Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (32 page)

It was a bright clear night, and they watched the smoke rising from various quarters of the Outer Round. Silk shivered and hugged himself more tightly. The riots had been long in coming; can’t have a long siege without the citizens erupting in a riot or two. Usually over food. This one might have been triggered by the high emotions of a religious festival, but it was really all about fear – fear and hunger. The terror over the nightmare beasts had kept the populace in check for a time, but that was wearing off.

The high winds whipped all sounds away, but Silk fancied he could hear the shouting of the rioters, the snap of the flames, and the crash of breaking wood. ‘Not a very quiet send-off for Burn,’ he observed.

The Protectress’s answering smile was thin. ‘Good thing she’s already asleep.’

‘At least the Kanese haven’t attacked,’ he offered, trying to find something reassuring to say.

‘They wouldn’t dare. Not during the festival. The entire city would rise against them.’

Silk reflected that this was probably so. Though many now turned to the Protectress as a patron of the city, the Hengans’ love for Burn remained deep. He watched Shalmanat closely. She appeared to have recovered from the shock of whatever it was that had assaulted her with the visitation of the beasts, but to his eyes not nearly fully. Her pensive gaze on the riots now, she didn’t seem able to muster anger or outrage. No, she appeared hurt, withdrawn, resigned even. That resignation frightened him. He was, he realized, frightened for her.

Footsteps sounded on the circular stone staircase behind and they turned. Smokey emerged, soot-smeared, his hair dishevelled, a sleeve torn, and a bruise on one cheek where someone had punched him.

‘I’ve suppressed the fires,’ he announced, sounding exhausted and hoarse.

Shalmanat inclined her head to him. ‘My thanks, Smokey.’

‘We’ve announced a curfew,’ he continued.

‘And the instigators?’

‘They got away. We assumed you didn’t want us to use force against the populace . . .’

Her answering nod was firm. ‘Yes. I’ll not have that. Thank you.’

‘We’ll have his head yet,’ the mage of Telas muttered, ferociously.

‘Not his head,’ Shalmanat answered quickly. ‘I want all of him. I have . . . questions for him.’ She turned away to lean once more on the stone ledge enclosing the narrow terrace. Smokey shot Silk a glance; Silk fought to keep his concern from his face.

‘His magery is strange . . .’ Smokey allowed, slowly. ‘Something of Mockra, a whisper of the Enchantress’s touch, something like Rashan. Yet something else as well.’

‘Yes,’ the Protectress agreed. She leaned far out over the ledge, as if tasting the wind. ‘Something else.’

‘If we all committed to the search . . .’ Smokey began.

‘No. Your job is to defend the city. I cannot have you from the walls.’

Smokey bowed his head. ‘Very well. However, if he
can
access Rashan, then we’ll never flush him out of the catacombs.’

‘Yes,’ the Protectress sighed. ‘You are right in that.’ She lifted her head to the north, her hair snapping like a banner. ‘The plains are open to us. Why are we still short of food?’

Smokey grimaced as if pained. ‘We’re hunted out, and the foraging parties won’t travel more than a day’s journey . . . They fear the man-beast,’ he added, reluctantly.

‘But they have my assurances . . .’

The mage nodded his agreement. ‘That is so. However, when it’s night and you’re all alone out on the grasslands, assurances don’t count for much.’

Shalmanat sighed as she studied the ravaged fields. ‘I see. Very well . . . Silk, you will accompany them.’

‘Pardon?’ he asked, rather startled.

She turned to study him with her odd inhuman eyes; this night they seemed to hold a touch of amber brightness in the dark. She tilted her head, still studying him. ‘It will do you good to get out, I think. To assume some responsibility. Take a large party.’

Silk was now truly frowning his confusion. ‘Protectress,’ he began, tentatively, ‘is this really necessary?’

‘It is.’ She shivered then, pulling her cloak tighter about her. ‘It’s too cold.’ She passed between them and headed down the stairs, murmuring irritably to herself, ‘Why is it so cold?’

In the silence following her departure Silk cast a significant glance to Smokey and waited. After a brief moment the latter shrugged and waved a hand in disgust. ‘That shifty mage? I don’t know. Maybe it’s true. I saw some strange things this night. But what does it mean? Cuts too close to religious history for my liking.’

‘The wars of Light and Dark,’ Silk recited. ‘I used to think those just stories. But she fears these phenomena touch upon them. She fears it mightily.’

Smokey nodded sombrely. ‘She does indeed.’

‘What does Koroll say?’

