Assassin's Edge

by Juliet E. McKenna

  “Ilkehan,” breathed Guinalle with satisfaction. “Now we have his name.”

  We’d just called him the Ice Man when we’d been his captives. It had suited his dead white hair, fleshless, merciless face and his calculated brutality, lethal and indifferent as winter’s bitterest chill.

  Faces flickered across our vision like memory slipping out of reach. A baby, too small to be identified as boy or girl, came and went almost before we realised but we all felt a surge of fatherly love from the sleeping Moin. A couple, elderly by Ice Islander reckoning, prompted filial affection from Darige that touched even me, who’d walked away from such ties without regret. The girl Yalda kept her devotion for a barrel-chested warrior looking not unlike Sorgrad, his leather armour studded with emblems of rank.

  “He’s that bastard Eresken’s father,” remarked ’Gren with interest.

  “Who?” Temar frowned.

  “The warrior?” I was puzzled as well.

  “Yon Ilkehan.” At ’Gren’s naming of him, we saw the Ice Man again. He was addressing cowed Elietimm among a scattering of squalid hovels, who waited in rags for grain doled out by Ilkehan’s well-fed minions. We couldn’t taste their hunger but we felt their trepidation. On every side, black-liveried troops stood alert for any dissent.

  “No, who’s Eresken?” Temar let slip exasperation.

  “The Elietimm enchanter who tried to rouse the Mountain Men to war last year.” Pered summoned sufficient confidence to join our silent conversation. “The one who seduced Aritane from the Sheltya.” She’d been all too ready to believe Eresken’s promises that Artifice would right the many and manifest wrongs the Mountain Men had suffered as recent generations of lowlanders encroached on their territories. Personally I’d have been suspicious, given Eresken openly acknowledged his descent from a clique long exiled from the Mountains for the highest crime of using enchantment to serve their ambitions. But I hadn’t suffered the frustrations of Aritane’s celibate life and the curbs the Sheltya voluntarily imposed on their own so-called true magic.

  The image suddenly shifted. We saw Eresken’s face, coldly handsome and then a ghastly mask of blood, neck half hacked through.

  “I thought cutting his head off was safest,” ’Gren explained genially.

  Eresken vanished to whatever punishment Poldrion’s demons had prepared for him. Then we saw another Elietimm enchanter, the one who’d sought Ryshad’s death by conniving at his enslavement among the perils of the Aldabreshin Archipelago, for the sake of the D’Alsennin sword he carried.

  Temar knew this one’s name. “Kramisak.” Quick as imagination, I saw Ryshad’s sword foiling the bastard’s mace stroke and ripping out his throat when their rival quests for the lost colonists had brought them face to face.

  “Ilkehan’s sent three because one alone is too vulnerable.” Guinalle nodded to herself.

  “But they’re not as strong as either of the other two.” Inadequate as Temar’s Artifice might be, it was showing him something hidden from the rest of us. I shared a shrug of incomprehension with Pered and ’Gren.

  “He keeps so much learning to himself.” Guinalle looked thoughtful as she read the blank, sleeping faces. “He has no one stronger to send.”

  “Why doesn’t this big man come himself?” ’Gren’s eyes lit with his unvarying readiness for a fight.

  “It’s not in his nature.” As Temar spoke, we saw Ilkehan in the study I’d at least managed to loot of maps and sundry other records before we’d escaped the Ice Islands. Pen in hand, he was making notes on some chart. This bastard was a schemer, a conniver of other men’s deaths who seldom got blood on his own hands. I didn’t need magic to tell me that.

  “Other concerns keep him close to home.” Guinalle’s words threw the image into confusion so abruptly we were all startled.

  This slaughter had none of the riot of battle we’d known today but the shadowy Elietimm lay surely dead. Two armies were meeting on a barren pewter shore, broken rocks behind them strewn over a scant stretch of faded grass, stark heights behind still topped with winter’s stubborn snows. Warriors’ boots churned up the shallow grey-green sea as they hacked each other to pieces. We couldn’t feel the cold spray or the cutting wind, the treacherous sand beneath our feet but turbulent emotions roiled around us. Panic lest his own entrails be ripped out spurred one man on to gut another. Rage burned a youth so fiercely that anyone within sword reach was mere blood for spilling to quench his anger.

