by Helen Lowe
The golden eyes narrowed, glittering—and then the minstrel laughed, easy and a little mocking. “I do have a lead,” he said. “We have explored all other paths, Commander Asantir and I, which leaves only you, the herald pair who waited a full moon by the Border Mark. Really, it all fits.” The voice of the lute sounded, light beneath his hand. “Who else would have the ability or the will to venture Jaransor and survive, then return to the River as though nothing had happened? Who else, I asked myself, had fought beside Kyr and Lira in the Old Keep and would honor their bodies?”
“Time to bring this to an end,” Jehane Mor told Tarathan silently. “We mean no discourtesy,” she said to Haimyr, “but you are mistaken. Tarathan and I did not conceal Malian of Night, or steal her away, five years ago. We returned alone from the Border Mark to the River.”
“Nor,” Tarathan continued evenly, “do we know where she may be found. We cannot help you, Haimyr the Golden.”
The golden eyes regarded them. “Will not,” the minstrel said, very softly, and rose to his feet. He turned his back and looked out the window. “There are some,” he mused, “who would consider it unwise to disappoint one of the Ilvaine kin, particularly in our own city.”
“There are some,” Jehane Mor replied, very cool, “who might hear that as a threat.”
“No, how could that be?” Haimyr asked. “I would break the law of every city in the River if I threatened you.”
“So you would,” Tarathan agreed, “but then you, as you have pointed out, are of the Ilvaine kin.”
“Indeed.” The minstrel turned back from the window, a smile on his lips. “But would even the Ilvaine kin risk the gates of every city being shut against them, the face of every citizen turned away? We are just one family, after all. I merely expressed the depth of my disappointment; you do wrong to imagine threats.” Still smiling, he strolled back to the table. “You are here for the whole of the festival, are you not, as am I. It may be that you will recall something you have forgotten, or think of some way to assist me after all.”
“There is nothing we have forgotten and nothing we can do to assist you.” Jehane Mor rose to her feet and bowed. “We wish you joy of the festival, Haimyr Ilvaine.”
He made no move to detain them, only bowed in return with one hand placed over his heart. “I wish you the same joy,” he said. “And we shall speak again. I am sure of it.”
“Now that,” said Jehane Mor, as they crossed the busy inn yard, “still felt like a threat.”
“Because it was one.” Tarathan’s mindvoice was flat. “Let’s take the long way,” he added, when they had cleared the inn gate and turned toward the road that looped around the perimeter of Minstrels’ Island. They made their way through the throng of musicians, students, and festival visitors, eventually descending a zigzag path to the Bridge of Boats. The bridge was formed by pontoons of barges that connected the series of islets between Minstrels’ Island and Landward, a large island immediately to the north of the river port. The bridge was almost empty when the heralds reached the first pontoon, where the customary statue of the goddess Imulun gazed back toward the College dome. She held the staff of wisdom in her right hand, while a stone lion crouched at her feet.
Jehane Mor stared up at the timeworn plinth, noting the goddess’s compassionate gaze and the lion’s watchful stare before she bowed her head. The god Seruth, she knew, would stand on the other side of the bridge. In Ij, it was always Imulun who looked toward the city, while Seruth, guardian of journeys, faced the outside world—everywhere, that is, except for the bridges that led to the Assassins’ School. The god Kan, the Dancer in Shadow, always kept watch over both those who entered and those who left the Secret Isle.
The heralds walked on until they stood on a pontoon that was well out in the channel. Seabirds perched on the rocky islets or glided lazily overhead, but otherwise, despite a few small craft in the distance, they were alone. Even the water was sluggish here, brown-gray from the flooding but scarcely moving the pontoons. The heralds rested their weight against the roped sides and Jehane Mor looked at Tarathan. “What do you think?”
“The minstrel suspects us, he made that plain.” Tarathan frowned out over the turgid water. “But suspicion was always going to fall on us. I’m more concerned about doubt being cast on the long-held belief that the Heir of Night perished five years ago.”
