Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (39 page)

He did something then that he’d never dared do before; he sought her out. His fear of raising his Warren had faded, and now he reached out, feeling among the many auras for that unique one; non-human, tinted, as he now knew, by Kurald Liosan. Though it took a great deal of searching, he found it. And where he found it troubled him deeply. Far to the north it was. Well beyond the walls of the city.

He released his Warren and nearly allowed himself to thump down in the seat before him, but halted the motion at the last instant. He paced before the stool instead. What in the many realms was she up to? She never left the city. He paused in his pacing then, considering.

At least that he knew of . . .

He walked then, stiffly, and sat down against the wall next to the door, extending his legs straight out. He steepled his fingers together and pressed them to his lips, thinking, his gaze narrow. And he waited.

A small noise roused him from a doze – movement far across the domed chamber: Shalmanat entering through a door the existence of which Silk had had no hint. This also chagrined him; he knew of one concealed way into this room but that was not it.

He rose on aching stiff legs. Far across the way Shalmanat paused, nonplussed perhaps, then continued. She gave him a nod in greeting, calling, ‘Silk, what is so pressing?’

‘Nothing so pressing as your absence.’ She was dressed for travel, in old worn leathers, her hair drawn up and scarved. ‘And where have you been?’

Closer now, he saw a brow arch and her lips tighten as she considered his words. ‘That is my concern, I think.’

‘I – we – your bodyguard should know.’

‘You are not my bodyguard, Silk.’ Amusement now curled her lips. ‘You are ill-suited for such duties, I should imagine.’

For an instant fury blazed across his vision, then he blinked, swallowing. He screamed within:
I would die for you!
Outwardly, he stammered, his fists clenching, and he damned the heat at his face. ‘You were with him, weren’t you? With Ryllandaras.’

She considered him again, her head tilting aside. The look she gave him made him think of the affection and pity one might feel for a distressed pet. ‘As a matter of fact I was. He is old, you know. Very old. And has been witness to many of the great clashes of the past. I went to speak to him about these – troubling – manifestations in the city.’ She sat then, slumping, upon the stool.

He peered down at her for a time before asking, ‘And?’

She roused from her thoughts, blinking. ‘He said that in the stench of the city he could smell the sands of a lost Hold . . . the Hold of the Tiste Edur.’ She shook her head as she spoke, and appeared so troubled that he almost forgot his anger and resentment and threw himself at her feet to hug them – anything to ease her burdens.

‘We will get to the bottom of it,’ he assured her.

She nodded distractedly at his words, her gaze elsewhere, lost in her thoughts, seemingly having utterly forgotten his presence. He almost reached out then to smooth her silver hair but dared not, clenching his hot hands together at his back. And he bowed, briefly, and took his leave.

* * *

Dorin was sorting through a tabletop of rag-tag weapons brought together by the lads at Wu’s orders. Outside it was nearing dusk, and having slept through most of the day he felt rested, though favouring his left leg from a deep cut sustained during his encounters on the roofs the night before.

This night would see more of the same, his hunting of the Nightblades. The first step in his plan, such as it was. He frowned at one rusted and pitted knife: would’ve been a fine weapon . . . a hundred years ago. He made his selection among them to replace lost blades and began easing them into his baldrics.

‘Ah, here you are!’ announced Wu as he came bustling into the cellar of their new hideout. He was rubbing his hands together and waggling his brows. ‘Ready to get on with my plan, then?’

Dorin eyed him sidelong as he thumbed the edge of a hooked blade. ‘
Your
plan?’

The mage was unperturbed. ‘Of course! Our assault upon Pung’s headquarters!’

‘He’s nothing now.’

‘Not
him
. The box, my friend. We must have that box.’

Dorin now sighted down the razor edge of a lethal stiletto. ‘Why? What’s in it?’

‘Never mind. What I know is that it’s important.’

Dorin peered down at the mage, who was hunched over like an old man. ‘You don’t know what’s in it, do you?’

Wu screwed up his face in defiance. ‘I don’t have to know. My instincts assure me it’s important.’

Pulling an old cloak about himself, Dorin headed to the door. ‘Well, it can wait. I’m busy with my own plan.’

