“DO I HAVE TO RIDE?” Mar asked from her seat on the windowsill. The Bootmaker’s Inn had been almost full, and they had ended up all sleeping in the same room, though not, this time, in the same bed.
Wolfshead looked up from lacing the cuff of her leggings. “Of course not, if you don’t wish it,” was all she said.
“Then I don’t wish it,” Mar said.
Wolfshead nodded, straightened to her feet, plucked her sheathed sword off the bed, and hung it on her belt harness. “Not that comfortable riding yesterday?” she asked.
Mar shrugged. “Maybe if I’d been dressed differently. I kept thinking people were looking at me and wondering what a girl dressed in a shop clerk’s worn-out clothing was doing on a horse.” She looked up to find the Wolfshead watching her, head tilted to one side.
“You’re not the Weaver’s girl anymore, that’s certain. But remember that nobility can insulate as well as expose.”
Mar looked down, nodding. She knew what the Wolfshead said was true. But, like so many things lately, it didn’t make her feel any better.
“Come,” Wolfshead said, her voice soft and kind. “There’s no harm in being a weaver’s girl for a little while longer.”
Lionsmane turned from gossiping with the innkeeper just as Mar entered the yard with Wolfshead.
“All ready, then?” he said, turning toward them with a smile.
The innkeeper shook his head, grinning. “If I’d known you had a cousin of the Tenebros with you, I’d have charged you more for your room.”
“Why do you think we didn’t tell you?”
The man was still chuckling when Mar followed Lionsmane through the inn’s gated entrance out into a wide city street. The Wolfshead, for once, was bringing up the rear, with Mar safely tucked between them.
“It’s a long walk, as walking goes, from this quarter to Tenebro House. You’re sure you don’t want us to get you a horse?” Lionsmane looked back at her over his left shoulder.
Mar shook her head. “I’d rather walk,” she said. “I’d like to see something of the city.” They wouldn’t push her, she knew. They would realize that she was making delays out of nervousness. The Lionsmane was humming and whistling as if there was something about cities that brought out a spirit of fun in him.
As they walked, the narrow street crossed others and widened into squares every now and then, some with public fountains and others with neighborhood ovens. The business of the day had already started for many of the people, and setting aside the difference that sheer numbers meant, Mar saw much that was familiar to her. Shops, homes, and taverns being swept out, stalls being set up in the squares, and merchants laying out their wares. These were not like the large farmers’ market she’d known in Navra, but neighborhood places, where people came to do their marketing every day.
“Oh, look,” Mar said, as she turned aside to watch two women pulling strands of ever thinner dough from hand to hand, doubling and twisting the strands until they were almost as fine as hairs before hanging them to dry on racks made of thin wooden dowels.
“Noodle makers,” Lionsmane said, stopping beside her. “Much more popular than rice or potatoes here. They say you eventually get tired of eating noodles, but it’s never happened to me.”
After a while the streets got wider, the market squares larger and noisier, and Mar began to wish for a horse after all. Lionsmane and Wolfshead moved through the crowd as if they were alone on the trail. Light glinted off the little beads and bits of metal woven into Wolfshead’s narrow blood-red braids. Mar glanced ahead at Lionsmane. They both seemed so relaxed, striding along bareheaded and empty-handed. Both had put away their traveling leathers and were dressed once more as Mar had seen them when they had first met. Both in loose-fitting trousers tucked into half boots, the Lionsmane in a light brown tunic embroidered with gold threads that caught and reflected the gold in his hair, the Wolfshead in her quilted vest, bright with beading and ribbons, her arms bare, her skin white in the chill morning air. For the most part the two Brothers smiled as they spoke to each other and to Mar, pointing out here a spotted horse like Wolfshead’s Bloodbone, there a seller of spiced rolls that Lionsmane insisted on buying, and pausing at one point to watch a group of children play a skipping game. But Mar noticed that the Wolfshead in particular scanned the people around them, as though she were looking for something or someone in particular, not just checking for possible danger. Mar followed one especially narrow glance at a redheaded man before she realized what it was the Wolfshead looked for.
Red Horsemen, Mar thought. She’s looking for other Red Horsemen.
The streets became more crowded as businesses opened and serious marketing began. Still, Mar noticed that people seemed to clear a path for the Mercenaries without being aware of it.
At one point she saw three people dressed in the dark green of the Marked. There were a few stony looks, but most of the passersby ignored them. With the crowds, entertainers appeared, and after so many days on horseback Mar was grateful for the rest stops, once to watch a particularly good juggler, and once a person who seemed to be swallowing swords. Mar turned for one last look as they continued on their way.
