Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (27 page)

He believed this was what had happened. The Dal Hon youth, taunted and tortured, really did dare what he’d boasted of and the daemon had come. And of course shaken off the lad’s feeble attempts to compel it.

As for all the kids down here digging for tombs, they were probably still running.

He slowly felt his way forward along the stone-flagged tunnels, ready at any moment to find his bare foot sinking into something warm, wet and yielding. He peered round an intersection of the semicircular catacombs, spotted the length of tunnel that he believed held the youth’s cell, and edged forward, daggers readied.

By this time his vision had adjusted enough to make out the wreckage of the cell’s sturdy door of adzed planks scattered across the tunnel, apparently by an explosive force from within. He padded up as silently as possible and slid into the cell, put his back to one of the brick pillars, circled it, blades out.

Nothing. Empty. Emboldened, and a touch intrigued, he dared to search the rest of the cell as well as he could in the darkness. He found nothing; not even a mangled corpse or splash of blood.

Mysterious. Not at all like the other unravellings he’d heard described. He stepped out into the tunnel and listened to the quiet of the earth. Yet, not absolutely. Something . . . He stalked into the deepest of the dark and edged forward, hunched and ready.

In night blackness he heard it while seeing nothing: light panting breaths. Terror? And close – just beyond. He sensed a corner ahead and reached round it, hand open. His fingertips brushed something, cloth, and there came a quick intake of breath.

He snatched his captive and yanked the body to him, a blade to the neck. Backing up into the light he found that he held a young girl. One of the diggers. ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed.

She straightened and raised her chin, defiant. ‘Who’re you?’

‘What happened?’

She snorted. ‘What happened? Our mage summoned a monster and loosed it here in the tunnels. That’s what happened.’

Our mage
? ‘Then why are you here?’

The girl sent him a superior glare. ‘Because we’re working together, that’s why. You tell your boss, Pung the Toad, that if he so much as sets foot down here . . . then the beast’ll eat him.’

Dorin couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. ‘Really? A beast. Will eat him.’

The girl wasn’t bothered by his tone. ‘Him’r anyone else comes down here!’ She raised a hand and pushed against the blade he held tucked under her chin. ‘So you better run while you can – ya hired knifer.’

Dorin was more surprised by her brashness than the threat of some monster. Smiling, he drew away the blade. ‘So you have your mage hidden somewhere, then.’

‘I ain’t saying.’

He sheathed the knife, took hold of her arm and twisted it to the angle where the joint could turn no further without tearing. ‘Where?’

The girl winced, but bit her lip.

Dorin, he said to himself, you’re twisting a kid’s arm.

He quickly let go and rubbed his hands on his thighs as if to clean them.

Now it was the girl who was surprised, but she recovered quickly, scowling. ‘The monster’s loose down here, so you better go.’

He backed away, still smiling. ‘You’d better go as well. They’ll come to look, I’m sure.’

She laughed her youthful derision, but he heard her quick footfalls as she slipped away.

So. Either they really are hiding him, or he’s gone and they’re bluffing to get out from under Pung’s yoke. Either way . . . He shrugged mentally. Didn’t matter to him.

He headed back to the entrance. He passed the wreckage of the door and paused, troubled by a suspicion. Too often this Dal Hon fellow had gotten the better of him. He collected a lamp and returned to the cell. Ignoring the scattered wood for the moment, he crouched down on his haunches and brought the lamp to the dirt-covered stone flags. He swung the light back and forth, searching.

Not a one. Not a single print other than human ones. No paw, or otherwise inhuman spoor. Straightening, he swept his bare foot across the floor, brushing the dirt and obscuring all record of who had or had not passed.

He turned to the broken door frame. It hung drunkenly, a ruin. Yet . . . He brought the flickering gold flame closer to the wounds scouring the wood.

These scars were not those of claws or teeth. He knew the difference, having been trained in how to counterfeit such marks. Edged blades made these gouges and scrapes. He straightened, smiling even more broadly.

Well, well, well. A good gambit, my friend. I salute you. Might even work. Threaten to loose a monster, whip up a fearsome noise . . . and slip away.

He returned the lamp to its niche.

Exiting the cavernous warehouse, he stood blinking in the light for a time. Gren was there, with a handful of the toughs, and Pung. The thugs all looked surprised and rather annoyed to see him. Coins changed hands.

Pung curtly waved him over. ‘Well? You see anything? What is it?’

‘Your mage’s gone.’

‘Gone? What d’ya mean, gone?’

‘How do you know?’ Gren demanded.

Dorin offered the man a lazy blinking look. ‘’Cause something crashed through his door.’ Which was true – technically.

