Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (26 page)

Dorin decided he’d had enough of this ridiculous shadow-puppet show and stepped into the open. ‘That seems to be your problem,’ he said. ‘You promise more than you can deliver.’

The gathered diggers all gaped up at him, then, as one, let go shrill shrieks and ran pell-mell up the catacomb tunnel, disappearing. All that was left behind was the nacht. It eyed him malevolently and bared its fangs, hissing.

He ignored the beast, leaned up against the curved wall opposite the door, crossed his arms. ‘I’m right . . . aren’t I?’

After a long silence, the lad answered, grudgingly, ‘Maybe . . .’

‘You promised Pung too much and now look where you are.’

‘Maybe I’m right where I want to be.’

‘I don’t think so. But at least you’re making the most of where you are, anyway.’

‘True. That’s what I believe I’m best at. This locale is rife with possibilities. Something you can be part of . . . if you wish.’

Dorin rolled his eyes in the dark. ‘Partner of a lying charlatan chained in a cell. Very promising.’

‘I’m no charlatan!’ came the answer, quite heated. ‘And I can prove it if I have to.’

Dorin pushed himself from the wall. ‘You’re good with shadows and images and throwing sounds maybe – illusions and delusions out of Mockra and Thyr, perhaps. But that’s it. You can’t even magic yourself out of a cell, let alone summon some daemon.’

‘Don’t make me! I swear!’

Dorin made talking motions with his hand as he walked off. ‘I know, I know.
You’ll be sorry
and all that.’

‘You
will
be sorry. What’s to come is on all of you, then. Listen – whatsyourname – our box. The one from the crypt. I believe it contains the key to incalculable power. Really. It does. Are you listening?’

Dorin paused, shaking his head. This lad’s tenacity knew no bounds. ‘Gods. You really are crazy, aren’t you? Completely Oponn-taken mad.’ He waved an unseen dismissal and ducked into one of the hand-dug tunnels.

‘You’ll regret this!’ the lad yelled after him, his voice breaking. ‘All of you! Your lack of vision! You’ll regret the day you turned your back on me! You’ll see!’

The words receded into unintelligible noise, muted by the yards of dirt as Dorin shuffled along. He was furious with himself. He wanted to strangle the damned Dal Hon for piquing his interest to begin with. Yet another mistake in judgement. He couldn’t believe the time and effort he’d wasted on that useless fake. This town kept wrong-footing him somehow. But no more. Even though the lad did seem to be up to something here below. Stealing his share of the catacomb’s funerary loot, no doubt. Still, there had been something about him. His illusions had been amazingly real – he must have
some
talent, if only for that.

Dorin stopped as he came to a fork in the tunnel. Now, how to find his way out of this damned maze . . .

* * *

It surprised Iko that she was now being treated with a new measure of respect among her sisters. Grudging, in some cases, but a new respect all the same. The change in attitude seemed very strange to her; all she’d done was beaten one of the corps’ hotheads. Then the new thought came that prior to this bout she’d kept her distance from the sparring matches, choosing instead to watch and gauge weaknesses.

What hadn’t occurred to her before was that others might interpret this as weakness. As if she didn’t wish to expose her own incompetence. Stupid. She wouldn’t have been chosen for the corps if she couldn’t fight.

So too were her walks with Hallens being viewed in a different light. Some sisters even came to her to ask what their plans were, as if she and Hallens were discussing strategy.

The resentful and evil-minded among the sisters, however, did not relent. Iko caught a hint of the rumour that it was Hallens she was busy seducing now, instead of the guards. To this she could only shake her head. Those who delighted in insulting or working to smear others would not change their ways, even after repeatedly being proved wrong. It was the only manner they knew to deal with the world, warped, bitter, and pathetic though it was.

This day her commander was even more quiet and reserved than usual; she walked slowly with her hands clasped at her belt, her head lowered, perhaps studying the patterns in the gravel path. Iko was careful to allow her some distance, and remained quiet as well. The weather was cool with the autumn, fat clouds passing overhead. Shadows were chill, though the sunlight yet held a summer’s heat.

Hallens paused, raised her flat profile to the sky – her nose had been crushed in a fight long ago – and said, ‘You have heard the news regarding the north?’

‘Yes.’ The Hengan palace servants hadn’t been shy about reporting Ryllandaras’s progress in slaughtering the Kanese forces across the north.

