“That is what comes of reading too much.”
They stopped again at what Dhulyn estimated was well within bow-shot of the gates, and therefore too close for comfort if they really expected to be attacked. She heard the creak of Dal’s saddle as he stood up in his stirrups.
“Give answer,” he called. “Who attends the gates, give answer.”
“I attend,” came a man’s voice out of the air.
“I am Dal-eDal Tenebro, the cousin of Lok-iKol Tarkin. May I pass?”
Dhulyn grinned. Would anyone else find it significant that Dal-eDal was so careful to say which Tarkin he was related to?
“Enter, enter, enter…” said the voice in the air, fading as though the speaker was turning and walking away. Around her were the noises of her companions dismounting, but Dhulyn stayed where she was.
“You’ll have to duck down,” Karlyn said from around her right elbow. “You’ll just fit through the door if Bloodbone walks carefully.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Dhulyn said rapidly reviewing the knots she’d used before deciding none of them would either pull loose or become dangerously tight if she bent enough to get through the door. Such doors, she knew, were specifically designed to prevent the entrance of people on horseback, but Bloodbone was not large, and if Dhulyn could lay practically flat along the mare’s neck…
She pressed her cheek against Bloodbone’s mane, and felt the loop around her right knee tighten painfully. Just as she was about to sit up again, she felt a hand loosening it. “Thank you,” she said, knowing it was Karlyn-Tan.
The quality of the echoes thrown off from hooves and footsteps once they’d passed through the gate told Dhulyn the inner gate was already open, and she could picture the look of disgust that must have decorated Karlyn-Tan’s face at the carelessness which allowed both gates to be open at once.
Dhulyn closed her eyes and concentrated her senses-there was more wrong here than sloppiness with the gates.
“Are there archers in the recesses?” she asked. There should be, she knew. There had been archers at the slitted openings high in the curve of the tunnel walls when she had passed through here with Parno and Alkoryn.
“I see no one,” Karlyn said.
A shifting of air and the feel of sunlight on the skin of her arms and hands told her they were through the inner gate and into the main courtyard of the Dome.
“You there,” Dal called out. “Where are the Stewards? Our horses need attendance, as do we.”
Nothing more than muttering, and what sounded like fingers snapping in time to an unheard tune. The muscles in Dhulyn’s stomach tightened. The last time she’d felt this way had been in Navra, watching the crowd around the Finder’s fire.
“What is happening?” she said, not caring who heard her speak.
Before anyone could answer Dhulyn heard the unmistakable sound of an arrow whistling through the air, and a grunt behind her, a swift click of hooves as a horse shied to one side, a jingle of harness, followed by the unmistakable dull thud of a body hitting the cobbles.
Without conscious thought she squeezed her knees together and Bloodbone obeyed the signal, rearing as Dhulyn thrust out both heels, pulling free of her leg bindings and sliding off Bloodbone’s back to land squarely on her feet as the mare took a step forward. Lifting and uncrossing her arms over her head freed them, and Dhulyn yanked off the hood, ducking just in time to avoid another arrow as it fell bouncing on the stones beyond her. The flagstones underfoot were swept relatively clean, but as she straightened, Dhulyn mimed tossing dirt into the faces of the two nearest strangers, who flinched without thinking. She pulled her boot knives free and used them to deflect yet another arrow.
Not that the arrows appeared to be specifically aimed at anyone, Dhulyn realized as she glanced around, squinting against the light, near blinding after so long in the hood. The second flight of arrows seemed let off from loose strings, so haphazard as to be no real danger. Not like the armed guards running from the doorway beside the gate. They were badly dressed and disorderly, but heavily armed and deadly serious. Though if they hadn’t been coming from what was obviously a wardroom, Dhulyn would have sworn these were soldiers coming spent and dirty from the battlefield.
One even had dried blood on the blade of her sword. And a moment later, Dhulyn’s dagger growing out of her eye.
Dhulyn turned and pulled her own sword from the scabbard lying hidden along Bloodbone’s side under her woolly oversized saddle pad. Why would a professional soldier not clean her weapon, Dhulyn thought, as she automatically brought up her blade to block a blow aimed with great fury but little skill at her head. And since when did the guards of the Carnelian Dome have little skill?
