“MY INSTRUCTIONS WERE very clear, Mistress. I’m to escort you and the children to Mercenary House.” Hernyn hovered in the doorway to the Mender’s inner room, frustration and impatience making his skin crawl. The family were living in the two back rooms of what had been a decent tradesman’s dwelling-before the furniture had been sold and the family tapestries and ornaments taken from the walls, leaving pale marks behind to show where they had been. There were two tick mattresses on the uncarpeted stone floor that had obviously seen their bedsteads sold out from under them, and the outer room held only three mismatched chairs, an unpainted wooden table, and a carefully arranged stack of pottery plates and mugs.
Three children, a boy of about eleven, and two younger girls, perhaps seven and four, sat close-mouthed and wide-eyed on the edge of the larger mattress.
“I must wait for my man.” Korwina Mender fastened the ties on a small leather pack and handed it to the older boy. “He’s been out same as I have, looking for a place to hide the children. I can’t let him come back to an empty house. Please,” she turned to Hernyn, showing him a face that wouldn’t accept a “no.” “I’ll wait and bring him with me. But please, Hernyn Greystone, take the children now.”
Korwina Mender looked at him, mouth set, the words she wouldn’t say in front of her children shining from her eyes. That her man would come back too late, if he came back at all. That, having seen her children safe, she would wait to share whatever ending fate brought her husband.
Hernyn looked from the children to the door and back again. Time was wasting. “Say your good-byes,” he told Korwina.
The older boy stood and went to his mother, the pack clutched in his hands, his face solemn. He was almost as tall as she, with the same soft brown hair and hazel eyes. Korwina brushed the hair back off his forehead with a steady hand.
“I’ll not be long,” she said. “But you are the head of the family until your father and I come. Watch out for your sisters.” She turned to the two younger children. “Mind your brother, and the good Mercenaries, until…” her voice faltered and she looked back at her son.
“Don’t wait too long, Mama,” the boy said.
“I won’t, my heart.” But the look they exchanged showed that both knew the truth. There was not luck enough left in the air tonight to bring the husband and father home in time, and this was good-bye. The boy swallowed and blinked rapidly, as if he knew that tears would frighten the younger children. But his lips were trembling too much for him to say anything more.
Korwina Mender took her son’s face once more between her hands and shut her own eyes. After a moment she opened them again, and her son’s face was calm, peaceful. He pressed his lips together and nodded, touching his mother’s face lightly. Hernyn looked from one to the other, knowing that something had happened, but unsure what it could be. The boy looked more solid somehow, more whole. She’s Mended him, Hernyn thought, licking suddenly dry lips. By the Caids, she’s Mended him.
“Hernyn Greystone,” the woman said, lifting her hands slightly as the boy led his sisters from the room. “I should tell you, my boy shows signs of Mending, like me. We’ve told no one else.”
“I don’t care if he shows signs of being a vulture plant,” Hernyn said. “Good luck to you, Korwina.”
“And to you, Greystone.”
As soon as they were out on the street, Hernyn picked up the older girl and set off as quickly as the boy, carrying his younger sister, could manage.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Jerrick.”
“Come along, then, Jerrick.”
Close to an hour later, Mender’s children safely stowed in Mercenary House and managing to eat the food Fanryn had set before them with a surprising appetite, Hernyn Greystone was on his way to the Carnelian Dome through back alleys washed clean by the rain. As he sprinted toward the main avenue, he became aware of the sounds of a crowd ahead of him. He slowed, drew the longer of his two swords, and shifted over to the right-hand side of the alley as three men, two carrying long butcher knives, the third with a rusty short sword, ran past him on the left. The last man looked over with a hard eye, but Hernyn’s Mercenary badge showed well in the moonlight that had followed the rain, and he had to stifle the laughter that bubbled up in his throat when he saw how quickly the man’s belligerent look became polite. Instead of saying whatever he had intended to say, the man ducked his head and hurried after his friends.
As he neared Tarkin’s Square in front of the Carnelian Dome, the rumbling he’d heard in the distance grew louder, becoming murmuring, with individual voices raised in shouts Hernyn couldn’t quite make out. It seemed like every corner he passed had grown a knot of three or four men. This was no ordinary crowd, Hernyn thought, his stomach muscles tightening, but a mob in the making.
He slowed his pace still further and sheathed his sword, but kept his hand resting lightly on the grip. Trying to appear nothing more than curious, he sauntered up to the nearest group of men. “Hey, friend,” he said. “What’s caused all this buzz? Are we invaded?”
“Have you not heard?” the man said, his smile wide, plainly pleased to be giving news to a Mercenary Brother. “There’ll be work for you boys, that’s certain. Imrion’s Fallen.”
Hernyn hoped his raised eyebrows disguised the shock he felt.
“The Tarkin’s been poisoned,” the man continued. “They say it’s those cursed Marked.”
