First things first, though, Raz thought, pulling the dagger back out of the flames and grimacing at its white-hot tip.
He had to stop the damn bleeding.
Adrion had set the decoys, planting the false maps in his office. He’d known he was Raz’s best opportunity to get to the Mahsadën’s highest members. It was obvious now, looking back. The trap had been set, the bait offered, and all the šef had to do was wait and see what would happen, playing on the stalemate Raz had backed them all into.
It was a clever idea, and one that by all rights should have worked.
Once again, though, the society had underestimated him.
And now, Raz thought with a humorless smirk, sneaking a glance over the crenelated edge of Yvin Gors’ five-story home across from Adrion Blaeth’s, it’s going to come back and bite you in the ass.
It had been less than two hours since his narrow escape from the middle districts, the Sun barely poking its head over the horizon to the east. Turning to look at it, trying to gauge his time, Raz hissed at the waves of white-hot shock that rippled upward through his right side and neck. Both of the wound’s openings were sealed shut, their cauterized flesh forming angry welts that cracked and oozed, but at the very least they weren’t bleeding. It had been a desperate measure, one that seemed hardly worth it during the painful rush to reach Adrion’s house before morning broke, but Raz hadn’t had time to think up anything else.
This might be his only chance. He had to pull it off.
As it was barely dawn and this was one of the wealthiest quarters of the city, the streets below were empty. Raz could even hear Gor’s gentle snores emanating from an open window below him. Nothing stirred apart from the swaying of the Grandmother’s white hair, the old woman sitting stone still on Adrion’s balcony, but for once Raz didn’t see her. Instead he watched and listened, inspecting every road and backstreet he could see from his high perch, desperate for a sign that this opportunity would come. If the šef met, and if word was sent to his cousin, then there would be a chance Raz would be able to tail the man…
But that was if they were even convening and if Adrion was summoned, if he was even informed at all.
There were a lot of ifs in this plan of his, Raz realized unhappily.
Still, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He was banking on the fact that a meeting would be called at once, probably in an effort to deal with him before the attempts on his life pushed him to greater lengths in his rebellion. Truthfully there was a good chance Adrion—having the most knowledge of the way Raz worked—would be called on to offer his insight.
Are you important enough, though, cousin? Raz thought, frustrated. If the summons didn’t arrive soon and he was forced to follow Adrion in the middle of the day, it would spell trouble. Likely it was going to be difficult enough an endeavor without a thousand people washing through the streets like colored ants.
Raz’s ears pricked up. Somewhere nearby, coming from the south, rapid footsteps were approaching. The rustling and clinking of chain mail told him who the group were, and within a minute four guardsmen—three men and a woman—appeared in the street directly below, moving at double pace toward Adrion’s home. The first reached the heavy timber door, knocking solidly, and Raz watched the four of them wait, taking in their fidgeting as the seconds dragged on. They clutched at the hilts of their sheathed swords as though wanting to make sure the blades didn’t vanish from their sides, alternately looking around into the empty streets.
Whatever their objective was, they were certainly nervous.
There was a quiet clang from below, and someone unlocked the door. It opened wide, and a blonde woman dressed in a black nightgown stepped out, her blue eyes considering the unit standing outside with less surprise than Raz would have expected. He barely had time to notice the X-shaped scar that crossed her face, centering around her right eye, when the guard who had knocked spoke.
At the height he was, Raz could barely hear anything, a reality not helped by the fact that the man seemed to be whispering. Still, whether it was luck or the fact that his mind was so focused on the one thing, the words “at once” and “urgent” were amongst the disjointed dozen that he did manage to catch, whispered up to him by the wind.
Anticipation jolted through him. Raz watched carefully as the woman he assumed was one of the housekeepers gave a brief bow and closed the door. Two minutes later it opened again, and this time Adrion himself appeared, his slim form hastily dressed in a light black and gold suit with a white turban that fell down one side of his face. His crutch clicked against the cobbled sidewalk, and he nodded to the guards, who turned and began moving south, back the way they’d come.
Doing his best to ignore the pain in his side, Raz stood, picking Ahna up off the roof where she’d been lying beside him. He’d been unable to get out of his armor—his one attempt ending in the painful realization that he probably wouldn’t manage it without help—so while he moved, leaping from building to building and scaling up and down brick and stone walls, he stayed clear of the edges. Every now and then he’d peer over to assert he was keeping with the group of five making their way through the empty streets below.
The going was easier than he’d anticipated. For almost a half hour Adrion and the guards moved as rapidly as they could—surprisingly quick considering the man’s handicap—all of them apparently as eager to get to their destination before the morning crowds as Raz was. On the other hand, they seemed to be headed toward the bazaars, a busy place at all times except the darkest hours of the night. It wasn’t long before Raz was having to do more stalking than following, darting over narrow alleys and clinging from low overhangs to avoid being seen by the growing number of people milling about. He was positive one woman caught a glimpse of him as she hung her wet laundry out for the dry wind.
