Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1

by Ian C. Esslemont

  Dorin rubbed his chin, surprised by the news. Where have I been? Where no one has any curiosity, obviously.

  He peered round to find someone to ask for news but found no one. The main avenue – utterly deserted. Amazing. And alarming. He picked a nearby shop at random and banged on the door. ‘Hello? Anyone there?’

  After a long moment, rattling and shaking announced the unbarring of locks and bolts. The door cracked open a slit. A man with sunken hooded eyes gazed out at him sadly. ‘We have nothing for sale,’ he said, sounding exhausted yet frightened at the same time.

  Dorin gestured to the wall. ‘I hear the Crimson Guard are here.’

  The man nodded tiredly. ‘They have come chasing Ryllandaras.’

  ‘Then he has fled?’

  The man shook a negative. ‘No. The monster has not fled.’

  ‘Really? That is . . . unusual, is it not?’ The fellow merely stared, blinking heavily. Dorin cleared his throat. ‘Sorry. Have you no bread? It is past noon and I could use a bite.’

  The man blinked anew, as if flustered. Then, disconcertingly, he laughed, swinging shut the door. ‘Bread,’ Dorin heard him repeating in disbelief from within. ‘A bite . . . noon.’

  Dorin moved on. He didn’t consider it so funny that he should ask for something to eat when it was long past mid-day. His thoughts turned again to Ullara and he headed for her family’s barn.

  In the alley beside the large three-storey structure he looked through slats and was surprised to see all the paddocks empty. Not one mule or horse in sight. All was quiet, the straw dust hanging motionless in the thin beams that came slanting down. He climbed to the roof gable.

  Within, the birds roosted as before, but far fewer now. Tall owls slumbered in shadowed corners while much smaller hawks and falcons eyed him with their distrustful bright yellow gazes. And asleep, curled on the straw, lay Ullara. She appeared so bedraggled, so defenceless, that for an instant he feared the worst. But as he stepped on to the slats of the floor she stirred and blinked up at him.

  ‘Am I dreaming?’ she murmured, smiling vaguely.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  Her eyes snapped awake and she started up on her elbow. ‘You should not be here!’

  ‘Yes, I know. Your father would kill you.’

  ‘No – that is, yes. But not him – they’re searching for you, don’t you know? All of them.’

  He sat on a crate. ‘Who?’

  ‘Everyone!’

  He raised his brows. ‘Really? I haven’t been out recently.’

  ‘Obviously,’ she muttered darkly, and drew her feet up under her. She regarded him quite sternly. ‘You’re supposed to be gone,’ she accused him.

  He kept his brows raised. ‘This is the welcome I get?’

  She surged forward to thrust her thin hands against his chest as if she would push him away. ‘This is serious!’

  He caught her hands, then stilled as he saw how drawn and pale she was. He studied her more closely. She was, he saw, more than just thin – she was emaciated, haggard, her eyes yellow with jaundice. ‘You are not eating properly,’ he said.

  She burst out with mad laughter at that, almost frenzied, then tilted as if the effort cost her too much. He caught her, drew her on to his lap and held her close. Her head fell against his neck and rested there. ‘When did you last have food?’ he asked.

  ‘We are doing better than most,’ she breathed against his throat. ‘My beauties bring me gifts.’ She waved to the slats of the floor. He squinted there at a scattering of tiny white sticks – bones. The strewn bones of countless small rodents and other animals.

  He felt his throat tighten almost too much for words, his eyes stinging. ‘I see,’ he managed, hoarse, and rocked her on his lap. ‘I see.’

  It was late in the afternoon, close to the evening, when he gently laid her back down among the straw. Before he left he set down a bag of coin, all he had on him, though he knew it a useless gesture. What use were coins when there was nothing to buy?

  Back on the street, he headed for Pung’s compound. The damned siege, he’d decided, had to stop. It was killing her. Certainly, it was killing many other people. But he didn’t give a damn about any of them. All that mattered was his debt. A debt he could pay by ending things . . . were he willing to take the risk.

  He stormed into the common room to find Pung himself there, which was unusual as the man usually kept to his private chambers above. The black market boss turned at his arrival, pointing. ‘There you are.’