  Ilkehan’s men were clad in the black leather we’d come to know and loathe while their opponents wore a dull brown.

  “Is this real or imagined?” Temar studied the aetheric vision.

  “Hard to say,” Guinalle murmured. “That’s Moin, though.”

  We saw him on an arid turf bank. Liveried like a soldier, gorget bright at his collar, he raised a hand and brown-clad figures began dropping like medlars from a frosted tree, gashes in their faces and chests showing red like the flesh of burst fruit, the only splash of colour in the pallid landscape. Moin’s livery sprouted new adornments and his gorget blurred from silver to gold. We saw Eresken again, at Ilkehan’s shoulder, then his face blurred and became Moin’s.

  “Our boy’s looking for promotion,” commented ’Gren.

  “So he’s the one to watch?” I felt Temar promise himself the man’s early death.

  Guinalle shook her head slowly. “He’s just the one whose thoughts are closest to his skin.”

  I noticed the woman Yalda tossing and turning in her distant sleep. “What happens if they wake up?” As I asked, I felt alarm from Pered and perverse anticipation from ’Gren. In a nauseating instant, I learned how Eresken had come to grief. It seemed getting out of ’Gren’s head was nowhere near as easy as getting in. The Mountain Man was eager to try driving another intrusive enchanter into insanity and death using only the untrammelled force of a mind blithely untroubled by conscience.

  Guinalle spared ’Gren a faintly repelled look before focusing her attention once more on the sleeping Elietimm. “I just want to see what they know of this pirate.”

  She coaxed memories from their dreams like a musician drawing music from a lyre. We saw a broad haven sheltered by a mighty headland offering sanctuary from the savage rocks and seas of Toremal’s ocean coast. A town sprawled behind the tufted dunes and rowboats ferried men and goods between the shore and ships swaying at anchor.

  “Kalaven.” Pered was surprised. “We stopped there before setting course for Suthyfer.”

  “Sorgrad found some good crewmen there,” ’Gren observed.

  “So did Muredarch.” Guinalle encouraged Yalda’s recollection of a startlingly tall man with wiry black hair and a savage cast to an otherwise handsome face, if you made allowance for the ragged beard and the crow’s-feet of age and disillusion framing his eyes. He’d been down on his luck back then, breeches dirty, shirt stained and boots inadequately patched. He was talking to Darige.

  “So much for Emperor Tadriol smoking every Elietimm spy out of his thatch.” I’d always had my doubts about that, hearing Ryshad tell of frustrating pursuits of rumour and suspicion as his prince set him hunting the thieves who’d cut down a younger son of the House for an heirloom ring. He’d only learned later it was a Kellarin artefact when his path crossed mine and Darni’s and Shiv’s.

  “Guinalle,” Temar warned.

  “Very well.” Her lips narrowed with frustration before she soothed the air to emptiness with a lilting incantation. The sleeping faces vanished and I was abruptly aware of crippling stiffness in my neck and shoulders and the promise of a truly spectacular headache.

  “I need some fresh air.” Pered got unsteadily to his feet and Ryshad promptly opened the door.

  “I’ll settle for a drink.” Even ’Gren was looking unsure of himself and that was as rare as a moonless night.

  Resting my forehead on my upturned palms, I felt Ryshad’s strong fingers rubbing my shoulders. “So what did you see?”

  Ryshad took a moment
to answer. “Colours, shapes, nothing I could make sense of. ’Sar couldn’t even see that much.”

  “Another instance where Artifice and elemental magic don’t mix?” I rubbed my temples with cautious fingertips and squinted up at Ryshad. “What now?”

  “Sar’s gone to get the others. Are you all right?” His grimness promised trouble for someone if I wasn’t.

  I nodded carefully. “I will be.” Kneeling, he gathered me to him. I laid my head on his shoulder and thought very seriously about going to sleep and leaving everything to the rest of them, at least until the morning.

