by Helen Lowe
Jehane Mor nodded, remembering how neither she nor Tarathan had detected his presence before he shot the first lurker. “We have been careless,” she said. And then, lightly, to Tarathan: “But he hasn’t shot us full of arrows yet.”
Tirorn frowned. “I am not Orth, Jehane Mor. Besides, I already knew that at least one, but probably both of you, had what we would call priestly powers.”
“From when we came to the Wall five years ago,” she said, recalling that he had alluded to their service to Night previously.
He nodded. “The story’s not well known, but the House of Night’s new Commander visited the Keep of Swords a year or two back. She brought a veteran called Sarus with her, who had served on joint patrols with our own people in the past. He and his former comrades got to drinking and telling stories as soldiers do, which is how I heard of your venture into the Old Keep of Winds. I’m quite sure,” Tirorn added, as dry as Tarathan, “that we only heard a censored account. But I remembered your names, mainly because outsiders rarely figure in any Derai tale.”
“And I introduced myself at the Farelle bridge.” Jehane Mor was thoughtful.
“Even Sarus’s restricted account made it clear that you undertook a great service for the House of Night, which is again our ally. By my reckoning—and that of most Derai—we must recognize a debt.”
“Interesting,” the heralds said together. Jehane Mor watched Tirorn’s hand tighten on the bow when he heard their blended voice with its notes of power.
“We count no debt,” she said, as she had earlier in the night.
“But,” Tarathan added, opening the door, “we would still be glad of your bow as far as the North Gate.”
The night was cool when they stepped outside, but there was a faint stir in the air that spoke of the coming dawn. They walked in silence, crossing the long bridge to The Sleeve without hearing any further disturbance or seeing other people. The revelers, it appeared, had seen wisdom and cleared the streets.
Although long, the island of The Sleeve was also narrow and the walk from the bridge to the North Gate was short. But when they reached the gate, they found it barricaded with wagons and manned by a heavily armed contingent of the city guard. Tarathan folded his arms and sighed, leaning against the wall of the alley that concealed them. “We are going to have to find a boat,” he said. “Or swim the river.”
“Is that possible?” Tirorn asked.
“Swimming?” replied Tarathan. “Yes, on this northern side, because the floods are already subsiding, and in any case the Ijir delta is little more than a backwater here. The main currents flow to the south, which is why you find all the shipping lanes there. The only craft here will be pleasure barges, moored both up and downstream of the bridge. Most need several banks of rowers to shift them, but we could be lucky and find something smaller.”
The first hint, not even of dawn gray but of a lesser darkness, was creeping across the eastern sky when they walked down a little lane onto the riverbank. Soon the true grayness and then the dawn itself would come. “I hope you’re right about the currents,” Jehane Mor said, as they paused by the deserted pleasure barges. “The far bank looks a very long way from here.”
Tirorn grounded his bow, grinning. “It looks cold, too. I think this is where our ways part, since my duty lies in the city still.” He removed a gauntlet and extended his hand to Jehane Mor. “Farewell, Mistress Herald.”
She took it in her own. “I will not forget that I owe you a debt for my life.”
“I count no debt,” he replied, using her own words. “Haven’t I told you that already?”
She held his gaze. “Is that because of the Keep of Winds, or because of the debt, through Orth, that you owe to your own priestly kind?”
He smiled a little. “Perhaps it could be a gift between friends?”
“Perhaps it could,” she said. “Farewell, Tirorn.”
He turned her hand over in his and kissed it, formal as any great lord, then extended his hand to Tarathan. “Safe swimming, my brother of the blade.”
Tarathan clasped Tirorn’s forearms with his hands. “Light and safety on your road. And our thanks for your aid—but now we must go.”
The Derai nodded, stepping back and slipping the bow over his shoulder before retreating to the lane. The heralds made their way out across the moored barges, stepping from one to the other until they were well out in the river. When they stopped on the outermost barge, both the city behind them and the line of the opposite shore seemed very distant. “No small boats,” Jehane Mor said ruefully. “And no time to search further for one. We’ll have to swim.”
They pulled off their boots and tossed the masks of Imulun and Seruth into the river. “It won’t matter,” said Tarathan, when they floated on the surface. “Masks like that are ten to an Ijiri penny. No one will think anything of seeing them in the water.”
Even as he spoke, they were stripping to their undershirts and hose, and bundling boots, belts, and outer clothes together inside their knotted cloaks. The water was icy cold when they slipped into it, and they gasped and trod water before striking out for the northern bank, drawing their bundles behind them. Tarathan, it turned out, had been right about the currents, although there was still a reasonably strong flow in the middle of the river. “Go with it but keep moving across at the same time,” he said. “We should come to quieter water soon.” He was right about that as well, but the world had grown light by the time they clambered out, dripping and shivering, on the far bank.
The forest came right down to the very edge of the river, with thick undergrowth between the trees, ideal for concealment. Dawn’s white mist was just beginning to curl off the water and the domes and spires of Ij rose eerily above it, like a dream of a city. The mist lay more thickly beneath the trees and they made their way cautiously into it, waiting until they were a safe distance from the river before struggling to unknot the waterlogged cloaks and extract their sodden clothes. It was less than pleasant pulling on the cold, heavy fabric, even after they had rung the worst of the water out.
