Deadhouse Landing, page 35
By time they reached the gate, the pair had entered the grounds and were approaching the House. For an instant a terrifying dread clutched her chest – Ancients, they are not going to assail the House? The entire city could be in danger.
But no such confrontation arose. To her eyes the two merely seemed to dissolve into the shadows and disappear as they neared the threshold.
Agayla clutched at her sleeve. ‘What was that? Did they enter? What did you see?’
‘I know not.’
Agayla growled wordlessly, yanked her grip free. ‘Don’t play the enigmatic Elder with me! What did you see?’
‘What you saw. They disappeared.’ She nodded to the guardians who were standing before the small garden gate, barring their way. ‘You allowed them entrance?’
Faro nodded while his fellow held his huge halberd at the ready. ‘Indeed.’
‘Why?’ Agayla snapped.
‘They correctly intuited the limits of our purpose.’
‘Which is?’
To this Faro said nothing. Not used to such open defiance, Agayla actually growled just as the hounds had.
‘You are unfamiliar with the House?’ Sister of Cold Nights asked her.
‘Yes,’ she grunted, reluctant to admit her lack of knowledge. ‘The Enchantress warned me to stay away from it.’
T’riss would know. ‘Wise of her.’ She gestured to the guardians. ‘These two are charged not with keeping things out of the grounds. They are charged with keeping things in.’
Faro inclined his head in agreement.
‘And did those two enter the House?’
To this Faro merely shrugged. ‘I care not.’
Agayla snarled anew, but Sister of Cold Nights bowed her farewell. ‘We will learn no more here.’ She turned away; the Napans were retreating, the large one, Urko, carrying their unconscious mage.
‘Interesting times,’ she repeated to Agayla, and, inclining her head in farewell, walked off. She heard Agayla’s heeled boots cracking against the cobbles as she stormed away in the other direction.
Lastly, she scanned the murk for any sign of the one some named the guardian of Shadow, Edgewalker. But he had departed as well.
* * *
Tattersail awoke to the splitting agony of a headache such as she’d never before experienced. Blinking, she peered about; she lay in the street, sodden from mist and dew, and no sign of the storm remained. It was just before the dawn.
Groaning, she pushed herself upright. Her glance happened to skitter across the gory wreckage of two bodies down the street – each now supporting several seabirds and stray dogs – and, gagging, she staggered off.
She touched the back of her head and felt a crust of dried blood there. Gods, she’d hit her head hard. What a headache! How many bricks had fallen on her, anyway? She even had dried scabs from a nosebleed.
Nursing her head, she carried on through the Manor House district and up Rampart Way to the Hold. Here, the sleepy predawn guards let her in with a nod – as a mage she was expected to be coming and going at all hours.
She climbed the stairs to the top floor and eased open the bedroom door so as not to wake Mock. She pulled the ruined dress over her head and dropped it to the floor, then soaked a cloth in a basin of water and wiped the dried blood from her face. Mock, hidden beneath the thick blankets, stirred then. She crossed to the large four-poster and drew back the covers.
It was not Mock in the bed; it was her maidservant, Viv. And she was wearing only a thin singlet.
The girl blinked sleepily, stared, then gaped. Her face went as white as the sheets heaped about her.
She threw herself forward to wrap her arms round a stunned Tattersail, sobbing. ‘Don’t blast me into nothingness! He made me do it! Threatened to sell me into slavery to the Dal Hon if I didn’t! Please.’
Tattersail pulled at the girl’s arms, trying to extricate herself. All she could manage were single soothing words such as, ‘Quiet. Yes. Fine.’
The side door to the wash chamber opened and Mock walked in, fiddling with his untucked shirtings. ‘Get a move on…’ he began, and then he looked up. His brows rose, then he suddenly, inexplicably, laughed. He waved to the bed. ‘She was scared by the storm so I let her sleep here, that is all. Nothing more, dearest.’
Viv gaped anew, making choking noises. Her face blazed a red to match her hair. Tattersail gestured for her to leave, and after one look up at her mistress she gathered together a handful of the sheets and scuttled off.