‘Have a look,’ Pung told Gren. The lieutenant turned on the toughs, pointing. ‘You three – have a look.’

These three were now even more annoyed. ‘I want a lamp,’ one complained.

‘So take a fucking lamp, then!’ Pung snarled, jerking a thumb.

Dorin tossed the key, warning, ‘I wouldn’t stay down there too long. If you know what I mean . . .’

They sneered back, but looked even less happy.

He walked away without one glance back, not even to Pung. He returned to the common room, poured a glass of the cheap wine Pung supplied, and sat in his usual place. When he glanced up, none of the handful present would meet his gaze.

More damned like it
.

*

Silk was with his tailor, examining his figure in a tall mirror of polished bronze, turning to left and right, and frowning. ‘The cut of your trousers makes my stomach look large.’

The tailor ducked his head, hunching abjectly. ‘I am sorry to do that, sir.’

Silk waved a hand. ‘Never mind. A wrap or sash perhaps. Black Darujhistani silk, of course.’

The tailor bowed once more. ‘My apologies, good sir . . . but I am very sorry to say that we have no more Darujhistani cloth available.’

‘No more—’ Silk turned on the fellow, blinking. ‘How could that be, man? You are a tailor, are you not?’

The bony old man bowed once more, wincing. ‘Disruption in overland trade from Unta, I’m told. The siege, perhaps . . .’

Silk eased the frown from his mouth and half turned away. He fussed with his collar. ‘Ah. You are right, of course.’ Strangely enough, it hadn’t occurred to him that the siege would have interfered with such mundane matters as cloth imports. Things were getting quite out of hand.

‘I do have some fine Talian brushed satin in sunflower yellow . . .’

‘Gods, no. What do I look like? A Bloorian bumpkin?’

‘Perhaps some—’ the tailor began, but Silk heard nothing more as a noise crashed inside his head like pounding hammers and he staggered into a stack of piled bolts of cloth. He leaned against it, nearly double, gripping his fractured skull. ‘. . . a physician, sir?’ the old fellow was saying, bending next to him and peering anxiously.

Silk straightened. He wiped the tears from his eyes with a sleeve and caught the pained wince from the tailor as he did so. ‘What on this side of Hood’s paths was that?’ he asked, blinking and still dizzy.

The old man peered about the shop. ‘What was what, sir?’

‘You heard nothing?’

‘No, sir.’

Just the Warrens, then, Silk thought, amazed. Like a gargantuan tearing, or shattering. He pulled off the samples and kicked away the pinned trousers. ‘I must go.’

‘Shall I start with the suit, then, sir?’

‘No!’ Silk snarled, pulling on his own trousers and hopping for the stairs.

Threading his way through the crowds on the street – none of whom appeared to have noticed the disturbance – he hurried for the palace.

‘Just the white shirt?’ came a distant reedy call from above, the tailor at a window. ‘The one with the fine tapering at the sleeves?’

Silk waved an angry negative and ran on, but two steps later he halted, hands going to his head. He turned, yelled, ‘The aqua blue!’ and raced on.

Palace functionaries waved him to the Inner Focus. Here the guards opened the door as he approached and shut it behind him. He crossed the gleaming bright marble floor to where Mara stood next to Shalmanat, who sat, uncharacteristically slumped, head in hands.

‘Are you well?’ he asked as he came. Shalmanat nodded. ‘Is it Ryllandaras? Has he entered the city?’

She shook her head. Her hands were clutched in her fine long hair.

‘That was my thought,’ Mara said, crossing her arms and scowling.

‘No . . .’ said Shalmanat, her voice weak and hoarse, ‘not Ryllandaras.’

‘Then what?’

‘Something else.’ The Protectress yanked at her hair as if frenzied.

Mara caught Silk’s eye and offered a helpless shrug.

Silk nodded at this. Okay. So, what now? ‘Ho and Koroll?’

Mara brought her head close to his, whispered, ‘Out searching the catacombs. They think it’s beneath the city, whatever it is.’

‘It could be anywhere!’ the Protectress yelled. She tore her hair as if she would yank it from her skull.

He knelt before her, tried to meet her gaze. ‘What is it? Shalmanat – help us.’

Her eyes were fixed upon some distant vista only she could see. ‘It cannot be,’ she said, her brows knotting. ‘How could it be? It was broken. Sealed away.’

‘What? What was sealed away?’

Her wild gaze met his, but it was empty of any recognition. ‘Our shame,’ she breathed.

Over Shalmanat, Mara tilted her head to the exit, suggesting it was time to go. Silk nodded his agreement.

