The High Lord (11 page)

Harikava opened a wooden box trimmed in gold and gems. Taking out a sliver of something clear and hard, he tossed it in the air. It floated there, slowly melting before Tavaka’s gaze. Harikava reached to his belt and drew an elaborate curved dagger with a jeweled handle. Sonea recognized the shape. It was similar to the one she had seen Akkarin use on Takan, so long ago.

Cutting his hand, Harikava dripped blood over the molten globule. It turned red and solidified. Taking off a thin band of gold from many that ringed his fingers, he molded it around the gem so that a tiny red glint was all that could be seen. She understood what this gem would do. Every sight, every sound, and every thought he had would be sensed by his master.

The man’s eyes rose to meet Tavaka’s. She felt an echo of the slave’s fear and hope. The master beckoned and, with his bleeding hand, reached for his knife again.

The memory ended abruptly.

—
Now you try, Sonea.

For a moment she considered what image to prompt the man with. On impulse, she sent a memory of Akkarin in black robes.

She was not prepared for the hatred and fear that filled the man’s mind. Glimpses of a recent magical battle followed. Akkarin had found him before he could strengthen himself enough. Harikava would be disappointed and angry. Kariko would be too. An image of several men and women sitting in a circle around a fire appeared: a memory Tavaka did not want her to see. He forced it away with the skill of someone well practiced in hiding memories from searching minds. She realized she had forgotten to grasp for control of it.

—
Try again. You must catch the memory and protect it.

She sent Tavaka an image of the circle of strangers as she remembered it. The faces were wrong, he thought. The face of Harikava appeared in his mind. Exerting her will, she “caught” the memory and blocked his efforts to stop it.

—
That’s right. Now explore as you wish.

She examined the faces carefully.

—
Who are these Ichani?

Names and faces followed, but one stood out.

—
Kariko. The man who wants to kill Akkarin.

—Why?

—
Akkarin killed his brother. Any slave that turns on his master must be hunted down and punished.

She almost lost control of his memory at that. Akkarin had been a
slave!
Tavaka must have sensed her surprise. She sensed a wave of savage glee.

—
Because of Akkarin, because Kariko’s brother captured Akkarin and read his mind, we know the Guild is weak. Kariko says the Guild does not use the greater magics. He says we will invade Kyralia and defeat the Guild easily. It will be a fine revenge for what the Guild did to us after the war.

Sonea’s blood turned cold. This group of immensely strong black magicians intended to invade Kyralia!

—
When will this invasion be ?
Akkarin asked suddenly.

Doubts entered the man’s mind.

—
Don’t know. Others are afraid of the Guild. No slaves return. Neither will I… I don’t want to die!

Abruptly a small white house appeared, accompanied by a terrible guilt. A plump woman—Tavaka’s mother. A wiry father with leathery skin. A pretty girl with large eyes—his sister. His sister’s body after Harikava came and—

It took all Sonea’s control to resist fleeing the man’s mind. She had heard and seen the aftermath of some cruel attacks by thugs while she had lived in the slums. Tavaka’s family had died because of him. His parents might produce more gifted offspring. The sister might develop powers, too. The Ichani master did not want to cart the entire group around with him just in case, and he would not leave any potential sources of power around for his enemies to find and use.

Pity and fear warred within her. Tavaka had lived a dreadful life. Yet she also sensed his ambition. Given the opportunity, he would return to his homeland to become one of these monstrous Ichani.

—
What have you done since entering Imardin?
Akkarin asked.

Memories of a shabby bedroom in a bolhouse followed, then the crowded drinking room. Sitting in a place where he might briefly touch others, and search for magical potential. No sense in wasting time stalking a victim, unless he or she had strong latent magic. If he was careful, he would grow strong enough to defeat Akkarin. Then he would return to Sachaka, help Kariko gather the Ichani, and they would invade Kyralia.

A man was chosen and followed. A knife, a gift from Harikava, drawn and—

—
Time to leave, Sonea.

She felt Akkarin’s hand tighten over hers. As he pulled it away from Tavaka’s forehead, the man’s mind slipped immediately from her own. She frowned at Akkarin as suspicions rose.