“How does she do that?”
“Sword’s dull,” Wolfshead said, as if that explained everything.
“Oh, and another thing…” Lionsmane was imparting a steady commentary on manners and protocol over his shoulder as they walked. Mar swallowed, her head was starting to spin.
“Parno, for Sun and Moon’s sake, leave the Dove alone. You told her all this on the trail, and she’s asked you all the questions she can think of. If she hasn’t memorized the eating tools by now, she’s not going to the next few spans.”
Mar flashed the older woman a grateful smile, hoping it didn’t look as stiff as it felt. Now that she was on the point of putting Lionsmane’s instructions to use, Mar was finding it vastly less entertaining than it had seemed on the road. And perhaps less to be wished for than it had seemed in Navra.
“Have we much farther to go?” Her feet hurt, and her legs weren’t used to walking. Part of her wanted to get there, to get it over with. Part of her hoped that this walk would never end.
Dhulyn was enjoying herself as much as she could in a city-fine places to visit, she’d always thought, but you wouldn’t want to live in one. They crossed a broad avenue and turned uphill, entering a sizable square where three streets met, and the corner of a warehouse butted up against a half-ruined garden wall. Here, such a crowd had gathered that it almost blocked the passage through the area entirely. A man in red-and-brown robes was standing on what was left of the wall, raised above the crowd to about the height of a person sitting on a horse. Dhulyn wondered if this particular bit of wall had been chosen for just that reason. Get the people to see you as an authority, either noble or military.
And the man was a Jaldean priest, no doubt about it, though certainly the youngest one Dhulyn had ever seen. Hair and beard close-cropped. High forehead and a spot showing where he would be bald in a few years. A much older man in robes of the same colors stood on the ground near the speaker’s feet. Dhulyn slowed to let some of the people coming the other way pass by on her left side. She’d thought she’d seen a flash of green as the older man’s head had turned away, but she couldn’t be sure unless he turned back again. The crowd closest to the priests certainly looked slack-jawed and blank-faced, but they did not display any of the destructive behavior she and Parno had seen in the mob in Navra.
Mar’s hand tugged slightly on the front of Dhulyn’s vest as the press of people moved them farther apart, recalling Dhulyn to her charge.
“Just keep moving,” Dhulyn told her. “Keep your hand on Parno, don’t worry about me.” She smiled when Mar took hold of Parno’s sword belt before letting go of Dhulyn’s vest. Smart girl. It was hard to navigate in this big a crowd if you didn’t know how. Easy to lose your nerve.
“Now there’s no doubt,” the young Jaldean was saying, “that the Caids knew how to awaken the Sleeping God. And there’s no one who has seen the Dead Spots, where the land is blackened and sterile, melted and fused like glass, who doesn’t know what happens when the Sleeping God awakes.”
Dhulyn raised her eyebrows, but kept her grimace from moving so far as her lips. She remembered, years before, walking through a market square with Dorian the Black, and stopping to listen to an old man, a Jaldean priest. All that old man had talked about was how the Sleeping God kept watch always in his dreams, ready to awaken and protect everyone from harm. She’d still been a child then-at least in some ways-with a child’s way of looking at things, and she’d wondered just how blooded bad things had to get for the blooded god to wake up and help people.
Today’s priest seemed to have come a long way from that.
“And we think-we hope-that knowledge has died with the Caids, but has it? I ask you, my friends, has it?” Several voices called out “no,” but the man continued as if he hadn’t been answered. “We can’t know for certain, and that’s the fact. But we can take precautions, we can take care.
“We don’t know that there are snakes in the grass, but we can thump the ground with our walking sticks as we go, to be safe. We don’t know that the Cloud People are going to rob the caravan, they say they won’t…” Here the man smiled and shook his head as if he could say a thing or two about that, and smiles and winks passed through the listening crowd as if they, too, knew something about the real behavior of Cloud People. “But we can hire guards to keep ourselves safe.
“Now, the Marked say they’re not trying to awaken the Sleeping God, that they don’t even know how. And many of you have Marked among your neighbors, kind, helpful people and they tell you they don’t know how to awaken the Sleeping God, and you think it must be true. You don’t see how they can be so dangerous and so wicked.” The Jaldean pursed his lips and nodded, as if conceding the point. “But we know,” his voice fell like a hammer, “that the Marked are the descendants of the Caids. Where else would their special talents come from, remember, talents that can’t be taught to all or any-talents that draw on the Sleeping God’s power, draining it, bringing him ever closer to wakefulness. No my friends, however kind and helpful they might be as individuals, as your neighbors, as your friends, the Marked are a danger to you, and a danger to themselves. They must stop. We must learn to do without their aid, their deceptive aid, in order to preserve the world. We must take steps to save ourselves. And to save them too! All they have to do is come to the shrine to be blessed. All they have to do is come to the shrine to be cleansed, to be purified. Let us help them to keep us all safe…”
The Jaldean’s comfortable tone, the throaty murmurs of the crowd, died away as Parno led them slowly out of the square.