‘Chulalorn must answer this,’ Hallens said, ‘or the siege is lost.’

‘Yes?’

Hallens nodded at the implied question. ‘I fear the struggle has entered dangerous new territory. There are those who say the Protectress controls Ryllandaras and it was she who unleashed him upon us. Whether that is true or not, Chulalorn must answer in kind or retreat. Escalation, dear Iko. I fear it.’

‘You mean sorcery – battle magics? But we cannot match the city mages.’

‘True. Our king’s resources are stretched thin. A’karonys is engaged in the south, and Ghula-Sin rarely leaves Horan. His presence there keeps the Dal Hon in check, after all. Yet pacts have been signed. Agreements that go back to Chulalorn’s grandfather’s time. Our king did not come out of the south empty-handed, Iko. He brought with him . . . things. Things that I fear he may unleash upon Heng, should he be pressed too hard.’

Iko stared in wonder at what almost sounded like criticism, even near infidelity, towards their king. ‘Such as?’ she barely breathed.

Her commander glanced to her, softened the exchange with a smile, albeit a sad one. ‘I do not know, Iko. Let us just say that in the columns were covered wagons and sealed carriages that even I was not allowed to search.’

Iko nodded her understanding. ‘I see. But it may not come to that.’

‘It may not. Though I fear it already has.’

‘How so?’

‘The emissary is dead. Slain last night.’

Iko was stunned for an instant, then recovered. ‘Really? Here? But the city mages’ protection . . .’

‘They obviously didn’t give a damn about some Kanese turncoat.’

‘Ah. But . . . we’ve heard nothing.’

‘They wouldn’t announce it, would they?’

‘No. I suppose not. It was the Nightblades, then?’

‘They let me know. But curiously, they did not take the credit for the execution. I suspect some third party. A hired killer.’

Iko shivered at the thought of someone brought in to take on work not even the Nightblades could accomplish. ‘Escalation,’ she said, affirming Hallens’ fear.

Gravel crackled as her commander walked on. ‘Yes, Iko. And we may no longer be safe.’

* * *

Dorin sat slouched in the common room of Pung’s quarters. He’d been doing a lot of that lately, slouching. Unfortunately, it also meant having to listen to Pung’s assembled thugs, enforcers and bodyguards as they talked. If their dumb grunting could be named talk. Of this or that tough guy who wasn’t so tough after all, was he? Or the girls they’d had, willing or usually not at all willing. Or last night’s dog fights and the great bags of coin won or lost. It was all so very trivial and astonishingly repetitive, when one examined it objectively.

If the toughs addressed him, which was rare, they usually called him ‘knife-boy’ or ‘little killer’. They seemed to think that their size – and they were large fellows, mostly fat – somehow meant that he was no threat to them. He ached to show them the error of their thinking. The second type of thug was the short and bony tiny rabid dog sort; these Dorin thought a far greater danger as they seemed especially resentful of his status. They had fierce defensive glares that intensified if he happened to glance their way. Often before he knew it his gaze would be caught by one’s bulging, daggers-drawn unblinking glower, and he would have to break the implied challenge by shifting his gaze to the ceiling and rolling his eyes. The owner of said glare would then settle back into his chair, snorting, or mutter some comment to his fellows who would guffaw on cue.

But they all worked for Pung. And Pung would be displeased if he cut them open. He was frankly finding it more and more difficult to conform to the narrow rules and expectations that came along with working for someone.

He was sitting in the common room, trying to avoid catching the eye of any of the short fierce thugs, wondering just what he got from throwing in his lot with Pung. Room and board, obviously. But as yet no pay. No coin. No wages. A cut of the proceeds, he supposed, not that he’d seen any distribution among the rest.

What seemed to be offered by being in Pung’s gang, or any band or organization, was security – and perhaps a crude sense of belonging or identity. One could lay one’s head down to sleep in the reasonable expectation of not waking up with one’s throat slit. You could, well, if not
rely
on your companions, at least turn your back on them with some measure of security.

All except him, of course. This minimal shared companionship didn’t seem to extend to him. Not yet, in any case, and not that he wanted or needed it. He considered his fellows no better than ham-handed amoral bullies good for nothing more than intimidating shopkeepers and twisting the arms of any fools desperate or stupid enough to borrow money from Pung.

The novel thought then occurred to him that perhaps they saw this completely open and frank evaluation in his gaze, which might tend to put their backs up.

