Night of Knives

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘Temper, is it?’ Jhenna asked, then nodded at his flinch of recognition. ‘Why of course! Temper of the Sword!’ She spread her arms out wide. ‘What a fool I’ve been. Who else could possibly stand against a Jaghut? But this is wonderful.’

  Temper shivered beneath a sudden gust of cold air. He found he couldn’t open his hands – they were frozen to the grips of his weapons. His feet were numb and his thoughts felt thick and slow. He blinked against the ice gathering over his lashes, managed, ‘What do you mean?’

  Jhenna lowered her voice to a whisper: ‘I mean that it is wonderful because I know for a fact that Dassem Ultor yet lives.’

  Temper jerked upright. ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, it is true. He lives. And I can find him! Surely Fate itself conspired to bring the two of us together – you, his last and truest companion, and I, the one who can bring you to him.’

  Grimacing against a cold that numbed his lips and made his teeth ache, Temper whispered, ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘No. On this matter I need not shade the naked facts at all. He still lives.’

  The Jaghut’s head now hovered almost within arm’s reach of Temper’s and he felt a dull alarm.

  ‘Is that not so, Tracer of Edges?’ Jhenna called.

  ‘I cannot say whether this man lives or not.’

  ‘Ha! Cannot or will not? Note how spare this one is with his wisdom now, human.’

  His thoughts crawled, gelid and viscous as if frozen themselves. Dassem alive? Truly? Why should he throw his life away now?

  ‘My wisdom I limit to one last comment, mortal,’ Edgewalker urged in its breathless, spare voice.

  ‘What?’ Temper snarled, annoyed by the thing’s dry-rustling words.

  ‘’Ware the cold, human. ‘Ware the ice that grips. The frost that silences.’

  Temper heard, distantly, a growl from the Jaghut, followed by an explosion as if the barrier was under assault once more. His head was heavy and his chin had sunk to his breastbone. He opened his eyes to see that a sheath of ice now encased his legs up to his knees, and that his feet had disappeared within a block of jet-black ice that seemed to have grown like a crystal from cracks in the very bedrock itself.

  Something within Temper shieked an ancient terror. A firestorm of energies burst to life over him. Instead of burning his flesh and sloughing the metal of his armour, it made his limbs sing, and he snapped his blades up to parry twin blows from Jhenna who bore down upon him relentlessly, her helm rolling on the stones behind. The ice at Temper’s legs exploded into vapour that vanished in the crackling energies.

  Jhenna roared as she swung again and again, seeking to drive Temper into the ground. But he held, strength flowing up from the rock to meet the naked might hammering against him. On they fought, and on, until the Jaghut lifted one blade to reach out to the curtain of energy. The aura snapped away as if snatched from existence and left a roll of thunder echoing over the hills in its wake. Jhenna stumbled, snarling and spitting, utterly devoid of reason, and Temper was appalled that he had half-listened to the frothing monster before him.

  The landscape shimmered, the night sky brightening to a pale slate. From behind the Jaghut the mounds and trees reappeared, and the House frowned down once more on Temper.

  Distracted, he was nearly decapitated by a lightning assault. A head swipe caught the top of his helmet. It bit at the iron and snapped his head back, dazzling him with sparks. Stunned, he managed to parry the most deadly thrusts, but he was slowing. The next hit shaved scales from his shoulder. He spasmed as a sweep gashed his right thigh. His defence was crumbling. Had he lasted long enough? Could such a short stand have made any difference at all?

  Jhenna twisted away, parrying a hurled weapon: an axe. It struck her upper arm a glancing blow and she bellowed.

  In that split-second Temper crouched and managed to gather himself. Jhenna flexed her arm but something else flew at her from over Temper’s shoulder: white crackling energy that smashed into her breast-plate. The Jaghut retreated one step, spluttering hoarse curses. She came on again, inexorable like a force of nature. Such power awed Temper. Perhaps it would never tire. Already he was beyond exhaustion. He thought he heard yelling, muffled to his ears after the waterfall thunder of the barrier. The next attack came as an angry flurry, off-balanced and desperate. Temper sloughed the blows, his arms burning with the stabbing agony of fatigue. Shrieking her frustration to the sky, Jhenna drew back her arm to throw a sword, point-first.