“This way,” Dal-eDal called from behind her, and Dhulyn automatically stepped back, throwing a quick glance over her shoulder. Dal was heading toward a small arched doorway on the far right of the courtyard, not the elaborately carved main entrance Dhulyn had used when she’d come for her audience with the Tarkin.
Three more guards came trotting into the courtyard, but instead of coming directly to the help of their fellows, they hesitated, looking from friend to foe with frowns. One of them stared about as if he wasn’t even sure where he was. Dhulyn moved her sword with more discretion, hitting with the flat of the heavy blade, pushing one youngster away with a boot to the midsection, unwilling to kill people who didn’t seem altogether certain that they wished to kill her.
She was one of the last to reach the doorway Dal stood guarding, and she helped him slam the heavy door into place, stepping aside as Karlyn and Cullen thrust down the bar. A quick look around confirmed only minor injuries, barring the unlucky Linn, who’d been hit by the first arrow-the only one which had come with any force. They had left his body outside with the horses.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Karlyn said. “Where are the Stewards? Why were the gate guards not better organized?”
“And cleaner. And aware enough to actually do some damage with their swords,” said Dhulyn.
“What do you mean, Wolfshead?” Dal-eDal said.
“Did you not see it?” Cullen said. “They moved as if they knew what to do, but had forgotten how.” He looked between Karlyn and Dhulyn.
“Or as if they’d forgotten why,” Dhulyn said. “There was no coordination, as if they’d never fought together before. As if they were each of them alone.”
“We were lucky,” Karlyn said. “You can be killed just as dead by someone who doesn’t know why he’s shooting at you.”
“This is a kind of madness,” Dhulyn said. “We saw this in Navra, Parno and I. Did you see their eyes? It is some effect of the Green Shadow.”
“We waste time with questions we cannot answer,” Dal said pushing away from the wall. “Come.”
Three identical dressed-stone passages led from the entrance hallway, each as wide as her outstretched arms, each carpeted with runners of woven matting to deaden the sound of servants’ feet. Dal had chosen the one on the right, and they had advanced as far as the first cross corridor when they heard footsteps running. Dhulyn and Cullen had been walking with their swords at the ready, and now Karlyn and Joss lifted theirs, bracing themselves. Dal held up his hand and after a few moments it became clear that the running feet came no nearer, but were fading into the distance.
“They go to the throne room,” Dal said.
“If our people are the target of those running guards, they will need our help.”
“Throne room it is.”
They lit the cressets when the third lamp they came to was out of oil and covered in dust, as was the smoothed stone floor under their feet. Those who carried no lights held to the belts of those who did. They’d left the natural caves under Mercenary House behind them, and were now in the secret tunnels that generations of Mercenaries had discovered, used, and expanded upon.
And even though they were helping him at the moment, Tek-aKet Tarkin didn’t like it. He didn’t like the darkness, the clo
sed-in spaces-hadn’t liked it the first time through, but then he’d had Zella with him and the children and that had made a difference.
He didn’t at all like that the tunnels existed, and he especially didn’t like that the Mercenaries knew so much about them.
The passage they followed now was narrow enough that in places they had to turn sideways, and Tek found himself thinking how lucky he was that he took after his slim mother, and not after the hulking bear of a man his father had been. As it was, there were one or two places where even walking sideways made for a tight fit. Parno Lionsmane, with the maps Tek didn’t like to think about firmly in his mind, led the way. After a long, unbroken stretch of bricked tunnel, they came to a crossroads and the Mercenary Brother hesitated.
“Tell me again, Scholar, which way we should go.”
Unable to turn completely, Tek looked over his shoulder at where the Scholar stood between Jessen and Tonal.
“He’s in the throne room, Lionsmane. I’m sure of it.”
Because of the confinement of the walls, Tek was the only one of the group who could see the man’s face-and Tek was fairly certain even Parno Lionsmane didn’t realize he could be seen. Tek saw distrust flit across the Mercenary’s features, strangely bronzed by the light from the cresset he held. The distrust was followed by frustration as Parno Lionsmane shut his eyes tight. And finally the man shrugged.
