Wings of Omen - Thieves World 06 (11 page)

They had not rehearsed this part, but she trusted her friend Feet wide apart, he braced himself; his muscles bulged, and he nodded. She took hold of the rope, stepped into space. Dayme grunted, but held the line fast. Hand over hand, she made her way to the far wall and over its edge. The line went slack; she could almost see the bums she knew would mark Dayme's hands and forearms. Her bribes had paid off in some respects, at least. Directly below her was a rooftop, the servants' quarters. She gathered the line and let it down on the inside, then slipped along its length. She was inside.

But where were the guards? There was no sign of them. Nothing moved within the grounds that she could see. She dropped to the ground, paused in a crouch, began to move from shadow to shadow.

What now? She hadn't planned beyond this moment. Here and there puddles of pallid light leaked from the windows of the palace. Atop the highest minaret, a pennon flapped hysterically in the wind. Far to her right was the Headman's Gate. On impulse, she ran to check it.

A huge, metal-reinforced bar spanned the gate, sealing it. She frowned, turned away, and tripped. She hit the ground hard; the pommel of her sword gouged into her ribs. With a silent curse, she rolled over and found one of the guards. Wide eyes stared vacantly at the moon from under a helmet rim. His flesh was still warm.

Every dark place was suddenly more menacing. No sign of the killer; nothing moved in the darkness. She felt around the guard's body. No blood, no broken bones, no clue to how he was murdered. She shivered. Sorcery?

A low whistle. Soundlessly, Reyk took his perch on her high-gloved arm. Two more guards lay dead near the Processional Gates. Like the first, there was no trace of a cause. She thought of calling out, of alerting the garrison and the palace residents. Then she remembered the Beysib. One of the dead men was fish-eyed. If the killer heard her shout and made a good escape, if the Beysib found only her with the murdered guardsmen, if they found the grapples by which she broke into the grounds?... Who could blame them for jumping to conclusions?

A sound, metal rasping on stone. She froze, listening, peering uselessly into the blackness. There were only two more gates, both in the eastern wall. She started across the lawn, moving swiftly, noiselessly.

The last gate was the smallest, a private entrance and exit for the governor's staff. There she saw a figure revealed in the small pool of light from an upper residential window. The sound she had heard was a bar of iron that sealed the gate at night. She could not see him well; a cloak disguised his features and his movements.

A gardened walkway led from the gate to a door into the palace itself. He hadn't spotted her yet. Wraithlike, she moved, took a position at the midway point, and waited.

The killer eased back the gate. Five figures slipped inside, indistinguishable, but bared weapons gleamed. The gate closed behind. They started up the walk.

"Still time to place your bets, gentlemen," she said, a grim smile parting her lips, "before the event begins."

In the forefront, the cloaked one who had opened the gate raised something to his mouth. A bare glint of palest ivory, and he puffed his cheeks. That was how the guards died, she realized. Her inspections of the bodies were too quick and cursory to discover the venomed darts from the assassin's blowpipe.

"Kill!" she whispered to Reyk. The falcon sprang from her arm, and she threw herself aside as something rushed by her ear. Reyk's pinions beat the air three times, then his talons found the eyes within that dark hood. A chilling scream broke from the man's throat before one of his own comrades cut him down. Reyk returned to her arm. "Up," she told him. "These are mine!" She laughed softly and drew her sword. She had fought four men once in the arena. Now there were five. The result would be the same, but the game might be more interesting. "Try to make it a good contest," she taunted them, beckoning. The nearest man rushed, stabbed at her belly. Chenaya sidestepped, kicked him in the groin as her sword came up to deflect the blow another man aimed at her head. She turned it aside and cut deep between that one's ribs. She caught him before he collapsed and hurled him into the way of a third. She dodged without a hairbreadth to spare as another sword sang by her head. The one she kicked was on his feet again. Four men closed with her, wordlessly, professionally. The ringing of steel, the rasp of hard and rhythmic breathing became the night's only sounds.

Chenaya threw herself into the fight. The force of blows and blocks shivered up her arm. She filled her other fist with one of her daggers; when one of her foes ventured too close, she shoved it through his sternum. It came free with a slick, sucking noise as she kicked him away.

