Hernyn rattled the door latch to the Tarkina’s suite with no results.
“Locked and barred,” he said. Dhulyn rolled her eyes. “And there is no light that I can see.”
“I doubt she’d bar the doors if the rooms were empty.” Dhulyn took her Brother firmly by the sleeve and pulled him to one side. She gave the door three sharp blows with the side of her fist and called out. “Tarkina! It’s Dhulyn Wolfshead. Let us in.”
There was a thump, and a small bang on the far side of the door as the bar was removed and laid to one side. The door cracked open and a woman’s hand beckoned them in. Dhulyn wasted no time entering, and she and Hernyn made short work of rebarring the door. It was good stout work, she saw with satisfaction, the insets for the bar not merely attached to, but part of the structure of the walls. They were as safe as could be-short of treachery or starvation.
Dhulyn almost didn’t recognize the woman who’d let them in. Gone were the Tarkina’s veils, and her palace gown with its fluttering sleeves. In its place Zelianora wore the loose trousers, long-sleeved blouse, tight vest, and short boots of her own desert people. An older woman, similarly dressed, stood at the doorway across the drawing room with a curved knife in her hand. Her surprise must have shown on her face, because Zelianora Tarkina took one look at her and smiled.
“Denobea saw strange soldiers in the courtyard,” she said, “and what with the noises…”
“Strange soldiers?” Dhulyn said to the older woman.
The nurse Denobea cleared her throat and gestured to the arrow niche that served this drawing room for a window. “They wear Tenebro color.” Her accent was the same as the Tarkina’s, but her words more hesitant.
“For them to be in that courtyard, someone had to let them in,” the Tarkina said, sinking into a nearby chair. “One of my husband’s people.”
“Not necessarily.” Hernyn spoke from the doorway to the suite of rooms. “The Tenebros were Tarkins not so long ago. They might know a way in that doesn’t rely on treachery.”
Dhulyn snorted, then rolled her eyes as everyone turned to her. Youngsters. “Say what you like, my Brother, but treachery’s the simpler answer and you know it.”
“I was trying to spare the Tarkina suspicions of her own household,” Hernyn said shyly.
“Please don’t.” The Tarkina stood up. “I may not be a Mercenary, young man, but I prefer not to be told that the wolf at the door is only a pet dog. We must go at once to my husband.”
“It’s under his orders that we’re here, Tarkina.” Dhulyn eyed the other woman’s clothing. “You’re Berdanan, aren’t you, Lady? As you’ve been Tarkina of Imrion for several years, I must ask, do you still keep your travel packs ready?”
“I was Berdanan long before I became Tarkina of Imrion, Dhulyn Wolfshead; our packs are in the bedroom.”
“Get them, then, and we will go.”
The Tarkina spoke softly to the nurse in her own tongue and Denobea ran into the other room, coming out so quickly with two well-balanced travel packs that Dhulyn assumed they must have been taken out of their storage place already. Following her, eyes big in faces too serious for their ages, were a slim girl of perhaps nine, leading a toddler still chubby with baby fat.
“I will carry my son,” Zelianora Tarkina said, picking up a wide shawl of heavy linen and wrapping it around her upper body with practiced ease, tying it to form a sling across her chest. She held out her arms and the small boy let go of his sister’s hand and ran to her. “With the pack on my back, my weight will be even.”
For an instant Dhulyn flashed to the memory of warm wrappings supporting her own legs and back, and the smell of leather and spicy sweat that was her father. She blinked and breathed deeply.
“The little one looks to be asleep, already,” Dhulyn said, a question clearly in her voice.
“I gave Zak valerian, a safe dose,” the Tarkina said. “It seemed the best way to keep him quiet.”
“And what about this lady?” Dhulyn looked down at the nine-year-old girl who looked back at her with the Tarkin’s firm jaw and blue eyes, but her mother’s steadfast gaze.
“This is our daughter, Bet-oTeb,” the Tarkina answered.
“The Tarkin-to-be.” Dhulyn bowed to the child.
“Exactly,” the child said in a soft, clear voice that only wavered the slightest bit.
“Are you armed, Lady?” Dhulyn said, doing her best not to smile.
