Jaryd saw Lynette arrive, plunging into the crowd to where Teriyan was in animated conversation with friends. Teriyan handed off his cup, picked up his daughter and spun her around. They looked so happy as they danced through the firelit crowd, talking and laughing all the while. Jaryd swallowed a mouthful, and looked somewhere else.
Suddenly there was a pretty girl standing close, directly beneath the railing to his side. She had light brown, curly hair and wore the plain dress of a village girl…yet decorated in the Goeren-yai style, beads and braids in her hair, a knotted red sash about her waist, rings on her fingers and bangles on her wrists. She curtseyed prettily.
“Master Jaryd,” she said demurely, “I would be most honoured should you choose to dance with me.”
Jaryd stared down at her. In Algery, they'd had rude names for girls who asked men to dance. Here in the villages, women were more forward. She was very pretty, no more than sixteen, he reckoned. He recalled many pretty girls, from that other life. When he'd asked them to dance, they'd rarely refused. When he'd asked them to do other things as well, they'd rarely refused that, either.
“I'm sorry,” he told the girl. “I no longer dance.”
The verandah rail shook and a hand reached onto his plate and stole a piece of cheese. “Why are you even here?” Lynette asked him around that mouthful. Her red hair was all tangled from her ride into town, and she smelled of horses. “I mean, why come to a wedding if you're just going to sit here away from everyone and look morose?”
“Jaegar told me at training I should come,” Jaryd said stonily. “Jaegar is village headman, I do what he tells me.”
“Pity he didn't tell you to have some fun too.”
Jaryd ground his teeth and did not reply. She'd never had a brother murdered in cold blood, and she had precious little respect for his grief. It was an effort not to strike her.
“Have you welcomed the bride yet?”
“No.”
“You should. I'm sure she's heard all about Jaryd Nyvar. She'll be expecting a greeting and good wishes. That's what Sasha and Kessligh always did.”
“Aye, well, they're not here now, are they?”
Lynette sighed. “I so wish Sasha was here now, she loves weddings.”
“She does?” It didn't sound like the Sashandra Lenayin Jaryd knew.
“So long as it's not her own,” Lynette added with a grin. “But, oh yes, she loves traditional weddings. If she were here she'd be feasting and dancing, and telling all the boys how handsome they looked. She could be such a tease sometimes.”
Jaryd exhaled hard. “I wish I'd had the chance to come to know Sashandra a little better,” he conceded. Sometimes he envied Lynette and Andreyis that. The entire village, in fact. “She's a remarkable warrior, and she won a great victory at Ymoth. Kessligh himself could not have done better.”
Lynette shrugged, chewing on her cheese. “She's Kessligh's uma, after all. But the most remarkable thing about Sasha is how she became brilliant while still managing to be such a pain in the arse.”
Jaryd looked at her. He almost smiled. Lynette put a hand on his arm. “You're nice when you smile,” she told him. “Hold on, I have to go and talk to the other most morose-looking man in Baerlyn for a while. I'll be back.”
She jumped off the rail and slid through the crowd. The other man was, of course, Andreyis. Jaryd spotted him on the far side of the bonfire, sitting with two other lads, drinking and looking gloomy. Becoming a warrior didn't change all things, then. He could grow his hair long, get tattoos if he wanted, and move away from home as he pleased, but Andreyis remained awkward and ill at ease, with girls in particular. Except Lynette…but she was more like a sister to him, complete with name calling and hair pulling.
Jaryd almost felt sorry for the lad. He missed Sasha, that much was obvious. Perhaps he'd even fancied her a little…and what lonely, awkward young man wouldn't have? But she'd been more like a sister too, and so dominantly, ferociously overbearing that the poor boy must have known from the start he had no chance…
Neither did Andreyis have many good friends among young Baerlyn men. Lynette conceded that Sasha had first grown to like Andreyis precisely because he wasn't one of those arrogant, rude little boys whose ears, knees, ribs, backsides and finally skulls Sasha had had to box to gain some respect…and some fear. Jaryd did not know letters, but he knew young men as he knew swords and horses. They'd have resented Andreyis his friendship with someone who had humiliated them. They'd have resented him further his friendship with Kessligh. It was remarkable that a friendship with the greatest warrior in Lenayin could actually make someone less popular…but Lenayin was like that. Men who gained respect by becoming friends with the powerful were mistrusted. Men should gain respect by gathering honour for themselves.
