Stormseer (Storms in Amethir Book 3)

by Stephanie A. Cain

  "Effa will show you around the stable." Sertis turned and went inside, while the little girl danced in front of him.

  "This way," she said. "The ponies will like the company."

  Yar followed her into the stable. Effa carried buckets of water and a scoop of feed while Yar unsaddled Firefoot and brushed him. He frowned down at his pack, wondering if he should take it into the inn with him. A private room should be secure, and after all, he wasn't planning on leaving it. Then again, if Firefoot had been as difficult as Azmei and the horse trader had said, he wouldn't let anyone into his stall except Yar. The pack and saddle could stay out here, bundled into the corner furthest from the door. The coin purse would stay on Yar's belt.

  When he went into the common room of the inn, Yar had to pause. The gloomy interior made it difficult to see where he might find an open table. Once his eyes adjusted, he realized he didn't have to worry. Most of the tables were empty. Two men played cards in the corner, and a group of men and women sat laughing around a large table in front of the fireplace. Aside from that, the room held only Sertis. She nodded to him and gathered a tray of food.

  Yar followed her as she carried the tray upstairs and showed him his room. "There's no lock on the door, but you can bar it from the inside. Privy's down the end of the alley. No chamber pots." She set the tray on the tiny table in his room and tramped off. Yar listened to the wooden stairs thump under her feet.

  He sighed and slumped onto the bed. "What am I doing?" he muttered. How could he have thought it a good idea to leave home? At least there he had good food to eat regularly, and nice clothes. His grandfather had threatened to put him in assassin training, but he'd never actually gone through with it. Why couldn't he accept that Orya was gone?

  But then there were the Voices. They would never leave him alone if he didn't come to find them as bidden. They might not leave him alone if he did obey, but at least he would know. Orya wasn't coming back for him. He would accept that, and he would go forward with his own life. Whatever it became.

  He ate quickly, sopping up the black bean soup with his bread and washing it all down with the ale. Stronger than any he'd had before, the ale made his eyes water. It was good, though, and soon his tray was empty.

  He was tired, but he needed the privy before he tried to sleep. He wish he'd known there were no chamber pots. He would have gone before coming up to his room. With a sigh, he picked up the tray and carried it back downstairs with him. Sertis raised an eyebrow when she saw him, but he set the tray on the nearest table and ignored her. He just wanted to have a piss and go to sleep. He was exhausted. He'd spent too much time talking to people all day. He needed a few hours of oblivion.

  The alley was dark. The sun had set while he was inside. A single lamp burned on a free-standing post near the stable entrance. That would have to do. He headed for the privy.

  After he'd finished his business, he started for the inn. A whinny from the stable caught his attention, though. Was that shrill scream Firefoot? Why would he be upset? Yar ran to the stable door and peered in. Two men were at Firefoot's stall, one of them nursing a hand.

  "Demon beast bit me!" he snarled. "Kill it so we can get the pack."

  Yar's eyes widened as the second man unsheathed a short sword. They would actually kill his horse just to steal from him? "No!" he shouted, before he'd thought it through. As both men turned to face him, he realized he had no weapon. Maybe someone would come from the inn if he shouted for help. He reached out and grabbed a hay fork just in case.

  "You going to stop us, boy?" said the man with the injured hand. "Your demon beast ought to be put down. Safer that way, like." His companion walked towards Yar. Yar lifted the hay fork.

  "Leave him alone. He's done nothing you didn't ask for." Yar's voice was shaking. What did he think he could do to stop them?

  "And you'll get nothing you didn't ask for, either."

  YOU COULD ASK US FOR HELP, whispered a Voice in his mind. Yar shuddered.

  "That's right, boy, you should be scared," said the first man, misunderstanding. "Puit here has the thief mark, and I've killed men for looking at me crossways. But if you give us your gold, we won't kill you."

  "You won't kill me anyway," Yar said. He wished he sounded brave, but to his own ears, it sounded more pleading than anything. "Firefoot won't let you."

  "Ooh, Firefoot is it? A dead horse is no protection, fire or no," Puit turned towards the horse, but Firefoot knew a threat when he saw it. He reared, hooves flashing as they drove through the air. Cursing, Puit ducked, and then Yar had to quit watching because the man with the injured hand was swinging a club at him.