Hernyn walked away, his eyes fixed on the towers of the Carnelian Dome, still some blocks away. The distant shouting had become screaming, and he could hear the sounds of metal clashing on metal.
Hernyn began to run.
Dhulyn was getting tired of these very nice rooms. This one had a deep pile rug on the flagstone floor, a highly polished table with two comfortable chairs, a pitcher of wine with matching glazed cups, and a plate of one-bite meat pies. Everything, in fact, to entertain waiting guests except music, windows, and an unlocked door.
She looked up from the vera tiles she was laying out on the table as Parno asked the same question for the third time.
“Alkoryn says he’ll return for us,” she said, giving the same answer she’d given twice already. “Compose yourself in patience, my soul.”
“Caids take it, of course he’ll come,” Parno said. He turned back to the door and stroked the lock with the fingertips of his right hand. “You’re certain we shouldn’t help him a bit ourselves? Meet him halfway, as it were?”
Dhulyn shot him the look she usually reserved for people cheating at tiles and put down the tile she was holding with an audible click. “You’re the expert on politics and Noble Houses,” she said. “You tell me. Tell me you think it’s a good idea for us to wander about the Carnelian Dome hoping to meet our Brother in hallways crawling with servants, pages, and nobility both high and low, to say nothing of the Tarkin’s Personal Guard. Tell me this, and that lock’s as good as picked.” Dhulyn went back to studying the hand she was laying out before Parno had even finished rolling his eyes. She moved a page of swords from its place in a sequence of sword tiles so that it stood next to the seven of staffs. The two tiles, though of different suits, had the same color pattern. Green. There was a hand. A winning hand called Tarkin’s Jade. She looked at the tiles, frowning. She could have sworn that for a moment she’d seen something else, not a pattern exactly, but some total lack of…
“Parno-” she began.
“Shhh. Someone comes.” From habit, Parno moved away from the door to stand where he wouldn’t be immediately visible when it was opened. He needn’t have bothered. The Tarkin’s Guard weren’t Mercenary Brothers, but they weren’t common idiots either; the one who opened the door checked both walls before he allowed the tall young man behind him to enter.
“I greet you,” the young man said. “I am Far-eFar, Senior Page of the Old Tower. The Tarkin Tek-aKet thanks you for waiting so patiently and sends me to ask that you join him at your earliest convenience.”
Even Dhulyn could tell that this was mere politeness for “now and be quick about it.”
“We’re at his lordship’s disposal,” Parno said, with a bow that Dhulyn was sure gave credit to his childhood tutors. He gave his arm to Dhulyn, and she put her fingertips on it, exactly as she’d seen noble ladies do. The Senior Page smiled and, nodding to the guards who remained at their stations, led the Mercenaries out of the room.
“You have no guards with you?” Parno said, as if he were remarking on the weather.
“No need,” Far-eFar said. “I assure you I know the way.”
Dhulyn exchanged a look with Parno behind Far-eFar’s back. This did not have the smell of a trick. So the Tarkin no longer felt the need to guard them? Was this the work of the Tarkina, or had something else happened? They knew there was no point in questioning Far-eFar; no one could be in the Tarkin’s household for long and not have learned when to speak and when to hold his tongue.
Though this did not mean that the young man stayed silent, Dhulyn observed with a grin. He was a well brought up lad, Far-eFar, and he made a polite inquiry about archery that soon had Parno chatting with him as if they were on their way to the supper table at the young man’s home. Dhulyn listened, half-entertained and half-annoyed. That nobles, whether of Houses, Households, or Holdings, couldn’t go ten breaths without speaking was something she already knew. Nor was Parno acting, aping the manners of the noble class; this was the voice, the manner, even the way of walking that he’d practiced for years before he had come to the Brotherhood. Before she had met him on the field at Arcosa, before they had become Partnered.
Dhulyn pressed her lips together. No point in lying to herself; being so close to the lures of Parno’s old life still worried her. Even if her Vision had been of his past and not his future-something she could not be sure of-that did not mean that all would be well for them now. Parno was so sure there was nothing here to entice him, he did not even have his guard up. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. The sooner they were out of these noble lives and back to their own, the better.
The hallways through which they walked became narrower, dating from more austere times when ladies’ skirts were not so wide as fashion had them now. The walls were dressed stone instead of paneling, the ceilings squared instead of arched, and made of inlaid woods instead of painted plaster. Dhulyn gave a silent whistle. Was it possible she’d recognize the room they were heading for?
Far-eFar stopped in front of a heavy oak door reinforced with bands of metal. There was an old lock, the kind that had a key as big as a man’s hand, but one of the smaller, more difficult to pick modern locks had been added above it. Far-eFar rested his long-fingered hand on the heavy iron handle that lay between the two locks.
“I wait here,” he said, as he opened the door for them.
Dhulyn took a step forward and looked around her with interest. There was the table with its cloth, weights sewn into the corners so that breezes wouldn’t disturb it. The fireplace, ready to be lit. The window with its etched pane.
