He drew in the cool night air, felt the hairs on his neck prickle as they cooled and dried in the wind. And yet the fellow seemed genuinely kind to all the young pickpockets and cutpurses and clubbers in his employ. Like a father.
He scowled at that while he stared out across the dark rooftops. Yes. A father. Like the one who’d sold him. Pulled him yelling from his mother’s arms and sold him off for a few coins that he no doubt squandered on drink.
So much for love. Or affection. Or any other ties, blood or otherwise. He drew out a coil of his best cord and yanked it taut around a forearm, round and round, biting into the flesh.
The only ties he could count on were those he tied himself.
A scuff on the sun-dried tiles of the roof alerted him. He spun, throwing daggers readied. A fellow who looked like a wrestler stood eyeing him. He carried no obvious weapons, but his thick arms hung loose at his sides, and they ended at the wide gnarled hands of a professional strangler.
‘What do you want?’ Dorin called. For some reason he felt wary, despite the distance between them and the brace of weapons he carried.
‘We’d like to talk,’ said a new voice, and Dorin spun again, to where another fellow occupied the far corner of the rooftop. This one was dressed like a godsdamned male courtesan. Dorin backed away to keep both in view. His feet in their soft leather slippers touched the lip of the roof behind him. ‘I’m done talking.’
The fop smiled, hands held out and open. ‘A brief word, that’s all.’
For some reason Dorin paused before leaping off the roof. Why not? He was armed. Might as well hear this ridiculous fellow out. ‘All right. Talk.’
The fop smiled his encouragement. ‘Excellent. Thank you. We have a job for you.’
Dorin eased his ready stance ever so slightly. ‘A job? What?’
The uncommonly handsome bastard shared a glance with his equally uncommonly ugly compatriot. ‘The priest of Hood in town. We want him to meet his god.’
Dorin chuckled at the sentiment. ‘How much?’
‘One hundred gold rounds.’
It was an incredible price. Dorin raised an eyebrow. ‘For one dead priest?’
A modest shrug from the man said that they had their reasons. ‘As you see – an easy job. Shall we say you return here, this rooftop at mid-night, whenever the job is done?’
‘Agreed.’ Dorin hopped back off the lip and fell by lowering himself from one window to the next until he landed, a touch more heavily than he would’ve liked, in the alley beneath, and ran off.
*
Silk peered down over the lip of the roof into the darkness-shrouded alley. He couldn’t see a blasted thing. He crossed his arms and tapped a thumb to his lips. ‘Well . . . he’s acrobatic. I’ll give him that.’
‘And if he fails?’ Ho asked.
Silk shrugged again. ‘Then we’re rid of him.’
‘And if he succeeds?’
Silk smiled. ‘Then we’ll be rid of him a few days from now.’
But Ho did not share the smile. He rubbed his grey-bristled jowls, frowning as if troubled by some vague unease.
Silk rolled his eyes to the night sky. Gods! There’s no pleasing some people, is there? He waved Ho onwards. ‘Fine. Let’s take a tour of the walls. Mara says the Kanese infantry have finished their investment.’
‘They will attack on all sides. Hope to overbear us.’
‘Then we will be busy.’
Ho walked with a heavy tread, his hands clasped behind his back, his head lowered. ‘I fear so.’
They reached a ladder and Silk allowed Ho to go first. ‘You fear?’ he asked when they reached the alley. ‘What could you possibly fear?’
The big man sent Silk a puzzled look. ‘Having to kill, of course.’
Silk resisted a scoff. ‘You’ve killed – I know this.’
‘Oh, yes. But not poor innocent soldiers. They’re not responsible for this mess. They’re forced to serve, you know. They don’t even want to be here, I’m sure.’
Silk shook his head in wonder as he walked along. What a strange fellow! Could crush a man’s skull in one fist yet disliked violence? Was he deluded? And as for soldiers – innocent? Please! Murderers and rapists all. Human filth. Eliminating them would be a favour to civilized society. Clearly his fellow mage was suffering from the romanticized image of the brave and honest soldier-citizen, or some such rubbish.
Soft-minded fool. The truth was, most people simply weren’t worth one’s attention.
