The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  Emuun whistled. “Have you any idea who, or what?”

  “If I knew that,” Nirn replied coldly, “then I could begin to deal with it.” He studied the jade rod as if seeking answers, a deep frown between his chilly eyes. “And the heralds I most wanted have disappeared behind that wall of blankness.”

  Emuun yawned. “Eluded our net, eh? I find it hard to see how two couriers could be as important as you make out.”

  “Well, they are.” Nirn’s right hand clenched around the rod again. “I cannot foresee precise details yet, but you may trust me in this. They are vital to the influences that oppose us.”

  The thickset warrior regarded him thoughtfully. “Can I trust you, though? Look at what happened last night, after you assured me that you had seen our success down all potential farsight paths. Yet what we have this morning looks more like complete failure.”

  The whiplash scar whitened and Nirn’s voice froze colder than his eyes. “Do you challenge me, Emuun?”

  Emuun held up a placatory hand. “I ask the question, kinsman, that is all.”

  Nirn eyed him narrowly and then shrugged. “No one foresees all potential paths, not even a master. Yet all that I did foresee was entirely in our favor. And you know I was not alone in that seeing. Whatever path we looked down, all saw the River lands given over to anarchy, riven by fire and war.”

  “And that has changed overnight?” Emuun shook his head. “How can that be?”

  The long narrow fingers clenched around the white rod. “I do not know,” Nirn said at last, fury licking through the cold voice. “There must be some other power at work that I cannot see. Yet I can detect nothing, just the blankness beyond the river.”

  “Perhaps,” said Emuun, after a short, uneasy silence, “we must put it down to the accursed Two-Faced Goddess. How else can one explain all the potentials turning from favorable to disastrous? Unless . . .” He paused, his hard-as-stone eyes boring into the sorcerer. “You have never been quite the same since you got burned five years ago in the Keep of Winds. Your powers appear . . . less reliable.”

  The other swung around on him, the pale eyes burning, and Emuun’s head drew back a little. “Not so unreliable, kinsman, that I could not obliterate you where you sit!” The sorcerer’s lips thinned. “Fortunately for you I have already lost one kinsman here and do not have an inexhaustible supply. Not of useful kin, anyway.”

  “I am glad you find me useful,” Emuun replied, his hard face sardonic again. “But if blood kin cannot speak the truth to you, kinsman, then who can? So tell me—was your foreseeing ever wrong before you got hit by the Golden Fire?”

  The thin mouth tightened still further. “It was not the Golden Fire! It was the Derai whelp, the Heir of Night, who is now dead!”

  Emuun shrugged. “So Aranraith maintains, but no one ever saw a body. For myself, I always like to see the body, and better still, have the whole world see it, too.” His wide fingers drummed on the back of the chair. “As for the firebolt, I was there when it struck and I still say the flame was golden. Besides, I would have thought there was no Derai spawn living, not these days, who would have a hope of hitting you that hard—and yet you nearly died.” The hard eyes studied the sorcerer thoughtfully. “Surely you cannot think this herald pair, these River couriers, were the source of so much power? Or do you? Is that the real reason you have been so avid for their deaths?”

  “They are certainly powerful,” Nirn conceded, “and their part in the attack on me has not been forgotten. But they were not its source.”

  “No?” Emuun was silent, his eyes half closed. Then they opened again. “Speaking of dead heralds, I see your adept, Jharin, has abandoned the last face he was wearing.”

  The chill eyes considered him. “As it happens, the face abandoned him. He could not hold it, even through last night.”

  Emuun whistled again. “There must be more to these couriers than I thought. A power to resist, perhaps, rather than to attack or coerce?” He shrugged. “Although I was surprised—for all the screams and agony that delighted our assassin allies—when even your mindflaying could not break the Ishnapuri pair.”

  “Which should not have been possible!” Nirn snapped. He took a few hasty steps up and down the room. “There was always a kernel of resistance, no matter the subtlety or sheer brute strength of my work. No one knows the mindflaying better than I, yet still they escaped, slipping into death before I was done with them.”