  Dorin affected disinterest, crossed to the table that held the beer and wine. ‘What of it?’

  Pung addressed all the toughs at their tables, his tone aggrieved: ‘Man takes my coin, eats my food. Then, when there’s work to do, where is he?’

  The table was also heaped with cured meats, cheeses and hard breads. The siege was obviously not hurting Pung. In fact, business had probably never been better. The thought came to him: when the host weakens, the parasites fatten. Dorin picked up a cut of cured ham and forced himself to eat it, unable to put Ullara out of his mind. The meat was ash in his mouth. ‘Sightseeing,’ he said round the mouthful.

  ‘Sightseeing,’ Pung repeated, mocking. ‘Well, work’s come for you.’

  ‘What kind of work?’

  ‘Your kind. A contract’s been opened. To all comers. They want the head of whoever’s behind these monster visitations.’

  Dorin poured a glass of the watered wine, sipped it. ‘Who does?’

  ‘The powers that be.’

  ‘Well . . . he’s dead, isn’t he?’

  Pung pulled in his chin and scowled as if insulted by the suggestion. ‘No body was found. There was no blood, no carcass. Obviously the bastard used his pet monster to smash the doors then strolled out.’

  Dorin considered why he’d bothered covering for the wretched Dal Hon; he guessed he just felt sorry for the poor fool. Nothing, it seemed, ever went the pitiful fellow’s way. He shrugged. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Yes I say so.’ Pung pointed a thick arm to the door. ‘So you’re gonna track him down and bring me his Burn-damned head!’

  Dorin finished the sour wine, sucked his teeth. ‘And the price?’

  ‘Five hundred rounds.’

  Dorin grunted, impressed. Five hundred was a fair lot of gold. ‘And the cut?’

  ‘My usual. Eighty-twenty.’

  ‘Eighty?’

  Pung opened his arms, shrugging. ‘Hey, look at all the overhead I’ve got. You, all you need is a knife.’

  Dorin was tempted to show the fat bastard just what he could do with that knife. But he was surrounded by near a hundred of the fellow’s sworn men, so he eased up from leaning against the table and ambled to the door.

  The band of rabid-dog toughs all grinned at him, teeth bared, panting their silent laughter.

  He decided then and there that this was the shittiest deal he’d ever cut. But then, it was his first, so of course it would be lousy. It was the beginner tax, he remembered his old teacher telling him. When you’re new to a field, or a region, everyone’s going to rip you off or dump on you. It was only natural. That is, until you established your presence. Your staying power. Only after that would anyone take you seriously.

  Of course, that means you have to live long enough . . .

  Halfway across the compound, he turned and shouted: ‘Gren! The godsdamned key!’

  *

  He wasn’t troubled by the assignment to track down the renegade mage because he figured the skinny wretch must be halfway to Unta by now, what with all the heat that was coming down on him from all sides. So too the youths who haunted the tunnels as well; no doubt they’d all run off.

  But he didn’t get far into the catacombs before he started coming across signs that they were still about. Fresh tracks, parted cobwebs, scuffed dust – all marks of recent passage. It angered and puzzled him. Why were they hanging about? Pung’s thugs will round them up once they’d convinced themselves the beast was g
one and it was safe to look for them.

  He carried a torch for light, lit from the lamp at the entrance. It was difficult to gauge the time underground, but he knew it shouldn’t take him all that long to track down the youths’ hangout. It was a good thing for them that Pung’s muscle were not trained trackers or hunters. All those thugs had going for them was the typical dull brute indifference to the suffering of others. And that alone only gets you so far. They were also probably damned scared of coming down here into these dark narrow tunnels where their size was no longer an advantage.

  He avoided the lesser travelled tunnels, always choosing the turn that looked the most recently taken, until his route brought him far down among the lowest of the catacombs. The torch was an absolute necessity; no light at all penetrated this far underground. He hated having to carry the damned thing, as it announced his presence down the long tunnels, but it was utterly black otherwise. Eventually he slowed, as all the tracks appeared to be converging on one particular chamber ahead. Footsteps behind him confirmed just how busy this section of catacomb was. He hastily jammed the torch into a gap in the stones of the wall and ducked into the nearest archway.

