K M Frontain, page 8
Were they in there? Were the assassins nearby, looking for them?
He’d been given no time to ask, but he didn’t want to stick around and wait for an answer. Clicking at the lead horse, he led the string away.
***
Inside the chamber, someone entered with a glow stick and went about uncovering the ones waiting sconces, pulling off dark felt to let the radiance of the biotic jelly illuminate the room. The space brightened, 58
revealing the dead thief and the little boy. The child sat lifelessly beneath a corner of the sill, one hand in a pocket. His eyes were shut as if he slept, but the dark stain on his chest and the one on the wall told another story. The projectile that had killed him rested half buried in the wood higher up the windowsill.
“Quarrel went right through him,” the light bearer said. “Boy was too small.”
A second man entered and grunted in agreement. He bent over the child. “We’re not going to please him. He wanted more than one of them alive. Even this child might have had his uses.”
“Children know nothing. The man we took may be enough,” said the first speaker, who had been the merciless shooter responsible for the child’s death. In his mind, he thought he had been compassionate. What the master did to men, the assassin would not see done to a child, even one who was a burglar’s get. The killing the master did was honourless and vile.
“Did you see the daggers in our brothers?” he said, distracting from the child’s seemingly pointless assassination.
The other straightened and nodded. “They had one of our kind with them. The marks on the hafts are strange.”
“Not so strange,” a heavily accented voice spoke from the window.
Both men turned with crossbows ready. The dark man who had
thwarted them minutes earlier stared inward from just below the sill.
“I seek Ishpaäf,” he said, his eyes burning with eagerness. The two assassins straightened and lowered their weapons.
“You killed three of our brothers,” the first defender said angrily.
“Had I a choice?” Olomo demanded.
The man glowered at him, but shook his head. “Get in,” he said.
Olomo climbed through the window and looked at him expectantly.
“I am Olomo, First Line of Pek Tom. You see the mark of my faction on my daggers. You will take me to your group master,” he said.
“You’re Ysepian.”
“Yes.”
“I am group master,” the first defender replied. “I am Simre, First Line of Pek Tol.”
59
“I would see the vessel,” Olomo said. “Do you have it?”
Simre made a curt motion of his head that could have been
affirmative or negative. “You will wait. This business must be seen to.
You will answer questions.”
“I will not,” responded the Ysepian. “I do not spy.”
“You will be paid.”
“I am paid for assassinations! Do not insult me again!”
As Olomo had expected, this refusal only prompted the men of the Tol faction to nod approvingly. Any other answer would have been the death of him. He peered at his counterparts from Pek Tol intently. They were both white skinned, just as the rest of the people of this particular northern land tended to be, but their speech was that of the land of Amek, a land of deserts and plains, and of a darker-skinned breed of men. There was a tale to be told here, and Olomo wanted to hear it, but it wasn’t to be now.
“You must leave the house,” Simre said. “The one who hired us will not understand. We will meet with you later. Go to the south of the manor. There is a gardener’s hut there.”
Olomo nodded and turned about, but Simré’s cohort stalled him.
“What led you to us?” he demanded.
Olomo turned his head and answered. “The small flame-haired thief.” He indicated the child. “Our holy leader prophesied him. He was to lead the way to Ishpaäf.”
“And now he is dead. You will not reach Ishpaäf. Your prophet has misled you,” said the second assassin.
Olomo turned about entirely, his dark face reddening, but Simre rebuked his junior before violence ensued. “Go out!” he said.
The man bowed, but with a most unrepentant expression, and left the room. He met more of his brethren in the hall and bent his head to whisper to them.
“Do you not have the Vessel?” Olomo said, turning his gaze from the dismissed assassin. “Why did you not tell me at once?”
“I will explain later,” Simre offered tensely.
“No! I must return to the other flame-haired thief! He must have been the correct one all along!”
60
“Even with this other thief, Ishpaäf is unattainable,” Simre said. “I have seen the Vessel. It is near, but it is protected from us.”
“Then take me to it!”
“That is not possible. I have said that I will explain later. You must go now.”
Olomo was prepared to continue arguing, but at that moment, Kehfrey inhaled sharply, startling everyone. Olomo looked down at him in surprise and realized the boy had moved since he’d abandoned him for dead. His eyes were shut, where before they had been open and unseeing, and his hand had come out of his pocket. The fingers were empty.
“The boy lives!” Olomo bent and pulled the bloody tunic up from the small chest. Shoving his fingers in the hole made by the bolt, he ripped the worn fabric asunder and used a ragged end to swipe away blood. He touched the tiny body and found no wound, just a white mark where the quarrel must have punctured him. “The boy lives!” he repeated in wonder, watching the little chest rise and fall steadily. “The prophecy is true. This is the flame-haired thief who will lead me to Ishpaäf.”
Simre stepped up to him, his expression urgent. “Quickly! Get the boy out of here and to the gardener’s house. If the one who hired us finds him, we will lose our opportunity.” Olomo nodded agreement, and together they belted the boy to his back with a sash. “Go to the back window,” Simre instructed.
