The stranger swore quietly to himself, though Chad could still make out the words. “Damn it, he’s on to me.” Then the man advanced ten feet into the alley, cautious and wary of a possible ambush. As he passed the chimney, he spotted the hunter and reached for his belt knife.
That wasn’t the ideal setup Chad had hoped for, but it was better than having to follow the man for the next few hours. He stepped out of the shadows and gave his visitor what he thought was a deadly smile. “Afternoon, friend.”
The man was slightly shorter but heavily muscled, with dark hair and eyes that seemed almost black in the dimly lit alley. He faced the hunter, knife in hand, and asked, “Who are you?”
“Someone with questions,” responded the archer casually, showing none of the customary fear that being faced with a knife normally caused. “Want a drink?” He patted his jacket and started to reach for his flask.
The man with the knife stepped forward, threatening. “I’ll be asking the questions.”
Holding out his other hand as a sign of peaceful intent, Chad drew the flask while stepping away. “No need to be testy.” Showing the flask to the stranger, he unscrewed the cap and took a sip before offering it to the man. “I was serious about the drink offer.”
“I asked who you were,” said the rogue. “I also want to know who the dresses are for.”
“You have strange interests,” Chad replied with a grin. When the stranger raised the knife, he added, “Careful, friend. If you manage to scratch me with that thing I’ll give back fourfold what I’ve gotten.”
It was obvious from his features that the man who had been following him was unnerved by his relaxed manner, but he came forward anyway in a sudden lunge. The hunter kicked his attacker’s leading foot out from under him before it could land on solid ground, sending the rogue into a twisting fall. Unfortunately, his wildly flailing blade still managed to graze Chad’s jacket, leaving a light score line across the leather.
“You pus-ridden cock dribble,” cussed the hunter. “This was my favorite coat. It’s gonna look ridiculous after I stitch up the front.” He stepped on his fallen foe’s hand as he swore, forcing the man to release the knife. Then he leaned down to leer at the man. “You shouldn’t have refused the drink. That was rude, and cutting my jacket really pisses me off.”
The fallen stranger scrabbled back and, his bravado gone, jumped up and began to run.
“Godsdamn it all,” spat the hunter. Reaching down, he picked up a loose brick he had noticed earlier and tossed it in the air, getting a feel for its heft. Taking aim, he threw it with moderate force at the man’s back, aiming for the middle of his shoulderblades. Regrettably, he underestimated his strength and the heavy brick caught the man in the back of the head, dropping him to the ground like a fallen sack of potatoes. “Shit!” swore Chad. Don’t tell me I killed him. That’s why I didn’t take out my knives.
Rushing over, he pulled the fallen man away from the alley entrance before checking the man’s head. Blood covered his fingers as he felt the back of the fellow’s head, but the skull seemed whole; there was none of the mushiness he had feared. So much for my cunning plan to interrogate him. Staring at the unconscious man, he felt some relief the fellow was alive, but only some. Mostly he felt irritated. “Dumbass,” he spat.
His only option now was delivering the dresses for the shop owner. “Cuz I’m damn sure not going to spend hours nursing your stupid ass awake,” he told the senseless rogue.
Chad dragged the man to one side and propped him against a wall, trying to make it appear as though he had passed out, but he was doubtful of the efficacy of his attempt. “Bastard looks dead,” he muttered as he wiped his hands on the man’s shirt, leaving red stains there. Seeing what he had done, he swore again, “Shit. That didn’t help.”
Standing up, he decided to leave well enough alone. The man would wake up some time later—or not, but he figured the fellow’s chances were pretty good. The best thing he could do now was to keep moving and put some distance between himself and the unfortunate consequences of his failed interrogation. Hefting his bundle, he took his leave.
He hadn’t quite gotten out of the alley when he spotted the girl staring down at him from a rotting wooden balcony three floors up. She looked to be around eight at most, and her eyes were round with surprise, or possibly fear. Chad grimaced. Fuck my luck. Then he called to the girl, “He was an asshole. Here.” Reaching into his purse, he pulled out a silver coin and tossed it up to her.
