Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (5 page)

A knock on the door. ‘Yes?’

Lee, one of his enforcer lads, pushed up the trap and handed him a slip of torn rag. ‘An urchin lass, a dust-sweeper, was given this for you.’

He broke the crude seal of plain candle-wax that closed the folds. On the scrap, in the neat hand of a hired scribe, was the single word
Tonight
. Accompanying the message was a clumsy charcoal drawing of a knife.

So. I was right.

Rafall threw the rag aside to burn later. He studied Lee’s puzzled lopsided face. ‘I want everyone out tonight. All the clubbers rolling drunks. All the pretty boys and lasses pulling customers. Everyone working.’

‘Festival of Burn’s still a long way off . . .’

‘Just do as I say!’

The lad flinched, pulled at his wispy beard. ‘If y’ say so.’ He slammed the door.

Good lads and lasses, all of ’em. Even the arm-breakers, clubbers, and enforcers. Even them. Beat anyone senseless, they would. But no knifing. No. That took another sort altogether. So the fellow wanted to talk. All right. They’d have them a chat. Got off on the wrong foot, was all. And if talk wasn’t what the lad had in mind, he wouldn’t have given fair warning, would he?

He spent the evening going over his accounts – a depressing enough exercise for any small businessman. His above-board ‘import’ business was haemorrhaging money. All the income from his street waifs, their whoring, theft, and mugging, even taken together with his fencing, barely kept him afloat. Too much uncertainty around the raids of the Seti, the terror of the man-eater, and unofficial ‘taxes’ and bandits in general. Overland commerce had pretty much fallen into ruin since the end of the last Talian hegemony. Why, the tithes Cawn levelled for portage were outrageous. Nothing better than thieves, those Cawnese.

What was a businessman to do?

He sighed, pushed away the books and looked up in the dim candlelight to see the dark-haired lad himself sitting opposite. His heart lurched and he dropped his quill. ‘You’re early,’ he said in a gasp.

‘Of course.’ The thin youth made a show of peering about the office. ‘No guards?’

‘No. I took it you wanted to talk.’

‘Good for you. I do want to talk – among other things. Now . . .’ and he placed his slim long-fingered hands on the desk, ‘I asked you a question a few days ago . . .’

Rafall swallowed hard. He edged one hand to his lap and there took hold of the grip and trigger of the crossbow he kept mounted under the desk. Talk was one thing – but a man’d be a fool not to have insurance. ‘I know everyone, lad. If you’re looking for work I can get the word out.’ The youth’s flat features turned down. So unremarkable, this one’s appearance, Rafall thought. Bland, even. Unmemorable. But then that was all for the better, wasn’t it? In this one’s line of work only a fool would try to stand out.

‘I thought you said there was no brotherhood in town. Something about your Protectress.’

‘No, no organization. But killin’, yes. Plenty of that. Accidents happen . . . you know how it is.’

The youth nodded. ‘I understand.’ He studied him, his eyes watchful, with a predatory air. ‘Ask around. Bring me any offers. You know the inn down the street?’

‘The Riverside? Aye.’ Rafall didn’t add that its owner was up to his bushy eyebrows in debt to him.

‘I’ll take a room there.’

‘I’ll make the arrangements and deliver the word.’

‘Very good.’ The lad leaned forward then, hands still flat on the desk between them. ‘Now, about my possessions . . .’

* * *

In late summer the Favathalven family petitioned the Protectress to look into the death of their great matron, Denili Liejen Favathalven. ‘Auntie’, as she was known to her many customers, being a madam and one of the most important moneychangers in the city.

Ten days later a sleepy-eyed slave answered a knock at the brothel door. Opening the door a crack she curtsied, saying, ‘Sorry, good sir, the house is not formally open yet. Perhaps you’d care for a— Oh!’ Looking up, her breath had caught in her throat. Standing on the threshold was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Striking long blond hair fell loose about a lean smiling face; an exquisite white silk shirt was wrapped taut at a slim waist by a wide scarlet silk sash over black silk pantaloons. The man winked, and though the young slave had seen more than anyone her age ought to have seen, she blushed.

‘I’m expected,’ he said, his voice warm and gentle, and somehow so understanding of all her troubles and the unfairness of her life.

‘This way,’ she barely breathed, bowing him in.

The man paused in the entrance hall, peered around. The girl stared motionless, wishing he would glance to her again.

