Indris paused for a moment beside the remains of an ornate gazebo. The ahm whirled here, making it slightly harder to breathe. Isolated in a round plaza devoid of anything else, the blue-gray diorite columns stood tall. Curving lines were carved into the stone in a seemingly haphazard way Indris recognized as Rōm handiwork. The delicate black metalwork of the domed roof was blackened by old flames, as was the pallid stone of the plaza around it. Bloated translucent spiders seemed to skitter in midair on webs of spun glass, seen only when one ventured too close. Indris felt the menace radiating from the Weavegate, the creeping sensation of oily thoughts that swam, sluggish and secret, unbidden and unwanted, through his mind.
Holding back a curse, Indris had to have Ekko physically pick Omen up and carry the Wraith Knight from where he had simply stopped to listen to whatever it was that had enraptured him.
As the afternoon darkened to evening, they traversed other ruins, decrepit skeletons of buildings and monuments that stretched feebly from the marshes. They were small, no larger than villages or perhaps the large estates of some wealthy landowner or other. It was Shar who sighted the first Fenlings to the east. The group, about twenty in all, was moving through the gathering gloom of the overcast.
“Only war parties journey in the day,” Omen said tonelessly. “These are out a little early.”
“You think?” Indris muttered. His eyesight was not as sharp as either Ekko’s or Shar’s, yet the Fenlings’ was even worse. With any luck the Fenlings could be avoided, especially if Indris and the others stayed downwind.
“Then we keep moving,” Hayden said without enthusiasm. His red face and heavy breathing indicated the older man would much prefer to stop.
They jogged another several hundred meters until they came to a stream shaded on both banks by hoary old willows. Ekko led them into the murk. He gave quiet instructions as to where they should set their feet. Where roots rose that might trip them up, where they might injure themselves on low-hanging branches. Soon, their world consisted of Ekko’s whispers, the water flowing past their knees, and the susurrus of the breeze through green curtains of willow fronds.
The sun had all but vanished from the sky when Ekko led them up the north bank of the stream. The silhouettes of old statues, columns, and walls dotted the landscape before them. The ruins of an old windmill, newer than much of the wreckage about it, spun listlessly on a groaning axle.
“What is this place?” Ekko asked.
Indris took in what he could see of their surroundings. He pointed to a few buildings. “The domed roofs and windmill are definitely Avān, though crude. From the looks it’s probably more than a century old.”
“Smugglers?” There was as much statement as question in Shar’s tone.
“Who else?” Indris replied.
“‘And with his hook he pierced the moon and pulled it down like a coin, with which to buy part of the sun.’” Omen was as still as the statues that surrounded them.
“Eh?” Hayden grunted. “You’re getting a might light in the mind as the days go on, my friend.”
“Quite funny, you. Traversing these ugly swamps may see white ants nesting in my head. But it neither changes the fact that I can quote from the classics, nor that the man standing there, smoking by the door, has a hook for a hand.”
“Faruq ayo!” Indris swore.
“Language,” Shar whispered as she poked Indris in the ribs.
The companions grinned. They had found what they were looking for.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Though they show me where I die, and take my love away from me, they can’t change my destiny, these villains and their treachery…”—from the Ballad of Holt Katelin, 233rd Year of the Shrīanese Federation
Day 322 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation
The entrance to the Ghyle at the corner of Treadstone Street and Chandler Lane teemed with people. It was the busiest market district in all of Amnon. The hexagonal sandstone paving was hot under Mari’s feet. Striped awnings gave shelter to myriad street vendors, who hawked their wares, cajoling in their singsong patois.
Mari was dressed as a common nahdi. The few people who might have recognized her face would hardly look twice at a common mercenary. She merged with the crowd, was carried along by it. At the end of Treadstone Street was a plaza featuring a massive bronze statue of Mefelin, the man who had invented the printing press. It sheltered dozens of eateries, wine houses, and coffeehouses, as well as the Kellifer, the series of serpentine lanes and alleys where bookstores, paper vendors, printers, and scribes did their work. At one with the ambling throng, Mari stopped from time to time to peruse what vendors had to offer, checking to make sure she was not followed.
