sawing wood, picking rope, twisting hemp, and feeding dried dung into kilns. They entered the largest of the great warehouses. Greneth unlocked a door to an inner room revealing stone stairs leading underground. He locked the door behind them, lifted a lantern, lit it from a torch, and started down the stairs. Dorin followed, intrigued.

‘There’re leagues of catacombs under the city,’ Greneth explained as they descended. He had a very weak, almost wheezy voice. ‘Our forebears buried their dead in them for thousands of years.’ A gate of iron bars blocked the way at the base. Greneth unlocked this as well and pushed it open. Beyond, they came to an intersection of rounded, semicircular tunnels. Dorin was surprised to see a troop of young children slouching up out of the darkness, some no more than infants. They looked for all the world like dirt-smeared escapees from Hood’s paths, except that they carried shovels and buckets, and all were manacled. He glanced up to see Greneth watching him, a sly grin at his lips. ‘They buried them with the richest funerary goods they could afford.’ He waved Dorin onward. ‘This way.’

At last Greneth stopped at a door in the round stone wall, selected a key from the large ring he carried, and unlocked it. He pushed the door inward, and it grated and scraped over the ground from disuse. He extended the lantern for Dorin to take and waved him in. ‘Our terrifying and fearsome mage.’

Dorin almost stepped into the chamber but managed to catch himself at the threshold. Lantern in hand, he invited Greneth to proceed him. The man’s sly smile grew to almost split his face, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement of the delicate point. ‘Of course.’ He entered, hands clasped behind his back.

Dorin edged in and peered round. It was a large chamber, though very low-roofed. Thick pillars of brick took up most of the room’s volume. The stink of excrement and sweat was appalling. The walls appeared to be decorated. He crossed to the nearest and raised the lantern for a better look. Charcoal drawings covered the brickwork, rectangular panels about the size of large tablets. He chose one and studied it. Some sort of animal was depicted bounding in mid-leap, its fearsome jaws agape. Some sort of . . . hound?

‘
Noo!
’

Dorin spun, knife readied, but relaxed immediately as he took in the shape closing upon him. It was the Dal Hon youth, chained and manacled, his clothes tattered and filthy. The poor fellow was secured at the ankles with a chain leading up to cuffs at his wrists, but the length was insufficient and he couldn’t raise his hands past chest height.

He shuffled over to put himself between Dorin and the wall. ‘It’s not ready yet,’ he slurred, his voice sounding strange. Then Dorin saw that he held a burned stick in his mouth. Bobbing, almost shrugging in embarrassment, the fellow continued, ‘Just some ideas I’m working on – nothing finished yet!’ and he gave a laugh whose note of madness sent a shiver up Dorin’s spine.

Greneth grabbed hold of the chain and yanked it so that the lad fell to the floor. Then he set to kicking him savagely in his side.

‘Critics!’ the fellow whimpered as he curled into a protective ball. ‘Critics everywhere!’

Catching his breath, Greneth straightened, brushed back his hair. ‘This,’ he began, with a kick to punctuate every word, ‘is . . . what . . . happens . . . when . . . you . . . lie . . . to . . . Pung.’ He raised his gaze to Dorin. ‘This fellow came to us promising the moon—’

‘Yes, the moon . . .’ the lad said, eagerly.

‘Shut up!’ Greneth kicked him again. ‘But when it came time to deliver, what could he do? Nothing! Couldn’t kill anyone. Couldn’t conjure a damned thing. Turns out he’s a charlatan. A fake.’ Greneth straightened his shirt, eyed Dorin up and down. ‘This is what Pung does to those who can’t deliver.’

Dorin turned away to study the countless other panels sketched on the walls. What did the lad mean about the moon? It made him shiver. It seemed . . . insane.

‘Pung took everything,’ the lad groaned. ‘Everything. Even something that wasn’t mine.’

Dorin shot a look to Greneth, then crouched down over the Dal Hon. ‘What? What was it?’

‘A box. A box containing something incalculably important . . .’

‘He carried no treasures,’ Greneth said, dismissive.

Dorin straightened. Did he mean the box they took from the Jaghut? Did the lad even recognize him? Or had he been driven irredeemably mad? He couldn’t question him with Greneth here. He’d have to return later. As to being a charlatan – he was sure the fellow possessed
some
sort of power. Certain of it. He’d done things Dorin had never seen anyone else do.