Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (46 page)

Dorin swallowed to wet his throat, croaked, ‘You gonna . . . watch me . . . bleed out?’

‘Not at all. The urchins are on their way.’

The thought of those kids poking at him almost got Dorin to his feet. Wu pressed him back down. ‘Do not worry, I have everything in hand.’

That’s what fucking worries me
. . .

The youths arrived, eased him on to his back. Small hands pulled at his torn shirt. The pain was swept aside like a receding wave, and Dorin recognized the effects of the healing Warren, Denul.

‘You have a healer?’ he murmured to Wu, amazed.

‘Almost every one of these youths is a talent of one sort or another. That’s why I picked them from all the hundreds of kids.’ The mage studied his walking stick, sniffed. ‘Really, Dorin, give me
some
credit.’

And Dorin let himself relax, yielding to the probing fingers, thinking
Oponn’s jest! An army of damned talents?

A LIGHT DRIFT
of windblown ice granules covered the body in the alley. Silk crouched next to it, reached a bare hand down the man’s chest, stone cold. More than a day, at the least. And not just another starving victim of the siege, either. Shot through by crossbow bolts – and these subsequently torn from the body as supplies were short everywhere.

‘Starved?’ Smokey called from down the alley.

‘No.’ Silk rested his elbows on his knees, rubbed his hands to warm them. ‘Looks like a gang war. This is one of Pung’s or Urquart’s.’

Smokey cocked his head. ‘Could be a murder made to look like such. We got informers, saboteurs and spies crawling all over us like godsdamned lice.’

Silk studied the cobbled alleyway. Small footprints in the dusting of sleet. Very small. Sandals and shoes, worn, some with holes in the soles. No proper boots. He raised his head to call, ‘It’s that new gang. Expanding their territory.’ He stood, brushed his trouser legs, then went to where Smokey, in a long woollen coat, leaned up against a wall. ‘I hear Pung’s in hiding.’

Smokey rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t give a shit. What I want to know is whether it’s the work of any blasted insurgent or traitor.’

‘In my opinion? No.’

Smokey grunted his satisfaction, pushed from the wall. ‘Okay, leave it be. At least in this cold it won’t rot.’ They started up the street.

‘It’s going to be a messy spring this year.’

Smokey hunched further, shuddering. He tucked his hands deep within the coat. ‘Don’t care.’ He added, muttering, ‘So long as we live to see it.’

‘Have faith, my dour friend. Burn’s Turning has come and gone – we are in the season of rising light. Kan’s thrown its best against us and been repulsed. They’ll crawl away with the melt.’

‘It’s not Kan that worries me – it’s malcontents here. Like at the Inner Gate.’

‘Mara caught them before they took control and now their heads adorn it as warning to others. Everyone will think twice now.’

Smokey grunted sourly. ‘We were lucky. We might not be next time.’ He cocked an eye to Silk. ‘What’s got you in such a grand mood?’

Silk thought about that. He
was
in an inexplicably good mood this day and he wondered on its cause. He decided that it was as he’d said: Kan really did seem exhausted. It looked to him as though they truly had repulsed Chulalorn’s overreach. And time was on their side. With every day that passed, the status quo solidified and opinion grudgingly shifted in their favour. In a siege, the mere survival of the defending party was itself success. It was up to Kan to prove otherwise.

‘I do believe we’ve turned a corner, my friend.’

Smokey laughed his scepticism. ‘Hunh! That’ll be the day I offer good coin to Oponn.’

* * *

Dorin sat up in his narrow underground room, more of a cell, just wide enough for his cot. He rubbed his chest beneath his thin shirtings, and remembered the chill touch of the knifepoint when it slid past his ribs. Must have punctured a lung at the least.

The cloth hanging across the doorway was edged aside and a youth entered: one of Wu’s lads. The boy’s dirty face registered surprise and he sketched a quick half-bow. ‘Wu wants to see you.’

Dorin sat up, blinked in dizziness. ‘He does, does he?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Sir?’

‘Yes sir, Dorin sir.’

‘I meant – you don’t have to use “sir”.’

‘We decided to use it.’

‘Oh. Well, that’s all right, then.’

The lad was relieved. ‘Thanks. You sit – I’ll go and get Wu. Oh, is there anything you want?’

Dorin tried to swallow, failed. ‘Food and drink. And not from any tomb!’

‘Right.’ The lad left, the cloth fell.

Shortly afterwards a girl arrived carrying a wooden tray supporting a small loaf and a steaming earthenware bowl. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘Broth of onions and mushrooms. All we got left.’