“Sometimes,” Mar murmured to Dhulyn, “they seem to make sense.”
“Yes,” Dhulyn’s tone was carefully neutral. “Yes, they do.” In public they were all tolerance and forgiveness, Alkoryn Pantherclaw had said, and Dhulyn saw what he meant. That’s what makes them so dangerous, she thought. Much of what was said seemed so logical, people tended not to question the rest. Dorian had always said to be careful of logic. While one was using logic on you, another was stealing your purse. Or slitting your throat. She met the eye of a man behind her, also trying to leave the square, who murmured something under his breath and shook his head, holding Dhulyn’s eye. She kept her face impassive, but did not turn away.
The streets became wider still, and better paved, with fewer people on them and no one, now, in the dark green of the Marked. Walls of undressed stone lined with the doorways of shops and workplaces gradually turned into unbroken whitewashed stucco. At one point bells started ringing the midmorning watch.
“Do you recognize that tune, my heart?” Dhulyn called out.
“I’ve heard it, certainly,” Parno said. “But I don’t place it.
Dhulyn began to sing.
“Weeping lass, weeping lass,
Where have you been?
Weeping lass, weeping lass,
Walk right in.”
Mar joined in, her rounded notes a counterpoint to Dhulyn’s throaty purr,
“Step to corner, step to fire…”
Dhulyn laughed. “You haven’t sung that one before, Dove. I’d forgotten that. We used to sing a verse like that when I was a very young child, though not those words. At least, I don’t think so. Try that again, Mar, and perhaps my childhood words will come back to me.”
Halfway through a second verse, their voices faltered as a burly man running to fat went past on a roan horse being led by a servant. He turned his head to watch them as he passed. The servant and the horse didn’t look. Dhulyn laughed and began to whistle the tune.
When they were still a street away from Tenebro House, Dhulyn called to Parno and drew her companions to one side.
“Well, little Dove,” Dhulyn said, the corner of her mouth lifting. “This is your last chance. Do we go on?”
The girl looked from one to the other. Parno raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Dhulyn hadn’t consulted him, knowing he would be with her on this. Better the girl should freely choose.
Mar nodded absently, her eyes focused somewhere between the two Mercenaries. She parted her lips, thought better of what she was about to say, and shut her mouth again. “What about your pay?” she asked finally.
“We’d want to be paid, rightly enough,” Dhulyn told her. “But in this case we’re not particular by whom. Plenty of work to be found in this city now that we’re here. For you and us.” Dhulyn smiled, no need for the Dove to know what Alkoryn had told them. “We could wait to be paid if you decide so. Or simply,” she said, her voice more gentle, “we can wait if you need time to be certain.”
Mar nodded again. She looked up, meeting Dhulyn’s eyes directly. “Suppose I go to my House, I might still change my mind,” Mar said.
“And you would have been paid, but not by me.” She grinned in response to Dhulyn’s wolf’s smile. “In the meantime, they sent for me, and I have come. There is no way for me to be more certain.”
Mar turned her head away. If it were possible, Dhulyn would have said that the girl’s pallor had increased. She looked almost green in the morning light. Dhulyn caught Parno’s eye, but he only shrugged, and set off toward Mar’s House.
Tenebro House was a walled enclave, high up in the streets near the Carnelian Dome, almost but not quite a part of the Tarkin’s grounds. The huge doors of the gateway, large enough to admit carriages, were heavy wood reinforced with iron bars. But there was a pass door in the right-hand leaf, with a pull chain beside it. Mar took a deep breath and pulled the chain, jumping back at the sudden loud rattle. The two Mercenaries stood, hands resting on hilts, looking over Mar’s shoulders as she waited. After a long interval, the pass door opened, revealing an unarmed man with another stone wall perhaps a half span behind him.
Not any movement of face or body revealed Dhulyn’s alert interest. She had read that many of the older Noble Houses were doubled-gated, and the plans had shown her that Tenebro House was one, but she had never seen such a thing with her own eyes. There would be two walls, she knew, with a gate in each, offset so that forcing one gate could not force the other. Rather, attackers could be trapped between the inner and the outer wall, easy prey for anyone standing on the inner battlements.
