“Was black and white, like a skunk. He must have dyed it, Kan. It’s him, think, you know it is.”
“Oh, fuck.” The mouth, the forehead. Mektu is right. And the man fled from the marketplace like wolves were at his heels. Or like a man about to earn the prize of a lifetime, if only he can run fast enough to claim it.
But run to whom?
“You never listen,” says Mektu. “I told you, didn’t I? We should have just gotten out of here.”
They quicken their pace. Bells are ringing in some temple or tower, anxious and discordant. Kandri tries to reverse the steps that brought them to the Xavasindrans, but the task proves hopeless. They have entered the city in the gray light of dawn; now the day is ending and the shadows are long and black. The streets meander; all the smooth white walls look alike. There are people about, but they are wary and in haste: some running with armloads of vegetables, others dragging children by the hand. One man carries an old woman on his back, frail as a hatchling; another locks a chain around a gate. Quite a few people steal glances at the sky, as though wondering how long they have before the night closes in.
The shouts and cries grow nearer. Is this the tailors’ district they passed in the morning? Kandri thinks so, but Mektu says they are still too far south. At last Kandri collars a street vendor pushing his cart of limes at a run, and demands directions to the Dawn Gate. The man waves frantically, rattles off lefts and rights. His headscarf trails a yard of muslin; a bruise discolors his cheek.
“What’s all the brawling about?” Kandri demands.
“Brawling!” cries the man. “Is that what you’d call it?”
Before the brothers can answer, a high, murderous yowl echoes along the street. The vendor flees, abandoning his wares. Kandri, in a horror of recognition, grabs Mektu and pulls him down behind the cart. At that very instant, an enormous gray sivkrin appears at the corner. On its back rides a Rasanga.
The Prophet’s commando holds a long spear, five feet of which are dark with gore. The big cat snarls again. Kandri hugs his brother ferociously, a hand clamped over his mouth. The cart is barely large enough to hide them both.
They do not breathe. Beyond the cart’s edge, the long shadows of rider and mount stretch toward them. Kandri can almost feel them debating which way to turn. Then a second mounted shadow appears beside the first.
Mektu looks like a horse in a lightning storm, wild with fear. Kandri mashes their cheeks together, closing his eyes. We can’t beat them. We can’t outrun them. If they come this, way we die. If you make a scene, we die. But his brother is as still as marble, and the Rasanga pass on.
They get up. Kandri’s limbs are shaking. “They’re here for us, Mek,” he says. “Someone’s tipped them off.”
“Atau’s man,” says Mektu. “Who else? Old Skunk-Beard must have sent word north, to the Seventh Legion. Or ridden there himself, like the wind. But how many can there be?”
An excellent question. The Seventh Legion is twelve thousand strong. But it is not a mounted legion, and no foot soldiers could have reached Mab Makkutin so swiftly.
Kandri looks at his brother. “They must have a special detachment. Riders, I mean.”
“They have eighty-six horsemen,” says Mektu.
“You’re making that up.”
“The hell I am. Eighty-six Shessel, and four Rasanga with sandcats. We had a cooking order last month. We smoked meat for the Seventh.”
“All right. Ninety riders.” Kandri blinks, dizzy with fear. “But they wouldn’t send all ninety, would they? And even if they did, it’s not enough to assault the city. So what the fuck are they up to?”
“Maybe they didn’t come from the north,” says Mektu. “Maybe they’re what’s left of the Wolfpack that chased us across the Stolen Sea.”
“In which case, there’s even fewer of them,” says Kandri. But his words bring no comfort. They have killed men of that Wolfpack, with the help of Ornaq vultures. Those left alive have even more blood to avenge.
They move on, no longer seeking the avenue, clinging to the darker streets. Many others are doing the same: by the next block, they have joined a stream of frightened men and women rushing the Gods know where. The white homes give way to the taller, darker hulks of old warehouses and counting-houses, relics of the city of fisherfolk. By what he gleaned from the vendor’s babble, Kandri thinks they must be close to the Dawn Gate. But is there any hope of exiting there? If even a dozen of the Prophet’s forces have reached the city, surely every gate will be watched?