Waved on by the other assassins, Olomo dashed across the hall and over to the room he’d entered earlier. There, he made use of the rope Kehfen had left behind, and after raced under the trees, heading for the southern grounds of the manor. He located the gardener’s house and approached it cautiously. Outside the door, he hesitated. Bound by their code to do so, the members of the other faction must lead him to the Vessel, but he wasn’t certain of them yet.
After a moment’s thought, he left the door and headed toward a drooping bush. Crouched beneath, he detached the boy from his back and settled down next to the child. He set one hand on a dagger and the other on the child’s chest, that he might feel the swelling and emptying of Kehfrey’s lungs. The child remained unconscious and Olomo thought it best not to awaken him. Whatever miraculous healing he had undergone, he had lost a copious volume of blood. The boy had to rest and regain his strength.
The dawn hinted its arrival with a rose blush to the east.
61
“I am the mantis,” Olomo whispered. He stilled himself and thought nothing. He was the mantis, waiting to strike.
Beneath his hand, the boy was a leaf, alert and waiting to blow off with the first available wind.
***
“He’s not going to be happy,” Simre’s second uttered.
The last of his words echoed back to them from the end of the cellar.
Simre stared flatly at the man without answering. The second didn’t seem to care that he was not acknowledged, for he continued to gaze at the single living captive and did not look up as the silence lengthened.
They were in the wine cellar, a low and dim hall of dark shadows that had a fetid stench lurking beneath the scent of soured wine. Most of the barrels standing on the packed earth were old and empty, for the master produced no wine and only purchased it already bottled. A few smaller kegs of new beer were scattered closer to the stairs.
The captured thief lay on the cold floor in the centremost aisle, naked, gagged, and tied with his arms and legs spread. The lines of rope drifted off into the shadows, fixed to barely visible barrels made heavy with stale water. The dead thief had been laid out to the side of the living one. The assassins had dropped the body carelessly, and its staring eyes pointed in the direction of the frightened cohort. The prisoner kept his head turned away. Occasionally he made futile pleas for mercy despite his gagged mouth, but the assassins ignored his whimpers. He had soiled himself and the reek of his waste added to the foulness that already lurked in the dark.
A green ball of energy hovered at the base of a chain hanging from a hook. Its glow filtered down through the shadow and turned the pale skin of captive and capturers a ghastly cadaverous colour. Beyond the aberrant illumination, in the dark that it failed to brighten, shuffling noises sounded, occasionally a grunt, once a recognisable word.
Hungry!
Simre kept his back to the creators of the noise. He was afraid of them, but beneath the light lay safety. He would not show fear before his companion. His second, a true fanatic of Pek, perhaps truer than him, 62
never showed fear. This was perhaps the reason he had never become first. A man with no fear was not always wise.
The master at last arrived. Simre sensed his impending entrance before his physical manifestation, for the shadows deepened in the cellar, turning from natural to ominous. The master always led with this horrific darkness. Even in broad daylight, the shadows grew thicker wherever he went.
The door above opened and he descended the stairs, his steps even, unhurried. He walked the aisle toward them and stopped at their sides.
Simre didn’t look at him.
“One dead thief. One living.” The soft words punctured the quiet.
The portentous shadows swallowed any echo they might have made.
“How many escaped?”
“At least three,” Simre reported. He turned to watch the man, repressing a deep and righteous anger.
“Did they manage to take anything?” the master said.
“No. They were alerted to our presence early. They had no time to steal. They fled.”
“What alerted them?”
“One of them noticed this one missing.” He pointed at the living thief. “They fled out the other side of the building.”
“How is that possible? You told me the entire bottom floor was prepared.”
“They gained entrance on the second floor, through a lit fireplace,”
Simre answered flatly.
The master, who had been staring at the living thief all this time, looked at Simre. “Not as well prepared as you thought, were you, assassin?” he derided.
Simre said nothing in response. The master turned away, to once more stare down at the captive. The thief whimpered, now shivering uncontrollably on the floor. In the weird light, the eyes that looked down on him seemed colder and deader than poor Mur’s.
“Remove his gag,” the master ordered.
Simre bent and pulled the gag from out of the thief’s mouth. The prisoner coughed. He tongue worked, but no sound came out. When at 63
last he spoke, his voice was raspy and almost unintelligible. Even so, they recognized the plea.
“Mercy!”
The master smiled, but compassion did not brighten the gesture. He stepped to the side of the dead thief, crouched and placed a hand on the still chest. “What’s your name?” he asked the living captive.
“Ofmen.”
“Ofmen,” the master repeated.
He smiled again, looked down at the corpse and spoke. The words were distinguishable, common Winfellan, but the manner in which they were spoken resembled that of prayer. He crouched over dead Mur like a priest healing the wounded, but as they watched, darkness swelled around the hand pressed upon the thief’s unbreathing chest. It oozed like a slug over his torso for a few seconds, and abruptly sank inward.
At the top of the stairs leading down to the cellar, several assassins stood outside the closed door, tense with expectancy. A few minutes had passed since the master had descended. Presently, they heard what they anticipated.
