Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1

by Ian C. Esslemont

  * * *

  Dorin was sorting through a tabletop of rag-tag weapons brought together by the lads at Wu’s orders. Outside it was nearing dusk, and having slept through most of the day he felt rested, though favouring his left leg from a deep cut sustained during his encounters on the roofs the night before.

  This night would see more of the same, his hunting of the Nightblades. The first step in his plan, such as it was. He frowned at one rusted and pitted knife: would’ve been a fine weapon . . . a hundred years ago. He made his selection among them to replace lost blades and began easing them into his baldrics.

  ‘Ah, here you are!’ announced Wu as he came bustling into the cellar of their new hideout. He was rubbing his hands together and waggling his brows. ‘Ready to get on with my plan, then?’

  Dorin eyed him sidelong as he thumbed the edge of a hooked blade. ‘Your plan?’

  The mage was unperturbed. ‘Of course! Our assault upon Pung’s headquarters!’

  ‘He’s nothing now.’

  ‘Not him. The box, my friend. We must have that box.’

  Dorin now sighted down the razor edge of a lethal stiletto. ‘Why? What’s in it?’

  ‘Never mind. What I know is that it’s important.’

  Dorin peered down at the mage, who was hunched over like an old man. ‘You don’t know what’s in it, do you?’

  Wu screwed up his face in defiance. ‘I don’t have to know. My instincts assure me it’s important.’

  Pulling an old cloak about himself, Dorin headed to the door. ‘Well, it can wait. I’m busy with my own plan.’

  ‘And what plan is that? Hunt down all the Nightblades? Why? To what end? What are they to you?’ He thrust high a wizened finger. ‘Ah! Wait! I see. You are after what they ward. You would take a contract perhaps?’ He waggled the finger in dismissal. ‘She would never hire you.’

  ‘Not a contract. Think of it as . . . credentials.’

  Both greying shaggy eyebrows rose in exaggerated understanding. ‘Ah. I see.’ The wrinkled lips pursed in regret and he shook his head. ‘And you would expect my cooperation in this effort, no doubt.’

  Dorin felt his shoulders tightening in the familiar irritation the fellow could so easily summon in him. He looked to the ceiling a short hand-breadth above his head. ‘Fine! When?’

  The mage waved his hands in deference. ‘Oh, there’s time yet. The lads and lasses aren’t finished clearing the tunnels. Do go on.’ He shooed him from the room. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  Dorin stared, his mouth open. Gods! Cracked as a heat-maddened rat. He considered a number of blistering replies only to snarl under his breath as he stormed out.

  Much later, even as he knelt hunched in the cover of a brick chimney, he still couldn’t rid himself of his anger at the jumped-up little fellow. Who did he think he was? Had that been an order? Why on earth did he put up with it? Stupid useless little prick!

  Two dark shapes dropped on to the flat rooftop and readied crossbows as they studied the streets below. Dorin drew his knives and charged.

  They were good enough to sense his silent approach across the dried clay roof. They spun, but he was too close: one shot missed and the other weapon he knocked aside to fire out across the roof. He sliced the tendons of one knee of each and they buckled. One he kicked to topple out into the alley below. The other he thrust in the groin, ripping up, just as one might slice a fish. This Nightblade fell curled round the mortal wound like a pinned bug.

  Have to teach the little man a lesson, Dorin decided, as he straightened. Clarify the relationship.

  Then he threw himself flat to the roof. Crossbow bolts cut the air above him, shot from behind. He rose in a charge. On the opposite lip of the roof two more Nightblades rose from cover. One threw aside his crossbow, advancing to meet him; the other reloaded.

  Dorin and the Nightblade met close to the edge of the roof. Each fought with two knives. The fight was silent but for the sound of the weapons sliding across each other as the blades kissed and scraped in short staccato bursts.

  The Nightblade sought to circle round to expose Dorin for a shot, while he counter-circled to keep his opponent in the way as they duelled. They shuffled, their soft leather moccasins brushing the dried clay, their arms extended, blades balanced in their grips ready to suddenly reverse or threaten a throw.

