by Barb Hendee
A part of him could not help feeling relieved to be doing . . . something.
On the previous night Osha had accompanied Wynn as she, Shade, and the undead followed the domin to this same area. They had hidden behind the eatery in this building’s bottom floor and watched the main gate while contriving a plan—or rather a set of options. Nothing that might happen this night was certain. Once they had exhausted the possibilities, Ghassan insisted they return to his sanctuary.
Osha had not slept much since departing the ship, and neither had Wynn. He refrained from suggesting she do so and thereby starting another “spat,” as she would call it. Soon enough, they had both fallen asleep in the back room. Upon waking before dawn, he realized they faced another seemingly endless day of inactivity, trapped in that disturbing set of concealed chambers within the worn tenement.
Chane fell dormant at dawn. Shade paced. The domin somehow managed to keep busy. And Wynn continued to fill her time with meaningless activities.
Osha had kept quiet, watching Wynn throughout the long day.
A thousand unspoken words remained unsaid between them.
At least tonight, the stars once again glinted in a clear sky, and he was again useful to her . . . and perhaps to other friends he had thought to never see again. The previous night Wynn had even boasted to the domin about his skills as an archer. It embarrassed him how much this pleased him. In part, he wished he did not care so much about what she thought of him.
Osha regained focus, though he avoided recalculating again every possible outcome for this night. Everyone else had taken their designated positions below, but at the domin’s suggestion Osha had placed himself atop this building in clear sight of the entrance and the street below. If all seemed calm and well when Magiere and the others exited the palace grounds, Wynn alone would go to meet them and lead them quickly out of sight.
In recent times Osha could not remember anything that had gone well or as planned.
Down below and one block up the street, Ghassan and Wynn hid in the next side street. If there was trouble, the domin, being the closest, would assist first, but to Wynn’s—and Osha’s—frustration, he’d never answered concerning how the prisoners were to be freed. Osha knew what this truly meant.
Whatever the domin’s arrangements, Magiere, Léshil, Leanâlhâm, and Chap were not simply being released.
Somewhere across the street and another block closer to the entrance, Chane and Shade hid as well. They were to be the last fallback at ground level should pursuit occur.
And over all of them, Osha would watch and act from above as the others fled.
Everyone was to meet at a halfway point, which Wynn and the domin had chosen—a small area behind a Suman shrine. Osha had no idea who or what was worshipped in that place, but the large building was impossible to miss. The back of it faced an alley that provided a place to hide. Once any pursuit was evaded, everyone could then retreat to the domin’s sanctuary.
In Osha’s days as an anmaglâhk, he had listened, though not contributed, to several like strategies. Tonight’s plan seemed sound by his limited experience, though Wynn had been adamant—especially to Chane—that they avoid killing any of the guards . . . and thus add more fury to the urgency to recapture the prisoners.
Osha had agreed with this as well, for in all his life he had never killed anyone.
This was one last vestige of his true self to which he clung as he shifted forward to one knee and slipped his bow off his shoulder and into his left hand. He reached to the quiver over his right shoulder, felt for an arrow’s end without a wrapped thread ridge, and drew it.
Osha nocked a normal steel-tipped arrow and aimed downward, watching for Wynn as much as for anyone exiting the gate.
* * *
Dänvârfij had chosen a rooftop four city blocks away from the imperial grounds’ main entrance. Once again, she and Rhysís had watched since late morning, spelling each other for brief rest or the limited nourishment they had brought with them. Her choice for this spot served more than one purpose.
Each day she varied their vantage point, knowing that Brot’ân’duivé was somewhere in the city. Any pattern of habit in surveillance would leave them vulnerable to the traitor. The distance this day did not provide the best view of activity at the gate, but that was not their immediate purpose. She and Rhysís could still spot, track, and capture an imperial guard marked with a gold sash, should one emerge and go off on his own.
Once again not one had come out. After only a two-day vigil she wondered whether they required a new strategy.