  Yar ducked, lifting the hay fork to block the man's swing. Wood crashed together, jolting his arm to the shoulder and stinging his palm. He cried out, but swallowed it and poked at the man with the tines. Sneering, the man dodged and swung at him again.

  "Little fool! I'll cut you into ribbons for a girl to braid!"

  CALL ON US, growled a Voice. WE WILL HELP.

  "No!" Yar hissed.

  The man thought Yar was talking to him. He laughed and swung his club, striking Yar's shoulder. Yar's arm went numb. "You must have piles of gold to fight this hard for it," he said, and swung the club overhand at Yar's head.

  ACCEPT OUR AID! thundered a Voice in Yar's head, and his vision grayed out. Panicked at his sudden blindness, Yar tightened his grip on the hay fork. He felt something jolt against his hands. The man shouted and wood smashed against Yar's knuckles. He tried to let go of the fork handle as pain exploded in his hands. Instead his fingers tightened around it and he jerked his arms back. The man screamed.

  He was the dove, stabbing his beak at the eyes of the serpent. He stabbed and stabbed, trying to put the serpent's eyes out and protect his nest. His wings flapped and thrashed. His vision went red and then black again.

  Yar's ears were filled with growling and the rumble of thunder, almost so loud it drowned out everything else around him. But he heard Firefoot's angry neigh and the horrible wet thud of hooves against flesh. Then wood squealed as the horse threw himself against it.

  Yar's arms jerked back and thrust. The man in front of him grunted. Something wet spilled across Yar's hands. He tried to let go of the hay fork, but his fingers were locked around the wooden handle. The man was coughing, so close Yar felt the breath hit his face.

  Through the grayness, black smoke roiled up, flooding his vision. Then slowly, piercing the darkness, two burning golden eyes, each of them bigger than Yar was tall, stared through the smoke at him. He could see nothing but those eyes, feel nothing but the heat of their gaze. His skin felt like it would crack and peel off his face. His arms were moving again. He stepped forward again and again. The fork swung in his grasp. Yar stumbled over something and went sprawling headlong onto his stomach.

  His breath whooshed out of him at the impact. His hands flew open and he heard the hay fork skitter away from him across the dirt floor of the stable. Yar sucked in a breath and sucked in dust and hay and horse muck with it. He choked, coughing into the dirt until he could get his hands and knees under him and shove himself up. When he did, he felt himself tipping, reeling, and then his vision cleared and he realized it had been his interior world, not the actual one, that tipped around him.

  Then he realized what he was staring at, and he screamed.

  ***

  Azmei didn't waste any time when she got back to Perslyn House from the horse market. She slipped past half a dozen guards with little effort. Inside the house she knocked out a guard who was almost as short as she was. Wrapped in the guard's cloak, she walked confidently through the halls.

  She found Rith in his room. He was passed out in a chair, the floor around him littered with empty wine bottles. The bed was unmade, one of the blankets trailing down to the floor. There was blood on the sheets—not much, but enough that Azmei could tell Rith had been celebrating his ascent to power in more ways than one.

  She stepped past the bed, lip curling i
n disgust. He was a boor, and worse, he was cruel. There would be no negotiating with Rith. He didn't stir as she catfooted to stand in front of him. She watched him sleep for several heartbeats, one hand on her hip and the other on her dagger. Then she shook her head, let out a regretful breath, and slit his throat.

  She wiped her dagger on the sheets. No sense in creating more work for the servants than necessary.

  From Rith's room, she made her way back outside, but she wasn't finished with Perslyn House. She climbed back to the roof, and when she reached Kesh's rooms, she let herself in a window in the darkest corner of the antechamber.

  She wasn't surprised that Kesh had company—she had wondered if Kesh would be upset about the missing Yarro, and Kesh seemed the sort to comfort himself with physical intimacy. But it very quickly became clear there was nothing like that between Kesh and his companion. At least not tonight.

  He was sitting on a low couch, facing the window where Azmei had come in. If she hadn't discarded the guard's cloak, he probably would have seen her, but her dark clothes and hood hid her well.

