Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (30 page)

Dorin crossed his arms and resisted raising his eyes to the stone ceiling a bare hand’s breadth above his head. ‘Why’s that?’

The lad tapped an aged and bent finger to his temple. ‘Because you can think. Any fool can pick up a knife and stab people with it. That’s what the Pungs of the world want – a mindless blade cast to do their bidding. And in the world there is no shortage of those who fit that role. But not you.’

Dorin was beginning to feel insulted. Who was this lad to make such claims? He didn’t know anything about him. He glanced about and his eyes caught the glitter of the numerous decanters. He poured himself a glass of red wine. ‘Not me, hmmm?’ he asked, and sipped, and immediately spat out the vile sour fluid. Gods! Sour as rat piss! He raised the glass to examine it then set it back down. How many years had that wine been sitting down here?

The lad appeared eager to explain his case, so Dorin raised a hand to forestall him. ‘Listen. You should clear out. But if you’re not going to run, then at least send away the kids. Pung won’t be gentle. There’s talk of cutting tendons so they’ll never run again. Think about that – on your head.’

‘They’re free to choose and they’ve chosen to stay with me.’

‘Of course they have.’ He cast about for a container of clear liquid. He found one, sniffed it, smelling nothing, then drank. It was plain water and he winced, hoping he hadn’t just poisoned himself. He cleared his throat. ‘You’ve filled their heads with your crazy plans and fantasies, haven’t you? Of course they’ve swallowed it all.’

The lad looked offended, raising his chin. ‘Not all of it is fantasy.’

Dorin nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Your beastie. You got lucky once. Don’t let it go to your head.’

‘There’s more to it than that. The box . . .’

But Dorin was shaking his head, refusing to listen any more. He waved for silence. ‘Listen. This is the deal – I’ll say I couldn’t find you. That should give you a couple of days.’ He pointed off into the dark. ‘Use that to clear out. Soon Pung’ll be down here with his crew and it will be on your head.’ He gave what he hoped was a warning glare and crossed to the archway. A gang of the youths crowded it now, boys and girls. He waved them aside.

‘I have glimpsed something grand, Dorin,’ the lad called. ‘A wonderful possibility – and I think you can get us there! You have the talent we need. Together we can get there!’

The young ones peered up at him with eyes startlingly white against the dirt caked across their faces. He brushed past them and strode on up the tunnel.

Throw in his lot with some pathological liar hiding in a rat hole? Who in the gods’ own creation does he think he is? Still, all those wide eyes staring up at him . . . He shook his shoulders. Idiots. Should’ve run off long ago. Cleared out. That was the only smart thing to do.

He paused then as his hand found the two apples in his pocket and he drew them out. The air was chill and damp in the tunnel about him as he stood contemplating the wrinkled fruit and the echoes of another’s, similar, words.

* * *

Silk was not always officially on duty, but since the town had very nearly entirely shut down there was little else for him to do. The constant rounds of parties and gatherings once thrown by the richer families were now all cancelled; the clubs where tasteful dancers teased and skilled musicians played were now boarded up, the entertainers having all melted away, perhaps travelled on to Tali, or Unta. All that were left open were the lowest of the inns and taverns where soldiers collected to swill watered beer, vomit it back up, and pick drunken fights. The sort of place where one couldn’t tell the difference between the common room floor and the latrines. He shuddered at the thought of even setting foot in such a place.

And so this day saw him walking the southern parapets of the Outer Round in an uncharacteristically chill wind that blew out of the west, from over the plains. In his fine silks he was not appropriately dressed for such weather, without jacket or cloak, yet it was too far to walk to retrieve one and so he paced stiffly, his arms tight at his sides, shivering.

Inside the walls, just beneath him, a crowd hammered and sawed at a platform in preparation for the coming festival of Burn’s Sleep. At dusk in two days’ time a great procession of these platforms, each carrying a recumbent statue of the Great Goddess, would wind its way along the circles of the city rounds, gathering before the Inner Temple. And so would Burn be sustained in her long sleep.

He was surprised that the festival was still going ahead, given the terrible conditions under the siege. But then, it might be that such rituals were just what the citizens needed in such times: to be reminded of who they were, what their values were, and what made them a people.

And, to his taste, the so-called festival was a damnably sombre one in any case.

