"Come sit with me and enjoy our repast. For you I will sing the songs and recite the verses that so angered the usurper Zarek Yannis that he placed a price of five hundred gold bists on my head and set ten companies of his weaponsmen on my heels." Chal grinned, obviously pleased at having gained such an infamous reputation. "It's a good and true story. You will enjoy the hearing. I promise..."

  "Tell it to the wind!" Lijena reached down and snatched the skewered hare away from the fire. "And find your own 'repast'! I've wasted more than enough time on you. Even a street mongrel displays more gratitude for simple kindness than you!"

  She pivoted angrily and pointed to four horses tied to limbs just beyond the edge of the clearing. "There, pick one of your would-be murderers' horses. Ride directly south and you will eventually come to Hyian. You may select weapons from those piled near the horses."

  "That's the nearest city?"

  "It is." Lijena nodded.

  "You do not travel there?"

  "I'm already late in arriving in Bistonia," she said.

  "You would not abandon me thusly. Allow me to ride with you." Sadness flowed from the poet. "I can entertain, can give insights into matters befuddling to you, can..."

  "I ride alone." Lijena spoke in clipped, flat tones.

  "Would I be such a burden? See me to Bistonia. That is a prosperous city worthy of my talents."

  "Hyian is closest," Lijena said, her voice colder than any winter wind. "I'll not travel with one who'll not provide simple answers to simple questions."

  "So be it." Chal shrugged and without further protest rose, walked to the horses, saddled a roan, mounted without selecting a sword or longbow, and rode southward. The strands of a bawdy tune describing the erotic positions preferred by the women of Kavindra resounded in Lijena's head for minutes after the poet had disappeared into the forest.

  In disgust, Lijena spat again. Were all men the same? She wanted nothing to do with any of them—especially one who was spell-ridden. The Sword of Kwerin Bloodhawk held all the magicks she had need of.

  Sheathing the blade, she lowered herself cross-legged to the ground and began eating the half-cooked rabbit. She wasted enough time here. Now she must once again return to the task that glided her toward Bistonia and revenge.

  Harn first, Lijena decided her course as she reined Morjael along what appeared to be a deer path. She'd stop in the city-state of Harn and there visit with her Uncle Tadzi, who ruled

  Harn's thieves. She smiled without humor, realizing Tadzi's fury would be unleashed when she told him of all that had happened since Davin Anane kidnapped her from his care.

  She frowned. Or should she tell him of the abuses that had been heaped upon her shoulders? If Tadzi knew she rode to Bistonia seeking vengeance, would he not insist on handling the matter himself? Or tell all to his brother, her father?

  Chesmu Farleigh, for all his merchant's ways, carried the same streak of obstinance and savagery that made his brother such an outstanding leader of the Harnish Thieves' Guild. Her father had driven Velden off the streets of Bistonia and into the sewers. He would never rest until Jun and the others perished by his hand.

  Lijena wanted her tormentors' blood dripping from her blade. She would not be cheated of that—not even by her uncle or father!

  The strands of "Lorra's Lost Love" floated lyrically in the air around Lijena.

  Jerking on Morjael's reins, she halted the horse and stood in the stirrups. She turned slowly to locate the source of the music.

  Chal son of Chalt stood twenty strides to her left atop an oak stump. His hands rested on his hips. He sang, although his lips did not move.

  "You!" she cried.

  "Good day, fair one," Chal's emotions swelled in impish delight to wash over her. "I had hoped you would hear and come."

  "How did you get here ahead of me? And where is your roan?"

  "This is not unknown terrain, Lijena. With or without mount I travel easily. Although I much prefer a companion of the road." He tipped a non-existent hat toward her.

  "And I would travel with pletha snakes first!" Lijena nudged Morjael forward, tugging the dead soldiers' two mounts after her.

  "Stay your haste for but a moment." Chal now sat on a drooping pine branch that overhung the forest path. "At least give the courtesy of hearing me out."

  Lijena jerked upright. How? In one instant the poet stood on the stump, in the next he perched atop a limb ten feet in the air. What power could transport a man thusly, and in the blink of eye!

  "Courtesy? You haven't an inkling of the word's meaning." Lijena reined to the left to about the man in green. And yanked Morjael to an abrupt halt for a second time.

