Lokeij nodded. “One day you have to tell us who you were before slavery. Why it is you are so knowing, so young.”
Aly shrugged. “I’m the god’s chosen,” she reminded him.
“True,” Lokeij replied, “but the gods never build without a foundation. A crooked eye like yours takes years of work.” He glanced at Aly’s clothes. “Were I you, I’d clean up. You pour the wine tonight.”
Aly looked down at herself. Her tunic was streaked with horse sweat. She grimaced and ran to find her spare clothes.
At supper, Aly watched everyone from her position on the dais. She couldn’t tell whether the raka members of the household were excited or nervous. Their faces, ranging in color from dark ivory to coppery brown, looked just as stoic as they always had. Centuries of luarin rule had taught the native islanders iron control. The prince’s servants, and the rest of the household behaved normally, chattering and eating heartily.
In the shadows by the main stair, Aly glimpsed movement, but only because she looked for it. A few raka used that route to the upper stories. Most relied on the servants’ stair behind the stone veil of the wall. By the end of the meal every raka fighter who did not eat with the family was in position.
Aly saw no reason to alarm the Balitangs until they’d finished supper. They were halfway through the dessert sweets and cheeses when Aly murmured to the duke and duchess, “We must place you in the study opposite your present quarters, for your safety. If you can gather the children and the prince and go there, acting as if you are engaged in some leisure activity, I would appreciate it. No one must think there’s anything out of the ordinary.”
The duke gave the tiniest of nods while the duchess looked down. As Aly returned the wine to the kitchen, she heard the duchess say gaily, “I have a game we haven’t played yet. My dears? Your Highness? It’s one that you won’t have played in quite this fashion.”
I love that woman, Aly thought as she set down the pitcher. She is never at a loss.
Chenaol joined Aly. “My girls know their places. Ulasim has men on the exits. Come down here once the fighting’s done, and I’ll have your supper ready.”
Aly grinned at her. “You have a nice idea of what’s important,” she told the cook. “Try not to kill any more of them than necessary. They have to be questioned.”
Chenaol drew the cleaver from her waistband as Aly walked back into the great hall. The kitchen servants were on their way to Chenaol as the tables emptied. No one was interested in music that night. Aly suspected that everyone felt tension in the air, even if they didn’t know the reason for it.
Aly climbed the stairs, searching the shadows for shapes that didn’t belong. By now she could have found her way through any part of the keep in pitch darkness. Tonight she saw nothing unusual. She hadn’t expected to. The enemy might use the servants’ stair or the fifth-floor storeroom as a hiding place from which to launch their attack, but that meant the risk of someone from the household tripping over them before it was time to strike. Aly expected the attack to come from the roof. She would use that route in the assassins’ place. How many people looked up? If her instinct was right, they’d be there now, waiting for lights to go out below, knowing the shutters would be left open for cool night air to flow through the keep. Once the household seemed to be abed, the assassins would use ropes to climb down the tower’s sides and swing into their prey’s bedrooms.
Aly reached the third-floor landing and the family’s present bedrooms. By now the enemy would know that the prince had the ducal rooms and the Balitangs occupied the third floor. Since they were obviously professionals, Aly knew they would know their targets’ sleeping arrangements well before their attack. Ulasim stood by the stairway, a long dagger in each hand.
No one wanted to speak more than necessary, in case the assassins were already inside the keep. Ulasim pointed to the floor, jerked a thumb at the ceiling, and nodded. Everything was ready on the second and fourth floors. Fesgao lounged in the shadows near the door to the family’s sleeping quarters. He nodded, too: fighters were hidden inside. Aly pointed to the door of the small room by the stair that served as the children’s tiny schoolroom, and raised her brows. Ulasim nodded. The family and the prince were there. Carefully Aly opened the door just enough to slip inside.
“Why is she here?” Bronau demanded softly.
“She is as useful in a fight as I am, Your Highness,” Lokeij retorted. “We want her out of harm’s way.” He clutched a double-headed axe in his gnarled hands. Aly expected the old raka to fall over with its weight, but he stood easily, balanced on the balls of his feet. Behind him stood the healer Rihani, her arms around Elsren and Petranne. They stared silently at everyone. Elsren sucked his thumb.
