No Quarter

by Tanya Huff

  There were very few bards who Sang only earth. And there were very few bards who knew the Circle as well as Jazep did. He followed the turning of the seasons from the inside—birth, life, death, out of death a rebirth and Circle comes around once again. Filip’s kigh had been ripped out of the cycle. Jazep Sang it back onto the path.

  He felt a surge of joy, as strong and all encompassing as the terror had been, then he and Dymek were alone by the grave. He could just barely see new tears cutting channels through the dirt on Dymek’s cheeks.

  “The Circle,” Jazep said softly, laying aside his drum, “encloses us all.”

  “I think that was supposed to be my line.”

  The two men turned as Celestin materialized out of the darkness. With a strangled cry, Dymek leaped to his feet and threw himself into her arms. Jazep stood a little more slowly.

  “I heard your Song,” the priest told him. “I had to come. What …?” She paused, reconsidered the question and settled for, “What happened?”

  “Dymek can tell you.” Jazep heaved his pack up onto his shoulders. The rain had stopped and if the kigh were willing to help him hold the path, he might make it back to the river by midnight.

  “Surely, you’re not …”

  “When Brencis returns with the bard,” he interrupted, “have Dymek put under recall. Whoever it is will know what to do.”

  “But Jazep, it’s dark. It’s wet. Can’t you stay until morning?”

  He moved close enough to see her face clearly. “There are other villages in its path.” When understanding dawned, he stepped back and turned. There were other villages in its path, and he had lost a full day from the hunt. The ground smoothed beneath his feet as the kigh guided him out of the graveyard. Trusting their touch, he started to run.

  Five

  The closed lamp hanging by the head of the bunk swung back and forth with the motion of the ship. Leaning against the cabin wall just past the shifting edge of light and shadow, Bannon watched Prince Otavas sleep and wondered if he dreamed and, if he dreamed, what about.

  Held captive for seven days by an insane old man, surrounded by the living dead, the seventeen-year-old prince had seen more horror in that short amount of time than many saw in their entire lives. In Bannon’s opinion, this trip to Shkoder would be good for him. Too many things in the Imperial Palace—including Her Imperial Majesty, his mother—kept reminding him of his kidnapping. Although outwardly His Highness still appeared to be the carefree darling of the court, Bannon—who saw so much more of him—could see memory lying over the superficial gaiety like an oily scum, and not even the lamp that burned all night by the prince’s bed could keep the darkness from haunting him.

  “But could any of it have been as bad as looking up from a dying body and seeing your own face laughing down at you?” Bannon silently asked the sleeping prince. “Or watching another live in your body and be helpless to stop it?

  “Or realizing that the one person you trusted completely had betrayed you?”

  A sound up on deck shifted his weight forward onto the balls of his feet, a dagger appearing in his hand. When he became certain it was only one of the many creaks and groans of a ship at sea, he relaxed again.

  Vree had no right to save Gyhard’s life, not when justice owed it to him. Even the Emperor had seen it. If he couldn’t convince her of that with Gyhard in her head, he’d carry her blindfolded back to the Empire and convince her after Gyhard had been destroyed by the Imperial bards. It shouldn’t, wouldn’t take much for her to realize she’d made a mistake—Bannon had seen how much their separation had hurt her—and they’d be together again, just like they used to be.

  Otavas moaned.

  A heartbeat later, Bannon stood at his prince’s side, gently pushing him back against the thin mattress and pulling the heavily embroidered coverlet up over cold shoulders. “It’s all right, Highness,” he murmured. “I’m here.”

  Soon, someone would be there for him. Just like she always had been.

  * * * *

  This is Ghoti.

  The Gyhard outside the dream identified the rounded walls of orange stucco even while the Gyhard participating walked the empty streets toward the Governor’s stronghold. It was quiet, as if the city had emptied, and the knowledge that death waited around every corner ate its way through his composure. He had lived his long life by repeatedly opening death’s door and, at the last moment, pushing someone else over the threshold. Death could not love him for it.