  A quick series of feints brought Dorin in close. The Nightblade had to retreat and Dorin drove him back with constant rapid thrusts and cuts. The man regained his balance after a few shifts, but he was closer now to his brother. Dorin had him where he wanted him and he pressed again, closing.

  The fellow managed to catch both blades on his and they balanced there, corpse-a-corpse, the blades scraping and grating, the Nightblade’s breath hissing from him in explosive gusts. Dorin realized he’d made a mistake: not only was this fellow heavier and stronger than he, but the other Nightblade had shifted round and was now sighting down the stock of his weapon straight at him.

  His acrobatic training served him well then as he kicked and twisted in the air, hammering the breath from his opponent and circling behind. The other Nightblade swung his weapon, cursing. Dorin was furious with himself for letting the game go on for as long as it had, but it was over now, for when the kick had landed, breaking ribs, he knew he’d won. Even as his feet touched the roof again he surged inwards once more, blocking a forearm, and stitched the fellow’s torso in a series of short jabbing thrusts, driving him backwards into his partner. The two tumbled from the roof, arms flailing, to land with heavy wet thumps on the cobbles three storeys below.

  ‘Impressive!’ a man shouted. Dorin spun, crouching. A Nightblade stood far across the roof, his arms out, deliberately showing his empty hands. ‘Such an aggressive style! Faruj was your teacher, yes?’

  ‘Who?’ Dorin felt behind him to ease down on the roof’s edge – just in case.

  The man wore loose black trousers and shirt, his hair black as well, cut short. He opened his arms wider in the sketch of a shrug. ‘Well, I suppose he wouldn’t have given his real name, would he? Wiry? Able to beat you with one hand?’

  His old master had done just that – pinned or forced him to yield almost every day, usually with one hand.

  But the old Talian Master of Assassins, Faruj? In truth? Some had whispered it, but the old man had always laughed off any such suggestion.

  None of this Dorin showed on his face, which he held flat. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Another sketch of a shrug from the man. ‘Of course you don’t. How much?’

  ‘How much what?’

  ‘How much to work for us? We could use a man of your skills.’

  ‘Work for Chulalorn? Really?’

  The Nightblade waved a hand impatiently. ‘Surely that does not matter. Think of it as self-advancement. Name your price. How much?’

  Something in those words – their arrogant delivery, or their literal meaning perhaps – brushed Dorin with a strange affront. He knelt further, feeling with his toes for a brick lip along the wall. ‘I suppose you’re right. It shouldn’t matter. But I’m not for sale.’

  ‘Pity, that.’

  Two screams erupted then, freezing him, and a crossbow bolt snapped the air over his head. One keen screech was that of a hunting bird – astoundingly loud. The other was torn from a human’s throat, and it held unimaginable agony. Dorin unfroze to spin to his left, and saw a titanic bird of prey looming over another Nightblade. Its talons encircled his skull, their dagger lengths piercing the sockets of his eyes. The man had dropped his crossbow and was yanking futilely at the bird’s grip.

  Wings broader than the height of a man unfurled. They gave one mighty stroke and the predator lifted its victim from the roof, his legs kicking and spasming. They rose into the night air over the street, and then the creature released its grip and the man fell, a limp and silent form, dead already.

  What on earth was that? Dorin glanced back across the roof; he was alone. He sh
uddered uncontrollably for an instant. It was an after-effect of that chilling call. No doubt the screech was meant to freeze prey, and in his case it had worked. He became mindful then of his exposed position and ducked down to find his way to the alley.

  He walked from one patch of darkness to another through the empty mid-night ways, making for the north. He knew whom to see; twice now birds of prey had attacked his enemies and he did not know whether to be grateful or angry. He reached the side of the tall stable and climbed to the open gable of the garret above.

  Within, he found the rafters crowded by the usual dozing daytime hunters. Beneath, perched on a box, sat Ullara, legs crossed, also apparently asleep. Her eyes, however, fluttered open as he approached, and she smiled, dreamily. ‘Safe, I see,’ she murmured.

  ‘Thanks to you?’

  ‘Thanks to my King of the Mountains.’

  ‘King of the Mountains?’