“Malian’s enemies would not have taken her death on faith either.” Jehane Mor kept her mindvoice calm.
“And the least breath of suspicion could stir them onto the trail again.” Tarathan’s lips compressed. “Surely the minstrel can see the advantage of an absolute belief in that death?”
Jehane Mor watched the languid flight of a gull. “And why confront us now, when he must have had us watched for some time?” Her eyes narrowed. “Unless, having discovered nothing that way, he is trying to surprise us into some ill-considered action.”
Tarathan’s lips curved. “Flush us out, do you mean? Then we had best not jump at any shadows he casts against the wall.”
They continued to lean side by side, watching a curtain of fine rain advance toward them from the sea. “And the veiled threat?” Jehane Mor asked eventually.
“I would never underestimate the Ilvaine kin.” Tarathan’s expression became inward looking, then his eyes met hers. His slow smile was like the gleam of a blade being drawn. “We are the children of the wind, are we not? We shall ride this storm or fall beneath its fury.”
“Now why,” she said, as they turned to go, “isn’t that more of a comfort to me?”
There were no signs of a storm that evening, when a huge crowd shifted and glittered beneath the glass roof of the Conservatory, the main entertainment hall of the College of Minstrels. Glass doors on all four sides opened to the formal garden and the guests had spilled out into the spring night. Wine was flowing as freely as the food and representatives of the city’s princely and merchant houses rubbed shoulders with Masters from the three schools and representatives of the Conclave. Almost everyone from the College was there, since this was their grand event marking the beginning of festival. Masters in scarlet robes and silver chains of rank circulated amongst the guests, while minstrels, troubadours, and jongleurs were all vying to outperform each other at different locations around the hall.
“But no Haimyr the Golden, that I can see,” Jehane Mor observed, as she and Tarathan drifted with the tide of the evening. “Despite staying so close to the College.”
Tarathan’s eyes moved over the throng. “Our Ishnapuri colleagues are not in attendance either. And any Swarm or Derai emissaries appear to have bypassed this gathering.” He moved closer to an attendant holding a tray of the crisp pastries stuffed with seafood, for which Ij was famous. “Naia said there was a party at the Academy this evening as well, and that both Ar’s ambassador and one of the merchant houses, the Denuli, are giving receptions.”
“The mask makers and caterers,” Jehane Mor observed, “must be doing a roaring trade.”
“No money having been spared on either,” Tarathan agreed, going back for more of the pastries. “These are good,” he added unnecessarily.
They continued to circulate through the throng, where the masks surrounding them were all miracles of color and fabric, many lavishly adorned with jewels. The mask wearers appeared anxious to be seen and the behavior designed to ensure this grew more frenetic as the evening progressed, although a series of festivalgoers continued to seek the heralds out. Most wanted news of the other River cities, particularly Terebanth and Ar, or information on the current state of road and river travel.
Jehane Mor would murmur a politeness to overtures such as this, but both she and Tarathan paid more attention to the quiet queries about the situation between Emaln and Sirith. “Surely it will not come to war?” was the most frequently voiced sentiment. Or: “Surely the Patrol would not allow armies on the road, or the river either for that matter? Think of the disruption to trade!” Such comments were often fol
lowed by an uneasy glance over the shoulder and the mask wearer bending even closer to murmur: “It should never have gotten to this. This is School business; what can the Masters be thinking of?”
“What indeed?” echoed Jehane Mor, when she and Tarathan had sought refuge by a large palm with stiff fronds that kept all but the bravest away. “It’s true that assassins usually settle matters long before any dispute gets to this stage—unless they’ve been paid even more not to become involved. I wonder who would benefit most from that?”
Tarathan did not reply, for at that moment the crowd in front of them parted and a large figure, resplendent in gold brocade, lace, and a bear mask wrought in silver, swept down upon them. “My vewy dear fwends,” he boomed. “How delighted I am to see you—delighted! Have you come from Tewebanth already over these dweadful woads? So valiant of you in all this rain And my vewy dear fwend, the Ephor Vhiwinal, how is he?”