* * *
Dorin walked the crowded night-time market streets that Rheena and her crew called their own. Eventually, he spotted her hanging about by an open-air tavern. She saw him as well and they met among the flow of people in the middle of the street.
‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.
‘Eyeing some prospects.’
‘Not without us you don’t.’
‘I have other work, you know.’
‘Sidelines aren’t allowed.’
Dorin crossed his arms. ‘Oh? So, am I in or not?’
She pushed back her unruly bush of frizzy red hair. ‘All right, all right. I’ll take you to see Tran.’
He let his arms fall. ‘Okay. ’Cause I can do more than keep a lookout, you know.’
‘Oh, I know that!’ And she hooked an arm through his, leading him on through the market.
‘You can’t browbeat me into being another of your loyal followers,’ he said.
‘I know that too,’ she answered, shooting him a sly grin. She slipped her hand down his thigh and clenched there. ‘Maybe I’ll have to find another way to hook you.’
He felt his brows rising very high indeed.
She led him to the bourse of the hide merchants. Most of the shops were closed, though activity continued in warehouses and dye works where the hides were soaked, stirred and hung all through the night. The stench was horrendous, but in time he became able to tolerate it, just. Rheena’s two loyal followers trailed behind. Neither looked too happy at the change in marching order.
Tran’s base was one of these leather works. Two thugs lounged at the entrance. Rheena gave them a nod and sauntered in. One thrust out a truncheon, blocking Dorin’s way. ‘Who’s this?’
‘One of mine, okay?’ Rheena answered, glaring.
‘Tran’s the judge of that.’
‘Then we’ll see, won’t we?’
The fellow’s lips quirked in a knowing way and he chuckled. ‘Yeah. Won’t we?’ He let his arm fall. Dorin sent a glance to Rheena, wondering at the exchange, but she avoided his gaze as she hurried in. Even her loyal followers had laughed at the last comment, but they too quietened as he turned his eyes on them.
Inside, up a long hall, a great many men and women sat with plates and mugs before them, eating and drinking amid shouts and loud laughter. It appeared that Tran set a generous table – not surprising as his territory included several animal markets. Rheena kicked a fellow from one mostly empty bench and sat, elbows splayed on the crowded tabletop. Shreth and Loor were quick to sit to either side. Dorin slid in opposite.
Rheena raised her chin and shouted, ‘Drink here for those out working hard!’
Someone shouted back: ‘You’re in trouble, Red.’
‘Story of my life,’ she answered.
A boy brought round a tall tankard and filled the nearby cups. Dorin let his sit on the table while Shreth and Loor quickly emptied theirs. Shreth then elbowed Loor behind Rheena’s back and the lad got up to hunt down more. Trenchers of hard bread arrived followed by a slab of grey meat. Dorin eyed it dubiously while the others set to with gusto, gnawing and pulling apart the greasy flesh. Dorin found that he had no appetite. He picked up a pear – one barely ripe – and chewed on it, waiting. Soon, he knew, it would come. The assertion of command. He wondered what form it would take this time. Benevolent ruthlessness? Bluster and glad-handing? Or perhaps the automatic – and ignorant – assumption of superiority?
The laughter in the room quieten
ed and Dorin set down the core, bringing his hands under the table. A dark short fellow had entered, his slit gaze fixed upon Rheena. He marched for their table and she straightened as he came, a grin coming to her lips – a grin Dorin knew already as the one she used on marks. ‘Tran!’ she greeted, enthusiastic. ‘Good to see you.’
But Tran had switched his attention to Dorin and did not answer. He stood at their table, glaring, and the room became very quiet. Dorin gazed back, as placid as he could manage, his hands ready under the table. The fellow – a minor boss – was youngish, perhaps in his twenties. Slim and wiry, and short. Already Dorin surmised that he carried quite the attitude.
The eyes slid back to Rheena, who lowered hers. Everyone, Dorin noted, now studied their cups. He, on the other hand, continued to study Tran. He decided that behind the hot slit eyes hid fear. Fear of any challenge to his power – and thus the mask of belligerence.
‘Who said you could bring anyone in?’ Tran demanded.