  She gave a weak shrug. ‘One of my names for him. That is where he comes from. Far to the north. The Fenn mountains. He is lost and lonely here. Out of place among lesser hunters.’ She tilted her head, studying him. ‘Like you.’

  ‘I am not lonely.’

  ‘Yes you are – you just can’t see it.’

  He sat next to her, sighing. ‘Well . . . my thanks regardless. You are better?’

  She nodded, leaned against his side. ‘Yes. Thank you for the coin. My brother is recovering.’

  ‘Good . . . but I have to ask that you stop doing this. It is too dangerous for you. I have enemies. Feuds.’

  ‘I know. I can help.’

  ‘No. Stop. Do not involve yourself.’

  She wrapped her arms round his. ‘It is too late.’

  ‘Ullara . . . no. This is no game.’

  ‘I know. Hold me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hold me. Stay and hold me. I don’t want to be alone.’

  Gingerly, reluctantly, he tucked his arm about her, pressed her closer. She felt very hot against his side. Her forehead burned where it pressed against his chest. Her eyes slipped closed and her light breathing eased into a slow steady rhythm.

  He held her, rocking gently, until the flush of dawn came to the windows. Then he eased her down and covered her with an old horse blanket and made his way down the wooden slats of the wall before it was light enough to see.

  * * *

  Sister Night spent most of her time meditating. She sat cross-legged in the dirt cellar of a burned-out ruin safe from any interruption save from rats and cockroaches. And these, sensing a living being, always moved on after investigating. What she was attempting took an inhuman degree of patience, and it was therefore providential that she was, in fact, not human. She was engaged in a very gentle exploration of the borders of a Realm, or Hold, long sealed away from trespassers. Sealed by the mightiest of those active amid the material realms, such as her brother K’rul, and Kilmandaros, and Osserc. Care, therefore, was the order of the day.

  After her first brush she had come to the conclusion that what she sensed was not so much a torn gate to the Realm, in the sense of a forced permanent access, but rather the true reaching out of an attuned practitioner, such as any manipulator of his or her natural source, or Warren.

  This achievement was itself epochal. The discovery – or rather the reawakening – of a Hold lost to all. Powerful entities would take notice. Already during her investigations she’d had to shy away from the attention of the one left behind within Kurald Emurlahn, its champion.

  She would most certainly not wish to be caught by him.

  And yet the puzzling question remained: how was this done? She sensed no Tiste Edur blood or legacy. And Emurlahn was theirs just as Galain was of the Andii. She could only conclude that access was not achieved directly to Emurlahn. Rather, that reliable voluntary access to a halfway region, or bridge, had been forged. A human Warren. The wild chaotic half-realm named Shadow.

  A dangerous non-place, this Shadow. Things were rarely as they seemed. Things were layered. What seemed reality was in fact . . . inconsistent. Even flagrant deception.

  She sensed then that she was not alone, and as she identified her visitor she smiled at the poetry of it. She opened her eyes, blinking as she resurfaced from journeying so very far from herself, and said, ‘I was just thinking of Galain and Emurlahn. It is therefore only fitting that Liosan should be present as well.’

  The Protectress of Li Heng, Shalmanat, stood before her. Her hair shone silver in moonlight shafting down through the ruined floor above. Soot from the burned remains smeared her leathers at sleeve, thigh, and cuff. Sister Night inclined her head. ‘Greetings, Lady.’

  ‘Lady no longer. That was another life.’

  ‘Regardless. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Why are you here? What do you want?’

  ‘I told you – I am investigating interesting theurgist phenomena.’

  Shalmanat scowled sourly. ‘There is more to it than that. I know who you are, or more to the point: what you are. Your kind bring only destruction. I’ll not have it. I want you gone.’

  ‘I will go. When I am ready.’

  The Protectress clenched her fists until her arms shook then let go a great gust of breath and raised her face to the moon in silent resignation. They both knew she did not have the power to force compliance. She sat then among the fallen brick, surprising Sister Night, and hung her arms limply over her knees, appearing utterly dejected. ‘Will he come?’ she asked.

  Sister Night blinked. ‘Who?’