“Prince Ath,” said Jehane Mor, without obvious resignation, and proceeded to answer all his queries with patient courtesy. These continued for some time, as the prince was in an affable mood and concluded by pressing them to attend his masque the following evening. “For there will be fireworks, you know, the finest of the festival, I am determined on that.” Here the booming voice dropped a note to what was obviously intended as a confidential whisper, but in reality carried to half the Conservatory. “Weally, you must allow me to make you a pwesent of new masks. These Guild hand-me-downs may do vewy well for the stweet, but they are sadly shabby. Not at all the thing for events like this—or what such fine hewalds deserve, eh? And then there’s the cwedit of my old fwend the Ephor, since you do so much of his hewaldwy these days. Well, well, I will see what I can do!” And he surged away in a manner reminiscent of the river in flood, hailing friends and well-wishers on all sides.
“Not that he will do anything,” remarked Tarathan, when they arrived back at the Guild house in the small hours of the morning. “He merely likes to act the fine prince and dig at his dear friend the Ephor in passing, through us.”
“Very dear friend.” Jehane Mor yawned. “A true prince, such as Erennis of Ar, would never make the whole world privy to his business, even over such great matters as fireworks and festival masks.”
They were both more than surprised, therefore, to find a large black box, sealed with the bear badge of the Athiri kin, waiting with their breakfasts the next morning. Naia and the other heralds, including the pair from Ishnapur, were all curious to see the box opened, having already met the finely dressed retainer who delivered it. “Very lofty,” observed Naia, “even for an Athiri. I did not know they had become so grand!”
Tarathan shrugged, but Jehane Mor obliged by breaking the seal and lifting the lid. “Well,” she said, “it appears that our princely friend is true to his word after all.” The conversation around the table died away completely when she lifted out the masks, for these were not even good quality market buys, but marvels of the mask maker’s art, shaped into the likeness of an owl and a falcon. The owl mask was white and gray, with real feathers tied into it, while the falcon visage was wild and fierce, barred with black and bronze.
“Wonderful,” breathed Ileyra, leaning forward, while Naia touched the falcon mask with one reverent fingertip.
“It looks just like the mountain hawks we used to see in the hills around Enkot town,” she said. “Whoever made these masks is a master, no question.”
“They are certainly a princely gift,” Tarathan agreed. “There’ll be no avoiding his masque now.”
“Or him,” Jehane Mor pointed out with a faint smile, “for he at least will know exactly who we are.”
As it happened, Prince Ath did not seem to notice them when they arrived in his ballroom, and made no comment on the style and magnificence of their masks. “Acquiring some manners, finally, to match the magnitude of his gift,” said Tarathan, as they worked their way around the perimeter of the dance floor. The ballroom of the Athiri palace, like the minstrels’ Conservatory, was located adjacent to formal gardens, with a series of marble terraces and clipped lawns surrounding a sparkling fountain. A constant flow of guests moved between ballroom and terraces as the evening progressed, and the hubbub of conversation, combined with the efforts of musicians and dancers, was deafening. Once again, the heralds scanned the masked crowd for any sign of Derai or Swarm emissaries, but found none.
“Surprising,” said Jehane Mor. “You would think events such as these would attract everyone wanting to build alliances with Ij.”
Other guests intervened before Tarathan could reply, sweeping the heralds away from each other. They only came together again at midnight when the whole gathering was marshaled outside for the fireworks display. Afterward, the festivities would continue until dawn, but the heralds slipped away as soon as the fireworks were done, descending the wide marble steps from the terrace to the lawns below. More fireworks were still shooting skyward from other islands across the city, and Jehane Mor paused to watch a particularly brilliant sequence. “Do you think there is a truly quiet spot anywhere in Ij tonight?” she inquired idly.
“I doubt it.” She could hear the amusement in Tarathan’s voice, masked by the falcon’s visage. “They will carouse the night away in the streets and the lesser halls, just as they do in the palaces.”
