At the last possible moment Iko shot a glance to Silk with his charmingly rumpled finery and boyish mussed hair and she saw that his gaze now rested upon the Protectress herself. She glimpsed in his expression the wistfulness that had touched her before, and she thought she now understood something more of it.
*
Silk returned to watching the glittering Sword-Dancers exit and sighed in half-longing. So pure. So vibrant.
So . . . earnest.
He shook his head. Too shallow, those pools, to captivate beyond a brief dalliance. Although a few gazes had held a real fire betraying surprising depths . . .
And Chulalorn the Third’s offer? Nothing Heng did not already possess.
Shalmanat inclined her head to the spectators who bowed deeply in response, familiar enough with her ways to know that the audience was at an end. They began filing out, talking loudly of the famous Kanese swordswomen, some hinting roguishly at the heavy duties involved in keeping such an extended harem of young women satisfied. Silk shot a glance to Shalmanat, but the Protectress’s features remained as composed as ever. She was, of course, above all such profane matters. Otherworldly, many named her. A queen. Even a goddess.
Silk, however, did not want a goddess.
Once the court had emptied, and the guards pulled closed the outer doors behind them, the other four mages bowed to Shalmanat and walked to separate exits. Silk alone remained before the throne of brilliant white stone.
Shalmanat descended the steps of the dais. He noted that her feet were bare and that as usual she wore no jewellery with her plain linen trousers and long loose shirt. As she passed it struck him once again that she possessed a good hand’s breadth in height beyond his own – and he was considered tall.
He bowed deeply from the waist, not coincidentally keeping his gaze hidden.
She paused, turning on the balls of her feet, and he smiled inwardly; she was trained in the ways of fighting. ‘Yes, Silk?’
‘News, m’lady.’
‘Yes?’
He straightened, keeping his gaze on her feet where her toes peeped out from beneath the hem of her trousers. Unbidden, the thought assaulted him: judging from the effect of those bare toes, would he faint at the glimpse of a whole ankle? Swallowing to clear his throat, he coughed into a fist. ‘We met the priest of Hood and his acolyte earlier.’
‘Yes?’
‘Koroll and Smokey and I agree that he is legitimate.’ Silk dared raise his gaze to the shirt over her torso beneath the outward brush of her modest chest. ‘The cult of Hood, it seems, has returned to Heng in truth.’
And then the impossible happened as the Protectress staggered. She tilted to the side, her feet tangling, and she would have fallen had not he, darting forward, caught her in his arms – his arms! – to gently lower her to the steps of the dais. His amazement at her reaction did not stop him from quickly yanking his guiding arm away, for the Protectress’s body burned with a vicious heat. The inner flesh of his biceps and forearm stung as if he’d brushed a kiln and he gasped, half in surprise and half in pain.
‘M’lady!’
Recovering, the Protectress waved off the episode. ‘It is nothing. My thanks. I was merely . . . taken unawares.’
He found it unseemly to be standing over her and so he dared sit at her feet, on the cool polished stone flags of the floor. ‘By what, may I ask?’
The woman looked away, blinking. Her fine long white hair fell over one shoulder like a cascade of frost. ‘I had hoped the man was just another travelling impostor or swindler, trading on the natural fears of the populace.’ She sent him a quick glance and this close he thought her pupils dusted in flecks of shimmering gold. ‘But you say he is not.’
He forced a breath deep within his vice-tightening chest. ‘Yes. Koroll judged that Hood was with them – and I concur.’
She sighed. ‘Koroll would not be mistaken on such a matter.’
‘You fear him, then? Hood? Is that why—’
Her raised hand silenced him. ‘Not Hood . . . as such. No.’ She let out a long low breath. ‘Long ago I was young and foolish, as all youth is. I was desperate to know my fate and I sought out the greatest reader of futures of the time – the power that some say created the means of reading in the first place. The Tiste Andii had given her a name, then. They called her T’riss. You know her by another name now. The Enchantress – the Queen of Dreams.’
