by Angus Wells
Lyhanna came back then and set wadded cloth and a pitcher of water on the floor by the door. She appeared unwilling to enter the room.
“He tried to kill me,” Calandryll repeated. “He would have killed me had Bracht not stopped him.”
Mother Raimi nodded, her eyes not leaving his face. She seemed afraid to move or speak, as if he might spring from the bed and attack her. Bracht pushed her gently aside. He was dressed in his black leathers, the falchion sheathed on his waist, his dark hair bound in its customary ponytail. He crossed to the bed and soaked a cloth in water, wadding it about Calandryll’s knee.
“Hold it there,” he ordered.
He lit the room’s lanterns and knelt beside the corpse. Calandryll watched as he turned the body over. Mother Raimi gasped as the ravaged belly was exposed.
Bracht said mildly, “He was hard to kill. I wonder who he was.”
He drew the hood clear of the face and Calandryll gasped as he saw Mehemmed’s features exposed.
“He’s just a boy,” Mother Raimi said softly.
Bracht said, “He’s a dead assassin.”
Calandryll said, “Was he Chaipaku?”
Bracht shrugged. “What else?”
Mother Raimi said, “I want no trouble here. Not with the Chaipaku. You’d best leave at dawn.”
Bracht glanced at Calandryll and said, “If he can walk.”
Calandryll said nothing: he was staring at Mehemmed with his thoughts in turmoil. Who would employ the Brotherhood of Assassins to slay him? Surely not Azumandias, for he had magic at his disposal. His father? No: Bylath might post him outlaw—would surely punish him sorely for his flight—but not even that wrathful man would hire killers to hunt down his son. Then Tobias? Would his own brother stoop so low? He licked dry lips as ugly suspicion became cold certainty: Tobias was of such a bent did he but consider Calandryll a potential threat to his accession. And the very fact of Calandryll’s disappearance from Secca might well suggest he designed some strategem against his brother. Yes—Tobias, jealous of his position, perhaps fearing Calandryll might raise allies to support a claim to Secca’s throne, he would use the Chaipaku.
“Why did he wait ‘til now?” Bracht murmured. “Why not while we were at sea? And the woman on the war-boat—did she know him?”
“At sea, he might have been found out,” Calandryll suggested dully “Perhaps he waited until now so that he could flee when ek’Jemm sets sail. I think he had nothing to do with the woman. I think he was sent after me, not …” He slid a hand beneath his pillows, touching the satchel.
Bracht frowned and said, “Your brother? Your father?”
“Tobias,” Calandryll nodded, and laughed bitterly. “My brother! I believe it was my brother, fearing for his throne.”
“And the woman serves Azumandias. So it seems we are hunted by wizard and Chaipaku, both.” Bracht grinned humorlessly. “It seems I shall earn my pay.”
Calandryll looked at the corpse again. Mehemmed was about his own age, likely younger. Did Tobias fear him so much? Was his lust for power so great? He was about to speak when boots thudded in the corridor outside and the officer they had seen on the quay entered, flanked by six soldiers, Surinim peering curiously over their shoulders. Mother Raimi favored him with a grateful look, as if she at last felt safe.
“Who killed him?” the lictor demanded curtly.
“I did,” said Bracht.
“He tried to kill me,” said Calandryll.
The officer studied them both, his dark face expressionless, then he nudged Mehemmed’s body.
“Chaipaku,” he said thoughtfully. “Why should the Brotherhood hunt you?”
Calandryll shrugged helplessly. Bracht said, “Our rivals—Lord Varent’s rivals. Likely they hired him.”
The lictor nodded. “Rahamman ek’Jemm said you were on some secret mission for this lord of Aldarin. Do you bring your trade wars to Kandahar?”
“We sought no trouble,” Bracht said. “Calandryll was attacked while he slept.”
“But still I have a corpse,” the lictor said. “And albeit it’s a Chaipaku, there are still questions that require answers. You’d best come with me.”
“He’s hurt.” Bracht spoke quickly, glancing at Calandryll. “He can’t walk.”
Calandryll groaned in confirmation. The lictor glanced at Mother Raimi, who said, “I’ve sent Lyhanna for the healer.”
“We’ll wait,” the lictor decided. “If Suleimana declares him unfit to walk, then he can stay here.”