Lokeij was not the only armed man in the room. Both the duke and the prince held drawn swords. “I don’t like hiding like this,” growled Bronau. “I’d rather fight them myself.”
“And leave my wife and children protected only by Lokeij?” asked Mequen. “It’s not as satisfying as engaging the enemy in the field, old friend, but it’s important to me.”
“I could defend myself if I had a sword,” Sarai reminded the adults, her voice sharp.
Bronau smiled at her. “I would love to see you with a sword in hand,” he said. It was clear he thought she would make an adorable picture rather than a combat-ready one. “With a gold hilt and gold armor to match. You could be one of the lady knights of old at the Midwinter Masquerade.”
“And you haven’t had a sword in your hand in four years,” murmured Dove.
“Whose fault is that?” snapped the older girl, darting a sharp glance at her stepmother.
Aly crouched by the keyhole in the door. Outside she heard the first signs of trouble. “Hush!” she ordered as she put her ear to the opening.
“Mequen, you are indulgent of your slaves, but surely you won’t let this one give orders as if she were one of us!” exclaimed Bronau, outraged.
The duchess held her finger to her lips to silence him.
Aly put an eye to the keyhole, mentally adjusted her power, and exercised her Sight to see as much of the story as she could. Fesgao was gone from his post at the bedroom door. Thumps came from the family’s bedroom, and a cry from overhead. She tried to see the stairs, but the keyhole limited her field of vision to the joining of step and floor, something her Sight could not change. Just once she wished she could scry in a mirror or crystal like her mother and Uncle Numair, so she could know what was going on.
From the stairwell Aly heard a scream. Behind her someone gasped—Petranne or Elsren. Ulasim came into view at the foot of the stair, a killer’s descending sword trapped between his long, crossed knives. He twisted away to free his weapons; as the assassin’s sword dropped, Ulasim lunged in with a backhanded dagger swipe. Aly saw blood, enough to tell her that Ulasim had cut the assassin’s throat. The assassin tumbled limply down the stairs past the raka footman. Ulasim checked to make sure his opponent was dead, then ran upstairs once more.
The fighting seemed to last forever, though Aly knew that it was her own worry and impatience that stretched the passing time. She sent up prayers to Mithros for the Balitang servants, along with frequent reminders to Kyprioth that if she was to do as he wished, he would have to keep the people who worked with her alive. Finally, the noise from the upper floors and across the hall faded. There was a long silence. Then Fesgao emerged from the family’s bedchamber, his clothes slashed in two places, a bloody longsword weighing down his left arm. Behind him came the raka who had been hidden in the bedroom. Ulasim walked onto the floor from the direction of the stairs, his long, sweat-soaked hair hanging in his face. Three more Balitang fighters moved into view, carrying bodies wrapped in sheets over their shoulders. They laid them on the floor.
Ulasim said huskily, “We think we have them all.”
Aly let the prince and the duke out first, then the duchess, and Sarai. She glanced at Lokeij, then nodded toward Dove, Rihani, Petranne, and Elsren.
He nodded in reply, indicating he would guard them until they were certain the keep had been scoured of the enemy.
“Until we’re sure,” Aly told Dove. The girl sighed and took a seat. Rihani’s smile was bright with gratitude. Aly closed the door on her way out, ignoring Petranne’s cry of indignation.
“They came in on ropes, through the windows, Highness, Your Graces,” Ulasim was telling the nobles. “They were on the roof, as we guessed they might be.”
“Why didn’t you take them on the roof?” demanded Bronau as he and the duke sheathed their swords. “You would have spared us some anxiety!”
“We have but one door to the roof. Only one may go through at a time, Your Highness,” Fesgao said with a properly respectful bow. “They could have picked us off as they liked, and we could not be certain all of them were there. As it happens, they were not. My lads report there are still others outside.” He looked at the duke and the duchess. “You appear to have been their targets. Perhaps the children, too, since they sleep here as well.”
There was a clatter on the stair. Veron, with the men-at-arms who had been on guard duty, charged up, swords bared. Ulasim and Fesgao put themselves between the nobles and the men-at-arms.
“Your Grace, I heard fighting,” the sergeant panted, ignoring the two raka between him and his master.