Below them, smoothly mown lawns sloped away, crisscrossed by wide shrubberies and a network of paths that eventually led to a wrought-iron gate and the river. The paths were lined with sentinel poplars that were just coming into leaf, each one casting a black, elongated shadow across the ground. The statue of a lyre player stood poised in the center of the hillside, gleaming between moonlight and the last of the fireworks. The statue’s shadow, like those of the poplars, stretched across the lawn. The air already seemed cooler as the heralds started down the hill, and Tarathan pushed his mask up onto his head. “These things get too hot after a while.”
Jehane Mor smiled faintly. “It would not have done to take them off, though, not with half the Masters of Ij present, as well as representatives from most of the old nobility and merchant houses.”
“It was quite a gathering,” agreed Tarathan. “I saw Count Ambard bail you up as soon as Princess Coreil had finished exchanging pleasantries.”
“He did. Where the Athiri lead, the Coreil, and now it seems the Ambardi as well, will follow. The Ambardi may be a rising star, and ambitious with it, but neither the count nor the princess had anything particular to say.” Jehane Mor shook her head. “I must have pressed at least a hundred palms tonight, most of them hot and sweaty. The Guild should be suitably grateful.”
“The Guild is always grateful,” Tarathan replied as they turned onto one of the pebbled, tree-lined walks, “even if it cannot house us properly or provide fashionable masks.” He removed the falcon mask altogether and spun it by its strings, which snapped, the mask fluttering to the ground. He stooped to retrieve it while Jehane Mor dodged to avoid stepping on either the mask or him—and a crossbow quarrel whined through the space where her head had been a heartbeat before, slapping into an adjacent poplar trunk.
Chapter 4
Dance of Shadows
Both heralds dropped to the ground as a second bolt flew over Tarathan’s bent head and into the tree beside him with the same deadly thwack. Together they wormed into the adjoining shrubbery, away from the betraying pebbles of the path. The undergrowth was a broad ribbon of low and medium height bushes, with the statue of the lyre player on its far side. The aromatic scent of the shrubs filled the night air, and the babel of voices, laughter, and music from the ballroom was muted by distance. Everything was beautiful and very still. Jehane Mor, lying flat on damp earth a few paces from Tarathan, strained her ears to hear movement, but the assassins, too, had gone to ground.
Carefully, she strengthened and extended the psychic shield that she had snapped into place as soon as they dived for the undergrowth, making sure it covered both of them. Other than at very close quarters, it should
foil even sharply attuned senses, making their bodies appear part moonlight and part black, streaming shadow, while their scent blended with the tang of earth and plants and night. Her pulse slowed and deepened, but Jehane Mor knew that those stalking them would be patient, too. It would do them little good, though, for very soon now, Tarathan’s seeking sense would have found out both their numbers and their hiding places.
A few moments later, she felt the brief touch of his mind as he began to ease away from her—and knew that now, the hunters had become the hunted.
Long seconds passed into minutes; the moon slipped behind a narrow bank of cloud and the garden darkened. Jehane Mor heard the faintest whisper of a footfall on grass, a hand stirring a leaf—and then a shadow moved on the far side of the shrubbery, holding a crossbow in silhouette. The cloth-wrapped head turned, searching, and she reinforced her shield until it almost acquired form in the darkness.
The moon was still hidden when the assassin moved again, slipping into the shadow cast by the statue. He was almost past the plinth when Tarathan rose up behind him in one soundless, fluid movement, covering the assassin’s mouth with his left hand and driving his dagger up through the back of the neck with his right. The body collapsed backward and Tarathan lowered it silently to the ground. Given the distance between them, Jehane Mor had feared that the shield’s protection might waver once Tarathan broke cover—but no more quarrels sang. And now Tarathan had the assassin’s crossbow.
The moon floated from behind the cloud, flooding the lawn with silver. A shadow shifted beneath nearby trees, away from the light, and then another slid into the darkness cast by a bank of shrubs at the far end of the walk. The first shadow uttered a soft call, the plaintive cry of a nightbird that ended in a sharp coughing moan as Tarathan shot him through the throat. The second assassin disappeared again.