She missed the catch, but the coin landed on the balcony close beside her. The girl quickly pocketed it.
“I’d appreciate it if you forgot about seein’ me,” he told her, and she nodded in response. “Thanks,” he said, tipping his hat and walking away.
“He was an asshole,” she murmured, repeating his previous words.
Chad grinned to himself and kept his pace casual, but he had barely gone a block before he heard the distinctive whistle of the city watch. Glancing back, he saw a man talking to a guardsman. The little girl was standing beside them, and as he watched she lifted her hand and pointed in his direction.
“Really?” he said with disgust, then he turned and ran. Can’t even trust people in the slums anymore, especially kids, he observed as he put on speed.
With Chad’s dragon-bond, the watchman would never be able to match his pace, but that wasn’t the problem. It was the damned whistle. Every guard within blocks would hear it, and they’d all be looking to stop the fool trying to run past them, but he couldn’t very well stop running with the first watchman chasing him.
Of course, he could evade or disable them as well, but his problems would only grow larger the longer it went on, and he didn’t particularly want to injure or potentially kill watchmen who were only trying to do their jobs.
But the hunter had been running from guards since long before he’d had the dragon-bond. It wasn’t something he practiced, naturally, but the lessons of youth are hard-won and even harder to forget. Being fast was helpful, but the key was to break line-of-sight and hide; if the runner tried to stay in the open and keep running, eventually they would be caught. He sped down streets and narrow lanes, dodging the occasional new guard who appeared in front of him all while keeping his eyes open for what he needed.
He was zigzagging through rows of two-story houses, stone at the street level and wooden above, when he turned a corner and saw a promising spot. A closed and locked cellar door stood to his left, close against the side of the building, while a sturdy balcony leaned out from the second floor above. He was at least thirty seconds ahead of his latest pursuer and there were no people in sight.
Grasping the cellar door’s handle, he braced himself and pulled, exerting his strength until the wooden bar that held the cellar closed snapped and the door banged open. Then he tossed his bundle onto the roof and jumped, clearing the ten feet to the balcony rail with ease. In years prior, it would have been a scramble to climb up and he’d probably have been forced to trust his luck by lying flat against the floor of the balcony, but not today. Setting his feet on the rail, he jumped again and easily caught the eave of the roof above before pulling himself over to flatten himself against the rooftop. Then he waited.
The principle was simple—gain distance, get out of sight, and then hide somewhere close to a more obvious hiding place. The guards would check the cellar, and after not finding him assume that he had kept running while they had wasted time searching. So long as no one had heard him landing on the roof he was probably safe. And I was fairly quiet getting up here, he told himself, if there’s even anyone inside in the middle of the day.
He knew better than to risk peeking over the roof’s edge. Instead he scooted closer to the center of the roof and made a pillow of the bundle of dresses and settled in for a long wait. Lying on his back, he found the sun beating mercilessly into his eyes. This is when a nice hat comes in handy, he observed, pulling the brim of his own down and covering his eyes.
Chad smi
rked quietly while listening to the frustrated watchmen searching for him below. The sun was just strong enough to offset the cold wind, and the warm roof beneath him seemed almost comfortable. After a short time, he napped.
Chapter 21
“Come to finish what you started?”
Ariadne’s voice was laced with venom when it greeted him. She stood across the room beside her massive four-poster bed, a slender sword in hand. Tyrion had several good memories involving that bed, but they were spoiled by the cold and hostile expression on his former lover’s features. “Do you think you can stop me with that?” he asked disdainfully, letting his eyes rest on the weapon she held.
He could see the fear hidden in her eyes as she answered, “No, but I won’t die without defending myself. James Lancaster’s daughter is no coward.”
The fear hurt him more than her words. He knew her mind had been twisted, but it still bothered him to hear the anger in her voice. One more thing the mind-witch will pay for, he noted silently. “I don’t want your death,” he declared, advancing on her.
