The two women continued as stealthy as cats, step by step. Now they were out of sight of the gate; below them, the lights from the guesthouse came into view. Miri started thinking about what they would say to their escort that would arouse the least suspicion; while she did so, she lost her concentration. She put her right foot on some lose gravel and slipped. Skidding down, she fell on her rear. It hurt, and through gritted teeth a strangled cry escaped her.
“Who’s there?” said a man. Judging from his accent, he was one of the Shila monks. Was he alone? Miri bent over and drew her purity knife, keeping it concealed; making no sound, she rose to her feet. The monk was approaching them from the right, along what might have been a path that went into the forest below the monastery.
Russu stepped forward; her hair was down, so apparently her hairpin was in her hand but concealed in her sleeve. The princess began to speak in the language of Rakeved. Judging from her tone, she was asking the monk a question. The monk came closer. He held a long staff in one hand, but in the moonlight, he seemed unarmored. He spoke, telling Russu to talk in Serice, asking her where she had come from.
Miri rehearsed her attack in her mind. She could hear Jay’s voice in her head from when he had instructed her a year ago: “Step into your enemy, get close. He doesn’t suspect you, a pretty woman. Say something, ask a question, and when his guard is down while he thinks of a reply, you strike! Over and over, don’t stop, keep stabbing until he falls over or runs away.”
Miri spoke in the language of Shila: “How is the weather in Pomoz?”
Now that she was next to the man, she could smell the stink of his sweat and the smell of pine resin from his clothing. She saw him look at her in puzzlement as he tried to think of an answer, and then she began stabbing him, just as Jay had taught her. Her knife went into him like she was stabbing a piece of beef. The monk grunted in surprise; he didn’t seem to understand what she was doing until the fourth blow when he jerked away, lost his footing, and tumbled down the path.
He rolled to a stop beside a bush, Miri moved toward him cautiously, her knife slick with blood. She heard him saying, “What have you done…Holy Ekon…” Miri felt a wave of revulsion centered in her belly. She repressed the urge to vomit, reminding herself of the duty of Kirdar women to not show any weakness in the face of death. Men did this often, she thought. How did they do it? How did they not see the haunting eyes of the men they killed? Her own husband had killed—she didn’t know how many times, and she had never asked him. She looked down at her right hand; it was black in the night, wet with blood, and it smelled. Horrible!
Russu came up beside her and said, “He’s not dead yet. Give me your knife.”
Miri gingerly passed the bloody weapon to the princess, who knelt down beside the groaning monk and slit his threat with a terrible swift cut.
“We need to hurry. This one’s body will be found soon,” Russu said. Miri thought the princess seemed unnaturally calm about the killing. Miri had been through a battle, faced death itself at the hands of Kitran raiders, and yet her hands were trembling so badly.
The two women hurried down the path, hand in hand. After a short while, Russu spoke, answering Miri’s unasked question. “In my land, women used to lead armies into battle. That was many centuries ago, but we have not forgotten the stories of the Altovo sisters and their glorious fights against the soldiers of the Fire Kingdom. In the years before I left the court at Velochaken I witnessed at least five executions and three duels to the death. At first, they were shocking, but later…not so much.”
Miri wanted to tell her that the women of House Kirdar did not attend the official executions, not even when it was a member of the clan. But she held her tongue because her instinctive reaction was to think how savage and barbaric the court of Rakeved was, just like the stories that she had heard about that distant land. But now was not the time to criticize her only friend beyond the gates of Tokolas.
Again, the light of the guesthouse came into view, much closer. The faint sounds of laughter came from an open window. Miri considered many ways of getting into the guesthouse and summoning their guards without attracting attention, but there was too much blood on both of them, of that she was certain despite the darkness. The time for subtlety was over.
“We are going to say the monks tried to rape us and we have to flee immediately,” Miri said. Russu nodded in agreement. “Run!”
