Despite his grim mood, Kylon laughed. “Someday. Not this day, though.”
“Aye, and we’ll get properly drunk together, as comrades ought,” said Martin. “Perhaps it is a fitting end to my time as a Lord Ambassador that I get chased from the city.”
“Hardly. You were successful as Lord Ambassador,” said Kylon, walking with him into the entry hall. He saw Claudia hastening up the stairs, accompanied by an Istarish serving woman in a tan dress and headscarf. Kirzi, that was her name – the Huntress had threatened to kill her in the Alqaarin Bazaar. “You kept Istarinmul from allying with the Umbarians. And if you save the prince’s life by getting him out of the city, he will likely become an ally of your Emperor when he ascends to the throne of the Padishah.”
He said it with more optimism than he felt.
“Gods of strife and battle, but I hope you’re right,” said Martin. “Tylas! My armor!”
“I will await you outside,” said Kylon, and he strode from the mansion, hurrying back across the grounds to the wall and the gate. As Kylon approached, Nasser, Laertes, Sulaman, and Mazyan came into sight, breathing hard from their run across the city.
“What news?” said Nasser as Kylon joined them.
“I’ve warned Lord Martin,” said Kylon. “He acted at once, and is preparing to flee the city with us.”
“Good,” said Nasser. “Lord Martin always struck me as a sensible man. I am glad we did not need to waste time convincing him of the obvious.”
“No,” said Kylon, looking up and down the broad street outside the mansion. “No, he has survived far too many battles for that. Lady Claudia, as well.” She had been with them at Caer Magia, and then in New Kyre on the day of the golden dead. She had also given birth to her first child in a ruined shop as Cassander prepared to destroy the city. No, both Lord Martin and Lady Claudia were too experienced to prevaricate in the face of obvious danger.
So far the street outside was deserted, but Kylon doubted that would last. The sound of the distant drums still boomed out from the Golden Palace, accompanied by the moan of the Great Horn. The embassy might have stood at the edge of the Emirs’ Quarter, but it was still too close to the Golden Palace. Kylon expected the Immortals to arrive at any second.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, black-armored forms came marching around the distant corner.
“The enemy is here,” said Laertes.
It was a troop of at least fifty Immortals, maybe more. Kylon cursed under his breath and drew the valikon from its shoulder sheath, the silvery metal rasping against the leather of the scabbard.
“We should withdraw into the mansion,” said Tylas. Kylon glanced over his shoulder. The centurion had arrived with a dozen more Imperial Guards. Servants spilled from the mansion, carrying bundles of food and clothing, while the grooms brought horses out from the mansion’s stables.
“I suggest we make our stand here, centurion,” said Nasser. “If we retreat within the mansion, the Immortals can easily blockade us and summon more reinforcements than we can defeat.”
“Or they could simply lob amphorae of Hellfire onto our heads,” said Laertes.
“Aye, that’s what I would do in the enemy’s place,” said Tylas. “All right. We’ll fight our way out.” He pointed to one of the Guards. “Go find Lord Martin and stay with him. Once we’re ready to depart, I think we’ll need to move quickly.”
“I suspect Erghulan plans to take you unawares,” said Nasser. “If we can repulse this first attack, we shall have a window to escape before he sends additional forces.”
“Nasser is correct,” said Sulaman, his voice distant as he gazed as the approaching Immortals. “If we defeat this group, we can escape. If we linger, we shall die.”
“So sure of that, are you?” said Tylas.
Mazyan bristled a little, but Sulaman only nodded. “I am certain.”
Tylas grunted. “Well, let’s get to the killing. Guards! Prepare to greet our guests.”
Nasser drew his scimitar, and Mazyan gestured, the blade of smokeless flame appearing in his grasp once more. The sight did not startle the Imperial Guards. They had seen stranger things. Kylon shifted the valikon to his right hand, drawing a dagger from his belt with his left. He summoned his power, and white mist started to swirl around the blade, a chill radiating from the weapon.
“Must be useful,” said Laertes.
“Eh?” said Kylon.
“You can always have a cold drink on a hot day,” said Laertes.