Smokey crossed his arms and smoothed his goatee. ‘Being of Thelomen-kind, he says he takes the long view in this. We must wait and see.’

Silk’s answering laugh was without humour. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

A wicked sly smile now quirked Smokey’s lips. ‘Good luck on your first command.’

‘Oh, go to the Abyss.’

* * *

The next morning Dorin was summoned to the compound yard. Here he found Pung with a large party of his strong-arm toughs and enforcers, big and small. Two favoured bodyguards stood with the crime boss, truncheons in their hands. Dorin paused only momentarily, as behind him more of the thugs came lumbering out of the common room as if to urge him onward.

He moved forward before it would appear that he was reluctant. Everyone, he noted, was armed with clubs or sticks. They spread out in a circle as he approached. It looked to him as though they thought him unarmed. Indeed, he showed no knives at his belts, but in truth he was far from weaponless. And so he crossed the broad yard careful to maintain an unconcerned, neutral blandness of expression.

Before he got too close, the two bodyguards stepped between him and Pung. Dorin waved to them. ‘What’s this?’

Pung was glowering at him, rather like an angry thick-jowled dog. ‘I hear you was with our damned mage last night.’

Dorin cursed inwardly; he’d taken a chance on none here knowing, but Pung, it appeared, had better informants than he’d imagined. He crossed his arms in a show of nonchalance – and took hold of the blades hidden up his sleeves. ‘Yes. What of it?’

Pung’s face darkened. ‘What of it?’ he stammered, almost too enraged for words. ‘You’re supposed to kill the bastard!’

Dorin nodded. ‘And I almost had him too, except for the procession. There were hundreds out. Maybe you heard about that too?’

Pung let a breath hiss through his pressed lips. ‘Yeah. So . . . you almost had him, hey?’ A strange sort of smile crept up those thick lips, rather like a crude attempt at cunning. ‘So, you won’t mind if we head on in now and drag them all up, hey?’

Dorin shrugged. ‘Go ahead – if you can find them.’

Pung opened his arms as if to embrace him. ‘Good, good.’ He waved Dorin onward. ‘Come, then. I’ve something to show you.’

He headed for the warehouse that was the main entrance to the tunnels. The thugs pressed in behind Dorin, and Pung’s two guards fell in step just ahead. They slapped their truncheons into their palms as they walked.

Inside the cavernous warehouse the only glow in the shadowed dark was one of the smithy forges. A youth was pumping the bellows and white and blue flames crackled with each gust of air through the coals. Another youth, a young boy, hung suspended by his arms from ropes; his toes just brushed the dirt floor. The bare chests and backs of both lads bore the ugly mottling of bruising together with dried streams of blood in shallow cuts from countless lashings.

For the first time Dorin’s heart clenched, and revulsion twisted his stomach. But a dark cold fury also welled up within, hardening his mouth, and he decided then that no matter how this turned out, Pung had to die.

‘Raise his foot,’ Pung told one of his thugs. The fellow came forward and yanked up one of the boy’s legs, gripping the shin. Gagged, the lad whimpered, stark terror in his tearing eyes.

Pung lifted a truncheon and tapped it gently into one meaty palm. ‘I’m told this hurts like Hood’s own touch,’ he said to Dorin, arching an eyebrow. He nodded to the tough who tensed, steadying the foot. Pung stepped in, swinging powerfully, and the truncheon smacked into the boy’s sole with a shockingly loud slap. The youth convulsed, shrieking into his gag, then sagged, almost faint, crying continuously.

Pung shoved his face close to the boy’s. ‘Going to take us to him now?’ he demanded.

It looked to Dorin as though the lad was far too gone in agony to comprehend anything.

‘The other,’ Pung ordered. The thug switched legs.

Dorin started forward, only to halt as four crossbows swung up to cover him. Pung eyed him derisively. ‘Got something to say?’

Dorin kept a tight grip on the blades sheathed under his sleeves. ‘I’ll take you,’ he said.

Pung pointed the truncheon and waved it back and forth. ‘Oh, no. Not you. I don’t trust you.’ He spun, the weapon swinging, and smacked again into the child’s foot with an agonizing slap that jerked the poor lad like a lightning strike.

Dorin also flinched, and gritted his teeth in suppressed rage. Too many. Too blasted many right now . . .

Pung backhanded the dazed boy’s sweat-streaked head from side to side. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Now? Going to lead us to him now?’

And the lad nodded, blearily, blinking, mouthing something behind the gag. Pung nodded to the tough, who let the foot fall. Another released the ropes. The child moaned, nearly falling, as his weight came to rest on his tortured feet.