A shiver of wonder took hold of Silk’s spine. This woman had spoken with a goddess! The mistress – some say ruler – of a Warren. To others, the patroness of sorcery itself. He steeled himself to dare ask, ‘And . . . what did she say?’
A thin smile haunted the Protectress’s lips as she gazed off across the hall. ‘At first she refused. Said it would be too great a burden. But I was insistent.’ She nodded to herself in wry memory. ‘And so did I learn how my death would come to me . . . it would come carrying the very face of death itself.’
Silk surged to his feet. ‘We will fall upon the temple tonight. All five of us. It will be nothing but a smoking pit by morning.’
The Protectress snapped up a hand. ‘No! I forbid it. There is nothing to be done. There is no stratagem, or trick, or flight to be made. One cannot outrun one’s fate. It is inevitable. You will not interfere.’ She turned her golden eyes directly upon him and he lowered his gaze. ‘Do I have your word?’
He unclenched his jaws. ‘You do.’
‘Very good.’ A small gesture from one slim pale hand. ‘We are done.’
He bowed and backed away, head lowered. Nearing the doors, he dared one swift glance. She remained upon the steps of the dais, now hugging herself, her hair a curtain of snow across her face. Silk turned to the doors and yanked one open. Very well. He might be forbidden to act . . . but there were others in this city. Others who might be persuaded by a bag of coin, or a bit of arm-twisting.
There was even that assassin he had heard of . . .
* * *
Dorin walked the northwest arm of the Outer Round. It was dominated by a bourse specializing in animal trading, with associated markets in fodder, tack and hides, corrals, abattoirs, and shops. He was ambling slowly, to all appearances merely one more labourer kicking about looking for work, but in actual fact he was tracing the building rooflines and windows, scouting routes for night-time hunting – or lines of retreat.
The way was quite crowded, the traffic of townsfolk and herded goats and sheep slowing him considerably. Squinting ahead through the dust, he glimpsed the multitude lining the parapets of the outer wall, together with further crowds jamming the stone stairways leading up. Many were pointing out over the wall. Dorin wondered if perhaps fighting had broken out between some lost Hengan foraging party and the Kanese forces spreading about the city. Then all standing upon the defences threw their hands in the air and gave vent to a great roar of delight such as one might hear from the spectators at any games or horserace. This did not sound like any sort of battle – especially one featuring Hengan infantry being run down by the glittering Kanese cavalry.
A lad came threading his way along the road towards him, flushed, his eyes bright, and Dorin grasped his shirt as he passed, yanking him to a halt. ‘What is it? What’s going on?’
‘Bouts!’ the lad enthused. ‘Horsemen duelling!’
‘Who? Who is duelling?’
The lad struggled to free himself. ‘Don’t know. The reds and the greens!’
Dorin released him and he scampered off. Reds and greens? Green would be the Kanese, of course. But reds? Who in all the Quon lands could that be? He headed for the stairs.
The walls of Heng were of course a byword for strength. The parapet of the outermost round stood broad enough to support a crowd some twenty people thick. Now the crenels were jammed with men and women, while braver souls perched on the tall merlons of the projecting machicolations. Dorin slid easily through to the front and pulled himself up atop a merlon to stand with two boys and a girl – all making great show of their
daredevil contempt for heights and their precarious exposure to the buffeting winds.
On the fields of the gently rolling plain two lines of cavalry had formed on opposing hilltops. One of them shone and glimmered as the slanting amber beams of the late afternoon light reflected from polished Kanese mail coats and helmets. Forest-green pennants and flags rippled and danced over tents where Dorin supposed the officers and commanders of this particular regiment were encamped.
The opposing hilltop was nowhere near as colourful or bright. The force occupying it wore surcoats of red, but it was a carmine so dark as to be almost black. Two large field tents of plain canvas dominated this hill. Raised before one stood a pole supporting an odd downward-hanging pennant that tapered to a narrow whipping tail. It was of similar red and featured a sinuous snake-like emblem of silver or white. The other tent boasted a more conventional flag that bore a yellowish design on blue. This sigil Dorin knew: the gold flame of Gris.
What was a member of the royal family of Gris doing here?
