Kandri sits frozen, not daring to glance at his friends. He’s keeping us a secret. He doesn’t trust his men entirely. How could he, if there’s really a traitor in the ranks?
Tebassa’s pen stabs up at Spider.
“Captain Sorfik. You dismiss the Prophet, known to her people as the Enlightened One and the Mother of All Chilotos, as a fool. I reject your verdict. I would sooner call him a fool who attributes twenty-five years of bloody conquest to mere ferocity. Her enemies are no longer fighting each other, true enough. But their armistice—and the word matters, Spider; words always matter—is a reflection of their fear of that woman. It is a well-grounded fear. She has stretched her forces thin, but they will stretch further yet, and with every mile clawed back from the Važeks she enlarges her pool of conscripts. More telling, though, is her gift for turning conscripts into believers, into worshippers who kill and die at her whim. In this, she is the master of her age. Yes, I would call him a fool who predicts the decline of the Prophet.”
Spider stares fixedly at the table. He looks like a man who has taken a mule kick to the chest.
“I would call him a fool,” says the general again, “except that by such measure, all Urrath is populated by fools. To this very day, the Važeks are waiting for her collapse—depending on it, even. As for the Shôl and the Lañatu, and the other great clans: they have simply no idea. The Prophet is a volcano, and thus far, she has belched only a little fire. If she should erupt, no one, absolutely no one, will be prepared.”
The youth in the high-collared shirt gestures at Kandri and Chindilan. “What of these newcomers, general? For I would swear they too are Chilotos.”
“Even Chilotos may be enemies of the Prophet, my lord,” says Tebassa.
“Did they bring you the news of the assassinations? Are they collaborators of yours?”
“You will forgive me, Prince Nirabha, if I observe that my council’s guest list is none of your affair. In fact, it serves no one’s interests for me to answer such questions—not even yours, or your city’s. What’s that you’re saying?”
A soldier is whispering to Stilts, who bends in turn to speak into Tebassa’s ear. “Good!” says the general. “Let them enter. I should like to see the proof.”
A door on Kandri’s left is unbolted and swung wide. Four huge, filthy soldiers pass into the room and stand in a cluster. They reek of sweat and horses; mud and grime rain from their clothes. They draw themselves up and salute the general, and Tebassa answers in kind.
“Riders,” he says, “you’re back, and your faces make plain that you’ve succeeded. Am I right?”
“You are, my general,” rasps one of the men. “We rode one horse to its death, and Rifalan’s was failing—we left him in the care of the monks at Sigra Cross. But we did the job”—he lifts a canvas sack uncertainly, eyes swiveling around the room—“exactly to order, sir.”
“Show us, then.”
The sack is tied with rope. The man’s soiled fingers tear at the knot; then the sack yawns open to a buzzing of flies. The man reaches inside and withdraws two severed heads, dangling from his fist by their hair.
Kandri is afraid he will disgrace himself by vomiting. A man’s head and a woman’s. Their eyes are open and their lips puckered. Gore is clotted thick below their chins.
Kandri catches his uncle’s eye. What the fuck are we doing here?
“Mr. Dimas?” says the general.
A man approaches the table, grimacing. He is small and plump, with sweaty cheeks and pouting, babyish lips. Eshett turns to Kandri and whispers, “That’s him! That’s the owner of the caravan, the one we spoke to this morning.”
The man presses a kerchief to his mouth as he studies the heads.
“These two were their leaders,” he says. “The ones who robbed me. I didn’t know you planned to kill them.”
“They would not yield, general,” says the man holding the heads.
“Perhaps they expected to be turned over to the Ursad,” says Stilts. “I wouldn’t yield either, if I had that on my mind. I’ve seen how he punishes theft.”
“What about the gold I paid them?” says the man with the kerchief. “Was that recovered?”
“You recall the terms perfectly well, Mr. Dimas,” says Tebassa. “We keep the gold, and you keep your reputation as a man not to be trifled with.” He leans forward on his elbows. “You are not, I trust, having second thoughts?”