Mequen raised a hand palm out, a calming gesture. “Our servants defended us, Veron. Apparently assassins were smuggled into the keep during the day, or rather, they smuggled themselves.”
“I feared it was bandits,” the sergeant replied. He looked around at the bodies, then knelt and uncovered a face. “I’ll have a word with my boys, letting these get through the inner gate,” he promised. He looked up at the duke. “With your permission, I’d like to search the keep, top to bottom.”
“Tell me something first,” asked Ulasim, his face stern. “Tell me you did not know of this attempt.”
Veron’s jaw muscles clenched, then relaxed. When he replied, he spoke to Mequen. “No, Your Grace,” he replied quietly. “I did not know of it.”
Ulasim glanced at Aly, who gave the tiniest of nods. Veron was telling the truth; her Sight confirmed it, though she would tell the others that he showed none of the signs of a liar.
“What is this?” Mequen demanded, his voice sharp. “Why should Veron know assassins had come? You make it sound as if he would have helped them.”
Ulasim and Fesago regarded Veron with unflinching eyes. The sergeant flushed beet-red, hesitated, then knelt, his eyes on the duke. “Your Grace, forgive me,” he said, shame-faced. “Somehow these men have learned I am ordered to report your actions to the Crown. I am Your Grace’s servant, but the King is also my master.” After a moment Veron added, “Surely Your Grace understood that watchers would be present in your household.”
“Kill the traiterous dog,” Bronau snapped, gray eyes flashing. “A man should have but one master. You pay him; he should be yours alone.”
Winnamine rested a gentle hand on her husband’s arm. “We should not decide this now, when so much of pressing importance must be attended to right away,” she murmured.
Mequen lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips before he released her. “Wise as ever, my dear,” he said.
Aly nodded to Ulasim and Fesgao. They moved aside so Veron could see the duke better. Mequen told him, “Very well. Do as thorough a search as you and your men can perform.”
“I trust you didn’t take all of your guards off the gate,” Prince Bronau said with a smile.
Veron stiffened. Really, Aly thought, for a prince he’s got no tact. The duke trusts Veron to do his job properly, royal spy or no. Bronau could at least have trusted the duke’s judgment.
As Veron led his men back down the stairs, Aly realized that the prince would make a dreadful husband for Sarai. Bronau would encourage Sarai to be even more headstrong than she already was, if she didn’t kill him for condescending to her desire to be a warrior.
The nobles walked into the family’s bedroom. Fesgao and Ulasim accompanied them. Aly took a moment to memorize the faces of the three dead men—assassins often came in families—before she went inside. There she sighed. The wide, pretty chamber was a shambles. Multicolored raka hangings, embroidered cushions, tapestry frames, pillows, comforters, bolsters, and curtains from the main bed, all were hacked and covered in goose feathers speckled with blood. Four assassins lay sprawled on the floor, weapons still in their hands.
The fifth knelt beside the door between two impassive raka. His arms, wrists, and ankles were bound, his mouth tightly gagged. Blood streamed down his face from a cut in his scalp. He was the man Aly had identified as the leader. His green eyes were stony as they met hers.
She looked at the other bodies. Here were two of the merchant’s regular employees as well as two more strangers. The count of dead outside included two of those she had recognized as assassins as well as one of the merchant’s people. Where was that redheaded woman? Was it possible that she wasn’t an assassin but a spy, trying to root out secrets in the village at that very moment?
Sarai bent and picked up one killer’s sword, easily taking its weight in her delicate hand. She held it upright. “No maker’s mark on the hilt,” she commented to herself. “But if this isn’t royal foundry work, I don’t know swords.”
Bronau chuckled. “Sarai, you startle me. How would you learn that?”
Sarai lowered the blade slowly. Aly was impressed. She knew swords were heavier than they looked. It took control and strength in the wrist and arm to do what Sarai was doing.
The duke wandered over to the bed. He was idly brushing at feathers, looking around, when a heap of curtains a yard away shifted. Up came the missing woman, her teeth bared in fury, a long knife clutched in her hand.
Aly felt as if she were struggling through honey, she was so slow. Like Aly, Ulasim, Fesgao, and the prince all stood on the wrong side of the bed, closer to the door than Mequen. The duchess gasped. Mequen scrabbled at his sword hilt.
