The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (87 page)

As he lay there the pain began to grow in his left arm, a hot, sharp throbbing that was fast spreading up towards his fingertips. Gingerly, Doranei eased himself up and tried to move his fingers. He hissed with pain, but at least he could do it, proving the arm wasn’t broken. That’d do. The pain he’d live with for the time being.

He cut the laces with his dagger and stowed the hooks back in his pocket. He crawled to the end of the gutter, eyes focused on his destination and teeth gritted as he fought the fire in his damaged arm, but once he’d made it to the back of the house, he realised Cerdin - to whom every member of the Brotherhood prayed for luck - had not abandoned him. Here was a balcony, with steps leading down to the courtyard below.

Doranei hauled himself upright, took a moment to recover his balance, then trotted down the steps until he could climb onto the wall that encircled the courtyard. The walls were all connected, and while he would be more exposed, he could run along the top much quicker than if he stayed on street level, where he would be forever clambering over these same seven-foot-high walls. He headed towards Six Temples until he spotted an alley that offered the seclusion he was searching for. The only problem was that there were voices up ahead, and the smell of spices hanging in the air - cloves and cinnamon. He sighed and shrugged. He’d be past the diners before any of them could call out.

Doranei glanced down as he passed, catching sight of a private dinner for a handful of well-dressed nobles - and, oddly, a woman dressed more like an infantryman. His momentary lack of attention was his undoing.

Something smashed into his shoulder, knocking him off balance and spinning him around. One foot slipped and he flailed wildly for a moment before the other went from under him and he fell, clipping the wall with his injured arm before crashing onto a thick shrub growing below.

He groaned as pain flared all over his body and fading yellow trails of firelight smeared across his vision. The scuffle of stools scraping over stone heralded a boot landing on his chest. Doranei froze, anticipating a cold blade slicing bis throat or sliding into his gut.

Instead, someone chuckled. The boot was removed from his chest and the person stepped back to allow the light to fall on his face.

‘A handsome, if somewhat battered, man falling at my feet,’ declared a woman in a pretty, cultured voice. ‘This day has been a remarkably pleasant one. Haipar, help my young suitor up so I can see him better.’

The dazed Doranei felt strong hands grip him by the shoulders and lift him into a seating position. Very slowly, the Land came back into focus. One of the women was still seated, a goblet in her slender fingers and a smile on her face. Looming over him was the only man in the group and the female soldier, both with their hands on their hilts. A third woman, remarkably pretty, stood on the other side, her dagger drawn.

‘Legana, my dear, your aim is impeccable,’ said the seated woman. ‘ I must remember to give a glowing report of your skills - though not your taste. We now have no wine to offer the gentleman.’

‘Offer him wine?’ exclaimed the man. ‘He’s a common thief! We’ll send for the city guard and be done with him.’

Bugger, thought Doranei, I could take one, if I’m lucky, but not both, not with my arm like this.

The woman rose and approached Doranei, crouching down to look him in the face. The King’s Man blinked to clear his sight, and got a jolt of surprise. The woman was stunning, even more arresting than her beautiful companion. Her skin was a dusky red, similar colouring to the Fysthrall soldiers he’d fought in Narkang. Her eyes were shining sapphires in the dim light, and so piercing he could feel her gaze prickle over his skin.

‘He’s no thief, Aras. This one is much more interesting.’ She peered closer and Doranei could see her note the tattoo on his ear. ‘I suspect your heart is not in a life of crime?’

The emphasis was not lost on him and Doranei nodded. She was obviously of the White Circle, but he wondered how she knew so much. Only a very select group knew anything of the Brotherhood.

‘What would you like me to do, then?’ asked the woman soldier, her hand still on her sword. As Doranei’s mind cleared, he took in the appearances of the other diners. The man was handsome, and stood like a soldier, despite his frippery. Much the same could be said for the woman whose aim had proved so inconvenient. Legana? A Farlan woman, he now saw. The soldier, Haipar, looked like a savage from the Waste. For a while he wondered whether his brain had been addled by the fall, but no matter how much he tried to blink it away, Haipar’s appearance didn’t change.

‘I want you to see if he’s injured, and if so, tend to his wounds,’ the woman who was so obviously in charge ordered. ‘If he is whole, fetch him a seat so that he may join me in a glass of wine.’

