Travil nodded. Lem had already told him this three times, but he was determined that there would be no heroics. Lem pointed to the broader of the two large buildings, in whose basement the cells were located—the most likely place they would be holding Shemi.
Lem caught movement from the corner of his left eye. The door to the rear tower was opening. He froze; then reached back and placed a hand on Travil’s chest while drawing his dagger with the other. The sentry paused for a moment to rub the back of his neck and stretch.
“Bloody patrol,” the guard mumbled, unhappily. “Not worth the coin coming all the way out here.”
“Stop your complaining,” a voice shouted from within the tower. “Sooner you get done, the sooner you can sit back down on your lazy ass.”
Lem and Travil pressed their bodies to the inner edge of the rampart. He could feel the big man’s muscles tensing, ready to spring. The guard, unaware of the danger, was peering down at the buildings as he moved along at a sluggish pace.
Keep looking away. Just a few more feet.
Before Lem could act, Travil leapt from the shadows, and in a blur of motion, reached the unsuspecting guard. Lem watched in amazement as he covered the man’s mouth and snapped his neck before he could let out the slightest cry. He then tossed the body outside the wall. The slight hiss of a blade being drawn was all that Lem heard as Travil crouched low and approached the tower door. Lem followed but could not catch up before Travil entered and closed the door behind him. There was a dull thud and a gurgled cry. A moment later the door reopened, and Travil waved Lem over.
Inside the tower, the source of the voice lay on the floor with blood gushing from an open wound in his throat, his sword pulled halfway from its scabbard.
Travil placed a finger to his lips and crossed over to a descending staircase. After a few seconds he nodded sharply, satisfied no one was left.
“Assuming the rest of this lot is not more attentive,” Travil said, “we should be able to get in and out quickly enough.”
Lem was still stunned by what he had witnessed. “What kind of soldier were you?”
“A good one,” Travil replied grimly.
“I can see that.”
Suddenly he was liking their chances a bit more.
Travil glanced over to the body. “It’s been a long time since I drew blood. I swore to Kylor I’d never do it again.”
“I think he’ll forgive you under the circumstances,” Lem said. “Get Shemi out and I’ll see that the High Cleric himself gives you absolution.”
“Just make sure Shemi understands why I did it.” Though Travil’s expression was dark, his eyes were pained. He truly did not want Shemi to know the violence within him.
“You have my word.”
They took the stairs to the ground level, and Lem peeked out. There was a rear entrance to the building Travil was to search. Lem nodded for him to go first and waited until he saw that it was unlocked and Travil vanish inside before exiting.
Now alone, he felt the tingle of shadow walk, and was better able to focus his mind. Still, he kept close to the wall as a precaution. If Travil caused a loud enough commotion, it might draw more guards. He spotted another sentry walking at the far rampart and waited until he was turned away to cross the twenty yards to the side of the building. Slipping his hands into the cracks in the stone, he climbed to a window overhead, and holding tight to the upper edge, gained purchase on the sill. The window was locked, but a well-placed blade remedied the situation.
Lem stepped inside and shut the window behind him. His heart was pounding wildly, and sweat slicked his face and brow. But just as they were the first time he’d killed, his hands were steady as stone. He rarely noticed this anymore. But now, as he attempted to kill one of the deadliest people in Lamoria, he was once again conscious of the steadiness. Beyond simply aware, he was thankful for it. Underestimating Gylax would be as foolish as Gylax underestimating the Blade of Kylor. He didn’t think Travil would succeed, even with his unexpected proficiency. Gylax would assume Lem would try to save Shemi rather than hand himself over to their vengeance. That the security was as loose as it was told him as much. Gylax wanted Lem to be able to get in. That was why the rear rampart was not teeming with guards.
Hopefully he wouldn’t expect him to have enlisted aid. Why would he? The Blade of Kylor was a solitary creature. The Order would have done its research. If they were able to find the Keep, as well as learn that Lem was the Blade, they would be familiar with his methods.