Some men in colourful Torovan dress were walking up the main road, talking with Parrachik and skirting the children playing games at the edge of the bonfire's glare. Parrachik was an unremarkable man to look at-bald and slim, he wore only a knife at his belt and smiled when local men would taunt him for his lack. A Torovan like the merchants who so often called on him, he'd arrived in Baerlyn fifteen years ago and adopted the local customs sparingly yet for all his success, he wore little finery.
He led his Torovan guests now to the feast, where they looked on with curiosity. Wine was pressed upon them and soon they were talking and laughing with rowdy locals, Parrachik providing translation where local accent or general noise proved too great for the traders’ Lenay. Soon the merchants were clapping along to the rhythm with the rest of them, and being invited to dance by local Baerlyn women, all eagerly accepted.
Lynette was dragging at Andreyis's arm, trying to get him to the dance, but Andreyis was resisting. Jaryd pushed himself off the balcony railing with a thud of boots on the deck…and nearly missed the second thud on the wall behind. He turned, frowning, thinking someone had thrown something. Instead, he saw a crossbow bolt protruding from the wall.
He dove flat, but no further shot came. Then he scrambled for the inn's doorway and crouched there, staring up at the opposing row of rooftops, bright and dancing in the glare of the bonfire. There was a flash of movement…or was it merely a shadow? No one had noticed his little commotion, one more flailing, dancing man at a wedding was hardly an event. If he yelled warning to them, none would hear.
Besides, warning of what? They were not in danger. The assassin was after him. Maybe, the cold thought occurred to him, as he edged back into the cover of the doorway, one of the locals had arranged it. Maybe they felt his presence threatened Baerlyn's relations with the lords. Or maybe Great Lord Arastyn had partisans, or at least paid help here in Baerlyn. If he shouted warning, he would only advertise that their attempt had failed, and perhaps invite a second or third attack. No, he had to capture the assassin himself. Only then could he know what he was dealing with.
He strode through the inn, adjusting his swordbelt where it had twisted in his dive. Through the main room, stripped of chairs and tables, Jaryd found the side exit and pushed out into the paved lane to the stables. Then he ran back toward the road, where the fringe of the crowd milled across the lane's mouth hoping any waiting crossbowman on the surrounding roofs would have far too brief a sighting to take a shot. He ran fast, hand on his sword hilt, to keep his legs free, taking a wide route through the crowd. He skidded between two men, hurdling a running child, collided with the arm of a lady, her drink spilling.
Then he was down a narrow lane between two houses, unscathed and, as far as he knew, untargeted. He hurdled a fence between the houses and took shelter beneath the rear verandah roof. Crouched against a wall, he drew his sword and listened. He heard only the raucous music and laughter of the wedding. He moved as lightly as he could across the verandah planks, pausing with a wince each time one began to squeak. He stopped and listened again.
Nothing. Then a muffled slide overhead. A creak. Two thumps. Then nothing. Jaryd reached to his belt and drew a throwing knife. Reversed it with a flip, catching the blade, his sword now in his left hand. Someone jumped from the verandah roof, thumped into the grassy yard and rolled, pausing to retrieve a fallen crossbow.
“You missed,” Jaryd told the crossbowman. The figure spun in shock. Jaryd threw the knife and took him in the thigh. The man yelled, dropping the crossbow again, and fell, clutching his leg. Jaryd stepped from the balcony and walked to him, sword ready, his grip tightening. This must be one of those who had schemed to kill Tarryn. This, he had waited for for a long time.
More movement from the gloom of orchard trees in the neighbouring yard. Jaryd's eyes widened as he saw the questing muzzle of a crossbow through the branches. He threw himself flat. Frustratingly, the crossbowman held his fire. Jaryd rolled desperately for the fallen man, holding him as a shield. The bowman emerged from the orchard and cursed, darting one way, then the other, seeking a shot over the fence. Jaryd rose, his hostage sobbing and holding his leg. A rush of footsteps from behind told him a third man was coming.
Jaryd reached for his boot knife-not really a throwing knife, but he threw it anyway. The bowman ducked, the knife deflected off the crossbow and Jaryd charged. The bowman dropped the crossbow, scampering back as Jaryd hurdled the fence, drawing his blade. Jaryd swung hard, the other man defended desperately, fended the second and third with a clash of steel, yet was simply overpowered by the fourth, lost his hand on the fifth, and was sliced through the chest by the sixth before he could scream.