  Chal leaned against a morda trunk directly before her!

  "I am alone... as are you, Lijena Farleigh. I sense, as do you, something binds us as kindred souls. I speak in the manner of my people—and you hear," Chal said. "I sing and my song touches your heart. No other man or woman I have met in the realms of Upper and Lower Raemllyn have ever heard the songs I do not speak. Does that not tell you Great Yehseen has joined us together for some purpose?"

  A song, a tune Lijena had never heard before, engulfed her. She soared like some bird on wing with each note that flowed through her.

  "No!" She shook her head violently, breaking the spell of his unspoken voice. "My business in Bistonia is personal. I do not wish to involve anyone else. Especially one who surrounds himself with the mysteries of magicks!"

  "Then don't. But nothing says we cannot travel and enjoy one another's companionship. What blazes more brilliantly than friendship along a dark and rocky road?"

  "You appear pale," Lijena said.

  "The sun danced behind clouds most of the day," Chal said. "As I said earlier, I need the sun."

  Lijena urged Morjael closer to stare directly at a handsome face that held no trace of the fiery brands that had gouged out his eyes fourteen days earlier. The skin had a strange, fired ceramic appearance which unsettled her. This wasn't the flesh of a feverish man, or a sick one—nor was it normal.

  "Who are you?" asked Lijena, not certain she really wanted to hear the answer. "Answer me that straight forward without rhyme or riddle."

  "Then shall I ride at your side?" Chal's pupilless blue eyes lifted. His gaze locked to hers.

  "At least to Harn," Lijena answered, admitting to herself that she had grown accustomed to the poet-minstrel's company during the weeks she had tended his wounds. "And then only if it is understood we travel merely as friends."

  "Both conditions accepted, fair Lijena." Chal laughed without hint of humor in the sensations that radiated from him. " 'Who am I?' That is not the proper question to pose to one such as I. You ought to ask 'What am I?' "

  CHAPTER PREFIX: previous chapter is 8 and next is 10

  chapter 9

  CHAPTER SUFFIX: previous chapter is 8 and next is 10: example links: Contents - Prev / Next

  "But Emperor, how can you trust a mage?" cried Jun's captain of the guard, a tall, scrawny man called Scrounge. The chief bodyguard to Bistonia's Emperor of Thieves worried fingers through long strands of slicked back hair that hugged his skull like a shiny cap. Whether Scrounge's hair was black or merely a dark brown lay concealed beneath a pomade of thick grease. "And this'un's carried about in Zarek Yannis' hip pocket. Not natural, I say. Can't trust the whoreson."

  Jun lounged back in his elegant throne and peered across the empty audience chamber. The fingertips of his right hand idly stroked a thin white scar that ran a finger's joint across the tautness of his right cheek. The small souvenir was a reminder of Jun's last meeting with a Jyotian thief named Davin Anane. However, the man who had so marred his visage did not now occupy the muscular Emperor of Thieves' mind.

  Jun's gaze swept across the chamber hidden away in the bowels of Bistonia's sewers. Through the haze of frankincense burned to cover the constant presence of sewer fumes Jun studied a room that had been expertly hewn from bedrock. Years of toil had gone into its careful fashioning. The intricate carved figures adorning the rock, the false pillars etched into granite were the work of generations of skilled artisans, craftsmen who had long faded from the memories of those who inhabited the city above—or the one below.

  A perpetual light radiated from mosses that dangled from a lofted ceiling, casting its soft glow on an amazing treasure trove of wealth; a vast fortune relieved from those who lived overhead. The finest of carpets covered the stone floor, thick and plush. Hangings woven by the most skilled tapissaires in all Raemllyn adorned the walls. Jewels, knobs and posts worth more than the citizens of Bistonia paid a year in taxes to Lerel lay strewn in disregard about the chamber. All this had fallen to Jun when Lijena Farleigh killed his predecessor Velden.

  Yet there was a shabbiness defacing all, an undeniable sense of decay. Like a blossom kept too long from the sunlight, this kingdom beneath the earth rotted. The stench lay heavy in Jun's nostrils, and he hungered for the purity of the open air.