“If we live through this madness,” said Kylon, “perhaps I’ll hang up my sword and go into business selling iced wine on hot days.” He could just imagine the reaction of the Assembly and its magistrates if they ever learned that a former High Seat and Archon was selling wine in the Istarish bazaars like any other common merchant, and the thought made him want to laugh.
The Immortals stopped perhaps a dozen yards from the gate. Only fifty Immortals seemed insufficient to storm the Imperial Embassy. Perhaps Erghulan had thought fifty Immortals, with their savagery and inhuman strength, would be sufficient to overpower the Imperial Guards. Kylon had fought alongside Imperial Guards, and he knew better. Or maybe these fifty Immortals would pin the Imperial embassy in place while reinforcements arrived. Kylon had seen nothing to indicate that the Grand Wazir was that clever, but perhaps the Master Alchemist Rhataban who was advising him was smart enough to think of it.
One of the Immortals stepped forward, his skull-masked helmet adorned with a khalmir’s sign of rank. “We desire to speak with Lord Martin…”
“No, don’t bother,” said Tylas. “We know why you’re here. Turn around and head back to your master. If you attack the Lord Ambassador’s residence, then we will show you how the Empire makes war upon its enemies.”
The Immortal shrugged. “Have it your way.”
He made a sharp gesture, and the Immortals charged for the gate, scimitars and chain whips ready.
Kylon was already moving, shooting forward with the speed of air sorcery. He headed towards the leftmost Immortal, who drew back his chain whip to strike. Kylon flung his dagger, the blade leaving a misty trail as it spun from his fingers. The Immortal raised his arm to block, and the frozen blade shattered against the black armor, glittering splinters falling to the street. Yet the cold power around the weapon flowed into the Immortal, sheathing his arm in a layer of frost. For an instant the Immortal could not move his arm, the plates of his armor fused by the frost, and that instant was all that Kylon needed. He struck at once, swinging the valikon with both hands, and buried the blade in the Immortal’s neck.
Nasser and Mazyan attacked next, driving into the Immortals on Kylon’s right. Nasser struck with his gloved fist, smashing an Immortal’s helmet, his scimitar darting left and right to pick off any attacks aimed his way. Mazyan blurred into the battle, slowing as the scimitar of smokeless flame erupted from his hand once more. One of the Immortals raised his scimitar to parry, and Mazyan flicked his wrist, the blade of fire slicing through both the scimitar and the Immortal’s head without resistance. Kylon killed another Immortal, and then another, the sorcery of air giving him the speed to stay ahead of their attacks. Yet the Immortals began to drive them back, forcing their way forward through sheer weight of numbers. Kylon had never thought he would miss Morgant, but the assassin’s aid would have been welcome.
Then the Imperial Guards attacked.
A volley of javelins rose overhead in a high arc, and then fell like a steel-tipped rain. The heavy javelins had been designed to render shields useless, but they still had enough weight and momentum to punch through armor. A dozen Immortals rocked, wounded by the javelins, and the Imperial Guards advanced at a quick trot, shields interlocked, broadswords drawn back to strike. Kylon hastened out of the way, as did Nasser and Mazyan, and the Guards crashed into the Immortals, swords rising and falling. For a moment the two sides wavered, locked in battle with each other.
Kylon sprinted forward and jumped, the sorcery of water fue
ling his leap. He soared over the heads of the combatants, white mist swirling around his left fist once more, and landed behind the Immortals. As he did, the mist around his fist solidified, and he brought the sphere of glacial ice down upon the helmet of the nearest Immortal. The black steel crumpled like a cooking pot beneath a wagon’s wheel, and the Immortal fell, the ice around Kylon’s hand shattering. He seized the valikon’s hilt with both hands and went on the attack, striking and stabbing and dodging. The drums booming from the Golden Palace seemed to thunder in time to his pulse, and Kylon killed and killed, red blood sliding down the valikon’s ghostsilver blade.
“Lord Kylon!” Nasser’s voice thundered over the battle.
Kylon whirled and saw a flash of white further down the street. It was a middle-aged Istarish man wearing armor that had been enameled white, a brilliant white cloak flowing from his shoulders like a fall of snow upon a mountain’s slope. For an instant Kylon squinted at the man, his armor dazzling in the noon sun, and then an old memory stirred in his mind.