The two women ran onto the road and down the rest of the way to the guesthouse. Bursting through the closed but unlocked door, Miri shouted, “Save us! The monks have gone mad! Mad! They tried to rape us! We need to get away from here before they come down the mountain and kill us all!” She knew she presented a spectacle of some terrible event judging from the shocked looks on the faces of the people still awake by the fire.
Praise Ekon, most of their horse-guards were still awake, and though they had been drinking, they grabbed their weapons and stood up, though none too steadily. The leader shouted out a command, and one of his men went to a back room.
“What happened?” he asked Miri. “Are you able to ride? It must be near midnight.” The innkeeper echoed these questions, and one of his daughters brought up a piece of cloth and poured hot water on it, offering it to the two women to clean their hands.
“I told you,” Miri said with both anger and fear in her voice. “The monks attacked us when we were at prayer. We have to leave now, before they catch up. You are in grave danger also, as they have gone too far to stop now. If any of us survives to tell the county magistrate, every one of them will be executed.”
“Let me talk to them,” the innkeeper said. “I’ve known most of the monks for ten years and more. There must be some mistake.”
“I’ll not wait like a chicken tied to a cart. You stay if you wish to parley with demon-monks. Guards, follow me!”
Miri hurried out to the stables and hastily threw a blanket over her horse’s back; then she led it onto the road, leaving her saddle behind. She was gratified to see all the guards had followed her. The two women mounted their horses and urged their reluctant steeds down the road even as cries of alarm come to them faintly from above. Their guards chose to walk beside their horses, probably the wisest course until they had shaken off the influence of the alcohol they had been drinking.
Miri knew they weren’t safe yet: a group of determined men could catch sleepy horses traveling at night, but she felt much better now that the guards were with them. It would take ten or fifteen warrior monks to capture them, and with luck, there weren’t that many monks hot on their trail. Gradually they were able to pick up the pace as the horses became resigned to the fact their masters really were going to ride in the middle of the night and their guards mounted up, one after the other. As the hill flattened out, the trees thinned, and the road became more obvious in the moonlight, allowing their horses gain speed.
Finally, they reached the intersection with the main road with no sign of pursuers gaining on them. Russu insisted they halt for short while, and when they pulled to a stop, she placed her cheek on her mare’s neck and closed her eyes. Miri guessed the time at two hours after midnight. She herself was ready to lie down beside the road and sleep, but she refused to give in to that temptation. Instead, she called the horse-guards together and told them the truth: that she had discovered a plot against the arch-governor’s life. The news that an assassination plot was afoot sobered the men, and she could see that it made more sense than her hasty story of attempted rape.
The commander said in a deep voice, “We will spend our heart’s blood to keep the arch-governor alive. He has honored the Boethy clan and elevated our master as war minister. There is little we would not do for him. Right, men?”
The horse-guards drew their swords and tapped their commander’s mace before sheathing them again in silent agreement.
“I would fear drawing much attention to ourselves, yet we must travel wit
h great haste. I think we are still too near the temple. We should keep going for another two hours and then sleep till dawn. During the day, we can make our way rapidly toward the capital without arousing suspicion. Can you continue, kinswoman?”
Miri said she could. Russu mumbled agreement but yawned over and over.
The remainder of the ride that night became one long blur for Miri. The moon shone over the silent landscape. The men said little. The world began to seem unreal, like a strange dream. She swayed on her horse’s back and yawned repeatedly. Later, she would remember feeling such relief when they stopped and dismounted.
It seemed but a moment before she was shaken awake. The sun was just peeking over the horizon; she had been asleep for a few hours. The princess groaned and hid her face. Miri didn’t think it was necessary to push her friend further.
“Leave three men with Princess Russu,” Miri said softly. “We can go on ahead. All it takes is one person to deliver the word to the arch-governor.” The commander agreed, and so just the four of them mounted and started along the road, heading east, their faces flushed with the red light of dawn. The horses were happy that morning, there was dew on the grass beside the road, and for an hour they passed only a few travelers, making good speed. Hours passed, and when they neared Tokolas, they had to slow to a walk, due to all the traffic. Miri felt like she was underwater, or in a dream. Then, her stomach knotted into a tight ball of pain, and she realized that she was terribly hungry.