Sweat ran down her face; blood slicked the palm of her right glove. She whirled into the midst of the three remaining attackers, raking the edge of her sword through the eye and cheek of one, planting the smaller blade deep in his throat. Death hurtled down at her in two glittering arcs. Grasping her hilt in both hands, she caught the blades, intercepting them with her own forceful swing, turning them aside. One lost his grip, and when he dived for his weapon her knee slammed into his face.

The last man on his feet hesitated, finding himself alone, turned and fled for the gate and the streets beyond. Chenaya cursed him savagely, drew the second dagger from its place on her thigh, and hurled. The coward's arms flew up, his sword clattered on the walk, and he fell. One hand flopped, grasping uselessly for the weapon, then was still.

The last man rose slowly, painfully to his feet; blood poured from his broken nose. His eyes were glazed, and the recovered sword was balanced loosely in his weak grip. He stumbled for her.

"You, at least, are no craven," she granted. The edge of her sword cut a swift crimson line beneath his chin, and he tumbled backward. Chenaya filled her lungs with a deep breath and whistled for Reyk. Together, woman and falcon looked down on the six bodies. They did not wear the uniforms of the 3rd Commandos, she noted with some disappointment. It would have been easy to hang the whole lot of them with such proof, or at least to run them out of Sanctuary.

"That was well done. Lady of Ranke."

She knew the voice at once and whirled. Shupansea herself and a score of Beysib guards blocked the doorway to the palace. Apparently, they had slipped outside while the fight went on. A torch flared to life, then another.

"Don't look so surprised," Shupansea said. She pointed to the body of the cloaked man. "That one entered with the local servants this morning, but did not leave with them, having secreted himself in the stables. My men spotted him, but we wanted to wait and leam his purpose."

Chenaya made no answer, but held her sword and waited to see if the Beysa meant her harm.

"Molin explained your purpose to us. Lady," Shupansea continued. "You need not fear."

Chenaya smirked at that. "My uncle presumes a great deal." The Beysa finally shrugged. "Perhaps it is just your nature to be rude," she sighed. "Perhaps that will change as we come to know each other. Kadakithis told me he promised you a party when you came to see him. In half a fortnight I, myself, will host an event to welcome you and Lowan Vigeles to our city." Chenaya forced a tight smile, then kneeled to wipe her blade on the nearest assassin, rose, and sheathed it. "My father and I will of course accept the Prince's invitation." She stroked Reyk's feathers. "I love parties." The two women locked gazes, and their eyes betrayed their mutual hostility and distrust. However, this night was Chenaya's. Shupansea might have learned about the threat to the Prince, but it was she, a Rankan, who prevented its success. The fish-eyed warriors at the Beysa's back were just so many spectators to admire her kills.

"My thanks and those of your cousin for your exertions on his behalf," Shupansea said stiffly. She waved a hand, and half her guards began to carry the bodies away. "Now, it is a little late to entertain visitors, don't you think? I believe you can find your way out." The Beysa turned away and reentered the palace.

"Keep the grapples," Chenaya said lightly to the guards as she headed down the walkway. "I shouldn't need them again."

Diana L. Paxson

"A red one-Papa, I want a red fly now!" - Lalo looked down at his small son, sighed, and picked a crimson chalkstick from the pile. Deftly his hand swept over the paper, sketching a head, a thorax, angled legs, and the outlines of transparent wings. He exchanged red for gold and added a shimmer of color, while Alfi bounced on the bench beside him, a three-year-old's fanatic purpose fixing his gaze on each move.

"Is it done. Papa?" The child squirmed onto the table to see, and Lalo twitched the paper out of the way, wishing Gilla would get back and take the boy off his hands. Where was she, anyway? Anxiety stirred in his belly. These days, violence between the Beysib invaders and a constantly mutating assortment of native factions made even a simple shopping trip hazardous; their oldest son, Wedemir, on leave from his caravan, had volunteered to escort her to the Bazaar. The Beysib honeymoon was over, and every day brought new rumors of resistance and bloody Beysib response. Gilla and Wedemir ought to be back by now.... Alfi jiggled his arm and Lalo forced his attention back to the present. Looking down at the boy's dark head, he thought it odd how alike his firstborn and his youngest had turned out to be-both darkhaired and tenacious.... For a moment, the years between were gone; he was a young father and it was Wedemir who nestled against him, begging him to draw some more.

