by Damien Lake
She looked away from the book at last. An annoyed expression graced her features, a fact Marik only noticed for less than a moment. The angle of her cheekbones quickly drove out all other thoughts. Her face had a narrow quality, unaccompanied by the sharp chin he usually associated with such. The dark brown eyes gazing at him were clearer than any others he had ever seen.
“In case it escaped your attention, I am reading.”
“Uh…yes, of course. I can see that. But I thought, since you’re alone, you might enjoy talking. I’m working as a bodyguard for one of the contenders in the tournament,” he added for some reason. Ever since the first sentence, he had no idea what might come out from his mouth next. Perhaps because he was too busy studying the way her lips moved, sensuous, light, forming the words of her response.
“Why else would you be here?” His duty obviously made no impression on her in the least. She blatantly returned to her book, making her point unequivocally. “And you better put a rein on your reserve brain. I am not for sale.” The last came out pointedly, with distinct emphasis.
“No, that’s…that’s not what I meant.”
The vision blessed him with her gaze a second time. “No? I find that hard to swallow.” She marked her page with one finger and shut the book over the exquisite digit. Her gaze, already icy, grew colder as she ordered, “So tell me then, exactly what it was you were after.”
Marik’s spine tingled as she fixed him with her stare. She expected a response, except his brain froze. While his mind fumbled with working out a smooth response, his mouth continued on. Interested, he listened to whatever it would say.
“Only…to talk for awhile. Like I said.” Marik winced inwardly. He sounded as inexperienced as he felt. “Everyone else is gambling or drinking or with the other…uh…other women.”
“That’s why I brought this,” she shot him down, holding up the tome. “And since that’s the second time you mentioned those ‘other women’, it’s obvious which of your brains is in control at the moment. I would like to finish this, so be a gentleman, and shove off.”
Cold disinterest exuded from her as she returned to her pages. Desperate, wishing his mouth would stop making a fool of him, he tried to repair the damage. “I never meant it that way! I was only—arggh!”
His sudden shout drew her gaze, but this time he took no notice of it. The tingling along his spine transformed into a dagger stabbing through his centerline. It had been long since he’d experienced this sensation, and he finally recognized it for what it was. Marik cursed himself for the worst breed of fool while he ran from the startled lady.
“Dietrik!” he bellowed, bursting into the hallway. His friend was nowhere to be seen. There was no time to wait. Marik ran fast into the dining room, erupting into young nobles still gathered and laughing. Harsh comments lashed at him which he ignored, pushing through the herd. Hilliard had gone up that stairway over there. So did Marik.
He ignored the demands for explanation and climbed with fevered speed. At the top where both staircases curved to meet, a long hallway lined with doors stretched into eternity. Where in the hells might Hilliard be in this mess? No time. No time. Gods, I hope I’m not already too late!
Adrenaline pumped through him. Without sparing a thought for it, he managed a feat he had never before successfully accomplished. Running down the hallway, he switched over to magesight. Then, going one step further, he drifted, letting his consciousness float through the walls while his body ran on automatically.
The first room to the right held a noble and one of the ladies. They were enjoying themselves on a high-backed couch. When he concentrated on the man’s features illuminated by his aura he knew it was not Hilliard. Faster than a striking hawk, he shot through the side wall into the next room along the hallway. Unoccupied, so he jumped across the hallway to examine the first room on the left.
Halfway down the hall, he finally found his charge. Marik’s body ran closer, still two doors away, a fact that would have turned his spine from cold straight to ice if his body’s sensations were available to him. Hilliard lay face down on a bed, unconscious for all Marik could tell. The woman who had led him away straddled his back. In the light from their auras, he saw the silhouette of a long knife in her hands. She raised it, and he returned to his body, forcing it to greater speed than he had ever demanded of it before.
Chapter 15
“Medicines! Cures for all your ills! No need to suffer when the gods have provided! Come and leave your ailments behind!”
A passing woman stopped long enough to pick out an envelope filled with powdered willow bark. Colbey handed her six Tullainian coppers as change from her ten-copper coin, then smiled warmly and wished her the best of the day. He resumed his calls until the sun disappeared behind Kallied’s skyline, succeeding in reeling in three additional fish from the passing crowd. When the last golden sliver dipped behind the turquoise domes of Markis-gune’s semi-palace, the merchants around him began packing away their remaining goods.
Colbey did as well, wishing to avoid attention. Martial law in Kallied under the invaders demanded that all merchant business cease with the setting of the sun. Careful to keep his hidden sword covered, Colbey opened the tinker’s pack to store the various medicines displayed on the blanket.
From behind where he knelt, a harsh bark of foreign syllables issued a demand. Colbey found an invader glaring at him. A woman accompanied him, dressed in typical Tullainian attire; loose white pants and the long-sleeved tunic that was actually a strange form of shirt with ankle-length tails hanging down the front and back.
The invader gave her a command in Traders that Colbey mostly understood. It suited him to pretend he did not.
She addressed him in Tullainian. “The soldier wishes to check your identity.”
This marked the first time Colbey had been asked. He’d been waiting for this to occur. With a reply in perfect Tullainian, he said, “Of course.” He displayed his hand for the invader to inspect. “Have I transgressed?”
