Silk Dreams - Songs of the North 3

by Mia Marlowe

  “Barak, head of security for Mahomet,” he whispered. “Till I came.”

  As the clip-clop of the donkey's hooves faded, Barak signaled one of his underlings. “Follow that Greek fool and see that he does not reach his home this night. Kill the link boy too. Better yet, run ahead of him and lie in wait at his home. It will appear he interrupted a robbery. We want no true tales spread to Leo. Don't return until it is done.”

  “Why the boy?”

  “You do not question me. Just do as I say. Now go.”

  Valdis had known she was going into a dangerous situation when she entered this household, but the casual bloodthirstiness in Barak’s order was still a shock.

  “Wait here, till I draw them away.” Erik pulled her close and whispered into her ear. “Which room is yours?”

  She pointed to her corner apartment, where sturdy vines rose from the courtyard to the roof garden.

  He smiled. “I think that trellis will hold me.”

  “We shouldn't meet again like this,” she said, still shaken by Barak’s murderous order.

  “Leave a runic message here on this bench, then. I must know how it is with you.”

  “I will,” she promised. “Oh! Find out what you can about the Frank who dined with you tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “There is someone in the zenana who wants to know. His name will do for a start.”

  “That I can already give you. Bernard of Cologne. He is a trader of glassware seeking an alliance with Mahomet.”

  “That's not all he's seeking,” Valdis said. “His betrothed is an odalisque in Mahomet's harem.”

  “Then he and I have much in common. I shall have to see what I can do to help him.”

  Barak turned and seemed to look right at them. Valdis knew the darkness hid her from his sight, but his eyes blazed feral in the night like a wolf's. He cocked his head as if straining for a sound, something that would betray her.

  Fortunately Loki crouched by her ankles and would not move. The dog must have sensed her trepidation.

  Then Barak turned away and cast his gaze along the roof of the villa.

  “Wait till all is clear.” Erik pressed a kiss into her open palm. “I'll distract the guard for a bit, then I'll find a secret way out of this house.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To stop a murder.”

  He moved away with amazing stealth for a man of his size, silent as a cat when he wished to be. If Valdis hadn't known it was Erik in the garden, she'd have thought it was merely the soughing of the night breeze that rustled the greenery.

  “Ho, Barak,” Erik said loudly from the far end of the courtyard. “Near the second watch and you still haven't found your bed?”

  Valdis couldn't make out the grumbling reply, but the man took several steps toward Erik.

  “Since neither of us is sleepy, now's as good a time as any for you to show me the provisions for security you have made,” she heard Erik suggest. “We both want the same thing, after all. Continued safety for your master.”

  Couched in that language, it was a request Barak couldn't refuse, and he wandered off with Erik to inspect the perimeter safeguards.

  Valdis scooped Loki in her arms and made a dash for the stairway. She crept up to the third floor, her heart hammering against her ribs. She and Erik were walking a knife's edge with disaster looming on either side.

  And she saw no way to stop.

  “Who we are when no one sees is who we really are.”

  —from the secret journal of Damian Aristarchus

  Chapter 19

  * * *

  Erik disentangled himself from Barak with very little effort. The man really wanted nothing to do with a Varangian interloper. But finding a way out of Habib Ibn Mahomet's house other than through the large front gate proved a more difficult problem. He finally managed to wiggle out the chute in the kitchen, the one used to deliver charcoal for the braziers that would chase away the winter chill.

  He had a pretty good idea where the Greek was heading and he doubted it was to his own home. Erik had met the man once before on a hunting outing with the emperor for which Erik's cohort provided security. The man's name was Marcus Trophimus, chief advisor to the emperor's young niece, Zoe. The girl was another hopeful heiress in the making, one the Empire recognized as "purple-born." Trophimus was obviously looking for supporters for Zoe's claim once the unthinkable happened and Basil the Bulgar-Slayer was no more.