Dorin picked up the fist-sized loaf – it was rock hard. ‘How am I supposed to . . .’

‘You dip it in the broth. Softens it.’

‘Ah.’ He ate. The girl crouched, watching him. From the edge of his vision he observed her. Finally, he asked, ‘What is it?’

‘Four of us watched your fight. They say it was the most amazing thing they ever saw. So fast it was. Like magic. Will you teach us?’

Dorin thought about that while he dipped the bread and gnawed it. The dissemination of specialized knowledge outside any guild was, of course, punishable by death. Assassins didn’t really possess an organized guild, though – too much the loners. However, they tended to follow rules similar to those of the secretive brotherhood of architects, or the closed guild of the goldsmiths, or the mystical gem-cutter guild. His teacher had guarded his hard-won knowledge and skills jealously. They were, after all, his only bread and butter. He had to sell them as dearly as possible. He’d taken only one student at a time – not that Dorin had had any coin. He’d been a charity case, taken on only because of his demonstrated ability. Teaching these lads and lasses would be seen as a gross break with tradition; a potential cheapening of all that he’d struggled so hard to possess. A betrayal of trade secrets that carried the death penalty.

He considered this while he stirred the broth with the knot of bread. ‘I’ll teach anyone who wants to learn.’

The girl shot to her feet, her eyes huge, ‘Thank you!’ She ran from the room, presumably to spread the word.

The cloth was edged aside once more and Rheena entered. She leaned up against the wall next to the doorway. She rubbed her hands down her thighs, her gaze on the floor. ‘I’m glad you’re okay.’

‘Thanks to these kids. Can you believe that?’

Rheena laughed, crossed her arms. ‘Kids? I was no older when I ran away. And that one who just left? She’s a talent of Rashan. Walks in the night like a ghost.’ She shook her head, amazed. ‘Seems your friend has an eye for talent.’

Dorin thought about that. ‘Yeah. I suppose he does.’

The half-smile fled her face and she brushed back her loose curls of red hair. ‘So, how is she?’

‘Blinded.’

‘Blinded? Gods – I’m sorry.’

He shrugged aside the apology. ‘It’s my fault. You were right. I shouldn’t have involved her.’

She hugged herself, nodding. ‘It’s the innocents who get it in the neck, isn’t it?’

Dorin eyed her anew. ‘Where’s Loor?’

She raised her gaze to the ceiling. ‘Must you . . .’

‘Where is he?’

‘Promise not to kill him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Or blind him?’

He scowled, truly offended. ‘I’d never maim anyone.’

‘Just saying!’ She raised a hand. ‘All right. So long as you don’t harm him. He was just mad at you, that’s all.’

‘Mad at me?’

‘He thought we were a team. He thought he was finally going somewhere . . .’ She let her shoulders fall. ‘Never mind.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘The Wayside Inn.’

He knew it; one of the worst dives in the city. ‘Thank you.’

Her answering nod was miserable. ‘And me?’

‘You?’

She rolled her eyes once more. ‘Yes, me. What of me?’

He gestured to the hall. ‘These kids need a firm hand. Wu and I are busy.’

She dropped her gaze, drew a circle in the dust with the toe of her shoe. ‘I see . . . I suppose I should thank you.’

‘Just don’t prove me wrong.’

She jumped as if stung. ‘I’ll not disappoint you.’

‘See that you don’t.’ He gestured once more to the hall.

Rheena inclined her chin and left. Dorin finished his thin soup. When he looked up Wu was standing in the doorway studying him with the air of a pleased parent. It occurred to him that the Dal Hon mage was the only one apart from Ullara who could sneak up on him. ‘What do you want?’ he growled, irritated by that fact.

‘All hale and whole, yes? Thanks to me.’

‘Thanks to your healers.’

A flutter of one hand from the mage seemed to say
A minor distinction
.

‘So? What do you want?’

‘I? Why, nothing. Only your well-being, of course. It gratifies me no end to see you quite recovered. You should have seen yourself. Hood’s doorstep, as they say. Why, if it weren’t for me—’

‘No.’

The Dal Hon mage, as ever in his false façade of grey hair and wrinkled visage, faltered, blinking. ‘I’m sorry? No? What do you mean, no?’

‘No to whatever it is you want.’

‘I? Why, nothing. Nothing at all. But,’ and he raised a finger, ‘now that you mention it, there is one small favour . . .’

‘No. We’re done. You have that damned box thing, don’t you?’