“And Bracht?” Calandryll asked.
“Finds lodgings in my cells,” said the lictor. “Until the district podesta tries his case.”
“What case?” Bracht demanded angrily. “A Chaipaku assassin attempted to kill the man I’m hired to guard—I do my duty, no more.”
The lictor shrugged, turning to draw the dagger from the woodwork.
“Likely that’s true, but I’ve a duty, too. And that requires me to hold you until the podesta can investigate. Until then, you’re my guest.” He smiled briefly. “You’ll save a var or two on your bed and board.”
“We have business to attend,” Calandryll protested.
“If you can’t walk, you can’t travel,” came the unyielding answer. “The podesta should arrive within three weeks and you’ll likely be free to go then. But until then …”
He shrugged expressively. Calandryll and Bracht exchanged glances. The Kern smiled coldly. “It seems we must wait,” he said, nodding in the direction of the watchful soldiers.
Calandryll ducked his head, silently cursing Tobias. He had not anticipated their whereabouts would be so quickly discovered, and the thought of kicking his heels in Mherut’yi until the podesta arrived chilled him afresh: if Mehemmed had been able to find him, despite all Varent’s precautions, then so might another of the Brotherhood. Or the mysterious woman.
The soldiers parted then, admitting a stern-featured woman wearing a light cape and carrying a large leather bag. She pushed the hood back to reveal a head of thick auburn hair, glancing at the lictor.
“Well, Philomen, I can see one’s beyond repair, so who is it I attend at this ungodly hour?”
The lictor bowed, pointing at Calandryll.
“That one, Suleimana. They say his knee’s damaged.”
The woman nodded and shed her cape. She wore a plain brown robe beneath, smoothing its folds as she settled herself on the bed beside Calandryll. She glanced briefly at his leg and said, “This may hurt.”
He winced his agreement as she probed his knee, then moaned it as she took his ankle in both hands and turned his leg back and forth.
“It’s not broken,” she declared. Then smiled fleetingly as she added, “You’d have screamed if it were—the knee’s a delicate thine.”
“Can he walk?” the lictor asked.
“Burash, no!” The woman shook her head. “Not for a day or two, and then hell be limping a while. Ill set a compress on it, but he’d best stay here in bed for the next two days. After that, I’ll see.”
She pushed her sleeves back and set the palm of her right hand flat against the cut on his belly, her eyes closing as she murmured softly. Calandryll experienced a faint stinging, then the woman removed her hand and he felt nothing.
“There’s no poison,” she remarked casually, and set both hands about his knee.
Her eyes closed again and a look of intense concentration gripped her face. He grunted as her hold tightened, then sighed as the pain abated. She loosed her grip and opened her bag and began to rummage through the contents. Calandryll watched as she produced a pot from which she smeared some pungent ointment over his bruised flesh. It burned a little, then dulled to a pleasant warmth as she wound a bandage about the joint.
“Drink this.” She passed him a phial of colorless liquid. “You have money?”
He nodded and drank. The potion tasted bitter. Suleimana said, “Good, you owe me two varre. One more for each visit. Now, let me dress that cut.”
“Clean that blood,” she advised, “then sleep. Stay here until I say you can walk. Raimi will bring your meals.”
Mother Raimi nodded as though accepting an order. Calandryll said, “Thank you.”
The healer smiled again and shook her head.
“Your money’s all the thanks I heed.” She closed her bag and stood up. “Now—unless there’s another heeds me—I’ll return to my bed.”
“No,” the lictor said, standing aside as she strode regally past him. He fixed a stem eye on Calandryll. “You’ll remain here. Your companion comes with me.”
His men moved closer to emphasize the order. Mother Raimi asked, “What about … that?” pointing nervously at the body.
“Two of you haul it out,” commanded the lictor.
Calandryll watched the body dragged unceremoniously from the room. Mother Raimi stared aghast at her ruined carpet. “You,” the lictor said to Bracht, “come with me. And leave your sword here.”
The Kern glowered, and for a moment Calandryll feared he would refuse. He sighed his relief as Bracht unlatched his swordbelt and flung it irritably to the floor. The lictor beckoned him. His men angled their pikes menacingly. Bracht nodded, offering no further protest. Instead, he looked to Calandryll.
“Visit me when you can walk.”