While Dorin watched – together with thousands of Hengan citizens – a single Kanese horseman rode out to the empty, well-trodden field between the troops, reared up in his saddle, and began to harangue the opposing force. Dorin was much too far away to hear the words, but he had no need. He recognized a challenge when he saw one.
So too did the reds, evidently, as after a brief rustling among the far fewer cavalry there a single horseman came cantering out to meet the challenger.
Dorin had been raised in Tali lands, and red livery brought one particular possibility to his mind, but he couldn’t really believe it possible. ‘That’s not the Crimson Guard, is it?’ he asked.
Without turning her shaded gaze from the field, the girl spoke. ‘Who else in the name of Sleeping Burn might they be? Gods! Where do these hicks come from?’
‘Under rocks,’ the younger boy opined.
‘Mummy’s skirts,’ offered the other.
Dorin found his forbearance under severe strain. But pushing the three to their deaths just wasn’t an option in front of hundreds of witnesses.
The Crimson Guard – the legendary mercenary company that had opposed the Talian hegemony on almost all fronts. How his fellow citizens in Quon and Tali cursed them! Even after all these years. And they didn’t even have a kingdom. The D’Avore family held a few tiny isolated fortresses in the mountains of the northern Fenn range – where, it was said, they honed their unmatched skills in constant battle against the monsters, giants, and even dragons of those wild mountains.
So surprised was he to actually see the company that he murmured aloud, ‘What are they doing here?’
The girl turned on him, glaring. She was pale-skinned, and boasted a mane of glorious red hair. ‘Gods, you’re dense! How should I know?’
The younger lad shouted, ‘They’ve come to fight with us against the Kanese!’
The girl now lowered her ferocious scowl upon the boy. ‘Ass! They’d hardly be duelling in that case, would they?’
‘And they’re too few,’ Dorin added.
The girl’s gaze flicked to him. Her scorn softened to mere lofty disapproval. ‘’S true.’ She raised her chin to the distant hilltop. ‘They’re probably escort for that fancy nobleman.’
‘Makes sense,’ Dorin mused. ‘That’s a member of the Grisian ruling family.’ He studied the blue and yellow flag more closely and thought he distinguished a thin dark circlet over the flames. More of his heraldry came to him then and he added, ‘If that’s a crown over the flames, then that’s the designated heir.’
The three, he noted, now regarded him quizzically and he cursed inwardly. Never reveal more knowledge than you ought to have, fool!
Out upon the field the two horsemen were speaking. Exchanging pedigrees, Dorin imagined, or some such pompous shit. Then, an accord reached, the two turned their mounts a short distance apart, readying weapons. The Kanese cavalryman drew a slim curved blade and raised a broad shield. The Guardsman, a mace. A susurration of anticipation rippled up and down the crowd.
‘Is that Oberl?’ Dorin heard someone ask. Oberl of Purge was one of the most famous champions of the Guard.
‘No,’ another answered, ‘Oberl carries two swords.’
‘Must be Petra!’ came a shout. ‘At the siege of Athrans she swore a vow never to kill.’
Dorin choked back a laugh. Never to kill? No, she just breaks every bone in your body. This was all just so much idioticextravagance! It seemed to him that if you were actually going to fight, you hit hard and fast. Get it done. Like a cutter lopping off a limb.
The duellists heeled their mounts and charged. They met and passed in a quick single exchange. The mace struck a solid blow to the shield while the slim sword flashed over a ducking back. Having dropped their reins, the two urged their mounts round with their knees.
Dorin heard murmurs of awe from the crowd at such a display, but he could not keep a sour scowl from his brow. Privilege and money was all he saw on show. The privilege of being born among the class that possessed the resources and tradition for such training – and the money to sustain it.
In a flurry of kicked-up mud and torn grasses the two charged once more. A thousand breaths were drawn and held at that instant. The mace slammed high, thrusting, while the slim sword cut down the back of the Guardswoman. The two thundered on, parting. The Kanese officer’s shield now hung low, that shoulder slumped. A great roar burst from a thousand throats.
‘They have won every bout so far!’ the younger boy shouted in Dorin’s ear.