Wu drew himself up looking smugly satisfied, like the cat that ate the mouse. ‘Absolutely. I, that is
we
, have acquired the, ah, object.’

‘Good. Then you will help me move on Chulalorn.’

The mage lowered his finger. He set to tapping the stick to the dirt, his gaze lowered. ‘Ah. Well. About that. I was thinking . . .’

‘You’re not reneging on me, are you?’

Wu now fluttered the air with his fingers, the stick waving. ‘Not a bit of it, my friend. I was just thinking that now may not be the best time, that is all.’

‘What do you mean, not the best time?’

‘Well. It’s quite convenient having him out there, after all. Suits our purposes, yes?’

Dorin crossed his arms and winced at a twinge from his chest. ‘What are you talking about?’

The mage waggled his brows as if trying to appear knowing. Dorin raised a forestalling hand. ‘Don’t do that – not to me, anyway.’

Wu’s lips drew down in a pout but he seemed to recover quickly as he now stroked the scraggy hairs at his chin. ‘Let Chulalorn and the Protectress exhaust their resources battling one another. Who knows, perhaps the king’s forces will even account for a city mage or two . . . We will then have a much easier hand, will we not?’

‘An easier hand? What are you—’ Dorin stared at the smirking hunched gnome of a mage for a moment then pulled a hand down his face, sighing. ‘You’re completely insane.’ He straightened from the cot, waved the fellow aside. ‘If you won’t help with Chulalorn, we’re done. I’ll go it alone from here on. Thank you for the healing.’

Wu was frowning his confusion. ‘But we nearly have the streets tied up. Soon we’ll be able to move on the palace itself.’

Dorin paused in the doorway. ‘I hate this damned city.’

‘Well, it does smell – but they say it’s the river . . .’

Dorin pushed past, started up the tunnel. ‘We’re done.’

‘But I have the box! It is vital!’

Dorin halted, marched back down to the short mage. ‘All right. Let’s see this amazing artefact.’

Wu clutched his chest, his eyes darting. ‘That’s not really necessary . . . You need only take my word, I assure you . . .’

Dorin extended a hand. ‘You said it’s ours.’

The fellow’s brows shot up. ‘Time’s wasting. Must be off.’ He turned to go, but Dorin gathered up a fistful of his shirt.

‘Let’s see it.’

‘Very well – if you insist. But do not be hasty. Appearances are always deceiving.’ He drew the flat wooden box from his shirt and handed it over.

Something hard clattered within. Dorin slid the top open and peered inside. He was still for a moment as he considered what confronted him. He had had no idea what to expect but this was not it: it was nothing more than a broken stone arrowhead, or spear-point. A childish souvenir. A common piece of old knapped weaponry such as littered riverbanks and coastlines.

He dropped the box to the ground and the point fell to the dirt. He pressed the heels of both palms to his eyes, took a long slow breath. Finally, he managed, slow and deliberate, ‘You Queen-damned utter lunatic. We’re done. Finished. Completely finished.’

The mage’s eager grin fell away. ‘What do you mean? Isn’t it fascinating?’

‘Stuff the damned thing!’

‘Well . . . if you’re going to be like that I won’t include you in any of my future plans after all.’

Dorin stalked up the tunnel. ‘What a loss.’ He continued on, muttering under his breath, ‘What a fucking terrible loss . . .’

*

The young derelict always sat alone in the common room of the Wayside Inn. And he cradled just the one glass of homebrew through the night. The proprietor would have chucked him out long ago if it weren’t for the fact that these days the room was nearly empty – better a few sad souls than none at all.

Dorin watched the figure from the bar. The lad looked awful: pale and sweaty as if fevered, his eyes sunken and red-rimmed. His shirt and jacket were torn and dark with dirt, as if he’d been sleeping in the street. Dorin pushed a few coins to the barkeep and waited for him to amble into the back kitchens. After a moment a crash as of dropped bowls sounded and the four men in the room craned to look.

Dorin slipped forward and eased into the chair opposite the lad.

Loor brought his gaze back from the kitchen entrance and stiffened, paling even more. Then he let go his breath and took up the drink before him, swallowing all. He set down the glass and gave a sickly smile. ‘Been waiting for you.’

Dorin almost started at that, his hands going to his waist.
I underestimated this lad
. But no – he’d checked out the other three already, and none carried anything larger than an eating knife. And the proprietor hadn’t betrayed any nerves when he spoke to him.
Just a turn of phrase
. Yet he kept his hands on the knives at his waist all the same. ‘Should’ve organized a welcome.’