Tyrion almost died then, for he had miscalculated the Queen’s incredible speed. While she wasn’t a trained warrior, she did possess the dragon-bond, and the point of the sword she held came up and straight for his chest in a blur that he could barely follow.
Using a minimum of motion, he sidestepped and used his forearm to push the blade out of line before punching the enraged Queen solidly in the jaw. With his power almost gone, anything else would have likely meant his death, for she was far stronger than he could hope to match at the moment.
Ariadne fell sideways, crashing into the bed post and slumping to the stone floor, stunned but not quite unconscious. Tyrion took possession of the sword, absently noting the blood dripping down his hand from a shallow cut along the forearm. Then he dragged the dazed monarch to her feet before turning her away from him and holding the sharp steel against her throat. “I’m not here to kill you, but my back is against a wall at present. Push me any further and I’ll do something we’ll both regret,” he warned.
“You killed Harold,” she hissed as her gaze fell on her fallen defender in the adjoining room. “Have you no shame?”
“He didn’t give me much choice,” returned Tyrion. “Don’t make the same mistake.”
“My only mistake was in ever trusting you, you treacherous bastard,” she declared angrily. “Finish me and be done with it. I’m sick of being in your presence.”
Strangely, Tyrion felt only sadness at her words, that and an overwhelming sense of loneliness. It wasn’t something he expected, not of himself at least. Anger he could deal with, like an old friend, but this was a reminder of a part of himself he had thought long dead. I’m just tired, he told himself. His exhaustion was extreme, that much was definitely true. He knew his body, and it was telling him that he was close to collapse. It would be best to finish his escape quickly. “Just get me through the portal and I’ll be out of your hair,” he replied. “I’ve no wish to hurt you.”
The portal Mordecai had created between his personal dwelling and the Queen’s chambers was protected by several clever safeguards, something Tyrion knew from his previous use of it with Gareth Gaelyn. The Queen and the Illeniel family were the only ones who could use it, and they could only bring others through by using a secret password, otherwise the portal would fail to operate.
“I won’t help you,” said the Queen. “You want to hurt Moira, don’t you?”
Actually, he did, very much so, but admitting as much wouldn’t help him. Besides, he was in no shape to face another mage, much less her. “She isn’t there. I just need a way out and currently this is the only path available to me.”
“How do you know she isn’t there?” asked Ariadne, a faint curiosity evident in her voice.
“Because the spider is in the city, where she can pluck the strings of her web,” he answered, pushing her forward toward the portal door. When they were only a foot from it, he pressed the sword’s edge against her throat. “Now, open it, or Lothion will have to choose a new monarch.”
He could feel her back stiffen along with her resolve. “No.”
Violence wouldn’t help; he knew her better than that. He had to appeal to her sense of responsibility. “Think about the people that will die trying to rescue you if you trap me here,” he said softly, whispering in her ear. “I won’t die easily, you know that, and I’m perfectly capable of taking a lot of your followers with me.”
Ariadne lifted her chin proudly. “I’m not new to this throne. I’ve had to make many hard choices over the years. Letting you go free could lead to many more deaths in the future. Nor will I be tricked into accepting responsibility for your actions, now or in the future. The blood is on your hands, not mine.”
“I wonder how many would die if I brought the palace down on their heads right now,” he speculated. “I might even be able to escape in the confusion afterward.” It was a bluff, of course. Even if he weren’t exhausted, doing such a thing purely with his own aythar would be foolish, if not suicidal, and he didn’t have access to his creator’s special abilities.
But Ariadne wasn’t aware of that.
The Queen’s trembling fingers reached for the door handle while she muttered something softly under her breath. When the door swung open, he could see the portal had activated, for Mordecai’s home lay on the other side. Carefully, Tyrion turned the two of them around and then shoved the woman away from him. She stumbled and almost fell, but catching herself in time, Ariadne turned her eyes back on him accusingly. “You never cared about me in the slightest, did you? I was just a means to an end, wasn’t I?”
