by JANRAE FRANK
As Clemmerick carefully eased his huge frame through the door and down the stairs, he heard weeping. Setting his pail aside, Clemmerick got onto his hands and knees, peering under and around the kegs and bottles. He spied Josh huddled in a corner where the empty kegs had been removed, two empty bottles of Iradrim Whiskey, a strong dwarven brew, lay near his feet, and he was struggling to open a third.
"Gods, Josh! You must have more booze than blood in your veins!"
"Not there yet," Josh mumbled as he wrested the cork from the bottle.
Clemmerick took the bottle away from him with gentle firmness. "Are you trying to kill yourself or something?"
"Aejys is dead," Josh sobbed, then he staggered up and headed for the rack of whiskey bottles. "You ken have that one, I take a different one."
"Aejys isn't dead," Clemmerick said patiently. "She was asleep when I carried her home."
"Was! So yer admitting she's dead." Josh pulled down two bottles, nearly got hit with a third that toppled as he released the rack. Clemmerick caught the rack and steadied it as it started to follow the bottle.
"I did not say that," Clemmerick sighed, settling cross-legged with his lunch pail lodged between groin and feet. As he lifted a keg of beer down without moving from his spot, Clemmerick had a feeling that, although it had been a long day, it would be a still longer night. He broke open the cask, lifted it to his lips and took a long drink, then started on his sandwiches.
"I love Aejys," Josh sobbed.
"You ever tell her that?"
"Uh uh." Josh tried to shake his head, but the movement made his head throb.
"You ever going to tell her?"
"She's dead!"
"But just suppose for a moment that she was not dead," Clemmerick took a bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. "Would you ever tell her?"
"She's dead! You admit she's dead!" Josh suddenly shrieked.
"I did not say that. That's not what I meant. Answer my question, Josh, please. If I took you to her right now, would you tell her?"
"No!" Josh got the cork out and almost got the bottle to his mouth before Clemmerick snagged it.
Clemmerick now had two open bottles of whiskey and a half-finished keg of beer leaning on his legs. He had no idea where Josh had thrown the whiskey corks so he could not re-stopper them. An ingrained abhorrence of wasted food and drink assailed him. One thing was certain: he was not going to return the bottles to Josh, which left only one option: he drank them himself. The two bottles of whiskey hit harder than the entire keg of beer, and the ogre, unprepared for anything that strong, almost choked getting it down. He wondered how such a puny, wasted person as Josh could consume so much.
Whenever Clemmerick's attention strayed, Josh opened another bottle. Each time Clemmerick discovered this, he took the bottle away and drank it himself. And so the evening wore away into night.
Toward midnight a tiny form opened the cellar door and peered down. "What's going on?" Grymlyken asked, cautiously descending the stairs.
"Lilest frin'," Clemmerick spoke sloshily, "lilest frin'."
Grymlyken yelped and tried to run back up the stairs as Clemmerick reached for him. He had never seen a drunken ogre before and did not want to now. Clemmerick caught him, lifted Grymlyken up, and thrust him into his shirt pocket. Clemmerick shoved a bottle into the pixie's face and Grymlyken was forced to drink or be drowned. Fortunately, more of the brew got on him than in him.
Grymlyken's eyes bulged, he choked, his throat and insides burned, his head went light and the world tilted. "Aejys still shlepin'," Grymlyken tried to clamp his hand over his mouth, aghast at his slurred speech and missed on the first attempt. "Ssssana ... lady ... ajan. Wants ev'won atter posts. Fendible. When Aejys wakes up."
Josh's head came up. "Wakes up? She's alive?"
"Din I jus say that?" Grymlyken asked.
Josh's mind slid away from the booze. Clarity slid in. He stood unsteadily. "I want ta see 'er."
"Can't go bustinin at this hour," Clemmerick said. He picked Josh up and climbed out of the cellar.
Soon they stood beneath Aejys' second story window. Clemmerick lifted Josh to the window so he could see in. The window was open to let in fresh air. Josh wormed through the curtains which settled around his head and shoulders like a pale veil. He squinted and watched closely.
Tamlestari rose, stretching her slender frame and yawning as Cassana replaced her in the chair by the bed. "Get me up, Amita Sana, when she wakes again."
