When the Heavens Fall (47 page)

“Two sentries,” she said. “The first is this side of the square, maybe thirty paces to our right. The other is sitting in the shadow of that stone building. I'm thinking the soulcaster is inside—it'll be cooler in there than in those mud-brick hovels.”

The Guardian nodded. “Makes sense.”

“The sentries can see each other from where they're stationed, meaning we'll have to take them out at the same time.”

“Aye. I'll circle round—”

Jenna shook her head. “Best you stay put, old man. The Kalanese might hear your bones creaking. I'll go.”

Luker screwed up his face. “These two sentries … What are they doing?”

“The one this side—yours—has snared a scorpion and is pulling it apart. Mine's resting in the shade.”

“Figures. Might have known you'd keep the easier target for yourself.”

“After what happened in Mercerie I thought you could do with the practice. At least here you won't have to worry about the dark or the wind or the height, but if you don't think you can make the shot…”

“Shroud's mercy, how many times…” the Guardian began, only to trail off as Jenna, eyes twinkling now, raised a finger to her lips and looked meaningfully in the direction of the square.

“Thirty paces away, remember,” she said.

Muttering, Luker snatched up one of her crossbows. The weapon was as small as a child's toy and light as a breath of wind. He studied the trigger mechanism, then glanced at the assassin. “You still here?”

Jenna's lips quirked. “I'll signal you when I'm in position.” Scooping up the remaining crossbow, she retreated down the alley.

Luker looked about him. To his left the wall of one of the mud-brick hovels had collapsed, spilling debris into the passage. In the gloomy interior, a wooden table was laid out with plates and goblets as if whoever had once lived here had fled in the middle of a meal. Might have been the home of a sandclaw hunter, judging by the pelt fixed to the far wall. Just like Luker's father. Sand had collected in the corners of the packed-earth floor.

Time to scout the Kalanese.

Luker headed for the end of the alley. Before he'd got halfway there, though, he caught the sound of footfalls coming from the direction of the square. Had the sentry heard him? No, the man would have raised the alarm if so. What to do about him, though? Take him down as he turned into the passage? The second sentry might see him fall. Only other option was to take cover, and Luker hastily picked his way through the mud bricks and into the ruined house. The air was thick with heat. Crouching where the shadows were deepest, the Guardian checked to ensure the crossbow bolt was still in its slot. The tip of the quarrel smelled of rose petals.
Red solent,
he realized with a frown. If he ended up having to fire the weapon, his victim had better hope for a clean kill.

A man entered the alley and halted a few paces away. Gray cloak and headscarf. He faced the opposite wall. A short pause, then Luker heard a grunt followed by the sound of splashing liquid. The man was spraying it up and down the wall like he was drawing a picture.

A gust of wind whistled along the alley. The debris from the collapsed wall shifted in a clatter of stones, and the sentry's head swung round. Not likely he would make Luker out in the shadows, but the Guardian wasn't taking any chances. He raised the crossbow and fired. The bolt took the Kalanese through his left eye, and his head snapped back. Luker was already moving. Hurdling the rubble, he landed beside the falling man and caught him a handspan above the ground. The body was still twitching. Luker felt something splash on his feet and inwardly cursed. All that effort to get piss on his boots?

He dragged the corpse along the alley, then wrenched the crossbow bolt clear from the Kalanese's eye socket. It came out with a sucking sound and a dribble of milky blood. Not a bad shot, all things considered. Okay, so he'd been aiming for the man's forehead, but Jenna didn't have to know that. He wiped the missile on the dead man's clothes before locking the crossbow's crank and settling the bolt into position once more. As yet the other Kalanese sentry hadn't started hollering, but doubtless he'd soon become suspicious when his companion failed to return.