Mari sauntered past the green-fronted building at number seventeen. The third level had a balcony enclosed by tall fretwork screens that were closed now, the paint cracked and faded. Two men, faces aged by too many seasons in the sun, played jambara by the ground-floor entrance. The click-clack of the glass marbles on the board was muted against the background din of the crowd. The scarves wrapped around their heads boasted a pin with red, blue, and green feathers, the colors of the Family Charamin. These nahdi were either Thufan’s or Armal’s people. As one of the men leaned forward, the hilt of a short sword could be seen at his hip.
She continued on toward the plaza at the Kellifer. Food vendors’ shops took place of pride. Small tables, their paint peeling, stood between rickety stools or folding camp chairs. Scores of patrons sat at their ease in a space that would seat hundreds, tanned faces raised to enjoy the summer’s day as they enjoyed local delicacies from the Marble Sea.
As she passed by one establishment, a large man, fully a head taller than she, passed close by. Mari sidestepped to avoid him, yet he managed to entangle himself with her anyway. Annoyed, she jammed an elbow into his ribs by way of thanks for his wandering hands. He grunted her name as he doubled over. When he looked up, Mari saw Armal’s face, though much darkened, eyes heavily rimmed with kohl. He was dressed as a simple caravaneer, unarmed save for a long walking stick as thick as three of her fingers.
“What do you think you’re doing, Armal?” she muttered to him as she straightened her clothing. Nobody seemed to be paying them any attention. He grabbed her as he rose to his feet, still winded. “Hands!” she warned.
“I come here every day,” he said, his tone wounded. “I thought you might come, too. I enjoyed our talk yesterday.”
“Eh?” she said, only half listening.
“You need a better disguise—” he began with a smile, then came to a halt when he saw her eyes narrow. “You’ve a way of walking, a very long stride, though light on your feet. More a glide than a walk. Also the way you carry your amenesqa through one belt ring, rather than two, so you can draw quickly from any angle. There are other—”
“Right.” She drew the word out. “Armal, you know it would never…That I don’t—”
“I don’t know what I would’ve done if we’d not talked yesterday. Killed her, maybe?” Killed who? Mari wondered. “I know my father wanted to keep her alive, as leverage. But the danger! Then you, yesterday you told me you knew…” He started back up Treadstone Street, toward number thirteen, Mari in train.
“Why did you tell me about this place?”
“I wanted somewhere for us to meet privately,” he said shyly. “I know your father would never let us be together, so I thought this—”
“We need to be careful, Armal.” Mari silenced him with a gesture. “Nobody can know what we’re doing.”
“There’s no need—”
“This was unwise, Armal. Do you have something to show me or not? Otherwise you’ve endangered us for nothing. My father mistrusts me as it is!”
“Never mind.” He went to rest his arm on her shoulder. She shrugged it off. “There are places in the world your father would never find us. Have you ever been to Mieda, in Ygran? Or Masripur, in Tanis? It’s but a short sea journey to freedom, away from every
thing here.”
“My father—and your father, for that matter—has a very long reach, Armal. Tell me what’s at number thirteen Treadstone Street. Or did you send me here in the hope I would bed you?”
Armal had the decency to look shocked. “Mari…I mean, Pah-Mariam, I never thought to…I mean, while I’ve…My intentions were—”
“Best kept a secret, locked away somewhere safe and sound,” Mari assured him. “Where they’ll not get you hurt. Were I you, I’d find places to be that are as far away from me as you can get.”
“I don’t want any—”
The crestfallen expression on his face turned to one of genuine hurt. Armal lurched to one side. His eyes widened in pain, then narrowed in anger. He bellowed. Mari dodged to the side as the giant spun and whipped his walking stick in a vicious arc.
Mari’s drew her sword, eyes scanning the crowd.
Armal had turned his back to her, his attention elsewhere. There was a bright-red stain on Armal’s lower back. There was another, slightly higher. The assassin had tried to pierce Armal’s lung to keep him quiet, yet had failed. Through the rent in the big man’s clothes she could see the boiled leather of a light-armored corselet.
Screams echoed down Treadstone Street at the sight of blood and steel.