‘And what plan is that? Hunt down all the Nightblades? Why? To what end? What are they to you?’ He thrust high a wizened finger. ‘Ah! Wait! I see. You are after what they ward. You would take a contract perhaps?’ He waggled the finger in dismissal. ‘She would never hire you.’

‘Not a contract. Think of it as . . . credentials.’

Both greying shaggy eyebrows rose in exaggerated understanding. ‘Ah. I see.’ The wrinkled lips pursed in regret and he shook his head. ‘And you would expect my cooperation in this effort, no doubt.’

Dorin felt his shoulders tightening in the familiar irritation the fellow could so easily summon in him. He looked to the ceiling a short hand-breadth above his head. ‘Fine! When?’

The mage waved his hands in deference. ‘Oh, there’s time yet. The lads and lasses aren’t finished clearing the tunnels. Do go on.’ He shooed him from the room. ‘I’ll let you know.’

Dorin stared, his mouth open.
Gods!
Cracked as a heat-maddened rat. He considered a number of blistering replies only to snarl under his breath as he stormed out.

Much later, even as he knelt hunched in the cover of a brick chimney, he still couldn’t rid himself of his anger at the jumped-up little fellow. Who did he think he was? Had that been an
order
? Why on earth did he put up with it? Stupid useless little prick!

Two dark shapes dropped on to the flat rooftop and readied crossbows as they studied the streets below. Dorin drew his knives and charged.

They were good enough to sense his silent approach across the dried clay roof. They spun, but he was too close: one shot missed and the other weapon he knocked aside to fire out across the roof. He sliced the tendons of one knee of each and they buckled. One he kicked to topple out into the alley below. The other he thrust in the groin, ripping up, just as one might slice a fish. This Nightblade fell curled round the mortal wound like a pinned bug.

Have to teach the little man a lesson, Dorin decided, as he straightened. Clarify the relationship.

Then he threw himself flat to the roof. Crossbow bolts cut the air above him, shot from behind. He rose in a charge. On the opposite lip of the roof two more Nightblades rose from cover. One threw aside his crossbow, advancing to meet him; the other reloaded.

Dorin and the Nightblade met close to the edge of the roof. Each fought with two knives. The fight was silent but for the sound of the weapons sliding across each other as the blades kissed and scraped in short staccato bursts.

The Nightblade sought to circle round to expose Dorin for a shot, while he counter-circled to keep his opponent in the way as they duelled. They shuffled, their soft leather moccasins brushing the dried clay, their arms extended, blades balanced in their grips ready to suddenly reverse or threaten a throw.

A quick series of feints brought Dorin in close. The Nightblade had to retreat and Dorin drove him back with constant rapid thrusts and cuts. The man regained his balance after a few shifts, but he was closer now to his brother. Dorin had him where he wanted him and he pressed again, closing.

The fellow managed to catch both blades on his and they balanced there, corpse-a-corpse, the blades scraping and grating, the Nightblade’s breath hissing from him in explosive gusts. Dorin realized he’d made a mistake: not only was this fellow heavier and stronger than he, but the other Nightblade had shifted round and was now sighting down the stock of his weapon straight at him.

His acrobatic training served him well then as he kicked and twisted in the air, hammering the breath from his opponent and circling behind. The other Nightblade swung his weapon, cursing. Dorin was furious with himself for letting the game go on for as long as it had, but it was over now, for when the kick had landed, breaking ribs, he knew he’d won. Even as his feet touched the roof again he surged inwards once more, blocking a forearm, and stitched the fellow’s torso in a series of short jabbing thrusts, driving him backwards into his partner. The two tumbled from the roof, arms flailing, to land with heavy wet thumps on the cobbles three storeys below.

‘Impressive!’ a man shouted. Dorin spun, crouching. A Nightblade stood far across the roof, his arms out, deliberately showing his empty hands. ‘Such an aggressive style! Faruj was your teacher, yes?’

‘Who?’ Dorin felt behind him to ease down on the roof’s edge – just in case.

The man wore loose black trousers and shirt, his hair black as well, cut short. He opened his arms wider in the sketch of a shrug. ‘Well, I suppose he wouldn’t have given his real name, would he? Wiry? Able to beat you with one hand?’

His old master
had
done just that – pinned or forced him to yield almost every day, usually with one hand.

But the old Talian Master of Assassins, Faruj? In truth? Some had whispered it, but the old man had always laughed off any such suggestion.