  "Tell anyone coming into my presence to clean his boots. The sight of muck on the carpeting annoys me." Jun pointed to the stains left by boots soaked in the detritus of Bistonia's sewers.

  "That I will, Emperor, but shouldn't you be thinkin' on this mage's claims?" Scrounge urged.

  "I am, damn your eyes!" Jun shot to his feet and paced before a replica of the High King's Velvet Throne. "I've thought long on the matter. How would you suggest flaunting the power of the Faceless Ones?"

  Even mouthing the name brought a frigid chill to Jun's innards. He saw no way of escaping Aerisan's demands, yet he knew the mage played him for the fool. What did the man want? It made no sense to remove Lerel, install Jun and then remove Jun. With the power of the Faceless Ones at his command, what need did the mage have of Jun—or anyone in Bistonia?

  "How goes the temple's construction?" Jun's thin eyebrows lifted when he glanced at Scrounge.

  "Well, my liege," his captain replied. "The tower already rises to the height of ten tall men. The priests along the Avenue of Temples eye it from sunrise to sunset. They openly wonder which of our deities will be worshipped within its windowless walls."

  As do I! However, the damnable sorcerer deftly sidestepped uttering the name of the god to whom the tower was erected whenever the matter was broached. Jun's doubts surfaced to gnaw at him as they had for countless hours since Aerisan's arrival in Bistonia. The temple is a keystone.

  The Emperor of Thieves' mouth tightened grimly. That had to be the reason! Aerisan wanted the temple, but not the onus of building it himself.

  "But why?" he muttered aloud. "What does Yannis gain from this? Aerisan is his pawn. Why does the High King concern himself with the construction of a temple? And why is it veiled in secrecy?"

  "May be Zarek Yannis don't know about the temple," Scrounge suggested.

  Jun stared at his captain of the guards. Doubt washed from the Emperor of Thieves' face. "I wondered why I kept a scurvy pile of bones like you around. Now I know! Today you've earned the thousands of gold bists you've stolen from me!"

  Jun dropped back to his throne. A smile moved over his thin lips as he steepled fingers over his chest.

  Scrounge waited expectantly, began to fidget and finally left the audience chamber when it became apparent Jun had no intent of revealing his thoughts.

  "There can be no quarter given," Aerisan told the Emperor of Thieves. "I will give the signal; you will attack. Any hesitation and it will be our heads."

  Jun snorted derisively. "You are in no danger. Not with the Faceless Ones as your guard." He tilted his head toward the two shadowy demons standing behind the young mage.

  Aerisan caught himself before he swallowed nervously. The hell-riders were a double-edged sword. Their mere presence bolstered his aura of power whether it be with the likes of Jun and his army of thieves or Bistonia's respectable citizenry. The sorcerer could not have asked for a more powerful tool to be placed in his hands.

  Yet, the Faceless Ones were not his. In truth he was surprised they still remained at his side and had not returned to Kavindra. Although they responded to his every command, he realized their true master was the usurper who sat upon the Velvet Throne. If they stood with him, it was only because Zarek Yannis had so ordered. The question was—did the demons guard him, or guard against him?

  "Our High King has no desire to overtly overthrow Lerel. He prefers for the situation to appear as though the people rose in revolt against the Weasel's rule," Aerisan answered. "How many cityguards will you face?"

  "Enough," grated Jun.

  "We are in agreement on the plan then?" Aerisan asked.

  Jun stared at the mage and wondered how one so young became so devious. "There must be another way."

  "Are you afraid to do the deed yourself?" Aerisan arched one eyebrow as if he'd heard the most incredible tall tale in all Raemllyn.

  "I will slay the Weasel, with pleasure," snapped Jun.

  "As I said, it is decided. Be prepared for the ceremony. It begins soon." Aerisan whirled and left the tiny anteroom off

  Lerel's audience hall. The Faceless Ones glided on silent feet after their master.

  Not for the first time Jun wished he could summon the nerve to take one of the creatures aside. What bribe would a demon consider sufficient to change allegiance?

  Disguised in the finery of a court leech who lived on the grace of Lerel's generosity, Jun paced nervously, occasionally peering out through a partially opened door into the hall that led to Lerel's throne. He had no choice but to follow Aerisan's orders.