The crowd tried to scatter. They tripped over themselves. Pushed. Shoved, desperate to find safety.
There were five of them, dressed as common soldiers. Curved steel shone coolly in their tanned hands. Their faces were obscured by hoods, though Armal had pulled the cloth away from one man to expose Farouk’s scarred face, his teeth white in a savage leer.
Farouk’s henchmen pressed forward.
Mari sidestepped Armal. Her body moved before thought. Her sword flicked out. Sliced upward. The blade bit. At hip first, then chest. It ripped out past one of the assassin’s collarbones. The man shrieked. Blood misted the air as he fell.
Four remained. Armal’s stick crashed down. A sickening crack. One man’s head caved in. A backswing. Blood, bone, brains, hair were whipped into the shrieking crowd. Now there were three.
“I’ve waited for this!” Farouk darted forward, his blade already red with blood. It punched under Armal’s arm. Adderquick, it struck again.
Armal dropped his stick. Placed his hands around Farouk’s throat. Squeezed.
Mari came in at a crouch at the last two. Her sword was a horizontal blur. She scythed it across one man’s belly. Felt the man’s death in her fingertips. Her palms. Her wrists. Like a falcon her sword hunted. It curved high. Swooped low. Took the last man’s hand at the wrist. Changed direction. The chisel point ripped through his throat. No time for him to scream.
Mari scanned the crowd. Everything was in sharp contrast. The colors were too vivid. Light and shadow, too bright and too dark. Her breath was loud in her ears. The faintest sound pealed like a bell. The nahdi behind the jambara board looked on, frozen to the spot.
Only Farouk remained. His knife hilt protruded from Armal’s chest, while his hands gripped the big man’s wrists as Armal throttled the life from him. The aide’s eyes bulged in their sockets. The veins protruded on his brow. His skin had purpled. He struck Armal in the head. Once. Twice. Weaker now. Thrice, with little strength. Still Armal squeezed, his teeth bared in a rictus of savage, violent abandon.
There came a dry snap. The life went from Farouk’s eyes, and his head canted at an odd angle. Armal loosened his grip, tumbled to the blood-slick pavement. He tried to rise. Did not have the strength. Blood lined his lips. His face was spattered with gore. Mari thought there was perhaps more blood outside of him than in.
“Mariam?” he mumbled. He reached for her with his bloodied hands. Armal’s face was pallid, contorted with pain. “I couldn’t kill her, you understand? You father wanted us to kill them, but the daughter…”
“Carry your master inside!” she snapped to the two nahdi lurking nearby. They looked around nervously. “Now!” she yelled.
Mari scanned the street. There were a lot of people. Too many people. Faces peered from shopfronts. From behind stalls. There would be talk. Worse, the kherife would be on their way. What the kherife knew, her father would know shortly after. She urged the nahdi to greater haste. Mari had intended on entering the building with somewhat more subtlety, but she must play the cards she had been dealt. Regardless, she would see what was inside the building Armal had wanted her to know about.
The nahdi dragged Armal’s enormous frame across the road, leaving a broad trail of blood. One man scrabbled for his key. Turned the lock. They barged through the door as four other men barreled down the stairs. Two of them took one look at Armal’s body, then kept going out the door. Clearly their loyalty did not extend past the expiration of the man who purchased it.
“If you want to live,” Mari said to the others, “I’d take what money I had and leave Amnon. Those men who attacked your master were the officers of the Rahn-Erebus fa Corajidin. Need I say more?”
They needed no convincing.
Mari bound up the steps two at a time. Both the first and second floors were empty. The third floor had three doors…one guarded by an armed man. Without pause Mari walked forward. Her unsheathed sword was covered in blood.
“You heard?” she asked quietly.
The man nodded nervously.
She took a step to the side to allow him access to the stairs. “Take the offer,” she murmured, “while it lasts. I doubt the Asrahn-Elect will be as understanding. Whatever your duty was, it’s no longer your concern.”
The man hesitated. His knuckles whitened on the hilt of his sword. Mari allowed herself a slow smile, lazy and wide.