The one she’d named Haipar gripped Doranei’s tunic and hauled him to his feet, not bothering to ask how he was feeling. He managed to stay standing, despite the cacophony of complaints from different parts of his body, but he failed to stifle a low moan; his ribs were burning with pain now.

‘Legana, if there are any of the city guard out there looking for someone, tell them to stop and return to their posts. I will deal with this one.’ She looked speculatively at Doranei and appeared to make up her mind about something.

‘And then you can all leave us,’ she added, waving them away.

‘Mistress, he’s carrying weapons,’ protested Aras.

‘And here I am, a helpless little girl? Go away, and ensure we’re not disturbed. If you want to be useful, fetch some more wine.’

The nobleman jumped to obey. The two women didn’t appear cowed, as Doranei would have expected in a White Circle city, but neither protested. Doranei felt a foreboding curiosity - even injured, he was pretty sure he would be able to overpower so slight and unarmed a woman, though her confidence was disconcerting, and strangely disarming.

Haipar hovered at his elbow as Doranei hobbled unsteadily to the nearest chair and eased himself down, then she left, passing a servant scurrying in with another jug of wine. The girl set it carefully on the table, then fled, pulling the wooden door shut behind her.

The woman now sitting opposite Doranei didn’t move. She appeared to be studying his face, noting the dryness of his lips, his eyes darting towards the wine jug, the swelling cheek. It was a full minute before she spoke and by then his throat was burning for a drink.

‘My name is Ostia,’ she said. ‘May I pour you some wine?’

Doranei’s throat tightened. Bugger again: Ostia. He knew the name, of course, from the aftermath of the battle in Narkang. Dumbly Doranei nodded his head and accepted the goblet when she passed it. Oh Gods, he thought, Zhia Vukotic herself. What in the name of Ghenna do I do now?

‘We wear symbols of those that are now at war with each other,’ Zhia continued, oblivious to his stream of thought, ‘and yet you seem remarkably quiet. What is your name?’

‘Doranei, Madam.’

‘Madam? I think Mistress is the appropriate honorific here, young Doranei.’

He blinked for a moment. It was strange to be called young by a woman who appeared less than thirty summers. ‘I didn’t think you were the strictest adherent to the Circle’s code, Mistress Vukotic.’

‘You will refrain from using that name, young man,’ Zhia snapped before her expression softened into an indulgent smile again. ‘It would be an inconvenience to me if anyone overheard you, one that would cause me considerable bother.’

‘My apologies,’ Doranei said, lowering his eyes briefly. ‘That was petulant of me.’

‘Ah, the king has taught you some manners as well. How refreshing. I do prefer assassins to be civilised; those who aren’t tend to have something to prove. I can’t stand men who are just waiting to be provoked.’

‘I doubt many of them stand for long.’ Doranei regretted the words immediately. King Emin encouraged a loose informality within the Botherhood that sometimes made them speak their minds too easily. Some men, like the Farlan Lord, Isak, enjoyed being taken aback from time to time, but others had found themselves compelled to call the King’s Man out - however stupid an idea that invariably was.

‘A soldier’s flattery, how sweet of you,’ Zhia purred. ‘With such a tongue you must have charmed more than your fair share of Narkang’s maidens - that is, of course, if your king allows you to mix with ladies who enjoy such compliments. Please tell me he doesn’t hide away you pretty young things.’

The King’s Man felt his cheeks redden slightly. Despite the mocking tone, Mistress Zhia’s velvety voice seemed to run like a feather down his spine, making him shiver in curious delight and dread. He wondered if she was using magic on him - she was quite skilled enough but he’d always been a fool for a pretty face, magic or not.

‘Oh, I’ve embarrassed you now. I do apologise,’ the vampire twittered on. Doranei, forcing himself to look her in the eye again, saw she was enjoying acting the foolish noblewoman. ‘I’m sure the king doesn’t want your sword to be blunted by such activities; weapons must be kept keen, after all. Still, I must make this embarrassment up, for surely I could not live with myself if I sent you away without redeeming myself.’

Oh good, a vampire’s playing games with me. This is likely to turn out well.