“Why did I do that?” He smiled grimly. “You were about to learn what you don’t wish to learn.” He rose and looked down at Tavaka. The man was breathing quickly.

“Leave us, Sonea.”

She stared at Akkarin. It was not hard to guess what he intended to do. She wanted to protest, and yet she knew that she would not stop him even if she could. To release Tavaka would be to set loose a killer. He would continue preying on Kyralians. With black magic.

She forced herself to turn away, open the door and step out of the room. The door swung shut behind her. Morren looked up, and his expression softened. He held out a mug.

Recognizing the sweet smell of bol, she accepted the mug and took several gulps. A warmth began to spread through her. When she had finished the drink, she handed the mug back to Morren.

“Better?”

She nodded.

The door clicked open behind her. She turned to face Akkarin. They regarded each other in silence. She thought of what he had revealed to her. The Ichani. Their plans to invade Kyralia. That he had been a slave… too elaborate to be a deception. Akkarin could not have arranged this.

“You have much to think about,” he said softly. “Come. We will return to the Guild.” He stepped past her. “Thank you, Morren. Dispose of him in the usual way.”

“Yes, my lord. Did you find out anything useful?”

“Perhaps,” Akkarin glanced back at Sonea. “We shall see.”

“They’re coming more often now, aren’t they?” Morren asked.

Sonea caught the slightest hesitation in Akkarin’s reply.

“Yes, but your employer is also locating them faster. Pass on my thanks, will you?”

The man nodded and handed Akkarin his lantern. “I will.”

Akkarin opened the door and stepped through. As he started down the passage, Sonea followed, her mind still reeling from all that she had learned.

The sound of metal striking metal echoed down the passage, followed by a gasp of pain. Cery stopped and looked at Gol in alarm. The big man frowned.

Cery jerked his head at the doorway ahead. Taking a long, wicked-looking knife from his belt, Gol hurried forward. He reached the door and peered into the room. His frown disappeared.

He glanced at Cery and grinned. Relieved, and now more curious than concerned, Cery strode forward and looked inside.

Two figures were frozen in position, one crouched awkwardly with a knife held at his throat. Cery recognized the loser as Krinn, the assassin and skilled fighter he usually hired for more important assignments. Krinn’s eyes flickered toward Cery. His expression changed from surprise to embarrassment.

“Yield?” Savara asked.

“Yes,” Krinn replied in a strained voice.

Savara withdrew the knife and stepped away in one fluid movement. Krinn rose and looked down at her warily. He was at least a head taller than her, Cery noted with amusement.

“Practicing on my men again, Savara?”

She smiled slyly. “Only on invitation, Ceryni.”

He considered her carefully. What if he… ? There would be some risk, but there always was. He glanced at Krinn, who was edging toward the door.

“Go on, Krinn. Close the door behind you.” The assassin hurried away. When the door had shut, Cery stepped toward Savara. “I invite you to try me out.”

He heard Gol’s indrawn breath.

Her smile broadened. “I accept.”

Cery drew a pair of daggers out of his coat. Leather loops had been attached to the handles to prevent them slipping out of his grasp, and to allow him to grab and pull. Her eyebrows rose as he slipped his palms through the loops.

“Two are hardly ever better than one,” she commented.

“I know,” Cery replied as he approached her.

“But you do
look
like you know what you are doing,” she mused. “I expect that would intimidate the average lout.”

“Yes, it does.”

She took a few steps to the left, drawing a little closer. “I’m not the average lout, Ceryni.”

“No. I can see that.”

He smiled. If her reason for offering to help him was to gain his trust long enough to get a chance to kill him, he was probably handing her the perfect opportunity. She would die for it, however. Gol would ensure that.

She darted toward him. He dodged out of reach, then stepped in and aimed for her shoulder. She spun away.

They continued like this for a few minutes, each testing the reflexes and reach of the other. Then she came closer and he blocked and returned several quick attacks. Neither quite managed to get past the other’s guard. They stepped away from each other, both breathing heavily.

“What have you done about the slave?” she asked.

“He’s dead.”