The Alchemists of the College wore armor like that when they went to battle, transmuted through their spells to be as light as paper and as hard as diamond. The man was gesturing, golden fire flaring around his white gauntlet.
Kylon raced towards him, and then a blast of golden fire erupted from the Alchemist’s hand, moving faster than an arrow. He had no time to dodge or duck, and he reacted on instinct, snapping the valikon up in a block, his muscles aided by the speed of air sorcery. The blast of golden fire struck the ghostsilver blade and shattered in a spray of brilliant sparks, a keening howl going through the air as the valikon unraveled the spell. The street beneath him shuddered, portions of the stone becoming a peculiar blue crystalline substance.
The spell would have transmuted Kylon into one of the crystalline statues standing upon the walls of the College of Alchemists. He had heard that Callatas liked to do that to his victims. Apparently some of the lesser Alchemists imitated their Grand Master’s taste.
Kylon started forward, but the Alchemist flung something small and glittering. It was likely a vial holding an alchemical elixir of some kind, and Kylon didn’t want to touch it. He dodged to the side, and the vial exploded against one of the crystalline patches in the street, erupting an instant later in a man-sized flare of snarling crimson fire.
Hellfire. The Alchemist was throwing Hellfire at him, the secret weapon of the College of Alchemists. In ancient days the fleet of New Kyre had assailed Istarinmul, and the Alchemists’ Hellfire burned the entire Kyracian fleet to embers. Kylon had seen Hellfire devour the Inferno, the ancient stronghold of the Immortals.
A few drops of Hellfire would be enough to set him ablaze.
Again the Alchemist flung a vial of Hellfire, and again Kylon had to dodge as a second pillar of howling crimson flame erupted from the street. The fire did not last long, but it was as hot as a blacksmith’s forge, so hot the street cracked from the flames. As Kylon turned, the Alchemist reached for a third vial, but suddenly staggered back, grunting as if something unseen had struck him across the chest. The Alchemist looked towards the gate, and Kylon saw Claudia standing there, left hand outstretched, her right hand gesturing as she gathered power for another spell. The Alchemist gestured at her, a bolt of golden fire leaping from his hand. Claudia crossed her arms across her chest, a haze of grayish-blue light shimmering around her, and the Alchemist’s transmutation spell shattered against her wards. Her level of arcane power was unremarkable, but she had always been quite capable at wards.
And that ward gave Kylon the time he needed to close with the Alchemist.
He struck three times in rapid succession, but his first two blows rebounded from the Alchemist’s cuirass, and the third bounced off the helmet. The armor was hard, harder than stone. Nevertheless the power of Kylon’s strikes knocked the Alchemist back. The man fumbled at his belt, reaching for a leather pouch. Likely it was the pouch that held his remaining vials of Hellfire.
And that pouch, Kylon suspected, had not been strengthened through alchemy.
He hammered with the valikon, the pommel smashing into the pouch. He heard something shatter, and Kylon threw himself backwards. The Alchemist snarled a furious curse, reaching into the pouch, and then his eyes widened.
An instant later the Hellfire from the broken vials ignited, sheathing the Alchemist in a pillar of crimson flame.
The roar of the fire drowned out the Alchemist’s screams. His armor did a good job of protecting him from the flames, but there were gaps in the white metal, and the Hellfire found them. More fire erupted from the Alchemist’s helmet and gauntlets as his clothes ignited, and the man fell to his knees, pawing at himself and screaming.
Kylon aimed his next blow at the gap below the Alchemist’s helmet and put him out of his misery.
He turned, the heat from the burning man stinging his face and arms, and sought more foes, but saw that the Immortals had fallen back in disarray from the gate with over half their number slain. The Imperial Guards had taken causalities as well, but their superior discipline and ordered formation had held against the Immortals’ savage fury. Time and time again experienced commanders had told Kylon that discipline and training defeated individual valor, and once again he had seen proof of it before his eyes.
Kylon ran back to the gate and saw a crowd of servants hurrying from the mansion, carrying food and clothing. Lord Martin’s seneschal, a paunchy Nighmarian commoner named Dromio, directed them. Every man and woman carried several loaves of bread. Likely Martin had purchased them in the event of a siege, but hopefully it would keep them from starving until they reached Tanzir Shahan’s army.