For answer, the child drew a knife long enough to be sword-sized for her out of a stiff sheath at her waist.
“And do you know how to use it, Tarkin-to-be?”
“I’ve trained with the Personal Guard since I was six,” the child said.
“Then, if it please you, Lady, you shall walk by your mother, and help to keep your sibling alive.”
The child nodded. “It pleases me.”
Dhulyn bowed again.
Hernyn coughed from his post by the barred door. “Someone comes.”
“I’m getting tired of this.” Dhulyn drew her sword and motioned the Tarkina back toward the inner rooms.
“Dhulyn, my heart.” The voice was unmistakable, even through the door.
“Parno,” Hernyn said, sheathing his sword and helping Dhulyn with the bar on the door. Parno for certain, she thought, but something had happened. His voice sounded thick, as if he were about to start a cold.
“Someone could be forcing him,” the Tarkina said.
Dhulyn looked back over her shoulder. “No,” she said. “Someone couldn’t.”
Parno came into the room out of breath, and startled Dhulyn by taking her immediately in his arms.
“My soul,” she said, with the little breath he left her. “The enemy.”
He let her go, whirled to face the door, and drew his right-hand sword all in one movement.
“Not just now,” Dhulyn said, “but at any moment.” She turned back into the room. “Lady Bet-oTeb, Nurse Denobea, my Partner, Parno Lionsmane the Chanter.”
“Ladies.” Parno gave his best bow and accepted the young Tarkin-to-be’s acknowledgment. “Do you know the fastest way to the Onyx Walk?”
Din-eDin left the three volunteers at the top of the Ruby Stair and led Dhulyn and her charges down the Onyx Walk to the corridor that serviced the old summer kitchens.
“The Tarkin has gone ahead with Alkoryn Pantherclaw,” he told them, as they reached the opening of the service corridor. “You are to join him immediately, Lady Tarkina. He will send back the volunteers for this spot.”
“No need for them, I’ll stand with you.” Every head in the corridor, even that of little Bet-oTeb, turned to look at Hernyn.
“Demons and perverts, Hernyn. There’s no need.” Parno grasped the younger man’s arm. “Dhulyn, tell him there’s no need.”
Dhulyn looked at Hernyn but waited, knowing the young man had to speak. For the first time since they’d made it to safety after their escape from Tenebro House, he met her eyes squarely, and held them. His glance didn’t fall away in embarrassment after a few blinks. She saw strength there now, courage and resolve. It seemed what was left of the School boy had faded away, and Dhulyn saw the man, her true Brother.
“It’s for me to do,” Hernyn said. “Not for your sake, my Brother, for my own.”
Dhulyn clasped Hernyn’s hands in a firm grip. “Captain Din-eDin, if my Brother, Hernyn Greystone, called the Shield, will stay,” she said, still holding Hernyn’s eyes with her own, “you will need no others.”
Hernyn nodded, once down, once up, taking her words as they were meant, as a blessing.
“I welcome the Shield’s assistance,” Din-eDin said. He turned to the Tarkina. “You will be safe with these Brothers, my lady, and the Lord Tarkin.”
“Din-eDin, I thank you.”
“There is no need, my lady, but you are welcome.”
The Tarkina stepped forward from her spot between Parno and the nurse Denobea and kissed both Din-eDin and Hernyn Greystone the Shield on the cheek. The chi
ld, Bet-oTeb stepped out also, though not before the nurse made a move to stop her. She gave one hand to each of the two men.
“Thank you,” she said, her child’s voice ringing softly against the cold stone. “Thank you for my life.”
Oh, yes, Dhulyn thought as the two warriors-Mercenary and Guard-blushed and ducked their heads to the child before them. She’ll be Tarkin one day, and people will fall over themselves to follow her. Only then did the child turn, and let her mother and her nurse lead her up the corridor toward the kitchen.
Dhulyn embraced the younger Mercenary and said. “We will tell your tale, Brother.”
Din-eDin waited until the nobles were out of earshot. “My Tarkin is in your hands, Mercenaries. See that you hold him.”
“Mercenary House will know where to find us, if you should live through this day.”
“Can you close the passage behind you?”