But of course there was a difference to Lalo's drawing now.

"Papa, is the fly going to be able to see?" Alfi pointed at the sketched head.

"Yes, yes, tadpole, just wait a minute now." Lalo picked up his knife to sharpen the black chalk. Then Alfi wriggled, Lalo's hand slipped, and the knife bit into his thumb. With an oath he dropped it and put his finger to his mouth to stop the bleeding, glaring at his son.

"Papa, do it now-do the trick and make it fly away!" said Alfi obliviously. Lalo repressed an urge to throw the child across the room, sketched in antennae and a faceted eye. It was not Alfi's fault. He should never have started this game.

Then he grimaced, picked up the paper, and shut his eyes for a moment, focusing his awareness until he could-Lalo opened his eyes and breathed gently upon the bright wings....

Alfi stilled, eyes widening as the bright speck quivered, expanded its shimmering wings, and buzzed away to join the jewel-scatter of flies that were already orbiting the garbage-basket by the door.

For a blessed moment the child stayed silent, but Lalo, looking at the insects he had drawn into life, shuddered suddenly. He remembered-a scarlet Sikkintair that soared above the heads of feasting gods, the transcendent splendor of the Face of Ils, the grace of Eshi pouring wine... and beside him had sat Thilli, or

was it Theba-oh gods, could he be forgetting already?

"Papa, now make me one that's green and purple, and-" A small hand tugged his sleeve.

"No!" The table rocked as Lalo surged to his feet. Colored chalks clattered across the floor.

"But Papa-"

"I said No-can't you understand?" Lalo shouted, hating himself as Alfi gasped and was still. He extricated himself from behind the table and started for the door, then stopped short, trembling. He couldn't leave-he had promised Gilla-he couldn't leave the child in the house alone! Damn Gilla, anyway! Lalo brought his hands to his eyes, trying to rub the ache behind them away. There was a small sniff behind him. He heard the faint clicking as Alfi began, very carefully, to put the chalks into their wooden box again.

"I'm sorry, tadpole-" Lalo said at last. "It's not your fault. I still love you Papa's just very tired."

No-it wasn't Alfi's fault.... Lalo moved stiffly to the window and opened the weathered shutters, gazing out over the scrambled rooftops of the town. You would think that a man who had feasted with the gods would be different, maybe have a kind of shining about him for all to see-especially a man who could not only paint a person's soul, but could breathe life into his imaginings. But nothing had changed for him. Nothing at all.

Lalo looked down at his hands, broad-palmed, rather stubby in the fingers, with paint ingrained in the calluses and under the nails. Those had been the hands of a god, for a little while, but here he was, with Sanctuary going to hell around him at more than its usual speed, and there was nothing he could do. He flinched as something buzzed past his ear, and saw the colored flies he had created spiral downward toward the richer feeding-grounds of the refuse heap in the alleyway. For a moment he wondered wryly if they would breed true, and if anyone in Sanctuary would notice the winged jewels hatching from their garbage; then a shift in the wind brought him the smell.

He choked, banged closed the shutters, and stood leaning against them, covering his face with his hands. In the country of the gods, every breeze bore a different perfume. The robes of the immortals were dyed with liquid jewels; they shone in a lambent light. And he, Lalo the Limner, had feasted there, and his brush had brought life to a thousand transcendent fantasies. He stood, shaken by longing for the velvet meadows and aquamarine skies. Tears welled from beneath shut eyelids, and his ears, entranced with the memory of birds whose song surpassed all earthly melodies, did not hear the long silence behind him, the stifled, triumphant giggle of the child, or the heavy tread on the stairs outside.

"Alfi! You get down from there right now!"

Dreams shattering around him, Lalo jerked back to face the room, blinking as dizzied vision tried to sort the image of an angry goddess from the massive figure that glared at him from the doorway. But even as Lalo's sight cleared, Gilla was charging across the room to snatch the child from the shelf over the stove.