  He heard a footstep behind him and forced himself to turn. Three soldiers of the Sixth Army blocked his retreat. All three carried crossbows that tracked him unerringly despite the black leather bands that covered their eyes and prevented him from jumping to another body. His heart began to pound. As he couldn’t go back, he went on.

  The remainder of the army, similarly shielded, waited in the area he’d cleared around the tower wall. He couldn’t count the number of crossbows aimed at his heart. He tried, then decided it didn’t matter when one would be enough. A slight figure dressed in black beckoned to him from the top of the wall.

  Suddenly, he stared down at where he’d been and, from that exact place, Vree stared up at him.

  “Time to die,” announced a familiar voice.

  No. Before he finished turning, a noose settled around his neck.

  Vree smiled and pulled it tighter. “Long past time to die.”

  He fought the hands that shoved him to the edge of the battlements but for every one he pried off his flesh, two returned. Some, he thought he recognized. His pleas, his curses, neither made any difference. Tottering over oblivion, he turned to ask why and saw it was Bannon not Vree who held the other end of the rope, his eyes shielded like all the rest.

  Vree stood below, hands outstretched to him, eyes uncovered.

  She was too far away.

  He screamed her name as he fell.

  And jerked awake in her head.

  It was her heart he could feel pounding. Her blood roaring in her ears. His own terror …

  His fear of dying slammed into the barriers so carefully maintained between them, and they fell. His kigh surged out into Vree’s body, shoving hers aside in a panicked need for the control so long denied him. Arms. Hands. Fingers.

  Then he remembered. Her eyes had been the only eyes uncovered. With a strength he thought he’d long since abandoned, he stopped, lightly touched his/her cheek with his/her hand, and forced himself back to the space she allowed him.

  He felt her tremble—in reaction, not fear—and suddenly realized … *Why didn’t you try to stop me?*

  *I’d just woke up.*

  *You wake up instantly,* he snapped, tipping the terror that continued to sizzle through him over into anger. She was hiding something. He didn’t know what. The urge to shake her sent his kigh racing down into her hands and it took almost all he had left to yank it back. *Did you want me to kill you? I shove you out of your body and then the bards Sing me into oblivion? Have you had enough? Is that it? Is it?*

  Her anger rose to meet his. *If I’ve had enough of you, I’ll deal with you myself.* She threw herself out of the bed, bare feet slapping against the floor. *And what the slaughter makes you think that I would even consider killing myself over you? You think I can’t live without you?*

  What had he been thinking? He hadn’t. Terrified by the dream, further terrified by what he’d nearly done, he’d reacted by striking out and that kind of a reaction, he realized now, could get one or both of them killed. *Vree, I …*

  *You what? Maybe you wanted me to kill you.* She stomped into the sitting room, flung open the shutters on the single window and gulped in desperate lungfuls of the night air. *Maybe you think oblivion’s a better idea than spending more slaughtering time with me.*

  The emotions raging about inside her head had cut him off so completely, it took him a moment to realize what was wrong with her voice. *Vree, are you crying?*

  *No!*

  Gyhard didn’t bother con
fronting her with the lie, not when they both knew it for what it was. *Vree …* Uncertain what he’d intended to say, he paused. In a very short time they’d gone through fear, anger, and into an emotional storm he couldn’t understand. *Why didn’t you stop me when you knew I could’ve killed you?*

  At first, he thought she wasn’t going to answer him. She stood silently staring out the window, searching the sky for familiar stars and not finding any. He could feel the cool air against her skin—cooler against lines of moisture on each cheek.

  “I didn’t believe you would,” she whispered at last to the night and, for an instant, her fear slipped out from behind the confusion.

  Fear not of him but of the feelings that had defied training and kept her from defending herself.

  He wanted to accept the gift. He wanted to assure her that he’d never hurt her more than he’d ever wanted anything over the course of a very long life. But he couldn’t. *Vree, I love you, but I can’t guarantee that will always be enough to protect you. This time I stopped, the next time I might not be able to.*

  *So I have to be strong enough for both of us?* Her mental voice had picked up a bitter flavor. Both the fear, and the emotion behind the fear, might never have existed.