“What now?” asked Jehane Mor when they were done. “Do we squelch our way to Farelle?”
“That’s the nearest Guild House,” Tarathan replied. “But it’ll help once we find horses.”
“And what,” she said, with rare grimness, “if our enemies are already ahead of us?”
He rose to his feet, shaking back the river-darkened braids of his hair. “That’s a risk we just have to take.”
They pushed their way through the undergrowth until they stood on the top of a low bank, overlooking a road swathed in fog. This route was narrow but still reasonably well maintained, and a tall marker stone indicated that it was five miles to the Main Road. The heralds exchanged resigned glances and were about to descend the bank when a sound rang through the fog: the chink of a bridle followed by the clatter of horses’ hooves. As one, the heralds dropped into the brush and slithered back into denser cover. And once again, Tarathan’s hand was on his knife.
Tirorn waited until the dawn spread grayly along the eastern sky and the pockets of mist gleamed, thick and pearly above the water. He had found a vantage point beneath an old willow tree, close to the lane and a garden wall. The willow’s green veil made a useful screen from prying eyes while still allowing him to see out over the barges to the water. Even his keen archer’s sight could not make out anything on the river’s far side, which was still shrouded in darkness, but at least there was no sign of pursuit by the heralds’ enemies.
They would be all right, Tirorn told himself at last, when he finally began to notice the chill in the morning air. Or they would not. He knew there was nothing more that he could do, but he waited anyway, until the world around him began to wake. A windlass creaked from a nearby yard, followed by the clatter of a bucket, and soon people would begin to come down to the barges.
Tirorn wondered, as he squatted easily on his heels, just why he had gotten involved with the heralds in the first place
. He had wanted to track the lurker back to its lair, but that would have meant letting it kill Jehane Mor outside the Guild House—or finding out whether it could. Reading between the lines, someone—or perhaps more than one someone—had thrown around a fair bit of power in Sarus’s story of the Old Keep of Winds, even if the veteran had been cagey about details. But Tirorn had recognized the herald from the Farelle bridge as soon as she stepped out into the street’s light. His immediate decision to kill the lurker had not even been conscious; his hands had sprung into action of their own accord.
Now, Tirorn shook his head. He did not want to think about Jehane Mor, although he found it almost impossible not to. She was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and besides, he had liked her from their first encounter—because of her calmness, and the timbre of her voice, and the way she sat on her horse as though born to it. She had seemed so sure of her place in the world, he thought, and yet gave the appearance of not considering it at all.
He shook his head again and gave a short half laugh: undoubtedly, he was a hopeless case. After all, she was an outsider, and priest kind, and there was also Tarathan, her herald partner, in the mix. And the sun would be fully up soon. It was more than time for him to be gone.
Tirorn caught the movement out of the corner of the eye as he began to rise. A shadow lingered where no shadow should have been and the pale light of morning splintered. Tirorn’s hand tightened on his bow but there was no time to slip it free and get an arrow to the string. His hand slid to his knife as he turned, but it was far too late. He knew a moment of surprise that he had seen and heard nothing at all—and then a light that was not the sun exploded across his eyes.
Chapter 7
Across the River
The approaching clip of horses’ hooves was muffled by the thick fog that looped across the road and into the trees. There was a flat, eerie quality to the half-lit world, as though the forest itself held its breath. The heralds, too, waited, pressed low beneath arching fern. Above their heads a bird called, heralding the day. Another answered it, deeper in the woods, and a moment later a great clamor of birdsong filled the forest, just as the first of the riders emerged through the fog.
The heralds saw the horse’s head first, splitting the white air, its ears forward and nostrils flared. A second later, the spiked helmet of its rider appeared, turning slowly in a sweep of road and wood. The visor was lowered, concealing the rider’s face, and the horse, too, was armored, its breath curling through the metal chanfron as it walked forward. Together, horse and rider looked like some beast of ancient legend—or something altogether stranger, a shape of night itself emerging from the mist.
The rider stopped on the crown of the road and five others materialized out of the whiteness to join him. The heavy armor of both horses and riders clanked beneath the birdsong, and their breath steamed on the air. The dark, secret visors turned, peering between the trees, but they did not penetrate the heralds’ hiding place. After a few minutes the riders moved on, breasting the mist and half-light beneath the canopy. One by one, just as they had first appeared, they disappeared, while the heralds waited, motionless.
“But what,” Jehane Mor said finally, “were Patrol riders doing here, away from the Main Road?”
“And can we trust them?” Tarathan asked.
Jehane Mor considered this. “Trust is always a risk, more so after last night.” She rose, dusting fern debris off the mud on her clothes. “Should we take to the hills?”
Tarathan pushed to his feet as well. “We need speed—and that means either a swift galley, or horses and a good road, neither of which lies in the hills. And we could waste days hunting out a back way to Farelle or Sirith.”
“Meanwhile,” she replied, not without irony, “we walk.”