He was gone before a double take could tell her it wasn’t a trick of the morning light.
For another quarter hour this was the pattern. Raz would check to ensure he was still heading in the right direction, then duck through a window into an empty room or drop onto a hanging balcony before he was spotted. He was just starting to wonder if he’d already been sighted and was being led on a wild chase when finally he stopped, crouching low against the wood-slatted roof beneath him.
Adrion and the guards had come to a halt outside one of the market’s dingier buildings. A thick timber-and-brick monolith, it squatted between a tanner’s shop and an apothecary famous for medicines that more often than not turned out to be equal parts dirty water and cat piss. It was a surprisingly unassuming structure, far from the grand image Raz had been carrying in his head of where the Mahsadën might hold their most intimate meetings, but it made some sense. The šef wouldn’t want to be ostentatious about the business they held behind closed doors. A grand city-palace in the middle of the wealthy districts would have attracted more attention than it was worth. Never a fine idea in their line of work.
Still, Raz was surprised the group had managed to humble themselves to this level…
But, inching to the edge of the roof and watching the proceedings below, he grew more and more certain. A pair of men dressed in filthy rags seemed to be loitering pointlessly around the entrance, chatting and kicking small stones back and forth. It was a good act, failed only by the fine sword hilt sticking from the pant loop of one man and the broad-spear poorly hidden in the archway of the entrance door. Those few merchants and customers who moved armed through the marketplaces rarely carried weapons of such quality.
Nor did the guard, for that matter…
Sarydâ, Raz concluded, frowning. He watched Adrion approach the closer of the two men and mutter something in his ear. The mercenary nodded, looking both ways down the street before opening the door and waving Adrion through. Closing it behind him, the man nodded again to the four guardsmen, who dispersed at once for the market.
Within a minute they were gone, and Raz waited. Fighting his impatience, he looked both ways down th
e narrow street. When the brief moment came where the roads were clear of possible witnesses, Raz opened his wings and dropped, falling silently on the two men below.
They died before either could so much as whisper a breath of warning.
CHAPTER 39
“They say he’s made a’ steel and fire, with eyes like a’ demon and claws like a’ wolf. He moves quieter than the Moon, and smiles with teeth red from the blood a’ bad children. If’n you don’t listen, a silver duke’ll buy him for the night, and in the mornin’ you’ll be gone, never ta’ be seen again…”
—bedtime fable, c. 860 v.S.
“HOW COULD YOU LET HIM GO? HOW? OVER TWO HUNDRED STRONG, AND ALL WE HAVE TO SHOW FOR IT IS TWENTY-FIVE DEAD AND ENDLESS QUESTIONS FROM THE MID-DISTRICTS!”
“Gaorys, you weren’t there! My men say i’Syul took a bolt full in the back! He’s likely crawled up in some hole in the slums, bleeding to death. We’ve only to wait and—”
“OH, YOU THINK SO, DO YOU?” Vyrr Gaorys spluttered. His paranoia was clearly getting the better of him. He was purple in the face from screaming. “AND HOW MUCH ARE YOU WILLING TO BET ON THAT, HMM? YOUR LIFE? MINE? BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT WE ARE RISKING! WE ARE—!”
“Enough! The both of you!”
Ergoin Sass’s words cut through the argument like a whip, and Gaorys spluttered to a silence mid-sentence. Across the wide circular table, Ulan Orture caught the retort he’d been about to bellow back.
From his spot against the wall, Adrion watched the proceedings with feigned boredom, leaning against the arm of his chair with two fingers pressed to his temple. The meeting had been called in haste, but all came as summoned. The eight šef had taken their places around the oak table in the center of the vast window-lit room, their other lieutenants seated along the wall to Adrion’s right.
More than a few of whom were taking in the argument with open mouths.
“Orture, Gaorys is correct,” Sass sighed finally, looking to the Captain-Commander of the Miropan guard. “I have it on good authority that the lizard was injured, but most likely not so grievously as to mark an end to this madness. He’ll hide away, but it’s only a matter of a week or two before he—”
“He won’t.”
Every head in the room turned toward Adrion. Sass shot him a seething look, but Adrion ignored him. It was high time he start making his own voice heard, even if some šef didn’t agree.
“Who are you to interrupt us?” Alysya Orture, Ulan’s twin sister, demanded sharply. “If he’d wanted your opinion, Ergoin would have—”
“Quiet, Alysya.”
The room deadened instantly. Imaneal Evony was watching Adrion with deceptive casualness. The gold and silver rings on his fingers glinted in the light of the morning Sun, and Adrion felt some of his confidence slip away staring into those cruel eyes.
“Speak,” Evony ordered coolly, and no other voice rose to oppose the command.
