Sourcethief (Book 3) (45 page)

The echoes down the corridor in front of Kyrus
struck a familiar chord in Kyrus's mind as he drew nearer his destination.
Rashan's singing voice was reedy, but it was clearly the noise he heard ahead
of him. He had the melody chained to a wall, flogging it—the poor thing was in
audible agony—but the tune was familiar. The words fit uncomfortably, the
Kadrin syllables wedged in where Acardian ones had been scooped out, but it was
an old tune that Kyrus knew. It was the sort of song the greybeards dredged out
of the bottom of their fourth tankard of ale or so, making ridiculous boasts of
prowess on subjects martial, marital, and everywhere in between, growing wilder
by the verse. It was inappropriate fare in taverns before a certain late hour,
wildly so in the imperial palace. Of course, who was going to tell that to the
demon?

"Has anyone ever told you that you cannot
sing?" Kyrus asked upon reaching the doorway.

The song stopped. "No one who’s lived to tell
the tale," Rashan replied, and fixed Kyrus with a smile fit to swindle a
moneychanger.

"Well, let me just be the first, then. You
cannot."

"First time for everything, I suppose,"
Rashan replied. "Such as me besting you at your little game of predicting
enemy movements."

"Ah, is that the byword this morning? The
reason the guard outside my door told me that you were 'giddy'? I would have
thought a few hundred winters of being right ought to have inured you to such
gloating."

"You might think so, but no," Rashan said.
"You can impress most of the folk around here by doing sums without
consulting your fingers. I have bested simpletons and the creatively stunted. I
had a conspiracy sniffed out, right beneath my nose, and little Celia Mistfield
peels back a layer to show me that my most trusted bootlick was masterminding
it. I spent most of a season assuming that Jinzan Fehr must have taken refuge
in Azzat, or taken his chances in the jungles of Elok, where I might never find
him. Instead, I discover he was foolish enough to be lurking beneath Ghelk, in
tombs I had thought burned and buried. I had a special doom planned for my old
Ghelkan friends, and I still might visit it upon them, but in the meanwhile, I
wait and deal with the latest necromancer to think himself a threat to the
empire."

"Is he not a threat to the empire?" Kyrus
asked. He had wandered into the room, and began looking at the illusory map,
seeking changes that had been made since he last saw it.

"No, not really. Oh, the people within it,
certainly, but not the empire itself. The empire will endure. The day he
manages to kill the two of us, then perhaps the empire will be imperiled, but
until such time, he is a fly. We might swat in vain at him, but eventually he
will land long enough for us to smash him to ruin. And ...
I
was the one
who guessed his path." Rashan crossed his arms, and nodded to the map. As
Kyrus watched, the city of Weiselton caught fire. A tiny plume of smoke rose to
knee height above it.

"This makes you happy?" Kyrus asked,
pointing to the little fire. He hoped that his tone came across curious, rather
than accusatory; there was little point antagonizing the warlock.

"No, of course not. It makes me
right
,
which is ... well, all right, fine, maybe a bit," Rashan replied. He made
an effort to suppress his smile, but gave it up. He grinned like a drunken wine
steward.

"So why are you still here, then?" Kyrus
asked. "I would have thought you'd have set out at once, and have Jinzan
Fehr's head in hand when I saw you next."

"Where would I go? Even speeded by the aether,
this bird might have been a day, two days, half a tenday in flight,"
Rashan said, lifting his palms overhead and letting them fall. "We need to
decide where to head him off."

"Depends on the speed of the bird," Kyrus
said. "Sharefield, Dolok, Garsley ... any could have been sacked by now,
or under siege as we speak."

"Seems that way. What say we each pick a city
and go see for ourselves?" Rashan suggested.

"Did you not say that chasing behind him was a
fool's game?" Kyrus asked in reply.

"Perhaps, perhaps. But where would you pick, if
you had your wager?"

"Garsley," Kyrus stated. His red line
tracing the route from Lon Mai through Reaver's Crossing and into the heart of
the empire wavered and squirmed. From Reaver's Crossing it diverted northwest
to Weiselton, then swerved south to Garsley.