He blanched. With obvious caution the nahdi sheathed his blade, then moved past her to the stairs. Mari leaned over the balustrade until she saw him flee the building. At least he had the good sense to close the door behind him.
Light-footed she entered the room he had guarded. It was well lit, plainly furnished. There were two other doors within. One had a bolt, shiny and new, on the outside. Mari dashed to the balcony and peered through the screen. People had crowded around the carnage. A few looked upward at the building she was in. Others pointed. There were no sign of the kherife, though Mari assumed such good fortune would change.
She crossed to the bolted door. “Hello?” she called. “I’m armed, but mean you no harm. The men who imprisoned you are gone. I’m going to unbolt the door, then cross the room. You’re free to leave…in fact, I recommend it, given the kherife are likely on their way.”
Mari did all she said, then waited.
Each moment felt like an eternity until the door opened. A young woman stood there. Her plain face was grimed, dark eyes wary under an unkempt nest of dirty hair. Her tunic was torn, her breeches and silk boots ruined by water stains.
“Sweet Ancestors!” Mari breathed.
“Knight-Major,” Vahineh, daughter of Vashne, said. “I take it I’ve you to thank for my rescue?”
“Not yet you don’t.”
It was the work of moments to rummage through the few belongings the nahdi left behind. There were some worn garments, oft mended, which would be less obvious than Vahineh’s ruined clothes or Mari’s bloodstained ones. The two women hastily changed. What they had on was ill fitting, but it would have to do for now.
“Here.” Mari offered Vahi a short bladed shamshir she had found amid the baggage. The princess thrust it through her sash.
Mari sped down the stairs, leaping half the final flight in one jump, Vahineh a step behind her. Armal’s body lay slumped across the hallway, his vacant eyes wide. Mari stooped to close them, which was all the respect she had time for.
On seeing Armal, Vahineh snarled and ran forward. Mari restrained the princess as she was about to kick Armal’s corpse. Vahineh struggled, wild with rage, yet Mari held her against the wall until she quieted.
“We’ve no time for this! There are those who’d see you share Armal’s fate. Come with me if you want to live.”
With a backward glance at Armal’s fallen form, Mari led the princess toward the rear of the building, slid the bolt to the back door, then dashed into the narrow lane beyond.
There was an expensive hotel in the Red Lilly Garden called the Silk Arena, well known to be frequented by many of the most expensive courtesans in Amnon. Though it was not a bordello, Mari had come to understand most of its hundred or so rooms were rented or owned for the express purpose of pleasure. It was a den of sin, where those of dubious virtue and questionable fidelity could exercise their passions in quiet luxury.
It was as safe a place as Mari could think of to get a message to her newfound allies.
On their way to the Silk Arena, Mari and Vahineh had entered a clothier some distance from the Ghyle and purchased new clothes, plain and of the right size. They had then slipped into a small bathhouse, to the distant sound of the kherife’s shrill horns. Vahineh had doused herself with hot, soapy water to wash away the accumulated grime of captivity. Mari herself only spared the time to wash away any obvious blood, brains, or other souvenirs from her earlier exploits.
Mari used her boot knife to cut away Vahineh’s long hair so it fell to just below her shoulders. They dressed quickly in their new clothes, then walked casually out onto the street.
The Red Lilly Garden was at the end of a winding lane in the Mercantile Quarter of Old Town. It was lined with expensive townhouses, all made from sandstone in identical style with bronze-sheathed domed roofs, columned entryways, and stained-glass windows in black window frames. At the far end, the Silk Arena dominated a cul-de-sac planted with red lotus, larger than any six of the other houses combined. Carriages came, dropped off their passengers, then departed. The doormen, dressed in silk coats that Mari suspected covered expensive kirion-steel shirts, were all smiles. After all, who would enter such a place ignorant of its expense, its rules, or the consequences of breaking them?
At the front desk, Mari wrote a quick note and paid a courier to deliver the message to Samyala as soon as possible. Then the two women took a seat and relaxed as best they could. Vahineh sipped at a cup of tea, while Mari nursed a short glass of honeyed whiskey. They sat in silence for many minutes, Vahineh looking with interest at those who came and went, Mari looking at Vahineh with a sense of doom in her belly like a bad meal.
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