Far too much time had passed, and she would face ultimate failure if Léshil and his monster of a mate died beyond her reach. She had failed Most Aged Father in too many ways so far and could not fail in the end.
To return home having utterly failed in her purpose was unthinkable.
Rhysís stiffened upright, lifting his head.
“What?” she asked softly, though she followed his sight line.
All she saw was an empty rooftop with a solid chimney. The subtle motion that pulled her gaze there was a thin smoke trail caught in a bit of light from lanterns hung upon an upper-floor balcony.
Rhysís settled back down. “Nothing,” he whispered through his face wrap. “I thought— It was nothing.” And he turned his gaze back toward the imperial grounds.
Dänvârfij returned to her vigil as well.
* * *
In an exhausted haze of fright, Wayfarer repeated the same words over and over in her mind as she was rushed though the darkness.
I trust Chap . . . I trust Léshil . . . Everything is—will be—all right.
As promised, the two guards led everyone down a passage, up a flight of steps, and outside through a ground-level door. Now they all hurried along the back sides of various buildings nearest to the immense wall surrounding the grounds. Everything was happening too quickly.
Wayfarer cringed at being forced into the open. Part of her wanted to run back inside and hide, even in the horror of the small cell. Worse, she could not wipe that first glimpse of Magiere from her thoughts.
To her, the pale warrior woman she had met years earlier in her abandoned homeland was as savage as any human from her people’s tales. And yet, in her way, Magiere was also as honorable and protective as Wayfarer’s lost uncle, as well as kind and as caring as her departed grandfather.
Magiere feared nothing. She would charge the most powerful enemy without hesitation for the sake of those she cared for. But the sight of her starved, weakened, and nearly broken had shaken Wayfarer more than anything she had seen since fleeing into this human world. As she hurried to keep up with the others, still bracing a hand on Chap, she must have clenched her fingers too sharply into his fur.
He looked up at her but raised no memory-words in her mind. Of the four of them, he seemed the least weakened. Wayfarer leaned aside, trying to catch a glimpse of . . .
Magiere’s eyes were closed as she stumbled along beside Léshil. He still held her left wrist, keeping her arm draped over his shoulders. He too had trouble walking, and Wayfarer wondered—worried—how much longer Léshil could support Magiere.
The elder guard out front stopped suddenly and swung back one hand to signal everyone to halt. The younger one directly behind him looked around in alarm and whispered, “Fareed?”
Was that the elder man’s name? Earlier, Wayfarer had heard the younger one called “Isa.” Both were nervous—no, frightened. And why were they risking themselves to free four prisoners? None of this made sense, and in a world that she barely understood, that made everything so much worse.
“What now?” Léshil whispered sharply.
Neither guard answered, though Isa glanced back. Fareed stood frozen, staring ahead at . . . something. He crept onward, though his hand flashed back again for everyone else to remain in place.
On their left was the back side of a stable; on their right, they were standing so close to the outer wall that Wayfarer could
have reached out and touched it. She did not dare look up at it again. The last time had made her dizzy for its impossible height under the bright moon. Directly ahead of the stable was a long building set so close to the wall that perhaps only one person at a time might pass through the narrow space.
Fareed crept out past the corner of the stable and hurried to the long building’s nearest corner. He paused there and turned his head back to look down the space between it and the stable that led out toward the open grounds. Perhaps he was listening as well as looking for something. Then he started forward again, ducking into the narrow passage between the long building and the wall.
Wayfarer lost sight of him in the dark space until his silhouette appeared again at the building’s far rear corner. He seemed so far away. And she heard footsteps, though Fareed’s shape remained still.
Heavy, quick, and even, those steps were much closer, coming from the left between the stable and the long building’s nearer end. When she glanced toward the stable’s nearest corner and then looked farther ahead again, Fareed’s silhouette had vanished. And everyone else in front of her was in the open between the stable and that next building.