  Marcus Trophimus would not go directly to his own home, but to Zoe's sumptuous quarters in the Palatine district. Erik's first impression of the man was that Trophimus was a capable bureaucrat, if devious in typical Byzantine fashion. He hoped the Greek wasn't as drunk as he'd seemed.

  Erik was relieved to find the link boy and the donkey waiting outside the would-be empress's palace.

  “You there, boy,” Erik called softly as he approached.

  The child startled and lifted the torch as high as his thin arm could reach. “Please don't take the donkey, sir. It belongs to my fare and he'll beat me if it's gone when he returns.”

  In the amber torchlight, Erik could see the child was gaunt to the point of starvation and much older than Erik first judged him based on his diminutive height.

  Poor food makes a poor boy . But at least this child was still alive, and if Erik had anything to say about it, would remain so for at least another night. Miklagard teemed with these discarded little souls, abandoned by their families or orphaned. They were tossed into the streets to fight for scraps or sell their young bodies for a thin silver coin. The most enterprising of them served as link boys, lighting the way for well-born night travelers across the dark city. Erik admired the lad's pluckiness.

  “I don't want your donkey.” He took a bezant from his pouch and flipped it in the air. The boy's eyes gleamed as he tracked the coin's flight. Erik caught it and then held it out to him. “I want to give this bezant to the boy who can deliver a message and convince the man you led here to heed it.”

  “I can do that.” The boy fairly danced with excitement.

  A bezant would feed this urchin and twelve of his ragged friends for a month.

  “What's the message, General?”

  Erik resisted the appeal of this blatant flattery. “Tell Marcus Trophimus not to look to the follower of the Prophet for support. Death waits at Trophimus's home this night. He must lodge in the Xenon of Theophilus if he wishes to see morning. Go with him, boy, for Death has marked you as well.”

  The child's eyes grew round as an owl's.

  “Can you remember that?” Erik asked.

  When the boy repeated the message word for word, Erik tossed him the coin and turned to go. “Show him the coin and he'll take you seriously.”

  “But who shall I tell him gave me the message?”

  “Tell him it was one of the emperor's pledge-men. A Varangian.” On a whim, Erik added, “Haukon Gottricksson.”

  It would do Hauk no harm since when Erik last heard his friend was fighting the Saracens in faraway Antioch. And Hauk's name would muddy the waters if by chance the boy was grilled by inquisitors later.

  “Don't fail me, lad.” Erik turned and disappeared into the blackness of the city's narrow alleys.

  The moon dropped behind the tallest of Miklagard's seven hills so only pinpricks of stars lit his way. Erik followed the map he carried in his head of the twisted byways until he came to the street where Marcus Trophimus's home sprawled in grandeur, dwarfing his neighbors on both sides.

  Erik crouched in the shadows, trying to locate the would-be assassin. Anger raced in his veins. If it had only been Trophimus, Erik might have let the Greek courtier take his chances. After all, the question of who would sit on the Byzantine throne after the Bulgar-Slayer was none of his business.

  But what kind of scum lies in wait to kill a child?

  As his gaze made a second circuit of the area, it struck him that he too was an assassin this night. The only difference between him a
nd the man he intended to kill was motive. One wanted to take two lives. One wanted to protect them.

  Erik had already accepted the label of "murderer." His brother's death grated his soul every day, even though he still had no clear recollection of the actual deed. The berserkr rage often left a warrior with holes in his memory. He supposed that was a mercy.

  Battle deaths were the easiest to dismiss. In a melee, the only law was kill or be killed. Though murderer was branded on his heart, Erik had yet to kill someone by stealth. But tonight, if he issued a defiance and a fight ensued, the noise might rouse the neighbors or the servants of the household. Even if he killed the man, how could he explain what he'd done without compromising his covert position in Mahomet's household? And if the assassin proved a worthy opponent and Erik was sent to Valhalla, what would become of Valdis?

  No, he couldn't think on her. If a man pondered what he might lose, he'd never chance a sea voyage, never raise a sword even in defense of right. He must concentrate on the business at hand.