  Or was there an alternative?

  Desperation drove the thief into the cramped corridor to hurry along the way until he reached the chamber where Lerel prepared himself. Guards stood just inside the door, waiting for the ruler of Bistonia to don the robes of state for the ceremonial greeting of High King Yannis' emissary.

  The certainty he had felt two days ago had long since fled him. Just when he was sure he grasped the scheme Aerisan wove for the usurper king, the threads he held unraveled leaving him drowning in doubt. Would it not be better to call out, to beg a private audience with Lerel? He loathed the man and his policies, but Jun's subterranean empire was real and not just the promises of an unproven sorcerer. It was his duty to his followers—to himself—to protect that kingdom.

  Jun's mouth opened. His shout of warning died in his throat when a hand gripped his shoulder.

  He flinched, looked back, and stared into twin pits of glowing red. Where a face should have been, he saw only inchoate whirls of black.

  The talonlike fingers tightened and edged Jun away from the open door and back to the anteroom. The Faceless One left without uttering a sound. Jun crouched down and held himself like a small child. He shivered while rivulets of sweat poured from his forehead.

  "I have to do it," he told himself. "I have to."

  That the Faceless awaited should he fail did not make the assassination any easier.

  "All pay obeisance to Lord Lerel!" the chamberlain's bass voice rang through the great hall, echoing back upon itself.

  A shifting of heavy robes of state whispered throughout the chamber like wind in tall trees. Lerel strutted into the room, adjusted his robes, and sat on the gold-flaked throne. Only when he deemed the proper level of anticipation and uneasiness had built did Lerel, known as the Weasel, call out, "My people, attend me on this great day!"

  Aching joints relieved by the command to stand, those in the audience looked up at Lerel. He smirked. Whispers passed among those gathered. It was well known that Zarek Yannis' emissary and Bistonia's lord had met in secrecy for the past two weeks. What had been achieved in those veiled talks? Surely something that favored Lerel to warrant the self-pleased expression on his royal face.

  "Loyal followers, nobles and citizens of Bistonia, harken. High King Zarek has sent an emissary to us. Rejoice! I declare a week's celebration."

  More murmurs rippled through those assembled. Whenever Lerel proclaimed celebrations, the merchants paid for it. Any who protested too loudly found themselves taxed into oblivion—or worse. Many were later discovered face down in the River Stane, victims of nebulous "brigands."

  "Lord Aerisan is in Bistonia to adjudge our preparation against the pretender to the Velvet Throne. He..." Lerel's words trailed off; a frown furrowed his brow. He half rose and peered over the heads of those before him.

  At the rear of the chamber a horde of dirty, disheveled thieves swarmed into the great hall.

  "Guards! Stop those ruffians!" Lerel's cry of alarm came too late.

  The chamber's vaulted doors slammed closed. Great beams of stonewood fell into niches, barring the massive portal.

  Jun stood a dozen paces away, poised for this moment. While all attention focused on the rear of the chamber as the guards within the hall hastened to dispatch the invaders, the Emperor of Thieves slipped a silver-bladed dirk from beneath the flowing cloak he wore. He leaped toward the weasel in human form who sat upon Bistonia's throne.

  The twelve paces shortened to three.

  Lerel turned, eyes widening in shock. Two paces. Lerel's red-rouged lips worked like a beached fish. One. Lerel began a scream.

  Jun's knife swung upward in a sweeping arc, then fell. The tip of the blade drove through Lerel's robes of state, penetrating rib cage and lung to skewer the heart.

  Lerel's mouth gaped, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth. The Weasel grasped the handle of the knife in a vain attempt to wrench it free. He twisted and fell across his gold encrusted throne, dead.

  "Death to the tyrant! Death to the tyrant!" The cry resounded from Jun's own thieves. Others in the assembly took up the booming chant. City guards froze, eyes darting between the crowd and the thieves uncertain whether they should strike.

  Jun stood speechless. His own gaze shifted from the dead ruler and Bistonia's citizens. Could it be they truly rallied to him? Jun had accomplished what so many had tried and failed— and he felt no sense of triumph.

  Aerisan stood directly before the throne, smiling with obvious amusement. The mage's expression told Jun that, in the moment of victory, he had lost.

 

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