"Is this to vex me?" Rashan snapped.
"Clearly he has turned his attentions westward. Why would he change course
again?"

"A few reasons that I can think of: he could be
sweeping up all our northern cities to build his forces, he could be practicing
his craft before confronting real opposition, or maybe he is just trying to
match wits with you, and guess where you would not," Kyrus said, then
turned away from Rashan and shrugged. "Or, for all I know, he ventured
into the ogrelands to field an army of the brutes."

"That might be entertaining. I never bothered
much with ogres. I cannot say I ever had cause to fight one, dead or
alive," Rashan mused.

"Fine for you, maybe, but I had my fill,"
said Kyrus, turning to face Rashan again. "My last assignment before
Kelvie Forest was pushing the ogres back deeper into their territory. They had
been raiding Weiselton, Donnel's Fort, and the surrounding countryside. I would
sooner not face them again."

"You are not the Brannis you used to be. I
doubt they are much of a threat to you now," Rashan observed. "Or had
you forgotten? Does this feel so much like home now?"

Kyrus drew a quick breath and looked around to be
certain no one was near. It was a reflexive action, his dual aether-vision had
already told him as much. As his conscious mind caught up and realized no one
was around to hear, he nodded.

"I imagine it was much the same for Agga, long
ago," Kyrus replied.

The demon's eyes shot wide and stared. Kyrus replied
with a knowing smile.

"You enjoy killing, and you like toying with
minds," Kyrus said. "My hobbies have always been books and studying.
I have grown quite good at digging up old facts."

"Well played, Brannis, well played," Rashan
said, regaining himself. The warlock nodded in acknowledgement. "There is
not a man alive who knew Agga, save for me. I know not what scrap of moldering
paper put that name and mine together for you, but I will not insult you by
denying it."

"Birth records," Kyrus lied.
"Whatever you did to keep yourself a secret, you left that much behind. It
got me a small list that I referenced against Acardian documents from the time
period of your disappearance. Agga might well have been your own great, great
grandsire for all anyone knew, and still have been just a relic with the same
name. No one lives to one hundred forty—except Agga."

"I suppose I told you too much of myself to
expect you
not
to solve that little riddle," Rashan said. "I
suppose we can wait another day on the necromancer hunt. I have sent birds off
to warn the cities along Jinzan Fehr's path, except for Munne and Whitefield. I
have been in touch with those by speaking stone. I despise waiting, but you may
be right. That is why I keep you around: to be right." Rashan looked down,
as if lost in thought, pondering Koriah's expanse.

"Even when you dislike the answers?" Kyrus
asked.

Rashan's head popped up, a shrewd look in his eye.
"Especially when I dislike the answers."

* * * * * * *
*

"It wasn't what I was expecting, that's
all," Kyrus said. He was slouched across a chair opposite Axterion's desk.
"I let slip a detail I had been withholding from him, and he seemed to
congratulate me for it."

"Mind yourself with Rashan," Axterion
replied. "He's the sort who'd bring a knife along to a battle of wits, in
case he needed to even the odds."

"He seemed to welcome it. I almost begin to
wonder whether I can check his impulses, make him more use to the empire than a
detriment," Kyrus mused aloud, looking off into some convenient corner of
the library for his eyes to settle.

"Rethinking your vengeance?" Axterion
inquired. "You wouldn't be the first, of course, but it's usually age that
gets it out of most folk, and you haven't got any."

"I could. Life extension is as easy as walking
or speaking. Now that I know it, it seems silly not to know how," Kyrus
replied. "I think I might even be able to get him to confide the secret of
immortality one day."

"And Iridan? Brush those peas under the edge of
your plate, and forget them there?"

"Have I been unfair to him about that?"
Kyrus asked. "He pushed Iridan—between he and Juliana, pushed him to his
death—but Iridan met his end at Megrenn hands, not Rashan's. I'm beginning to
think I may even know who was wielding the blade that slew him. It would be
unjust to focus my anger at Rashan, in light of that, wouldn't it?"