“Throne room it is,” he told the pale-faced Scholar. “If we live through this, you’re going to tell me how you know.”
Using his dagger, he scratched a pattern on the tunnel wall at eye height and added an arrow.
The tunnel grew gradually wider, and narrow slitted openings began appearing high in the stone walls, letting in some outside light. There was something familiar about the pattern of the light, and it dawned on Tek that this was the outer wall of the Soniana Tower, so called after a long-dead Tarkina, and the present-day location of the Carnelian Throne. He had seen these narrow slits in the walls from the outside, and thought them decorations.
There was light enough for them to see the end of the passage before they walked into it. Parno Lionsmane signaled, holding up his left hand with the first two fingers extended. Tek passed the signal back to his guards. The Lionsmane stuck the cresset into a bracket to the left of the wall in front of him and ran his fingertips over the bricks, feeling for the one glazed smooth. Tek saw him take a deep, quiet breath and let it out slowly, before he ran his hands over the bricks again.
“Should I hold the light?” Tek said.
Lionsmane shook his head. “The maps say the brick won’t show, no matter where we hold the light, that only-here it is.” Tek put out his hand and the Lionsmane guided it until Tek could feel the smooth glazing for himself. It was one of the smaller tying-in bricks, he thought smiling, placed sideways to the others both to create a pattern and to strengthen the double-layered wall. Unless you knew what to look for, the smooth surface was too small to draw attention to itself.
The Mercenary braced his fingers and pushed the smooth brick with his thumbs. “Lord Tarkin, your hands under mine, please.” Even straining as they all were, Tek heard nothing, and it wasn’t until they released the catch that Tek felt the wall give, shuddering slightly under their hands. According to the instructions that had been handwritten on the map, this section of wall was cantilevered, and they should be able to swing it open by pushing on the left-hand side.
Lionsmane drew his sword, and motioned Jessen and Tonal forward, showing them with the point of his blade where he wanted their hands. “I’ll go through first and to the left; the Tarkin behind me and to the right. Guards, you follow up the middle. Scholar, stay out of the way of the blades.” When everyone was in position, the Mercenary nodded and the two guards pushed against the wall to the left of the trigger brick. As promised, the wall opened, so quietly that without the change in light Tek wouldn’t have been sure that it had happened.
“Who’s been keeping this oiled?” he whispered as he followed the Mercenary through the narrow space into the dressing room and stepped to the right. Lionsmane threw him a glance that made Tek’s ears burn. Of course. The Brotherhood maintains the tunnels.
When Tek was growing up, this room had been filled with his father’s robes of state, the Tarkin’s coronet and the spear and sword, symbols of the Tarkin’s office. Tek preferred less ceremony, and had always used the room as a private salon, where he could retreat to rest and refresh himself without technically leaving the throne room, or to send petitioners to wait for a more private audience. A thick rug covered the stone floor, with two comfortable chairs placed near a table covered with an embroidered cloth, tall enough to serve for either writing or dining.
As Tek stepped to the right out of the opening, he glanced down at this table. It held the cut-glass inkwell that Zella’s sister Alliandra had sent him from Berdana’s new glassworks. The ink had dried, and inkwell, pens, and embroidered cloth were all covered with a fine layer of dust. Tek tightened his grip on his sword and felt a chill trickle up his spine. His whole life he’d lived in the Carnelian Dome, and he’d never before seen dust on the furniture.
Lionsmane waited until everyone had come out of the secret passage before he swung the wall shut behind them. The paneling was decorated with an inlaid pattern, and with a tap of his forefinger, he drew their attention to the piece of inlay that marked the door’s trigger from this side. When Tek and his two guards had nodded, the Mercenary turned to look at the room.
“Does that door open directly into the throne room,” he asked, his voice a quiet growl, “or is there another, connecting room?”
