The Assassin's Edge (Einarinn 5)
The Assassin's Edge
( Tales of Einarinn - 5 )
Juliet E. McKenna
THE UNKNOWN TERROR
After a long winter spent in the Kellarin colony, the crafty and beautiful Livak is anxious to move on. Now an opportunity is on the horizon. The reclamation of a lost southern settlement is in the offing, but those involved, Livak included, must await the spring arrival of the first ship from the mainland — an event that will never take place. Unbeknownst to all, the vital trading route to Tormalin is no longer secure. A dire new threat to the colony's survival has arisen. A final battle of strength, cunning and courage challenges Livak and her devoted swordsman-lover Ryshad, one that will force them to take up arms to confront a merciless, many-faceted evil.
The Assassin’s Edge
The Fifth Tale Of Einarinn
Juliet E. McKenna
For Marion and Michael, Corinne and Helen, Rae and with fond memories, George.
So much support, in so many ways, for so many years.
Acknowledgements
The truth always bears repeating, so once again, I am grateful to Steve, Mike, Sue, Helen, Robin, Lisa, Penny and Rachel, for ideas, criticism, encouragement and forbearance over ever-extending book loans. In addition to her wider contribution, Liz deserves special mention for serving as on-call plants-woman as does Louise for the medical notes. Thank you, Tanaqui, for the photos, most useful and much appreciated. Angus, thanks indeed for reminding me about Otrick’s ring.
The support network continues to evolve and Gill and Mike have proved true friends time and again. As always, I remain indebted to Ernie and Betty for their help beating the tyranny of the working diary over the domestic one.
I couldn’t wish for better than the teams at Orbit, in sales, publicity and most of all, editorially. Sincerest thanks go to Tim, Simon, Ben and Julie, Kirsteen, Adrian, Richard, Bob and Nigel. There isn’t space for me to list all the booksellers who’ve impressed me with their professionalism, nor yet all the readers who’ve brightened up my day with a few lines of appreciation, either personally or in a review. That doesn’t mean I’m not grateful, because I most certainly am.
Finally, I would like to thank all those curators and custodians of museums, stately homes and assorted castles who’ve answered my questions, offered up fascinating extra snippets and been intrigued rather than baffled when I explain just what it is that I do.
CHAPTER ONE
Notice from the Prefecture of the University of Col
To all Resident Mentors and Scholars
By long tradition festivals at the turn of every season are a time for this university to welcome visitors from other seats of learning. We are accustomed to do so with every courtesy and luxury afforded by this city’s extensive trade, our contribution to the commerce that is Col’s lifeblood. Students and scholars alike mingle with visitors and townsfolk, broadening their experience of life. Accordingly, the Prefects of this university will not tolerate any repetition of the incidents disgracing this most recent spring Equinox.
In choosing a life of study, we all suffer accusations of idleness, and rebuke for perceived failure to produce anything of tangible worth to the unscholarly mind. We rise above such taunts, secure in the knowledge that learning outlasts any achievements of merchants and architects, artisans and their guilds. All of which tolerance is rendered worthless when students, scholars and even several mentors are clapped in irons by the Watch for brawling with visitors from Vanam’s university in taverns frequented by common dockers.
Worse, word now circulates that these arguments were not over money, some business disagreement or a lady’s favours, but over points of scholarship. This university has become an object of ridicule among the populace. The Prefecture considers this an offence graver than all of the damage done around the city. Broken windows, doors and wine bottles may be redeemed with gold. A reputation once tarnished may never recover its lustre.
To obviate any recurrence of such offences, the Prefecture offers the following for the immediate consideration of mentors and scholars and the judicious guidance of students.
Denying Temar D’Alsennin is who he claims to be is as irrational as refusing to accept the accounts of that restoration of him and his people through the offices of Archmage Planir of Hadrumal. It is equally nonsensical to claim this is all falsehood in service of some all encompassing yet curiously ill-defined conspiracy involving the Archmage, the Mentors of Vanam and even Emperor Tadriol himself Such foolishness does this university’s standing immeasurable harm.
However, and notwithstanding the overweening arrogance of certain scholars of Vanam, the return of Temar D’Alsennin to Tormalin will not answer one hundredth of the questions as to why the Old Empire collapsed. He cannot tell us why the dethronement of Nemith the Reckless and Last precipitated the Chaos rather than orderly transition to a new Emperor and dynasty. D’Alsennin’s attempt to found his colony has no bearing on any of these events. It was a minor undertaking compared to other ventures the Old Empire was then engaged upon, most notably the ultimately fruitless conquest of Gidesta. That this colony was of little or no consequence to the Convocation of Princes is plain. Rather than divert resources to helping D’Alsennin, the Annals record every House turning its efforts to quelling secessionist revolts in Caladhria and opportunist uprisings in Ensaimin.
