The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection

by Tom Lloyd

  ‘And why is that interesting exactly? The squabblings of soldiers means nothing to me, and should not to you either.’

  Mayel suppressed a sigh at the abbot’s stern tone of voice; he could feel another lecture about attending to the divine coming on. ‘But Father, we’re not in the monastery at the moment, and these are dangerous times. I heard that the Farlan might invade, that the city might become a battle-ground-‘

  ‘Pay no heed to what you might hear in a butcher-shop,’ the abbot repeated. ‘You would do better to spend a little more time here in prayer than gossiping in the street or running errands for your cousin.’

  ‘We have to pay for his help somehow,’ Mayel replied hotly. Mayel knew he had proved himself invaluable to the abbot, securing much of what he needed on credit with Shandek. He doubted the abbot would have lasted a week without him; mage or no, you couldn’t protect yourself from a knife in the back day and night. ‘I’ve been clerking for him to repay him for the use of this house and the protection he’s give us.’

  ‘You are paying him for this ruin? You almost killed yourself going upstairs,’ the abbot grumbled, looking at the state of the wall beside him. Mayel had grown to loathe that pinched expression. Since the heal had taken over, the abbot had been impossible to please, despite Mayel’s best efforts.

  Everyone pays for their living quarters, Father, and not everyone gets the protection we do. Folk know his men are watching us, so they keep their distance, just as you wanted. The slate’s far from clear, even with the work I’m doing for Shandek now.’

  ‘Should we be so indebted to anyone?’ the abbot asked, querulously.

  ‘I think Shandek’s decided we’re a safe investment, me being family and you being a high priest. Maybe he thinks that there’s money in the monastery, so if he wants a reward he’s going to have to get you back here safely.’

  ‘But what use have we for money at the monastery?’ asked the bewildered abbot. ‘In any ease, the prior is still hunting us, and I do not know if I am strong enough to face him now, not if he has truly allied with a daemon.’

  ‘But he won’t be prepared against people he’s never met.’ Mayel hesitated, but then-Well, he was sure the abbot had guessed Shandek had some criminal connections. ‘Shandek’s put the word out about Jackdaw, so he won’t be able to show his face here - there are more than enough people who’d be glad of the bounty the Temple of Death would pay for a daemon-worshipper.’

  ‘Mayel,’ the abbot said sharply, putting his spoon down with a clatter, ‘you speak as though you know Prior Corci to be in the city - do you? Is he?’

  The novice froze, and then muttered, ‘Well-‘

  ‘Mayel!’ the abbot shrieked. ‘Have you seen him? Merciful Vellern protect us, has he seen you? Was it today? Could he have followed you back here?’

  ‘Father Abbot, relax,’ Mayel interrupted hurriedly, trying to placate the old man, ‘I haven’t seen him.’

  ‘Then what is it?’ he said, still shaking. ‘I can tell there is something you’re not telling me.’

  ‘I did think I saw Jackdaw, when I was at the theatre with Shandek,’ he admitted. ‘But I didn’t actually see anything - there was a movement in the shadows, that’s all, and I got frightened.’ He went on, looking shamefaced, ‘Since then, I have felt like someone was watching me, but I swear, I’ve never actually seen him.’

  ‘You could have led him back here,’ the abbot insisted, fear reducing his voice to a whine.

  ‘What choice did I have?’ Mayel demanded as the abbot rose, knocking his bowl of stew to the floor in his haste.

  ‘I must prepare,’ Abbot Doren continued, more to himself than Mayel. ‘There’s so much to do before he finds me,’ he said, pulling open the battered door that led to the cellar. He was gone before Mayel had moved. A muffled bang from downstairs indicated the abbot had slammed the door behind.

  Mayel looked at the mess on the floor and sighed. He scraped up the remains of the stew and the shards of pottery and returned the uneaten portion in his own bowl to the big pot simmering above the fire. He couldn’t stomach any more of it tonight.

  ‘Balls to this, I’m going to find something better to do,’ he growled, and pushed open the kitchen door to reveal the dark city, as caked in sweat and dirt as he was. Scree had never been considered beautiful, and with the unnatural heat drying everything, the streets now stank like a bloated corpse. He kicked the door shut and went out into the night.