"Vengeance isn't about justice; it's about
feeling better after losing someone. Gives you something to do, even when
there's really nothing you can do. Only works until you get it, a better
journey than a destination," said Axterion. "Oh, and brush that
immortality rubbish right out of your empty skull. Didn't you read that book
about Tallax?" Kyrus nodded. "Well, think on that a while, before you
spend a few hundred winters driving yourself mad."

But my hobbies really are just old books and
studying. I have grown quite good at digging up old facts, and that sounds like
a really wonderful one to know, even if I never use the knowledge
. Kyrus tried to tell himself
that he could resist the urge if he did know.
Rashan must have a weakness,
and knowing how he was made might also tell how he could be unmade
. Yes,
that was the line of argument he would use against himself.

The day passed with the haste and ease of an Academy
exam. Brannis, Soria, and Rakashi retreated deeper into the forest in case
woodsmen from the village happened to venture out their way. They had run out
their supply of food, and ate only some wild blueberries that they found;
nothing else in their vicinity seemed edible. Brannis passed the day with Lord
Harwick's notes spread out on the forest floor, held down by rocks to protect
them from mischievous breezes.

"We're raiding the larder," Soria said
after an hour's silence. She sat slumped against a rock that was the size of a
pig and nearly as clean, craned her neck back with a horse blanket beneath her
head, and stared up into the cloud-spattered sky.

"I can go check for fish again," Rakashi
replied. He had sat cross-legged in the sun for hours without moving, eyes
closed.

"No, it's nearly sundown," Soria answered.
"I don't want to do this on a full stomach."

"I'd eat," Brannis said, not looking up
from his studies. "At this point I'd fight my way in there with Avalanche
in one hand and a turkey leg in the other."

"Very well," Rakashi said. He rose
stiffly, stretched his limbs, and left in the direction of the stream where
they had filled their skins that morning.

"Brannis, there were no fish in that stream
this morning, and there were no fish when we looked again a few hours
ago," Soria said once Rakashi was out of earshot.

"Probably not," Brannis admitted,
"but I wanted to talk to you a moment without Rakashi around."

Soria sat up and cast a suspicious look at Brannis.
"Oh?"

"Where did you find Rakashi's twin?"
Brannis asked.

"I told you that story," Soria replied.
"He was friends with Zell already when I joined up with them."

"No, in Veydrus. You two were together aboard
the
Starlit Marauder
. Where did you pick him up?"

"I'm no cartographer, we were somewhere over
northern Kadrin, somewhere in the low hills." She looked away, keeping
Brannis just in the edge of her vision.

Brannis tossed one of the cases of notes in her
direction. She caught it without turning.

"Something odd is going on. Humor me and learn
the spells in that one," Brannis told her. "This chicken stew smells
like fish." Brannis immediately regretted the food analogy, reminding
himself how good either a fish or a chicken stew would fill his stomach.

"What are they?" Soria asked. She was
already prying open the end of the cylinder.

"The best of the war spells I found. Just in
case fists and daggers aren't enough."

"Why send Rakashi away for that?" she
asked, and stopped trying to retrieve the notes. "Besides, I don't go in
for that sort of thing. Last thing I need is to be thought a witch and hunted
down by half the twinborn in Tellurak, or shunned by every one-worlder who
finds out."

"This isn't going to be a quiet sneak-and-run,
Soria. There are going to be folks who see magic tonight and live to
tell," Brannis said.

"You did the Rashan thing," Soria chided
him. "Stop that." Brannis cocked his head. "You just answered
one half of what I said, and pretended I didn't say the other half."

"Sorry," said Brannis. "It's getting
to be a habit I suppose."

Soria set her jaw and crossed her arms.

"Fine, fine, I know, I just did it again. Why
didn't I want Rakashi here. I've been starting to wonder about him—"

"Not this again, Brannis—"

"Hear me out. We all know he's Safschan, a part
of the Megrenn alliance. I think he might have been there in Munne. He might
know who killed Iridan—maybe it was even him. Have you noticed his penchant for
beheading his opponents? It might just be part of the blade-priest philosophy
of fighting."