Cassana nodded. "I will."
Neither of them noticed the Sot leaning in the window.
Josh straightened, freeing himself of the curtains. "Lil' frin is right. Jest sleepin'."
Clemmerick started to lower Josh, but he lost his balance, nearly falling out of the ogre's hands. Clemmerick clutched frantically, managing to keep from dropping him, but the jostling triggered Josh's stomach and he threw up all over himself, Grymlyken, and the ogre. Clemmerick's own stomach heaved in reaction, but he managed to restrain it for the moment. He staggered back toward the barn, desperately hoping to reach a discrete place to release it. Clemmerick wanted to bury his face in a pile of straw in a far corner, but did not make it before starting to vomit himself. Soon they were all sweat-drenched and retching in the night.
* * * *
Wilstryn Hornbow was a long, lanky figure in the black silk robes and breeches of an arms merchant with a patch over her dead eye. Assassins Guild healers, while they could not restore the lost eye, had removed all signs of scarring from the old wound. She caught her long ink-black hair back in a brass clip. Her face was slightly beaky with a pointed, forward thrust nose, large white teeth with a slight overbite and small, narrow chin. She had always reminded Tagalong of a stork; an impression she used when she wished to be under-estimated. When she wanted to she could move with a lithe elegance that tended to draw attention. And like an exquisite chameleon she could shift, almost before all watching eyes, into a swan and back again into the duckling as mood or need required: all tools of the assassin. Wilstryn Hornbow left her companions at a nearby tavern and rode on to the castle gates alone. The guards knew Wilstryn, for she had been a regular at the castle since Aejys brought her home for Solstice Break one year. She called to them that she was there to see Laeoli brye Rowan and was admitted.
Huge tapestries of hunting scenes hung over the walls of the great hall of Castle Rowan. Five chandeliers, larger around than cartwheels, lit the room. A small group of young nobles clustered at a table near the far end, armed and dressed for hunting. Two young men in short silken robes occupied the soft chairs, well-shaped legs drawn up and folded beneath them; beardless, for Sharani males had little or no body and facial hair. They listened, intently appreciative, to the young nobles' excited descriptions of the hunt which was liberally sprinkled with outright bragging. A youth with her hair shorn close to her head sat down on the chair arm, leaning suggestively against the younger male while describing the way her spear had entered the boar. He flushed and shrank away from her. She and the others laughed. A youth in red leather, standing near the back, frowned. She stepped forward and took the besieged young mon by the hand. "Come on, little brother," she said, flinging a stinging glance at her companions. "Things are getting a bit rowdy for you here. Next thing you know they'll be passing you around like a party favor."
An older mon leaned against a wall at the outside edge of the gathered youths, arms folded comfortably, smiling to herself at the way the younger ones ran on and on. She wore old stained hunting leathers and cuffed great boots, a hand axe rode against her hip thrust through her belt. Ladonys Dovane arn Rowan was large, big-boned and heavily muscled. A shade less tall than her na'halaef, lifemate, Aejystrys brye Rowan, she was far broader through the shoulders and had once lifted a fallen horse off its unfortunate rider.
As Wilstryn entered the great hall Ladonys spotted her. She detached herself from her companions, striding swiftly across the main hall. "What news, Wilstryn?"
"
Where's Laeoli?"
"Up in her room changing. We hunted this morning," Ladonys told her. "Huh! If I hadn't been along some of these youngsters wouldn't have come home in one piece. Why that last boar was... Something's wrong, isn't it?"
Wilstryn looked uncomfortable. "I came myself because it isn't good. I want to tell you both at the same time."
"Aejys?" Shadows gathered in the big woman's face, her lips thinning into a taut line.
"And Brendorn. I'm sorry, my old friend, to be bringing this news." Wilstryn regarded Ladonys gently as the woman's strong face went suddenly pale. "I only want to say this once, please."
"Both of them ... dear gods!" Ladonys hissed, mastering herself, "Come on then," Ladonys took Wilstryn's arm and walked her up the stairs to Laeoli's rooms in the west wing.