  “Where’s Allin?”

  I opened my eyes to see Temar scrubbing his face with the heels of his hands.

  “With the rest of the mageborn. They were going to discuss just what wizardry they might venture without risking Elietimm attack.” Ryshad stood and lifted me to my feet before sitting on the stool himself. I sat on his lap, arms loose around his shoulders.

  “Usara was saying Aritane’s helped him devise certain defences over the winter.” Guinalle’s voice was weary.

  We sat in silence for a short time until Halice kicked open the door to wrestle a cumbersome basket of bottles inside. “If you’re done, let’s hear what you know and make a plan.”

  We all winced at the crash and clink of glass apart from ’Gren who perked up immediately. “Always best done with a drink in your hand.” He helped himself to a fat-bellied bottle studded with a blobby wax seal.

  Halice handed out a motley selection of wines. “So what did you learn?”

  By the time Temar had explained, to no one’s great surprise, that our old enemy was the driving force behind the pirates, the wizards had arrived. Shiv had an arm around Pered, eyes searching for the least hint that Artifice had hurt his beloved. Usara went to press some wine on the largely silent Guinalle with detached courtesy. He had even managed to find a gold-trimmed silver goblet from somewhere.

  “Can we get Naldeth out of there?” asked Allin. She’d been preoccupied with the mage’s fate ever since we’d had to leave him behind.

  “He’s one of ours, is he?” Sorgrad had helped ’Gren shift the table to the side of the room and the brothers sat on it, swinging their feet idly. He downed a hefty swallow of white brandy.

  “Guinalle?” Temar passed Allin his pale green bottle of Caladhrian white and she took a hesitant sip.

  “I don’t think we dare try reach him.” The demoiselle sighed with eloquent frustration before looking round at all the mageborn. “You had better limit your magic to things within reach, things you can see. The Elietimm shouldn’t be able to attack you unless you’re seeking something beyond your immediate senses.”

  “So we can still blow pirates out of the water with fire and lightning?” Sorgrad winked at Larissa who was standing a little apart from Shiv and Pered, silent and watchful. She smiled shyly back at him.

  “Which will be useful,” observed Ryshad drily as he took red wine offered by Halice.

  Sorgrad shot him an enigmatic look, which Ryshad met with level imperturbability. With all that had been going on, they’d had no real chance to take each other’s measure as yet but that would happen sometime soon. I took the bottle from Ryshad and swallowed a mouthful of Sitalcan, its bracing bite cutting through the weariness fogging my mind. I’d better make sure I was around to stop my oldest friends and my newest love coming to blows over their undoubted differences. I wasn’t expecting them to like each other but I hoped they’d at least respect each other’s talents.

  Halice had other concerns. “We’ll not get rid of those pirates as long as they’ve aetheric magic backing them.”

  “We’ve aetheric magic to use against them.” Usara smiled at Guinalle but we could all see the worry in his eyes.

  “Are you certain you’re proof against these three? We’re barely adept enough to back you.” Temar sketched a circle to include me, ’Gren and Pered. ”Usara, might that Sheltya woman be induced to help us?”

  “Aritane?” Guinalle shook her head regretfully. “Even if she were prepared to leave the sanctuary of Hadrumal, I don’t believe she’s come to terms with Eresken’s betrayal of her and her people. That alone would leave her horribly vulnerable.”

  “So we’ve a cursed sight more than pirates to worry about now‘ Ryshad swirled the wine around in his bottle thoughtfully. ”What does Ilkehan want with Suthyfer?”

  “Elietimm holding these islands will be a dagger at Vithrancel’s throat and all the Tormalin ocean ports,” glowered Halice.