  A rustle from the vine-covered pergola in the side yard of Trophimus's estate drew Erik's attention. A flash of metal gleamed. He'd located his foe.

  He moved with care, approaching from behind without a sound. He was not a murderer, he reasoned, but an executioner. If a lawspeaker were here, would this man not be condemned?

  The man stood in the shadows of the pergola, waiting to kill a boy and a man whom he believed were in no state to defend themselves. And if he didn't kill them this night, he'd get them the next. His quarry only had to be unlucky once. Surely the assassin deserved no mercy, no quarter. He certainly would offer none.

  Erik was close enough to hear the man's breathing, to smell his stale sweat. Close enough to slip his gladius through the grape vines and pierce the man's ribs before he even knew Erik was there. One thrust and it would be done.

  Erik started to draw his blade.

  And found he couldn't do it. His arm was too heavy to lift to kill by stealth.

  No, he decided. Even if he died for it, he would take the risk. In his time of exile, he'd rebuilt his tattered honor into a covering his soul could live with. How could he shred that fragile integrity now with a calculated murder?

  He purposely stepped on a dry vine. The crackling sound brought the man in the arbor to full alert. Erik wished suddenly for his battle ax. Its smooth handle always felt more comfortable in his big hand than a Roman short sword, but he'd taken to carrying the gladius when he was in the city.

  No point it stewing over it now. It was past the time for worrying over his choice of weapons. He was already committed to this course and he must see it to its end.

  The man moved from his hiding place into the open. His blade was already drawn. Even in the dim starlight, the sinuously curved blade glinted a warning.

  Erik moved forward, his gladius flashing quickly from his scabbard, but the other man met it with his blade. The sharp edges grated as the men tested each other’s strength. Erik was surprised by the resistance in the assassin's sword arm and had to leap backward when the man swiped at his midsection with a second blade.

  Erik sidestepped, looking for an advantage. His opponent countered each move, his dark eyes slitted in concentration. At least the man hadn't cried out, as Erik feared he might. It was in the assassin's interest to kill him quietly so as not to warn away his true quarry.

  He swallowed the battle cry that rose in his throat. This dance with death would be unaccompanied by a berserkr’s feral howl.

  Blood pounded in Erik's ears, drowning out the small sounds of the night, the insect chorus, the whine of a dog in the next block. Erik was acutely aware of each breath, of the way each hair on his body stood at full attention as he waited for his opponent’s next attack. He marveled at the way his muscles and bones obeyed the dictates of his will, moving with the grace of a tried warrior.

  And he knew those same muscles and bones might be no more than a heap of cooling meat in a few heartbeats.

  The assassin brought his curved sword forward in a glittering arc.

  Erik braced himself for the blistering attack.

  “It is unwise to become attached to those one must use. I have never allowed myself such folly. Until now.” —from the secret journal of Damian Aristarchus

  Chapter 20

  * * *

  Valdis woke with a start, thrashing wildly. Her violent movement sent Loki into a yipping fit as he tumbled off the end of her bed. She jumped up and scooped the little dog into her arms.

  “Shh! If you make too much noise, they may take you away from me and I couldn't bear to lose you too.”

  She settled back into the linens, patting and soothing Loki. Once she was satisfied the dog was only startled, not injured by the short drop to the floor, she breathed deeply, willing her heart rate to slow.

  Sleep had eluded her for hours after Erik left to stop the assassination last night. Then when she finally drifted off, the evil dream returned. It had been weeks since the vision had haunted her last, but it was the same dream. Erik was stealing down the same shadowy corridor and Valdis was forced to helplessly watch as he was struck down. His assailant's face was still obscured, but the blood trickling from Erik's hairline was clear enough to set her into a frenzy. She didn't for a moment believe she possessed any of the prescience Damian attributed to her, but this recurring dream was so vivid, it made her wonder if someone from the realm of spirits were trying to warn her.

  There was one difference in the dream she couldn't quite put her finger on, but it troubled her more than anything else about the apparition. If only she could see the face of the one who struck Erik down.