The slender girl stood in the center of the room buckling on her sword belt. Quiver and bow lay in the middle of her broad curtained bed beside the discarded hunting leathers. She fumbled with the belt, failing twice to get the metal tongue through the eye. Her face was flushed and streaked with wet as if from weeping, with a small cry she threw the belt, sword, and all across the room. The blade struck a mirror, shattering it.
Wilstryn threw a concerned look at Ladonys who shook her head, but there was no mistaking the worry and pain deepening steadily in the ha'taren's face.
"Yours first," Ladonys said.
Laeoli noticed them and straightened, pulling herself together with obvious effort. Wilstryn saw then that her godchild now stood taller than Ladonys, she would have Aejys' height, but with Ladonys' heavier build, giving her a heavy, yet raw-boned look, and she had her sire's dark green eyes.
"Ma'aram?" Laeoli asked, she saw the grave expression in their eyes and looked again from face to face. "What has happened?"
Wilstryn gripped the girl's shoulders and inclined her head. "Laeoli, your sire is dead and your ma'aram grievously wounded. She may not live."
"How?" Ladonys demanded, her voice heavy with anguish: it had been her idea to send Brendorn to fetch Aejys, certain that his woodcraft would get them through where others could not. She sank into a large chair, gripping the clawed arms hard enough to turn her knuckles white. "Were they on their way back?"
Wilstryn shook her head.
"Amita Margren did this, didn't she," Laeoli looked stunned, but in control, reminding Wilstryn of Aejys at that age. "Hasn't she done enough already?"
"Not while you live, she hasn't," Ladonys spat, turning to Wilstryn, "Go on."
"That renegade duelist, Farendarc, killed Brendorn. Aejys killed Farendarc. My sources did not give me good odds on her recovery. Yes, Laeoli, I believe Margren hired Farendarc, but I do not have any hard evidence. She could not do it through the Guild, we owe Aejys too much. Just a gut instinct and my own observations over the years. And no, they were not on their way back yet." Wilstryn pulled a folded parchment from her pocket. "My agent in Vorgensburg sent me this. It arrived a day ago. I rode a horse to death getting here. Judge for yourself." Wilstryn handed it to Laeoli. "The original is held by Cassana brye Odaren in your ma'aram's household."
Laeoli paled reading it. "Hell shitting damnation!" she hissed, passing the parchment to Ladonys, "You think M is Margren?"
"Yes. But as I said, I don't have the kind of hard evidence your grandma'aram would need to be convinced of Margren's treachery."
Laeoli moved to stand beside Ladonys, putting her hand on her wombmother's shoulder supportively. "Margren has tried to kill my ma'aram. Twice. At least."
"We suspect that, yes," the assassin said.
"I don't know what to do, but there must be something."
Wilstryn shook her head. "I don't know. I could take her out, but Aejys would get blamed. Now, give me your news."
Laeoli faltered, then forced the words out, "Esreth, my wynderjyn, is dead."
"Dead?" Wilstryn's expression hardened in shock. "How?"
"Three days after the bonding..." Ladonys broke in, tears starting in her hard old eyes. "The mare's throat was torn out. There was no sound, no disturbance, none of the other animals, none of the hostlers, no one and nothing, knew anything, heard anything, saw anything until Laeoli found her."
"Gods!" The assassin hissed, gazing now at the door, "You should run away, Laeoli, my people can hide you."
"Not from Margren. I tried that once."
Wilstryn nodded. "Why hadn't she bonded earlier? I mean you both bonded at ten."
"Wilstryn, every year when it came time for Laeoli to ride with the others to the wynderjyn meadows, she fell ill. Finally Sonden moved her into the quarters next to his. He fixed her meals himself, everything – nothing left to chance. Laeoli did not become ill, instead she bonded."
"Poison?"
"I think so," Laeoli interjected grimly. "But none of the Readers could find it in my system."
"Something we haven't encountered before, then. You should have said something. My people know more about poisons than yours will ever know."
"I ... don't doubt it."
Wilstryn nodded. It figured that Margren would arrange that considering how vulnerable it would render Laeoli during the most intensely distracted period of bonding. "I think you should run away, Laeoli. If you could reach Doronar under your own powers I could hide you. We have mages there. But I dare not risk my people being caught with you in Shaurone."
"That would break grandma'aram's heart..."
