Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (7 page)

BOOK: Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1
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The courtesan sniffed her derision. ‘Sweetheart? Can mere sighs and blushes satisfy a stallion such as you?’

‘The ways to pleasure are many.’

‘Aye – and I know every one of them. Save your last coin, come back at dawn, and I will give you far more than a chaste kiss.’

Dorin bowed deeply. ‘You shall not be forgotten, O Dispenser of Delights.’

All the nearby courtesans tittered at this epithet for a royal concubine and the woman chuckled behind her hands. ‘You are a very rogue!’ she called after him.

Dorin continued on his way, pleased with the exchange. Camouflage. Always camouflage.

He reached the broad open boulevard that was the North Way, or the Way of the Plains, close to where it led in from its namesake gate. Here he damned his luck, for the night was bright and the traffic nonexistent. He would stand out like a beacon crossing through the moonlight. Nor could he wait for some passing group to trail along behind, for with every heartbeat his quarry was disappearing ahead. Unhappy with the necessity of it, he struck out, hunched, slouching, disguising his walk into the stupefied shuffle of a d’bayang smoker.

He angled into the deepest shadows across the way, then sped along with the hope of catching a glimpse of the youth. He was in luck, as there the fellow stood, inspecting a torchlit stall front. Dorin eased back into the dark and waited. Presently, the youth walked on. He tapped and swung his walking stick jauntily as he went. Dorin followed. Coming abreast of the modest stall, he peered at the many amulets and charms. ‘What are these?’

‘Wards ’gainst the man-beast, good sir. Some blessed from the temples. You’d do well to carry one. Might I suggest—’

‘I’m not leaving the city.’

‘And what if the walls should fall?’

‘Why should they fall?’

The old man shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘There is talk of war – who is to say what might happen? Best to be prepared, yes?’

From the edge of his vision, Dorin watched his quarry amble on. ‘There is always talk of war. Good for business, I suppose.’

The old man pursed his lips as if to say
Throw your life away, then
. Dorin moved on again. The road was narrow and contained no active night market or inns. Only isolated shops and stalls lit the mostly residential tenement fronts. He would have lost his quarry in the darkness were it not for the click of the walking stick from a flint cobblestone. He turned up a slim alleyway, and here he almost ran into the fellow, who stood motionless, his back to him, apparently studying the night sky above.

The man turned and Dorin was shocked to see the wrinkled aged features of an ancient – the disguise was masterful. The withered face screwed up even more as its owner squinted. ‘So . . . a mere footpad, I see. A clubber, as I understand is slang for you here.’ He raised a warning finger. ‘Well, have a care. For I’ll have you know I work for—’

‘I know who you damned well work for,’ Dorin cut in savagely. ‘Don’t you recognize me?’

The fellow squinted his ferret-like tiny eyes. ‘Did I perchance buy some shoes from you? Because if I did, I have a complaint—’

‘No!’ Dorin snarled. ‘I did not – that is—’ He wiped his hot slick forehead and saw that he’d already drawn his best dagger. ‘All these wasted nights,’ he murmured aloud in wonder. ‘And he doesn’t even . . .’ He shook his head at his own foolishness.

‘Is this a robbery or have you stopped me just to babble on?’ The fellow set his hands atop the walking stick and rolled his eyes to the sky. ‘Oh, please do not tell me this is about some god you saw in a stain on the tabletop. I really am quite busy.’

Dorin stepped away as if to go. As he did so he threw the dagger, which struck the fellow high in the chest and lodged there. ‘You’re no longer busy,’ he said, and he watched the youth’s eyes widen in shock.

The fellow slumped back against the wall. He frowned at Dorin, coughed and murmured, hurt: ‘That was . . . unnecessarily . . . brusque . . .’ Then he slid down the brick wall to settle propped up, as if asleep.

Dorin knelt on his haunches before him. ‘This is to teach you that no one steals from me. Or thinks he’s gotten the better of me – yes?’ He studied the disguised face. A weak breath, wet with blood, eased from the lips. Dorin passed a hand before the beady eyes, which did not track. He sat back. ‘Well, then, let’s see what you’ve got on you.’ He reached in under the cloak.

A sudden screech of rage and a sharp jab of pain jerked him to the opposite wall where he stood squeezing his hand, his heart hammering at the surprise. A monkey now occupied the fellow’s lap. It glared its rage at him, waving him off; bared its curved yellow fangs.