—Down now— . . . —Against the wall—
Wayfarer held her breath and crouched low with Chap beside her. She barely peeked over the top of his back.
Léshil stumbled once as he pushed Magiere up against the grounds’ outer wall. He teetered and tried to pull the sheath lashing on one winged blade. When Magiere slumped and slid down to the ground, Isa stepped out from everyone and drew the curved sword from his waist sash.
A heavyset guard in a gold sash came around the far building’s front corner. He immediately turned upon sighting Isa standing before the others. The new guard’s eyes widened instantly. He looked all of them over and up and down until his gaze fixed on the space between the wall and the stable’s back. He might have spotted Chap, but then Wayfarer found those dark eyes staring at her.
The guard’s puzzlement vanished, replaced by shock and then anger. He barked something at Isa in their strange tongue. When Isa shifted a slow step backward, the heavyset guard pulled his own sword and charged.
Chap snarled, and Wayfarer’s fingers dug into his fur. She was too stiff with fright to even duck back below him. Just as frightening, Isa did not rush to cut off his adversary. As Léshil finally drew a winged blade, the new guard snarled something more.
And still Isa did not move.
The other man’s sword came at his head, and then he stepped back a bit toward the grounds’ outer wall. The blade passed so close to his right shoulder that Wayfarer saw his shirtsleeve rustle. He did not raise his sword even then.
At the other guard’s slight stumble and quick turn to face him again, Isa merely shifted in another side step, this time toward the stable’s end. He paused as if waiting.
Wayfarer almost cried out as Léshil tried to step in.
The new guard suddenly lurched to a halt as a hand came around his head from the right and clamped over his mouth. With his eyes wide again, whatever he shouted was smothered as an arm wrapped around the front of his neck from the left.
The man’s head was instantly wrenched sideways.
Wayfarer whimpered at the muffled crackle of bone.
Isa still stood calmly where he had paused. The heavyset guard crumpled and fell . . . revealing Fareed standing behind him.
When the body hit the ground, its eyes were still wide and did not close.
Léshil’s brow wrinkled as he eyed both Fareed and Isa. He turned away without a word, sheathed his blade, and crouched near the wall to pull up Magiere.
Wayfarer began panting as she stared at their two rescuers.
Isa was so young but had not blinked at acting as bait to give Fareed a chance to kill an imperial guard with his bare hands. She had seen ugly and cold acts in the company of Brot’ân’duivé that still marred her sleep.
Was this anything like what had caused the tainted greimasg’äh—and even Osha—to turn on their own caste? Was there something that could possibly be worth such viciousness against one’s own kind? And who had sent these two for this task?
Fareed approached Léshil, who only then raised Magiere up.
“We cannot be seen again,” Fareed whispered harshly. “Move now!”
Léshil appeared unaffected and did not move. He struggled to hold Magiere but glared back at Fareed.
“That guard was looking for something,” he hissed. “Someone already knows we escaped.”
Fareed’s impatience was clear. “If he was, the imperial forces will keep the search quiet at first in making an initial sweep. If you are not recovered quickly, they will sound the alarm. Now we must go.”
Léshil said nothing more.
—Up now—
Wayfarer shuddered at Chap’s command in her thoughts.
—Grab . . . my tail— . . . —Do not let go . . . until we are . . . through the long, narrow gap—
Fareed led the way. Without a chance to think, Wayfarer was rushed into the dark, narrow path between the long building and the wall. She did not look down as she passed the dead body or back as she heard Isa dragging it out of sight. Once inside the back passage, she gripped Chap’s tail as if her life depended on never losing it.
They all hurried onward until Fareed halted at the building’s far corner and turned to Léshil.
“The gateway is twenty steps more,” he whispered, pointing around the building’s end.
Léshil returned a sharp nod, and Fareed spun around the corner. No one hesitated to follow, and as Chap pulled Wayfarer out of the passage, she saw the gateway ahead and released his tail. Her mind went blank as she crossed that distance walking on her own power.