But Sarai, the killer’s weapon still in her hand, lunged across the gap. Her arm stretched out in a long, ferocious thrust that pierced the woman through. Swiftly she braced a foot against the assassin’s body and freed her sword, then cut the woman’s throat, just to be sure.
The sixteen-year-old looked around at the rest of them, brown eyes wide, blood on her hands, face, and clothes. “It’s so messy,” she murmured in surprise. Then she fainted.
Aly, trembling, went to her and knelt. Using her Sight, she confirmed the girl hadn’t been wounded or poisoned. Though it would serve me right if she had been, Aly thought, furious with herself. Idiot! I shouldn’t have let anyone come back in here until I checked the room. That’s my job, and I was too overconfident to do it!
Feathers and cloth rustled as Winnamine joined her. She had found a pitcher of water and handkerchiefs. She wet a handkerchief, wrung it out, and began to clean her stepdaughter’s face. Aly soaked and wrung out other handkerchiefs and began to wipe Sarai’s hands as the girl began to come around.
When Sarai opened her eyes, Winnamine gave her a tiny smile. Her mouth trembled. “Obviously halting your sword lessons was a mistake,” she murmured to Sarai. “It’s a crime not to encourage such an aptitude.”
Sarai stared at her stepmother. “But I fainted,” she whispered.
“After,” said Winnamine. “You fainted after you’d done the important thing.” She bit her lip, then continued, “We shall find you a teacher in the morning. In fact, though it may be too late, I may study swordcraft, too. And Dove . . . ?”
Sarai gulped, tried to speak, and could not. At last she cleared her throat and said, “She hates swords. She does like to shoot, if she doesn’t have to shoot animals.”
“Archery it is,” Winnamine said. She blinked over-bright eyes, then leaned in, and kissed Sarai’s cheek. “Thank you for saving his life.” She took a deep breath, then rose and went to see how her husband was.
Sarai look
ed at Aly. “If I’d known that all it would take to start my lessons again was killing someone . . .” Her voice and humor failed. Her eyes overflowed. “Did I do the right thing?” she whispered.
Aly cleaned blood from Sarai’s other hand as the other girl wept silently. “You did better than me,” she replied softly. “I just stood and stared. But I wasn’t needed. Sarai, balance a murderess’s life against your father’s. This entire household would prefer the duke to an assassin.”
“There’s one who disagrees,” Sarai remarked as she struggled to sit up. She pointed to the last living killer. He’d made no sound as the drama had unfolded. Now he stared blankly into the air.
Aly sighed. “Will you be all right?” she asked Sarai.
A hand reached down: the duke’s. Sarai took it, and let her father pull her up into his arms.
Aly stood and went to Fesgao and Ulasim. Bronau had gone out to the landing, where he inspected the dead men. “Perhaps he should be reminded that his servants are missing,” Aly murmured to Ulasim, “and that if he wishes to see to their welfare, he should go to the barracks? I don’t want him noticing me any more than he already has.”
At a look from Ulasim, Fesgao went out into the hall. He bowed politely to the prince and spoke to him as Ulasim and Aly watched. “She was beautiful, our Saraiyu, wasn’t she?” Ulasim inquired, his mouth barely moving as he whispered. “Like Gunapi the Sunrose, goddess of war and molten rock.”
“She was,” Aly admitted. Her eyes stung strangely. The last time she had seen so perfect a fighting move was when her mother had battled pirates at the Swoop.
“Without you, all might have been lost,” Ulasim told Aly suddenly. He picked up one of her hands and pressed it to his forehead. “We owe our lives to you, and our thanks to the god for you tonight.”
Aly yanked her hand from his grip, unnerved by his intensity. “Ulasim, calm down,” she said, forcing amusement into her voice. “I just alerted you about some assassins, that’s all.”
He surveyed her from his greater height. Aly had expected him to be offended by her light brush-off. Instead he smiled. “I always forget, you are not of us. We think you are raka in your heart, but no. You are newly come. No one teaches a slave the laws that govern the Isles. Had these sisat”—he pointed to the still-living assassin with his dagger—“killed even one Balitang or the prince, then every raka man, woman, and child of Tanair village and castle would die. That is the luarin law governing such things.”
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