Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 Read online

  He fell out of step with the girl. ‘Child’ may have slipped out in sympathy. He felt for her. For the dirty exhausting chore, and the probable buyer, a man he saw in his mind’s eye as fat and old, leering down at her and murmuring that he’d throw in a few more coins if she’d just . . . cooperate. And she, desperate to bring in more wages to ease her parents’ burdens, complying.

  Should he not feel sympathy for such a plight?

  But another, more cynical inner voice spun a different scenario: a calculating stone-hearted mother and father who knew full well what awaited daughter number four yet urged her on regardless, looking forward to the extra coins her winsomeness would bring. Who was to say which was the more accurate reading of the truth?

  Or neither. Perhaps the child schemed for the chore, and once free of her smelly burden walked the busy city streets, marvelling, inspired, dreaming of one day remaining.

  Who was to say? Not he.

  Not so when a not too dissimilar young lad was sold from his village to Tali to enter into apprenticeship with a man who trained him to climb walls, squeeze into narrow openings, and spin knives. A skinny ragged child, who when chased into an alley turned his rage, ferocity, and tiny knives upon the two pursuing armoured guards and that night found his true calling . . .

  But enough of that.

  Hovels now crowded the trader way, as did corrals, market squares, and warehouses. All no doubt abandoned when night descended. The gates reared ahead, thick, three man-heights tall, and open only a slit, as if grudging, or fearful. He slowed to fall in next to a man on a wagon heaped with cheap blankets, brown earthenware pots, and copper wares.

  As he expected, the two gate guards practically shoved him aside in their eagerness to extract their informal tithes and taxes from the unfortunate petty merchant. Past the guards, he helped himself to two pears from their baskets of confiscated goods and walked on, entering Heng unremarked and unmolested in the bright glaring heat of a late summer day.

  He found himself in a crowded wide boulevard running more or less north–south, and bearing a slight curve to its broad course. Over the shop fronts and three storeys of tenements across the way reared another city wall. He realized he was within the bounded Outer Round, the outermost ring, or precinct, of the city proper. The air here was thick and still, redolent with cooking oils, but overlain by the stink of human sweat. Here he stopped for some time while making a great show of gawking right and left, as if having no idea where to go.

  ‘Just in to the city, then?’ someone said from behind.

  He turned, smiling. ‘Yes. I had no idea it’d be so . . . huge.’

  The man was short and very wide about the middle. His black beard was oiled and braided. Gold rings shone at his ears and fingers. He answered Dorin’s smile. ‘Yes, I guess it is. Where’re you from, then?’

  ‘You wouldn’t know it. A village near Cullis.’

  ‘Cullis? Tali lands? Just so happens I know a lad from there.’

  Dorin smiled again. ‘That so? What’s his name?’

  The fellow glanced about. ‘I’ll introduce you. Listen, you must be parched after all your walking. How ’bout a drink? My treat.’

  He frowned. ‘I can pay for myself.’

  ‘’Course you can, lad! No offence, please. Just trying to be welcoming.’ And the man pressed a wide hand to Dorin’s back urging him onward, and he allowed it.

  ‘What are your plans, then?’ the fellow asked as he guided him down ever narrower and darker side alleys. ‘You have a trade?’

  ‘I thought I’d apprentice . . . weapon-smithing perhaps.’

  The man pulled at his oiled beard. ‘Weapon-smithing!’ He whistled. ‘Very difficult trade to enter, that. Start them young they do – younger than you.’

  ‘Oh? That’s . . . too bad.’

  The fellow had manoeuvred him into a very narrow shadowed alley that ended in a naked wall. He turned, hands at his wide leather belt. ‘Here we are, lad.’

  Dorin peered about. Quiet enough for my purposes as well . . . ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes. Here’s where you’re stayin’.’

  Steps behind. He turned to see four young men coming up the narrow way, all armed with short blunt sticks. No edged weapons. Just theft, then. He sidled up closer to the man while making a show of his confusion. ‘I don’t understand. There’s nothing here.’

  ‘You’ll be stayin’ here, lad, if you don’t hand over those fancy leatherwork belts and those long-knives I seen. Where’d you come by them any—’ and Dorin was suddenly behind him, one of those selfsame blades now pressed to his neck.