Atau! One man, one greedy coward. But his malice still clung to them, even after his death. And what if the black-bearded Tirmassil found an accomplice? Some common grafter, paid to dog their heels all the way to the old woman’s farmhouse? Chindilan and Eshett and the girl might already be—
Shut up. Keep moving. Get your brother out of here alive.
There, dead ahead, is the wall at last. The Dawn Gate is just visible, a few blocks farther north; the bells they’ve been hearing are in the turrets to either side. The avenue is crowded and jostling, but the heart of the turmoil is at the gate itself.
When they reach the wall, Kandri sees that its inner face has been abandoned more fully to the ravages of time: vines sprouting everywhere, stones cracked and fallen, planks bridging gaps in the walkway under the parapet. But the sentries, armed and numerous, are on duty all the same. Kandri pulls his brother back into an alcove.
“We can’t let them see us, either,” he says. “They may be under attack, but that doesn’t mean they won’t hand us over. For all we know they’re seeking us desperately.”
“We still have to get through that gate,” says Mektu.
True enough, but around the gate the crowd is roaring. They wait until the nearest sentry’s back is turned, then dash for the next hiding place: the doorway of yet another grand, decrepit warehouse. From here the gate is hidden, but they can see most of the plaza before it. The crowd is hundreds strong. Townsfolk, mostly: young men with machetes and clubs, but at the vanguard stands a large detachment of sentries. To Kandri’s surprise, they look rather formidable, with their ring mail and lowered spears. He cannot decide whether that is good news or bad.
Mektu taps his shoulder: the door behind them is unlocked. They slip unseen into the dark of the warehouse, drawing the door shut behind them. The building is abandoned, hollowed out, reeking of bird dung and mold. Although its shell is stone, the interior is all wood and has not fared well. The high, vaulted ceiling has mostly collapsed, affording dim views of a second story. Cries and bellows from the street echo weirdly around them.
“Useless,” says Mektu. “They’ve bricked the windows over.”
Kandri points through the gaping hole. “Not up there, they haven’t. Find a staircase. I want to know what the hell’s going on.”
The staircase is a horror: the framing beams long since plundered, the treads rotting out. “No climbing for you,” says Kandri. “Stay here. Watch the door for me.”
“I’ll be fine,” says Mektu.
“Damn right you will. Watch the fucking door.”
The staircase sags like a hammock as Kandri climbs—first gingerly, then in a wild scramble as he feels the structure yearning to give way. With a last sickening bounce, he gains the second story. But the floor here is equally terrifying, a crust around a gaping hole, the planks flexing and sinking like piano keys underfoot.
Hugging the wall, he makes his way to the building’s north face and crawls the last few yards to the window. Carefully, a turtle from a shell, he lifts his head above the sash.
The Dawn Gate is closed. Under the great red arch, the doors of latticed iron have been swung into place and crossed with two beams of steel. The beams are clearly a latter-day addition to the defenses: they look strong if rather crude beside the majesty of the older structures. Two enormous locks secure them to the turrets flanking the Dawn Gate. A battering ram might rip them from the old stone, but nothing lesser would.
Hundre
ds of sentries and a like number of townsfolk cluster near the gate. Outside, Soldiers of Revelation are milling about on horseback. They are indeed Shessel, riders like those who accompanied Garatajik, and one of them holds aloft the standard of the Seventh Legion. It is true, then: these men have ridden from the Aricoro front in the north. The riders are shouting, gesticulating, demanding entrance. Some have nocked arrows to bows.
Among them Kandri sees but one Rasanga: a huge woman upon a caterwauling sivkrin. How did the others enter the city? Did they storm another gate, or fight their way in before these iron doors could be closed?
And why are so many people glancing up at the sky?
Kandri creeps to the east side of the building. Here, he can see a longer stretch of the wall. Yes, the inner side has been let go; in some places, the stone and masonry have collapsed in piles to the street, like shards of an eroding cliff. The sky above the wall is a dark, bruised orange. Already he can see a few early stars.
“Brother.”
“Harach!” Kandri nearly jumps out of his skin. Mektu has climbed the stairs and crept to his elbow. “Damn your sneaky ass! I told you to wait!”
