The Silver City, page 14
And there was the evidence of his apartments. She knew, from what he had told her in the course of casual conversation, that the decorations and furnishings had been his choice. He had appointed artists and craftsmen, he had discussed with them what he wanted, and had supervised their work. And a man who loved such beautiful surroundings, who filled his courtyard with flowers, who had designed that wonderful fountain, could not, could not be plotting to destroy everything he had helped to create.
Men who had dedicated themselves to the worship of Ayak the Devourer did not celebrate life. And without any proof save her own intuition, she was certain that Ansaryon was not in league with the Ska’i.
An inconvenient voice inside her head reminded her that she had been wrong about Kettan. For six months she had thought that he was the gift of Sarraliss, until at last his behaviour had opened her eyes to the truth about him. But she had been only seventeen, and he was her first lover. We all make mistakes, Halthris told herself, with a wry smile. And I’ve been paying for that little error ever since.
She looked up, and straight into the silver-grey eyes of the Lord Ansaryon.
It took all her self-control not to reveal her shock: it was as if her thoughts had summoned him. He stood on the walkway, dressed today in blazing red, heavily embroidered with gold thread and precious stones, with a fur-trimmed gown over the top. His only concession to military necessity was a steel, blue-plumed helmet tucked in the crook of his arm, and a very ornate sword hanging from his belt.
‘You startled me,’ Halthris said. She could see all the Tanathi staring, and the men of Zithirian kneeling in obeisance. ‘I wouldn’t advise you to stand upright just here, my Lord,’ she added, eyeing his clothes. ‘That colour can be seen for miles, and there must be any number of Ska’i bowmen who’d be tempted to try their luck.’
‘At this range? Unlikely, surely,’ Ansaryon said, but he dropped down to a squatting position, so that his distinctive ash-blond head was below the level of the wall. ‘Halthris of the Tanathi, I bring you a message from His High Mightiness — is that your cat?’
Fess had been hidden beneath her cloak, but the near approach to the stranger had brought all her protective instincts to life. She pushed her head out from the concealing deerskin, and growled warningly.
‘Yes, this is indeed my hunting-cat Fess.’
‘Is she likely to go for my throat, or is all that fearsome posturing just a pretence?’
‘Not at all,’ Halthris told him. ‘If I snap my fingers, she’ll attack. If you remember, she killed that Ska’i tribesman, the one who told us that Zithirian was in danger. He was terrified of her.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Ansaryon knelt in the ice-crusted snow, his bare head frosted with new flakes. ‘Are you going to attack me, Fess?’
Golden eyes stared into silver. For the space of several heartbeats there was no sound or movement from either of them. And then Fess made a curious noise, almost a whimper, in her throat, and crept forward to push her head under Ansaryon’s outstretched hand.
Behind her, Abreth drew in his breath sharply with amazement. Halthris, who suspected how the Prince had done it, smiled thinly as the big spotted cat began to purr happily beneath Ansaryon’s gently caressing fingers. ‘You are honoured,’ she said drily. ‘Fess does not give her love to passing strangers.’
‘I hope I am not just a passing stranger,’ Ansaryon said. He stood up, and Fess, with one last eloquent look, moved back into the shelter of the cloak. ‘As I was saying — His High Mightiness King Varathand of Zithirian, Fourth of His Name, has been informed of the splendid display you and your comrades have today given of Tanathi prowess in warfare, and in recognition of your services, commands you to leave your positions on the walls, and return to the Royal Palace to continue your duties there. His High Mightiness wishes to enjoy the additional security that their presence amongst his personal bodyguard will confer upon him.’
In other words, thought Halthris angrily, he’s so scared that he’s prepared to endanger the whole city in order to safeguard his own life. True, there were only twelve of them, but their skill with a bow must far exceed even the Zithiriani soldiers’, and their shooting had already given the citizens an enormous boost to morale. If the Tanathi were called back to the Palace, it would cause considerable damage to the mood of cautious and determined optimism amongst the defenders.