"Can't say I've notice it, really," Soria
said.

"Come now, on the docks in Scar Harbor, he must
have beheaded four of those thugs," Brannis pressed.

"Fine, maybe he did, but I've fought with him
for years and never noticed. It's not like he's a headsman in his free time.
Maybe it was just something about the way those vermin fought that put the idea
in him."

"Ask him."

"Ask him what? 'Rakashi, Brannis thinks you
killed my husband. Did you?' No way," Soria replied. "And if you get
any ideas about asking him, save them until we're back in Scar Harbor, safe
with those two noble whelps."

"Tomas is several years older than either of
us," Brannis retorted.

Soria opened her mouth, but closed it again. She
took a few breaths and in that time seemed to have decided not to follow
Brannis down the game trail he had just wandered onto.

"I'll study these if you can keep your
curiosity in your head until we're back in Scar Harbor," Soria offered.

"Vengeance only works until
you get it," right grandfather?

"Deal."

* * * * * * *
*

Rakashi's fish were the stuff of legends. He could
have painted such a picture in your mind that you started to imagine you had
seen them yourself—except they had never existed. The stream was as devoid of
fish as it had been all of the other times they had checked. By nightfall,
despite having blueberry-stained teeth, they hungered still.

They left the horses tethered before they departed.
Were they to fail or flee by some other route, the beasts would be at the mercy
of forest wanderers to save them. The horses accepted their fate with either an
admirable, stoic devotion, or an utter lack of comprehension.

Their map had been drawn in the dirt with a dagger.
Soria had drawn the locations where Abbiley and Tomas were being kept, as well
as the layout of the corridors and the rooms of the lower floors. It even
showed—for his own benefit, Brannis knew—the location of the servants'
quarters.

They waited near the edge of the tree line for
darkness to deepen about them. The sky held clouds enough to aid their efforts,
but the wind played pranks with the moon like a street-grifter, shuffling the
clouds about to hide and reveal it in turns. It was Soria's word on which they
waited, hers being the definitive opinion on matters of skullduggery.

"Now!" she whispered.

She had judged that the cloud cover would last long
enough for their harrowed run from the trees to the shadows at the base of the
keep's walls, and took off like a startled hare, aether making her gait fast
and effortless. Rakashi followed behind, his boots crunching softly in the
grassy field. Behind him, Brannis clattered like a discordant wind chime in
heavy plate armor. The blanket thrown about his shoulders to muffle the sound
was insufficient.

The guards heard them, but without sufficient light
to see by, neither arrow nor musket shot sought them out. A common cry arose
from the battlements, echoed across the keep. Brannis learned the Kheshi word
for "intruder" by their shouts.

* * * * * * *
*

Soria knew that Rakashi and Brannis had fallen far
behind, but it did not matter; her destination differed from theirs, as did her
mission. It felt odd rushing off to a battle in her skulking garb, but it was
not a battle she intended to partake in. She made a line for one of the square
towers off to the right where she knew that the Acardians were being housed, if
not outright held prisoner.

The ground was uneven, an untamed pasture dotted
with gopher holes and rabbit warrens. It was all Soria could manage to keep her
footing as she made her approach. While Brannis and Rakashi tromped along like
a pair of monohorns drawing the attention of the whole keep, she heard no sign
that she had been spotted.

The tower jutted from the keep like a wart, leaving
an interior corner that promised to make her ascent a simple matter. Old
stonework presented a ladder of handholds, ancient rock worn away by wind and
rain to crumble just enough at joints to fit a slender hand or boot toe. Up, up
she climbed, managing to keep her grip as the structure shook. She panicked
that the whole of the tower might tumble, but it had stood hundreds of years
and seemed determined to hold on for at least one more night.

Soria paused at the window to check the aether. She
peered into the room before her to see one form inside, another form in what
should have been the next room over, and a half dozen gathered outside.
Abbiley,
Tomas, and a knot of guards. Workable
.