Dorin shook his hand. Damned thing bit him! What kind of lunatic travels with a monkey under his cloak? But it wasn’t a monkey, it was that creature from the tomb – the nacht. A kind of miniature ape from the wretched island of Malaz. He stalked out of the alley while sucking the gouges at the meat of his palm. Blasted creature could’ve taken his thumb! Then what would he do? At the alley mouth he paused, wiped a sleeve across his face. Damned heat. It was too hot here on the plains, even though it was autumn.

He tied a handkerchief round his thumb, knotted it off. Then he turned to stare back up the deep shadows of the alley. His teeth slowly clenched hard enough to creak, and he hissed out a long breath of suspicion. With his off-hand he drew another blade and edged up the alley, crouched, sliding his feet forward silently on their soft leather soles.

He found the narrow way empty but for garbage, pots, and bits of furniture.

Later that night the city Watch received a call to subdue a madman who was howling and bellowing and smashing property in a lane off the Way of the Glaziers. When they arrived they found only garbage kicked and strewn all about, every resident’s pots thrown against the walls, and furniture broken and trampled. They left, but not before demanding a fee, which the locals reluctantly handed over, lest the Watch arrive even later the next time.

Chapter 2

IN THE HONEY
light of early dawn the priests and acolytes of Heng’s uncounted temples walked barefoot through the lanes and broad ways of the city. Most carried copper begging bowls, the poorest holy men and women among them holding out mere upturned wicker hats. Shop-owners waited at their thresholds with small leaf-wrapped pouches of food that they deposited in the proffered begging bowls. Silk watched this timeless ritual while he waited for two of his fellow city mages, Smokey and Koroll, here on the main temple thoroughfare, the Street of the Gods. It was a curve of the Inner Round, hard against the wall on the outer side, given over to the many and varied gods, daemons, spirits, haunts, and otherworldly guardians of Quon lands.

At this early hour their devotees crowded the road. They brought offerings to the many temples, altars and shrines: leaf-wrapped pinches of rice or steamed vegetables; garlands woven of flowers, candles, incense of scented wood, tiny cups of cheap liquor; and prayer-scarves to be draped over shrines or tied to corner altar-pieces.

Towering over all, parting the mass like a man-o’-war, came the shambling figure of the inhuman Koroll. Half Thelomen or Toblakai, some said. A great forest of tangled unwashed hair fell about his shoulders. The slanting light cast strange shadows upon his face, seemingly all broken and rearranged in odd planes and angles; over these alien features swirled tattooed symbols and glyphs. Layers of cloth hung draped about him like tenting. And from this bulk extended a stone-like muscled arm and a hand gripping a staff fully as tall as he.

The half-human mage came to stand alongside Silk, planted the staff with a thump, and gripped its haft in both hands. Together they regarded the modest stained and aged stone building before them.

‘Greetings, Koroll.’

‘Good morn,’ the giant rumbled.

Silk smelled smoke and turned, crooking a smile.

From up the other way came a young man in a long loose shirt of fine-brushed cotton over white linen trousers. His long dark hair was pulled back and braided in a neat ponytail, his goatee black and freshly trimmed. Silk gave him a nod. ‘Smokey.’

‘Silk.’ The mage turned to the house. ‘So, what have we here?’

‘It was the custom,’ Koroll began in his rough voice, ‘generations ago, for noble families to bury their dead together in mausoleums. One such do we face now. The family name is forgotten, but the cult has chosen wisely, regardless.’

Smokey visibly shivered his revulsion. ‘Hood,’ he spat. ‘Gives me the willies.’

Stone steps led up to twin open doors, possibly of siltstone, but carved to resemble panelled wood. Cluttering the steps lay a collection of offerings: drying foodstuffs, pot shards engraved with prayers, wilted garlands, and carved wooden dolls representing enemies marked for Hood’s special attention.

Silk raised a hand, gesturing forward. ‘Koroll – the honours, if you would . . .’

The giant strode up and thumped the butt of his staff to the threshold. ‘Greetings!’ he announced. ‘In the name of the Protectress Shalmanat.’

They waited. The dark unlit hall paved in black marble remained empty. Smokey shot Silk a glance and rolled his eyes. ‘Bloody cheap theatrics. You first, Silk.’

Silk’s answering smile was tight and humourless. He entered, noting that the walls to each side bore alcoves, eight rows of them, floor to ceiling, down the entire length. Each held a dusty skull. Honoured ancestors. Silk tipped his own head to them, and advanced.

A short distance within, he paused as he came to three sprawled corpses – these far more fresh than the watching skulls. Smokey came to his side and crouched at the nearest. ‘Enforcers,’ he judged. ‘Pung’s, probably. Sometime last night.’