  A troop of the digger youths passed, the lead one carrying a lantern. Dorin noted that they now boasted a mishmash of weapons and armour that looked to have been looted or stolen from all over. The effect of the oversized helmets and hauberks would have been comical were it not all so preposterous. What were they thinking? Pung’s boys will collect them and beat them senseless, perhaps even killing, or at least maiming, a few of the ringleaders as a lesson to the rest. He felt his teeth clenching at the stupidity of it.

  Once the tunnel was empty again, he collected his torch and padded as quietly as he could to the open stone archway of the chamber. The portal led to what was obviously a tomb, one of the largest. He stood blinking in the entranceway as the amber light of flickering lamps within revealed the astounding sight of heaps of glittering funerary goods: silver and gold figures of the gods – Burn, Fanderay, Togg, Fener – along with cups and masks and great piles of necklaces, wristlets and brooches.

  A fellow in dirty robes was hunched over the stone top of a sarcophagus, furiously sketching away with charcoal on a sheet of curling parchment. The damned Dal Hon mage.

  Dorin eased in, edged round the stone coffins. He was about to reach out to grab the blasted fool by the neck when the fellow suddenly spoke up. ‘Have a drink! Won’t be one moment.’

  Dorin let his arms drop, straightened, and let out a clenched breath. ‘You saw me coming.’

  ‘Saw your shadow. Have a drink!’ Without looking up from his work, the fellow gestured to another stone sarcophagus, this one cluttered with tall crystal decanters and ceramic jugs. Also piled there on silver platters – more funerary goods – lay apples, dried pears, and cuts of smoked meats.

  Dorin examined the bounty, amazed. ‘You are not doing too shabbily . . .’ Thinking of Ullara, he pocketed two apples.

  Charcoal stick in mouth, the mage held up the drawing, examining it critically in the lamplight. ‘So many fully stocked cellars and buried hoards and storerooms – and so many tunnels to dig,’ he said round the stick, sighing.

  Dorin squinted at the drawing. It looked like a typical landscape – a village on a lakeshore – but the sketched shapes inhabiting it did not look at all human. The mage rolled up the parchment and set it aside. Still curious, Dorin asked, ‘Why the drawing?’

  The little fellow pursed his wrinkled lips, studying him for a time as he had the sketch. He shrugged. ‘Kind of like a map. But I can’t make sense of it. It’s not adding up.’

  Closer now, Dorin was annoyed to see that the fool still carried the disguise, or illusion, of an old man. He waved to indicate the fellow’s features. ‘You can drop that with me.’

  A long slow shake of the wizened, monkey-like head. ‘No. Not an appearance. I inhabit all my disguises now.’

  Dorin frowned, vaguely puzzled. All?

  ‘Appearances,’ the Dal Hon lad continued. ‘That’s what’s working against us.’

  ‘Us?’

  The fellow nodded, suddenly now irritatingly sure of himself, almost cocky. ‘You are young, slim, lithe. You do not look like a threat. The dumb muscle don’t take you seriously, do they? Neither of us looks the part, do we? This is proving an impediment – though admittedly a temporary one should we survive long enough.’

  We? He leaned back against the cold hard limestone of the sarcophagus. He felt as if the fellow were running along ahead in an argument he wasn’t even aware of – and somehow winning. He waved the words aside. ‘Listen . . . you know why I’m here.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The lad seemed strangely unconcerned by the knowledge. ‘And I know why you haven’t struck.’

  Dorin crossed his arms and resisted raising his eyes to the stone ceiling a bare hand’s breadth above his head. ‘Why’s that?’

  The lad tapped an aged and bent finger to his temple. ‘Because you can think. Any fool can pick up a knife and stab people with it. That’s what the Pungs of the world want – a mindless blade cast to do their bidding. And in the world there is no shortage of those who fit that role. But not you.’