The Tarkin on the floor with a dog’s head in his lap.
“He wasn’t in a lot of pain, not yet,” the Tarkin of Imrion said without looking up. “But he was old, and soon the pain would have become much worse.” He looked up at Dhulyn. “They brought me a dish of kidneys in jeresh sauce,” he said. “I gave them to Berlan. He took my death.”
Dhulyn crouched down next to the Tarkin. She stroked the still-warm muzzle with the backs of her fingers.
“Do you think he would have preferred it otherwise?”
The Tarkin looked at her, frowning, before his countenance cleared. He almost smiled. “No,” he said, his voice sounding much lighter. “Not at all. Thank you.” He gently placed the old dog’s head on the curly wool of the hearth rug and stood, shrugging the stiffness out of his shoulders as he returned to the chair behind his worktable. He stood for a moment, his eyes on his old dog, before waving at the chairs on the opposite side with an open hand.
Parno had long ago given up any expectation of ever again finding himself sitting down in the same room as his distant kin, the Tarkin of Imrion. In the back of his mind a much younger version of himself was making a very childish gesture at his father. Parno grinned, leaned back in his chair, and propped his right ankle on his left knee.
“And so I take it from this that neither you nor the Lady Mar-eMar, nor even the Scholar of Valdomar had anything to do with the Fall of Tenebro House? As the poet says, ‘True in one thing, true in all things?’ ”
“Take whatever you like,” Dhulyn said, shrugging. “Proving it’s a different breed of horse altogether.”
Parno was never sure why Dhulyn, who’d read far more than he and could speak in as cultured a manner as any Library Scholar, often took great care to sound as barbarous as possible. He’d have thought her nervous with the noble classes-if he’d ever seen her nervous. He’d opened his mouth to speak, thinking in any case to take the pressure of conversation with the Tarkin from her, when an urgent tap sounded on the door. From the look of astonishment on the Tarkin’s face, it was a sound he’d never heard in this place.
“My lord.” Far-eFar, pale as a piece of bleached parchment, entered without waiting for a summons. “I beg your pardon, my lord. Alkoryn Pantherclaw the Charter is here saying there are rioters in the streets, proclaiming your death by poison. The Guard Captain’s sent men out to find out what he can.”
“So quickly.” The Tarkin blinked slowly. “My cousin has nerve, I’ll give him that. I’d have waited until I saw the body.”
“It’s possible they won’t let him wait.”
“Ah, yes, the Jaldeans.” The Tarkin turned to the page. “Does the Charter tell us anything about them?”
Far-eFar glanced behind him and bit his lip.
The Tarkin sighed, and stood. “Don’t keep him standing there, Far. Let’s have them in, by all means.”
Parno and Dhulyn came to their feet as the Tarkin stood, moving silently off to one side as the page pushed the door full open, allowing Alkoryn to enter. Parno, catching a glimpse of Hernyn’s Mercenary badge among the soldiers waiting in the hallway, signaled the boy with a flick of his fingers to come in and indicated the corpse of the dog with a tilt of his head. Hernyn nodded, bending over at once to pick up the body and carry it out into the hall. No use having people step on the poor beast, and it was one less thing to distract the Tarkin.
Hernyn slipped back into the room on the heels of the arriving Guard Captain. The man was flushed, out of breath, and accompanied by only three more soldiers in the dark red surcoat of the Tarkin’s Personal Guard. One of these had an arm dangling limply at her side. Numbed by a blow, Parno thought. No blood.
“How bad does it look out there?” he asked Hernyn.
The young Brother shrugged, trying his best to imitate Parno’s relaxed tone. “Bad, but the looting hasn’t started.”
Dhulyn dragged her eyes away from them and addressed her Senior Brother. “What news?”
The older man shook his head. “Worse than I would have expected, given the time,” he said. As quiet as his voice was, everyone in the room stopped to listen. “There were people inside before we could get the gates shut, and the Dome is full of House soldiers.” Alkoryn caught Dhulyn’s eye. “Not just Tenebro either. It seems Lok-iKol has allies in the other Houses. I saw the colors of both Jarifo and Esmolo. The Carnelian Guard is scattered; half of them think the Tarkin is dead.” His disgust at poorly managed security was evident. “As for the Tarkin’s Personal Guard,” he shrugged.
“How could this happen?” Parno said. “Where is the rest of the Dome’s Guard?”
Dhulyn found it more than interesting that such was Parno’s natural tone of command the Guard Captain answered without questioning Parno’s authority to ask.
“The Carnelian Guard is out in the city, helping to quell the rioting in the merchant quarter.”
“Making obvious the purpose of the rioting,” Dhulyn observed under her breath.
“The discontented have always dispersed in a very orderly way upon the arrival of the Carnelian Guard.”