Dhulyn looked with even more interest at the man who stood so calmly within the pass door. This would be the Steward of Walls, a House’s equivalent of the Captain of the Guard, a responsibility so weighty that once it had been accepted, he could never leave the House’s walls again. It was part of his undertaking to inspect any who entered the House for the first time. It was he who decided whether to open the pass door or gate. And at times he staked his life on his judgment, since the inner gate was opened only when he allowed it. Intruders might kill him, but killing him would not open the inner gate.
This Steward was a tall, lean man all arms and legs, dressed like a minor nobleman in soft woolen leggings tucked into short boots, linen shirt with wide sleeves and a blue silk tunic. A teal-and-black crest was sewn into the left shoulder of his tunic, the colors of House Tenebro. His dark hair showed some gray, and the skin had begun to turn to paper around his eyes. But those eyes were still a sharp crystal blue. He stood calm, his wide mouth faintly smiling, a man still hard. Had he been a Brother, he would have many years of good service still to give. The man took time to appraise Parno and Dhulyn, their Mercenary badges, their swords ready to draw, their proximity to their plainly dressed charge. His gaze lingered on Dhulyn. She could feel herself starting to smile. He did not seem surprised by what he saw, but then, he did not seem like a man who could be easily surprised.
“In what way can I assist you?” he said, inclining his head to Mar.
“I am Mar-eMar, a daughter of this House.”
Nothing changed on the man’s face. He would have seen that her clothes, while well made, were nothing more than serviceable by the standards of a Noble House, that those clothes had seen plenty of recent service, and that she and her guards had collected a portion of dust walking in the streets. His face showed nothing of this. “You’ll forgive me, Lady,” was all he said. “I do not know you.”
Mar drew up her shoulders. “I am the daughter of the Lady TamuTam, who was the daughter of the Lady Wat-aWat, who was the daughter of the Lord Dow-oDow. I am summoned by the Tenebroso Lady Kor-iRok, who is my House.” Mar reached into the front of her tunic and pulled out the letter that Dhulyn had seen and read in Navra. Mar held out the parchment so that the seal could be seen.
The man had started to nod long before Mar had finished her account. “You are expected and welcome, Mar-eMar Tenebro. I am Karlyn-Tan, your Steward of Walls. Pray, enter.” He bowed his head more deeply and stepped aside to let them into the space between the doors. The pass door closed behind them, and bars were thrown before the inner gates-a good five paces to the left-opened to reveal the interior courtyard.
As soon as the inner gates had closed behind them, what little street noise existed here so close to the Carnelian Dome faded completely. The courtyard was much larger than had seemed possible from the street, holding a fountain-dry at this time of year-as well as several small trees. To the left and right, doors and windows indicated quarters built into the walls for the guards and outer servants who did not live in the House. Across the yard and up three broad flagstone steps were the double doors of the House itself, elaborate carvings and metal inlays presenting the emblems of the Tenebro. No hinges were showing. That confirmed the detail shown on Alkoryn’s plans. A banner hung from a standard, indicating that the Tenebroso, the head of the House, was in residence.
The courtyard was large enough to seem uncrowded, though there were at least twenty people passing through it as the two Brothers entered with their charge. A few of these were guards, but most were obviously servants of the House, lingering to see who was coming in, looking for excuses to pause in their work. Even the children playing with wooden balls in the far corner left off and came to see what the visitors were about. Unlike Karlyn-Tan, all of these wore a kind of livery with the house colors of teal and black showing on collars and cuffs.
The Steward of Walls led them across the yard.
“You may wait here if you wish,” he said, turning to address Dhulyn and Parno. “You have Brothers within these walls, and they can be summoned to attend you.”
“We are not yet discharged,” Parno said.
“Of course.” A slight bow. “In that case, I must ask that you leave your weapons here.” He motioned, and one of the watching guards approached. Dhulyn smiled her wolf’s smile, drew her sword, and presented it with a flourish. A broad smile passed over the Steward’s lips as he accepted her weapon with a bow. She could like this fellow, Dhulyn thought. Only a special kind of man retained his sense of humor in this position. Parno handed his sword without ceremony to the waiting guard.
The Steward waited a moment more, but neither Mercenary moved. “I’m afraid I must ask for all of your weapons,” he said.
Dhulyn’s own smile became more pronounced. “You could strip us naked, and still not have all of our weapons,” she said, lifting her left eyebrow.
