Neither the sentiment nor the voice that spoke it sounded anything like the Alvantes I knew. He didn't seem remotely worried by the chaos he'd caused, or the innocent wagoner — and his horse — who'd been harmed at our expense.
Still, if the shock of sudden grief had done bad things to Alvantes's moral compass, he remained a better bet than the harlequin assassins behind us. He was right, his recklessness had bought us time — but that didn't mean much in the scheme of things. Our horses weren't cut out for a prolonged chase. Given the obscene patience Stick and Stone had shown, it was safe to guess theirs would be.
Therefore, when he encouraged his mount to a gallop, I didn't let my doubts about his current sanity keep me from following. Before us, the tree-lined highway we'd arrived by descended steadily towards the harbour. If I'd had any say, that would have been our destination, for commandeering a boat would do much to consolidate our lead. Alvantes, however, ignored the harbour, veering from the road. In that direction was only rugged grassland, stretching down to broken strips of forest in the distance.
If it didn't seem to offer anything very promising as an escape route, I still wasn't ready to argue. Not that Alvantes gave me much opportunity. He was riding hard, showing no interest in whether I could keep up — and I was starting to doubt I could. Realistically, I probably hadn't sustained any terminal damage. I could just about twitch my fingers, despite my injured right arm. But between that and the redraw flesh of my left side, it was hard to pay much attention to riding. Nor had having my head slammed against a wall at high speed helped. Whenever my concentration began to slip, the scene grew foggy and unreal.
Thankfully, Alvantes reined in again when we broke through the first copse of trees. He stared out from the deep shade, back towards the gates. Drawing alongside, I looked where he looked.
Though it made me shudder, I wasn't surprised to see that Stick and Stone had made their way through the carnage inside the gatehouse. I could easily imagine how quickly the carters would have moved to clear the way.
The two assassins were making good time in our direction. More unexpected was that Stick and Stone had gained a tail of their own. I couldn't judge details, except that he or she was small-built and plainly dressed, with a hood drawn over the face. They'd only just slipped from the gloom of the gate and were hanging well back. Stick and Stone, focused on us, seemed oblivious to their presence.
Might this new party be an ally? Some agent of Alvantes's father? It seemed unlikely. Yet I felt sure that this unknown was following the two assassins, whilst studiously keeping in their blind spot.
I glanced at Alvantes. If I was expecting enlightenment, it was a vain hope indeed. His expression was murderous. "I'll lead them away," he said. "Keep south." Then, as an afterthought, "Avoid the cliffs."
Before I could tell him to stop playing hero, or decide if I even wanted to, he was off again. He broke from the copse, turned sharply to pursue its edge. His intention was clear. So long as I kept the bank of trees between us, I'd be invisible to Stick and Stone. His motives were more doubtful. I was sure Alvantes didn't intend to run far. He planned to find somewhere to make his stand; any saving of my life would be a purely incidental benefit.
He was overwrought, blind with anguish. They were killers fit for a king. I doubted very much I'd ever see Alvantes again.
As for me, I was scared sick and in pain. If Alvantes's self-sacrifice bought me a few more minutes of life, then I was about ready to accept it. I plunged my mount into the bank of woodland with hardly a second thought.
On the farther side, the land dipped in a shallow bank and continued much as before. Far to my left was a crude hint of the river's course, far to my right the western mountains. Between stretched a vast tract of grassland. More tufts of woodland like the one I'd passed through were scattered about, and far ahead, a denser wall of forest severed the view altogether.
There was no sign of any cliffs. Had Alvantes meant the mountains to the west? If so, his last words had been wasted. There was no cover at all in that direction. Even if Stick and Stone had taken Alvantes's bait, they'd have ample time to murder him, pick up my trail and track me down before I could make it halfway to those remote peaks.
No, the dense blockade of foliage ahead was my only option. I could make good time on the shallowly descending sward, and once I was through the tree line, perhaps hunt out a hiding place.