Mock went to a sideboard and poured a glass of wine. ‘Please, dearest. It looks bad, yes. But what would I want with another, really, when I have you?’
She just shook her head – her aching, pulsing, reverberating head. ‘I’ve been a fool, Mock. But I’m not that much of one.’
He leaned back against the table, opened his arms. ‘Please! That girl? A dalliance. Nothing more. Nothing serious. Really.’ And he tossed back the wine, but she noticed his hand shaking.
She realized with a shock that right now he was very scared of her. She merely shook her head. She simply felt tired. So very tired of it all. ‘I’m not going to do anything, Mock. We’re just finished.’
She went to an armoire, dug around and found a travelling bag. Into this went shirts and trousers and skirts and her Deck of Dragons. While she packed Mock kept speaking, but she ignored him.
‘What do you mean, finished?’ he was saying. ‘You would throw away being a marquessa for this? Show some judgement, child. Some sense of proportion. Really. I do think it is time that you grew up. We make a great team shipboard, we really do. But, fine, if we don’t get along in private that need not be a problem. We need not share a room. You can have the pick of any you should choose – benefits of being a marquessa, yes? Or even a queen.’
She was pushing her toiletries into the bag when he made this last comment and she had to stop herself from raising her Warren to show him what she thought of that loathsome idea.
When she reached the door he finally lost his temper. ‘Fine!’ he yelled. ‘You’ll never be anyone! You lack the backbone. Go back to your farm or your fisher parents or whatever! You’ll be a nobody!’
She paused at the door, eyed him, standing flushed and dishevelled. ‘I’d rather be what you call a nobody than contaminated by this.’
Walking away, she heard the glass burst against the door.
* * *
Later, in town, she knocked on another door. A sturdy one of thick oaken blanks, a garland of rare herbs strung across its front, fragrant and colourful.
The door opened and she stared into the face of her old patron and teacher, Agayla. The woman looked to be sharing the same headache Tattersail still nursed. She appeared pale, her eyes red and sunken, her hair rather frazzled and unkempt. But she opened her arms wide and gave her visitor a warm hug, drawing her within.
The shop looked just as it had before. As if no time had passed at all, and Tattersail cleared her throat. ‘I’ve been a—’
Agayla raised a hand for silence. ‘No need,’ she murmured. ‘Would you like some tea?’
Tattersail felt as if an immense weight had been lifted from her and she dared an attempt at a smile. ‘Thank you. That would be … yes. Thank you.’
Over tea – Agayla’s wonderful reviving herbal tea – the older woman eyed her as if attempting to take her measure. ‘What did you make of the storm?’ she asked, perhaps trying for neutral conversation.
Tattersail laughed weakly. ‘I was unconscious almost all night. I fell and hit my head.’
‘Ah.’ Agayla nodded. ‘So what do you plan now? As I said, there are schools in Kan that would take you in an instant. I will write a letter.’
Tattersail shook her head. ‘No.’
Agayla raised a brow. ‘Really? No?’
‘No. I was wondering about those old-style mage academies in Tali. Are any of those still taking students?’
Agayla sat back. She raised her gaze to the ceiling, which was cluttered with sheaves of hanging drying herbs and clusters of leaves and bundled desiccated flowers. ‘Old imperial style battle-magics? Really? Obsolete, I should think.’
But Tattersail was nodding. ‘That’s the training I want.’
Her slim, bird-like mentor studied her tea. ‘It just so happens that two such academies still exist. They are small, however. Without prestige among the courts…’
‘I don’t care about that. I want that training.’
Agayla finished the tea. ‘Well, if that is what you want, I will write you a letter of introduction, of course. You can take the first ship out to the mainland.’
Tattersail fought to suppress a blush of shame. After the things I said to this woman … She felt her eyes becoming hot and tearing up. Nothing had worked out as she wished. Everything was so ruined …
Agayla watched her silently for a time, then said, gently, ‘Sometimes it is okay just to cry.’