None of this Dorin showed on his face, which he held flat. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Another sketch of a shrug from the man. ‘Of course you don’t. How much?’

‘How much what?’

‘How much to work for us? We could use a man of your skills.’

‘Work for Chulalorn? Really?’

The Nightblade waved a hand impatiently. ‘Surely that does not matter. Think of it as self-advancement. Name your price. How much?’

Something in those words – their arrogant delivery, or their literal meaning perhaps – brushed Dorin with a strange affront. He knelt further, feeling with his toes for a brick lip along the wall. ‘I suppose you’re right. It shouldn’t matter. But I’m not for sale.’

‘Pity, that.’

Two screams erupted then, freezing him, and a crossbow bolt snapped the air over his head. One keen screech was that of a hunting bird – astoundingly loud. The other was torn from a human’s throat, and it held unimaginable agony. Dorin unfroze to spin to his left, and saw a titanic bird of prey looming over another Nightblade. Its talons encircled his skull, their dagger lengths piercing the sockets of his eyes. The man had dropped his crossbow and was yanking futilely at the bird’s grip.

Wings broader than the height of a man unfurled. They gave one mighty stroke and the predator lifted its victim from the roof, his legs kicking and spasming. They rose into the night air over the street, and then the creature released its grip and the man fell, a limp and silent form, dead already.

What on earth was that? Dorin glanced back across the roof; he was alone. He shuddered uncontrollably for an instant. It was an after-effect of that chilling call. No doubt the screech was meant to freeze prey, and in his case it had worked. He became mindful then of his exposed position and ducked down to find his way to the alley.

He walked from one patch of darkness to another through the empty mid-night ways, making for the north. He knew whom to see; twice now birds of prey had attacked his enemies and he did not know whether to be grateful or angry. He reached the side of the tall stable and climbed to the open gable of the garret above.

Within, he found the rafters crowded by the usual dozing daytime hunters. Beneath, perched on a box, sat Ullara, legs crossed, also apparently asleep. Her eyes, however, fluttered open as he approached, and she smiled, dreamily. ‘Safe, I see,’ she murmured.

‘Thanks to you?’

‘Thanks to my King of the Mountains.’

‘King of the Mountains?’

She gave a weak shrug. ‘One of my names for him. That is where he comes from. Far to the north. The Fenn mountains. He is lost and lonely here. Out of place among lesser hunters.’ She tilted her head, studying him. ‘Like you.’

‘I am not lonely.’

‘Yes you are – you just can’t see it.’

He sat next to her, sighing. ‘Well . . . my thanks regardless. You are better?’

She nodded, leaned against his side. ‘Yes. Thank you for the coin. My brother is recovering.’

‘Good . . . but I have to ask that you stop doing this. It is too dangerous for you. I have enemies. Feuds.’

‘I know. I can help.’

‘No. Stop. Do not involve yourself.’

She wrapped her arms round his. ‘It is too late.’

‘Ullara . . . no. This is no game.’

‘I know. Hold me.’

‘What?’

‘Hold me. Stay and hold me. I don’t want to be alone.’

Gingerly, reluctantly, he tucked his arm about her, pressed her closer. She felt very hot against his side. Her forehead burned where it pressed against his chest. Her eyes slipped closed and her light breathing eased into a slow steady rhythm.

He held her, rocking gently, until the flush of dawn came to the windows. Then he eased her down and covered her with an old horse blanket and made his way down the wooden slats of the wall before it was light enough to see.

* * *

Sister Night spent most of her time meditating. She sat cross-legged in the dirt cellar of a burned-out ruin safe from any interruption save from rats and cockroaches. And these, sensing a living being, always moved on after investigating. What she was attempting took an inhuman degree of patience, and it was therefore providential that she was, in fact, not human. She was engaged in a very gentle exploration of the borders of a Realm, or Hold, long sealed away from trespassers. Sealed by the mightiest of those active amid the material realms, such as her brother K’rul, and Kilmandaros, and Osserc. Care, therefore, was the order of the day.

After her first brush she had come to the conclusion that what she sensed was not so much a torn
gate
to the Realm, in the sense of a forced permanent access, but rather the true reaching out of an attuned practitioner, such as any manipulator of his or her natural source, or Warren.