  Doranei dropped from the wall and crouched in the shadows, holding his breath while he listened for sounds of pursuit, taking in the features of the ten-yard-square walled courtyard as he counted twenty heartbeats. No light filtered in from the house that made up two of the sides. The few terracotta pots with withered stems drooping from them and a half-full stone-edged pond with four stone trout rising from the surface suggested the house had been closed up for the summer months. There was no guard, so there was no one to give him away to the Scree city guards who had been chasing him.

  He couldn’t hear them any longer. ‘Damn,’ he muttered, brushing dust from his hands. Normally escaping a city guard so easily was something to be pleased about, but not tonight. He checked the pack on his back, but everything was secure, including his pair of sheathed sworrds.

  He was ready to start running again. He walked to the pond, dislodged one of the pots on the low wall and watched it shatter on the flagstones. The King’s Man didn’t bother to listen any longer. He jumped to reach an iron bracket fixed to the house and hauled himself up, using toeholds in the rough-mortared stone wall to reach the roof three storeys up. There he paused, silhouetted against the hunter’s moon to wait for his pursuers.

  ‘Bloody wizards.’ He looked around at the streets. ‘“You’re a good runner, Doranei,” he says. “You’ll be a fine decoy,” he says. Didn’t bloody tell me the guards were bloody blind.’

  Finally he heard confused, urgent voices coming from the winding streets, and spotted torches bobbing here and there as the men of the city guard fanned out down the side streets. The night air was still, and strangely quiet. Doranei could hear the guards distinctly.

  He looked about to fix his location. A domed building, the biggest landmark, that had to be the Temple of Death, half a mile to the south, surrounded by the five grand temples to Nartis, Belarannar, Vellern, Karkarn and Vasle. Around them in turn were shrines to every other God and Aspect the good folk of Scree had been able to think of.

  In the dark he’d somehow blundered further than he’d intended, and now found himself well into the district north of Six Temples, where some of the oldest and most splendid houses in Scree were to be found. There were regular patrols, but old money too often had little to spare for expenses like maintaining a city staff when they left for the country, as most of Scree’s noble families had done.

  A shout came from behind him, taken up by other voices a lot closer than Doranei would have liked. ‘There you go,’ he said to the night air. ‘Now keep up, you bastards - for a bit, anyway. I’ll give you a much-needed workout.’

  He’d scanned the streets for the best escape route, but he’d picked badly; there wasn’t a lot to choose from here. A wide, empty avenue ran towards the hunter’s moon, nicely illuminated - and useless for his purposes, for the torches would round the corner and be onto it before he’d managed to climb down and get away. He ran the length of the slate rooftop and hopped the gap onto the next building, and again, until he reached a tall building that protruded out into the avenue, creating a bottleneck with a smaller house on the other side of the street.

  This suited Doranei’s purposes nicely, for it was the quickest way to cross the avenue and get away from the guards. People rarely bothered to look up in a city, especially where most streets were narrow, with overhanging buildings.

  He crouched in the lee of a chimney, assessing the jump, when a splintered crash came from the first house behind him. The city guards had broken in, assuming he was trapped. He couldn’t see any mov
ement in the street; this was probably his best chance.

  ‘I think I might be making a terrible mistake,’ Doranei muttered as he fumbled in a pocket. He took out two fat leather bands with an iron brace and hook attached to each, slipped the bands over his wrists and pulled the laces tight. He manoeuvred himself onto the dark side of the gently sloping roof as silently as he could.

  The hooks nestled in his palms, rough and cold against his skin. They were made of cheap, soft iron, perfect for his need. With luck, he wouldn’t have to use them, but this was a long jump and he’d seen what happened to men who were unprepared. It was hard enough to keep your grip when your body slammed into the side of a building, and almost impossible with cut palms from hitting the building’s stone edge. There was a low parapet running around the roof edge, so all he needed to do was to get enough of his body over it, then simply fall into the gutter - out of sight, and safe.