Dhulyn looked to Parno, who shrugged.
“If you can, close it,” Din-eDin said. Dhulyn nodded, gave Hernyn’s shoulder one last squeeze, and ran down the corridor toward the old kitchen.
Fifteen
A WOMAN USING the public fountain at the east end of the Old Market had taken pity on him and given Gun a clay pitcher with a cracked lip to take water away in. Though he’d known better than to try paying her-he hadn’t completely forgotten being Gundy the horse boy-he had still tried to give her something in return.
“Keep your scarf, youngster,” she’d said to him, though Gun was fairly certain the woman wasn’t that much older than he was. Poor nutrition during childbearing would account for more of her lost teeth than age-obviously she didn’t come from the part of society who normally had access to Healers. Not that anyone did now.
“You’ll need all you have an’ more, I should think,” the woman added, eyeing him up and down and appeared to make up her mind about him, for she went on in a quieter voice.
“Don’t take this amiss, boy, but have you any other clothes? Rumor on the street says they’re looking for a Scholar, something to do with the Fall of Tenebro House what happened last night. There’s a reward offered an’ all. I’m not saying you’re the one they’re looking for, but you stick out, boy, that’s a fact, and if you don’t want to be answering questions, you’ll try to look less like what you are.”
“But I-” Shock stopped Gun’s voice. Looking for him because of the Fall of the House? Water began to dribble from the pitcher as his hand relaxed.
“Watch it, boy, watch it. No need to waste water.” The woman propped up his elbow with her strong fingers. “I’m not asking any questions myself, mind, just passing along a bit of advice. If you’ve no other clothes, go down to old Semplon-Nast, south corner, the rag and bone man. Tell him Nessa sent you, and he’ll give you good trade for what you’re wearing.”
“And why won’t he turn me in?” Gun said, abandoning all pretense that he was not the Scholar being looked for.
“Three reasons. One, I sent you; two, he’s got no love for the Noble Houses and won’t care if one’s Fallen; an’ three, he’s blind. He can’t see a Scholar, but he can feel the quality of the cloth you’re wearing.”
Gun unwound his scarf and held it out to her. “Not for the water,” he said. “For the warning, and the advice.” This time she nodded once and took it.
Still, he waited until she had gone on her way before taking a firm grip on the clay jug of water and starting back to where he’d left Mar. He was careful to take a different route from the one he’d come by.
Bracing herself on the arch of the opening, Dhulyn leaned into the old kitchen fireplace, large enough, she was sure, to roast a mature inglera whole. She was just starting to feel the burn in muscles overtaxed by hauling wine casks out of the way, and firmly ignoring the familiar feel of cramping in her lower back. Even in the lantern light, you could still see the marks fire had made on the brick walls, particularly at the back, where Alkoryn now tapped upon the stones. Parno stood by him, a war hammer ready in his hand, the closest thing to a mallet they’d been able to find in the Tarkin’s armory, and just as extravagantly decorated as every other weapon there.
This was the middle one of our three fireplaces in the old summer kitchen, and though Alkoryn Pantherclaw had known perfectly well which of the three was wanted, he’d insisted that all of them be emptied of their contents.
“We hope to mislead those who’ll come after,” Alkoryn had whispered to the Tarkin. “If they do not know which of these holds the passage, they will have to break into all three. They may even think we escaped elsewhere.”
One of the guards had dropped a cask during the moving, shattering it on the worn stone floor, and now the heady smell of aged liquor mixed with the dry dust smell of the old kitchen itself made Dhulyn’s stomach lurch. She swallowed, looking for something to distract her. The Tarkin, Tek-aKet, was only a few paces away, half-sitting on an upright cask, his right arm around the Tarkina, his left hand resting on his daughter’s shoulder.
“Look, Zella,” he was saying, pointing with his chin to several barrels that had been rolled to one side. “That sweet wine was laid down by my father when I was born.” He looked up at her again. “We should have been able to drink it next year.”
“We still shall,” she said, in a voice so firm that even her little daughter nodded.
Dhulyn straightened as Alkoryn stepped back from the fireplace wall and motioned Parno forward. The Senior Brother indicated five particular stones, waited for Parno to nod, and then touched them again in a different order. Parno nodded again, rubbed his upper lip with the first two fingers of his right hand, and touched the stones himself.