They halted at a roadside food stand and slumped beside a crude table while eating bowls of noodle soup, hot and salty. She had to drink a mug of the house beer just to quench her thirst. To Miri’s frustration, what seemed like a steady of stream of fast couriers rode past them on the way to Tokolas, but she couldn’t think of a way to hijack one of the couriers. She was the only one who could deliver the message; she had to continue all the way to the palace, no matter how her back ached and her thighs chafed. In the light of day, she wondered: Why had she left her saddle behind at the inn? A stupid decision, but then she had been in a state of panic.
Midafternoon and the walls of Tokolas came into view. Everything seemed normal, just the usual press of people coming into and out of the city. Miri shook the hand of the horse-guard commander in thanks. Although he took her hand, he looked grave. “Until the arch-governor is warned, I count the mission incomplete. If you take my suggestion, you will go to the war minister first with your news.”
Miri thought about that idea and had to agree that going to see the war minister was likely the best thing, unless her husband had returned early. Had Sandun returned? Her heart leapt at that thought. He would know how to save Lord Vaina! Since Minister Boethy would know if Sandun had returned, they rode up to the Ministry of War building. She was conducted into Minister Boethy’s office soon after she presented herself at the gate.
Minister Boethy looked up from a stack of papers on his desk. “Lady Kirdar, this minister thinks you look somewhat worse for wear. What brings you here this afternoon? Is something amiss?”
“Indeed, I think so,” Miri said. Then she paused and looked meaningfully at the war minister’s secretary. Minister Boethy narrowed his eyes and then said, “Scribe Donath, please bring some fresh tea for Lady Kirdar and myself.” The young scribe, one of Master Donath’s sons, left the room after bowing politely.
“Speak swiftly, Lady Kirdar. Normally all the conversations are recorded while this minister is conducting official business. What’s going on?”
Miri quickly told him what she had heard and done. It seemed very thin speculation this afternoon, when everything in Tokolas looked perfectly normal. She had trouble using the proper Serice words; speaking correctly to Arno Boethy was difficult even under normal circumstances. But the minister listened to her without interruption and then repeated back the salient points. “Monks from Shila speaking of killing the arch-governor in words only you could understand. This sounds like it could be a very deep plot that Number Eight has failed to penetrate. Or perhaps it is nothing more than wishful thinking from followers of Ekon or Eston, who are far from home.”
“I don’t think I heard mere wishful words,” Miri replied. “Is my husband back? He can fix this.”
“No, I’m sorry. Lord Sandun has not been seen.”
Miri’s heart sank, and a wave of dismay swept over her. Scribe Donath returned with tea for the three of them. Miri didn’t speak, and neither did Arno Boethy. The war minister tapped his quill pen against his teacup, as though keeping time to music only he could hear, and then asked, “Scribe, you have the latest casualty reports from General Modi’s army?”
“I do, they arrived just after the noon bell rang.”
“Bring them. This minister feels the need to stretch his legs.” To Miri, he said, “Why don’t you wait here and sit at ease? This one will be back shortly.”
Miri was willing to sit in a corner and drink tea as her eyes closed. The Ministry of War was surprisingly peaceful in the afternoon, the only sounds were low conversations and the faint scratching of papers being rolled and unrolled. She must have dozed off because suddenly the war minister was back and looking very concerned.
“I was refused entry! Supposedly the arch-governor had left strict orders he was not to be disturbed for the rest of afternoon.” The war minister stroked his long beard. “If I were to take my personal guards and demand to see Lord Vaina, this could be viewed as act of rebellion…unless there really is an ongoing effort to kill the arch-governor right this instant.”
Miri stated: “I can get into the palace.”
“How would you manage that?”
“I just go to the eastern entrance and say I’m visiting the Lady Eun. Since I’m not seeing Lord Vaina, what reason can the guards have for refusing me permission?”