  "I'm not sure why I'm sorry," Kesh was saying. His voice had the softening around the edges that told Azmei he'd had something to drink, but was still coherent—possibly more coherent than he would like to be. "He was a cruel, manipulative jackal."

  Tish was sitting next to him. She watched him with compassion in her eyes, but she sat straight, without touching him. "He was still your grandfather."

  "For whatever that's worth," Kesh said. He slumped forward, resting his face in his hands.

  "Orya would have grieved, I think." Tish's voice was soft and sober. "She tried to please him, to earn his approval, even though she feared him."

  Kesh snorted. "Orya wasn't afraid of anyone."

  "Not for herself. But he threatened Yarro."

  Kesh hunched his shoulders. "See? A jackal. I ought to hate him." He rubbed his hands over his face a few times and sat up. "Father was nothing like him."

  Tish put her hand on his shoulder, but she still held herself apart. Azmei didn't think there was anything between them besides the affection a sister might have for a brother. Which might be for the best, considering what she suspected of Rith. At least he wouldn't be a problem for Tish any longer.

  Kesh sighed. "Maybe that's why Father never came back."

  Azmei reached behind her and pushed the window open again, letting a draft in. Then she took a single, deliberate step forward into the light. Tish saw her first and cried out, her voice choking on the cry. Kesh leapt to his feet at the sound, his gaze finding Azmei instantly. He jumped between Azmei and Tish, drawing his dagger smoothly.

  "Who are you?" he demanded.

  Azmei smiled behind her veil. "Not Orya."

  Kesh narrowed his eyes. "That much is obvious. She was taller."

  Azmei chuckled.

  "Are you here to kill me?"

  Tish gave a little gasp at Kesh's question. Azmei ignored her. "Not unless I have to. I have hope that the new Patriarch will be more inclined to...negotiation."

  Tish said, bitterly, "Not likely."

  Azmei didn't look at her. She was holding Kesh's gaze, and she saw the moment he understood what had happened. He looked steadily at Azmei as he said, "You killed Rith."

  Azmei inclined her head slowly. "Congratulations, Patriarch."

  Tish shifted to the front of her seat. "You...killed Rith too?"

  Azmei could see the woman's hope in the way her hands clasped each other, wrists turned up. It was almost a plea. How horrible had it been for Tish, living in this house with Rith? He couldn't have been kind to her. Why had she stayed? Was it only for Yarro?

  "Did you take Yarro?" Kesh demanded.

  Azmei flicked a glance at him. "I did not."

  "Did you hurt him?" His knuckles whitened on the hilt of his dagger.

  Azmei held out an empty hand. "Peace, Patriarch. Your little brother is safe."

  "He...he could come back," Tish said. Her voice was thick, as if with unshed tears. "I swear he's no trouble, not really." She gulped. "He's sweet."

  Azmei lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I think Yarro can make that choice himself."

  "Why do you care?" Kesh asked. The question was genuinely curious rather than belligerent.

  Azmei considered this. Why did she care? She had been curious about the boy who could inspire so much love and loyalty from Orya. She felt bad for him after seeing the way he lived. She admired the way he had struck out on his own despite his obvious handicaps.

  "I'm not Orya, but I did know her," Azmei said at last. Tish cried out, but Azmei didn't stop. "I knew how she loved Yarro."

  "Who are you?" Kesh asked again.

  Azmei smiled. "You know I can't tell you that, Kesh."

  There was a brief silence. The breeze from the window ruffled Tish's long hair. Kesh sheathed his dagger.

  "What now?"

  "That remains to be seen," Azmei said. "I did not kill the old Patriarch to put you in power. I came to mete out justice, for his part in Princess Azmei's assassination. No," she said as she saw Tish begin to rise. "I did not kill Orya. Wenda killed Orya. But the royal family must have justice from the Patriarch as well as his assassin."

  Kesh's voice was quiet. "Rith wasn't involved in that."

  Azmei arched an eyebrow at him. "I didn't kill Karsch to put you in power. I did kill Rith for that reason."

  She saw Kesh's throat bob as he swallowed. "What do you want from me?"