“Not on my life, sir,” says the caravan owner, with a gesture of appeasement. “It is merely that I could prove the extent of my gratitude by doubling what your men have taken off these scoundrels, if I had funds left for the trading journey to Shefet Ang.”
“And I could give my troops a month of roast duck and royal consorts, if I could seize the Važek throne,” says Tebassa. “No, Mr. Dimas, I will not part with our winnings, and I cannot spare the men you wish to hire as a desert guard.”
“But General, what am I to do?”
“I should think the choices fairly obvious. Secure such men as you can and brave the crossing, or sell your camels and wait the season out.” Tebassa looks away from the caravan owner. “Riders, well done. Go to your rest; you can report in full on the morrow. Now, then, about the Lo’ac Brigades—”
The four riders depart with their grizzly trophies, and Mr. Dimas, stunned, returns to his chair. Kandri, hardly less unsettled, glances at Chindilan. The message in the smith’s eyes is unmistakable. No one’s safe with this man.
Talupéké’s head is bowed; there is a heaviness in her shoulders. Behind her mask of callousness, the girl is worried for their sakes. Dawn is surely near. Will their plight even be discussed? Maybe the general is toying with them. Maybe he will grill them for information and then cast them out on the road.
His head jerks up. Once more, the chamber has fallen silent. Black Hat Tebassa is looking at him fixedly.
“This one’s gone wool gathering,” he says. “You didn’t even hear my question, did you boy? Well, what about you then, blacksmith? What would you do with the killers of the Prophet’s sons?”
“What, sir, myself?” sputters Chindilan.
“That is what I meant by you. How would you respond, if they appeared at your door seeking refuge? Asking you to hide them, or help them escape?”
“I would have to ponder that question, general.”
“Bollocks. Answer me. If the winds of Urrath blew these two men, whoever they might be, to your doorstep, would you help them?”
“Yes,” says Chindilan, “I suppose I would.”
“Even if one of them was an unhinged clown?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you had a family to protect?”
Chindilan squares his shoulders. “Who’s to say I haven’t?”
“I say it,” says Tebassa. “I say you’re a washed-up Sulonji bush walker who’s just dragged himself across the Stolen Sea. You may have had family, but you’ve abandoned them, or let someone take them from you.”
“Who in Jekka’s hell do you think you are?”
“The last chance of a fat old ironmonger,” says the general, “so watch your mouth, and answer the fucking question. Would you help them, if to do so put your family at risk?”
Eshett’s hand is on Chindilan’s shoulder. The smith crosses his huge arms. For the third time, but now almost spitting the word, he says yes.
“By the Gods.” Tebassa smiles without warmth. “We have a saint among us, boys. We should file by and kiss his ring. But then, saints get themselves killed all the time. As for protecting their family, that’s not something a saint cares to think about.”
His face twists with sudden irritation. He pushes the chair back from the table and lifts his arms. The men behind him retreat a few steps—all save Mansari and the warrior to his left, who bend down swiftly to either side of the general. Tebassa puts his arms over their shoulders, and the men lift him from the chair.
Kandri tries not to stare. The General’s legs dangle limp beneath his po
werful torso. His large brown feet are bare, and as the soldiers carry him, they drag and scrape along the floor.
Black Hat Tebassa is paralyzed.
His men bring him abreast of the travelers. Talupéké stands rigid, eyes locked on the General’s face. Her mouth works. Tebassa grunts at his men, who pause.
“Blackworms,” he says. “Didn’t you wonder how I escaped the slaughter at the Megrev? Our dead were left where they fell. The walls of the gorge were so steep that the Prophet’s men could not extract the corpses. To be sure that none were still alive, they poured blackworms on us from above. Ten feet from me, a man was feigning death, but when the worms struck him, he could not bear it, he snatched at them, and the Chilotos shot him full of arrows. When my turn came, I lay still, and the vermin buried themselves in my flesh. What do you think of your general now, Talupéké? Can he carry on the fight, do you think?”
The girl is visibly trembling. She opens her mouth to speak, but no sound comes.
“I can move my right foot, since yesterday. That is something. And I can feel the prick of a pin on both heels. The doctors tell me I shall never walk again. I tell them my plans require it.”