“I don’t think so,” she told him, secure in a language beyond the soldier’s understanding. “He is randomly checking people.”
Colbey stood still, his calm, affable manner succeeding in projecting his innocence. After the invader inspected his forged tattoo, he barked a new question to the woman. To Colbey, it sounded like, “What did he say?”
“He only wished us well,” she replied. This satisfied the soldier, who nodded at Colbey.
Colbey bowed a formal Tullainian farewell, palms together, eyes downcast. His dark brown hair fell over his eyes, obscuring everything about the invader except his black steel greeves. After the man and his translator moved on, Colbey rose and brushed his hair back to clear his vision.
He should have cut it as soon as it had dried from its dying two days previous. Oh well. There had been more important matters on his mind.
Such as overcoming whatever illness persisted in hounding him. It must be a flu, though his temperature seemed to remain steady. Except that could be hard to judge. Everything about Tullainia was hotter than Galemar. In a land with far fewer trees and five times as much dust, gauging by his normal standards would produce skewed results.
As soon as he had entered Kallied in the middle of the night, he’d broken into an apothecary. The lands around the city were devoid of the specific plants that would ease his odd sickness. Since time was a matter of concern, he’d kept his search restricted to the terrain near him while traveling, planning to acquire what he needed after sneaking past the security ringing Kallied.
Once inside the apothecary, Colbey changed his plans. He took what he needed, also grabbing the dye for his hair before proceeding to rob the small shop of every herb he recognized. The tinker who previously owned the pack had specialized in small repairs. Colbey refused to waste his time in the enemy’s camp by spending the days repairing some murderer’s boot soles.
With his new stock, he visited several taverns. Careful questioning taught him t
he regulations surrounding peddlers these days, and one unconscious drunkard’s hand had yielded Kallied’s tattoo. In the morning he set out his blanket as close to sites of possible interest as he could manage. Today he sat half a block from a military headquarters, and only three streets away from the former high-lord’s semi-palace.
Merchants with stalls were untying sheet boards, letting them fall with loud clacks over the windows. A quick glance around ensured that everyone tended to their own matters. Colbey strapped his sword to the pack with uncanny speed. He hoisted it quickly onto his back. The blade was sandwiched between the large pack and his spine, his head concealing the protruding hilt.
Kallied’s citizens had not been aquatinted with cheer since falling under conqueror’s law, yet heads still nodded in greeting when Colbey walked past. Still smiling, he nodded back or wished them a pleasant evening. After half a mile he ducked into an alley devoid of people.
The smile disappeared at once. His affable manner and friendly demeanor were instantly replaced by his customary coldness. Control. Simple as that. A smile was only a stretching of muscles, and yet these outlanders were always eager to be undone by one. Imitating a pleasant tone was little different than imitating the sounds of the wild forest denizens around his home.
Night descended, and work lay ahead of him. The previous night he had scouted. Tonight he would expand on the particulars he had noticed.
Already he’d learned much during his two days in Kallied. From his previous investigations around Tullainia he recognized the differences in the invaders’ uniforms. While peddling in the streets today he had seen a high number of uniforms belonging to officers. The belief that Kallied served as the central base for the invaders proved justified.
But how long would that be the case? From a hundred minute signs, this army prepared to move. Not for a heartbeat did he believe they were returning to whatever hellhole had spawned them. They must be pushing further toward the border. North to Perrisan, or east to Galemar? That, as yet, remained an open question.
Colbey climbed a vine covered wall to perch atop a roof overlooking a different merchant square. Last night he’d followed two carts that had exited a supply gate in the wall surrounding the high-lord’s residence. They had come to this place. Tullainians had driven the horse-pulled the carts, not invaders.
Closer examination in the late night candlemarks suggested they belonged to a merchant who supplied the residence with food. Only an outlander, he thought in disgust, would cave in to invaders who had stolen his home. And only an outlander would hope to profit from it instead of utilizing his energies to fight back.
Still, this information could be profitable for him, if not the merchant. Colbey seriously doubted all the food for the high-lord’s palace would be provided by a single merchant, but any knowledge regarding supply lines outshone gold’s value.
The same two carts came around a corner, driven by the same men. Colbey tweaked his vision, enabling him to closer study the clothing worn by the drivers. No visible tags or identification were displayed. Too bad. If the soldiers guarding the gates merely required an identification emblem, Colbey could have stolen these drivers’ tags to gain entry.
That was the biggest problem facing him. He could sit on their doorstep until winter and only learn so much. Colbey needed a way inside the palace structures. Since Kallied served as the primary hub in the wheel of the invaders’ army, it only stood to reason that the leaders would have confiscated the palace for their own uses. The hundreds of soldiers allocated to the palace’s security, exceeding those guarding the city walls, supported that assumption.
Calm. Patience. There must be a way to find what I need. I refuse to accept otherwise.
The drivers pulled into a small courtyard attached to the merchant’s building. They shut the gate, unhooked the horses and led them away to a small stable around the back.