Jaryd turned and found the third man staring in horror. This man had no crossbow, just a sword. Evidently he did not relish the prospect of using it now. This was no hired blade. This man knew exactly whom he'd been sent to kill. The assassin turned and fled. Jaryd chased, his heart pounding, blood singing in his ears. He hadn't felt this alive since Tarryn had still been in the world. He pursued the fleeing shadow past a chicken run, then hurdled another fence onto a vegetable patch. Another fence, and he was out into an open field in the middle of the Baerlyn Valley. The light of the wedding bonfire grew dimmer behind and the stars overhead were bright and clear. His boots sank into the grass as he ran, stumbling on an uneven patch in the dark. The fleeing shadow before him was slim, and fleet of foot. Jaryd was a powerful young man, and knew how to use that power to intimidating effect with a blade. But now, his legs grew weary, and his breathing came hard, and the light figure ahead seemed barely troubled when he hurdled the next fenceline and raced on into the dark.
It was two fencelines later before Jaryd finally gave up. He'd headed up-valley, past empty farmhouses, tripping on plough furroughs and splashing in irrigation ditches as he went.
“Come back and fight, you horse-fucking coward!” he roared at the dark, with the last of his energy. Now that he'd stopped, the night air chilled his sweat. He was exhausted from the effort, and barely able to keep his feet. The unfairness of it infuriated him. He swung his blade at the dark, smiting invisible foes. Gleaming in the night sky, he saw Ambellion's Star, bright and clear. Cathaty's Eye, the Goeren-yai called it. In the lowlands, and amongst Lenay Verenthanes, it was the Verenthane Star. “You!” Jaryd yelled, pointing his sword at the star. “You saved him! You defy me once more, you bastards! Well I've had it with you! I've rejected you, do you hear? This isn't your land, and you can't fuck with me any longer!”
A sharp wind blew upon the Cliff of the Dead. Marya Steiner put a hand to her hair and hoped that the pins would not tear out from the force of it. She walked with her other hand in that of her nine-year-old son, and her husband by her side, with a pair of guards to their front and back.
“I absolutely forbid it, Symon!” Marya insisted in a low voice. “This is my sister, she would never put me in danger.”
“I hear stories, my love,” replied Symon Steiner, edgily. He looked good in black, with a gold-pommelled sword at his hip. A little slimmer and shorter than a Lenay bride might typically have hoped, but he was handsome, and clever, and kind. “This particular sister of yours-and the gods know you have so many I am frequently confused-has a reputation that would insult the good breeding of a rabid dog-”
“Oh, Symon, don't be like that! The Sashandra I remember was a gorgeous little girl, always full of life and mischief…”
“There are many definitions of mischief, my love.” Symon threw a glance up and down the terraced incline. “One might think that leading an armed rebellion against Verenthane patriots in the north, against the wishes of her father the king, goes a little beyond simple mischief.”
Marya sighed, not halting her stride. “Sashandra always went a little beyond simple mischief,” she admitted. “But…oh Symon, you never knew her like I did. You don't know how much fun she was! She was a delightful little scoundrel.”
Behind them, toward the end of Besendi Promontory, the funeral for Randel Ragini was dispersing. The seniors of Family Steiner, and all their allies, bereaved and sorrowful in black. Marya had never liked that silly Endurance that the men all insisted upon every Sadisi. Three days ago now. Every year, someone was hurt. This year, just like she'd warned would happen, it was someone important. Young Randel, such a nice boy. His father had seemed in shock, barely looking at anyone while the priest had recited the last rites. Doubtless losing a son in such pointless circumstances was difficult, to say nothing of an heir. When she'd taken Patachi Ragini's hand to offer her condolences, it had been shaking.
“Look,” said Symon, “at least allow me to place some extra men on the upper terrace. Just in case.”
“Symon, she is Nasi-Keth,” Marya said reasonably. “And from what I hear, quite talented. Your own sources say she has friends among the serrin, she's been seen frequently with that Rhillian woman…”
“All the more reason to-”
“Her note said to come alone!” Marya insisted. “If she has serrin friends, don't you think there might be serrin archers hiding somewhere?”
“Where?”
“If I knew that, dearest, they wouldn't be hiding, would they?”