“Lady, I would wager that was so.” Karlyn-Tan held her gaze with his very clear blue eyes as the people in the courtyard gave up any pretense of passing through and began to gather more closely around them.
Parno coughed. Dhulyn gave him a sidelong look, but he was only gazing at her blandly. She shrugged and nodded. They’d done this before, and they knew how to make a show of it-and that making a show of it would enhance their reputation without frightening anyone. She and Parno began to shed weapons like a wet dog sheds water. Between them they disposed of three knives, one almost long enough to qualify as a short sword, four thrust daggers, and two wrist knives and five throwing stars. They paused. The crowd of House people began to whisper among themselves.
The children crept closer still and poked at each other. Parno winked at the nearest, stroked his now well-established beard, reached into the back of his tunic, and pulled out a silvered throwing quoit. Dhulyn rolled her eyes to the heavens, as though calling on the Outlander gods of Sky and Rain to witness Parno’s foolishness. Parno shrugged and smiled sheepishly, making the children giggle. The Steward grinned and said nothing. People in the small crowd surrounding them muttered and Dhulyn heard the chink of coin. She reached over her shoulder with her left hand, pushing it down the back of her vest as if to reach a bad itch, and drew out a tiny hatchet. Parno looked thoughtful, drew four black metal tubes from the top of his boot and added them to the pile.
The Partners looked at each other. Parno frowned. Dhulyn shrugged, unbuckled the wallet at her waist and simply added it, belt and all, to the pile. Parno nodded. They turned their attention back to the Steward of Walls, eyes wide and innocent, hands clasped behind their backs, looking almost exactly as they had looked before. There were grins and murmurs of admiration among the watching gatemen, and a small child whistled and started to clap.
“What, no maces, pikes, or longbows?” the Steward’s voice was dry, but his eye sparkled. Someone laughed aloud.
“Awkward to carry through the street, don’t you think?” Dhulyn said, her eyebrows innocently raised. “It would be better if these were not touched,” she added more seriously, indicating the collection of cutting edges and sharpened points piled on the ground beside them. “Some have more edges than are apparent to the untrained eye.”
Still smiling, shaking his head, Karlyn-Tan handed Dhulyn’s sword to the young woman who had stepped forward to assist him. “I doubt you would find many willing to try,” he said. “I’ll see that they’re kept safe.” He gestured, and the young woman bowed.
When they turned once more to the House door, it was to find a plainly but richly dressed woman standing on the bottom step, her House crest sewn into the left shoulder of her overtunic. Karlyn-Tan turned and stepped closer to Mar. “Lady Mar-eMar,” he said. “May I introduce your Steward of Keys?” This was a small woman whose slimness made her appear taller. The skin of her face was smooth and unlined, her hair completely covered by the embroidered headdress that marked her position and status. Dhulyn looked closely at her. Tradition had it, Parno had explained, that the Steward of Keys could never leave the House itself. This lowest doorstep was as close as the woman would ever come to the world outside.
“Welcome, Mar-eMar,” the woman said. She bowed from the waist. “I am Semlin-Nor, your Steward of Keys.” Her voice was sharply rough, like metal that had been through a fire. “If you will follow me, I will take you to the Tenebroso.”
Noises in the courtyard had drawn Gundaron the Scholar out of the narrow room he used as his private study to the window built into the wall outside his door. At first he couldn’t follow what was happening three stories below him. A small crowd of idlers were gathering around two, or perhaps three, people in the courtyard. Gundaron recognized Karlyn-Tan standing to one side, but… was it jugglers or actors? It seemed there was some kind of performance. Conjurers? Gundaron leaned out as far as he dared through the window, taking a firm grip on the sill. He’d always loved conjurers, ever since one had come to the farm when he was a child and made all the kittens in the house appear and disappear.
These two-no, three, that young girl in dusty clothing was definitely with them-were performing that old favorite, pulling improbable things out of their clothing. The slighter of the two conjurers, a red-haired woman-
Gundaron sucked in his breath, his hand going to cover his mouth. These weren’t conjurers at all, they were Mercenary Brothers; he’d seen the woman’s badge clearly when she twisted to pull something out from between her shoulder blades. A pair of Mercenaries being admitted into the House. One of them a tall, redheaded woman.
The Red Horseman. It had to be. Dhulyn Wolfshead herself, and much earlier than he would have expected. She and her Partner must be everything their Brother here at Tenebro House had said they were. And she was a Red Horseman; no one could be in any doubt about that. He could see her natural southern pallor from here, and no dye would get hair quite that blood-red color, even if a Mercenary Brother would trouble to dye it. He let his hands fall from his face and dragged in a lungful of air. Finally, a chance to prove his theories. There’d been nothing new added to scholarship on the Marked since Holderon’s day. Nothing until now.