Rheena’s attempt to laugh off the question was edged with nervousness. ‘He’s not in yet. He’s here for you to check out. Name’s Dorin.’
Dorin said nothing. He understood his place in this dance. He was a nobody right now, without even the standing to speak.
The gaze, as if reluctant to acknowledge Dorin’s existence, now slowly edged to him again. ‘Dorin, hey? What kind of name is that?’
‘Talian.’
Tran grunted. ‘And you want to join Pung’s gang, hey? Why should we take you in?’
Dorin gave a modest shrug. ‘You guys are always on the lookout for talent, yes?’
The tightening of the lines around the man’s glaring eyes told Dorin he’d said the wrong thing; that this fellow was of the kind who hated talent – in others.
The lizard eyes blinked, slowly, as if clicking; swung to Loor sitting opposite. Tran tousled the lad’s thick kinky hair. ‘Here’s a rogue ready to run with the big dogs, hey, Loor?’
‘You bet!’ the lad laughed, grinning. Dorin, however, caught the silent warning Rheena shot Loor’s way.
Tran urged him up. ‘C’mon, this way.’ He walked Loor over to a narrow timber post, stood him in front of it. ‘Here’s your initiation, boy.’
Laughing again, Rheena called in a wheedling way, ‘Tran . . .’
‘Shut up, bitch.’ He motioned Dorin to him. ‘I hear you know how to use knives. That you even stood down Breaker-Jon.’
Dorin glanced to Rheena – Breaker-Jon? Must’ve been the big fellow in the alley. Rheena cast him a pleading look. Oh, girl. You’ve done me no favours with your talk . . .
‘So let’s see how good you are, hey?’
Loor’s eyes now goggled with dread and he slouched from the post, mumbling, ‘Another time, maybe . . .’
Tran took a fistful of the youth’s hair and dragged him back to the post. ‘I say now. You want in or not?’
The lad was on the verge of tears. ‘Yeah, sure,’ he managed, his voice breaking.
Dorin glanced about. None of the gathered crew appeared ready to step in. Most weren’t even watching; their gazes hadn’t risen from the tabletops. Cowed. Thoroughly beaten down. He’d seen it before, unfortunately. The rule of brutality and malice.
Tran now sent Dorin a gloating, twisted smile. ‘Let’s see you put one right next to his ear, there. Hey?’
Saying nothing, Dorin drew out his best throwing dagger. For a moment, he considered burying it in Tran’s throat but thought better of it. He wanted to get close to Pung, or at least that damned Dal Hon he kept as a mage. And killing the man’s lieutenants wouldn’t help him do that.
He hefted the flat blade, raised his gaze to Loor. To his credit the boy was quiet, though he was crying. Tears were wet on his cheeks. No blubbering or fainting. Bravery and dedication – and to what? A monster who cared not one whit for his safety or life.
Dorin raised the blade to his eyes, sighted. It was a mystery to him why anyone would follow such a fool. Unfortunately, as he’d found in Tali and elsewhere, the rule of the most violent was often the norm. He tried not to meet Loor’s pleading terrified eyes, but couldn’t avoid them. He gave what he hoped was a calm reassuring nod, and drew back his arm.
Everything froze for him as he brought the arm forward, the blade flat against his fingers. He took in at that moment Rheena’s horrified eyes-wide stare, her fingers white on the table edge; Shreth’s almost comic gape-mouthed incomprehension; Tran’s lips climbing into a grin of triumph; the rest of the crew now watching – and many of them already wincing.
He released. Loor flinched his head aside, yelping, and slapped a hand to his ear.
He’d overcompensated for the too narrow post and nicked the lobe.
Tran’s grin fell. Rheena jumped from the bench, whooping her joy and relief. Shreth ran to his friend’s side and slapped his shoulder in congratulations. Many of the crew gathered round as well, welcoming him to their gang.
In the noise of the celebrations Tran closed on Dorin and brought his pock-marked face up to his. ‘So you can hit a post,’ he murmured, unnoticed by anyone else. He brought a finger alongside his nose in warning. ‘Posts don’t fight back.’ He turned away, crossed to Loor, and made a big show of slapping his shoulder and tousling his hair once more.