“Tap there, my Brother, but gently. Say that you wanted to knock out a sentry, rather than kill him.”
Parno nodded, and hefted the war hammer.
“Want me to do it?” Dhulyn said.
Parno just showed his teeth as he swung the weapon forward and lightly but firmly tapped the stones in the order he’d been shown.
With a grinding Dhulyn felt in her bones, a section of wall moved backward. Two of the guardsmen helped Parno push it aside to reveal a long tunnel. Alkoryn caught Dhulyn’s eye and nodded.
“Lord Tarkin,” she called over her shoulder. “We’re ready. Alkoryn Pantherclaw will go first, seeing he knows the way.” Dhulyn tapped the shoulder of a tall guard with thick black hair. “Kole, isn’t it? Go with him. Then you three,” she said, nodding at the remaining guards. “Lord Tarkin, you and your family next, and Parno Lionsmane and I will come last.”
The Tarkin was nodding, but his mouth was twisted as if he’d eaten something unpleasant. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful,” he said. “But I cannot honestly say I’m pleased that the Mercenary Brotherhood knows of secret passageways in my Dome.”
Dhulyn shrugged. “It was someone else’s Dome before you, Lord, and the Brotherhood is older even than the Dome, older than the reign of Tarkins. Older than Imrion, if it comes to that. There’s many things we know.”
Hernyn wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and resisted the desire to spit. Then he thought about where he was, and how long he was likely to be there, and spit freely on the inlaid tesserae of the Onyx Walk. He heard an unmistakable clatter in the distance, and looked to Din-eDin, who nodded his acknowledgment that he, too, had heard the approaching noise.
“Won’t be long now,” the older man said.
It was Hernyn’s turn to nod. When they’d first taken up their station an arm’s length down from where the narrow service corridor met the Onyx Walk, they’d heard the sounds of voices and what seemed like moving furniture echoing up the long hallway from the old kitchen, but now, while they could still hear voices, the louder noises had stopped.
A shadow moved into their field of vision. Hernyn glanced at the extra weapons he’d lined up behind him on the floor of the passage and picked up a handheld crossbow he’d found among the Tarkin’s things. A toy, really, and he’d blushed when he saw that Dhulyn Wolfsh
ead had seen him pick it up. But she hadn’t said anything, she hadn’t even smiled. It was a beautiful little piece, finely constructed out of ash wood and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and probably intended for ceremonial use. And deadly just the same, he thought. Not very good for distances, of course, but he was willing to let the man approaching get close enough.
“Hold.” Din-eDin put up his hand; he’d squatted down to take a quick look about waist height around the corner of the wall, and was now straightening. “He’s one of mine.”
The Guard Captain was stepping forward to meet his man when Hernyn put out his arm, blocking his advance.
“Don’t step into the Walk,” he said. “Not for any reason. That’s how we get flanked. Make them come to us.” A part of Hernyn felt like a School boy reciting his lesson, as if Din-eDin had been only testing him; a part was embarrassed to have to correct an older, more experienced man; a part-and this by far the largest, was rolling his eyes at the carelessness of those who were not Mercenary Brothers.
He leaned against the cold stone of the left-hand wall and angled his head until he could see the approaching man clearly. He was in the uniform of the Tarkin’s Personal Guard, right enough. But why wasn’t he running? The only reason for the men at the other points to come down here was to fall back to this position when their own was overwhelmed-and if they were quick enough, to get out through the tunnels Alkoryn had said were there. And this man didn’t move like someone who’d been overwhelmed. He moved like someone taking a walk-or no, amended Hernyn as the man stumbled and put out a hand to the plastered wall of the Onyx Walk. He walked like a man who was drunk and determined not to show it.
Drunk… or wounded?
“Are you hurt, man?” Hernyn called out.
The approaching guard shook his head, but kept advancing at that strange, overly-careful pace. As if he pushed against a stiff wind, though no air stirred in the halls.
“Ask him where the others are,” Din-eDin said. Hernyn flicked his eyes to the older man. There was sense in that, at least.
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