  Azmei relaxed the tiniest bit. She had hoped he would be reasonable. "Who wanted the Princess dead?"

  "One of the Nine," Kesh said, shaking his head. "That's all I know. A man, but that doesn't rule out many."

  Azmei nodded slowly. One of the Nine. Six of them had been men, three years ago. It didn't rule out many, but at least she knew it hadn't been Ladies Tel or Talt. She had already known it couldn't be Ilzi. Six families. Surely it hadn't been Arisanat, she thought. So that left five. It was more than she had known yesterday.

  "It is possible you will yet make a good Patriarch," she told Kesh. "You will have to be shrewder than you have been, but make sure you remember how to be kind."

  Tish sank back into her seat. "You won't kill us?"

  Azmei tilted her head. "What will you do if Yarro doesn't come back?" she asked curiously.

  Tish opened her mouth, but didn't appear to have an answer. Kesh said, quickly, "She'll always have a home here. For Orya's sake as much as Yarro's."

  "I won't kill you, Tish," Azmei said. "Or you, Kesh, as long as you are careful to never again accept a contract on a Corrone."

  "There's one out now on King Marsede," Kesh said. He flushed. "We didn't get it. But since you're so interested...someone called the Problem Solver took it. He's a Long Coaster, I think. I don't know any more than that. He never operated in Tamnen until last year." He lifted his chin. "When you declared war on us and eliminated so many of our operatives."

  Azmei inclined her head, both in thanks and in acknowledgement of his last statement. She half turned, preparing to leave the room the way she had come.

  "Justice, wait," Kesh blurted.

  Justice? Azmei's eyebrows were raised as she turned back.

  "Take good care of my little brother. In another family, he would have been treated better. Taken to the priests, maybe, or seen a healer. We didn't do well by him, but...tell him I love him."

  Azmei didn't have a response to that. She left the house without looking back.

  Chapter 14

  Never in Yarro's life would he remember how he managed to get out of the stable of the One-Eyed Pony. Perhaps the Voices took over him again. Perhaps Firefoot managed to splinter the stall enough to get to him. Perhaps his body simply knew what he had to do.

  However he managed it, at some point Yarro became aware that he was crouched at the edge of a canal backwater, puking into the water. His throat was raw. He must have vomited several times already. The taste of bile was acrid in his throat, but overpower
ing even that was a bitter, metallic tang. He'd been hit enough times by Rith to recognize the taste of blood.

  A hulking shadow loomed over him. Yar yelped and overbalanced. He fell into the water he had just fouled and came up sputtering. The water was cold and slimy, but at least it brought him to full alertness. Blinking water out of his eyes, he peered up at the shadow until it grew clearer and he could discern the shape of Firefoot.

  The horse was studying him as if uncertain whether he was a foal in need of nursing or a snake that deserved trampling. Yarro hunched his shoulders and did his best to look unthreatening. He splayed his hands in front of his face and peered at them. They were crusted with blood. So, he saw, were his clothes, where they weren't smeared with mud or horse muck. Yar grimaced and wiped his hands down his front.

  Then he looked at the canal water. The canals were clean, for the most part, though this was the tail-end of one of them. He had no idea where he was in the larger city, but just here was a pitted stone wall with a grate, through which trickled water out of the city. The bile and blood Yar had vomited was already shifting that way on a nearly imperceptible current. Well enough; he was already soaked, so he might as well wash.

  He preferred his baths to be hot water in a steamy room with thick towels waiting for him, but this would have to do. He ducked under the water and scrubbed his hands through his hair. When he came up, spluttering, for air, Firefoot snorted and danced a few steps back from the canal edge. But he lowered his head to snort at Yarro, so perhaps the horse thought his smell improved. Yar certainly did. He hated the smell of blood.

  His mind shivered, his control fracturing.

  Yar carefully steered his thoughts away from the smell of blood. Cherry blossoms, he told himself, thinking of the very best scent he could imagine. Honeysuckle. Chocolate.

  He crouched in the water until he was shoulder deep. Then he scraped his fingernails over his tunic. He would have to wash them more carefully once he was out of the city, but in the meantime he could try to make himself as presentable as possible.