‘Spivy!’ a woman snapped from within. ‘What’re you doin’ openin’ the damned door? You useless— Oh!’ The pinched woman who entered the hall also caught her breath, but not because of the beauty of their guest. She curtsied, then motioned to the stairs. ‘This way, ah . . . good sir. I am Tapal – mistress of the estate.’

She led him to her dead aunt’s offices above. Here the fellow ambled about, studying the walls, the windows. ‘All windows sealed and barred,’ she said, hardly able to take her eyes from him. The Protectress, she reflected enviously, didn’t spare herself much, did she?

He nodded absently. Then he stopped before the broad stone fireplace. Kneeling, he held a hand over the hearth. ‘Cold.’

‘Not the season, is it? An’ that’s just a little pipe.’

‘It’s rectangular,’ he said, peering up. He ran a hand inside then examined the black soot coating his fingers. He returned to pacing about the rooms, this time studying the scattered carpets and rugs. Eventually he stopped, turned to face her. ‘A shame your mistress didn’t keep a fire. She’d be alive now if she had.’

She gaped at him.
Surely not! How can that be possible?

He bowed and headed for the stairs.

She would have followed but a stain on the rug right where he had been standing caught her eye. A black smear of soot. She stared at that offending mark until the sound of the man descending the treads pulled her back to herself. She hurried after him.

At the door Spivy curtsied, peering up at him fixedly. He smiled back down at her warmly. ‘Goodbye, child.’

Tapal closed the door then immediately smacked Spivy across the side of her head. ‘You keep your eyes down when greetin’ guests!’

‘Yes, mistress.’ The girl rubbed her head, wincing, then dared to say, her voice low: ‘May I ask, mistress . . . who was that?’

Tapal laughed throatily. ‘You don’t aim half high, do you, child? That, you ignorant minx, is Silk. A mage in service to the city.’ She knelt closer, smirking as she enjoyed what she was about to impart: ‘
And
. . . most say . . . lover to our good Protectress herself.’

*

Silk walked the busy streets of Li Heng hardly aware of his surroundings. His mind was elsewhere, sifting the clues and hints he’d picked up from the Favathalven household, composing his report to his patron: the sorceress Shalmanat, Protectress of Li Heng.

Thus he failed to notice the many gasps from those he passed, both male and female; the many who froze in their steps, staring, some open-mouthed. He failed to hear the crash of dropped pots; the whispered invitations and admirations; the outright offers from women – and some men as well. Perhaps it was because his thoughts were so far away, but in fact he rarely noticed any of the stir he caused, as he’d grown used to it long ago.

He passed through the Inner Round and Central Round gates without challenge; the guards knew him for his rich finery, his rare blond hair, but mostly for the sudden shift in attention among any women nearby, including their fellow city guards.

Similarly, he passed unchallenged through the gates of the Palace Circle, crossed the broad cobbled marshalling grounds and was allowed through the main doors of the palace proper. These halls he ambled with his usual distracted air, his thoughts elsewhere. The vast majority of the palace functionaries he met in the hallways passed him by without any acknowledgement, other than fascinated sidelong glances, envious glares, or a curled lip, all depending upon the other’s opinion of him: respected city mage, favoured lover of the Protectress, or mere fop no better than a male prostitute.

A footman directed him to the palace gardens. Here he found the usual crowd of scribes and higher bureaucrats gathered a respectful distance from a tall woman bearing a striking mane of bright white hair who wore a functional long blouse and trousers of plain undyed linen. Facing her was a squat fat fellow in glaringly bright blue and scarlet robes trimmed with rich brushed sable. Silk knew the man as Lakke Sumarkethol, High Priest of Burn the earth-goddess, official patron deity of Li Heng.

Beside these two, his thick arms crossed over an equally thick chest, his hair a greying tangled mop and his shirt and trousers in an equally tattered and unkempt state, stood the stolid figure of one of Silk’s four compatriots: the city mage whom everyone called simply, Mister Ho.

‘We ask that you act,’ the High Mage was saying. ‘It is against the law, after all.
Your
law, I might add.’

Silk met Ho’s gaze and the man sent his eyes to the sky. Silk fought to keep a smile from his face as he stepped up into High Priest Lakke’s sight.

The High Priest caught him from the corner of his vision and began to stammer, his voice catching, cheeks flushing. Silk merely crossed his arms, betraying no emotion. ‘. . . that is . . .’ Lakke began again, clearing his throat. ‘Protectress, the cult of Hood has long been outlawed here in Heng. We demand that you enforce the laws of the city.’