His eyes move to Kandri. “Do you know that cluster of stars men call the Scythe?”
Kandri nods. “I know it, sir.”
“Then get yourselves to the Hermit tomorrow night before the Scythe drops below the horizon. That is about six minutes to midnight, this time of year. If you’re late, don’t bother to come at all.” He turns to Talupéké. “You must take your leave of them now, girl—unless you wish to quit my service?”
“No!” hisses Talupéké. “General, I—no.”
Her voice is tight with alarm. Tebassa’s eyes soften a bit. Taking a deep breath, he frees his arm from around Mansari and reaches—lunges, really—for her shoulder.
“I am glad,” he says, as she catches his weight. “You’re irreplaceable, you know. Mr. Stilts, Sister Talupéké needs a uniform. As for you”—his eyes rake Kandri, Chindilan, and Eshett—“give thanks to Ang that your paths crossed this little one’s for a time.”
He flings his arm around Mansari again, and the three figures move toward the door.
The council dissolves; the warriors rise and leave one unit at a time. “Wait here a bit,” Stilts tells Kandri’s company. “You’re going with me, and I’m last out the door tonight.”
“The doctor,” says Kandri. “My brother—”
“All in good time, boy.”
“Stilts,” says Talupéké, still visibly shaken, “where are the rest of us?”
The Naduman looks at her over his spectacles.
“The main force,” says Talupéké. “I thought they’d be here tonight. I thought you were bringing everyone to the city.”
Stilts takes Talupéké’s hand, guides it gently to the back of a chair.
“We did,” he murmurs. “You’re looking at them. But keep silent, for Ang’s sake. There’s guests among us yet.”
For the second time in five minutes, Talupéké is rigid with shock. “All of you, back over there,” says Stilts with an impatient gesture. He rushes to intercept the merchants, who are drifting toward the door, whispering and frowning. Chindilan looks at Kandri, wide-eyed.
“How does Tebassa travel?” he whispers. “Do they drag him around like a sack of meal?”
Kandri shakes his head, dumbfounded. The questions run deeper than that. How does Tebassa keep their loyalty when he can’t even stand up from the table, let alone lead any more of his famous raids?
Stilts takes gracious leave of each merchant by name. He seems to be having three conversations at once, all in soothing patter. “Concerned? Gentlemen, of course he’s concerned! Your security is our security. Who knows this better than the general?”
“He certainly knows who butters his bread,” grumbles one of the merchants.
Stilts assumes a look of elaborate injury. “Dear sir, is that fair? Go home; we’re all exhausted. And think of how well you sleep knowing who guarantees the safety of the Smoke Road. Your trade routes are safe today and will be safe tomorrow, and what is that not worth? Friends help one another—sometimes with arms, sometimes with gold and provisions. It’s that simple. Go in peace.”
He pivots away from them, his smile gone faster than a flung shoe. His eyes sweep the chamber, settling at last on the youth in the fine blue shirt, the one the general had addressed as a prince. The Naduman approaches his chair and makes a formal bow. The youth sweeps his fine black hair back over his shoulders and rises with dignity. Stilts conducts him to the door, nodding at the man’s quiet words.
“. . . a disaster not just for my people, Mr. Stilts, but for all Urrath, and even the world beyond. That is the heart of my missive. And I would know that General Tebassa has received it, before I leave empty-handed.”
Once more, Stilts affects a wounded look. “Empty-handed? Come now, my lord. The general has expressed his deep commitment to your cause. But these campaigns take time.”
“There is less time than anyone imagines, I fear.”
“Then no time at all for mistakes, Prince Nirabha. Charge in like a bull and be slaughtered like a bull, and what good will that do your city? But a fox will watch and learn, and move in silence, and strike unseen when the moment comes. We must be foxes, my lord. Surely, you can see that for yourself.”
The young prince gives him a long final look. “The sartaphs of the north,” he says, “do not mount bull’s heads on their walls. But I have heard they carpet the floors of their bedchambers in pelts.”
Stilts smiles, but Kandri does not hear his reply, for at that moment, Talupéké touches his arm.