“Of course they have, Din-eDin.” The Tarkin’s even voice silenced everyone. “Making us all the readier to send the Guard out tonight.” The Tarkin drew back his gaze from the distance.
“How many do we have?”
“No more than fifty at the most, my lord,” he said, looking up from the strip of cloth he was using on his wounded guard, strapping the woman’s arm immobile. “But they are scattered through the Dome and some do not know you still live. With us now, a dozen of your Personal Guard, no more.”
He caught the look that passed between the Mercenary Brothers.
“Our security was not lax!” he said, straightening to his feet. “We’re a Personal Guard, not an army. As recently as this morning, all was at peace.”
“The Sleeping God?” Dhulyn murmured.
“Think you’re funny?” Parno said under his breath.
“What do you know, Dhulyn Wolfshead?” Alkoryn said.
Dhulyn gave a pointed glance at the number of people in the room, and waited to speak until she saw her Senior Brother’s face change in acknowledgment of her point that this was neither the time nor place to speak of her secret. “This isn’t a simple coup on the part of an ambitious House, and we all know it,” she said. “This fire has the Jaldeans for fuel. And whatever it is that stands behind them, pushing them forward.” She turned to the Guard Captain. “Your security was not lax,” she told him. “You did not know you were at war. Neither your men, nor your preparations, took the followers of the New Believers into account.”
“My Brother’s right, Tek-aKet. Even had you believed her immediately, our warning may have come too late to do more than save your life. The Carnelian Throne we cannot save, not tonight at any rate. Once you’re upon it again, that will be the time for us to talk about what the duties of the Tarkin’s guards should be.”
Dhulyn did not trouble to hide her grin. The look on the Guard Captain’s face as he looked openmouthed from Alkoryn to the Tarkin and back again was almost worth the trouble that brought them together. She’d wager her second-best sword-or she would if she knew where it was-that the man had never heard anyone speak to the Tarkin that way before. Let alone use the man’s name without his title attached.
“How steadfast are your men, Din-eDin?” Alkoryn asked.
The Tarkin’s raised hand stopped Din-eDin from answering.
“Perhaps that, too, is a question to be answered later, since there is only one way to test it.” Was it possible that the man was smiling? “I am open to suggestions for present action.”
“A strategic retreat, my lord,” Alkoryn said. “Get the Tarkina and yourself to a safe place, and regroup.”
At that moment a disturbance came at the door as the guards let in another man wearing their dark red uniform. He was panting, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, but the blood on his clothes was evidently not his own.
“My lords,” the man spat out as soon as he had gathered breath. “They draw nearer. We will be cut off if we do not move.”
“Nonsense,” Din-eDin said. “We can hold these rooms indefinitely until relief comes.”
“And from where is this relief to come?” Dhulyn’s voice rang out, in stark contrast to Alkoryn’s thin whisper.
In the silence that followed, Dhulyn leaned back against a table and crossed her arms, watching indecision fight its way across the Tarkin’s face. It hurt his pride, she could tell, to abandon his palace, his throne. His jaw firmed, and Dhulyn raised her eyebrows. He would make the grand gesture then, make his stand and die, here and now. She was wondering where their weapons had been taken when the Tarkin’s face softened.
“We will run,” he said, “and see what the future brings us.” He looked around him. “But how can we leave the Dome without bringing our enemies with us?”
Dhulyn shrugged and relaxed into immobility once more, exchanging glances with her Brothers. She saw the same thing on their faces as she knew to be on hers. They would die here or somewhere else; today or on a day to come. They were Mercenaries.
Not that they were in any hurry, she grinned as Parno winked at her. She’d just as soon escape as die trying.
“Captain Din-eDin.” Alkoryn was now very careful to observe the formalities. “Are there enemies between us and the old keep where the summer kitchens once were?”
The Guard Captain was shaking his head, his mouth twisted in thought. “There may be a few, but most are coming in from the front and western gates. They’re in the Throne room, and the Tarkin’s suite of rooms behind it. They’ll seek to isolate us here, but they’d have no reason to go into the old keep. There’s nothing but offices and work-rooms there now.”
“Then there is a way to leave the Dome unseen. But we must spend some of your men to keep your enemies from following.”
The Tarkin grimaced, his handsome face a twisted mask. “How many?”
“You may spend as many as you like,” Din-eDin said. “That is what we are for.”
“You know your men,” Alkoryn said to the Guard Captain. “You tell me how many we’ll need. There are three points that should be held. Let men stand at the two staircases, the Coral and the Ruby, that lead down to the old summer kitchens. Let them hold as long as they may, and then fall back to the intersection where the old serving corridor meets the Onyx Walk. That is the final point. If that is held long enough, we’ll be able to get away. But,” he looked Din-eDin in the eye, “if we are hard-pressed, the men who hold that point will not escape with us. They must stand.”
The Guard Captain stopped nodding. “There’s no escape through the old kitchens.”