"She would be worse hurt if you died at Margren's hands. I owe your ma'aram my life. I will die for you if need be, Laeoli. But I would rather not."
"I would never ask that of you."
Wilstryn smiled thinly. "Then run away, Laeoli. At the Arris River cut your hand and leave your bloody shirt there. Let them think an animal got you. That will stop them searching."
"We have discussed this before, Laeoli," Ladonys told her, "You must run away. But it must be arranged so as to discourage a full scale search for you."
"But people ... Grandma'aram will blame my Amita."
"If she does it will suit me fine!" Ladonys snarled. "It's about time Margren's actions caught up with her!"
"Possibly, but I doubt we could be that fortunate." Wilstryn sat on a low table, drawing one leg up and propping her elbow on it, "If you follow my instructions, she'll think an animal got you."
"More and more, child, I think this is the only way." Ladonys rose and clasped Laeoli to her chest. "You may be all I have left and I want you safe above all else."
"I must think about this..." Laeoli responded uncertainly.
"I will contact you, Ladonys, when the opportune time presents itself." Wilstryn rose and went to the window, leaning out the sill. "Laeoli, think about this. Think hard." Then Wilstryn Hornbow jumped out the second story window. Laeoli gasped and went to look. The Assassins Guild Chieftain had vanished as if she had never been there.
* * * *
Torches burned in black iron sconces along the walls of the circular Great Hall of Dragonshead. Branches of candles sat on all of the tables scattered throughout amid the chairs and couches, producing a garish light and throwing patterns of shifting shadow into every crevice and nook. Two high backed chairs sat upon a central dais. Many of the sa'necari enjoyed public feeding on nibari, and private when it was mere meat and wine. The sa'necari preferred the Great Hall for public feeding, because of its size. which allowed them to display the quality of privately owned stock, while holding discussions and conversations. In essence, the Great Hall served as an orgy room – although Mephistis had so far refused to grant his sa'necari a true one.
Isranon paused at the edge and judged the room. Rose belonged to the common herd, which Mephistis had smuggled in over the years to satisfy the needs of the lower ranks. Sometimes the upper echelons fed from that herd also. He could not bring himself to ask favors of Mephistis. Instead, he simply worried whenever one of the others chose Rose. If he had had rank and power, which he would never have because of his beliefs – his determination not to cross th
e line into the darkness – then asking for her would have been a small thing.
He went down the three tiers into the chamber to cross it, watching for her. Two sa'necari rose from chairs and approached him. One was Bodramet, a sturdy mon who wore his hair slicked back and woven into dozens of tiny braids at the base of his skull, and who was rumored to be second in power only to Mephistis. The other was Troyes, a sa'necari of middle rank and power, lighter haired and skinned than Bodramet. They intercepted him in the middle.
Bodramet regarded Isranon speculatively, running a finger along the youth's cheek. "Do you play nibble games, Isranon? Troyes is of the opinion that you do."
Troyes grinned, moving closer to Isranon.
Isranon sucked a breath through his nostrils. "No."
"That's not the rumors, Isranon," Troyes said. "We've all heard you feed the vampires. That you bend over for Dane."
"You're a fine looking young male," Bodramet continued to stroke Isranon's face.
Isranon stepped forward and shoved between them, his heart starting to hammer. Troyes caught him by the arm. Isranon drew his knives and spun, putting one to Troyes's throat and the other at his gut. "Let me be."
Troyes's eyes lowered to the blades and then lifted to Isranon's face. "Another time, perhaps?" He released the youth.
Isranon sheathed the blades and strode away, refusing to run or give the smallest sign that they had shaken him. Their laughter followed him through the room. Isranon found Rose with Dane in an adjacent chamber. He hungered for a taste of his Rose, but the encounter with Bodramet and Troyes had left his stomach clenched up and a revulsion for what he was lodged in his throat. Dane walked them to the circle of rooms his own people occupied. It required two glasses of wine before Isranon could relax enough to feed from Rose and, when the little nibari fell asleep, Dane had his own nibari put her to bed while he and Isranon talked.
"My father did not believe in violence," Isranon said, allowing Dane to pour him a third glass. "The Dark Brothers did not believe in it. Nor in vengeance."
"Yet, I saw you draw those blades you wear on Troyes."