Chapter 16
Lee waited out the storm in the sprawling combination tavern and gambling room ground main floor of the Golden Gyrfalcon. Her table was towards the rear, where she sat leaning her chair back against the wall. With her sat a lieutenant and some guards – a paltry few now that business had fallen off so dramatically.
In fact, all she could be said to control was Geffen’s old place plus a few warehouses down at the waterfront. Support just kept dribbling away as talk spread of the deadly knifer heading the opposition. She was frankly thinking of getting out of the business altogether. Trying another line of work.
It was far into the night when the storm petered out. Some of the sailors and local patrons claimed they heard hounds howling through all the thunder and rattling of windows, and talk naturally turned to the island’s legendary Shadow Moons.
Lee just rolled her eyes; of course all the damned dogs were out there howling at the banging shutters and claps of thunder. Natural, wasn’t it? No need to reach for any supernatural explanation.
Stupid island hicks.
Gasps sounded then from the front and several of the late night crowd jumped to their feet. Lee motioned for one of her boys to take a look, but even as the guard rose to his feet the source of the commotion appeared pushing his way across the room to them.
It was their friend Cowl. And he looked in a bad way.
The gasps were for the bright blood that smeared the man’s shirt front, hands and face. He pulled a chair to Lee’s table and sat, daubing at his bloody nose.
Her remaining lieutenant, a young gal named Ivala whose ruthlessness impressed even Lee, shot her a look that said, Now’s our chance to rid ourselves of this asshole.
Lee gave a slight negative shake of her head.
‘Get me a Hood-damned rag, would you,’ Cowl croaked, his voice hoarse.
None of Lee’s three guards, nor Ivala, nor Lee moved to get up.
The assassin cocked a brow to Lee, who sighed, and motioned to one of the staff. She called over, ‘Bring a wet rag,’ and the serving girl ran for the kitchens.
‘What happened to you?’ she asked. ‘Get mugged?’
The young fellow – actually probably only slightly younger than she – shot her a warning glare, then glanced significantly to her guards.
Lee rolled her eyes again, but waved them away. ‘Get some sleep, everyone,’ she told them. They all got up to go, leaving the two of them alone.
The servitor came back with a wet cloth that Cowl used to clean his face and hands. Lee watched, her hands tucked up under her armpits, leaning back in her chair. It occurred to her that the man’s nosebleed, or whatever it was, appeared far worse because of his near sickly paleness.
‘Notice anything strange about the storm?’ he finally asked, the cloth now pressed to his nose.
She shook her head. ‘No.’
He snorted, then winced, cursing, and pressed harder on his face.
‘Why?’
‘Our friends are back.’
Lee poured herself a fresh glass of red wine. ‘Really? You mean the two you’ve been waiting for?’
‘Yeah. Them. Turns out that Dal Hon mage is the real thing. He’s damned strong.’ Cowl took the glass just as Lee finished filling it, and drank.
‘Hey! That was mine.’
Cowl tossed the rest back.
Lee gestured impatiently for a servitor. ‘So?’
‘Looks like it’s knife to knife for us. Him and me. Which is fine. I prefer it that way. No confusion as to the results, if you know what I mean.’
Lee took a fresh glass from the servitor and poured again. ‘Whatever.’ She eyed the fellow and hoped her disapproval was clear. ‘Listen, them and me, we got an understanding. You go after that Dancer fellow and they’ll think I’m behind it. I don’t want that kind of trouble.’
The damned assassin laughed again – wincing once more and holding his head. Once he’d regained his composure he waved her off as if dismissing her. ‘The only reason you’re still here is you’re too small to bother with. But…’ and he raised a hand as if to forestall any umbrage from her, ‘I take your point. I’ll make it clear that it’s personal and professional. Just between him and me.’
Lee was sceptical but let it lie. ‘Fine.’
He stood, pushing back his chair. ‘Thanks for the drink.’
She raised her glass to him. Here’s hoping you die, asshole.
* * *
After helping Urko carry Nedurian to a room, Cartheron went to the bar and pulled a tankard of weak beer, then slumped into a chair. The rest of the crew did likewise. It was quiet now, the only noise being Urko talking at a table with all those who hadn’t been outside, explaining, as best he could, what they’d seen.