My horse seemed happier now that we were out of the city. Perhaps he'd rationalised the whole affair as a grand escape he'd orchestrated himself. If he kept a decent pace and didn't dash me against any more walls, I was willing to leave him to his illusions. The miasma in my head had cleared just slightly, too. The general pain had dulled to a teeming ache. Only my arm remained an immediate concern. I could just about flex my fingertips, but doing so sent such jolts through the distressed muscles that I almost fainted. For any serious purpose — say, fending off assassins — it was useless.
Still, with the horse more or less cooperating, I could ride at least. The land was firm and even, and we were making good speed. As the forest drew closer, I tried to count that short list of blessings, and not think unduly about what might be happening behind me. Alvantes was surely dead by now. However fast my mount and I were, Stick and Stone were faster.
I made it two-thirds of the distance before my fears got the better of me. Doing my best to balance without jeopardising my damaged arm, I risked a glimpse over my shoulder.
There were still two riders. They'd both come after me. And they were already far too close.
I encouraged the horse to speed up. To my surprise, he did. It probably wasn't enough to stop them gaining, but I appreciated the effort. By the time we came to the edge of the forest, however, he was growing fretful. Worse, what had looked like airy and pleasant weald from a distance revealed a tangle of thick foliage carpeted with vines and nettle.
There was no way we were galloping through there. I let the horse slow to a walk — though it felt like baring my throat for those rapidly nearing killers. Even that indulgence made no difference. He could barely manage two steps before a branch lashed his side or a snare of thorns tried to trip him. He began to huff and fret again. Freedom was obviously proving a disappointment.
There was nothing for it. I dismounted and crashed on foot into the brush. I was leaving a trail a corpse could follow. Worse, I was tiring myself uselessly. Time and again, I crashed my arm against a trunk and wanted to weep for the raw shock that dashed through it. But I couldn't bring myself to stop. If I was moving, I had a chance. If I was in pain, I was alive. It was when the pain and moving stopped that I had to worry.
I was more right than I knew.
Head down, arms up to protect my face, I had the barest moment to realise I'd broken through the edge of the forest. It was just time enough to see the cliffs at my feet, not nearly enough to halt myself.
By way of small mercies, the view was outstanding. As I toppled into it, I saw clearly how the broken ground declined in narrow steps, all the way to where the grasslands continued far below. It was a very small mercy, however, because I only received its benefit for the briefest of instants before I was tumbling head over heels.
If the slope promised to be gradual enough that it might conceivably not kill me, there was still no way to pause my plummeting descent. Nor did it lack for jutting rocks and bushes. They didn't slow my plunge either, just made it more eventful. The only thing guaranteed to stop me was hitting somewhere horizontal — and that happened quickly enough.
I still managed to roll a couple more times before I came to a rest. I flopped onto my back and gulped air as jagged as ground glass. There was no way I was getting up. It was impossible. My arm, in particular, felt as though the bones had been removed, heated to melting point and clumsily reinserted. I'd seen enough of the cliffs to know that the slope back to the edge of the forest was infinitely beyond my current abilities. The only way on was down — and the only way I'd be continuing in that di
rection was if I didn't mind being in pieces at the bottom.
Instead, I lay still. Consciousness slipped and slid. The sky seemed to darken and flush with brightness, as though days were spinning by. In the dark, I almost accepted my impending fate. Under the brilliance, I was helpless and terrified. Neither could quite give me the will to move. I doubted anything could. Better to lie still and wait — for death would arrive soon enough, whether I liked it or not.
And there he was. Perhaps I'd been unconscious, because one moment I was staring at the grass-tufted edge of the decline, the next he was standing above me, gazing down. The distorted patterning of his costume made my eyes cross. There was a knife in his hand.
I wanted to say something. It didn't seem right to die without some suitably Damascoesque last words.
He raised his hand, tipping the knife hilt skywards.
If nothing else, I wanted to ask him who the mysterious stranger was. The one who'd pursued us from Pasaeda, the one I'd mistaken for his partner when I'd looked back earlier — the one standing behind him now. I raised my good arm, tried my best to point. He ignored me in favour of sighting carefully along the flat of his blade.