  For some reason, I thought about the Ice Man pruning his creeper. I remembered how my mother had waged constant warfare on knotgrass that had the temerity to continually reappear among the herbs and flowers she cultivated in the modest patch permitted her by the wealthy merchant who owned the big house. Every time my mother thought she had the thing beaten, another stem of jaunty little leaves capped with red-trimmed white flowers would spring up to mock her. As a fat-legged little girl I had played uncomprehending through one long afternoon while my father, on one of his rare and longed-for visits, had carefully dug up every cherished gillyflower and clump of heartsease, each woody sprig of spikenard swathed with leathery green leaves. He’d laid them all tenderly in moist shade before digging out every last root of that cursed knotgrass, following every stubborn rootlet down to its end. I recalled his conspiratorial grin as he lay flat on the black earth to reach as far as he could, soil dusting his coppery hair and smudging his face. Joining him in the normally forbidden delights of digging and dirt, I’d been just as filthy by the time we’d finished but at least my mother had never seen the knotgrass again.

  “We have to get rid of Ilkehan.” It was remarkably easy to put such a momentous notion into words. As easy as casting the handful of runes that could make your fortune or break your neck. “Everything leads back to him.”

  “When you say ‘we’?” Ryshad inclined his head as he looked at me and I knew he understood.

  “Kellarin could never raise an army to fight the Elietimm.” Temar plainly didn’t. “Would the Emperor go to war on our behalf? Could he raise the ships, the men?”

  “Stop thinking with your cohorts,” chided Sorgrad.

  “I don’t think this will be something the Emperor can risk being linked with,” Ryshad said slowly. “He came out of last summer’s confusion well enough placed but the Sieurs of the leading Houses will still be watching him for any excessive independence.” Temar’s unexpected arrival had seriously disrupted the complex game of checks and balances that the princes of Toremal played among themselves and the Emperor had had to walk a fine line between keeping them in check or seeing them turn on him instead of D’Alsennin.

  “Overlord or not, Tadriol rules with the Sieurs’ consent. They won’t be overly reassured to see him killing people who irritate him out of hand. ” Halice rubbed a thoughtful finger round the wide neck of the flagon she held. It made a soft squeaking noise. “Anyway, the back of a knife makes a neater job of cracking an egg than a rock the size of your head.”

  “A knife’s what you want,” said ’Gren with relish. “A raiding party to cut the bastard’s throat for him will settle this nonsense.”

  “Get the drop on them and hit them hard, you can kill pretty much anyone,” Sorgrad stated firmly before grinning suddenly. “Why do you suppose your noblemen spend so much money on sworn men and mercenaries?”

  “Assassination?” Temar looked startled. “That’s hardly honourable.”

  Guinalle opened her mouth but shut it again without speaking.

  “We’re mercenaries,” Halice pointed out mildly. “Honourable doesn’t pay, as a rule.”

  “It would be an execution,” Ryshad corrected Temar sternly. “That man has lives without number to pay for, even if other hands swung the blades at his command.”

  “Parrail,” snapped Halice with sudden anger.

  “Geris,” I said shortly.

  “Aiten.” Ryshad’s nostrils flared as he struggled to
contain the rage and sorrow that I knew always lurked in some locked corner of his thoughts. Aiten had been his friend for many years, sworn to D’Olbriot, at Ryshad’s side as they hunted whoever had left the House’s young esquire for dead. We’d all but escaped the islands of the Elietimm when Ilkehan’s enchantments had stolen away his mind, setting him to kill us all. I brushed a kiss across Ryshad’s forehead and felt his arms tighten around my waist. In those intense conversations lovers keep for the midnight hours of troubled nights, Ryshad had told me he’d vowed revenge, for the sake of the oaths they’d shared.

  I wouldn’t try talking him out of it, not when I owed Ilkehan a full measure of vengeance for leaving me the only one with the chance to kill poor Aiten before he became the death of the rest of us. Could I wash that blood off my hands with Ilkehan’s own? “What of the missing artefacts? Could Ilkehan hold them?”

  Guinalle looked stricken. I recalled what Halice had told me of her Equinox and Solstice visits to the Edisgesset cavern, her anguished prayers as she burned incense to Arimelin at the altar she’d had set there.

  “Quite possibly.” Usara looked thoughtful. “And we surely want to restore those last few, now that the danger you saved them from is past.” He smiled at Guinalle but, as always, she was too racked with remorse over their present predicament to credit herself with saving these people from bloody death hands in the distant past.