Hunting (24 page)

"Watching that would
be
entertainment," Ash said, but left him to it.

Thornaster never mentioned Hawkmarten
when considering plans of action. He was leaving that investigation
strictly to Verel, and the trigle games continued as usual. If
Hawkmarten had noticed any faint thread of constraint, he gave no
sign.

Lying down on her bed, Ash tried to
think of a positive plan of action. She would wait a few days, then
find a way to talk to Kiri uninterrupted. Both to recruit a useful
ally in her hunt, and to ask about the Rhoi. To offer help, if it
was wanted, though at this stage it was difficult to tell if that
would be for reconciliation or a proper scorning of the
unfaithful.

Grimacing, Ash put aside the question
of Kiri's heart, and closed her eyes to better contemplate a man
who called himself Rion Thornaster. A descendent of Astenar and
Luin, able to sense magic and heat things with a glance. And laugh
himself into hiccups. 'Cousin' to the Rhoi of Aremal.

Tentatively she began to turn over
plans and schemes to convince this man that she was the only one
for him. As an exercise it was highly amusing, but for now her hunt
for Genevieve's killer took precedence.

Besides, she was not quite certain she
was brave enough to try.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Crisp and upright, her boots polished,
her hair brushed to an orderly gloss, Ash stood against a wall,
gazing at another wall. Carlyon was on her right with Heran beyond
him, while Marriston was on her left: four of a long row of
seruilisi uselessly standing about. In front of her was Thornaster,
sitting at the Rhoi's left hand at the Rhoi's Banquet.

Seruilisi at these occasions did much
the same thing as she, Lauren and Heran did during the trigle
games: very little. There were real servants to fill glasses and
carry the food. Occasionally a seruilis was sent off to fetch
something from their master's rooms, but otherwise they stood there
lending their Luinsel prestige, and proving that they were able to
act like seruilisi should. Ash thought it immensely tedious.

Thornaster hadn't required Ash to stand
attendance on meals before, so she couldn't be sure how many
courses were usual, and whether there were always acrobats. How
cruel to have acrobats, but expect her to pretend she wasn't
watching them. Every time she leaned to better see through the gap
left by the empty seat in front of Marriston, Lauren Carlyon's
disapproval became almost tangible. She was already in his bad
books for failing to behave with proper restraint at the garden
party.

This was an informal banquet, which
meant the Rhoi could seat his friends on either side of him. Lauren
Carlyon's older brother, Eman, was on Hawkmarten's right. Ash tried
not to look at him too often, because at fifty-odd years and
greying, he resembled his father more distinctly than Lauren.
Especially in the firm, almost harsh set of his mouth. There were
rumours that Eman took after his father in more than looks, but
then there were rumours that Lauren had shot the Veirhoi.

To her left Marriston shuffled in
place, and Ash almost felt sorry for him, standing behind an empty
chair. He had been sent ahead of his master, Decsel Enderhay, and
half the meal had already gone by. Enderhay was said to be strongly
opposed to the smallholdings law, and his absence began to amount
to a deliberate insult to the Rhoi. There were other empty seats,
even on the horseshoe of the high table, and Ash had noticed more
than one less than friendly glance thrown in Thornaster's
direction.

Would the poison, if and when it came,
be for her Aremish Visel?

Since she could not think of any
food-related precautions more effective than those the Rhoi's Guard
had already put in place, Ash instead took advantage of a pause
between performances to scan for Kiri among the throng. A mere
Visel's daughter would be seated among the rows of tables on the
far side of the room. Ash tried to see without obviously craning
her head.

"The passes are open until the
beginning of winter, yes?" Hawkmarten said.

"Technically," the Rhoi replied. "But
early autumn is safer, and a good deal less uncomfortable. I'll be
sorry to see you go, Hawk."

"Can't winter here again without our
bonds as Luinsel lapsing. Still, we've all of summer ahead of
us."

Quiet dignity lay beneath the easy good
humour. Had Hawkmarten noticed the Rhoi's change in attitude toward
him? If so, there was no return reaction, for the Rhoi's attention
was on the diners, gaze shifting restlessly from person to person.
Weary, the strained undercurrent in the room reflected on his face,
the Rhoi showed little interest in his own banquet's entertainments
as a trio of men flipped their way to the centre of the performance
area.