Gundaron rapidly reviewed the list of questions he would ask her. He was fairly certain the books he needed to refer to were still in the large workroom where he’d first assembled them when he’d learned of Dhulyn Wolfshead’s existence. His methods might be considered a bit unorthodox by the Libraries if they ever came to light, but the benefit to the body of knowledge was incalculable.
He blinked back to the present moment when he realized that the activity in the courtyard had changed. Karlyn-Tan had taken the hand of the young girl with the Brothers and was presenting her to Semlin-Nor. The girl was standing awkwardly, her hand looking stiff in Karlyn’s grasp, but she was acknowledging Semlin’s bow very bravely, very properly, like a frightened but well-brought-up child.
A chill threaded its way up Gundaron’s spine. This was the Lady Mar-eMar? She’s just a girl, he thought. Younger than me. He rubbed his mouth with shaking fingers. For some reason, when he’d told Lok-iKol about her, he’d imagined Mar to be an older woman. Unconsciously, he’d thought of her as a stout matron, rather like the cook’s first assistant, the woman who made those delicious pastries. A woman well able to look out for herself. Not this, this child.
Gundaron the Scholar found himself for the first time in his life hoping he was wrong, that the girl wasn’t a Finder after all. That no Jaldean would become interested in that bright, heart-shaped face and those eyes that showed dark blue even from this distance. His eyes moved to the Mercenary Brothers, and what was clearly a pile of weapons beside them on the flag stones of the courtyard. His plans would remove their protection from the girl. If he called out now-but it was already too late, wasn’t it? The gates were closed, the Brothers disarmed.
The wheels Gundaron had set in motion those long months ago couldn’t be stopped now.
When the Steward of Keys turned and pushed open the right-hand House door, it opened inward, just as the plans had indicated. Parno gave Dhulyn a wink and nodded at the space now visible. Behind the doors was a landing only deep enough to allow the doors to swing open, and which gave access to a staircase on either side. If both doors were opened at once, the stairs would be blocked, and those entering would find themselves in a shallow room open to the outside. Only a handful of people-say, three if they were carrying both shields and swords-could enter at a time, and whether or not their business was legitimate, they could go no farther unless they had opened only one door.
An invading force which could only enter three at a time would be cut to pieces on the stairs.
Dhulyn glanced back at Parno and nodded, smiling. Like him, she had Alkoryn’s floor plans in her head, and was even more likely to notice a certain paranoid pattern.
They followed the Steward of Keys up the left staircase. Dhulyn walked immediately behind the woman, with Mar behind her, and Parno serving as rear guard. The hall at the top of the stair was narrow, and they continued to walk along in single file. Parno grinned after they had been led past the third window high up on a wall. From the outside, it would be impossible to tell which of these windows opened onto rooms and which into empty space. When he was a young boy in his Household, he had had a large wooden puzzle that could be put together into four different mazes. Tenebro House was like that puzzle, Parno realized, if you took all the mazes and stacked them, one on top of the other.
Finally, the halls they walked through widened, and the walls began to be covered by tapestries and paneling. They were shown through several carefully furnished public rooms, one blue with dozens of mirrors, one gold with groupings of armchairs, one dark enough that Parno couldn’t guess its predominant color, until finally the Steward of Keys led them up another narrow stone staircase and into a large chamber made small with furnishings. Its unseen floor was completely covered with rugs and carpets, piled to several thicknesses, and its walls were hung with more rugs and the same kind of embroidered cloths that had appeared in the halls. Parno thought the effect not unlike one of Dhulyn’s vests, only duller. The other parts of the House had been cool, the stone still retaining the cold of winter, as it would until summer truly began, but this room was noticeably hot.
Even without having seen the maps and floor plans, the Mercenaries would have known that they were now at no great distance from their starting point at the House doors. It was much too easy to get turned around in the heat of battle for any of the Brotherhood to have a poor sense of direction. No very careful observation was actually needed to tell them that they had been escorted around the long way. Each had taken care to look about them as they went, had done their best to imitate Mar’s wide-eyed awe. Their country-cousin act was wasted on Semlin-Nor, who did not even turn her head as she walked ahead of them, but Lionsmane and Wolfshead knew that there would be spyholes in the walls. The age of paranoia is never really over.