  ‘Nobody move!’

  The youths pulled up, surprised. The man raised his empty hands. ‘Now calm down, lad. You’ve some moves, I see . . . maybe we can—’

  Dorin pressed the blade even harder. ‘Answer my questions and I’ll let you live.’

  ‘Questions? Whatever are you . . .’ Dorin pressed so hard the man edged up on to his toes, hissing his alarm.

  ‘I want names. Names of those who run the black market here. And any assassins, and where to make contact.’

  ‘Killers for hire? So that’s the way of it . . . Lad, you are green. The Protectress, she don’t allow any killin’ here in the city. An’ now I’m sorry to say we’re done.’ The fellow waved one of his raised hands.

  Dorin glanced at the four youths to ready himself for their move. But suddenly he was on the ground peering up at the clear blue sky through the narrow gap of the alleyway. The vision of one eye was a hazy bright pink. A face loomed over him – the fat fellow.

  ‘You were watchin’ the lads in the alley, weren’t ya? A mistake there, my little blade. Should’ve been watchin’ the roofs. Hengan slingers, lad. Deadly accurate. We’ll have those belts and blades now. No hard feelings, hey?’

  He tried to speak, to damn the fellow to Hood and beyond, but his mouth was numb and his eyes closed like heavy doors, leaving him in a black box, and he knew nothing more.

  Itching and tickling woke him. That and a light rain pattering down on to his face. He blinked open his eyes; the thin slit of clouds overhead held the first promise of dawn. Something was tickling his head. He pressed his hand above his ear to warm wetness, together with squirming shapes, and he yanked his hand away to see it smeared in blackening blood with a crowd of cockroaches happily feeding.

  He next found himself atop a second-storey landing. How he got there he’d no idea. But the effort, and that image of his hand writhing with vermin, convulsed his stomach and he heaved over on to the alleyway. While he knelt on the small deck, gasping for breath, the insects below charged out to feed anew on the sprayed vomit.

  Gods, but I’m developing a serious dislike of this city.

  Still dazed, he wiped his mouth and headed off to try to find a place to hide and sleep.

  Disjointed images came to him of narrow dark alleyways; hands rifling his torn shirt and he fighting someone off; running and smacking his head anew against a brick wall. Strangely, that impact cleared his thoughts the way a lightning strike at night allowed a moment of vision. He glimpsed a large wooden structure, some sort of barn, and he climbed its side, found a shadowed gable on the slope of the shingle roof, and squatted there, in the dark beneath the open sky. The barn, he noted, butted up against the tall stone wall of the Inner Round.

  He did not mean to sleep; but his head kept drooping, and once he jerked awake to discover himself curled up on his side. Alarmed, he fought drunkenly for wakefulness, but failed to push away the cottony numbness of his thoughts and sank back into the dark.

  The lightest of touches roused him to snatch a wrist. A yelp sounded at that; a high feminine squeak.

  He opened his eyes, or rather, opened one – the other was gummed shut. He was grasping the slim forearm of a wisp of a girl who stared at him with wide, sable-black eyes. What impressed him was that the eyes held no fear. Only brief surprise.

  ‘You are badly hurt,’ she said.

  ‘Nothing I
don’t deserve.’

  ‘That’s not the usual attitude among thieves.’

  ‘I’m not a thief.’

  ‘Ah, well. That explains everything, then.’

  He released her arm; gingerly, he touched his head to find a cold damp cloth laid there. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Manners? Also very unthief-like.’

  Dorin felt his face scrunching up in annoyance. ‘I told you . . .’

  She waved her hand. ‘Yes, yes. Here you are, wounded, hiding on our roof, yet you are not a thief. However, I believe you because you’re clearly the one who’s been robbed.’ She gestured to indicate his full length.

  Frowning, he roused himself to peer down. His jacket was gone, his shirtings were torn and blood-spattered, his trousers were likewise torn, scuffed and bloody, and his feet were bare. They’d taken his shoes? He didn’t remember that happening. Now, his feet were blackened and filthy and oozing blood from innumerable cuts. At least he still possessed his laced inner vest of toughened leather lined with bone strapping.

  By the beast gods, I’m a stinking wreck! One day in Li Heng and I’ve fallen to the lowest dregs!