“H-he won’t.” Adrion tripped over the words, coughed, and continued more strongly. “He won’t hide. Raz doesn’t have the patience to, and he likely sees this time as our most vulnerable. And is he wrong? We’ve put all our eggs in one basket and, now that the basket has slipped through our hands, where do we stand? Stalemated again.”
“i’Syul is injured, though.” Evony tilted his head. “Of that we are all agreed.”
“Short of running him through-and-through, I can’t imagine a wound in the world that would slow my cousin down.”
Evony nodded slowly, pausing before speaking again.
“And you think… what? That we should expect retaliation today? Tomorrow? When?”
Adrion had just opened his mouth to express his worst fear when there was an abrupt knock on the room’s carved double doors.
“What is it?” Sass snarled. He was clearly not happy with the way the conversation was going. “You were told not to disturb us!”
“Urg-urgent message!” a wavering voice called through the wood. “Beggin’ yer attention promptly, sirs and madams!”
Sass frowned, looking to Evony, who nodded. Adrion, on the other hand, had heard something else in the messenger’s tone. He’d just started crying out a warning when Sass gestured to one of the sentries posted on either side of the door.
“Wait!”
But the sarydâ had already reached down and pulled up the handle.
There was an explosion of wood and dust, and the man was catapulted across the room into the table as the left door was kicked in so violently it ripped free of its top hinge. The second sentry barely had time to loosen his sword from its scabbard when something silver flashed, opening him up from hip to hip. He was on his knees, screaming his last few breaths away, when Raz i’Syul Arro stepped into the room.
In his free hand, held by their hair, swung a half-dozen heads of the sarydâ assigned to guard the stairway outside.
Raz examined the room almost leisurely. Diamond-paned windows cut through the stone of the west wall, casting the floor with bright patches of morning light. Six men and two women leapt to their feet around a circular table in the center of the wide chamber, all turned to look at him with a surprising level of calm. Beyond them, another eleven looked on, clearly much less reserved. Amongst this group, his crutch leaning beside him, was Adrion.
Raz ignored his cousin’s glare, tossing Ahna over his shoulder and looking back. The man he’d held at blade point was standing in the doorway, shaking in his boots.
“Why are you still here?” Raz asked him, lacing the question with implication.
The sarydâ ran so fast he tripped and almost fell headfirst down the stairs.
Raz chuckled dourly. Dropping the heads to the floor with staggered thumps, he stepped closer to the eight šef. A few flinched when he moved, betraying the fear hidden behind nearly every face, masterfully masked. Even Vyrr Gaorys held his composure, though his hands started to shake when Raz’s eyes passed over him.
“Raz i’Syul.”
Raz blinked. One of the šef stepped out of the group and walked around the table toward him. He was a tall man, swathed in gold-trimmed lavender robes that swirled with the slightest motion. He looked to be the oldest of them, his head completely bald and chin framed by a pointed goatee. His sharp eyes, though, spoke of wit volumes beyond his age.
A man Raz had never met personally, but knew well by reputation.
“Imaneal Evony,” he stated plainly. Evony smiled, coming to a stop a dozen feet away, just outside of Ahna’s reach.
Clever old man.
“I see you know me,” the šef remarked, gesturing to the other members of the group. “So I assume you know the rest of us, and our confidants.” He motioned to the eleven seated against the back wall. Raz’s gaze fell back on Adrion for a moment.
“Some better than others,” he replied, not taking his eyes off his cousin until the man looked away.
“Excellent!” Evony exclaimed with another smile. “Then there is no need for introduction! Now, tell me… what can we do for you?”
Raz stared at him, and the stillness of the room could almost be tasted on the tongue.
“What do you expect me to say to that?” he asked after a moment. “I’d figured my reasons for being here weren’t terribly complex.”
“But they are,” Evony replied, frowning in false confusion. “We”—he motioned again to the other šef—“are your employers. We have the assets to supply you with whatever it is you need. Work? I’m familiar with your rules, and I can assure you we have plenty of problems you would be interested in handling for us. Money? Not an issue. I’m sure Ergoin and the others haven’t been paying you half of what you are—”
“I don’t want your money!” Raz spat, the crest along his neck flaring up. This time a number of the šef cringed. Only Evony and Ergoin Sass, who stood near the far end of the table, didn’t budge.
“You’re sure?” Evony asked him with a knowing smile. “I don’t think you understand. I can offer you rates that are deserving of y
our skills. And I can offer you other things. Here, Emyl!” One of the men seated at the back leapt up at once. “Draw up documents ceding the Vorshceyer estate to Master i’Syul. They won’t be needing it after—”
“I said NO!”
The room stilled at Raz’s roar. Evony frowned, the flare of his ego winning over his desire to turn Raz in his favor.
“This is your last chance, Monster,” the man snarled, glaring with a daring intensity Raz had never seen in a human. “We’ve given you a place in this society before, and I’m willing to offer it to you again so long as you do as I say when I say it. You’re an animal, and if it weren’t for your limited talents I would have had you put down long ago.”
The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1 Page 33