‘So … they’re back?’ Tocaras asked.
‘Don’t know,’ Cartheron answered. He glanced to Surly at the bar. ‘They disappeared again.’ She stood leaning against the counter, arms crossed, glaring at the air ahead of her. ‘So,’ he prompted, ‘what do we do?’
‘Carry on with the repairs,’ she said.
‘Are we gonna go?’ Urko asked. ‘He won’t want us takin’ his ship.’
Surly cast him her searing glare. ‘It’s our ship.’
Urko shrugged. ‘Yeah. But we promised to work for him.’
Surly’s lips turned down even further. ‘We’ll work for him from far away. Anyway, he’s gone again, isn’t he? Disappeared. Maybe gone for ever. We have to just assume—’
Grinner came thumping down the stairs.
‘How is he?’ Cartheron asked.
He nodded his assurances to everyone. ‘He’ll live. Just some kind of shock. Our, ah, patron’s magery doesn’t agree with him, apparently.’ He turned to Surly. ‘May I?’
She gestured him off. ‘Of course. Go ahead.’
He hurried out the door.
Of course, Cartheron thought, he’s worried about Hawl.
Shrift rose and went to the door as well. ‘I’ll take watch,’ she said, and stepped out.
‘Crust,’ Surly said from the bar.
‘Yes?’
She was still staring off ahead of her. ‘You have another moon.’
Cartheron nodded. Damned straight – after that display. Best to be careful. He shook his head. Who would’ve thought the little runt had that in him? Taming the Hounds of Shadow? He drank and shook his head again. By all the ancient powers above and below … who would’ve thought? ‘How long this time, I wonder, hey?’ he murmured aloud.
Surly just stared ahead, thinking furiously perhaps about what this latest revelation meant for her long-term plans.
‘Don’t know,’ Urko answered. ‘The locals say no one and nothing ever comes out of that place.’
Cartheron emptied his earthenware mug and sighed. Well, they had plenty of work to do, regardless.
* * *
Dancer found himself in darkness. Not the dark as of a moonless night, but a complete and utter black, as if he swam lost within a sea of elemental night.
‘Where are we?’ he asked of the blackness.
‘I’m not sure,’ Kellanved answered, sounding reassuringly close, but also completely spent and wrung out.
Understandably so. ‘Can’t you see?’ he asked.
‘No. Too dark.’
‘Well – make some light. Do your hocus-pocus magery.’
‘Can’t. There are no shadows here.’
‘You can’t make us a plain light?’ Dancer felt almost betrayed. ‘What kind of a mage are you?’
‘Not that kind. Ah!’ Above, a door had opened casting weak watery light, as of a sickle moon, down a set of stone steps. The feeble light was occluded, however, by the lumbering gigantic shape of an armoured colossus who came thumping down the steps.
Dancer drew his heavy parrying gauche once more, thinking, This is just not my night.
‘We are within,’ Kellanved called out. ‘Why dispute this now?’
The giant did not answer from within its obscuring full helm. It drew a blade fully as large as a two-handed sword, and held it in one gauntleted hand. It swung ponderously. Dancer and Kellanved evaded the blow. The blade rang on the stone-flagged floor.
‘Do something,’ Dancer hissed to his partner.
Kellanved held up his open hands. ‘I have nothing left.’
Snarling his frustration, Dancer threw himself at the colossus, striking low, but his blade rebounded from the giant’s mailed leggings. He evaded another sluggish blow and called, ‘This is not my strong suit!’
‘I have a plan,’ Kellanved answered, throwing a finger in the air. Dodging a straight up and down cut, the clashing iron raising sparks from the stones, Kellanved ran for the stairs.
Dancer watched him go almost with disbelief. ‘That’s your plan? Run away?’
Topping the steps, Kellanved called down, ‘A time-honoured tradition.’
Dancer easily evaded the ponderous guardian to follow his partner up the stairs. He found an empty hallway. From below came the heavy thumping of the giant, pursuing.