  “Most inconsiderate,” said Emuun, but he was frowning. “You’re right. It should not have happened. And now it seems that not all the assassins were persuaded, in any case. Or did they suspect our facestealing, perhaps?”

  Nirn shook his head. “No, not that. Even last night Jharin was able to control the change-back for long enough to escape their company.” His expression was sour. “We dared not let them even begin to suspect.”

  “No,” Emuun agreed. “I can’t imagine our allies would have been pleased to learn that you failed to break the Ishnapuri heralds, despite the screams—and that Jharin and Amarn assumed their dead faces to conceal the fact.”

  Nirn’s nod was curt. “As you say. But the instability of the change meant that Jharin was unable to help Orn when the thrice-cursed Derai sprang their filthy ambush.” Again the long thin hands clenched and unclenched. The emaciated face contorted. “They shot my brother down like a dog in the street, then mutilated him while Jharin could do nothing, nothing except flee and hide.”

  Emuun looked away, fixing his eyes on the sun-splashed wall. “I felt Orn’s passing,” he said, “and recognized Derai handiwork although I came too late to the place where he fell.” The wide, blunt hands flexed on the back of the chair. “It may please you to know that I have killed one of them already, down by the river. I tracked him from Orn’s body and caught him unawares with a djinn trick, slipping between light and shadow to hit him with their desert fire before he could draw a weapon. For blood,” he concluded softly, “demands blood.”

  A pale fire burned in Nirn’s eyes, but he was composed again. “And death demands death, always. You have made a start, and in time we will have vengeance in full for Orn’s death. But not now. We must flee this city before our enemies close in.”

  “Another debt,” Emuun said deliberately. “Who must we pay back in kind for the ruin of our plans? Is it the heralds who escaped your net, or more Derai work?”

  Nirn shook his head, and the ensuing silence was filled by a composite of sounds from the world outside: the clatter of dishes and pans from the kitchen, and the rumble of wagon wheels from beyond the inn gate. Someone in the kitchen jibed at an ostler in the yard, and the inn-wife, cleaning a room in the upper storey, called out for more hot water and fresh cleaning rags. “Clearly,” Emuun said, when his companion remained silent, “last night’s alarms did not reach here.”

  Nirn did look up then. “What? No—a good reason for choosing this place. That and proximity to the port.” His fingertips continued to trace the deeply incised runes on the rod’s pale surface, although his eyes remained on Emuun’s face. “It was not the heralds,” he said, almost reluctantly, “although their thread is in the weave. But this web is strung to another loom.”

  The warrior held up a warding hand. “No riddles, kinsman. Be plain with me.”

  The thin mouth twisted. “Plain, is it? Very well. Across the river, all is blank. But here in Ij I now see a host of interlocking threads that were invisible until we began to act—the blood and kinship ties of the Ijiri kindreds.” Knuckles gleamed white as his fingers closed. “I was aware of them, of course, but believed them subordinate to the Three. Now it seems, the converse is the case. Someone who knew that has worked very cleverly and silently against us, pulling the threads of kinship tight last night, even in the School that we thought our own.”

  Emuun’s frown was heavy. “Can you name this enemy?”

  The sorcerer laughed, a dry hard bark. “Now we come to the Derai taint. I see the hand of a certain Iji
ri minstrel who has dwelt long on the Wall of Night.”

  Emuun’s snort was pure disbelief. “That frivolous plucker of strings? I could break him between my hands.”

  Nirn shrugged. “It was the Ilvaine who formed the nucleus of resistance to our allies in the streets last night and rallied others to support them, most notably the Katrani, the Teneseti, and the thrice-cursed Ambardi. Their kin-lines went right into the School and pulled the assassins away from us, just when we were most sure that they were ours.”

  “You have seen the minstrel’s hand in this?” Emuun demanded. The sorcerer nodded, and the warrior shook his head. “So what do we do now? Flee, I know, but after that? You know what Aranraith’s like about failure.”

  The long fingers snapped together. “That for Aranraith. We will look to the other irons in our fire, which means I go south. But you—I want you to finish those heralds for good and all. Make sure of it, Emuun.”