The room he was in looked to be a bedchamber, though the bed had no mattress and was tilted against the wall. The dim light revealed a few scant furnishings, but nothing of particular interest.
He crossed to the exit and listened. Voices were coming from somewhere outside. There were three chambers where Gylax might be if he were in the building: one downstairs, the other two on the third floor. The rest were guest quarters and storage, for the most part, and almost all were empty.
Lem eased open the door. Two young men in common attire were talking at an open door halfway down the corridor. Though they looked innocent, Lem knew that they were likely members of the Order. They would die even if that weren’t the case. But killing assassins didn’t weigh as heavily on his conscience.
He slipped out and, keeping low, reached for one of the darts in his pouch. The pair was discussing a holiday they intended to take when their business was finished at the Keep. Once within ten feet, Lem flicked the dart at the man farthest away, simultaneously rushing toward the one nearest. His blade sank into his victim’s back, the power of the vysix blade only allowing the slightest of murmurs to escape before the body crumpled lifelessly to the floor. The second man clutched at his shoulder, eyes wide. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. Lem plucked out the dart and eased him to a seated position, then dragged him inside the open room.
“Is Gylax here?” Lem asked, in a low voice. “Blink if he is. Or die, if you’d rather.”
The man blinked.
“Is he upstairs?” When his eyelids didn’t move, Lem asked: “Downstairs?”
The man blinked again. Lem took his hand and made a tiny cut. None he encountered could be left alive. He would take no chances. He dragged the other body inside and shut the door. The blood on the floor would be a giveaway should someone happen by, but there was nothing to be done about that.
There were two stairways leading to the ground level. One would leave him near the banquet hall, but there was a greater chance of it being watched. The servant stairs was not a wise choice either, as it would be close to the kitchen, and force him to kill a large number of people along the way. Of course, there was no way to really know which path was best. With each step, he was coming to realize how much he had depended on the research he would normally do before completing an assignment. This was walking blindly into danger. He’d been fortunate to have knowledge of the Keep. But this was his sole advantage.
There were a few more people about, mostly servants and a few younger members of the Order. It was no challenge to avoid detection as long as he kept to the shadows. The carpeted floors muffled any sound, though his custom footwear would have done this adequately.
The stairwell was unwatched, salving some of his anxiety. But by the time he reached the bottom, the boisterous laughter and clatter of glasses and silverware raised it once again.
He peered around the corner. Two guards were standing at the end of a long corridor. Beyond would be the foyer, and at the rear, the entrance to the banquet hall. Lem moved to a point where he could see beyond the guards. Two more were on the opposite end, and he could make out one near the archway at the rear, but there was certainly another, though he could not see him from his vantage point.
He grimaced at the thought of what he’d need to do in order to get through. The one time he’d tried it, he had failed and been forced to kill the guards. But that was before he’d had his footwear made. They had heard his steps then. This time they wouldn�
�t.
As he steadied his nerves, an idea formed. An insane idea. But then, everything about this was insane.
Lem straightened his back and shoved his dagger into its scabbard. If it didn’t work, he’d be no worse off. With long confident strides, he started to the exit, passing the guards without so much as a sideways glance.
“You there,” shouted one.
Lem affected an annoyed expression. “Yes?”
“Servants are to use the south stairs.”
Lem huffed. “Do I look like a servant?” He took a menacing step forward. “What’s your name?”
“Immiel,” the man replied, looking unsure and slightly taken aback by Lem’s overtly aggressive disposition.
“I presume you don’t know mine.”
“No,” he stammered.
“By morning you will.” Lem spun abruptly and walked away, leaving the guards dumbfounded.
Despite his arrogant tone and poised gait, his heart was thudding in his ears, and controlling his breathing was almost impossible. Still, it had worked … so far. But these were hired swords. There was no reason for them to know what Lem looked like. Most of them likely had no idea why they were there other than to stand around, mindlessly watching the doorways for signs of trouble, and to obey the members of the Order.