She said carefully, trying to conceal her fury, ‘I do not think that our talents would be useful within the confines of the Palace. We are not an aggressive people, so we have no practice of close-quarter fighting. Our skill is purely with the bow. And surely out here on the walls we can be most valuable to the defence of the city.’
‘Perhaps,’ Ansaryon said. ‘But it is a great and almost unprecedented honour for strangers to the city to be invited to join the Royal Guard — and it will be taken as a very offensive insult, if you refuse the King’s command. His rage and disappointment might even be so great that he would order that you and your companions be ejected from Zithirian, to take your chance with the Ska’i.’
‘Did you suggest this to the King?’ she hissed. Honour it might be, but she herself had no desire to waste her time and her skills defending the doddering old idiot whose incompetence and procrastination had put his city and his people in deadly danger.
‘No, I did not,’ Ansaryon said softly. ‘I am afraid that the King commands you, Halthris of the Tanathi — and you cannot refuse.’
She glared at him, challenging him to invade her mind again. He merely smiled, and stood aside so that she and the others could pass him on the narrow walkway. ‘Pray accompany me now, Abreth and Halthris and your companions.’
Although he had come up onto the ramparts alone, she saw soldiers at the foot of the next flight of steps. So they truly had no choice. She glanced round, seeing Abreth’s angry, bewildered face, and Kettan’s indignation, for once entirely appropriate, reflected in the expressions of the other nine.
‘Very well, we will come,’ she said at last, without any show of enthusiasm.
The men of Zithirian, with their puny bows and blunt spears and ancient swords, crouched on the walkway and watched the Tanathi go. Halthris heard the mutterings of fear and rage rise behind her, and felt sick. Despite their small numbers, they had already proved that they would be vital if the Ska’i attacked. And now the defenders must watch as they were ordered away to protect their despised King, abandoning the citizens, so it must seem, to their fate. The effect on their morale would be devastating.
She wondered where Tsenit was: perhaps she could appeal to him, and ask him to use his influence with his father. But she could hardly talk of this to Ansaryon, whose hatred of his younger brother seemed so unreasonably extreme.
And Tsenit, who had been very much in evidence earlier in the day, was now nowhere to be seen.
The curfew horn blared out again as they passed the Temple of Tayo, and the streets began to empty. It was a sensible precaution — in the event of a Ska’i attack, the women and children would be far safer locked inside their courtyard houses than milling about in the streets. But it still seemed harsh and unnatural. She pitied those who must wait in terror, starved of news, unable to defend themselves, and dreading the barbarian onslaught. At least, she and her companions were not helpless spectators. Whatever happened, whether they lived or died, they would have the chance to fight for their own lives, and for Zithirian.
The King was in the Throne Room, his ministers all around him. He had seemed ancient and decrepit before: now, in the face of possible disaster, the little royal dignity he still possessed had completely deserted him. Halthris stared with contemptuous pity at the pathetic, shrunken old man, weeping in terror, huddled in a corner of the huge silver throne.
And beside him, his face almost alight with purpose and determination, was his youngest son, Tsenit.
All at once, she knew who had told the King about the Tanathi success against the Ska’i. And she wondered rather bitterly why he had done it. Tsenit seemed to be a competent commander, and he must know the effect that the order to withdraw the Tanathi to the Palace would have on the other defenders. He must know, too, that their archery skills would be wasted in close-quarter fighting. So why? Was it to placate and encourage the King?
Certainly, Varathand seemed to gain some strength from their arrival. He sat upright, wiped his face with an exquisitely embroidered square of linen, and thanked them in a faint and quavering voice for obeying his orders so promptly. All around the great room, the Zithiriani aristocracy stood like statues, armoured in their rigid and preposterous court robes as if the only disaster that threatened them was the loss of that inhumanly formal control. There was no sign of the Heir, Cathallon — presumably drowning his fear in his apartments — but the Lady Zathti, Ansaryon’s sister, stood trembling amidst a little crowd of women, her hands constantly plucking at the embroidery on her green satin gown.
Beside Halthris, Tanathi faces expressed unease, or disbelief, or, in Kettan’s case, outright contempt for this deeply unimpressive court, all show and no substance.