The larger two joined arms and tossed
the third into the air, and then seemed to hurl themselves after
him as two women ran in from the right, adroitly avoiding Decsel
Enderhay hesitating in the doorway. Ash watched, transfixed, as the
new arrivals spun with a seeming lack of control, then bounced to a
landing on the shoulders of the men. She had thought herself agile,
but she was nothing compared to these performers.

A girl of fourteen entered, leading a
spangled tot only a little older than Sonia. Even the Rhoi began to
pay attention as the elder girl climbed onto the shoulders of the
women, and acted out broad gestures of encouragement while the
child ran in a circle around the partly formed pyramid.

"Clap for her!" one of the women cried,
and the crowd obliged, cheering and calling until the little girl
began to climb. It was a scene after Ash's own heart, as the child
made it to the summit of the human mountain and threw her hands
into the air in triumph.

"NO!"

Location was everything, for Decsel
Enderhay had been crossing directly in front of Ash when he'd
fumbled with his jacket and turned. She didn't even really see the
knife, just a glint of light, and hurled herself forward, catching
the Decsel's upraised arm.

There followed a frozen moment, all of
Ash's focus on his hand, the gleam of the blade, and his nails blue
and white with the intensity of his grip. She thought he sobbed,
breath sharp with aniseed, then with his free hand he grabbed her
right wrist, and the knife came down.

Dragged so that she faced away from
him, Ash tried desperately to bend out of reach as metal parted
cloth and flesh, the blade skipping across her back. He let go and
she tumbled forward, slamming into Marriston as he rushed at them.
They both fell to the floor amidst shouting, and a scrape of wood,
harsh over the ringing in her ears.

Ash looked up from her tangle with
Marriston to see that Thornaster, trapped against the table, had
thrust his chair back, knocking Enderhay off-balance as the Decsel
turned again to the Rhoi. And then Hawkmarten, surging to his feet
on the Rhoi's other side, ended matters through the simple
expedient of clouting Enderhay with a heavy silver tankard. The
older man dropped like a log.

Marriston grabbed Ash by the upper arm,
and she gasped at sudden fire, spots dancing before her eyes. There
was blood on his face, but she could see no weapon.

"Hold him here," Marriston ordered, as
Heran dropped to his knees beside them, transferring Heran's hands
to her upper arm. "I think it's the deepest." Then he stopped
still, staring from the wash of red covering his hands to the
Luinsel he had served, lying not a foot away.

Thornaster, on his feet at last, lifted
Marriston's tabard over the boy's head and pressed it firmly
against Ash's back. She shuddered.

"Heran, keep hold of his upper arm and
try to put pressure on his forearm as well. And keep up."
Thornaster lifted Ash to her feet and tilted her partway over his
shoulder, an arm wrapped across her upper legs as if she was a
toddler, the other holding the makeshift pad in place.

"I'll fetch Master Tsimon," Lauren
Carlyon said, as Thornaster moved quickly toward the door.

Stairs followed, Thornaster taking
great strides and Heran struggling to keep pace. Ash began to fade,
and fought to clear her head, divided between outraged flesh, the
realisation of inevitable exposure, and another point of primary
importance that hovered just out of reach.

"Key's in my right pocket," Thornaster
said, and Hawkmarten loomed into Ash's view, opening the way to a
receiving room lit only by Yurefaer's dull purple glow. "Grab one
of the lamps from the hall, and then my travel kit out of the big
chest in my bedroom," Thornaster ordered, depositing Ash on the
lounging chair. "Heran, keep the pressure up on his arm. Stay
upright, Ash."

He lifted Marriston's tabard away, then
swiftly stripped Ash of her tabard before pressing the pad back
into place.

"How is he?" the Rhoi asked, following
a lantern-laden Hawkmarten back into the room.

"Thoroughly filleted." There was no
humour in Thornaster's voice. "It's the length that's the problem.
He's already lost more blood than I'd care for. We'll bind the arm
tight, then work on the back. What about Enderhay?"

"Dead."

"What?" Hawkmarten stopped halfway to
the bedroom door. "What of?"

"Tankard to the temple," said the
Rhoi's senior guardsman, Farpatten, surveying the scene from the
door. "My men are trying to revive him."