  Dorin was beginning to feel insulted. Who was this lad to make such claims? He didn’t know anything about him. He glanced about and his eyes caught the glitter of the numerous decanters. He poured himself a glass of red wine. ‘Not me, hmmm?’ he asked, and sipped, and immediately spat out the vile sour fluid. Gods! Sour as rat piss! He raised the glass to examine it then set it back down. How many years had that wine been sitting down here?

  The lad appeared eager to explain his case, so Dorin raised a hand to forestall him. ‘Listen. You should clear out. But if you’re not going to run, then at least send away the kids. Pung won’t be gentle. There’s talk of cutting tendons so they’ll never run again. Think about that – on your head.’

  ‘They’re free to choose and they’ve chosen to stay with me.’

  ‘Of course they have.’ He cast about for a container of clear liquid. He found one, sniffed it, smelling nothing, then drank. It was plain water and he winced, hoping he hadn’t just poisoned himself. He cleared his throat. ‘You’ve filled their heads with your crazy plans and fantasies, haven’t you? Of course they’ve swallowed it all.’

  The lad looked offended, raising his chin. ‘Not all of it is fantasy.’

  Dorin nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Your beastie. You got lucky once. Don’t let it go to your head.’

  ‘There’s more to it than that. The box . . .’

  But Dorin was shaking his head, refusing to listen any more. He waved for silence. ‘Listen. This is the deal – I’ll say I couldn’t find you. That should give you a couple of days.’ He pointed off into the dark. ‘Use that to clear out. Soon Pung’ll be down here with his crew and it will be on your head.’ He gave what he hoped was a warning glare and crossed to the archway. A gang of the youths crowded it now, boys and girls. He waved them aside.

  ‘I have glimpsed something grand, Dorin,’ the lad called. ‘A wonderful possibility – and I think you can get us there! You have the talent we need. Together we can get there!’

  The young ones peered up at him with eyes startlingly white against the dirt caked across their faces. He brushed past them and strode on up the tunnel.

  Throw in his lot with some pathological liar hiding in a rat hole? Who in the gods’ own creation does he think he is? Still, all those wide eyes staring up at him . . . He shook his shoulders. Idiots. Should’ve run off long ago. Cleared out. That was the only smart thing to do.

  He paused then as his hand found the two apples in his pocket and he drew them out. The air was chill and damp in the tunnel about him as he stood contemplating the wrinkled fruit and the echoes of another’s, similar, words.

  * * *

  Silk was not always officially on duty, but since the town had very nearly entirely shut down there was little else for him to do. The constant rounds of parties a
nd gatherings once thrown by the richer families were now all cancelled; the clubs where tasteful dancers teased and skilled musicians played were now boarded up, the entertainers having all melted away, perhaps travelled on to Tali, or Unta. All that were left open were the lowest of the inns and taverns where soldiers collected to swill watered beer, vomit it back up, and pick drunken fights. The sort of place where one couldn’t tell the difference between the common room floor and the latrines. He shuddered at the thought of even setting foot in such a place.

  And so this day saw him walking the southern parapets of the Outer Round in an uncharacteristically chill wind that blew out of the west, from over the plains. In his fine silks he was not appropriately dressed for such weather, without jacket or cloak, yet it was too far to walk to retrieve one and so he paced stiffly, his arms tight at his sides, shivering.

  Inside the walls, just beneath him, a crowd hammered and sawed at a platform in preparation for the coming festival of Burn’s Sleep. At dusk in two days’ time a great procession of these platforms, each carrying a recumbent statue of the Great Goddess, would wind its way along the circles of the city rounds, gathering before the Inner Temple. And so would Burn be sustained in her long sleep.

  He was surprised that the festival was still going ahead, given the terrible conditions under the siege. But then, it might be that such rituals were just what the citizens needed in such times: to be reminded of who they were, what their values were, and what made them a people.

  And, to his taste, the so-called festival was a damnably sombre one in any case.

  He moved on from the edge of the parapet. Hengan regulars gave him nods as he passed. He knew they did not feel that he was one of them, nor even like him particularly, but his presence reassured them. And at this point in the siege maintaining morale was everything. It was perhaps a sad comment that things were so bad that even his slim, effete figure could help bolster confidence among the soldiery.