When he flicked his hand, it was quick as any adder striking.
The blade spun away — turned a perfect half-circle, neatly impaled a clot of grass. Stick, Stone, whichever he might be, took a drunken step forward. He tumbled, flipped three times, landed with a crisp crack like breaking ice that could only have been his neck. He came to rest just to my right, laying along the very edge of the outcrop.
Finally, I persuaded my throat to produce sounds. Surely, it could manage two brief words, at least. I addressed them to the second figure, now staring down in place of the one he'd just so casually killed.
"Hello, Synza," I mumbled.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Even for a master-assassin like Synza, descending to my level took some time.
While he worked his way down, I concentrated on sitting up. All the while, I tried to ignore the body beside me. I didn't doubt he was dead; no one could fall like that, make a sound like that, and not be. But while having a dead killer next to me might be better than having a live one there, his presence still made my skin creep.
Sitting proved as difficult as anything I'd ever tried to do. My injured right arm was worse than useless. The faintest tremor became a seismic shock of pain. Since all of me was hurting already, that just made me want to pass out or to vomit. Passing out was actually a promising option, but vomiting certainly wasn't. The possibility of doing both together was enough to keep me grasping to consciousness.
By the time Synza reached me I was half sitting, half laying, propped on my one good arm. If I kept still, the pain was bearable. I couldn't possibly defend myself — but then, I was facing a professional murderer, unarmed, with one arm likely broken, on a ledge above a sheer cliff face. Under the circumstances, dying with a shred of dignity would be a laudable achievement.
Given how powerfully I wanted to soil my trousers, I suspected even that might prove beyond me.
Synza dusted himself casually with one hand, as though climbing down cliffs was the kind of petty inconvenience he encountered on a daily basis. He covered the distance between us in two neat strides, stopping before the body that until recently had been either Stick or Stone. Synza observed the still form at his feet carefully for a few seconds, before nudging it gently with his foot. When it didn't stir, he gave a slight nod, as a teacher might respond to a bright student. He looked at me.
"You're an impossibly lucky man, Easie Damasco," Synza said.
"You obviously don't know me very well." I hadn't been sure I could stretch to an entire sentence. That small success made me unreasonably proud.
"But then, no man ever considers himself lucky, does he?"
Synza drew a short, thin-bladed knife. I knew without doubt it was the one he'd just killed with, yet there was no spot of blood on it now. It returned the morning sunlight in a flash of shimmering silver. Synza looked at it with something resembling curiosity. With his free hand, he flicked the tip of the blade, sending a shudder down it like a breeze over water.
"No one has ever survived my attentions before," he said. "To do so not once but three times is beyond absurd. If I hadn't been going to kill you anyway, I'd have to do so simply to make a point."
"Which would be?" I managed.
"That some things are inescapable. And that I'm one of them."
Synza didn't sheathe the knife. Nor did he look as though he was about to use it. In fact, it was as if he'd momentarily forgotten he was holding it. His eyes were flitting between the body at his feet and me. A small, convulsive smile played over his lips. "I shouldn't have done that, you know," he said. "There will definitely be consequences. But oh, what a pleasure! The great Stone, finest killer in all the lands. Not so, it seems."
Well, that cleared up whom the body at my feet belonged to, at least. Slowly, delicately, Synza tipped the prone figure over with the tip of one boot. On its back, splayed limbs cocooned in complex motley, it looked more grotesque and less human than ever. Synza knelt down, put his knife to Stone's throat, and with his other hand began to peel back the chequered mask. He wasn't looking at me, yet I had no doubt he could register my slightest movement. I tried hard not to make any, though my good arm was starting to shudder under my weight.
The mask seemed to resist a little before coming off. It revealed a thin, sharp-contoured face, more yellow than the bronzed brown typical of Ans Pasaedans. The eyes were so narrow that even open they'd have been little more than slots in that sallow flesh. Those facts aside, it was a visage that made no great impression. In death, unmasked, the royal assassin looked more pathetic than terrifying.