  All he felt was excruciating embarrassment and a rising dark fury. Embarrassment at his condition; rage against those who had thrown him into it.

  ‘Come inside,’ the girl urged. ‘Soon it will be light enough for the guards on the wall to see you.’ She pointed up.

  He glanced up to the wall of the Inner Round, then peered about. He studied the surrounding shadowed maze of rooftops and the distant vista of the Seti Plains beyond, now brightening under a slanting pink and purple light; dawn was near.

  Nodding, he eased himself up on to his feet, then winced and hissed, tottering on the blazing pain from his soles, and dizzy, his head pounding. The girl steadied him. ‘This way.’ She led him to the front of the gable where the shutters now swung open and guided him within. Here was a tall attic space, crowded with dusty chests and bales, with straw scattered about the wood floor. Birds fluttered their wings and flew about, disturbed by their entry.

  She helped him ease down on to a heap of straw. ‘Rest here. I’ll bring food later.’

  Dorin did not know what to say; he’d never felt so helpless. ‘Thank you. You are . . .?’

  ‘Ullara.’

  ‘Why are you . . .?’

  The girl blushed and looked away. Having sufficient clarity of mind to study her now, he noted the smudged dirt on her freckled cheeks, and how her sleeveless tunic was stained and much mended, as were her old faded skirts. Perhaps feeling his steady gaze, she edged away while motioning about the attic, saying, airily, ‘Oh, I collect things I find on the roof.’ And she swung her legs over an open trapdoor in the floor and disappeared.

  Dorin frowned his puzzlement as he peered round. Perched all about on the trunks, bales, rafters, and roof-struts was a multitude of birds. All studied him with unblinking bead-like eyes. He was amazed as the dawning realization came that each one of them was a bird of prey. He recognized the common red plains falcon, the spotted hawk, owls large and small, and even two tawny eagles. Many, he noted, sported makeshift bandages on wings and legs.

  He snorted into the swirls of hanging straw dust. Greetings. Guess I’m the new wounded brother.

  *

  Ullara was of course the shortened nickname of her much longer Hengan given name. She returned later that day with scraps of food and sat, her long thin legs drawn up beneath her skirts, to watch him eat. Dorin had to shake off his irritation at feeling like a rescued cat – or bird, in this case – and thus being in her care.

  Finishing the crust of bread and mushed leavings of vegetables he set down the bowl and wiped his fingers in the straw. ‘I should go now.’

  The girl had watched him with an eerie sideways intensity, as if not really looking at him at all, her chin resting in one hand. She seemed to lack all the usual self-consciousness and attention to decorum of the Talian girls he’d known. ‘You are not used to saying thanks after all,’ she observed, matter-of-factly.

  He forced his teeth to unclench. ‘Thank you for all you have done.’

  ‘You are welcome. You needn’t go.’

  ‘I might be found.’

  ‘No you won’t. No one else ever comes here.’

  ‘What, then, is this place?’

  ‘The upper garret of our business. We are stablers. Father allows me to keep my birds here – they help keep down the pests.’

  He watched while one of the larger predators, a long-tailed hawk, glided away out of an open gable. ‘Keep down the local dog and cat population too, I should think,’ he murmured. ‘Those are big birds.’

  ‘That’s true,’ she allowed. ‘It’s the owls that really do most of the work.’ She studied him anew, unblinking, tilting her head. Her unkempt mass of auburn hair was a matted dirty halo about her head. ‘You, too, are a night-hunter.’

  Dorin gave a small nod.

  ‘You should sleep, then. I will wake you later.’ He frowned at what sounded like a peremptory command. Noting his expression, she explained, ‘You need to recover your strength for what is to come.’

  Now he frowned even more deeply, his brows crimping. ‘And what is that?’

  She cocked her head, chin in her fists, eyeing him almost dreamily. ‘Your hunting, of course.’

  Later that day, though his head hurt abominably, he did manage to sleep, if poorly, starting awake a number of times, uncertain of his surroundings, his heart hammering.

  The girl returned after dusk. She brought more table-scraps and a stoneware mug full of fresh rainwater taken from their cistern. The scraps, Dorin knew, couldn’t have been intended for the birds, and so he surmised that even now hungry dogs watched a certain back door with sad, yet hopeful, gazes.