A scream filtered through the thick wood. Then another. And another.
***
It was noon and Olomo yet sat next to Kehfrey, his hand on the boy’s chest, feeling the steady movement of his breathing. Though the sun had crested the trees of the manor grounds long ago, the child had not awakened. The fiery orb once again scorched the air with intense summer rays, but a hot, humid breeze gusted swollen clouds overhead.
Today it would rain.
A small noise sundered the quiet behind and to the side, but Olomo remained immobile beneath the canopy of foliage. A cat chasing a mouse darted past the bush. It caught the rodent and crouched. The feline glared about suspiciously. Then, with mouse in teeth, it dashed away.
Into the small clearing, Simre walked. “Come out,” he said. He looked toward the cottage only briefly. His gaze darted from bush to bush.
64
“I arrive,” Olomo warned. He edged out from beneath the drooping branches and into the open, but remained close beside the shrub. He glowered at his counterpart from Pek Tol. “You were long in coming.”
“There was a matter to see to,” Simre said, stalking up to him. “It went on longer than I had expected. The child?”
“Is well. He sleeps. You have much to tell me, Simre, First Line of Pek Tol. Why do northern white men speak the language of Amek? Why are they assassins? Where is the Vessel?”
“We were purchased as children by the Pek Tol faction,” Simre answered. “Our House resides in a province of Amek. This is why we speak the language. Our holy leader foresaw that the Vessel would come to the land of Winfel. This is why the faction purchased white skinned children. We were sent to find the Vessel and bring it back to Pek Tol.”
“And you found it?”
Simre nodded. “The Vessel is in the hands of the sorcerer who owns this place, but he has placed wards of power over it. We have made a bargain with him: our services for the Vessel.”
“You bartered like merchants over Ishpaäf!” Olomo’s lips curled down with derision.
Simre scowled. “There was no choice. You will see for yourself shortly.”
“Will I?”
“You will be introduced as who you are, Olomo, First Line of Pek Tom, seeking Ishpaäf just as we are,” Simre informed him.
“And the boy?”
“Introduce him as your servant if you like, but do not draw attention to him. The sorcerer enjoys the company of boys, albeit older ones usually.”
Olomo glowered and spat, uttering an insulting word after. Simre did not respond to his revulsion. The Amek had relaxed views on sexuality.
Ysepians were more unforgiving. Olomo remembered this and decided to drop the topic. He bent to look beneath the bush and blinked in surprise.
The boy had disappeared. Olomo hissed in alarm.
“What is it?” Simre said.
65
“The child is gone,” he whispered. Motionless, he peered under the bush. Presently he spotted the child hiding further off beneath a smaller shrub. The sun had filtered through the leaves and betrayed him. The white skin of his chest hinted between the foliage. “He is in the further bush, the small one with white flowers.”
“The azalea?”
“Yes,” Olomo confirmed.
“He was very quiet. Like a master.”
“Yes. It only makes sense. He is meant to lead us to Ishpaäf.”
“I won’t lead you anywhere!” Kehfrey shouted from beneath his spoiled sanctuary. “I’m going back to my Pop!”
Olomo gaped at him in surprise. They had been conversing in Amek, yet the child had spoken in his native language as if he’d understood.
Kehfrey darted out from his cover. Simre, who had been ready for the move, arrested his flight, racing around the bush and snatching the child into the air.
“Let go!” Kehfrey shrieked. He kicked backward, but the assassin merely held him at arm length, large hands beneath small armpits.
Kehfrey perforce settled for spitting. He turned his head as far about as he could and aimed well. Simre blinked beneath the spittle and glowered.
“The child is spirited,” he said wryly. “Who taught him Amek?”
“I don’t know,” Olomo answered, rounding the bush. “His family speaks only Winfellan. Who taught you, child?”
“Let me go!” the child answered in his native language.
“Who taught you Amek?” Olomo insisted.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Let me go!”
Olomo frowned in puzzlement and issued a warning, still using the Amek tongue. “Desist shouting. Your life is at risk.”
“It already got risked! Butt for brains here shot me! I want to go home! Go play with your damned friend by yourself!” Kehfrey tried to kick again, but only ended up swinging his legs uselessly. He grabbed Simre’s hands and scratched them. Simre made a small pained sound, but refused to drop him.
“Stop that!” Olomo barked, this time in Ysepian. “Stop, or I will punish you!”
66
Kehfrey glared at him, but stilled his wild manoeuvring. “I want to go home,” he repeated.
“You understand me?” Olomo said, again in his native tongue.
“Yes,” the boy said sullenly.
“Do you know what language I speak?”
“The same one as mine! What do I care? You have an awful accent in any case.”
Olomo peered at him narrowly and glanced up at Simre. The Amek assassin’s gaze was riveted to the boy. An awed expression had settled over his features. Presently, Olomo spoke to Kehfrey again, this time in Winfellan.
“Do I sound different speaking now?”
“You sound worse,” the boy said spitefully. “Let me down!”