"Not that I'd ever brag," Synza said. "Only you and I will know. Which means, of course, that very soon only I will know."
He stood and, with gentle pressure from his foot, tipped Stone's corpse towards the edge. It didn't take much effort before the body gained its own momentum. I heard small stones skitter, heralds of the larger object in their wake. The body sagged, and then fell from view with sudden, alarming speed. Dirt burst from the edge like a cloud of angry wasps.
Synza looked at me once more. There was amusement in his eyes.
"I suppose you'll have some questions."
In fact, at that precise moment, my mind had been frantically calculating the possibilities for survival if I were to throw myself off the cliff. If Synza wanted questions, however, it seemed wise to come up with some. Every moment he was talking was a moment he wasn't killing me. Yet my mind was blank. My natural verbosity had vanished like dew under a midday sun.
I'd never imagined there'd come a time when not talking would place my life in jeopardy.
I hunted frenziedly through my memories of our previous encounters, desperate for anything that might have piqued my curiosity. There was only one thing I could remember wondering over, and it was so obvious and mundane that I couldn't imagine it being what Synza was after. I could find nothing better though, and moment by moment, the humour in Synza's eyes was shifting towards impatience.
I picked my words carefully. "What order did Mounteban give you, back in Altapasaeda?" I tried to sound genuinely curious rather than merely petrified. "You could have killed me a thousand times over between there and here. You could have done it easily in Aspira Nero or at the ferry port."
"Yes, there it is. The crux of our unfortunate relationship. There are venues no good assassin would ever consider, of course; knifings in bars or busy streets are the province of cutpurses and petty thugs. However, in this instance, it's fair to say the instruction was unfortunate, not to mention counterproductive. My master's dictum was: Kill him. But make sure no one sees you do it."
An order that would have made perfect sense in a room crowded with people Mounteban didn't want to alarm, none at all once I'd made a run for it. "Easier said than done," I ventured. Actually, it didn't sound hard at all. It sounded
like something that would only be difficult if you were the kind of person who purposefully made their career difficult — if, for example, you took satisfaction from seeing your victim's face in their very last moments. But if ever humouring someone had seemed like a sensible idea it was then.
"I was incautious, I admit. Had I not revealed my presence to you on the walls of Altapasaeda, we wouldn't be where we are now. You'd have died a swift and painless death and I'd be elsewhere, pursuing some no doubt infinitely more productive goal."
"I'm sure we'd both have been much happier," I hazarded.
"I hope that wasn't sarcasm. You can sit up, you know."
As Synza had evidently noticed, my good arm was quivering like a reed under my weight. Gratefully, I levered myself forward and shifted into a crouch.
"You look as though you're in considerable pain. Let me know when it becomes unduly bothersome." Synza gave the dagger another experimental tap. This time I thought I could hear the faintest chime, like a finger dragged round the rim of a glass. "For once, I have no particularly timescale in mind. Within realistic bounds, I see no reason why you shouldn't have a say."
"Thanks," I said, "I think I'm managing for the moment. I still have a few questions I'd like answers to."
Truth be told, I didn't have even one. However, I'd never lacked for imagination. Surely my fertile subconscious wouldn't fail me now? Except that it felt as though a hundred scurrying rats were ringing bells in my head, and that wasn't a sensation conducive to making up questions, even to keep insane assassins from slitting my throat.
It occurred to me that the details of our journey through the Castoval and then Ans Pasaeda were of importance to Synza. Perhaps the only way he'd been able to justify his repeated failure was to reimagine it as a cat and mouse chase of dramatic and unlikely twists and turns. To me, it had rarely been more than a nuisance. How could I explain that in recent weeks, people trying to kill me had practically become an accepted frustration of life? How could I say that these days I was generally terrified of something, and he'd just happened to be the most frequently recurring source of alarm?
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