Calandryll ducked his head, understanding the message.
THE next two days passed slowly. When he tried to stand, pain lanced his damaged knee and he was forced to acknowledge Suleimana’s diagnosis, reluctantly accepting her advice and remaining supine on the bed. A nervous Lyhanna came in the morning to scrub the soiled carpet, avoiding his eyes and answering his questions with grunted monosyllables until he gave up the attempt to engage her in conversation. Mother Raimi brought him food, Surinim at her back with a stout cudgel, and they were no more forthcoming than Lyhanna. It seemed he was allowed to remain only because the healer had spoken against moving him, and he spent the day alternately cursing his immobility and worrying about the attack. He had too much time to think, and his thoughts spun circles about themselves, like mad dogs snapping at their own tails.
Was the Chaipaku sent by Tobias?
Or by Azumandias?
If by the latter, then why send the warboat after the Sea Dancer? Had Azumandias sought to further his chances of success by employing both the woman and the Chaipaku?
Or was it Tobia who sent the assassin?
Would his father use such methods?
He was not sure Bylath would stoop so low, but Tobias … Yes, his brother would not hesitate to eliminate a threat to his accession. But that had to mean Tobias had known he was in Aldarin—could he have found out so fast? Or did the Chaipaku themselves have some means of passing information that swiftly? Carrier pigeons, or perhaps magic. He ransacked his memory for information, but could not recall any mention of the Brotherhood using magic.
He lay on the bed, staring through the opened window at the small yard behind the hostelry, feeling the dry heat of the gaheen, lost in the maze of his troubled thoughts. Had Mehemmed simply recognized him as one sought by the assassins and seized the opportunity to strike? That likely meant his face was known to all the Chaipaku: that particular thought chilled him, for it magnified the dangers of his journey to horrible extent. Magic and Bracht had saved him this time: the next time, the Kern might not be so quick. Certainly not while he was incarcerated in the lictor’s jail. Calandryll clasped the sword rested across his hips and cursed his injury. Fit, he had been no match for the killer. Unable to walk, he had no chance at all should a second appear.
That night he slept with the sword cradled in his arms, fitfully, and his hand was on the hilt when Suleimana came back.
“I am no Chaipaku,” the healer declared. “Had I wished to kill you, that draft I gave you would have been poison. Philomen is not very bright and I could have told him the blade that cut you was envenomed.”
He nodded, relinquishing the sword as she settled herself on the bed and opened her bag.
“Why do they seek you?”
She unwrapped the bandage as she spoke, her eyes critical on his knee. He saw that her rich auburn hair was streaked with strands of grey.
“I travel on secret business,” he replied vaguely. “There are trade contracts to be negotiated.”
The woman snorted, turning skeptical eyes toward him.
“Ghombalar and Vishat’yi are Kandahar’s trade centers, and the Sea Dancer sailed for Ghombalar yesterday.”
He shrugged, watching as she prodded his kneecap. It felt only slightly sore now.
“We travel inland.”
Suleimana applied fresh ointment.
“There’s nothing inland save farms. Unless you travel to Nhur-jabal.”
“We do.”
He was reluctant to reveal even that much, but it seemed that further prevarication would merely heighten her obvious suspicion. She nodded and wound a clean bandage about his leg.
“Now let me see your belly.”
He leaned forward so that she could unwind the cloth. The wound was already healing, the skin puckered and pink.
“A fraction lower …” She chuckled; Calandryll blushed. “But you were lucky. It’s little more than a scratch—in a day or two it’ll be no more than a story to tell your children.”
She smeared a salve over the cut and encircled him with a fresh swathe of linen.
“And my knee?”
“More serious,” she said briskly. “I’ll have Surinim cut you a staff and you can walk a little tomorrow. But not for long! When it begins to ache, you must rest. Strain it and you’ll limp all your life. You were lucky it didn’t break.”
“How long before I can travel?” he asked.
“You Lyssians.” She shook her head. “Do you think of nothing but business?”
“How long?” he insisted.
“At least a week before you can walk unaided. Probably three before it’s full-healed.”
His face registered his alarm. Suleimana shrugged, returning her unguents to the bag.
“Your comrade remains in Philomen’s care until then at least. The podesta makes his circuit and he’s not known to hurry. And he’ll want to interview you.”
