Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1

by Ian C. Esslemont

  The fellow airily waved a hand. ‘Oh, bodyguarding, you could say.’

  The youth nodded his understanding. ‘I see. I will ask my master and see if he objects.’

  ‘Your master?’ Dorin protested. ‘That priest? He’s a cadaver.’

  The young lad peered at him intently. ‘Yes. He is.’

  Dorin studied the two, peering back and forth. Insane, the pair of them. Well, they were welcome to each other.

  As they passed from beneath the gloom of the tunnel twin halberds fell, barring their way. They, the effigy supported by its crowd of adherents, and the following file, all came to a bumping halt of crowded bodies. The cowled head of the statue of Hood scraped and grated against the tunnel’s stonework arch. A squad of Hengen soldiery marched out across the avenue, blocking it. Two men strode forward and to his discomfort Dorin recognized one. It was the ragged, burly city mage from the rooftop ambush.

  ‘All worshippers may proceed,’ this city mage announced, ‘but Hood is not welcome within the central precincts of the city.’

  ‘He is present none the less,’ Dassem answered, and he pushed forward until his chest touched the crossed hafts of the halberds.

  ‘In spirit only,’ the other city mage answered. He bore a neatly trimmed goatee and his long hair was pulled back in a braided queue.

  ‘Do not make a scene,’ the first one continued. ‘You’ve made your point. Participated in the procession. Now go in peace.’

  The swordsman raised a hand, gesturing to encompass the city ahead. ‘You cannot keep him out.’

  The city mage shrugged. ‘None the less – go your way.’

  The Dal Hon, Wu, pushed forward from Dorin’s side. He pointed at the heavy-set dishevelled mage and called out loudly: ‘If Hood be forestalled, Shalmanat shall fall!’

  Dassem turned on him, ‘What?’

  The city mage’s eyes widened and he pointed back. ‘You!’

  Wu glanced shiftily right and left. ‘Me?’

  ‘Arrest that mage!’ the big fellow yelled.

  Wu retreated to Dorin, who nearly flinched away as everyone’s attention followed. The city mage’s gaze found him and widened even further. ‘You as well! Arrest that one next to him!’

  ‘And that swordsman!’ the other city mage shouted.

  As one, the guardsmen drew their blades and hiked up their shields. Dassem raised his empty hands. ‘This is a religious procession honouring the gods. I offer no violence.’

  Dorin muttered to Wu, ‘I’m not going so peacefully.’

  ‘I predict we will not have to,’ Wu answered. ‘I sense . . .’ He threw up a hand, pointing skyward, shouting, ‘Look out!’

  Heads snapped upward. Out of the night sky came dropping a file of black-clad figures who lit lightly on the street cobbles. They straightened with knives readied and glinting. ‘Get the city mages!’ the lead one ordered, and charged.

  Utter panicked chaos exploded across the entire avenue. Citizens screamed their terror, ran in all directions, crashed against one another and surrounded the two city mages. The halbardiers rushed to join the guards who now pushed through the terrified crowd to close with the Kanese Nightblades. The metallic tings of thrown blades striking stone echoed all about the avenue. Someone shrieked in pain, while another yelled something that sounded like a loud death rattle.

  Dorin, along with the swordsman and the Dal Hon mage, now stood completely ignored. He found it nearly impossible to keep track of the Nightblades through the shifting, pressing crowds. He glimpsed one or two dark figures dashing off into murky unlit alleyways. Meanwhile, the city mages fought to escape the horde of clamouring citizens pressing against them, all begging to be saved.

  The worshippers of Hood hastily set down the effigy and retreated down the tunnel. The tall statue effectively blocked the way out of the Central Circle, rather like the grimmest of guardians. The complete panic and confusion now escalated into a riot as benches and barrels went crashing into shop fronts and a general pillaging began.

  Dassem turned to the other two, crossed his arms, and cast a gimlet eye on Wu. The little mage peered nervously right and left again and opened his hands meekly. ‘What?’

  The swordsman gestured to invite them down the arched tunnel. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Indeed!’ Wu answered, and he edged round the effigy. ‘I do like these night outings,’ he enthused. ‘So invigorating. And the locals. So energetic.’