“And as long as everyone believes that, we’ll be safe.” Alkoryn said.
“What do you know, old man?” The Tarkin had some hope on his face.
“Enough to get us out of here safely.”
Din-eDin shook his head, “They will know where we went.”
Alkoryn bared his teeth. “They will know where, perhaps, but unless we have no luck at all, they will not know how.”
“Jay.” Din-eDin turned to a young dark-haired man. “Take two men and hold the Ruby Staircase. Taryn, it’s the Coral Stairs for you and two others. Send anyone of ours you see, any you know to be with us, to the old kitchens. You know your orders.”
It was not a question, but the dark-haired guard answered. “Hold our positions as long as we can. Do we fall back, Captain, or would you prefer us to die at our stations?”
He was grinning, but Dhulyn could tell from the set of his jaw that his question was meant seriously.
“Why don’t you improvise, man?” Din-eDin said with a grin of his own that was answered by all the guards. “The rest of you are with us. Stay with the Tarkin, no matter what passes. After we reach the Onyx Walk, you’ll take your orders from Alkoryn the Charter until you’re free of the Dome, and then from the Tarkin himself.”
“Dhulyn Wolfshead will be my voice,” came the harsh whisper of the old Mercenary. “Listen for her.”
The guards nodded, some of them studying the Mercenary woman covertly. A few looked as though they would have felt better if Alkoryn had said Parno was to be his second, not, she knew, because she was a woman, but because she was so obviously an Outlander.
The Tarkin had not moved. He was still leaning against his worktable, arms folded across his chest, frowning down at the spot where his dog should have been lying.
“My lord,” Din-eDin said.
The Tarkin blinked and stood up straight. “Zelianora and the children.”
Dhulyn glanced at Alkoryn and waited to speak until he’d nodded.
“Tell us the way, and if you’ve arms for us, Parno, Hernyn, and I will go for the Tarkina,” she said, “and meet you by the Ruby Stairs.” Or even if you don’t have arms, she refrained from saying out loud. Guard Captain Din-eDin no doubt felt inadequate enough.
Fanryn Bloodhand stepped off the last of the twisted narrow flight of treads cut into the rock deep under Mercenary House and felt her eyebrows rise and her mouth form an “oh” as her lantern illuminated what Alkoryn had called the lower chamber. A grunt reminded her she wasn’t alone and she moved forward out of Thionan Hawkmoon’s way.
“Well,” Thionan said after a minute of staring about her. “Big enough, isn’t it?”
Fanryn nodded. The chamber was a good four spans long, partly natural, and partly cut out of the rock, with beds for at least twenty and space for twenty more.
Holding her lantern higher, Thionan moved deeper into the room. “There’s bedding,” she said, “and the air’s fresh enough. Cold, though.”
“We’ll send one of the youngsters down to start a fire,” Fanryn said, indicating the iron stove along the right-hand wall and the pile of neatly cut logs stacked next to it. “Make sure everything is warm and dry.”
“What is it?” her Partner said, as Fanryn stood still near the bottom of the stairway.
Fanryn shrugged. “I didn’t like sending Hernyn off again like that. One of us should have gone.”
“And spoil the fun of his first real danger? Go on, he wouldn’t have thanked us. And besides,” Thionan said, putting her arm around Fanryn’s waist. “Our orders were to hold the House.”
Fanryn nodded, doing her best to smile. “And with luck, Hernyn’ll come back with whoever it is Alkoryn wants this room made ready for.”
“There you go,” Thionan said, giving her Partner a squeeze. “Let’s get out of here, it’s too blooded cold.”
Dhulyn followed Parno and Hernyn, their feet silent on the winter matting of the corridor, hefting a blade unusually well-balanced, considering the amount of gold and jewels decorating it. She supposed it followed that the nearest weapons to the Tarkin’s private study should come from the Tarkin’s personal armory. Even the dagger she had in her boot was worth more than all her other possessions, books included. Good thing, too, as so far in this campaign they’d made no money at all.
“Parno, my soul,” she said in the voice one used on nightwatch, the voice that didn’t carry. “What happened to that purse of money the old Tenebroso gave us?”
“Gone when I woke up in the cell with our Brothers.”
“Another thing that one-eyed piece of inglera dung owes us,” she muttered under her breath.
They had advanced as far as the end of the final dressed-stone corridor that led away from the Old Tower, and had turned into a wider, wood-paneled hallway when they heard the soft tramp of careful feet, offset by the muted jingle of soldiers’ harness. The Mercenaries slowed, if possible becoming even more silent than they had been before.
Parno raised his brows at her. “For or against?” he asked in the nightwatch murmur.
“Against,” she answered.
“How do you know?” Hernyn said.
Parno shut his eyes and shook his head slightly, but Dhulyn answered. “Their footsteps are hesitant. If they were on our side, they’d know where they were going. Since not for us, against us.”