Soria pulled herself up onto the window ledge,
thankful that it was open on the warm, breezy night. There were candles lit
within, revealing a room that hinted at captives who led pampered lives: silk
bedspreads, a rug like a tapestry, multiple wardrobes, and a dressing table
with a mirror. Fortunately, that mirror also had no one looking at it from
within the room.

Tomas Harwick sat on the edge his bed, staring at
the door with his hands worrying at one another. He was dressed in a nightshirt
and cap, neither of which was much as far as travel gear.

Soria dropped into the room with a feather's impact.
The fine rug devoured what little sound she might otherwise have made. She kept
low, taking herself from the mirror's domain, lest her oblivious target decided
to develop a proper sense of self preservation on a whim. She flopped down onto
the bed behind Tomas, one hand taking him by the throat, the other covering
nose and mouth. She pulled him down backward onto the bed.

"Shut up!" her lips brushed his ear as she
whispered. She smelled the perfumed oils from his hair as it brushed her nose.
"This is Lady Soria. Your father sent us to rescue you. The Kheshi are
using you as a pawn. Quit struggling and I'll let you breathe."

Tomas's initial panic might not have faded—she could
still feel him trembling—but he calmed himself enough to convince her to
uncover at least his nose. He drew quick, sucking breaths, craning his head
back to look at her. She pulled back and let him. He had fish eyes, wide,
lidless, and lacking recognition.

"We're leaving," she said, leaning close
once more. "You need to dress as quiet as you can. Not a word, not a
sound. Don't bother bringing trinkets or trifles. If you cry out for help
thinking that I'm the one you should be fearful of, rest assured I will cut
your tongue out and leave it behind. Do you understand?"

She took his tiny, spasmodic shakes as a nod of
assent, and released him. The first thing he did upon sitting up was to point
to the adjoining wall. Soria rolled her eyes then nodded.
No, we came all
this way to leave her behind because you are just
so
important. If
Brannis wasn't still half twisted for that little she-cow you proposed to, I
think we'd have all given your father condolences instead of chasing after you
.

She leaned close to his ear once more. "I need
you to put pants and tunic on, find some shoes, and climb down a rope for me.
I'm not moving on to get the girl until you've done all that, so if you want
her out of danger, then
move
!" Yelling in a whisper was such a
frustrating state of affairs. She wanted to shout her lungs bloody to wake the
sodden noodle of a noble son from his daze.

While Tomas struggled into his previous day's
garments with the grace of a first-night thespian, Soria set about securing the
"escape" portion of the escape. The coil of rope she kept looped
around her shoulder pooled to the floor at her feet. She took one of her
daggers and lined it up with a joint in the masonry below the window. Pausing,
she closed her eyes and blocked out the distraction of a half-clad Tomas,
struggling to dress himself in haste. In one smooth motion she struck the
pommel of the dagger with the heel of her hand, driving it in between the stone
blocks. One end of the rope was already prepared, tied in a miniature noose.
She looped it about the hilt of her dagger and dropped the other end out the
window.

She turned to watch Tomas dressing, receiving
nervous, self-conscious looks for her troubles. Soria also caught a good look
at herself in the mirror and realized it might not have been solely her gender
that was causing him difficulty. She reached up under her hood and untied it,
pulled it back, and smiled at him. He nodded, appearing reassured in some
measure, and finished pulling on breeches over his hose.

As he hopped into his boots, Soria dragged Tomas to
the window and pointed down. He peered out, then abruptly withdrew his head back
into the room, shaking it violently. Soria pointed to him, then down once more.
Tomas pointed to the dagger, then to the door, punctuating his alternate
suggestion with a slashing motion across his throat. Soria shook her head. She
pointed down.

Tomas looked out once more, more cautiously this
time. He did not pull away, but looked helplessly up at Soria. He took hold of
one of his arms, grasping it about the bicep. He shook his head again, slumping
down against the wall.

I could just throw him out, say he
fell ...

Soria breathed through gritted teeth, and began
pulling up the rope. She tied it about Tomas's waist, perhaps a bit tighter
than it needed to be, and leaned in again to whisper in his ear.