  As they descended the empty street, Wu in the centre and Dorin and Dassem to either side, Dorin offered, ‘Something to remember. When the Nightblades attack, they don’t take the time to shout “Get this fellow” or “Get that fellow”. They already know their targets.’

  The little mage, moving in a sort of crouched monkey-like shuffle, and with a walking stick now – where had that come from? – sighed the tired impatience of a long-suffering teacher. ‘It’s all about the perception of reality, my friend. Not the slavish recreation of a true reality. That is boring beyond belief.’

  * * *

  A ferociously cold wind buffeted Silk where he stood next to the Protectress on a narrow ledge atop the palace tower. He hugged himself for warmth; he longed to raise his Warren for a touch of heat, but that would only advertise his presence and perhaps invite a sniping crossbow bolt, or an assassination attempt from the Nightblades. Shalmanat, at his side, wore a thick fur-trimmed cloak bunched about her shoulders; her long frost-white hair whipped and lashed about her.

  It was a bright clear night, and they watched the smoke rising from various quarters of the Outer Round. Silk shivered and hugged himself more tightly. The riots had been long in coming; can’t have a long siege without the citizens erupting in a riot or two. Usually over food. This one might have been triggered by the high emotions of a religious festival, but it was really all about fear – fear and hunger. The terror over the nightmare beasts had kept the populace in check for a time, but that was wearing off.

  The high winds whipped all sounds away, but Silk fancied he could hear the shouting of the rioters, the snap of the flames, and the crash of breaking wood. ‘Not a very quiet send-off for Burn,’ he observed.

  The Protectress’s answering smile was thin. ‘Good thing she’s already asleep.’

  ‘At least the Kanese haven’t attacked,’ he offered, trying to find something reassuring to say.

  ‘They wouldn’t dare. Not during the festival. The entire city would rise against them.’

  Silk reflected that this was probably so. Though many now turned to the Protectress as a patron of the city, the Hengans’ love for Burn remained deep. He watched Shalmanat closely. She appeared to have recovered from the shock of whatever it was that had assaulted her with the visitation of the beasts, but to his eyes not nearly fully. Her pensive gaze on the riots now, she didn’t seem able to muster anger or outrage. No, she appeared hurt, withdrawn, resigned even. That resignation frightened him. He was, he realized, frightened for her.

  Footsteps sounded on the circular stone staircase behind and they turned. Smokey emerged, soot-smeared, his hair dishevelled, a sleeve torn, and a bruise on one cheek where someone had punched him.

  ‘I’ve suppressed the fires,’ he announced, sounding exhausted and hoarse.

  Shalmanat inclined her head to him. ‘My thanks, Smokey.’

  ‘We’ve announced a curfew,’ he continued.

  ‘And the instigators?’

  ‘They got away. We assumed you didn’t want us to use force against the populace . . .’

  Her answering nod was firm. ‘Yes. I’ll not have that. Thank you.’

  ‘We’ll have his head yet,’ the mage of Telas muttered, ferociously.

  ‘Not his head,’ Shalmanat answered quickly. ‘I want all of him. I have . . . questions for him.’ She turned away to lean once more on the stone ledge enclosing the narrow terrace. Smokey shot Silk a glance; Silk fought to keep his concern from his face.

  ‘His magery is strange . . .’ Smokey allowed, slowly. ‘So
mething of Mockra, a whisper of the Enchantress’s touch, something like Rashan. Yet something else as well.’

  ‘Yes,’ the Protectress agreed. She leaned far out over the ledge, as if tasting the wind. ‘Something else.’

  ‘If we all committed to the search . . .’ Smokey began.

  ‘No. Your job is to defend the city. I cannot have you from the walls.’

  Smokey bowed his head. ‘Very well. However, if he can access Rashan, then we’ll never flush him out of the catacombs.’

  ‘Yes,’ the Protectress sighed. ‘You are right in that.’ She lifted her head to the north, her hair snapping like a banner. ‘The plains are open to us. Why are we still short of food?’

  Smokey grimaced as if pained. ‘We’re hunted out, and the foraging parties won’t travel more than a day’s journey . . . They fear the man-beast,’ he added, reluctantly.

  ‘But they have my assurances . . .’

  The mage nodded his agreement. ‘That is so. However, when it’s night and you’re all alone out on the grasslands, assurances don’t count for much.’