  ‘The Son of Darkness.’ She gestured to the night sky. ‘I do not think I could bear to face him. Will his Keep blot out the sun above and blast us into rubble?’

  Face him, Sister Night wondered? There are few today who . . . ah, I see. Oh, Shalmanat. After all this time. And he probably does not even remember you. She shook her head. ‘He does not guard the borders of Emurlahn.’ There is another who sees to that.

  ‘Yet he will be angered by this breach.’

  ‘Will he? Who is to say? Times change. People . . . change.’

  Shalmanat pressed her hands to her face. She whispered, nearly choking, ‘So many dead – and for what?’

  ‘A long time ago, Protectress.’

  The hands whipped down and Shalmanat glared, her eyes swimming. ‘Not to those who lived it! We can’t just make it disappear!’

  Sister Night had nothing to say to that.

  They remained silent for a time; the wan silver light of the moon rippled down upon them among the fallen brick and burned timbers. Eventually, Sister Night cleared her throat, saying, ‘If it comes to it, I will – do what I can.’

  Hugging herself, Shalmanat nodded, openly relieved. ‘My thanks.’ Rising, she tottered, steadied herself at a fallen charcoal timber then ran her hand through her snowy hair, leaving a streak of black soot. She nodded a farewell and climbed the slope of fallen brick.

  Sister Night remained, staring off into the dark. It was true, she had not considered that this breach, or development, might rekindle the old enmities – hardly any of those old players remained. Yet, obviously, there were many who could not let go of the past. It was how they had learned to define themselves. So many reflexively looked to the past rather than the future. She wondered, then, whether she had just tripped upon a fundamental division in what characterized approaches to life and to the world at large.

  She tilted her head in the dark, her black hair brushing her shoulder, and considered what other things her own preoccupations might have blinded her to. It was a troubling thought. She resolved to broaden her attentions in the future and try to remain more open to wider potentialities when they were offered.

  Perhaps this was what brother K’rul had meant when they spoke. It was not for nothing, after all, that he was known as the Opener of Ways.

  Chapter 15

  SILK WAITED IN the night just north of the city walls. The broken ground was hard, glinting with ice and crescents of wind-blown frost particles that could not
yet be called a proper snowfall. The sky was clear and it was unusually chill. The cold bit at him and seemed to stab his very bones. He drew his thick fur cloak tighter about himself as his breath plumed.

  To the west, across bare trampled fields and the broken black skeletons of burned trees, a battle raged on.

  But it was not an engagement between the besieged Hengans and the invading Kanese forces. Rather, it was a running confrontation between the mercenary Crimson Guard and their quarry, the man-beast Ryllandaras.

  A battle that began at sunset after he betrayed the creature’s whereabouts to the Guard.

  All for the eventual benefit of Li Heng, of course. After all, he reasoned, the monster had served its purpose – driven the Kanese from the north – yet the fiend remained a menace to any future peace and so one would be negligent to let such a moment pass.

  At least that was how Silk had presented his case to his fellow city mages. And they had concurred. The future prosperity and safety of the city and its citizens had to be considered.

  He rubbed his hands to warm them then nodded back to Smokey who stood at the black cave opening sunk at the base of the city wall; a hidden tunnel that would be sealed and never re-used after this night. Smokey raised an arm in acknowledgement and ducked back within.

  Now it was up to him. He ran his hands over each other slowly, feeling the cold smooth flesh, then opened his Warren. Once more he reached not for the familiar paths of Thyr but beyond, searching for that trace – or flavour – of Elder Liosan. Not that he would dare try to summon such potency again. No, this night the mere suggestion of its presence should suffice. The merest scent upon the night air, so to speak.

  It should be enough to bait the trap.

  Finished, he headed back to the tunnel opening. For it was the opinion of Koroll and Ho that the Crimson Guard – for all their vaunted martial expertise – did not themselves possess the power necessary to slay the beast. It was an ancient piece of wisdom that only an Ascendant could slay another Ascendant. And while Silk had no idea as to the accuracy of the saying, having seen Ryllandaras up close he doubted that the Guard could finish the job.