D’Alsennin can offer only a limited account from a very partial perspective as a young and untried esquire of a minor House long distanced from the councils of the powerful. He had already crossed the ocean to Kel Ar’Ayen before the final, crucial years of Nemith’s reign and had long been rendered insensible by enchantment before the most violent period of warfare between the Houses of Aleonne and Modrical. While his reminiscences may offer some interesting sidelights on those momentous events, they are insignificant in the wider context of the established historical record.
Granted, it seems likely that the as yet only partially explained deterioration in the usages of aetheric magic contributed to the collapse of the Empire. Judging the impact of such a blow, set alongside the attested assaults of famine, civil strife and the recurrent devastation of the Crusted Pox will certainly be a fruitful area for study. Similarly, a full assessment of the role of this aetheric magic in the governance of the Old Empire must now be made. We of Col should not be laggard in undertaking such enquiries. We need not concern ourselves with boasts from Vanam that their mentors’ links with Planir’s expeditions to Kel Ar’Ayen give their scholars unassailable superiority tn such studies.
Col is the main port through which travellers to and from Hadrumal pass. We should set aside our habitual reserve in dealing with wizardry and invite mages to refresh themselves in our halls and join in our debates. We may usefully encourage our alchemists to correspond with those wizards studying the properties of the natural elements. This university was founded by those scholars who salvaged all they could from the burning of this city’s ancient temple library during the Chaos. It is now evident that such temples were centres of aetheric learning in the Old Empire. Resident scholars and mentors must seek out such valuable lore hidden in our own archives. We can claim more peripatetic scholars than Vanam and many now tutor the sons and daughters of Tormalin Houses as well as the scions of Lescari dukes and Caladhria’s barons. All such archives may yield invaluable material for further study and this prefecture is writing to enlist the aid of all entitled to wear this university’s silver ring.
Rather than wasting time and effort in vain attempts to prove this university’s supremacy over Vanam through fisticuffs, it is the duty of every mentor, scholar and student to establish our preeminence through the ineluctable authority of our scholarship.
Vithrancel, Kellarin,
15th of Aft-Spring, in the Fourth Year of Tadriol
the Provident
In that instant of waking, I had no idea where I was. A crash of something breaking had stirred me and the muttered curses that followed took my sleep-mazed mind back to the house of my childhood but as I opened my eyes, nothing seemed familiar. Insistent daylight was entering unopposed through a door in an entirely unexpected wall. Come to that, when had I last slept with a heedlessly open bedroom door?
Wakefulness burned through the mist of sleep. I wasn’t back in Ensaimin, for all that someone outside was muttering in the accents of my childhood. This was half a world away, clear across an ocean most folk would swear was impassable. This was Vithrancel, newly named first settlement of Kellarin, a colony still finding its feet after a year of digging in its heels and setting its shoulder to hacking a livelihood out of the wilderness.
Well, whatever was going on outside, it could happen without me. I wasn’t getting out of bed for anything short of a full-blown riot. Turning over, I pulled the linen sheet up around my shoulders, pushing my cheek into the welcoming down of the pillow, plump with my spoils from the festival slaughter of geese and hens. How many more days up to my elbows in chicken guts would it take before I had a feather bed, I wondered idly.
No, it was no good; I was awake. Sighing, I sat up and brushed the hair out of my eyes to survey the little room. I’d slept in better, in stone-built inns with drugget laid to mute the scuff of boots on polished floorboards, tapestries on walls to foil stray draughts and prices just as elaborate, never mind the extra copper spent to keep the potmen and chambermaids sweet. Then again, I’d slept in worse, down-at-heel taverns where you were lucky to share a bed with strangers and picking up whatever vermin they carried was all part of the price to pay. The most wretched inn was better than a freezing night beneath a market hall’s arches, giving up my last copper to persuade a watchman to look the other way.
I went to open the shutters to the bright midmorning sun. No, I wasn’t about to complain about a warm, clean room, floor newly strewn with the first herbs of spring. The breeze was cool on my bare skin and I looked for a clean shirt among clothes and trifles piled on my fine new clothes press. Ryshad had bought it for me with three days trading his skills with plumb line, mallet and chisel to a nearby carpenter. My beloved might have decided against his father’s trade in the end but he’d not forgotten his lessons. I really should tidy up, I thought, as I sat on his old travel chest pulling on my breeches.
The bright leather of a newly bound book caught my eye among the clutter on my press. It was a collection of ancient songs that I’d found the year before, full of hints of ancient magic. In an optimistic ballad for children, there’d have been some charm within it to summon sprites to do the housework for me. I smiled, not for the first time, at the notion. On the other hand, any number of darker lyrics warned of the folly of meddling with unseen powers, lest the unwise rouse the wrath of the Eldritch Kin. I’m too old to believe in blameless strangers turning into blue-grey denizens of the shadow realms and turning on those who dishonoured them but there were other reasons for me to shun some of the more tempting promises of Artifice. If I used aetheric tricks and charms to read an opponent’s thoughts or see their throw of the runes ahead of time, I’d blunt skills that had seen me through more perils than Ryshad knew of.