At first, all they could see in the room was a lean, dark-haired man standing with his hand on the back of a large chair. His age was probably half again as much as Parno’s. He was richly dressed in dark blue, his fashionably short surcoat teal and black with an edge of deep red at least two fingers wide. When he turned his head to look at them as they entered, the light showed a well-healed scar on the left side of his face where someone had struck him with a mailed fist and taken out his eye. When that cold blue gaze turned in his direction, Parno shifted his own eyes away.
The man might have been considered good-looking before his disfigurement. But maybe not.
Parno at first thought him the sole occupant of the room, totally out of place amid the dainty padded chairs, the small stands, and the scattered tables with their carved legs. But gradually he realized that the chair over which the one-eyed man hovered protectively had an occupant. An elderly woman with a scroll in her hands sat in it, close to the brazier table whose quilted cover had been thrown back to expose the glowing coals within. The lady was small, thin, and elegantly dressed in stiff brocaded velvet. There was no gray in her golden hair, but her amber-colored eyes were clouded with age. Neither the one-eyed man nor the old woman seemed at all surprised to see them, though the Steward of Keys said nothing before ushering them in. Of course, their roundabout route had allowed someone else to reach this room ahead of them and prepare the way. Parno watched carefully, but he couldn’t see that either of the Tenebros showed any special interest in the Mercenary Brothers.
“You are Mar-eMar,” the old woman said in a voice low and still vibrant, though faded. “I am Kor-iRok.”
As if there were any doubt, the mirror reversal of the woman’s name declared her the Tenebroso, the House.
Without speaking, Mar bowed low to kiss the older woman’s hand, but remained standing. Parno raised an eyebrow in approval. At least the child remembered some of what he had taught her.
“This is my first child, Lok-iKol.”
The Kir. Bet you he’s tired of waiting for his mother to die, Parno thought, as the man reached up to touch his eye patch in what was obviously an unconscious tic.
The one-eyed man bowed, but made no move to take Mar’s hand, though as Kir, heir to the House, he might have had her kiss his hand as well. “I greet you, Cousin,” he said. His voice was low, musical. Mar inclined her head, trying to imitate the motion the older woman had made.
Parno’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth twitched. Dhulyn kept her face impassive and her eyes moving between the people and the covered walls. She’d be looking for the secret entrance the plans showed in this room.
“Mar-eMar will have the green room in the south tower, Keys,” the Tenebroso said. “You may have her luggage and her maids sent there.”
“The Lady Mar-eMar arrived without maids, Tenebroso.” Semlin-Nor did not comment on the sparsity of Mar’s luggage. “The two I have assigned her await in her rooms.”
“You have come without servants? What possessed you?” The words lacked any emotion, but it was evident her indifference was a symptom of her true physical weakness, not her lack of interest. Her face was capable of expressing the patronizing dismay that her voice was not strong enough to convey.
“As you see, my Mother, I have nevertheless arrived safely.” Mar addressed the old woman formally, as a member by blood of the House. The corners of Dhulyn’s mouth moved.
“And these persons?”
“Of the Brotherhood, my Mother. My guides and guards. To be paid upon my safe delivery.”
“Of course, of course.” The Tenebroso searched the table at her side, sifting through numerous small ornaments, two books, several curling sheets of parchment, setting to one side two heavy bracelets, before finding a small pouch of embroidered suede. Dhulyn and Parno both recognized this dumb show, meant to underscore the Tenebroso’s distance from such crass matters. Of course the woman knew exactly where the purse was. It would have been brought to her while they were being led around the long way. The Steward of Keys moved forward to take it from the Tenebroso’s hand, before presenting it to Parno. He kept his eyes down, and his face lowered as he stepped forward a pace to take it.
Dhulyn’s eyes flicked from Parno to the old lady seated at the table, and back again. There was something in the old woman’s face-something in the way the old eyes narrowed as she looked up at Parno, and in the way she so carefully did not look again. For an instant, it actually had seemed that the Tenebroso was going to forget herself enough to speak directly to a Mercenary Brother. But no, perhaps she was wrong, Dhulyn frowned, perhaps it was only Mar, after all, who drew the old lady’s attention.
Money in hand, Parno stepped back, but when they made no further move to depart, the Kir raised the eyebrow over the missing eye. Probably meant to strike terror into their hearts, Dhulyn thought, amused. Finally, she looked at Mar.
“Are we discharged, Lady?” she asked.
“What? Yes, yes, of course,” Mar cleared her throat, pink cheeked. “I thank you for your service,” she said, as Parno had taught her, “Mercenaries, you are discharged.”