She has banished every trace of shock from her expression. She stands with a dozen soldiers, ready to depart. “Kandri,” she says, and he realizes that she has never before spoken his name.
He feels a startling ache. The girl is only doing as she promised she would, as Eshett will do when they reach her village, as everyone does in time. All the same, he would like to hold and protect her. Ridiculous sentiment. Which of them has done the most protecting?
“The Gods keep you safe,” he says. “Where are you going, do you know?”
“Where they send us,” says Talupéké. “The south, maybe. Plenty of fighting down there.”
“We’d have died without you,” says Kandri.
Talupéké nods in agreement. From the doorway, a soldier calls her name. Again, Kandri feels the urge to embrace her. As if sensing the impulse, she pivots away from him, one side of her face smiling scornfully.
“Keep Mektu alive. He’s . . . unusual.”
“He is that,” says Kandri.
“Like some kind of rare bird. And he loves you, so—”
She breaks off. Chindilan has stepped near her. The smith’s face is frozen in a hard expression, but his eyes are moist. Talupéké fidgets, her smile still more forced, her gaze anywhere but on him.
“Old goat,” she mutters.
Chindilan starts to twist a ring on his finger. Talupéké sees what he is doing and mutters, Fuck. Chindilan grits his teeth and pulls, and the ring pops into his hand.
“Blade steel,” he says, holding it out to her, “from my grandfather’s forge in South Molonj. He made it for me from a piece of his grandfather’s sword, and that weapon came from Imperial times. He was a clever man, my grandfather. He said I’d know when to pass this ring along. Even if . . . I never had a child of my own.”
Talupéké flings her gaze at the door.
“Will you wear it?” says Chindilan. “Ang’s tears, can you not even look at it?”
The girl is straining against invisible ropes. She snatches the ring, lets it lie there on her open palm. “More weight,” she says, “that’s just what I need.”
“Wear it,” says Chindilan.
A shrug, a snort. She puts the ring in her pocket, starts to turn away again. Chindilan catches her hands. They turn to fists, rock-hard, unyielding. So it is these he kiss
es goodbye.
The door by which they exit leads to a second tunnel, far longer than the first. Stilts, with a three-warrior escort, guides them with the stump of a candle, which a draft blows out near the tunnel’s end. Then a ladder, a small trapdoor. When they surface at last, it is through the floor of a grain silo, quite hidden from the road.
Dawn is breaking: scores of tuhu birds sizzle in the underbrush, feeding on ants; a woodpecker rattles a cardamom tree. In the east, beams of gold are spilling over the dark mass of the Arig Hills. They pass swiftly through the well-tended farmyard, over a field jagged with the snapped bones of last year’s corn. The path winds into a second arm of the ravine. Although he looks twice the brothers’ age, Stilts is agile, moving quickly through the stones and clumps of pincushion grass. After a hundred yards, he beckons to one of his men.
“These farmers kept the dog inside. They did everything we asked. Send them a ham—a decent one, not some rancid leftover. And tie a Gods-damned bow around it this time, will you?”
“A bow, sir. Yes, sir.”
“It’s the little touches, boy.” Stilts turns to the travelers. “Well, you heard the general. He’s arranged something for you, but you’ll have to get yourselves as far as the hills before the Scythe drops below the horizon. You’re certain you know the Scythe?”
“Everyone knows the Scythe,” says Eshett. And that is true: the zigzag constellation is one of the brightest in the Urrathi night.
“Remember what he told you: it’s gone before midnight this time of year. By the Gods, don’t push your luck! He promised you’d find nothing if you came late, and the general damned well means what he says.”
“We won’t be late,” says Kandri, “but you’d better tell us where this hermit lives.”
Stilts smiles. “Don’t worry, she’s a hard one to miss.”
He leads them on, and after several minutes, they find a low spot in the ravine. They scramble up the embankment and force their way through tall grass. Before them stretches the wide Lutaral plain. Half a mile to the south rises the city wall, black and enormous, but Stilts points east to the Arig Hills.
Master Assassins Page 33