Shalmanat spoke, her gaze upon the golden flowers of a nearby shrub. ‘Which is it?’ Her voice was soft and musical, tinged by a strange foreign accent. As always, the sound of it ran like a warm hand down Silk’s back and, as always, it was here, in
her
presence, that he understood the reactions he evoked in others.

Lakke’s thick brows crimped as he paused, uncertain. ‘I’m sorry? Which is what?’

The Protectress continued studying the heavy blossoms. She ran the back of a pale hand beneath one as if urging it to approach. ‘First you ask, then you demand . . . I was just wondering which it was.’

The priest of Burn blushed furiously. He gulped rather like one of the fat catfish that inhabited the depths of the river Idryn. Silk and Ho shared a grin at the man’s utter discomfiture. She could do that, the Protectress Shalmanat.

The man swallowed his embarrassment long enough to stammer, ‘. . . why . . . ask . . . of course, Protectress.’

She turned a brilliant smile upon him. ‘Very good, Lakke. I thought so. Be assured. We shall look into it – as always.’ She beckoned Silk and Ho forward – ‘Come. Walk with me’ – and started off without any farewell or dismissal of the priest.

As they walked away, Silk heard the man grind through clenched teeth: ‘Protectress . . .’

He and his fellow mage took up positions just slightly behind the woman as she strolled the grounds. She walked with her long slim hands clasped behind her back. Her feet were bare, and silent upon the crushed gravel. Ho trudged flat-footed, like an ox. Silk struggled in his leather shoes to match the woman’s noiseless tread.

‘The blind fool,’ Ho grumbled. ‘He doesn’t even know what’s coming.’

‘It’s all over the market squares,’ Silk observed.

‘The merchants are always the first to know,’ Shalmanat agreed. ‘King Chulalorn the Third is moving. Kan is on its way.’ She drew a hard breath, stopped walking, and stood still for a time, facing away, her hands pressed against the curve of her back. ‘When?’

‘Soon,’ Ho answered. ‘Within half a fortnight, I should think. His outriders and scouts are already on the plains.’ He shot a glance heavy with significance to Silk. ‘We will have much work to do.’

For his part, Silk fought an urge to take one of the woman’s pale slim hands and press it to his lips – anything to ease the burden he felt settling now upon her shoulders.

‘You have a report, Ho?’ she asked after a time of silence.

The big fellow cleared his throat. ‘There’re rumours Pung has hired some kind of foreign magician.’

‘Pung?’

‘Runs the prostitution and black market in the Rounds. They call him Pung the child-stealer.’

The Protectress raised her gaze to study the clear blue sky for a time. ‘Ah yes. Well, better than child-eater, I suppose.’

Ho cleared his throat once more, looking uncomfortable. Silk was relatively new to the Protectress’s service while she and Ho went back very far indeed. Silk did not know all that lay between them and did not know whether to be envious or relieved that Shalmanat never teased him so.

‘All talents are to present themselves upon entrance to Heng.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Well. He may be just another charlatan. Keep an eye on it none the less.’

Ho inclined his head. ‘Yes, Protectress.’

Shalmanat then turned her luminous gaze upon Silk and he quickly lowered his eyes, if only to avoid the crushing embarrassment of blushing. ‘And Silk? You are here to report?’

‘There are indications that a new assassin is operating in the city.’

The brushing of her plain linen trousers betrayed that she had moved on and Silk raised his head. ‘I see . . .’ she mused as she walked. ‘That is forbidden.’

He and Ho walked quickly after her. ‘Yes, Protectress.’

‘Stay on it, Silk. Persuade him or her to ply their trade elsewhere.’

‘Yes, Protectress.’

She turned towards the entrance to the palace that led directly to her inner sanctum, the cynosure in this city of nested circles. The mages stopped as each understood the audience was at an end. Both stood for a time, watching her go. What his companion’s thoughts were, Silk had no idea; the man never spoke of anything save their duties towards Shalmanat. In private he kept to his catacombs beneath the city, ever busy on this or that project or experiment – some sort of thaumaturgical research, Silk gathered.

And what did everyone think of Silk himself, with his suite of rooms in the most fashionable Central Round of Heng, among the apartments rich merchants held aside for their mistresses? Many might wonder whose lover he was. Well . . . it served as a cover, after all. And now . . . yes, well. Now . . . He shook his head.