He expected to again be stopped by the men standing by the archway leading to the banquet hall, but they only gave him a polite nod. Oddly, Farley’s words popped into his head. They had been at a birthday celebration for a young noble, one to which they had not been invited.
“Behave as if you belong, and people rarely question you,” Farley had said.
Lem had never thought he would apply this to an assassination. But given who he was about to kill—try to kill—that Farley’s advice helped him along was fitting.
The commotion of the meal grew louder as he traveled down the vaulted passage. The way was poorly lit, with only a few torches burning in the sconces. He could now see the long table and make out a few of the diners passing wine and platters about.
The tingle of shadow walk returned, and he moved closer to the wall. Unlike the barren nature of the rest of the Keep, the room ahead was bedecked with lavish tapestries and an assortment of artworks, all depicting scenes from the Book of Kylor. Two delicate crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, their value enough to empty the coffers of a rich man. Gold figurines were set into small niches on the rear wall, just above a pair of doors leading to a courtyard where guests could let their meal settle.
Lem eased his way close enough to get a good look at the occupants. There were about twenty men and women, certainly all high-ranking members of the Order of the Red Star. In the center chair sat the man he had come for.
Clad in a lavender shirt with a ruffled collar and sleeves was Gylax. He sported a pair of gold hoops in each ear, and on his fingers were rings of diamond, emerald, and ruby. He appeared young, no more than forty, though Lem was sure he was far older. He had a ruddy complexion, deeply set eyes, and a square face that matched his slightly above average build. Lem had not been sure what to expect. Someone more … sinister? Gylax could have been mistaken for nothing more imposing than a wealthy merchant or minor noble.
He was just out of range of Lem’s dart, and getting close enough for a blade was suicide. Too many eyes. He wouldn’t make it three steps before someone would inadvertently look in his direction. This left one option. And three steps were all he needed.
There was the problem of escape. But he’d deal with that once Gylax was gone.
Lem removed a dart from his pouch and focused his concentration on the target. Gylax was holding up a goblet, head thrown back in laughter, attention drawn to someone over to his right. Lem picked the exact spot from where he would attack.
Don’t miss. Don’t look back. Do it and run.
The muscles in his legs twitched with anticipation.
Be accurate. Be calm. He’s just a man. You are the Blade of Kylor. You are death. And his death has arrived.
With three rapid steps, Lem entered the hall. At once his shadow walk dissipated as startled eyes fell upon him. He let fly the dart, only pausing long enough to see if he’d been on the mark. He had. It had struck the target just below his heart.
Lem sprang left and ran directly at the gathering. Taking advantage of the confusion, he jumped atop the table and then again toward the courtyard door. The enclosure was not designed to be anything more than a private place to relax, and the walls were low enough to scale easily. From there, reaching the roof of the Keep wouldn’t be a challenge. Dropping to the ground would be a risk, but one he’d have to take.
The enclosure was about fifty feet in diameter, sporting an assortment of benches and tables with a white marble fountain placed in the center. Lem felt a cold knot in his stomach as a man stepped out from behind this, bow drawn and ready. Lem could not see his face from within the shadow of the fountain, only the teeth of a vicious grin.
“Well done,” the man said. “Well done indeed.”
Lem slid to a halt, eyes searching for a way to escape. But at this range, he would not stand a chance. The stomping of feet and furious voices were coming from the hall.
“Hold him,” the man said. “But do not hurt him.”
Two pair of strong hands gripped his arms, and the tip of a blade pressed into his back. His only thought was the hope that Travil had already secured Shemi and taken him outside the Keep.
The man lowered the bow and placed it on the ground. “Your reputation is well earned.”