He may need to work on filtering his contempt.

Or perhaps not.

And speaking of a sense of belonging, he’d seen Rheena once or twice. In the back of a few large gatherings of the crew. She’d made no special effort to approach him. Had rather made a show of her indifference, actually. Loor, though, hadn’t been shy about coming over and leaning against the wall near him and sharing the nod of an experienced operator. He was lonely, perhaps. Shreth had never fully recovered from his wound and was now working in a felt-maker’s shop.

If Rheena wanted to make it plain that there was nothing to talk about, then fine. He’d make no effort either. It wasn’t as though he needed –

An earthquake struck.

At least it felt like an earthquake. An avalanche-like roaring punished Dorin’s ears. Everyone in the common room surged to their feet; chairs were overturned; glasses vibrated off tables; the tables themselves shuddered across the floor while dust came billowing up in clouds that drove everyone outside, waving and coughing.

From all the compound buildings more of the strong-arms and toughs came running as if fleeing impending collapse. All except, Dorin noted, the hordes of digger youths. As the overpowering crashing and thundering roaring faded, it resolved itself in his ears as the earth-shaking guttural braying of a titanic beast.

Pung came staggering out, glaring right and left. ‘What in the name of Burn was that?’

‘Sounded like some kinda monster,’ said one of the toughs.

‘Right beneath us,’ supplied another.

Pung’s wild terrified gaze roved the compound till it lighted upon Dorin. ‘You! Take a look.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. Go below. Look around. What do I pay you for?’

Dorin clenched his teeth so as to not point out that he’d yet to be paid. He would have looked to the sky in exasperation, but he saw the smirks of the assembled enforcers and this calmed him like a spray of cold water down his neck, reminding him to keep his professional neutral mask in place. He offered Pung the slightest inclination of his head. ‘Very well. If there are no other takers . . .’ He pointed an invitation to one of the bony, belligerent thugs.

The man laughed, quite nervously, and shook his head. ‘Your job, sneaky boy. Not mine.’

Now it was Dorin’s turn to offer his own snort of superior contempt, and look away. ‘Gren!’ he called.

Pung’s lieutenant jumped where he was still peering fearfully into the darker corners of the compound. ‘What?’

Dorin motioned to the warehouse. ‘The door . . .’

Gren’s hand went to his keys. ‘Oh. Right.’

Gren’s hands were shaking as he unlocked the door in the warehouse. He hesitated, peered anxiously down the murky lamplit stone stairwell. ‘Is that it?’ Dorin asked into the uncharacteristic silence surrounding them.

The man jumped again, flinching at the noise. ‘What?’

‘What about the gate below?’

The man stared at him, swallowing. He fiddled among the keys then silently handed over a large bronze one. Dorin took it and started down.

‘You’re really . . .’ Gren called after him in his hushed hoarse voice, ‘you really are just gonna walk in there?’

Dorin turned, made a show of shrugging casually. ‘It’s my job.’

The skinny lieutenant, so scornful of him earlier, now shook his head in disbelief and shut the door behind him. Motionless in the lamp’s dim light he considered the man’s expression. He didn’t know him well enough to read him easily, but he hoped that it had been more than a dismissive
what a damned stupid fool
.

He took a breath, loosened his shoulders, and listened to the dark. Silence, save for the ticking and creaking of wood above. Where were all the children? Dead? Torn to bloody pieces by some monster? He turned to face the darkness below. Grit slid and crackled beneath his sandals. He eased them off and continued down barefoot.

The barred gate was closed. He unlocked it, wincing at every click and grating of metal on metal. He edged it open and slid inside. In either direction lamps flickered along the semicircular stone tunnels. No bodies lay as humps on the floor, no signs of any struggle. But the lamps were far too weak to fully light the tunnels, and so the majority of the lengths held absolute dark, punctuated by flickering pools of inadequate amber glow. He eased into the tunnel, daggers out, and headed for the Dal Hon’s cell.

He suspected he knew what had happened. He’d heard stories of such things recounted many times. Had once even studied the messy aftermath. A mage, driven by desperation – or recklessness – reaches into Warrens far beyond his or her abilities and loses control of the forces thus summoned. It was not that uncommon, he understood, as often the only way new talents could practise was in that very manner: testing the waters, so to speak, and the surety of their grip and skill.