Except for Tsenit. Except, perhaps, for Ansaryon. And she and Abreth, through a mixture of misplaced loyalty, courage, and the desire to help Zithirian, had plunged themselves and their friends into this nightmare. With the fearful clarity of hindsight, Halthris knew that when their captive Ska’i died, they should have taken their horses and their hopes of gold, and turned back to Lake Raiyis and the rest of their tribe. Then at least they would not have been trapped here, forced to defend the indefensible, and possibly facing a horrible death under a Ska’i axe.
Quenait’s men would surely soon attack: they were not here to admire the view. But the afternoon wore on towards dusk, and nothing happened. No further movement from the Ska’i was reported by the stream of messengers from the city walls. The snow stopped again, and the sun came out, shining brilliantly through the richly-coloured glass windows of the Throne Room. Those who waited within could hear the steady dripping outside, as the snow and ice began to melt. It seemed like an omen of hope.
But the cold returned at sunset, and invaded every part of the Palace, despite the profusion of braziers pouring out heat. Outside the sky, scarlet and crimson and purple over the western steppe, was a breathtakingly beautiful reminder of the colour of blood. The men guarding the walls, cold, stiff, sick of waiting, sick with terror for themselves and their families, made the warding sign and whispered prayers to the forbidden deities, Hegeden and Sarraliss, whose place in the hearts of the people of Zithirian had never been usurped by the alien and allegedly divine Tayo.
The moon rose, full and clear and cold, to cast its merciless light upon the snow-covered city. It was almost as bright as morning, and the defenders, trying to encourage themselves and each other, whispered that the Ska’i would try nothing tonight, for any movement would be instantly spotted from the walls.
Soon the word went round. By order of Tsenit, eight men in every ten were to return to the barracks, or to their homes, for rest and food. Those who remained would be relieved in due course. The lucky ones bade their comrades good night and hurried off to bed: the others huddled beneath their cloaks and tried not to fall asleep. Apart from the necessity of keeping watch, such fierce cold had a way of stealing the life from a man, if he did not stay awake.
In the Palace, the King, his family and his courtiers had retired to their separate apartments. Some five hundred members of the Royal Guard had been distributed round the Palace walls, and the gate was locked, barred and guarded. The off-duty soldiers slept in their barracks. The tension of waiting, the atmosphere of fear and helplessness, seemed to have disappeared. Whatever the morning might bring, tonight Zithirian was safe.
At midnight, the citizens still on duty on the ramparts were prodded into wakefulness, and told to go home. Their place was taken by soldiers of the Guard, looking reassuringly military. Knowing that the defence of the city was in good hands, the men stumbled through the empty streets, shivering and yawning, and hammered on their doors, shouting for their wives or mothers, sisters or daughters to let them in.
They did not notice the clouds rushing silently up from the north, obliterating the distant silvery mountains, banishing the moonlight, and then emptying a deluge of swift whirling snowflakes onto the city below, and on all the lands and fields around it.
*
The shouting and screaming woke Halthris. She sat up with a jerk, heart pounding, wondering for a moment where she was. Above her, the stars marched in strange patterns, and the flickering yellow light was surely not the moon …
She was sitting on a wool-stuffed mattress in a small guard-chamber, just outside the entrance to the King’s apartments. With the periodic obstinacy of the weak, he had insisted that six Tanathi protect his own quarters, and the rest be placed outside the Lady Zathti’s rooms nearby. Abreth had volunteered for that task, and had taken Chettay, Kettan, Iriyan, Karbra and Sandresh with him. ‘What is it?’ Inri’s voice was startlingly close. ‘Is it an attack?’
‘Must be.’ Halthris scrambled to her feet. Beside her, Fess was crouching, every hackle bristling. She bent, pulled the dagger from under her pallet, and thrust it into the scabbard at her belt. All around her, the others were doing the same. Inri, Sherren, Djekko, Grinya and Vondrak: her friends, her comrades, who had lived together in Sanyi’s clan all their lives. And who perhaps were doomed to die together, too.