  Shalmanat sighed as she studied the ravaged fields. ‘I see. Very well . . . Silk, you will accompany them.’

  ‘Pardon?’ he asked, rather startled.

  She turned to study him with her odd inhuman eyes; this night they seemed to hold a touch of amber brightness in the dark. She tilted her head, still studying him. ‘It will do you good to get out, I think. To assume some responsibility. Take a large party.’

  Silk was now truly frowning his confusion. ‘Protectress,’ he began, tentatively, ‘is this really necessary?’

  ‘It is.’ She shivered then, pulling her cloak tighter about her. ‘It’s too cold.’ She passed between them and headed down the stairs, murmuring irritably to herself, ‘Why is it so cold?’

  In the silence following her departure Silk cast a significant glance to Smokey and waited. After a brief moment the latter shrugged and waved a hand in disgust. ‘That shifty mage? I don’t know. Maybe it’s true. I saw some strange things this night. But what does it mean? Cuts too close to religious history for my liking.’

  ‘The wars of Light and Dark,’ Silk recited. ‘I used to think those just stories. But she fears these phenomena touch upon them. She fears it mightily.’

  Smokey nodded sombrely. ‘She does indeed.’

  ‘What does Koroll say?’

  Smokey crossed his arms and smoothed his goatee. ‘Being of Thelomen-kind, he says he takes the long view in this. We must wait and see.’

  Silk’s answering laugh was without humour. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  A wicked sly smile now quirked Smokey’s lips. ‘Good luck on your first command.’

  ‘Oh, go to the Abyss.’

  * * *

  The next morning Dorin was summoned to the compound yard. Here he found Pung with a large party of his strong-arm toughs and enforcers, big and small. Two favoured bodyguards stood with the crime boss, truncheons in their hands. Dorin paused only momentarily, as behind him more of the thugs came lumbering out of the common room as if to urge him onward.

  He moved forward before it would appear that he was reluctant. Everyone, he noted, was armed with clubs or sticks. They spread out in a circle as he approached. It looked to him as though they thought him unarmed. Indeed, he showed no knives at his belts, but in truth he was far from weaponless. And so he crossed the broad yard careful to maintain an unconcerned, neutral blandness of expression.

  Before he got too close, the two bodyguards stepped between him and Pung. Dorin waved to them. ‘What’s this?’

  Pung was glowering at him, rather like an angry thick-jowled dog. ‘I hear you was with our damned mage last night.’

  Dorin cursed inwardly; he’d taken a chance on none here knowing, but Pung, it appeared, had better informants than he’d imagined. He crossed his arms in a show of nonchalance – and took hold of the blades hidden up his sleeves. ‘Yes. What of it?’

  Pung’s face darkened. ‘What of it?’ he stammered, almost too enraged for words. ‘You’re supposed to kill the bastard!’

  Dorin nodded. ‘And I almost had him too, except for the procession. There were hundreds out. Maybe you heard about that too?’

  Pung let a breath hiss through his pressed lips. ‘Yeah. So . . . you almost had him, hey?’ A strange sort of smile crept up those thick lips, rather like a crude attempt at cunning. ‘So, you won’t mind if we head on in now and drag them all up, hey?’

  Dorin shrugged. ‘Go ahead – if you can find them.’

  Pung opened his arms as if to embrace him. ‘Good, good.’ He waved Dorin onward. ‘Come, then. I’ve something to show you.’

  He headed for the warehouse that was the main entrance to the tunnels. The thugs pressed in behind Dorin, and Pung’s two guards fell in step just ahead. They slapped their truncheons into their palms as they walked.

  Inside the cavernous warehouse the only glow in the shadowed dark was one of the smithy forges. A youth was pumping the bellows and white and blue flames crackled with each gust of air through the coals. Another youth, a young boy, hung suspended by his arms from ropes; his toes just brushed the dirt floor. The bare chests and backs of both lads bore the ugly mottling of bruising together with dried streams of blood in shallow cuts from countless lashings.

  For the first time Dorin’s heart clenched, and revulsion twisted his stomach. But a dark cold fury also welled up within, hardening his mouth, and he decided then that no matter how this turned out, Pung had to die.

  ‘Raise his foot,’ Pung told one of his thugs. The fellow came forward and yanked up one of the boy’s legs, gripping the shin. Gagged, the lad whimpered, stark terror in his tearing eyes.