Luker crept back to the end of the passage and lowered himself to his stomach. He squinted at the stone building. The sentry sat slouched against it, eyes closed, head lolling to one side. Some new style of keeping guard Luker hadn't heard about, perhaps. Then the Guardian noticed the pool of blood spreading beneath the man. Movement in an alley to the left. Jenna was there, crouched in the shadows, looking across at him. As their gazes met she drew a finger along her throat.
Sharp work.
Luker acknowledged the gesture with a nod before holding up a hand, palm outward, to signal she should wait.

Rising, he circled round to join the assassin.

He found her one road back from the square, sheltering in the shade of a rodanda tree. “Any trouble?” he said.

“I came across another sentry a couple of streets away,” Jenna replied. “He was guarding the building where they've stabled the horses.”

One I missed when I spirit-walked.
“You silenced him?”

“Of course. Spooked the horses a little, but it gave me an idea. What if we take four horses and scatter the rest? It's a long walk out of this place.”

Luker hesitated. With fresh mounts they should be able to outrun the soulcaster, but what if one of the Kalanese heard the horses being set loose? And how long would it take the enemy to catch the animals once they were scattered? “No, we finish this.”

“I was hoping you'd say that.”

Tell me that again when this is over.
“Have you scouted the targets?”

“Yes. There are snores coming from the stone building and the brick ones to either side. More from the brick than the stone, though.”

“As we thought, then. Soulcaster's probably alone in the stone house—not likely he's going to share with the grunts, is it?” Luker took Merin's glass globe from his belt pouch and passed it to Jenna.

The assassin accepted it like he was passing her one of her poison-tipped bolts. “I just throw it through a window?”

“Aye, hard enough so that it smashes. Don't hang around after. From the strength of the sorcery trapped inside, I reckon that thing packs quite a punch.”

“Where will you be?”

Luker nodded toward the end of the alley. “Edge of the square. When the survivors stumble out, I mean to hit them hard.”

Jenna raised an eyebrow. “All of them?”

“I counted nineteen in the original group. Soulcaster sucked one dry, tribesmen got three, and we've done for three more. When the soulcaster croaks, that'll leave eleven to take care of.”

“Eleven, as in one more than ten?”

Luker gave Jenna back her crossbow. “Count of fifty, right? Then we go.”

*   *   *

Parolla bowed to the old man on the throne. “Greetings,
sirrah
. My name is Parolla Morivan. Forgive my intrusion. I had not thought to find this place … inhabited.”

The silence stretched out so long Parolla was beginning to wonder whether Mayot could hear her. “You bring a message from your master?” he said finally. “Perhaps Shroud has had a change of heart, yes?”

She stiffened. “You mistake me. I am not one of Shroud's followers.”

“And I am not the fool your Lord takes me for. I sense your power, woman—the mark of your god on you. Did you think I would not?”

Parolla's lip curled.
You see only what you want to see,
feksha
.
She looked at the book on the old man's lap. Without doubt this was the source of the threads of death-magic. Pulsing like some diseased heart, it gave off waves of black sorcery that made the darkness round the dais shimmer. The power was weakening the veil that separated this world from Shroud's realm. In time it might fail entirely. Was this the old man's intent? Did he even know what he was fashioning here? “You are making a portal,
sirrah
? I sense—”

“Is that what your master fears?” the
magus
cut in. “Yes, I see it now. A gateway to his realm. The souls gathered there, all under my control.”

Parolla felt her blood rise, and a shadow settled on her vision. “Your delusions are becoming tiresome. At the risk of repeating myself, I am not one of Shroud's disciples. I seek only passage through the portal you are creating. And if I am not obstructed, our dealings here can remain civil.”

“You wish to enter the underworld? Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

The old man gave a dry laugh. “Most people try to delay their appointment with Shroud for as long as possible, yet you would have me believe—”

“I give you my word.”

“And on that score alone, I am expected to allow a banewolf into the mitrebird's coop? I think not. Your master must be desperate indeed to attempt such a feeble ruse. He should have dealt when he had the chance.”