“Brother, quickly. Come and see.”
Mektu leads him back to the windows overlooking the square. Down the long avenue, a second mob is approaching. Like the first, it is a mix of townsfolk and soldiers, but many of the latter are riding the lean, high-stepping horses of the Lutaral. And at the heart of the procession is a breathtaking creature: enormous, slate-gray, with ears like torn flags and a nose like a beheaded python.
“That’s an elephant,” says Mektu. “That’s Talupéké’s elephant! Vuceku, wasn’t it?”
“Vuceku,” says Kandri, nodding.
“That thing could kill a sivkrin with a toss of its head.”
The animal is draped in finery and foil armor; its tusks are painted a brilliant aquamarine and capped with gold. Two handlers with iron goads sit astride its shoulders, and behind them, upon a crimson saddle, rides the Ursad of Mab Makkutin.
He has not gone to fat as Mektu imagined. On the contrary, he is large and imposing, with straight black locks, a neat spade of a beard, and a bright shield with a version of the old Imperial bull embossed at its center. Under his right arm is a simple spear, like those wielded by his guards.
The crowd at the gate falls back, making room for the city’s master. The soldiers outside merely wait. As he reaches the center of the square, the Ursad lifts a hand. The procession stops, the bells fall silent, the shouting dies away. The Ursad gazes down at the soldiers of the Prophet. Then he reaches beneath his tunic and draws out a brass key. It is nearly as long as his forearm.
“I think you hope for this,” he says, “but you shall not have it, animals. You stand at the gate of Mab Makkutin, and here just one man’s word is law. We have been pleased to make common cause with your Prophet these several years. But today, you have marred that friendship, and we do not soon forget. I warn you now: withdraw!”
The crowd roars, shaking weapons above their heads. Outside the gate, the Soldiers of Revelation make no response at all. The Ursad waits, looking somewhat at a loss. Once more he raises his hand.
“To come thus, demanding, threatening?” he says. “To smuggle killers on hell-cats into our midst? To shed our blood, upon our very streets? Think well on what you do here, little instigators! Your Prophet will not reward you for squandering the love between us.”
Once more the crowd erupts. Kandri winces, closing his eyes. The love between us. Gods, man, you don’t understand her at all.
The roaring lasts. Suddenly, the lone Rasanga swings to the ground, tosses the sivkrin’s lead to one of the riders, and walks up to the iron bars. When she turns her head, Kandri sees four livid, parallel scars at an angle across her cheek, like something a bear might inflict.
The warrior stands there, enduring the howls and heckles of the townsfolk, and even a few rocks that clang against the iron bars. At last the Ursad himself calls for silence, and the crowd obeys.
“The Enlightened One,” says the Rasanga, “has not sent me here to bargain or to beg. The Twin Abominations must die. Unlock this gate; we will find them and be gone. Oppose us further, and it will not go well for you this night.”
“I have two thousand soldiers, woman!” snaps the Ursad. “You will need something more than thirty horsemen and five braggarts on sivkrin to back up your threats.”
“I do have something more,” says the Rasanga. “And I do not threaten; I inform. Ursad, can you not sense prophecy at work? Look at the sky, listen to the murmur of your people. They proclaim what you yourself fear to admit. The Time of Madness approaches. Would you hasten it? Would you be the spark that sets this town ablaze?”
“Rubbish and lies,” says the Ursad. “The fate of Mab Makkutin is her own. You will not frighten us with children’s tales.”
This time, there is far less cheering. Quite a number of the townsfolk make surreptitious blessing-gestures. The Ursad clears his throat. “What exactly do you want?” he says. “Speak plainly. We do not care for mysticism here.”
“You will surrender the Abominations,” says the Rasanga, “or you will not, and all the same they will be found. Which path do you choose?”
“Abominations,” says the Ursad. “I tell you, we know not of what you speak. And we harbor no enemies of the Prophet in Mab Makkutin. That is a further insult.”
“Open the gate,” says the Rasanga. “Every moment you delay heaps more misery upon your people.”