  Pung lifted a truncheon and tapped it gently into one meaty palm. ‘I’m told this hurts like Hood’s own touch,’ he said to Dorin, arching an eyebrow. He nodded to the tough who tensed, steadying the foot. Pung stepped in, swinging powerfully, and the truncheon smacked into the boy’s sole with a shockingly loud slap. The youth convulsed, shrieking into his gag, then sagged, almost faint, crying continuously.

  Pung shoved his face close to the boy’s. ‘Going to take us to him now?’ he demanded.

  It looked to Dorin as though the lad was far too gone in agony to comprehend anything.

  ‘The other,’ Pung ordered. The thug switched legs.

  Dorin started forward, only to halt as four crossbows swung up to cover him. Pung eyed him derisively. ‘Got something to say?’

  Dorin kept a tight grip on the blades sheathed under his sleeves. ‘I’ll take you,’ he said.

  Pung pointed the truncheon and waved it back and forth. ‘Oh, no. Not you. I don’t trust you.’ He spun, the weapon swinging, and smacked again into the child’s foot with an agonizing slap that jerked the poor lad like a lightning strike.

  Dorin also flinched, and gritted his teeth in suppressed rage. Too many. Too blasted many right now . . .

  Pung backhanded the dazed boy’s sweat-streaked head from side to side. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Now? Going to lead us to him now?’

  And the lad nodded, blearily, blinking, mouthing something behind the gag. Pung nodded to the tough, who let the foot fall. Another released the ropes. The child moaned, nearly falling, as his weight came to rest on his tortured feet.

  ‘Okay,’ Pung announced, tossing away the truncheon. He motioned to the crowd of his enforcers. ‘You lot. Take this kid down and bring me back the damned mage. Whole or part. I don’t give a fuck which.’

  One of the short enforcers pushed the limping boy along. Gren, next to Dorin, gave him a leer and a wink and said, ‘That’s how you get things done.’ He went to the door, keys jangling.

  That’s how you make blood enemies, Dorin answered him, silently.

  Ten descended the steps, lamps in hand, pushing the lad ahead of them. Twelve now remained with Dorin inside the darkened cavernous warehouse, not counting Pung, who faced him. ‘Now it’s your turn.’ He nodded to his men.
‘Cover him. He’s got blades hidden on him, I’m sure.’

  The four crossbowmen steadied their aim at Dorin’s heart. He opened his hands and slowly extended his arms to allow himself to be searched. Two toughs patted him down. They found short blades at his wrists, his collar, the rear of his belt, and the ankles of his soft leather shoes. When they pulled off his shoes he casually rested his hands at his waist only to have them slapped away, whereupon he held them out, hands open and fingers straight.

  Hands grasped Dorin’s arms from behind. They pulled him over to the same ropes and tied his wrists. Pung signalled and the toughs heaved on the ropes; Dorin’s weight slowly lifted from his feet until only his toes just brushed the dirt floor. The ropes creaked and stretched. The toughs tightened them further then tied them off.

  Pung had been poking at the sullen glowing forge. Now he came away lifting an iron bar whose end shone like a lamp. Smoke curled from its tip. He pointed it at Dorin, saying, conversationally, ‘You know, I didn’t like you the moment I laid eyes on you.’

  ‘The feeling’s mutual,’ Dorin answered through clenched teeth.

  Pung waved the bar’s bent crimson tip so close before Dorin’s eyes that he could feel its heat and hear it hissing. ‘Good,’ he continued, ‘good. I’m glad we’re finally clearing the air between us. Honesty’s always best, don’t you think?’

  Dorin could bend his head back no further. ‘I agree.’

  Pung pulled the bar away. ‘Thought you might.’ He turned to his crew. ‘What do you think, lads? Where should we start? Eyes, hands, or feet?’ He held the bar straight up before him. ‘Or maybe we should just lower him on to this and let him cook from the inside out?’

  All the toughs had a good laugh at that – Dorin couldn’t help but wonder how many times they’d actually done it. The crossbowmen now cradled their stocks in their arms. One had even set his down. Dorin clenched his fists and shifted the long thin blades he’d held pressed between the straight index and middle fingers of each hand. Then he grasped the ropes, holding them in his fists, and began sawing by edging his fingers back and forth.