Zhia stood with a flourish and stepped with a dancer’s grace to Doranei’s side. She took his elbow and, with no apparent effort, lifted him to his feet. Her thin hands felt as solid as oak underneath him, her strength disconcerting in such a delicate form. Upright, Doranei was a good half-dozen inches taller than Zhia, but he felt as brittle as a fallen leaf in her hands. She deftly slipped the straps from his shoulders and drew his pack off him. The movement was surprisingly tender and Doranei found himself suddenly aware of her delicate perfume. As her lips parted slightly, Doranei felt his breath catch.

Oh Gods.

‘So now, will you let me make it up to you?’ Zhia leaned closer, unblinking as she stared up at him and he inhaled even more of the sweet scent.

Doranei nodded dumbly.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. He began to edge towards her lips just as Zhia stepped back. ‘In that case we should leave,’ she said firmly.

‘Leave?’

‘Of course,’ she said breezily. ‘You’ll be accompanying me to the theatre tonight, and the curtain goes up soon.’

‘Theatre? But I-‘ Doranei floundered. ‘I can’t, I’ve got to-‘

‘Nonsense,’ Zhia interrupted. ‘It will be an education for you; trust me that your king will not begrudge you the trip. Now, if you’ve found your feet, we should be off.’

She didn’t wait for a reply but propelled Doranei towards the shuttered door. He tried to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead he let Zhia guide him through the dim streets, past the glaring eyes of any number of city guards, until they arrived at a theatre surrounded by chattering citizens of all classes, all bedecked in their finest. Wreaths of hemlock cascaded over the walls and scores of torches gave off long trails of scented smoke. As they approached, Doranei looked around with growing trepidation. Flickering shadows reached out around the shuttered barrows that surrounded the theatre.

Whispers skittered around the street, faster than the King’s Man could catch to make sense of. The darkness loomed as they approached the gate, where a pair of albinos scowled at the pair of them but stepped back as Zhia met their gaze. When he passed through, Doranei felt a chill hush settle about his shoulders. As he walked into shadow, his only comfort was the firm grip of a vampire on his arm. Oh Gods.

As long fingers of clouds drifted silently past a crescent moon, Doranei made his way to the heart of the Northern district, to the house of King Emin’s agent in Scree. It was at least two hours past midnight by his reckoning. His head had been throbbing since the play and he was struggling to be sure he had not been followed. The most likely candidate was Zhia herself, however, and he wouldn’t stand a chance pitting his wits against the ancient vampire, not even if he were at the top of his game. The hot night air mixed with pain, wine and bewilderment was making it hard for him to remember the way.

The streets were dead, strange for a man whose training ground had been the never-sleeping criminal dens and murky side-streets of Narkang. Doranei turned into a nondescript road and halfway down, after one last check around, slipped a key from around his neck and unlocked an unremarkable door set slightly below street level.

‘And which of the six pits of Ghenna did you fall into tonight?’ said a soft voice from the darkness within.

‘One of the more curious ones, Beyn,’ Doranei replied. ‘Did everyone get over safely?’

‘All present and correct. We thought you’d been taken.’

‘I almost was. I certainly wasn’t in much state to carry on running.’

‘So?’

Doranei felt he didn’t know Beyn well, despite being in the same unit for the past seven years. Beyond their service to the king, Doranei knew only that Beyn liked to spend his time charming women with his striking looks - usually only for the challenge.

‘So I went to the theatre instead.’

‘The theatre?’ Beyn paused for a few heartbeats before he chuckled. The Brothers all developed a rather twisted sense of humour sooner or later, characterised by the ridiculous wagers they were constantly making with each other. Doranei knew his story would amuse them alll. ‘Well, I hope you enjoyed it. Go and make your report to the king now.’

Despite his headache and injuries, Doranei smiled. A moment of interest, then he was dismissed. That was the Beyn he knew, aloof, insufferable at times, but always aware of his duty. Doranei crossed the room to the door. A dim glow spilled out from the hallway as he opened it and he looked back to see Beyn sitting with a crossbow cocked and pointing at the street door. They exchanged nods and he left in search of the king.

The nondescript house was large enough for the thirty members of the Brotherhood and the handful of others King Emin had brought along. It was surprisingly well built, for only a quiet murmur reached his ears from the other end of the corridor. Doranei thought of the house’s owner, a locally renowned artist called Pirlo Cetess. It would be good to see him again - if he was still alive, of course. There were none of the usual decorations one would expect from a household in mourning, so perhaps their assumptions had been wrong when their messages had gone unanswered. He could only hope so.