Parolla paused, thinking. Had the old man tried to bargain with Shroud? If so, he had much to learn about the conceit of immortals. What the gods wanted they took, without thought as to those they trampled over. And yet, the fact Mayot was prepared to oppose Shroud made him, what? A fool?
An ally?
Parolla's gaze settled on the book once more. Even in her spiritual form she could detect the power contained within it. The old man had only just begun to tap into its mysteries, she sensed. And if Shroud wanted the book …
Then so do I.

Mayot must have read her thoughts, for he hugged the book to his chest.

Parolla floated down to stand before him. “I see you understand the precariousness of your position. You have power, yes, but it is power that can be taken from you.”

“You would not be the first to try.” Mayot gestured at a line of figures at the foot of the dais to his right. Among them Parolla saw a short, blond-haired woman wearing the multicolored robes of a Metiscan
magus
; a huge tribesman, the scalps of dozens of foes hanging from his belt; a gray-haired, grim-faced man with a note of steel behind his quiet gaze. “All of these fools,” Mayot went on, “harbored the same simpleminded fantasies of seizing what is rightfully mine. Now they serve me.”

“It would seem you are not short of enemies. Unwise, then, to make another.”

“Unwise?” Mayot sneered. “Tell me, woman, was it
wise
to reveal yourself to me as you have? To warn me of your coming?” He gave a thin smile. “To extend yourself over such a distance.”

Before Parolla could react, the old man's hand shot out, death-magic erupting from it to envelop her. Pain lanced her skull, and she felt herself spinning away.

*   *   *

Romany pursed her lips as Parolla's spirit faded. The woman was something of a mystery. For her to have made it here without disturbing a single strand of Romany's web was nothing short of miraculous—
Impossible!
—meaning her spirit must have passed along the threads of death-magic in the same way Romany traversed her web. A feat that only someone well versed in the dark arts could have accomplished. But one of Shroud's disciples? The priestess was not so sure.

Mayot, as ever, had displayed a breathtaking disregard for the nuances of the exchange. Why, for instance, had Parolla not demanded that he hand over the Book? Why had she made no threats, delivered no ultimatums? The poor woman had clearly been as surprised to see Mayot as he had been to see her. And as for wanting to pass through into the underworld … Romany's mouth twitched. The woman's story was altogether too implausible to be anything other than truthful. But then who was she, and what was her interest in Shroud's realm?

Safely concealed behind her wards, the priestess had studied Parolla closely. The woman's most striking feature was her eyes, the orbs entirely black like two windows onto the Abyss. There was an ageless quality to her aquiline features that reminded Romany of the Spider. Was the woman a goddess, then? No, Mayot would not have been able then to drive her away so easily. And for all Parolla's power there had been a circumspection in her parlance, a vulnerability in the lines of remembered pain round her eyes that spoke of a humanity altogether alien to the immortals.

A puzzle for another time.

Romany felt Mayot's gaze on her, and she turned to face him. “Where were we, my Lord?”

There was the customary pause while the old man activated his brain. “You were explaining to me how the titan got away yesterday.”

“I was?”

Mayot brought his fist down on the armrest of his throne. “Enough games! The immortal was barely able to stand, let alone defend himself. Yet somehow he contrived to escape my undead.”

“Most distressing, I'm sure. So hard to find reliable servants these days.”

“You are as much to blame as the Vamilians.”

Romany tutted her irritation. Though she had come to expect no less from the mage, his lack of appreciation was still galling. “In case you had forgotten, my Lord, the titan was only at your mercy because
I
made it so.”

Mayot's errant eyelid started fluttering. “I had not forgotten. Indeed, I could not help but notice that your … dealings … with the immortal ended fatally for another of Shroud's servants. The second, I believe—”

“Third!” Romany interrupted. Did the old man think she had just been sitting on her hands since the Widowmaker's defeat?

“Third, then. Forgive me, but I see a pattern emerging in your choice of targets.”

How perceptive of you.
“You think I am pursuing some form of vendetta against Shroud? What of the titan, then? Or would you number the immortal among the Lord of the Dead's followers?”

“The titan did not die.”