The opening in the great wall had to be as tall as three or maybe four men. When she entered it behind the others, she saw a timber gate ahead that filled half or more of the opening’s height. And there were more guards, who all straightened at the sight of Fareed. Only one dared step forward to speak with him, and the pair spoke too softly for Wayfarer to hear, even if she could have understood them.
All of these guards wore brown tabards and red head wraps, but not one of them wore a gold—or even silver—sash. Pointing to the gate, the lead guard turned to bark at his companions. The others rushed to slide an immense brace beam, which made a crackling sound as it moved, and then the gate opened.
Fareed ushered Léshil out and into the city without a word, and remained where he stood.
Wayfarer followed, bracing on Chap again. They stepped out into a long, wide street.
Sandstone cobble stretched ahead into the darkness between the quiet buildings. She still did not make a sound—and feared to even look back—until she heard the immense gate close; almost instantly, a loud crack followed as the beam was slid back into place on the inside.
To be free was too much to believe, and when she turned her eyes from the gate to look ahead around—
A cloaked figure stepped out of a side street on the mainway’s right.
At first it was difficult to see, until it came far enough to be illuminated by the sparse street lanterns hanging on light chains strung from iron standing poles. Small and slender, it was most likely a woman, and Wayfarer felt there was something familiar about the way it—she—stepped purposefully up the street.
A long, loud horn pealed out in the night.
Wayfarer spun to look back as she heard shouts in Sumanese rising from somewhere beyond the closed gate. She heard grinding and then the thunder-thump of the inner beam being slid again. Before she even twisted back ahead—
“Run!” Léshil shouted.
* * *
Brot’ân’duivé had taken a vantage point several rooftops behind and to the south of Dänvârfij and Rhysís, and he had watched them throughout a tedious day and into the night. That Dänvârfij still hunted something meant that she might yet lead him to a way to retrieve Léshil and the others.
He could be en
dlessly patient, but after a long day in the heat he pulled a leather flask from the back of his tunic for a sparse sip. The flask barely touched his lips when a shadow rose up on that rooftop up ahead of him.
Dänvârfij was on her feet, fully exposed to anyone else upon the city’s heights. She faced away from him toward the imperial grounds. For someone of her training and experience, it was such a rash action.
Something had happened.
Before Brot’ân’duivé could tuck the flask away, he heard a loud horn reverberate in the night. The shadow of Rhysís rose beside Dänvârfij, and he pointed toward the grounds.
Cold calm filled Brot’ân’duivé. He shoved the flask away and jerked the tie on his right wrist sheath. A stiletto slid down out of his sleeve against his palm. For whatever reason, he knew that a moon of waiting was over.
* * *
From her hiding place down the main street, Wynn had watched Leesil and Magiere come out of the imperial gate. She’d nearly bolted out to them in a flood of relief, but Ghassan had grabbed the back of her cloak. She’d bitten her lower lip to keep from pulling out of his grasp. Even if he hadn’t been forthcoming about his methods, he had somehow achieved what he’d promised.
Wynn waited anxiously as Leesil led the way, but he was almost dragging Magiere along, as if she couldn’t walk on her own. Behind him, Leanâlhâm hobbled as she leaned with one hand on Chap’s shoulders.
Ghassan made Wynn wait until all four were clear and the gate was closed behind them.
“Now,” he whispered. “Quickly, but do not run and attract attention.”
Wynn needed no such urging. At first she thought to keep to the street side’s shadows, but then she might only startle Leesil. She stepped into the open, walked briskly, and at first no one appeared to notice her. Magiere’s head hung with her hair curtaining her face, and Leesil was focused on helping her. Then Leanâlhâm looked up.
Even in the dark, Wynn saw the girl’s bright green eyes widen. Any relief vanished as a horn bellowed in the night. Shouting rose beyond the gate, and Wynn heard a thundering clack. Leesil glanced back, said something to Leanâlhâm, and broke into a stumbling trot as he dragged Magiere.