  He thanked her again – which was indeed unusual behaviour for him, who so rarely had cause to thank anyone for anything – then slipped out of the open gable and climbed down to the alley below.

  Standing at the open window, Ullara watched him go, then turned and hooted twice into the now darkened attic space. A gust of displaced air fluttered her tunic and layered skirts and a dark shape as tall as her hips perched next to her. Wood cracked as it sank its knife-like talons into the sill. Bending, she whispered into a great, wide, tufted ear. Large night-black eyes blinked twice, and the horned owl spread its wings, shaking them, and launched itself into the shadows.

  She sat then on the still-warm shingles of the roof just outside the window. She drew her skirts tight about her knees and hugged them to her chest. She rested her pointed chin upon them and rocked herself while dreaming of straight black hair that peaked over a pale forehead and the sharp nose and thin lips of a very predatory profile. Most of all, however, she dwelt on the memory of eyes snapping open and the thrill of having found herself captured by the savage gaze of a raptor.

  * * *

  Rafalljara Undath’al Brunn, known on the streets of Li Heng by his nickname Rafall, should have been a happy man. The simple waylaying of that youth a week ago had netted him more than fifty gold Quon rounds. An amount worth four times its number in Hengan rounds. One of his larger hauls. All sewn into the lad’s belts and baldrics. And the weapons – very fine indeed. Worth perhaps another twenty rounds.

  But this troubled him.

  The lad had asked after an assassins’ brotherhood, or guild, such as existed in some cities; and the hoard he carried was just the sort one might net from such employment. Which meant he may have stolen from a killer.

  And left him alive.

  In his second-storey office, next to a window overlooking the cloth market square in the Outer Round, Rafall played with one of the foreigner’s fine throwing knives, turning it round and round in his fingers. From below came the raucous calls and laughter of his own lads and lasses of the streets, eating, joking, and teasing one another.

  But how was he to have known? Still, nothing to be done for it. What was done was done as the gods willed. It was simpl
y his nature not to kill – if it could be helped. The Twins might have just played their last jest on old Rafall.

  He touched the blackened knife’s edge. Fine enough to shave with . . . had I ever shaved.

  A knock on the door. ‘Yes?’

  Lee, one of his enforcer lads, pushed up the trap and handed him a slip of torn rag. ‘An urchin lass, a dust-sweeper, was given this for you.’

  He broke the crude seal of plain candle-wax that closed the folds. On the scrap, in the neat hand of a hired scribe, was the single word Tonight. Accompanying the message was a clumsy charcoal drawing of a knife.

  So. I was right.

  Rafall threw the rag aside to burn later. He studied Lee’s puzzled lopsided face. ‘I want everyone out tonight. All the clubbers rolling drunks. All the pretty boys and lasses pulling customers. Everyone working.’

  ‘Festival of Burn’s still a long way off . . .’

  ‘Just do as I say!’

  The lad flinched, pulled at his wispy beard. ‘If y’ say so.’ He slammed the door.

  Good lads and lasses, all of ’em. Even the arm-breakers, clubbers, and enforcers. Even them. Beat anyone senseless, they would. But no knifing. No. That took another sort altogether. So the fellow wanted to talk. All right. They’d have them a chat. Got off on the wrong foot, was all. And if talk wasn’t what the lad had in mind, he wouldn’t have given fair warning, would he?

  He spent the evening going over his accounts – a depressing enough exercise for any small businessman. His above-board ‘import’ business was haemorrhaging money. All the income from his street waifs, their whoring, theft, and mugging, even taken together with his fencing, barely kept him afloat. Too much uncertainty around the raids of the Seti, the terror of the man-eater, and unofficial ‘taxes’ and bandits in general. Overland commerce had pretty much fallen into ruin since the end of the last Talian hegemony. Why, the tithes Cawn levelled for portage were outrageous. Nothing better than thieves, those Cawnese.

  What was a businessman to do?

  He sighed, pushed away the books and looked up in the dim candlelight to see the dark-haired lad himself sitting opposite. His heart lurched and he dropped his quill. ‘You’re early,’ he said in a gasp.