“Three weeks,” he muttered.
Suleimana nodded.
“There are stables in Mherut’yi?” he asked. “I can buy horses?”
“Old Dahammen has horses for sale,” she said, “but riding will do that knee no good. And Philomen will not permit you to leave.”
“He’s the only authority in Mherut’yi? Is there none higher?”
The healer chuckled.
“No. Philomen is our lictor and a lictor’s the highest official we merit here. You should have stayed aboard the Sea Dancer and traveled on to Ghombalar if you’re in such a hurry.”
“But I didn’t.”
“No; and now you must remain here until the podesta declares you free to go.”
“You think he will?”
She pursed her lips, then ducked her head.
“The one your fellow killed was Chaipaku, and killing them’s no crime. Aye, the podesta will release you once the formalities are done. But Philomen will hold you until then—he likes to demonstrate his authority from time to time.”
“Might he change his mind?” He paused, not sure how she would take it, or if she would report back to the lictor. “Might money change it for him?”
“No. Philomen’s none too bright, but he’s honest. Don’t try to bribe him.”
He nodded. Suleimana smiled again, rising.
“Curb your impatience. Three weeks is not so long.”
A lifetime, he thought. Long enough for the Chaipaku to find me; or the warboat to reach Mherut’yi. He said, “I suppose I must.”
“Yes,” she said, businesslike again. “And now—you owe me three varre.”
He handed her the coins.
“Thank you. I suggest you visit me in two days’ time. And be careful not to exert yourself.”
He nodded again and she quit the room, leaving him alone.
Three weeks! It was too long to wait: an impossible time. He must test his knee, and when he could walk, purchase horses; free Bracht. He lay back, wondering how he would do it. Presumably the Kern was held in that stronghold on the mole. With Varent’s magic to aid him he should be able to gain entry … find Bracht … the key … Was the freesword held in a cell? How to bring him out? The talisman would render only one of them invisible. He shook his head, refusing to be daunted. He would succeed! He had to, because the fate of the world depended on it. As soon as he could hobble he would penetrate the fortalice and decide a stratagem.
A little happier, he waited for his evening meal.
The next morning Surinim appeared with a staff. It seemed that Suleimana must have reassured the man, for he carried no cudgel today and he smiled shyly as he set the stave beside Calandryll’s bed. Calandryll thanked him and, as soon as he was gone, dressed and clambered awkwardly to his feet. A dull throbbing drummed in his knee when he stood, but he was able to limp, resting his weight mostly on the wooden pole, along the corridor to the entrance of the hostelry. Mother Raimi watched him as he fumbled with the door and he smiled at her, the greeting sending her scurrying back behind the protection of the bead curtain as he hobbled into the street.
The sun shone bright out of a sky that seemed scoured to a steely blue-silver by the relentless gaheen. Within his room he had not realized how fierce the wind was, but now he felt its hot, heavy strength and understood why it was called the devil wind. It burned in his mouth as he breathed, bombarding his face with grit so that he blinked and spat, turning his head to avoid its onslaught. He began to sweat, feeling his lengthening hair slap damp against his heck, the strap of the satchel an irritation across his chest. The street was empty; indeed, Mherut’yi seemed empty, a somnolent place where dust skirled along the narrow thoroughfares and people hid from the oppressive gusting. He wiped his mouth and set out to explore the town.
The investigation did not take long. Even slowed by the frequent heed to halt and rest when his knee threatened to fold under him, he succeeded in patrolling the environs by nightfall. He found the stable Suleimana had described and negotiated the purchase of two horses and tack with Dahammen, explaining to the old man that he would collect them when the podesta freed Bracht. He ate in a dusty inn and afterward limped to the waterfront, disappointed to find that the proximity of the sea offered no respite from the gaheen. The harbor was empty save for a few fishing boats and he leaned against the wall of a warehouse as he studied the grey bulk of the fortalice. It was the tallest structure in Mherut’yi, two stone stories rising above the harbor, the lower level cut with narrow embrasures and the upper with wider, barred openings. The roof was flat and there was a single door granting entry on the landward face. Soldiers lounged about the door, but paid him no more attention than a glance. He wondered where Bracht was held, but decided against attempting entry until later, hobbling back to the hostelry in time for dinner.