Outside, in the hall, once they’d left the guards behind, Silk indicated a side chamber. Mara looked to the ceiling, but followed.

‘We have to decide what to do,’ he began, shutting the door.

She crossed her arms across her substantial chest. ‘Looks like we underestimated these Kanese. Cute trick, hey? We loose a monster on them outside the walls, and they retaliate by releasing one inside. But Koroll and Ho will track it down.’

Silk struggled to keep his face empty of the irritation he felt. ‘I mean, regarding the summoning.’

‘What of it?’

‘Officially, we make a point of ignoring it.’

Now she winkled her handsome features into a scowl. ‘What d’you mean?’

He couldn’t help pressing a hand to his brow. ‘We can’t let them know they’ve unnerved us.’

‘Us?
Her
, you mean.’

He bit back a few choice insults at that shortsightedness, pulled his hand down his face. ‘
Her
resolve is
our
resolve. The citizens would panic. Then we’re finished.’

Mara frowned now, eyeing him sidelong, considering this. Then she snorted, nodding, and paced the small meeting room. ‘Hunh. Not just a pretty face, hey Silk?’

His answering smile was brittle. ‘We wait for word from Koroll.’

She brushed past, waving her dismissal. ‘Fine. Okay.’ She yanked open the door, paused on the threshold. ‘And don’t try any of this pulling rank shit! ’Cause you got none, right?’ She stormed out.

Silk arched an eyebrow at the empty doorway.
Gods! Co-workers! What
can
one do?

* * *

Fanah Leerulenal, a leather engraver, did not consider himself an aficionado of fortune-telling. His mother, however, bless her departed soul, had been quite the devotee. She consulted a talent once a week, and always before making any major decision. This siege, however, with its uncertainties and anxieties, left him wondering whether perhaps it would be better to flee the city, as so many of his friends constantly threatened.

He paused, therefore, that day on his way to work – not that there was any work, just a few remaining scraps of poorest quality hide. The market was mostly empty now but for a petty merchant’s wheeled street stall cluttered with charms, amulets, bones of noted local witches, and various decks of the Dragons.
This
fellow was of course doing a roaring business. Fanah picked up one boxed set – a too-expensive Untan edition done on ivory tablets – and set it back down.

‘I can see you have an expert’s eye,’ the fat stall-keeper announced, rather too eagerly.

Fanah merely cast him a disbelieving glance. He noticed one large wooden slat hanging from the twine that ran above the stall’s crowded counter; the face of the card appeared to depict empty moiling smoke. ‘What is this?’

The stall-keeper leaned out, arms akimbo. ‘Ah!’ he said, knowingly, ‘the new House. Shall I wrap you a set?’

‘No,’ Fanah answered, annoyed. ‘The damned thing’s blank.’

‘Not at all, good friend,’ the merchant responded, completely undeterred. He plucked it down and offered it. ‘Look more closely.’

Fanah had given the errand all the time he could spare, but he paused as his eyes caught movement on the face of the card. He peered more closely. ‘The House is undefined as yet,’ said the stall-keeper. ‘The talents say the new manifestations are searching for their final form.’

Fanah watched, fascinated, as the painted face seemed to coil and shift under his gaze. Rather like clouds, or fog, he thought – or shifting shadows. Yet as he bent closer, a shape did persist behind. Low, and broad . . . running?

‘My compliments to the artist,’ he said. ‘The light seems to move across the—’

A guttural, growling snarl like stones grating yanked Fanah up straight. The stall-keeper peered up and down the street, startled. ‘That’s a damned big dog,’ he muttered, annoyed, and a touch worried.

The growling rose to an avalanche roar and the stall began to vibrate. Charms and amulets clattered to the cobbles. Fanah backed away. A few people nearby paused, searching for the source of the noise. The rest simply ran away.

The stall erupted skywards as if the beast had somehow sneaked under the wheels and leaped up. Boards burst; the stall-keeper was thrown backwards. Fanah backpedalled beneath a shower of the cheap trinkets until his buttocks hit the opposite building’s wall. A creature the size of a pony shook itself, snorting and growling, among the wreckage of the stall. Huge it was, yet recognizably a hound, though of monstrous size. Its scarred hide was a tawny brown, going to cream towards its chest. Its sides and legs twitched and bunched in cables of muscle. Amber claws scratched and grated across the cobbles as it shifted left and right, sniffing in a great bellows-like testing of the air. Then, to Fanah’s horror, its pale glowing gaze lowered to him. One great lunge of its powerful back legs shot it over the street and Fanah fell to his knees, hands over his head, awaiting an agonizing death under its enormous maw.