  The warrior grunted. “Just like that, eh? Find them. Kill them. No mistakes.”

  “Well, you like killing, don’t you?” The sorcerer’s tone was as impatient as it was cold. “Isn’t that why we have a demonhunter on our trail?”

  “As you say.” Emuun sat back, folding his thickly muscled arms across his chest. “But we may need reinforcements.”

  “I already have agents in the south, and Arcolin and his coterie are there as well. If you need aid for your hunt then obtain it.” The cold eyes held the warrior’s stony gaze. “Make no mistake, the heralds’ deaths are required. Nindorith, too, has foreseen their part in the pattern that coalesces against us.”

  Emuun gazed at the ceiling. “Ah. Nindorith.”

  A brief, mirthless smile flickered on Nirn’s face. “I guessed you’d still hold that grudge. But you’d be a fool to overlook Nindorith’s foreseeing just because he stopped your game and took the sea-eyed witch away from you.”

  The other shrugged. “I never forget who my enemies are. Not that you’ll catch me disputing with Nindorith: I’m not a fool. Besides, it’s not my eyes that follow her every footstep, or darken whenever they see her safe in Ilkerineth’s shadow.”

  The curl of Nirn’s lips became even more pronounced and a sneer flickered across his face. Emuun was still looking at the ceiling, but now he made an imperative, warning gesture. For a moment there were only the inn sounds again, and then Nirn heard it, too: the faintest whisper, as though a leaf had fallen onto the roof—except that spring was not the season of leaf fall. Emuun was already on his feet, drawing a dagger as he rose. Nirn remained where he was, his expression focused, although he spoke idly: “Still harping on that old tune? The only emotion that fills Aranraith’s heart is hatred. He’s rotten with it.”

  The pattern of slatted sunlight was broken as a shape moved outside the shutters. Emuun crossed to the window in three swift, silent steps and flattened himself against the wall. Nirn’s voice carried on, bored. “And even Aranraith would hesitate to cross Nindorith—or Ilkerineth for that matter.”

  A narrow blade slid between the shutters, lifting the catch at the same time as a quick tattoo was tapped against the wood. Nirn’s face relaxed as the tattoo was repeated, and he nodded at Emuun to hold his hand. A moment later the shutters opened just wide enough to admit the slender, black-clad figure that had hung facedown from the roof to open them. Even the newcomer’s face was veiled and wrapped in black; only the eyes, outlined by a dotted blue tattoo, were visible. These widened briefly as the assassin turned to secure the window and saw Emuun, but she showed no other sign of alarm, simply completed what she was doing and turned back to Nirn.

  “You’re late,” the sorcerer said brusquely.

  “There have been delays.” The assassin was calm. “The night has gone badly and many of my kin lie dead. Nevertheless, I have done all that my Master bade me.”

  “It is well,” said Nirn. “How soon do we leave?”

  “I have had to make alternative arrangements,” the assassin replied. “The Patrol is posted at every landward bolthole, their galleys searching any vessel that tries to go upriver. And they have raised the boom at Farelle.”

  Nirn stared at her, his eyes widening. “The Patrol,” he whispered. “The Patrol! Tell me,” he added sharply, “why should the Patrol involve itself in this matter?”

  The tattooed eyes met his. “Myself, I do not know. But the whisper on the streets says that it is because of the attack on the Guild of Heralds.”

  Nirn’s lips compressed. Emuun watched from beside the window, but said nothing. “So,” the sorcerer said at last, as though grudging every word, “what is your alternative arrangement?”

  “I have spoken with a sea captain who has done business with us before,” the assassin told him. “He hails from Grayharbor and will return there with this evening’s tide. There is an islet called Brackwater, which lies a short way past where the harbor pilot will leave the ship. The dunes there are high enough to screen a small vessel that delays to pick up additional cargo—it will not be the first time this particular captain has done so.”

  “Just where is this Grayharbor?” Emuun demanded. The assassin had been standing so that she could watch him from the corner of her eye, but now she turned her veiled face fully toward him.

  “It lies to the north, two days sailing from Ij, and is the last port before you come to wild country. Far enough to be safe, but not so far that it is impossible to return.”