Dorin reflected that if he were Loor, he’d deck the bastard.
Tran eventually raised his arms for silence and the teasing of Loor fell away. He nodded to Rheena as if he were some sort of king granting his noble dispensation. ‘Okay,’ he admitted, ‘maybe I do have a job for you.’
Rheena forced a smile – the most false and sickly one yet.
* * *
This first night of the investment of Heng, Silk was assigned the north wall. His personal preference during such shifts was to pace the length of the walkway throughout the night, always on the move, and thus never at any one predictable location. Since he was no soldier, nor possessed of the least interest in that profession, he left it up to the commanding officers to make any such preparations or accommodations as they deemed necessary for communication.
This time the officer seemed most dutiful. A party of Hengan infantry met Silk at the top of the tower of the north gate. One young fellow doffed his helmet and bowed. ‘Lord Silk, I am Captain Glenyllen. Welcome.’
‘Thank you, captain.’ Silk set off walking at once and though the fellow was startled, he was quick to catch up. The rest of the party – Silk’s bodyguard for the evening – trailed behind. ‘Any activity?’
‘Nothing of note, yet.’
‘You’ll let me know if there is any, yes?’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘Thank you. No doubt you have responsibilities to attend to. Do not let me delay you.’
The captain swallowed hard, nodding. ‘Of course.’
Silk inclined his head to indicate that the meeting was at an end yet the captain continued along beside him. ‘Yes?’ Silk asked.
The fellow cleared his throat. ‘Sir – you were here for prior campaigns, were you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Protectress . . . have you ever seen her, ah, intervene?’
Silk stopped his rapid walk, faced the young man directly. ‘No, captain. And pray to all the gods you know that she will never have to.’
The captain bowed again. ‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘You will use runners.’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
Silk set off once more. The captain did not follow, though the bodyguard did, tramping heavily in their armour. Silk knew that before dawn he’d have worn out three or four sets of the footsore troopers.
He kept an eye on the surrounding fields as he paced. They were black as night, as the farmers had burned them all under orders of the Protectress. The Kanese campfires glowed like an arc of stars just outside crossbow range. He wondered what they were burning – had they carted their firewood with them? But Smokey was no doubt far ahead of him on that.
The movement of the soldiery was no sec
ret to him. Through his Thyr-enhanced vision every warm-blooded creature out there glowed like a night-worm. This advantage was often interrupted, however, when he came abreast of the torches and lanterns set to light the defences. For the nonce, he was content to watch and wait, wondering what the Kanese king Chulalorn the Third intended for this first night.
His thoughts turned to considerations of hubris and overreach. Not even this one’s grandfather, Chulalorn the First, had dared move against Heng. What new advantage or secret weapon might this grandson now possess that he should make the attempt?
Perhaps it was overconfidence. He was fresh from success. All the southlands lay within his grip, and he possessed an army of some thirty thousand veterans flush with victory at his back. Why not reach for the richest prize of central Quon Tali? Why not dominate the centre of the board, able to strike east or west at whim?
Or was he merely testing his limits, as young men were wont to do? Greedily reaching for more and more until their hands were finally slapped aside. And this one had yet to be slapped down. Silk hoped Shalmanat would not be forced to be the one to do so. Not because of the massive loss of life it would no doubt require, but because at present the people of Heng loved and even worshipped her.
He did not want them to fear her.
The probe that Silk knew had to come eventually appeared just after the eighth bell of the night, two before the brightening of the coming dawn. To his vision, its preparations were painfully obvious. The Kanese soldiers, believing themselves unseen, came massing together as all good troopers should. Silk had plenty of time to reach their intended section of wall.
Here he found the highest ranking officer and waved her over. ‘Put out all the torches,’ he ordered.
The woman’s heavy mouth, so typical for a Hengan, drew down. ‘What?’
‘Put out all the torches here along this reach of wall.’
‘Why?’
Silk sighed to calm himself. ‘Because an attack’s coming.’
‘I don’t see nothing.’
‘That would be because of all the torches, wouldn’t it?’ Silk said through clenched teeth.
Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 Page 10