Semlin-Nor, Steward of Keys, waited for the Kir to leave before returning to the Tenebroso. She found the old woman exactly where she’d left her-no surprise, since the Tenebroso was no longer able to walk. Her vanity was such, however, that she made everyone else leave the room before she had her women in to carry her.
“What did you think of the Mercenary Brothers?” Kor-iRok asked. Semlin was surprised enough to leave tidying the table, to turn and look at her House. Questions about the country cousin she might have expected, but about Mercenaries?
“The red-haired woman is very striking,” she said.
“Yes, that’s so. But it’s the golden-haired man I’m asking about. He has a mole near his right ear, the Mercenary badge does not quite cover it. Did you see it?”
“No, my House, I have to say I didn’t.”
“Nor did anyone else, my Keys. Nor did anyone else.” The old woman smiled, mouth closed, lips pressed tight. “But I saw.” The House turned to look directly at Semlin, her head shaking ever so slightly. “I knew a young man with a mole in that precise place, Semlin. A man of my House. Of my blood. A promising young man. A wronged young man. I have plans to redress those wrongs.”
Semlin knelt, laid her hand with the greatest gentleness on the old woman’s arm. “But, my Lady, he is a Mercenary now. He is no longer of this House.”
“He is Tenebro.” Kor-iRok’s colorless voice left no room for disagreement. “He is my blood. I will bring him back to us.” The old woman looked at her with the remains of what had once been a dazzling smile. “And you will help me.”
“Of course, my House.”
“Send for him tomorrow, when the Kir has gone to the Dome. Send for the Mercenary Brother Parno Lionsmane.”
They had only gone a short way down a new corridor when sounds from behind made them stop. A young man approached them with a broad smile on his face. He was more plainly dressed than either the Tenebroso or her heir, but his face, and his fair brown coloring, marked him clearly as one of the family.
“I greet you. I am Dal-eDal. My cousin, the Lady Mar-eMar, begs you to stay and take the midday meal with her, while she adjusts to her new House,” he said, his smile never changing and never touching his eyes.
Dhulyn glanced at Parno. “Tell the Lady we thank her,” she said. “But we cannot stay weaponless.”
The man inclined his head. “Of course. Now that you are guests, you can, of course, retain your swords. If you will follow me? Thank you,” he said to the page escorting them, “I will take charge of our guests for now.”
This was the cousin who lived in the House, Dhulyn thought, eyeing the golden-haired man with interest as he led them away. The form of his name-repeated Dal-eDal and not the reversal, Dal-eLad-marked him as having Household status, and not in line to inherit, as was Lok-iKol.
As they followed Dal-eDal down the passage, Parno locked eyes with Dhulyn. The corners of his mouth moved. Dhulyn shrugged. Of course the man was taking them by yet a different route. Anyone providing security would make maximum use of the tools at hand-and the mazelike design of this building, however archaic, was a first-class tool at hand. Karlyn-Tan had not impressed her as the kind of Steward of Walls who would overlook any aids to his security arrangements.
The passageway narrowed until they were walking in single file, Parno’s shoulders brushing the wall coverings to each side. When the passage widened again, Dal-eDal lengthened his stride slightly, his hand reaching out to the handle of a door at the end of the passage. He was three paces ahead of Dhulyn when she heard a soft snick and lunged forward, heartbeats too late. A thick, weighted net fell from the ceiling and clung to her, muffling her arms and dragging down her head. Dhulyn was aware that somewhere the scholarly part of her mind was registering shock-surprise that anyone, even in the middle of their own House, would attack Mercenaries unprovoked. But even as that thought arose, she was taking a steadying breath and bending even further, slipping the fingers of her left hand into the space between her right calf and her boot. Without hurry, without panic, she took out her moon razor, a small rounded coin of metal, flattened and sharpened along one curve, and slashed at the net in front of her. The strands parted immediately and she stepped through the cut opening and moved to one side, her left arm arched above her head, her right poised with the moon razor. She felt Parno’s back against hers in the narrow passageway and knew that his arms were raised like hers, and his hands full of blades.
Another net fell and Parno cut through it. A third net fell before they could step from the cords of the second. A fourth while they were cutting the third. Dhulyn heard footsteps and braced herself, but the blow came not at her head or shoulders, but at her legs. She felt a hard arm around her thighs and, already off-balance, she went down in a tangle of cords and weights. She twisted and slashed. A high-pitched scream and the warm gush of blood across her hand and arm. She heard a wet crunch and Parno’s voice softly cursing.
She was raising herself to her feet, pressing upward on the weight of net that tried to crush her to the floor, when the ceiling fell on them.