“Do you bear no scroll or letter from your Prophet, woman? I will entertain a missive if it bears her seal.”
“No time,” says the Rasanga. “Our orders came on wings. Open the gate, you nattering fool! This is the last time I shall—”
Her head snaps to the right. Someone has thrown a rock, which by ill luck has passed through the bars and struck her face, right on the cheek with the scars.
Cries of fury behind her: the cavalry urge their horses up to the gate. But the Rasanga lifts a hand to still them. A stripe of blood runs from cheek to collarbone, but she shows no sign of pain. In utter silence, she gazes at the Ursad and his guard. Then she turns and walks away.
The brothers look at each other, and for once, the understanding between them is perfect. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” says Kandri.
“Wish I’d thought of that.”
“No point in checking the other gates,” Kandri says, ignoring the jab. “We’ll have to go over the wall.” He looks sharply at Mektu. “Without climbing. Or mixing you up with a fight.”
“Climb without climbing.” Mektu gives a snort of despair.
“I didn’t say climb, I said go over. We can do it if we get our hands on some rope. Tie you a loop to sit in, brace the rope on the parapet, lower you down.”
“How do you plan to get me up there to begin with?”
“Where the hell would I have gotten a plan?”
“Kandri, what did you do for all those hours?” says Mektu. “Were you daydreaming, thinking about that nurse’s ass?”
Movement below: the Prophet’s soldiers are falling back. The townsfolk roar and jeer. For a moment, Kandri can see no one beyond the gate: only the well-trodden earth, and a yellow butterfly stitching back and forth between the bars as though flaunting its freedom.
The mob falls silent.
A small figure is approaching the gate from the outside. It is a child, a girl, so thin and slight that a stiff wind could almost bear her away. She might be eleven or twelve, stands no higher than a man’s elbow. Her eyes are famished, her hair long and filthy. She wears a tattered gown that drags in the dust. Although ragged, the gown is lace-laden and frilled, the attire of a half-starved child bride.
But that is not what stops the crowd from breathing. Every bit of the girl—hands, face, lips, hair—is white. Not pale: white. The hard white of marble. The submarine white of a fish’s belly. The cold, bright white of the moon.
Both men recoil, d
ropping below the window sash. Mektu grabs his brother’s arm. “What the living honest fuck is that?”
Kandri forces himself to look again. The tiny girl has reached the gate. She pauses, gazing up at the ancient stone. All at once, Kandri feels what he felt in Eternity Camp, in the octagonal courtyard with the palanquin: a flood of guilt and terror closing over his head.
“The White Child,” he says.
“Some kind of devil!” says Mektu. “It is, isn’t it? Why would they bring it here?”
The girl lowers her chin, looks straight at the Ursad, and now Kandri sees that her eyeballs are not white but exactly the opposite: a solid, lustrous black. When she blinks, the blackness vanishes a moment under luminous eyelids. The effect is somehow obscene.
Turning sideways, the girl passes one arm through the bars. Then one leg. The squeeze is tight, but she manages, gown and all. Once through, she walks without hesitation toward the sentries.
Atop his elephant, the Ursad forces out a laugh. “What is this? So you have a freak of nature in your keeping? Do you think we are peasants, to frighten into submission? Hold that creature at spearpoint, men of the Guard.”
But the Guard, it seems, is afflicted by the same terror Kandri feels. The man directly in the Child’s path falters first, sidling backward against his comrades. Others follow suit, and then the whole crowd is parting, as if they cannot bear the scrutiny of those eyes. Many look ashamed of their cowardice, yet still they retreat. Horses begin to nicker and prance. Only the elephant is still.
The Ursad barks at his men. As though shaken from a dream, ten or twelve leap forward and point their spears at the girl. But once more, something breaks in them. Spears droop, and soldiers step backward, grimacing with fear and shame.
Now the girl stands before the elephant, looking absurdly small. That trunk could lift her like a weed; those painted tusks could break her every bone. Gazing at the Ursad, she lifts a stick-like arm, hand spread wide as though begging for alms.
“The key,” shouts the Rasanga from the gate. “Surrender it, Ursad. There is no other way.”
Master Assassins Page 38