‘So, what do we do now?’ asked Djekko. He was the only one of them who carried a sword, and the lamplight gleamed dully on its broad, polished blade. ‘Is this the only way into the King’s apartments?’ He used the Tanathi word meaning ‘a group of tents’.
‘I don’t know.’ Halthris stood at the doorway, looking out into the corridor beyond. They had been given no orders, for despite the King’s terror, no one had anticipated a night attack. And the screaming, the noise was so close that it must surely come from inside the Palace.
‘The King! The King!’ A man in blue livery came running down the corridor, carrying a lantern. His shadow swung wildly to and fro across wall and floor and ceiling, and he was panting for breath. ‘Attack — treachery — save the King!’
Halthris stepped out into his path, knife in hand, blocking the entrance to the King’s room. ‘What’s happened?’
It was the same pompous Chamberlain who had originally escorted her to Ansaryon. Consumed with terror, he stared at her, his breath coming in huge shuddering gasps. ‘Are you — are you part of the plot?’
‘What plot?’ Inri demanded. ‘Our duty is to guard the King. Tell us — have the Ska’i attacked?’
The Chamberlain obviously thought the two barbarian women were going to kill him: his mouth opened and closed in panic. Halthris pushed her knife into its scabbard, and nudged Inri. The other girl did the same.
‘We’re here to guard the King and keep him safe,’ Halthris said, keeping her voice calm and reassuring. ‘Please, tell us what has happened — then we can carry out our duty.’
‘The Ska’i,’ said the Chamberlain, and made the warding sign. ‘The snow fell — falling still — blizzards — there’s surely sorcery at work! Before we knew it, they were in the city — and now they’ve got inside the Palace, I don’t know how — it must be treason, it must be! How could they get in? The gates were barred!’
Halthris felt cold with fear. She had been right, her instincts had been right — someone had betrayed Zithirian to the Ska’i. But who? And why?
It must be Ansaryon. He was a sorcerer, and he was said to covet the throne. And although her own experience of him had spoken otherwise, the stories and rumours about him certainly indicated that he was a man ruthless enough to enlist the terrible Ska’i as his allies, in order to wipe out the rest of his family and make him King.
With grief and rage burning her heart, she vowed silently to Hegeden, dispenser of justice, that if she had the chance, she would kill Ansaryon.
The shouting was getting nearer. Suddenly, horribly loud and clear, she heard the high-pitched yipping war-cry of the Ska’i. The Chamberlain’s face crumpled with terror, and he thrust his way between the two women and flung himself at the door to the King’s apartments, pummelling it with his fists and sobbing incoherently.
Frantically, Halthris tried to think. If the Ska’i were coming, if treachery were involved, then it was no use trying to fight. The only way to protect the King was to take him away from Zithirian, now, before he could be caught and killed. And if it was treachery, the rest of the Royal Family were also in mortal danger — except for one.
She tried to visualize the layout of the Palace, glimpsed so briefly from the top of Tsenit’s tower. If they could get the King into that garden around the edge of the rocky outcrop, through the wall somehow — there must be a gate — and over the frozen Kefirinn …
She turned, swiftly decisive. ‘Inri — go and find Abreth. Tell him what’s happening, if he hasn’t already guessed. Tell him we’ve got to get the King and the rest of his family away, and all the courtiers, or they’ll be killed. Tell him to find Tsenit — persuade one of the servants to help. We must get everyone out of here and into the Palace gardens and over the river, as soon as we can.’
Inri nodded, and ran off down the corridor, towards the heart of the Palace. Halthris turned, pulled the wailing Chamberlain aside, and thrust her shoulder at the door.
It had obviously been barred from the inside, presumably by the King’s panic-stricken attendants, and only gave way when Sherren and Vondrak, the heaviest of her male companions, came to help. The passage beyond was filled with servants brandishing makeshift weapons — cooking pots, pieces of broken furniture, tongs from a brazier. They fell back screaming before Djekko’s sword. Halthris shouted at them that the Tanathi were friendly, but they were too terrified to listen, and fled.