These carts? Possibly. Perhaps he could hide among the food barrels and pass the guards. That would also mean hiding from the porters loading the carts. Doubtful he could manage that.
Still, it bore investigating. After waiting two additional marks for full dark and curfew to take effect, Colbey climbed across the rooftops to drop onto the cart. Nearby stood a loading door into the merchant’s storage house. No lock bared his way, the foolish outlander trusting to the lock on the gate to keep out trespassers.
Inside, the storage house was rather small as such structures went. The far wall contained a minor hive of small iron doors, each with massive padlocks. Food barrels destined for the palace only crowded the area immediately inside the doors. Colbey’s opinion of the merchant dropped further.
Obviously the man’s business in perishables had only recently been launched. Before the invasion he must have made his fortune trading gems or expensive jewelry or other useless trinkets small enough to be locked away behind the iron doors. With unescorted travel outside the city equal to a death sentence, he’d switched over to selling the invaders food to keep the coins flowing into his greedy palms. A selfish, indulgent outlander to be certain.
Colbey inspected the barrel closest to the door to find the top unsealed. He lifted the circular lid. Flour. The cost for such a common item had become unbelievable lately since shipments from Tullainia’s farms were under the strict control of the invaders. Given current prices, this barrel could sell for ten silvers.
He dropped the lid back, prompting a floury puff to cloud the air momentarily. Nothing else in the storage house proved interesting. Most importantly, he could see no way to conceal himself inside any crate or barrel and sneak past the soldiers.
Patience. It is has ever been the Guardians’ watchword. Blind actions birth nothing but mistakes. I will continue studying the security around the palace again this night. I will eventually find a way inside. Rushing will solve nothing.
He was reaching for the door handle when a new voice countered the first, a voice echoing up from deep inside, not merely within his mind. Words that rang though his entire self. Why wait? I may not be able to strike a deathblow, but a weak enemy is easier to fell than a strong one, is it not? And if I weaken them now, will they not be easier to destroy later?
The surging fog roiled in his head, clouding his vision’s edges, obscuring all except for the barrel. From a far distance, he thought he could hear Liam and Sylvia agreeing with him.
He quickly found what he wanted in the pack. A fair quantity of cyanide had also been lifted from the apothecary. No doubt meant to decrease the rat population in people’s homes, it would serve a far nobler purpose.
Colbey emptied the entire paper envelope into the flour. The paper, rolled into a stiff tube, worked well to mix the poison until the top layer of flour looked ordinary.
He left the merchant’s storage room. Though he’d taken a solid step toward his goal, a strangely hollow void yawned within his gut, as it had after killing the white-robe in Durrac. It must be this flu, he decided. A hard shake of his head, a deep breath to settle his body, then he departed for the palace to spend the evening in further study.
* * * * *
Time was passing too slowly. Time was passing too quickly.
Marik forced his legs to pump harder. The muscles in his calves strained to push his weight forward, taunt from the relentless exertion he demanded. Still one doorway away, he knew he could never cross the last twenty feet in time.
This doorway was flanked by small potted trees. Marik cursed. They hid the doorframe so he could not see if the hinges were on the inside or the out. All he could do was hope. And pray.
He came within feet of his goal. Enough time had passed for the trees to sprout a few new leaves. Blood pounded through his eardrums. A molding strip covering the crack formed where the two doors in the frame met. That must mean they swung inward, right? The strip on one door would block the other from opening outward.
Marik never glanced at the handle. He knew it would be locked. Shifting his weight, he smashed into the side nearest t
o him. A splintering crash sounded when the molding ripped away down the center, the door flying inward as if borne by a hurricane. The fractured door made a thunderous bang when it struck the wall.
The impact killed his momentum. He stumbled across the threshold. A flurry of long hair whirled in a dervish across the room as the woman’s head spun to face him. Amazingly, she had not killed Hilliard yet.
Yet.
She was naked to the waist, her legs straddling Hilliard’s back. Her raised hand held the long knife he’d seen from the etheric silhouetted in her aura’s glow.
Marik charged her. She evaluated her situation in a heartbeat.
He saw when she reached back in preparation to swinging a wide arc. Marik instantly judged his options. His battle experience told him not to underestimate her. The mail under his shirt could protect him from most strikes her blade was capable of, but a skilled knifesman could also negate its protections.
Her arm movement suggested a diagonal slash upward, a strike that could instantly switch into any number of follow-up attacks. She might intend to skirt the blade along his torso to his unprotected neck. She could slash across his eyes. She could stab into his face. With his sword corded, he could never draw it before she killed both him and Hilliard.
His instincts took over and launched his next action. Marik jumped at the woman. He turned in the air as he flew like a catapult-flung boulder, presenting his back to the slashing knife.
The impact jarred through him. He’d succeeded in surprising her. Her blow was wasted when her blade struck the sheathed sword slung across his back. His ribs felt the knife’s tip digging in until his mail prevented it from piercing further.
Marik struggled for balance as he fell back against her. He scrambled to keep from falling when his legs bounced off the couch’s side.
She was knocked off Hilliard to the floor. Despite the shock, she retained the grip on her blade. The woman landed softer than Marik could believe and regained her feet in an instant, ready to spring.