  Her belly clenched with fear. Why was she given this horrific peek into the future, if that's what it was, without the information that would help her avoid the outcome? Somehow, she must make sure her dream never came true.

  She needed to see Erik right now.

  She rose from her bed and pushed open the shuttered window. The pale gray sky was tinted rose with the breaking dawn. Down in the courtyard, a few servants busied about. The aroma of baking bread wafted up from the kitchen. In the garden, a serving girl clipped flowers for use in the master's sumptuous rooms.

  Near the pool in the garden, there was a unique invention called a water clock. Damian had shown her the one in the Imperial Palace, explaining the intricacies of measuring the passage of time. As if people needed more than their own heartbeat to remind them that life ticked away swiftly enough without wasting time measuring its flight. Despite the fleeting nature of time, she knew it would hang heavily for her till she saw Erik again.

  The sense of menace from her dream still hovered in the air. Panic clawed her chest. If she couldn't see Erik, she could at least carve a runic message for him. An urgent one, demanding he come to her so she could warn him. It was a risk, but the evil dream convinced her not to wait.

  She had no stylus and wax tablet, so she'd have to improvise. A vase of roses perfumed her room. She pulled out one and began stripping the leaves and thorns from its stem. The rose stem was woody enough for her to slash runes on its curved surface with her eating knife. She'd just finished her cryptic message when her door burst open and Damian Aristarchus entered. Valdis dropped the rose behind her chair and hoped the eunuch's sharp eyes would miss it.

  “You've come early.” She stood in deference to her former master.

  “I bring the medicinal herbs so that your powers may be kept in check until you need them,” Damian said for Publius's benefit. The fat eunuch lumbered in behind him, not bothering to cover his mouth when it opened in a cavernous yawn.

  “I tried to explain to the worthy chief eunuch that we private folk do not keep Imperial hours, but he would not be put off,” Publius explained with a scowl. “Pray do not overtire Valdis. She needs rest today in order to be fresh this evening. The master wishes her to dine with him.” He looked expectantly at Valdis. “You may express your pleasure.”

  “I thank the master for
this honor,” Valdis said with a sinking sensation in her belly. Dining with the master meant being alone with him. Unveiled. And if Publius was correct, some men found the sight of a woman eating unbearably erotic. Her flesh felt as if a thousand ants marched across it. “But surely I am unworthy of his notice.”

  Publius chuckled. “Modest as well as accomplished. That is sure to please him. Not having second thoughts about selling her, are you, Damian?” Publius loosed another yawn and scratched his ponderous stomach. “Well, I leave you to your herbs and potions. You know the way out.”

  Publius waddled to the door and closed it behind him, content to return to his sleeping couch satisfied that, as a fellow eunuch, Damian was as incapable of injuring his charges' virtue as Publius was himself.

  “Here. Drink this. Truly, I believe it will help you. It's an infusion of mint said to be efficacious for treatment of the falling sickness,” Damian said. As soon as the latch caught, he slipped over to listen for Publius's retreating footsteps before going on. “Good work. You've gained Mahomet's ear in short order.”

  “Yes, but what do I fill it with? You and I both know I don't have the gifts he thinks I do. So far, I've been extremely lucky.” Valdis took a sip of the brew he'd brought and found it sweetened with honey and much tastier than she expected. “I can't count on my luck continuing.”

  “You'll do what women always do. Listen more than you speak. Then tell him what he wants to hear when you do open your lips.” Damian paced the room. “Now, sit down and give me a full accounting of what happened last night to bring you to Mahomet's attention so quickly.”

  Valdis related the tale of her presentation—her dance and the way Mahomet asked her to size up his dinner companions. She left nothing out of her report, save for Erik's presence in the Arab's house. She knew it would displease Damian and possibly endanger Erik.

  “Very astute of you to be forthcoming with him about the nature and scope of your supposed powers,” Damian said. “Who was dining with Mahomet?”