“Thank you for your assistance, Lady Claudia,” said Kylon, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Gods of storm and sea, but that Hellfire burned hot.
Claudia offered a tight smile. “My father always said the Alchemists never knew how to overcome a proper warding spell. It seems he was right about at least one thing in his life.” Martin approached, clad in the black armor of an Imperial Guard, leading a horse by the reins.
“My lady, my lord,” said Dromio. “I believe we are ready to flee.”
“The enemy has fallen back,” said Tylas.
“The way is clear for now,” said Sulaman, that distant look on his face. Kylon wondered just how his power of foretelling worked. How precisely could he control it? The Immortals in the Desert Maiden should have killed him, but he had somehow outmaneuvered them. “But if we delay, we shall certainly perish.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Martin. “Tylas, get ready to move out. Imperial Guards in the saddle, spread out to surround the servants. I do not want to leave anyone behind to the mercies of Erghulan and his Immortals.” He looked back at Sulaman. “Just who the devil are you?”
“I know him, husband,” said Claudia. “He’s a poet. Ah…Sulaman, isn’t it? I think I saw you recite once at one of the coffeehouses in the Old Quarter.”
“Actually,” said Kylon, “this is Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon, the sole surviving son of the Padishah Nahas Tarshahzon, heir to the throne of the Most Divine Padishah, and if Nahas is truly dead…the rightful Padishah of Istarinmul.”
Martin and Claudia shared a look for a moment.
“I see,” said Martin at last.
“Caina has worn off on you, hasn’t she?” said Claudia to Kylon. “You’ve certainly picked up her touch of the dramatic.”
“I greet you, Lord Martin,” said Sulaman, “and ask your help to reach the emir Tanzir’s army in the south. You have seen firsthand how Erghulan and Callatas have driven Istarinmul to the edge of ruin. We must resist them and restore sound governance to Istarinmul. I would be grateful for any aid the Emperor’s ambassador might choose to give.”
“Then it seems we see the conclusion of a plan long-prepared,” said Martin. “Come. The sooner we depart from Istarinmul, the better. Lord Kylon, a horse?”
“No need,” said Kylon. His shoulders and arms ached from the effort of fighting, and
his head buzzed from the amount of sorcerous force he had used. Riding on horseback seemed pleasant at the moment, but it would have to wait. “I fight better on foot.”
###
Kylon had feared they would have to fight their way free of the city, but escaping Istarinmul proved easier than he thought. Once, he suspected, the informants of the Teskilati would have followed them, directing the Immortals to their path. But Cassander Nilas had destroyed the leadership of the Padishah’s secret police and the headquarters of the watchmen at the Crows’ Tower, and both the Teskilati and the watchmen had fallen into disarray. No one challenged them as they rode south. As the passed through the tenements of the Anshani Quarter, gangs watched them from the alleyways, but none of the thugs were reckless enough take on Imperial Guards.
The Anshani Bazaar, the vast southernmost bazaar of Istarinmul, was half-deserted. When Kylon had first come to Istarinmul, it had been packed, filled with caravans and merchants from every nation under the sun. The rebellion in the south, the depredations of the Brotherhood, and Cassander’s attack had driven off most of the merchants.
Sulaman was right. Istarinmul was dying. Callatas and Erghulan were killing it, and Callatas would kill Istarinmul and every other nation if he succeeded.
There were watchmen upon the walls, but no one stopped them as their column marched through the gate. The mounted Imperial Guards fell out in a loose screen, sending patrols across the nearby plains.
“We will have to march through most of the night, I am afraid,” said Nasser, walking alongside Lord Martin’s horse. “Erghulan’s army will march slowly, but I do not want to be caught by one of his scouting parties.”
“Nor do I,” said Martin. “The men are tired from fighting, and the servants are unused to exertions of this sort. Well, most of them.” He glanced back at Dromio. To Kylon’s mild surprise, the stout old man seemed indefatigable, marching up and down the line and helping some of the older and weaker servants along. Perhaps he thought it undignified for the seneschal of an Imperial lord to show any weakness. “But tired is better than slain.”
Ghost in the Pact Page 9