“They’re closer,” Parno said.
Dhulyn looked around quickly. The hallway was a long one, and they had come too far down it to be sure of getting back to the cross corridor without being seen. And, unlike Tenebro House, there were no hiding places in the hallway itself-the original designer had seen to that, and the later inhabitants had been careful not to disturb it.
“Dhulyn.” She’d known Parno long enough to hear the impatience in his voice.
“Fine. We kill them.”
“I don’t understand,” Hernyn said, stepping into the lead at Dhulyn’s gesture. Dhulyn merely shook her head.
“She doesn’t like to kill people,” Parno said. Hernyn looked at Dhulyn and back at Parno. “It’s an Outlander thing,” Parno added, shrugging.
“Advance,” Dhulyn said, pulling the dagger from her boot. “Or we lose the element of surprise.”
Not that they needed it, she thought moments later. They reached the end of the wide hallway just as their quarry rounded the corner. That they did so without either looking first or sending a man ahead was testament to their carelessness. Hernyn spitted the first one on his sword as quick as breathing, and had the sword out and killed the next man while the first body was still slumping to the floor. Parno kicked the feet out from under a tall, thin man who obviously thought he had the reach on everyone, gutting him with his left-hand short sword as the man went down, while blocking another blow with the short sword in his right hand. The fifth man turned to run, and with a call to warn her Brothers, Dhulyn threw the jeweled dagger and caught the runaway squarely under the left shoulder blade as Parno pulled his sword from the fourth man.
Dhulyn stepped around the bodies and blood on the floor, grasped the jeweled hilt, and pulled the dagger free.
“Throws well, too,” she said, wiping the blade clean on the dead man’s shirt.
“Look what I have.” The dead soldiers had all been wearing badges in the Tenebro colors of black, teal, and dark red pinned to their chests. Hernyn had removed them. “We can wear them as a disguise.”
Dhulyn leaned forward and picked one out of his hand. “This one has blood on it.”
They had not progressed much farther when noises came from behind them. Parno twisted around to listen more carefully, holding up his hand for Dhulyn and Hernyn to be still.
“We’re between them and the Tarkina’s rooms,” he said. “But they sound like they’re coming this way.” He lowered his hand. “Dhulyn? You’re Senior.”
“You wait here for them. Join us if you can. If not, we’ll be back for you.”
“My Brother, I could stay.”
Parno caught Dhulyn’s eye but should have known better; of course she’d seen what he’d seen. The nervous half smile that appeared on Hernyn’s face whenever he stopped controlling his features. Those two Tenebro soldiers could very well be the first people he’d killed since his Schooling had finished. The boy had done well, and he knew it, but was trying to be as offhand about it as his Senior Brothers. Since he was paying more attention to his attitude than his job, this was not the time to put Hernyn in charge of their rear guard.
“My Brother,” Dhulyn said with command in her tone. “This is not your time.” Parno caught her eye and winked.
“In Battle,” he said.
“Or in Death,” they responded as they trotted down the hall toward the Tarkina’s rooms. Parno adjusted the badge pinned to the front of his tunic and stood, feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, shoulders relaxed, swords held out from his body. He released all the breath from his lungs and breathed in, consciously beginning the rhythms of the Eagle Shora. His heartbeat slowed, sounds became clearer, the light brightened.
The first man into the hallway was Dal-eDal Tenebro.
Parno felt his lips peel back from his teeth. The blond man motioned his fellows to wait, stepped forward himself to striking distance and stopped, but Parno wasn’t stupid enough to move. He was already in the best spot to stop them from advancing, close enough to the corner to crowd them as they came around, far enough from the other end to give him room to fall back.
Dal’s eyes flicked to the badge on Parno’s chest.
“We’ve engaged no Mercenary Brothers to fight for us,” Dal said.
“Do all your allies know? Because once I’ve killed you, you won’t be telling anyone else.”
“I would tell you something, Mercenary,” Dal-eDal said, with a noticeable pause before the last word.
“And what might that be? If I recall correctly, the last thing you told me was a lie.”
“This is not. You might wish to know that your Household fell almost two years ago. The Lady Pen-uPen is Householder now.”
Parno managed to stop himself from lowering his sword, but his heart rate did speed up. His father was gone, then. But his sister had been allowed to inherit. He shook his head. “Who do you think you’re speaking to?”
“My cousin, Par-iPar Tenebro. I didn’t remember you at first, but the only time I was here in Gotterang with my father, you were here as well, and you helped me with my pony. My father liked you.”
“The man you speak of was Cast Out,” Parno said, gratified that his voice was steady. “I am Parno Lionsmane the Chanter, I fight with my Brother, Dhulyn Wolfshead.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, man. You’re closer to the main line than I. If Lok-iKol dies, you would be Tenebroso.”
“And Tarkin, too, I suppose?”