He watched her face closely. She did not look surprised, only a little annoyed.
“He
did it?”

“Of course.”

“I could have done it for you.”

He frowned. She sounded so confident. Too confident.

She darted forward, blade flashing in the lamplight. Cery slapped her arm away with his forearm. A fast and frantic struggle followed, and he grinned with triumph as he managed to lock her right arm out of the way, and slip his knife into her left armpit.

She froze, also grinning.

“Yield?” she asked.

A sharp point pressed into his stomach. Looking down, he saw a different knife in her left hand. The other still held her original knife. He smiled, then pressed his knife a little harder into her armpit.

“There’s a vein here that goes straight to the heart. If cut, it would bleed so fast you wouldn’t live long enough to decide how to curse me.”

He was gratified to see her eyes widen in surprise and her grin disappear. “Stalemate, then?”

They were very close. She smelt wonderful, a mixture of fresh sweat and something spicy. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, but her mouth was a tightly held thin line.

“Stalemate,” he agreed. He stepped back and to one side so that her blade left his stomach before he removed his from her armpit. His heart was beating quickly. It was not an unpleasant sensation.

“You know these slaves are magicians?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How do you plan to kill them?”

“I have my own ways.”

Cery smiled grimly. “If I tell my customer that I don’t need him to do in the murderers, he’s going to ask some rough questions. Like, who’s doing it instead?”

“If he did not know you found a slave, he would not need to know who did the killing.”

“But he knows when they’re about. He’s got the guard telling him about the victims. If they stop finding victims, without him killing the murderer, he’s got to wonder why.”

She shrugged. “That will not matter. They are not sending slaves one by one now. I can kill some of them, and he will not notice.”

This was news. Bad news. “Who are ‘they’?”

Her eyebrows rose. “He has not told you?”

Cery smiled, while silently cursing himself for revealing his ignorance. “Perhaps he has, perhaps he hasn’t,” he replied. “I want to hear what you say.”

Her expression darkened. “They are the Ichani. Outcasts. The Sachakan King sends those who have earned his disfavor out into the wastes.”

“Why are they sending their slaves here?”

“They seek to regain power and status by defeating Sachaka’s old enemy, the Guild.”

This was also news. He slipped the loops of his knives from his palms.
Probably nothing to worry about,
he thought.
We’re killing off these “slaves” easily enough.

“Will you let me kill some of these slaves?” she asked.

“Why do you need to ask? If you can find and kill them, you don’t need to work with me.”

“Ah, but if I did not, you might mistake me for one of them.”

He chuckled. “That could be unfort—”

A knock interrupted him. He looked at Gol expectantly. The big man moved to the door. An even larger man entered, his eyes flitting nervously from Gol to Cery to Savara.

“Morren.” Cery frowned. The man had sent the usual one-word message late last night to confirm that he had disposed of the murderer’s body. He was not supposed to visit Cery personally unless he had something important to report.

“Ceryni,” Morren replied. He glanced at Savara again, his expression wary.

Cery turned to the Sachakan woman. “Thanks for the practice,” he said.

She nodded. “Thank you, Ceryni. I will let you know when I find the next one. It should not be long.”

Cery watched her walk out of the room. When the door closed behind her, he turned to Morren.

“What is it?”

The big man grimaced. “It may be nothing, but I thought you might want to know. He didn’t kill the murderer straightaway. He tied him up, then left. When he came back, he brought someone with him.”

“Who?”

“The girl from the slums who joined the Guild.”

Cery stared at the man. “Sonea?”

“Yeah.”

An unexpected feeling of guilt stole over Cery. He thought of the way Savara had sent his heart racing. How could he let himself admire some strange woman, and one who probably couldn’t be trusted, when he still loved Sonea? But Sonea was beyond his reach. And she had never loved him anyway. Not in the way he had loved her. Why shouldn’t he consider another?

Then the implications of what Morren was saying sank in, and he began pacing the room. Sonea had been taken to see the murderer. She had been brought into the presence of a dangerous man. Though he knew she had probably been safe enough with Akkarin, he still felt a protective anger. He did not want her involved in this.