  “Far enough for all trails to go cold, too,” Emuun said to Nirn, “which will not suit our plans.” He swung back to the assassin. “This Patrol comprises soldiery, correct? It should be easy enough to slip past their watch.”

  “So far,” the assassin said flatly, “they have caught every messenger that has tried their cordon, even though we are taught to be masters of stealth. It is uncanny.”

  “Or you are sloppy,” said Emuun, as flat as she, but Nirn’s eyes had narrowed.

  “Uncanny,” he repeated, almost to himself, while the assassin glared at Emuun. The sorcerer shook his head, as though dispelling an unpleasant thought. “We dare not risk this cordon. We must take the ship and pick up old threads from Grayharbor.”

  “What of clothes, money, equipment?” the warrior demanded. “We are too conspicuous as we are.”

  “That is arranged,” the assassin replied. “If you leave here at dusk and go to the lower harbor where the fishing boats and ferries dock, a boatman will meet you. His name is Nevi and his boat is the Seamew—she has eyes painted on her prow. He will take you out to Brackwater, where you will find new clothes and money for your journey. Another of my cadre will bring the adepts you spoke of, if they make the rendezvous you set.”

  “Good,” said Nirn. “Very good.” He assumed a pleasant expression. “Extend our thanks to your Master and our best wishes for his continued health.”

  The tattooed eyes flickered, although the assassin’s voice remained steady. “My Master is dead and nearly all our cadre with him. We few who remain seek only to do his final will in this matter.”

  “Before?” inquired Emuun. The tattooed eyes slid back to him as she shrugged.

  “Unlicensed assassination is against the law of Ij. So, too, is any attack on a herald or their Guild. No other Master will speak for us, or their cadre accept us if they did.” She turned back to Nirn. “I have done all that I can to keep faith with my Master. I wish you a safe journey.”

  Nirn nodded as the assassin turned back to the window, although he did not speak. She put her hand to the shutters, but as she did so, Emuun moved, silent as a hunting cat and as deadly. His heavily muscled left arm clamped around her body, pinning both her arms, while his right hand reached around the black-wrapped head in one swift movement and broke her neck. “I take it,” he said over his shoulder, lowering the body to the floor, “that you agree?”

  Nirn nodded. “She knew too much. But we’ll have to dispose of the corpse.”

  “That’s easy,” said Emuun. “We put the body in the bed and you pa
y for another night before we leave. They’ll think you’ve gone out for the festival, and there’ll be no reason to come in here before tomorrow morning at the earliest. Maybe even the morning after, if we’re lucky.” He straightened, flexing his hands. “And the others? The boatman and anyone on the island?”

  “The same,” Nirn said. “No witnesses. Orn will have shades to keep him company, at least. There is symmetry in that, since his death last night is part of their failure.” The long fingers tapped against jade. “But you must do it all. I dare not use my power until we have several leagues of ocean between ourselves and the demonhunter.” He paused, studying his kinsman. “You made that quick, not your usual cat-and-mouse.”

  The hard eyes met his. “This is no time for risks. Besides, she was expecting it—I saw it in her eyes. I liked her courage.”

  The thin lips sneered. “Aranraith would be worried if he thought you were losing your love for blood and killing.” The words as would I hung in the air.

  The warrior shrugged, the gesture and his expression saying, very clearly, that there was little chance of that. He picked up the assassin’s body, the black-wrapped head rolling against his shoulder, and dumped it on the bed.

  The sorcerer strode to the window and peered through the slatted shutters. “The assassin has left me much to think about, with this news of the Patrol.”

  Emuun slouched back to his chair. “Another failure of foreseeing, kinsman? Maybe we should leave well alone for a change.”

  “Helms of concealment,” Nirn muttered, as though his companion had not spoken. “Yet everyone has a face, a name, however deep it’s buried.”

  Emuun shook his head but said nothing, simply watched while Nirn paced and the day grew warmer. A fly buzzed near the roof, then spiraled lower, settling on the assassin’s tattooed, unblinking eye. The droning stopped.

  Chapter 10

  A Pebble Falls