  Until he’d met her, Gyhard had thought he was dead to shame. It irritated him to discover he wasn’t. *Vree, I …*

  *It’s okay.* Her eyes were dry and he had the feeling he’d just missed accepting something very important. Their kigh were more separate than they’d been in a long time. *I’m used to it.*

  * * * *

  “You don’t look so good.” Magda folded her arms, cocked her head, and studied Vree clinically. “In fact, you look like you’re significantly short of sleep. You’re not coming down with something, are you? I mean, this is a different country with different sicknesses and stuff, so I suppose we should’ve expected you to catch things.”

  Vree shrugged. “Gyhard had a nigxhtmlare.”

  “If he wakes up, you wake up?”

  “Something like that.” She’d woken up with him because she’d been dreaming with him, but if she hadn’t told that to Gyhard, she certainly wasn’t going to tell it to Magda.

  *What are you hiding, Vree?*

  *None of your slaughtering business.* Her dreams merging with Bannon’s had led to a terrifying loss of self and she’d lost as much self to Gyhard as she intended to.

  “I expect it’s colder at night than you’re used to,” Magda observed, turning and walking backward down the corridor so she could see Vree’s face. “It is almost Third Quarter but you’re probably feeling the damp more than the cold. I did when I first got to Elbasan because the air’s a lot damper here than it is in Ohrid. Of course we don’t have an ocean right outside the keep. I know!” She stopped so suddenly that Vree nearly ran her down. “We’ll go out and get you some warmer clothes. You haven’t been outside the Citadel since you got here.” Her eyes gleamed. “A little shopping’ll be a great break for you.”

  Shopping. Vree couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do less. Then she caught sight of a familiar shadow at the end of the corridor as a guard ducked back out of sight. Outside the Citadel. She smiled. “Why not. The security arrangements alone ought to be worth a laugh.”

  * * * *

  “Tadeus has a cousin who’s a draper; we’ll go there first. I got some beautiful wool cloth from him back in First Quarter that I had made into a gorgeous cloak. Uri was so jealous; he said it was the exact color he’d been looking for and now he couldn’t use it.”

  “Did you buy all of it?” Vree asked as she mapped all visible exits from the street.

  “Well, no, but he could hardly have a cloak made that looked exactly like mine. That would be so scrubby.”

  “Scrubby?”

  “You know, less than fine.” Magda laughed and tucked Vree’s hand into the crook of her elbow. “I guess you don’t know, do you? Do you mind if we walk like this?” As Vree twitched, she added, “That way Gyhard won’t be excluded. I’d hold onto you, but you’re wearing long sleeves.”

  *If it upsets you …*

  A muscle jumped in Vree’s jaw. “I don’t mind.”

  “Good. So what’s the problem?”

  Vree made note of a cistern pipe that would probably hold her weight. “Problem?”

  “Between you and Gyhard.” Maintaining contact, she laced her fingers together. “Yesterday your kigh were like this. Today …” Her fingers folded into fists butting against each other.

  *Lovers’ quarrel,* Gyhard said shortly.

  “If you’re telling me it’s none of my business—” Magda began.

  Vree cut her off. “Gyhard thinks I shouldn’t trust him. That I should always be on guard in case he can’t control the urge to take over my body.”

  *It’s not that simple!*

  *It was last night,* she snarled.

  *I don’t want to hurt you.*

  *Then you take the responsibility for not hurting me! I’m tired of always holding the knife.* “What’s so funny?” she demanded as Magda smiled.

  “Just that Gyhard was right; it is a lovers’ quarrel because love can’t exist without trust. You two really are so—”

  Vree cut her off a second time. “Don’t say we’re so romantic.”

  “But …”

  “No.”

  * * * *

  The draper, the tailor, and the cobbler took most of the afternoon. A life spent in the army had equipped Vree with neither the skills nor attention span Magda considered necessary for picking out clothes, so for the most part she merely endured the younger woman’s opinions. When Gyhard suggested high boots instead of low, she ignored him.