He moved on from the edge of the parapet. Hengan regulars gave him nods as he passed. He knew they did not feel that he was one of them, nor even like him particularly, but his presence reassured them. And at this point in the siege maintaining morale was everything. It was perhaps a sad comment that things were so bad that even his slim, effete figure could help bolster confidence among the soldiery.

He shivered anew as he paced and clasped his hands behind his back to warm them. Hengan winters could be chill, but this was unusually cold for autumn. And firewood was at a premium as high as food. He spotted ahead the familiar profile of Smokey, his hair neatly pulled back and tied in a long oiled queue, a thick wool cloak tight about him. He was peering out over the ravaged southern fields, the siege lines, and dotted tents beyond. Silk came and rested his forearms on a crenel next to him.

‘Good to see you up and about.’

The mage of Telas blinked in his reverie and scowled anew at the reference to his wound. He reflexively rubbed his chest. ‘A little higher and that would’ve been the end of it.’

Silk noted a touch of grey in the man’s slightly ragged goatee. Standards of personal grooming were falling everywhere, it seemed; or perhaps it was new – the shock of the near-death experience. He gestured out over the fields where low white scarves of smoke from the many campfires rode the slow winds. ‘Quiet today.’

Smokey scratched his goatee. ‘Yeah. For now. But they’re cookin’ up something. I can smell it.’

Silk nodded his agreement, shuddered, and wished he’d brought a damned cloak of his own. ‘Can’t just call it a bad job and walk away, I guess.’

‘Sadly no. Too much invested. Can’t be seen to be broken here. Outer provinces might start getting ideas, hey?’

‘Chulalorn was stupid to have committed as much as he did.’

The older mage gave a small shrug. ‘All in, hey? Full of confidence, he was.’ He ran a speculative eye over Silk. ‘I hear the monster’s wandered off.’

Silk nodded once more. ‘So it would seem. A few reports of sightings to the east. Just word of mouth, mind you. Rumours, nothing more. Everyone has gone to ground. Our vagabond mage. Even the assassin when Ho offers a real damned contract. Crime is at an all-time low.’

‘Except for smuggling, hoarding, extortion, price-gouging, war profiteering, and black marketing.’

‘Unless you call all that shrewd marketing,’ and Silk smiled winningly, winking.

Smokey turned away with a sour expression. ‘Sometimes I wonder, Silk. I really do.’

‘I am merely a product of the times, friend Smokey.’

‘So you tell people – but don’t start believing it.’ Peering past him, the mage raised his brows and directed Silk’s attention along the wall. Silk glanced over to see Mara approaching.

‘It
was
quiet,’ he murmured to Smokey, then, turning, said: ‘Mara! What a pleasure!’

‘Put a bung in it, Silk,’ the woman growled.

He knew the mage possessed what artists would call a voluptuous figure, but she appeared even larger now as she was wrapped up in layers of robes and a thick cloak. She noticed him eyeing her dress and scowled. ‘Fucking cold.’

‘Not like the plains of Dal Hon, hey Mara?’ Smokey commented.

‘Not a bit. What are you two plotting about?’

‘Our escape,’ Silk answered. ‘We’re thinking of running away. Joining the Crimson Guard.’

Smokey looked surprised. ‘I was thinking ’bout that, actually. Some time. Like to travel. Sick of squatting in the same place. They have a standing invitation for any mage to join, you know.’

Mara hunched her shoulders against the wind, shivering. ‘All that riding. I hate riding. Chafes my arse.’

Silk clenched his lips tight against a number of possible comments.

Mara noted this, growling, ‘Wipe that stupid smirk off your face.’

Smokey cleared his throat, glancing about. ‘How is she doing?’ he asked Mara, his voice low.

‘Better these days. Must’ve been some kind of shock or something. Strange, anyway.’

‘Her past . . . I think,’ Silk said.

Mara eyed him sceptically, then shrugged. ‘Maybe. Who’s to know? Word of her craziness didn’t get out, thankfully. Would’ve been a bitch.’

‘Perhaps she has reason to be afraid,’ Silk said, rather impatiently.

‘That thing – whatever it was?’ Mara answered, sneering. ‘A no-show if you ask me.’

‘Koroll has a theory—’

‘Hot air,’ the woman cut in. ‘I don’t see the connection.’

Silk was angered at the dismissal, but took a moment to calm himself and responded, neutrally, ‘Don’t just reject our considered opinions.’

Mara snorted, eyeing Silk dismissively. ‘I got no time for the hand-wringing of lightweights.’