  Temper knew he was dead. Involuntarily he tensed and caught his breath. But the blade never touched him. Instead Jhenna tottered, then fell to her knees with a clashing of armour.

  She sat motionless for a time, blades resting on the ground. ‘I am finished, human,’ she slurred. ‘I have nothing left.’ She chuckled, low and throaty. ‘Now you will see how the House rewards the treachery of its servants.’ Slowly roots gathered, twisting and worming from the soil. They coiled about the Jaghut’s legs. She strained against them but the tightening cords dragged her to her side. Fist-thick roots wrapped around her torso. As she was yanked ever deeper into the steaming earth, she offered Temper a mocking smile. ‘Careful, human, or this too will be your fate.’ The golden eyes held his as if to pull him along even as her head sank beneath the crumbling dirt. Her arms and hands slipped down last, still grasping the smoking swords.

  Temper blinked away the sweat running into his eyes. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was stone dry. Sucking cool air into his lungs, he watched as the fog dispersed, revealing no trace of the mangled corpses, torn robes, or scattered weapons. The House stared at him blindly, and now its neighbouring buildings surrounded it again. He stood with fists numb around his sword-grips, gasping, his body twitching with exhaustion. A hand touched his shoulder and he jumped, staggering. He fell like a corpse, back against the low stone wall.

  ‘It’s dawn,’ Corinn said, steadying him. ‘We were trying to tell you . . .’ Lubben stood behind her, covering her back as if expecting a last-minute Shadow cultist’s attack.

  ‘Dawn?’ he croaked. He mouthed the word, uncomprehending. Dawn. Corinn fumbled to catch him as he slid onto ground glistening with the morning dew.

  CHAPTER SIX

  RESOLUTIONS

  T

  HE RICH SCENT OF STEWING BROTH TEASED THE TAG-END of Kiska’s dreams. She smiled, stretched, then hissed as pain flared from almost every limb. Something touched her shoulder and she flinched awake. A pale, fat man yelped, jerking away.

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded.

  Smiling nervously, he pointed under her. ‘My apron. You’re lying on my apron.’

  She recognized him: Coop, tavern-keeper of the Hanged Man Inn. She looked down and saw that she’d been sleeping on a bench cushioned by blankets, a tattered quilt and bundled clothing. ‘Sorry’ She moved her arm and the man tugged his apron free.

  ‘Told you she’d wake up,’ someone observed from across the room.

  Kiska realized she was wearing somebody else’s clothes: a thick wool sweater of the kind she hated because it made her look like a child, and a long skirt of layered patched linen. She swung her legs down and rubbed at her eyes. She was in a private dwelling, ground level. Its door appeared to have been smashed from its hinges. Beyond, a sun-washed street lay empty. A boy with dirty bare feet scrubbed at dark stains on the wood floor while nearby a man sat at a table, his kinky black hair in his eyes, sopping up stew with a crust of bread. Coop backed away to the door, bowing his thanks for his apron.

  ‘See you later, Coop,’ the man called, waving the sodden crust.

  Coop bowed again. Nervous laughter burst from him and he hurried out of the door.

  Kiska tried to stand, hissed at the flame of pain from her knee and fell back to the bench. She limped to the table and grasped it to remain standing as her vision blurred and her heart raced. She squeezed her side. The pain there threatened to double her over.

  The man jumped up and eased her into a chair. ‘Have a care,
’ he warned – rather late, she thought.

  She sat, wincing. ‘Thanks. What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘Oh, when you arrived last night you gave him something of a fright. I understand you had a bit of a scare yourself.’

  She laughed. ‘Yes, I—’ She stopped herself, glared about. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tay – the men I came in with.’ She jumped up, groaned as her side knotted. ‘Are they gone?’

  The man drew her down again with a touch of his hand. ‘Relax. I’ve a message, and there’s hot stew over the fireplace. Have some?’

  ‘Who are you? Oh. You’re the medicer aren’t you? Yeah, I’ll have some.’

  ‘Seal’s the name. Yours?’

  ‘Kiska.’ She plucked at her sweater. ‘Why the clothes?’

  ‘Ah, sorry.’ Seal shrugged an apology. ‘Best I could do. Your old clothes I had to burn.’ He leaned to the black pot, ladled out a bowlful.