Dal shook his head. “With Lok gone, no need for Tek-aKet to die. And the man has children to inherit, besides.” Dal sheathed his own sword and took a half step forward. For a moment Parno saw, not the tormented, torn man Dal had become, but the laughing child he’d once put on a pony. “Think about all you give up!”
This time Parno did lower his sword. Dal wasn’t going to hurt him. Not here anyway, maybe not ever, if he thought there was a chance that Parno would step back into the life he’d left. The life I was Cast Out of. He shrugged one shoulder. When he’d talked of this to Dhulyn-was it only hours ago?-he had no way of knowing such a temptation would come his way. His sister would keep the Household; he’d be taking nothing from her. He thought of his mother, still alive. He could place House Tenebro and all its power behind Tek-aKet and defeat the Jaldeans. His thoughts faltered as he remembered the green shadow that looked from men’s eyes. What power would they need to defeat that?
He thought then of his Schooling, of the feeling in his stomach on the morning of a battle; of the smell of spring as he rode his horse down from the mountains; of the way the air of a foreign country filled his lungs. Of the look on Dhulyn’s face when she turned over the right vera tile. Of her husky voice singing while he played the pipes. Of the smile she smiled only for him. He thought of the years on the road together since Arcosa. In Battle or in Death.
“You have no idea what I’d be giving up,” he said finally.
Hernyn rattled the door latch to the Tarkina’s suite with no results.
“Locked and barred,” he said. Dhulyn rolled her eyes. “And there is no light that I can see.”
“I doubt she’d bar the doors if the rooms were empty.” Dhulyn took her Brother firmly by the sleeve and pulled him to one side. She gave the door three sharp blows with the side of her fist and called out. “Tarkina! It’s Dhulyn Wolfshead. Let us in.”
There was a thump, and a small bang on the far side of the door as the bar was removed and laid to one side. The door cracked open and a woman’s hand beckoned them in. Dhulyn wasted no time entering, and she and Hernyn made short work of rebarring the door. It was good stout work, she saw with satisfaction, the insets for the bar not merely attached to, but part of the structure of the walls. They were as safe as could be-short of treachery or starvation.
Dhulyn almost didn’t recognize the woman who’d let them in. Gone were the Tarkina’s veils, and her palace gown with its fluttering sleeves. In its place Zelianora wore the loose trousers, long-sleeved blouse, tight vest, and short boots of her own desert people. An older woman, similarly dressed, stood at the doorway across the drawing room with a curved knife in her hand. Her surprise must have shown on her face, because Zelianora Tarkina took one look at her and smiled.
“Denobea saw strange soldiers in the courtyard,” she said, “and what with the noises…”
“Strange soldiers?” Dhulyn said to the older woman.
The nurse Denobea cleared her throat and gestured to the arrow niche that served this drawing room for a window. “They wear Tenebro color.” Her accent was the same as the Tarkina’s, but her words more hesitant.
“For them to be in that courtyard, someone had to let them in,” the Tarkina said, sinking into a nearby chair. “One of my husband’s people.”
“Not necessarily.” Hernyn spoke from the doorway to the suite of rooms. “The Tenebros were Tarkins not so long ago. They might know a way in that doesn’t rely on treachery.”
Dhulyn snorted, then rolled her eyes as everyone turned to her. Youngsters. “Say what you like, my Brother, but treachery’s the simpler answer and you know it.”
“I was trying to spare the Tarkina suspicions of her own household,” Hernyn said shyly.
“Please don’t.” The Tarkina stood up. “I may not be a Mercenary, young man, but I prefer not to be told that the wolf at the door is only a pet dog. We must go at once to my husband.”
“It’s under his orders that we’re here, Tarkina.” Dhulyn eyed the other woman’s clothing. “You’re Berdanan, aren’t you, Lady? As you’ve been Tarkina of Imrion for several years, I must ask, do you still keep your travel packs ready?”
“I was Berdanan long before I became Tarkina of Imrion, Dhulyn Wolfshead; our packs are in the bedroom.”
“Get them, then, and we will go.”
The Tarkina spoke softly to the nurse in her own tongue and Denobea ran into the other room, coming out so quickly with two well-balanced travel packs that Dhulyn assumed they must have been taken out of their storage place already. Following her, eyes big in faces too serious for their ages, were a slim girl of perhaps nine, leading a toddler still chubby with baby fat.
“I will carry my son,” Zelianora Tarkina said, picking up a wide shawl of heavy linen and wrapping it around her upper body with practiced ease, tying it to form a sling across her chest. She held out her arms and the small boy let go of his sister’s hand and ran to her. “With the pack on my back, my weight will be even.”
For an instant Dhulyn flashed to the memory of warm wrappings supporting her own legs and back, and the smell of leather and spicy sweat that was her father. She blinked and breathed deeply.
“The little one looks to be asleep, already,” Dhulyn said, a question clearly in her voice.