  “You’ll need oilskins if you want to go outside in Third Quarter,” Magda reflected, piling packages into the arms of the cobbler’s senior apprentice who seemed more than willing to quit the shop for the remainder of the afternoon. “But I think we’ve done enough for one day.”

  *More than,* Gyhard agreed.

  “No. There’s something else.” Vree twisted her left wrist and her remaining throwing dagger dropped into her hand. “I lost the other one at sea. I want to replace it.”

  “I guess you’ll need a blacksmith …”

  Gyhard translated; Vree shook her head. “Blacksmiths shoe horses and beat swords into plows. I need a weapons crafter.”

  “Izak a’Edvard.” Finding himself suddenly under close scrutiny, the bits of the boy’s ears visible under an untidy shock of light brown hair turned bright red. “He’s the best.” His eyes widened while Vree balanced the dagger on the callused tip of one finger before she flipped it back up her sleeve.

  “Who says he’s the best?” she asked. “Besides you.”

  “Alise i’Dumin.”

  “Who is?”

  “W-weapons master for the city guard. She’s my Aunt Dasa’s partner,” he added when it seemed like more explanation might be demanded.

  *Vree, that’s an assassin’s weapon …*

  *If I’m not an assassin, then I’m not dangerous, and that trio of palace guards who’ve been trying to keep up with us all afternoon have been wasting their time. If I’m not an assassin, what am I? Nothing.*

  Frowning slightly, Magda reached out to touch Vree’s hand.

  She jerked it back. “I still have some of the coins the Emperor gave me.” Pulling a purse out of her belt-pouch, she passed it over. “Is it enough?”

  “I have no idea what a dagger like that would cost,” Magda admitted, peering into the calfskin purse at the two silver Imperial starbursts barely visible among the less valuable copper. “But you’d have to change this into Shkoden money before you could spend it anyway. If the dagger’s that important to you …”

  “It is.”

  “… we’ll just charge it to the Bardic Hall like the rest.” Handing back the purse, she grinned. “Captain Liene told me to be sure you had everything you needed.” She pulled a gull out of her own purse, realized the apprentice had his han
ds full, and stuffed the coin into his pocket. His blush deepened. “They might make you leave our stuff at the gate but that’s all right because someone will come out to carry it in from there.” Leaning forward so his master, cutting leather on the other side of the open shop, couldn’t hear, she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “We’ll cover for you later if you want to tell him you were delayed at the Hall.”

  Muttering an inarticulate protest, the boy jerked into motion.

  “Hold it,” Vree snapped.

  He stopped so quickly he almost lost his grip on a fleece hat.

  “Where is the weapons crafter’s shop?”

  “Uh, Ironmonger’s Street. Far end. He uses a wooden sword crossed with two wooden daggers as a signboard.” When it appeared that Magda was about to move closer and say something, he insisted he knew no more and headed up the hill at a stiff-legged trot.

  “What was that all about?” Magda muttered as they picked their way across the debris on the street and into Tether Alley.

  “I think it had to do with warm breath against his ear.”

  “Mine?”

  “Not mine,” Vree told her, even as she checked the half-timbered buildings that flanked the narrow lane for routes to the roof.

  “Really?” The apprentice healer paused and peered back around the corner. “I don’t think so,” she said after a moment. Tucking Vree’s hand back into the crook of her elbow, she started them walking again. “He’s too young.”

  “He can’t be that much younger than you are, if he’s younger at all,” Vree pointed out.

  “Yes, but women mature earlier than men. Healers have known that for years. I mean, when you were growing up, didn’t you feel so much more adult than all the boys you knew?”

  “Assassins are treated as assassins from the moment they start training.”

  “Well, yes, but if you were seven, you were still a child. They couldn’t change that.”

  Vree didn’t understand why Magda’s innocence hurt so much. “I was an assassin,” she said, and that ended the conversation.