“I’m surprised you don’t know,” Tek said, smiling to take the sting out of his words. Well, he thought, first you kill the wolf, then you worry about the holes in the fences. He would deal with the extent of the Mercenaries’ knowledge when they lived through this. “Not a room, but a connecting passage,” he continued. “Go immediately right. The door on the left wall at the other end is the entrance to the throne room proper. The entrance will bring us out to the right of the Throne itself. The door opens toward us and will lay flat against the far wall.”
Parno Lionsmane nodded, his eyes still on the door.
“Your best guess as to the number of guards in the room, Lord Tarkin.”
“There are always two standing at the throne itself. This is not the normal time for audiences…” Tek turned to look at the Scholar, looking all the paler for a streak of dirt on his face, standing close to the hidden opening, as if he would like to go back through.
“He’s there,” the boy said. “Or the Green Shadow is.”
Tek nodded. “Then there may be more guards. We should be able to hear voices through the second door.”
“Very well,” Parno said. “Keep the same formation, but come out striking.”
Twenty-one
ON THE COUNT of three, Parno dove out through the door held open for him, tossing throwing stars to the right and left and making an automatic count of the men in the room as he rolled up onto his feet. Five against each side wall, two flanking the formal entrance. None close to the throne. Twelve. Not so bad, if he didn’t have Tek-aKet to worry about. But with luck there should be Brothers only minutes behind him in the tunnels, and Dhulyn only steps away. Between them he and his Partner could handle twelve easily, even while keeping the Tarkin and his guards alive. Tek-aKet had already followed him into the throne room and was engaging one of the guards standing against the right wall, with Tonal and Jessen running up to help.
Three guards in Tenebro colors approached him warily as Parno straightened to his feet and lifted his sword, already deciding which he would gut first. Just as he shifted his weight to make the first move, he was grabbed in a bear hug from behind, clamping his arms to his sides.
Idiot! he thought, cursing both himself and his assailant. He should have been aware of his own back, not watching for Tek’s. As for the fellow who’d grabbed him, he must have been unarmed-o
therwise why waste time with wrestling moves? Even as he was thinking this, Parno squatted, bracing his legs and bending forward to tip the man off-balance. The guard was not unskilled, however, and he countered Parno’s shift of weight by thrusting his own leg forward between Parno’s braced legs. The man was barrel-chested, the strength in his arms astonishing, and Parno felt his lungs close down, refusing his next breath. But he had some experience of his own, and this was no simple wrestling match, skill against skill alone, undertaken for money or glory, and over when one man was pinned to the ground. Years of Schooling allowed Parno to ignore the burning in his lungs, the pounding in his blood, and focus on distribution of weight, on leverage, angles, and cutting edges. Still squatting, he turned his dagger a few degrees of arc, stabbed back and upward, felt the hot gush of blood as he severed the artery in the man’s thigh, took a deep welcome breath of air and shrugged his way out of the man’s suddenly limp grasp.
As he straightened, Parno lifted both his blades, swinging his sword through the arm of the Tenebro guard who was closing in on Tonal. Of the three who had been approaching him, only two were left and Parno leaped to engage them, forcing them back toward the throne itself. Lok was standing, a sword in his hand, looking out at the men fighting like an owl sitting on a perch, turning this way and that, watching for prey.
The part of him that was Lok-iKol recognized the golden-haired man with the Mercenary badge as soon as he stood up out of his roll. The surge of adrenaline that passed through the body was unpleasant, burning and leaving a metallic taste in the mouth. There was some fear, but also something he had come to recognize as hope. Lok-iKol thought there was something this man could do for him, and there was something… the body’s heart rate increased. Where this golden-haired man was, he understood, the Seer would not be far away. He stepped forward and around two men fighting, lifting his hand to TOUCH the man, when another body stepped into his way. This dark-haired, bearded man was no stranger to Lok-iKol, though it took a moment to recognize him, bearded and disheveled as he was. Another surge of emotion, this time colder, bitter. Their swords met with a clash and he fell back, making the dark, bearded man follow. The golden man called out, “No, Tek,” and began cutting through the wall of men preventing him from coming to the dark one’s aid.
The Sleeping God Page 39