Tyrion paused, his hand gripping the edge of the door. He desperately wanted to slam it shut, to block out the image of her face. “Anything I say is pointless. That mind-bitch will just change your memory of my words to match her wishes.”
“As I thought,” said Ariadne bitterly. “Nothing but excuses.”
His anger flared then. “Yes, you were a means to an end, but you were also more than that. I loved you, in my own way.”
“Liar,” she hissed.
The way she said it caught him for a moment, reminding him of a time long ago, when another woman whom he had loved more than anything had said the same. Slamming the door shut, he crossed the small room and opened the second door, letting himself into Mordecai’s home before shutting that door behind him as well. His magesight quickly confirmed that he was there alone, although he couldn’t be sure of the warded rooms yet. Regardless, he was tired to the bone. Relaxing his resolve, he slid to the floor, breathing heavily.
In his mind’s eye, he could still see Kate’s green eyes filled with tears. “Liar.”
He laid his forearm across his face, as though he could block out the vision. “She’s a lot like you were, Kate,” he muttered. There was an obvious difference, though. Kate had believed in him no matter what, whether he was right or wrong, despite his lies. Ariadne’s mind had been twisted, and she believed he was lying even though he had spoken only truth.
Tyrion did his best to push those thoughts aside. He had no idea how much time he might have, for his enemies knew where he was. He needed rest. Time to recover, time to think, and once those things were accomplished, time to decide. Getting back onto his feet was hard, and his back screamed at him with every movement.
I should destroy the portal, he realized. Otherwise pursuit would be far too quick for him to escape. That was easier decided than done, however. The enchantment that operated the portal was a work of art and it stored a significant amount of magical power within it. In his current state it would be difficult to damage, and even if he could, the resulting release of power might kill him.
Then a thought came to him, and he smiled. From what he had seen, the portal activated when one of the two doors leading into the closet was opened, but not both. When one door was open, the other had to be closed, or the enchantment wouldn’t activate. It was a fundamental part of the prote
ctions that his descendant had built into the magical device. All he had to do was prop the door on this end open. Someone would have to travel to Mordecai’s home by other means and close the door here before it would function again.
That done, he made a quick search of the house and nearby workshop, ruining every teleportation circle he found. He couldn’t be certain there weren’t others nearby, but it was the best he could do. At the very least, the World Road had an opening in Arundel, so his pursuers would only be an hour or two behind him.
He rummaged through the kitchen and came up with dried peas, hard cheese, and a surprisingly fresh loaf of bread. It hadn’t been that long since Moira had been here. He ignored most of the rest of what he found, since it wouldn’t be practical to try and cook while he traveled.
Tyrion set out then, following the gentle grade of the mountain downward, but he had gone only a mile before the pain in his back forced him to stop. Every step pulled at the damaged skin and muscle, causing it to bleed again. Ordinarily he would have healed it at the first opportunity, but he had been shepherding his remaining power, thinking it to be more precious than a little blood. That was no longer the case.
Being as careful as he could, he sealed the wound and knitted the damaged tissue back together. Even so, the effort left him faint and in danger of losing consciousness. He also sealed the shallow gash on his forearm. Walking after that was an exercise in stubbornness. The world kept going dark, narrowing into a tunnel in front of him as his brain struggled to hold onto awareness. On several occasions he awoke to find himself laing facedown on the ground, with new bruises to add to his collection.
At some point, after the sun had disappeared behind the mountains, he reached the bottom, where the base of Mordecai’s mountain met its neighbor and a small stream trickled by. Tyrion sat beside its edge, though his movement might be better described as ‘collapsed.’ Rousing himself momentarily, he drank, and then he allowed his eyes to close. Just before he drifted into oblivion, he closed his mind. If they were looking for him, he wouldn’t make it easy for them.
Transcendence and Rebellion Page 17