“Interesting. Suppose they let you in to see Lady Eun? Then what would you do?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure Eun will think of something. If a woman from House Tols doesn’t have three separate plans for saving her husband from assassins, she is no true woman of the clan.”
“Once you go inside the palace, I cannot protect you,” the minister said. “If I gather all the other ministers and we demand to see the arch-governor, the guards must give way, but that will take time.”
Miri looked at her right hand. She had washed it thoroughly, twice, since last night, but she could see the blood with her mind’s eye.
“I’ve come too far to turn back now,” she said simply. “You gather the other ministers. I will go inside the palace and speak with Lady Eun. Thank you for the tea, Lord Boethy.”
The minister inclined his head and said, “This one wishes you good fortune, Lady Kirdar. Please be cautious. Sandun would never forgive me if you were harmed.”
Miri supposed that might be true, but regardless, her duty was clear. It fell to her to enter the palace and warn Lord Vaina—somehow. She walked out into the late-afternoon dust. As she passed a dress shop, she caught sight of herself in a large mirror hanging outside. She stopped dead because she looked frightful, in no wise fit for visiting the palace. Did she have any money? Yes, more than enough to buy something new. A bright orange robe attracted her attention; it reminded her of the sacred glass she had prayed at the previous evening.
“I’d like to try that dress,” she said to the shopkeeper’s young assistant, a pretty little girl who dexterously slipped the orange-colored robe off the wooden stand and wrapped it around Miri. It was lovely, and she owned nothing like it, as it was not a color that Shila women wore. She looked down and found that it was a trifle short.
The dress girl noticed this also and said, “We can lengthen this for you, my lady. There is a finger’s length of extra fabric. It will take less than an hour. While you wait!”
“Thank you, but I’ll take it now.”
The shopkeeper came up, and Miri paid her one-and-a-quarter silv
er cats. The shopkeeper kept offering to have the dress fitted to her, and Miri kept telling her the dress was fine. Miri was surprised that the shopkeeper knew her name, calling her, “Lady Kirdar.” Miri didn’t remember having shopped here before, so she asked how she knew her name.
“Oh, everyone knows who you are. You are the high advisor’s wife from Shila. You honor this humble shop with your presence.”
Miri smiled. This was good. People in Tokolas knew her, and so assassins would think twice about trying to kill her, even inside the palace. She spent an extra few minutes combing her hair and washing her face in the rear of the shop while the shopkeeper dressed her in her new robe. She looked barely presentable, but there was no time to collect any jewelry from back home at the Kelten embassy. If she was going to die inside the palace, she would die without wearing any of her ornaments.
Chin up, face set, wearing her new dress, she walked to the East Gate entrance, and stated, “My name is Miri Kirdar. I’m here to see Lady Eun Tols. She wants to see me.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Plot Revealed
The guards let her in.
Most of the soldiers looked nervous, and the officer gave her several sideways glances while he considered her request. She wondered if he was thinking of the best place to kill her. Miri tried to keep her face expressionless and her voice calm, but inside she felt scared and sick. Why was she doing this? These weren’t her people; Lord Vaina wasn’t her king.
Another part of her mind responded, We have come all this way, and we aren’t going to give up now. Yes, we are tired, but in an hour this will all be over, one way or another. Eun Tols is certainly a cold-blooded bitch, but she will know what to do. All we have to do is talk to her.
Apparently coming to the conclusion that one foreign woman didn’t represent a serious problem, the commander let her through and detailed one junior officer and a soldier to escort her to the private residences of the inner palace. As they walked, Miri kept her head lowered, but her ears were straining for any unusual noise. One hand gripped her purity knife; the other hand was on her sash, ready to lift up her skirts if she needed to run. The white plaster walls that surrounded the inner palace seemed endless. The dust from the sandy ground mixed with the remnants of horse manure rose into her nostrils and made her want to cough; she fought the urge, feeling that she wished to draw as little attention to herself as possible.
The Flame Iris Temple Page 34