Silk raised his chin and called, ‘Shalmanat’s law. Murder is punishable by exile.’

A figure emerged from the shadowed gloom further in. A young man simply dressed in trousers and a loose shirt. He held a gleaming two-handed blade readied before him. ‘They offended Hood,’ he stated flatly.

‘And how did they do that?’ Silk enquired.

‘They demanded a tithe upon the temple. I demonstrated Hood’s tithe.’

‘And who are you to judge?’ Smokey demanded.

The lad’s dark, almost blue-black eyes edged aside to Smokey. ‘I am Hood’s Sword.’

Smokey snorted a laugh. Silk, however, sensed something wrong; the youth had said the words not like a challenge or a claim, but as an obvious, uncontestable truth. As if he’d just observed that the sun rose or the land moved with Burn’s exhalations.

‘Well,
Hood’s Sword
,’ Smokey was saying, ‘you’ll have to face Shalmanat’s justice. So come with us.’

The lad did not vary his ready stance. ‘The only true justice is Hood’s to give.’

Smokey held out a hand, fingers spread. ‘Don’t make me burn you, kid.’

‘My life is Hood’s to take or leave.’

Movement among a heap of blankets up against a wall drew Silk’s eye and he distinguished a young girl asleep among the rags. Like the lad, she was mahogany dark – Dal Honese the pair of them. He placed a hand on Smokey’s forearm. ‘Wait . . .’

A faint blue flame – more like a weak aura – flickered and stuttered about Smokey’s fingertips and the mage of Telas stared, his brows knitting. ‘My Warren . . .’

A dry laugh echoed round the hall and Silk flinched. Koroll rumbled from the doors, ‘We are not alone.’

‘Indeed, friend giant,’ came an old man’s rasp. ‘Though you carry the blood of the Thel Akai, it would be best not to press this matter.’

Silk squinted into the dark and could just make out the shape of a scrawny ancient, hunched cross-legged before a shrine at the far end of the hall – a shrine to the dead. He eased down Smokey’s arm, murmured, ‘Not now.’

The fire mage pointed to the lad. ‘Later, friend,’ Silk urged him back.

They stopped outside. The thinning traffic of adherents and worshippers gave the threesome a wide berth. Silk hugged himself, feeling oddly chilled from that house of the dead.

‘What now?’ Smokey demanded.

‘These are no frauds peddling fear,’ Koroll supplied. ‘Hood is with them, whatever their other claims.’

Silk nodded his agreement as he stroked his chin, thinking. ‘Pung can’t let this insult stand. Let’s leave them to him. See how he fares.’

The idea obviously appealed to Smokey who smiled, chuckling. ‘That’s a good one, Silk. Smooth.’

Koroll stamped his staff to the beaten dirt of the street. ‘The mistress must be informed that the Dark Taker has indeed entered Li Heng.’

‘I will inform her,’ Silk answered.

Koroll nodded his great shaggy head ponderously. ‘Very well. We are done here. I go to summon Ho from his labours within the catacombs.’

Silk inclined his head in farewell. The giant mage shambled off. Silk watched him go, trying to recall the words by which the old priest within had addressed him, but the foreign name escaped him. He turned to Smokey. ‘And you? Care to join me?’

The fire mage brushed a hand along his oiled hair then pulled his long braid forward and examined the fine silver wire binding its end. ‘Naw. I’m late for a manicure and massage with a big busty Purge gal.’ He bowed, waved Silk off. ‘I leave you to it.’

Silk answered the bow. ‘Until later.’ He turned and headed for the palace. Women, young and old, stopped to stare as he brushed by. Yet his thoughts were inward as he walked, and so he passed them by where they stood frozen in acts of laying garlands, or praying, or pouring milk over altars. He was off to see the Protectress of Li Heng. And thus, in his way, to offer up worship of his own.

* * *

North of Li Heng, a woman stood next to a smouldering campfire within a sheltered grove of poplars and alders. Her gaze was steady to the south. A frown of displeasure pulled her wide lips. She had been waiting within the grove for a full moon, and still each night she remained alone.

Turning, she kicked at the dying embers. Moments later the swelling beat of horse hooves announced the approach of a troop of cavalry. She waited, arms crossed; this was not the company she wished for.

The ten horsemen wore bright conical steel helmets and coats of mail beneath flowing robes dyed the green of the Itko Kan Southern League. Their leader dismounted, drew off his helmet, tucked it under his arm, and approached the woman, who had not stirred.

BOOK: Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1
12.69Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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