  Burn? Kiska wondered. Did he really have to burn them?

  ‘Well, Kiska. Speaking of frights, you gave me an ugly one last night.’

  She took the bowl of steaming stew, tore off some bread and started stuffing it into her mouth. She hadn’t realized how famished she was. Seal watched her eat, a smile tugging at his mouth. ‘Where are they and how are they?’ she demanded around a mouthful.

  ‘We’ve got time – and they’ll live. The one, a Seti tribesman I believe, I take especial credit for. The other, well . . . he pretty much took care of himself. I do take credit for you too, however.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. Spraining and bruising of the bones of the knee. Sundry mundane cuts and contusions of the flesh. Worst: a bruised kidney and torn musculature. Possibly resulting from a serious impact or blow.’

  Kiska grimaced, remembering that. She’d felt as if that table had cut her in half, but she’d run on anyway. Amazing what being scared out of one’s wits can do. She swallowed, forced down the food against a rising tide of nausea. ‘And?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘What’s the message? Where are they?’

  Seal sat up straighten ‘Ah! You ask what you should do about the various injuries you have inflicted upon your body? Well, I advise a hearty meal. And if you get sick tonight I suggest a regurgitant. Boiled alder leaves, I understand, works well for that. Also, I advise you take things easy for the next few weeks. Rest; no undue strain. Definitely no fighting or running. Understand?’ Kiska stared at the man, noted his drawn face, the sunken eyes circled in shadow and the tremor of his hands at his bowl. He caught her gaze and waved languidly. ‘Don’t bother to thank me.’

  The man was utterly wrecked. He had obviously drawn upon his Denul Warren to the utmost to accomplish what was needed last night. She suspected she owed him much more than he’d suggested. Pushing the stew around the bowl for a moment, she cleared her throat. ‘So, is there really a message or not?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ and he smiled secretly, pleased with himself.

  ‘And? That is?’

  He raised a finger. ‘Ah! Treatment first. Finish your meal.’

  The boy came to her elbow and handed her a ladle of water. Distracted, Kiska took it and swallowed. The water was sweet, fresh and cool, straight from an inland well. She thanked him. He stared at her with big brown eyes full of curiosity.

  ‘That’s all, Jonat,’ Seal said. The boy returned to his scrubbing. ‘My son, Jonat,’ he told Kiska.

  She nodded, then remembered herself and glared. Stuffing down more of the bread, she said through her mouthful, ‘I think I know what the message is.’

  Seal smiled simply, watching her eat. ‘You were quite a mess last night. You don’t remember?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I think the message is that they are down at the wharf.’

  Seal started, his eyes widening. Then he coughed and laughed at the same time, thumped a fist to his chest and rocked in his chair.

  Kiska was already on her feet. She gave him her own smug smile and he waved her away with the back of his hand. ‘Well done,’ he managed, ‘Very well done indeed.’

  She limped out onto the Way of the Eel.

  The residents of Malaz greeted the dawn like stunned survivors of a typhoon and earthquake combined. Faces peered out at the morning from behind storm-shutters and doors opened barely a crack. Though the sun already shone halfway to midday, and only thin clouds marred the sky’s perfect bowl, most of the inhabitants seemed unconvinced that last night’s nightmare had come to an end.

  Walking down the streets, Kiska found faces spying on her, wary. She realized what a sight she must present, in her oversized sweater and long skirts gathered up in one hand. Seal seemed to have selected the worst mish-mash of garments he could possibly find. Still, she figured she ought to be thankful the man had a few women’s things around his place.

  At first the stares bothered her. Then she elected not to give a damn. As she met knots of suspicious citizenry – usually huddled near a site of wreckage, or a suspiciously stained circle of cobbles, whispering, comparing stories – she just walked on, or hobbled actually, teeth clenched, cradling her side. They’d stop their whispers to gape openly, then, as she’d passed, start up again. At least they didn’t point, she told herself.

  Soon she was down at the sea-walk and could see movement on the message cutter’s deck and gangway. Figures came and went, stowing gear and supplies. She limped down the stairs to the wharf.