“I gave Zak valerian, a safe dose,” the Tarkina said. “It seemed the best way to keep him quiet.”
“And what about this lady?” Dhulyn looked down at the nine-year-old girl who looked back at her with the Tarkin’s firm jaw and blue eyes, but her mother’s steadfast gaze.
“This is our daughter, Bet-oTeb,” the Tarkina answered.
“The Tarkin-to-be.” Dhulyn bowed to the child.
“Exactly,” the child said in a soft, clear voice that only wavered the slightest bit.
“Are you armed, Lady?” Dhulyn said, doing her best not to smile.
For answer, the child drew a knife long enough to be sword-sized for her out of a stiff sheath at her waist.
“And do you know how to use it, Tarkin-to-be?”
“I’ve trained with the Personal Guard since I was six,” the child said.
“Then, if it please you, Lady, you shall walk by your mother, and help to keep your sibling alive.”
The child nodded. “It pleases me.”
Dhulyn bowed again.
Hernyn coughed from his post by the barred door. “Someone comes.”
“I’m getting tired of this.” Dhulyn drew her sword and motioned the Tarkina back toward the inner rooms.
“Dhulyn, my heart.” The voice was unmistakable, even through the door.
“Parno,” Hernyn said, sheathing his sword and helping Dhulyn with the bar on the door. Parno for certain, she thought, but something had happened. His voice sounded thick, as if he were about to start a cold.
“Someone could be forcing him,” the Tarkina said.
Dhulyn looked back over her shoulder. “No,” she said. “Someone couldn’t.”
Parno came into the room out of breath, and startled Dhulyn by taking her immediately in his arms.
“My soul,” she said, with the little breath he left her. “The enemy.”
He let her go, whirled to face the door, and drew his right-hand sword all in one movement.
“Not just now,” Dhulyn said, “but at any moment.” She turned back into the room. “Lady Bet-oTeb, Nurse Denobea, my Partner, Parno Lionsmane the Chanter.”
“Ladies.” Parno gave his best bow and accepted the young Tarkin-to-be’s acknowledgment. “Do you know the fastest way to the Onyx Walk?”
Din-eDin left the three volunteers at the top of the Ruby Stair and led Dhulyn and her charges down the Onyx Walk to the corridor that serviced the old summer kitchens.
“The Tarkin has gone ahead with Alkoryn Pantherclaw,” he told them, as they reached the opening of the service corridor. “You are to join him immediately, Lady Tarkina. He will send back the volunteers for this spot.”
“No need for them, I’ll stand with you.” Every head in the corridor, even that of little Bet-oTeb, turned to look at Hernyn.
“Demons and perverts, Hernyn. There’s no need.” Parno grasped the younger man’s arm. “Dhulyn, tell him there’s no need.”
Dhulyn looked at Hernyn but waited, knowing the young man had to speak. For the first time since they’d made it to safety after their escape from Tenebro House, he met her eyes squarely, and held them. His glance didn’t fall away in embarrassment after a few blinks. She saw strength there now, courage and resolve. It seemed what was left of the School boy had faded away, and Dhulyn saw the man, her true Brother.
“It’s for me to do,” Hernyn said. “Not for your sake, my Brother, for my own.”
Dhulyn clasped Hernyn’s hands in a firm grip. “Captain Din-eDin, if my Brother, Hernyn Greystone, called the Shield, will stay,” she said, still holding Hernyn’s eyes with her own, “you will need no others.”
Hernyn nodded, once down, once up, taking her words as they were meant, as a blessing.
“I welcome the Shield’s assistance,” Din-eDin said. He turned to the Tarkina. “You will be safe with these Brothers, my lady, and the Lord Tarkin.”
“Din-eDin, I thank you.”
“There is no need, my lady, but you are welcome.”
The Tarkina stepped forward from her spot between Parno and the nurse Denobea and kissed both Din-eDin and Hernyn Greystone the Shield on the cheek. The child, Bet-oTeb stepped out also, though not before the nurse made a move to stop her. She gave one hand to each of the two men.
“Thank you,” she said, her child’s voice ringing softly against the cold stone. “Thank you for my life.”
Oh, yes, Dhulyn thought as the two warriors-Mercenary and Guard-blushed and ducked their heads to the child before them. She’ll be Tarkin one day, and people will fall over themselves to follow her. Only then did the child turn, and let her mother and her nurse lead her up the corridor toward the kitchen.
Dhulyn embraced the younger Mercenary and said. “We will tell your tale, Brother.”
Din-eDin waited until the nobles were out of earshot. “My Tarkin is in your hands, Mercenaries. See that you hold him.”
“Mercenary House will know where to find us, if you should live through this day.”
“Can you close the passage behind you?”
Dhulyn looked to Parno, who shrugged.
“If you can, close it,” Din-eDin said. Dhulyn nodded, gave Hernyn’s shoulder one last squeeze, and ran down the corridor toward the old kitchen.