  He took a deep breath and set off, head low, legs pumping hard. The jump was far enough that he didn’t want time to think about it. He kicked off, keeping his eyes fixed on the point he’d chosen, legs and arms wheeling forward. The air whistled past his face as the building lurched up to meet him and almost immediately he realised it was even further than he’d hoped. He wasn’t going to make it over the wall.

  With only a heartbeat to decide, Doranei dropped his left hand to his chest and turned inward, so his forearm would take the force of the blow. In the next instant he hit the stone facing, just below the wall, his left arm numb, his right arm up and clawing at the stone.

  The impact jerked his body around as Doranei got the hook over the ledge. The wind had been driven from his lungs and stars burst before his eyes, but he bit down the pain and let the momentum swing him back, then, hanging precariously from his right-hand hook, he kicked up as hard as he could.

  He moaned thanks to Cerdin, God of Thieves, as he swung his leg over the parapet, and with one final burst of strength, he heaved the rest of his body over and into the gutter.

  He fell onto his side and lay there fighting for breath as his mind caught up. He tried to ignore his own wheezing so he could hear what was going on around him. Voices in the street were raised, but not shouting, and more importantly, there was no sound of running feet.

  There was no doubt the guards would have heard him hit the rooftop but if they’d not been in time to see him, it would have simply confused them - after all, a man would have to be mad to try that jump.

  It was a fair bet that they’d not even consider the possibility.

  Get moving, Doranei shouted in his own head, letting the training of his youth take over when all his body wanted was to stay there and whimper. Move now, or soon you will not be able to move enough to get off this damn roof. He twisted as best he could to inspect the roof. The gutter would take him around the corner of the house, at which point he could risk standing up to find somewhere to break in. There was no way of telling if the house was occupied, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to tie up and gag a household before making his escape. He’d certainly distracted the guards for long enough, so now all he had to do was find a dark little hole to hide in. Mistress Siala had posted mages to detect any sort of magic user entering the gates, so King Emin’s mages had to be snuck in over the city wall, but they should be safe now. The Brotherhood would have wasted no time in getting the pair away once the guards were distracted.

  As he lay there the pain began to grow in his left arm, a hot, sharp throbbing that was fast spreading up towards his fingertips. Gingerly, Doranei eased himself up and tried to move his fingers. He hissed with pain, but at least he could do it, proving the arm wasn’t broken. That’d do. The pain he’d live with for the time being.

  He cut the laces with his dagger and stowed the hooks back in his pocket. He crawled to the end of the gutter, eyes focused on his destination and teeth gritted as he fought the fire in his damaged arm, but once he’d made it to the back of the house, he realised Cerdin - to whom every member of the Brotherhood prayed for luck - had not abandoned him. Here was a balcony, with steps leading down to the courtyard below.

  Doranei hauled himself upright, took a moment to recover his balance, then trotted down the steps until he could climb onto the wall that encircled the courtyard. The walls were all connected, and while he would be more exposed, he could run along the top much quicker than if he stayed on street level, where he would be forever clambering over these same seven-foot-high walls. He headed towards Six Temples until he spotted an alley that offered the seclusion he was searching for. The only problem was that there were voices up ahead, and the smell of spices hanging in the air - cloves and cinnamon. He sighed and shrugged. He’d be past the diners before any of them could call out.

  Doranei glanced down as he passed, catching sight of a private dinner for a handful of well-dressed nobles - and, oddly, a woman dressed more like an infantryman. His momentary lack of attention was his undoing.

  Something smashed into his shoulder, knocking him off balance and spinning him around. One foot slipped and he flailed wildly for a moment before the other went from under him and he fell, clipping the wall with his injured arm before crashing onto a thick shrub growing below.

  He groaned as pain flared all over his body and fading yellow trails of firelight smeared across his vision. The scuffle of stools scraping over stone heralded a boot landing on his chest. Doranei froze, anticipating a cold blade slicing bis throat or sliding into his gut.

  Instead, someone chuckled. The boot was removed from his chest and the person stepped back to allow the light to fall on his face.

  ‘A handsome, if somewhat battered, man falling at my feet,’ declared a woman in a pretty, cultured voice. ‘This day has been a remarkably pleasant one. Haipar, help my young suitor up so I can see him better.’