  At the dock she recognized most of the workers as local stevedores. A few men on board looked like sailing-hands, inspecting the rigging and handling the dunnage. Hattar, his arm wrapped in white cloth secured across his chest, sat on the roof of the mid-ship quarters, examining himself in a mirror of polished silver balanced on coiled rope. His head shone flushed, as if freshly shaved, and half his face glowed even pinker, blistered and gleaming under a greasy unguent. Beside him sat a bucket and his chin was wet with soap. The idiot was trying to shave himself one-handed.

  ‘Hoy, message cutter!’ Kiska called from the dock.

  Hattar looked over without a word or nod hello. He banged his fist on the roof, then returned to studying his chin by twisting his mouth side to side; lips that looked strange to Kiska until she realized the man’s moustache was gone – he’d lost half of it last night and had now made a clean sweep of it.

  After a moment Tayschrenn stepped up from the companionway. He was dressed in loose trousers and a long tunic of deepest cyan. His queue was pulled back, freshly oiled. He looked as if he’d slept a full night on a feather mattress.

  ‘Greetings,’ he called up.

  ‘You’re leaving.’

  ‘Yes. Soon.’

  Kiska nodded – stupidly, she thought. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. This was really it. Opportunity about to set sail. Could she let it slip by? ‘Take me with you,’ she blurted, relieved and terrified by having finally asked what she had been meaning to ask all night.

  Tayschrenn stroked a forefinger over his lips. ‘Really? Are you formally offering your service?’ Kiska gave a tense nod. ‘Well, you’ll have to talk to my chief of staff here.’ He swept an arm to Hattar.

  Kiska deflated. She knew Agayla always stressed that she should disguise her emotions, but she couldn’t help herself from glancing skyward and allowing her shoulders to fall. She prayed he was leading her on, but dared not risk the challenge. She was sure that if she jumped down onto the ship Hattar would simply toss her overboard – one arm or not.

  ‘What say you, Hattar?’ Tayschrenn asked.

  The tribesman continued to inspect his chin. ‘She has potential,’ he allowed. ‘But little discipline.’

  ‘Discipline!’ Kiska shouted in disbelief.

  Hattar froze, his knife held next to his throat. He stared, and even from the dock Kiska felt the icy disapproval of that glare. She swallowed, nodding her apology. ‘As I said. Very little discipline.’

  ‘Perhaps schooling,’ Tayschrenn suggested. ‘Train
ing might sort that out.’

  Hattar frowned. ‘Perhaps.’ He nodded. ‘Yes. Perhaps after a few years she might—’

  ‘A few years!’

  Hattar jumped up and snapped his arm in a throw. The knife quivered, imbedded in the wood of the dock just before Kiska’s feet. ‘Perhaps in a few years she’ll learn not to interrupt!’

  Kiska grimaced. Her damned big mouth! Her impatience! She wanted to apologize, to explain that it was just that this was so important to her. But this time she restrained herself. One more outburst and they’d probably send her packing. She knelt, pulled the knife free and tossed it back to Hattar. He caught it, smiled at the throw. ‘Good.’ He returned to shaving, glowering at himself in the mirror. She wanted to laugh: he’d probably never seen himself without a moustache. Tayschrenn half-bowed, retreated back inside the cabin.

  Kiska leaned against a barrel to cradle her side while the dockhands came and went on the gangway carrying on kegs of water and supplies. She stared at Hattar. Was that a yes or a no? What was the decision? More silent treatment? Should she speak? ‘Well?’

  Hattar glanced up. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Well? What’s your answer? I’ve offered my service. Do you accept?’

  Hattar eyed the mirror, scraped the blade over his chin. ‘We leave in two bells. With or without you.’ He held up the knife. ‘Understand?’

  ‘Yes! Oh, yes!’ She started up the dock then stopped to point back as if to prevent them from leaving that instant. ‘Yes. I’ll be here. Absolutely. Thank you. You’ll see!’ Kiska ran halfway up the steps before a cramp at her side took her breath away and left her gasping, hanging onto the chiselled embrasure to stop from tumbling back down. Slowly girl, she told herself. Don’t faint now. Steady. She’d see Agayla first, then head home and break the news to her mother. She’d be glad, wouldn’t she? Yes, she would. Agayla would support her. And she’d send word back. As soon as she could.