With a sweep of his sword the Kanese officer saluted his opponent, and turned his mount to his gathered fellows. Petra, if it was indeed she, bowed in acknowledgement then waved to the walls – eliciting a rapturous roar – and trotted back to her hilltop.
Dorin did not cheer. It seemed to him that that Kanese had been a fool to take on such a heavily armoured opponent while armed with such a light blade. Still, to be fair, perhaps he had no choice in the matter.
A new challenger emerged from among the Kanese cavalry. Instead of yelling his history or insulting the Guard, he merely drew his curved blade and swept it in downward salute then waited, point aimed at the ground.
The Guard answered swiftly as a slim figure all in armour enamelled a deep carmine rode out to meet the new opponent. At this one’s appearance a great sussurus of anticipation rose among the massed onlookers. Dorin looked to the girl. ‘Who is it?’
This girl actually had a hand pressed to her mouth, the other shading her gaze. She breathed, awed, ‘The Red Prince!’
Dorin couldn’t help his own eyebrows rising in amazement. The son of the Guard commander himself? He’d heard stories that the lad had led armies even before coming into his beard. Such a one would ride out to fight in single combat? Dorin was impressed, but then he considered that these bouts were quite formalized, and rarely resulted in any permanent maiming or wounding. He found himself scowling once more. A cheap opportunity to impress the populace and burnish his image. Of course he took it! Even if he lost – how brave of him!
Already he disliked this lad for such sly calculation.
The two met halfway. They appeared well matched, both carrying sword and shield, but the much larger Kanese officer obviously held the advantage in weight and reach. The two kneed their mounts and began circling one another – no charging this time.
At some silent sign or signal, the horses lurched together, slamming their shoulders. The shields smashed, grinding and sliding. The blades wove and flashed overhead. The horses kicked and pushed, churning up a cloud of dust.
When the dust dispersed the crowds gasped. The Red Prince was on the ground. The Kanese officer circled him, gazing down. After a moment, the lad stirred, rising. Straightening, he shook off his shield and drew a second blade. The officer saluted him and swung down from his mount.
The crowd went wild with delight. They roared, slapped the stones of the wall, and stamped their feet. Dorin could only scowl harder.
What a damned show-off! He hadn’t even been hurt by that fall! He tried to recall the youth’s name: something odd. The names out of the north followed some sort of strange old tradition, he remembered. K’azz. Yes. K’azz D’Avore.
Now they circled afoot. The youth carried two slim blades, the officer his broad shield. Personally, Dorin gave the edge to the officer. But then, in a real fight, he wouldn’t have dismounted anyway. He would’ve simply ridden the lad down.
Well, at least that’s what he’d have done.
They met in a high ringing of iron that was audible even upon the walls. Watching, Dorin had to give the lad his due: he was fast, and had obviously fought many times before. The two continued to circle; the officer constantly pushing, the lad giving ground to bring both blades into use.
Then sunlight flashed as the lad’s blades moved in a blur and the officer was down on one leg. K’azz set a sword next to his neck and the officer dipped his head in submission.
The crowd exploded into rapturous approval. They waved favours, even threw tokens from the walls. Dorin merely crossed his arms. The three with him were cheering and waving and howling. Out on the field, K’azz helped his one-time opponent back up into his saddle and saluted him as he went. Then he mounted his own warhorse – which was trained well enough not to run off – saluted the crowds with a wave, and returned to his camp.
The Hengan populace continued to roar their delight. Entertainment, Dorin reflected sourly, must be pretty thin on the ground here in Heng. The cheers had been abating, but suddenly they redoubled in volume and Dorin returned his attention to the Guard camp. It was breaking up and the Guard was forming a column, three abreast, and heading across the fields straight for Heng’s north gate, the Gate of the Plains.
The horde of townsfolk lining the walls now stampeded in a crush for the stairs, intent on reaching the main way to give the Guard a triumphant greeting. From atop the merlon, Dorin watched them struggling to force their way down the steps. He looked to the sky. Gods! Should he?
‘Good pickings tonight,’ the girl announced, now close at his side.
Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 Page 7