  The dazed Doranei felt strong hands grip him by the shoulders and lift him into a seating position. Very slowly, the Land came back into focus. One of the women was still seated, a goblet in her slender fingers and a smile on her face. Looming over him was the only man in the group and the female soldier, both with their hands on their hilts. A third woman, remarkably pretty, stood on the other side, her dagger drawn.

  ‘Legana, my dear, your aim is impeccable,’ said the seated woman. ‘ I must remember to give a glowing report of your skills - though not your taste. We now have no wine to offer the gentleman.’

  ‘Offer him wine?’ exclaimed the man. ‘He’s a common thief! We’ll send for the city guard and be done with him.’

  Bugger, thought Doranei, I could take one, if I’m lucky, but not both, not with my arm like this.

  The woman rose and approached Doranei, crouching down to look him in the face. The King’s Man blinked to clear his sight, and got a jolt of surprise. The woman was stunning, even more arresting than her beautiful companion. Her skin was a dusky red, similar colouring to the Fysthrall soldiers he’d fought in Narkang. Her eyes were shining sapphires in the dim light, and so piercing he could feel her gaze prickle over his skin.

  ‘He’s no thief, Aras. This one is much more interesting.’ She peered closer and Doranei could see her note the tattoo on his ear. ‘I suspect your heart is not in a life of crime?’

  The emphasis was not lost on him and Doranei nodded. She was obviously of the White Circle, but he wondered how she knew so much. Only a very select group knew anything of the Brotherhood.

  ‘What would you like me to do, then?’ asked the woman soldier, her hand still on her sword. As Doranei’s mind cleared, he took in the appearances of the other diners. The man was handsome, and stood like a soldier, despite his frippery. Much the same could be said for the woman whose aim had proved so inconvenient. Legana? A Farlan woman, he now saw. The soldier, Haipar, looked like a savage from the Waste. For a while he wondered whether his brain had been addled by the fall, but no matter how much he tried to blink it away, Haipar’s appearance didn’t change.

  ‘I want you to see if he’s injured
, and if so, tend to his wounds,’ the woman who was so obviously in charge ordered. ‘If he is whole, fetch him a seat so that he may join me in a glass of wine.’

  The one she’d named Haipar gripped Doranei’s tunic and hauled him to his feet, not bothering to ask how he was feeling. He managed to stay standing, despite the cacophony of complaints from different parts of his body, but he failed to stifle a low moan; his ribs were burning with pain now.

  ‘Legana, if there are any of the city guard out there looking for someone, tell them to stop and return to their posts. I will deal with this one.’ She looked speculatively at Doranei and appeared to make up her mind about something.

  ‘And then you can all leave us,’ she added, waving them away.

  ‘Mistress, he’s carrying weapons,’ protested Aras.

  ‘And here I am, a helpless little girl? Go away, and ensure we’re not disturbed. If you want to be useful, fetch some more wine.’

  The nobleman jumped to obey. The two women didn’t appear cowed, as Doranei would have expected in a White Circle city, but neither protested. Doranei felt a foreboding curiosity - even injured, he was pretty sure he would be able to overpower so slight and unarmed a woman, though her confidence was disconcerting, and strangely disarming.

  Haipar hovered at his elbow as Doranei hobbled unsteadily to the nearest chair and eased himself down, then she left, passing a servant scurrying in with another jug of wine. The girl set it carefully on the table, then fled, pulling the wooden door shut behind her.

  The woman now sitting opposite Doranei didn’t move. She appeared to be studying his face, noting the dryness of his lips, his eyes darting towards the wine jug, the swelling cheek. It was a full minute before she spoke and by then his throat was burning for a drink.

  ‘My name is Ostia,’ she said. ‘May I pour you some wine?’

  Doranei’s throat tightened. Bugger again: Ostia. He knew the name, of course, from the aftermath of the battle in Narkang. Dumbly Doranei nodded his head and accepted the goblet when she passed it. Oh Gods, he thought, Zhia Vukotic herself. What in the name of Ghenna do I do now?