Even following the road, their progress was hampered by the need to keep to the shelter of the woods, where the uneven footing was greasy and thick undergrowth clogged their path. The bird chorus died away as they walked, becoming the normal sounds of a woodland day. Even the fog began to lift a little, although it remained thick in every dip and hollow. The sun was too low to penetrate the trees, so the air remained chill and the heralds uncomfortable in their wet clothes. They stayed alert for more riders, as well as watching the side roads that came twisting out of forest and hill. Most of these were little better than rutted tracks, although every intersection, however small, was graced by a shrine to Seruth, the guardian of journeys. The gifts left in the shrines suggested that the side paths led to small villages, or larger farms, but like the main route they were completely empty of traffic.
Shortly after the heralds passed a second milestone, the road broadened and the next crossroad was marked by a larger than usual cairn to Seruth. The side road here was graveled, at least as far back as its first bend, and wider than the others they had passed. Tarathan moved closer to the forest edge, his eyes narrowed on the pitted gravel and verges churned to mud.
“It took far more than six Patrol riders to mire the road like this. Cautiously, he moved out of cover, studying the open ground. “A great many people have passed this way recently, although the Patrol riders were here last. Their horses’ hooves are larger, the prints far deeper from the weight of all the armor.” Tarathan walked back to the crossroad. “They met up with four more of their kind here, but the larger body passed by earlier.” He pointed to an indentation in the mud. “That’s the butt of a halberd pole, and someone dropped a crossbow quarrel back there. So—halberdiers and at least one crossbow company, plus a fair contingent of light cavalry. There could be as many as three hundred of them, both foot and horse.” He indicated the wheel marks across the muddied paving stones. “With supply carts at the rear. Someone is moving in strength.”
“But not the Patrol,” said Jehane Mor. “Not coming out of these hills. So who, then? And why?”
Tarathan shrugged. “We already saw the beginning of faction war in Ij last night. And a small army on the move is even more reason for keeping to the woods.”
The ground began to rise as they walked on and the height of the embankment increased, so that the road lay a considerable distance below them. The climb became a scramble around rocks and over fallen logs, and the heralds had to push through scrub that was chest high in places. At last, however, they reached a ridge that provided extensive views of the surrounding countryside. Edging their way to the crest they lay prone, looking out over Ij and the river—but it was the open country surrounding the Main Road that held their attention.
Only a few days before, the plain that lay before them had been a peaceful patchwork of fields and orchards, the Main Road that bisected it thronged with traders and farm carts. The road was busy again this morning, but not with travelers, and the air of peace was gone as well. Column after column of the Patrol, dark and plain in their armor, were marching along the Main Road from Farelle and up the southern route from their fort by the river port. The sun glittered on their spear points like a galaxy of stars, and once they reached the Road Gate crossroad each column moved into the fields and took up a position facing Ij. On the river, too, the Patrol was moving: galleys, sleek, black, and deadly, were strung out across its width, blockading all the navigable channels. From every masthead, the Patrol’s plain black ensign fluttered on the morning breeze.
“In Imulun’s name!” said Jehane Mor out loud. There was something uncanny, even frightening, about that silent force rolling into place around Ij. “What are they doing? For a thousand years the Patrol has never involved itself in the internal strife of the cities, even when asked to do so.”
Tarathan’s eyes were fixed on the plain. “They are not going into Ij, though, not yet at any rate. Although the threat should definitely deter anyone trying to get out, which helps us.” He pointed toward the crossroad. “But what have we there?”
Jehane Mor drew in her breath. A square of black tents, clearly the command post of the Patrol, was pitched close by the intersection. On the opp
osite side of the road a large pavilion of indigo and gold silk rose high, as opulent as the Patrol tents were plain. A second and smaller tent of pale green stood beside it, and a colorful but well-armed company surrounded both. Pennants curled lazily over each pavilion, although the distance was too great to make out heraldic devices. A series of smaller, but still gaily colored standards was set out in a brave, brilliant row along the road frontage.
“Our company of three hundred,” said Tarathan, on a note of satisfaction. “The banners should tell us who they are, as soon as the wind lifts them.”
“Indigo and gold are the colors of the Ilvaine kin, but the pale green . . .” Jehane Mor shook her head.
“Ay, the green.” Tarathan turned, his dark eyes meeting hers. “It looks suspiciously like . . . But there’s the central pennant now. You’re right, that’s definitely the Ilvaine leopard. The emerald and black is the Katrani, which is only to be expected if the Ilvaine kin are there. Orange and gold is Teneseti, no surprises there either, but what’s the gonfalon beside it? Royal blue and purple—surely that’s Ambardi colors? Except that Ambard is an Athiri satellite.”
“Apparently not.” Jehane Mor’s mindtone was dry. “And see the colors closer to the pavilion entrance: gold, crimson, white—all of the Three, in fact. Someone has been very thorough.”
“I suppose,” said Tarathan, with grim appreciation, “this explains the rooftop war we saw last night.”
“And the Ambardi presence. That family is known for its links to the School. But that green pavilion . . .” Jehane Mor hesitated again. “That does look remarkably like the green of Ishnapur. Yet we are over a thousand leagues from the borders of their empire.”