He was a thin man with dark brown skin and a bald head. Clad in a loose-fitting pair of gray trousers and a blue open-necked shirt, he looked to be in his late fifties, though as fit as a man years younger. Unlike most of the others in the banquet hall, he was wearing no jewelry and the cloth of his attire was common cotton rather than silks or satins. “Unfortunately for you, mine is also.”
Realization struck Lem like a fist to the head. “Gylax.”
Gylax gave a sweeping formal bow. “At your service. And you are the legendary Blade of Kylor. Or do you prefer Lem?”
Lem sniffed. “What does it matter? You have me where you want me. You’ve won. Get this over with.”
“Brave words,” Gylax said. He pointed to the crowd gathered behind Lem. “One of you tell the client that our guest has arrived.” He then tilted his head at the men holding Lem, who removed his dagger and pouch and then shackled his hands in front.
“So you intend to torture me first?” Lem asked. The prospect had occurred to him, should he be caught. The Order was known to make traitors suffer mightily. Farley had told him several stories about it, no doubt to keep him in line, though Lem did not doubt their veracity.
Gylax waved a hand, smiling. “I would not dream of it. Not one so protected as you.”
“What do you mean, protected?”
“Leave us,” he called to the others.
Lem looked over his shoulder at the gathering. Hateful eyes, enraged by the death of their comrade, stared back at him. Most muttered curses, and a few spat on the floor, but they obeyed their master. Once alone, Gylax took a seat at one of the nearby tables, gesturing for Lem to do the same. When Lem hesitated, he said, “You should relax. If I wanted you dead, you’d never have made it this far. And if you’re concerned for your uncle, I removed all the guards so your companion could free him and get him out without a problem.”
Lem felt a shiver in his spine. Gylax knew precisely every move Lem had made. He’d even set a decoy, knowing when Lem would strike. “They have nothing to do with this.”
Gylax held up a hand. “I know. I only held your uncle to ensure you would come. An interesting fellow, I must say. Fiercely loyal to you. You’re lucky to have him.”
“If you aren’t going to kill me, why am I here?”
Gylax leaned back in his chair. “Oh, I had intended to kill you. Our laws demand you answer for Farley’s death. Betrayal is a crime with only one penalt
y.”
“Farley deserved his fate.”
“Many times over,” he agreed. “But that isn’t the way the Order sees it.”
“I was never a member of the Order,” Lem pointed out.
“You worked for Farley,” he countered. “And Farley was with us. He might have been a loathsome scoundrel, but then you can’t expect assassins to be the most righteous of people, now can you?”
“Farley was human refuse. He tricked me into this life and then he manipulated me into staying. If I could, I’d have watched him die.”
“You’re a hard man,” Gylax said. “Nothing like the way Farley described. But then, this life can do that to the best of us.”
“So, if I’m not here to die, could you get to why I am here?”
“Certainly.” He plucked a folded paper from within his shirt. “I was contracted to find and secure you.”
Lem narrowed his eyes at this unusual statement. “You personally?” It was practically unheard of for the head of the Order to receive contracts directly. It would take a king, queen, or some other powerful noble to do this.
“Yes,” he affirmed. “I was quite put out initially. We thought you’d been executed along with Farley. The High Cleric was most effective in concealing the truth. Had it not been for my client, I’d have never known you still lived.”
“Who is your client?”
“You’ll see in a few minutes. He retires early. And he’ll want to look his best.” He looked up toward the entrance to the banquet hall and waved someone over. “There’s an old friend who would like to see you first.”
“Are the shackles necessary?” a woman’s voice said.
“This, my dear, is the Blade of Kylor. I haven’t lived this long by being careless.”
A figure in a green and silver gown whisked by and stood at Gylax’s back.
“Vilanda?” Lem said, taken aback.
She looked much as she did when they had last spoken, the night she’d left the troupe and given him the vysix dagger. Only now she did not appear pained, and was wearing a warm smile.
“It’s good to see you, Lem.”
A Chorus of Fire Page 22