Hawkmarten made a low noise, and then
disappeared into the bedroom. Returning with the leather satchel
Thornaster used to store medicking supplies, he dug out rolled
strips of cloth and had Heran hold Ash's arm up.

Carlyon arrived as they finished a
hasty job of wrapping. "Master Tsimon's on his way."

"Good, we'll need more bandages,"
Thornaster said, cutting off Ash's shirt. "Keep the pressure on
that shoulder, Hawk and hopefully the bleeding will have stopped by
the time we've–"

Lifting the remnants of her shirt away,
he paused. Enderhay had slashed a long twisting line down her arm,
deepest and bleeding ferociously where the knife had come up
against the thicker material of her tabard. There was a short
expanse of skin left unscathed across the top of her shoulder, then
another line starting a diagonal across her back, deepening where
it had dug under her breast bindings before cutting through them
half-way and skipping to below her shoulder blades, the wound
thinning then becoming abruptly deeper as it reached the band of
her trousers and the slight cushion of fat which marked her
hips.

"When did you hurt your ribs?" Heran
asked.

She looked at him helplessly, and then
glanced up at Thornaster, whose face had gone still, wiped of
expression. He slid the knife through the already half-cut binding,
and she lifted her uninjured arm to hold it in place against her
chest.

"Ash?" Heran's voice dropped to a
whisper. "You've got–?"

"Yes, thank you, Heran. I had
noticed."

"Thorn, I cannot begin to imagine what
you find funny in this situation," the Rhoi said.

Thornaster was indeed laughing
silently, still holding the knife he'd use to reveal her. He smiled
at her expression, put the knife down and flipped open a leather
wallet, revealing a practical array of tools, including needles and
the sort of thread suitable for mending wounds.

"To think I once prided myself on my
powers of observation," he said. "But I must truly have been
blinkered not to notice that my seruilis was a valarn."

A valarn was an Aremish term for female
warrior. Ash knew that much. So did the Rhoi, who stopped abruptly
and stared down at her concealing arm.

"Heran, fetch the jug from my room,"
Thornaster said, his voice going mild and measured. "And Carlyon, I
would appreciate you closing that door. When Master Tsimon arrives,
accept any bandages he has, and send him on his way. Guardsman,
could I perhaps borrow Investigator Verel?"

Heran moved to obey first, the motion
smacking of retreat as he collected the jug of water from
Thornaster's bedroom. He handed it to the Visel and stood back.
Thornaster began using torn-off squares of Ash's tabard to clean
blood from her back. The water was warm.

"Lean forward Ash. Arun, keep pressure
on the upper section." He waited until the Rhoi had collected
himself enough to take over the job of preventing Ash from draining
to nothing, and then plied his needle.

Gritting her teeth, Ash shut her eyes
as the Visel stitched together the hip wound. She needed to think,
to fight off distractions and keep herself awake and put together
the pieces that nudged at the edge of her thoughts.

"This is beyond anything," the Rhoi
muttered, as they switched to the cut on her upper back. "That a
girl should be struck down in defence of me. It shames me."

"You're fortunate Aria isn't here to
hear you say that, Arun."

"Dammit Thorn, you know what I mean!"
The Rhoi took a deep breath. "Perhaps you should think of what your
mother would say."

"She's certainly going to call me
careless." Thornaster sounded irritatingly cheerful. "I suspect
that my mother's reaction to Ash would be to try and add her to her
collection. She does love to play mentor to talented valarns."

"But
you
can't – it's not
appropriate–" the Rhoi began, then fell abruptly silent, and
Thornaster focused on his stitching until Farpatten returned with
Verel.

"What of Marriston?" the Rhoi
asked.

"His father quickly realised the boy
might be compromised by his association with Enderhay, Ser Rhoi,"
Verel replied, smoothly replacing Rhoi Arun at Ash's back. "Whether
he has any idea what the extent of his son's involvement might be,
I don't know. The boy certainly had the means and opportunity to be
the Veirhoi's assailant."

"Heran," Ash said, and watched hard
angles change the boy's face. He was not happy. "There's a thick
book in Khanteck somewhere in my room. Pictures of plants inside.
Would you please fetch it?"