‘Maybe that’s enough for now,’ Smokey said with an edge of warning.

Neither spared the man a glance. Silk faced Mara squarely. He felt strangely elated by the confrontation and realized he’d been waiting a long time for it – though it was arguably foolish and utterly reckless. A smile now touched his lips, and he looked her up and down the way a patron at a bordello might evaluate the merchandise. ‘Lightweight, is it?’

‘You know it.’

‘Not the place for this,’ Smokey hissed.

Silk tilted his head as if puzzled. ‘You’ve never had any time for me, Mara. Why is that?’

She laughed. ‘You disgust me, that’s why. Seducing everyone. Playing with people’s emotions. Ever thought about all the hearts you’ve broken?’

He nodded his understanding ‘Ah, I see. You think I manipulate people’s affections. Well, I have to tell you that what I do has nothing to do with the heart. I seduce no one. Innocence doesn’t interest me. Quite the opposite, I assure you. Such concern for others’ feelings does surprise me, though. Especially from someone who doesn’t even have a heart.’

Fury darkened Mara’s face even further. Silk noticed the stone floor of the parapet vibrating now beneath his feet. Smokey stepped between them and faced Mara, barking, ‘We’re not alone!’

The woman’s shoulders relaxed slightly. She took one step back, as if from a precipice, pointed to Smokey, hissed, ‘Keep this shit out of my sight,’ and marched off.

Smokey turned on Silk, glaring. ‘Coulda got yourself killed, you damned fool.’

‘She’s just a bully,’ Silk remarked and was surprised to find himself shaking uncontrollably.

‘A bully?’

‘She damns me for playing with feelings, but all she worships is power and strength. And she has the bully’s contempt for those who don’t have it. She steps over the people starving in the streets without seeing their suffering.’

‘And you see it, do you?’ Smokey asked, sharply. ‘Not like the old Silk I remember.’

Silk blinked, frowning.
Yes. Now I do.
He realized that when these people had been fat and content he’d had no time for them. But now that he’d seen their misery and privation he felt a strange sort of closeness with them. He nodded to Smokey. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘Hunh.’ Smokey leaned his forearms on the crenel. ‘Sieges are like being thrust into the fire . . . they have a way of changing people.’

For some obscure reason Silk felt insulted. ‘I’ve not changed one whit,’ he objected, bridling.

Smokey sent an amused smile. ‘Sure, Silk. Sure.’

* * *

Dorin knew he was good at moving quietly and secretly but there was little anyone could do when someone was lying in wait. And so he was startled when he climbed down into the alley at the side of Ullara’s family establishment to find Rheena rising from cover to confront him.

He jerked backwards a step, his hands going to the rear of his belt and remaining there. She also didn’t move, a scowl on her face and her arms crossed, her gaze narrowed in a disapproving glare.

They faced one another in this manner for a time until he relaxed, letting his hands fall. He brushed past her, leaving the alleyway. ‘Yes?’

She followed, arms still crossed, her scowl deepening. ‘Just this one warning,’ she murmured, her voice low.

On the street, he turned to her once more. ‘Yes?’

She moved her head in an almost imperceptible negative then brushed back her unruly mane of fiery red hair. ‘Stop coming. Others might see as well.’

He had to stop a smile from reaching his lips as the sudden realization came. ‘You’re not jealous, are you, Rheena?’

Her eyes widened in shock – or embarrassment, he wasn’t certain which – and her face turned almost as red as her hair. ‘You stupid fool,’ she grated. ‘I’m trying to protect the both of you!’

He thought of the meagre gift of food left above; what could be the harm? He waved her off and turned away. ‘I’m careful.’

She hurried to keep pace. ‘
I
found you!’ Around them, up and down the avenue, banners now hung from second-storey windows, bunting decorated shop fronts, and a few sparse pots and bouquets of flowers sat out before doors and windows. All, he was told, in preparation for the coming festival of Burn’s Sleep.

‘Well, don’t tell anyone.’

‘Of course not! But others have eyes too.’

‘Fine. Like I said, I’m being careful.’

She muttered, darkly, ‘Not careful enough.’

He looked at her, and remembered that this was the second time he’d come upon her this close to Ullara’s home; she must have known for some time now. So far she seemed to have kept it to herself. He nodded to her then, granting her the point. ‘Well . . . thanks for the warning.’