‘Okay,’ Pung announced, tossing away the truncheon. He motioned to the crowd of his enforcers. ‘You lot. Take this kid down and bring me back the damned mage. Whole or part. I don’t give a fuck which.’

One of the short enforcers pushed the limping boy along. Gren, next to Dorin, gave him a leer and a wink and said, ‘That’s how you get things done.’ He went to the door, keys jangling.

That’s how you make blood enemies
, Dorin answered him, silently.

Ten descended the steps, lamps in hand, pushing the lad ahead of them. Twelve now remained with Dorin inside the darkened cavernous warehouse, not counting Pung, who faced him. ‘Now it’s your turn.’ He nodded to his men. ‘Cover him. He’s got blades hidden on him, I’m sure.’

The four crossbowmen steadied their aim at Dorin’s heart. He opened his hands and slowly extended his arms to allow himself to be searched. Two toughs patted him down. They found short blades at his wrists, his collar, the rear of his belt, and the ankles of his soft leather shoes. When they pulled off his shoes he casually rested his hands at his waist only to have them slapped away, whereupon he held them out, hands open and fingers straight.

Hands grasped Dorin’s arms from behind. They pulled him over to the same ropes and tied his wrists. Pung signalled and the toughs heaved on the ropes; Dorin’s weight slowly lifted from his feet until only his toes just brushed the dirt floor. The ropes creaked and stretched. The toughs tightened them further then tied them off.

Pung had been poking at the sullen glowing forge. Now he came away lifting an iron bar whose end shone like a lamp. Smoke curled from its tip. He pointed it at Dorin, saying, conversationally, ‘You know, I didn’t like you the moment I laid eyes on you.’

‘The feeling’s mutual,’ Dorin answered through clenched teeth.

Pung waved the bar’s bent crimson tip so close before Dorin’s eyes that he could feel its heat and hear it hissing. ‘Good,’ he continued, ‘good. I’m glad we’re finally clearing the air between us. Honesty’s always best, don’t you think?’

Dorin could bend his head back no further. ‘I agree.’

Pung pulled the bar away. ‘Thought you might.’ He turned to his crew. ‘What do you think, lads? Where should we start? Eyes, hands, or feet?’ He held the bar straight up before him. ‘Or maybe we should just lower him on to this and let him cook from the inside out?’

All the toughs had a good laugh at that – Dorin couldn’t help but wonder how many times they’d actually done it. The crossbowmen now cradled their stocks in their arms. One had even set his down. Dorin clenched his fists and shifted the long thin blades he’d held pressed between the straight index and middle fingers of each hand. Then he grasped the ropes, holding them in his fists, and began sawing by edging his fingers back and forth.

Most of the answering catcalls were for Pung to burn the feet off first and the black marketeer raised a hand, acquiescing to the majority. ‘Okay, okay. The feet . . . first. Panet – fill one of them brazier pots and bring it over here.’

One of the toughs went to the forge and started shovelling coals into an iron pot. The men were all chuckling now, and taking bets on how soon he’d start begging, or whether he’d piss himself, or whether he’d faint the moment they shoved his foot in.

‘Grab his feet,’ Pung ordered.

No one held a crossbow now; they’d all been set aside. The toughs closed in on him to take hold of his legs. Dorin kicked down a number of them, but they laughed at that, baiting him; they were too many. They piled on, pulled his legs straight. He knew this was what they really wanted and enjoyed: this fight – a damned unfair one – and wrestling a helpless foe, but he couldn’t help but struggle to keep his knees bent and his feet high. At the same time, he sawed on the ropes with all his strength; hot blood ran as he slit his fingers in his fury.

They dragged the brazier pot over. Pung was pointing the bar, grinning as he gave orders. ‘Okay, closer. In front. Bring the right one – that one – hold it steady.’

Raging heat seared Dorin’s heel and he flinched, managing to yank it away.

‘Aw,’ said Pung. ‘He moved. Hold him steady now . . .’ His voice died away as he stared up at Dorin’s hands, frowning. ‘What’s . . .’

The combined forces of the toughs’ yanking and Dorin’s twisting and pulling and cutting did the job, and one rope parted. Dorin fell sideways on to the crowd of thugs and they all collapsed together. He jabbed the thin blade into the eye socket of one, who whipped his head away, howling, yanking the blade from Dorin’s blood-slippery fingers. He stamped the hardened outside edge of one foot into the throat of another, felt cartilage crush.