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Authors: Helen Lowe
Tags: Fantasy
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second crossbow quarrel. The assassin cried out, then fell, howling and thrashing on the edge of the path.
“Run!” Tarathan was already up and moving toward her. “Back up the hill to the palace, since the other two are below us still .”
They ran, dodging between trees and shadows to confuse their attackers, and heard a shout and the rush of feet—followed by curses as the partygoers began pouring onto the terraces, calling out to know who was hurt and what was happening. Jehane Mor sprinted after Tarathan, up the grassy slope and into the lee of the palace as a detachment of armed, Athiri retainers pushed their way down the steps and onto the lawn. A quick look back showed two dark-clad figures veering toward deeper shadow. On the terraces, a woman began to scream, a thin, high, shocking sound.
“Assassins!” another voice shouted. “Send for the Guard!” More Athiri retainers shouldered through the throng and onto the lawn, and the assassins fled, racing back down the hill toward the river while the armsmen moved in cautious pursuit.
“Do we come out now, outraged but unharmed?” Jehane Mor asked.
Tarathan shook his head, rewinding the crossbow behind a marble buttress. He still had the falcon mask, she noted; he must have shoved it into his belt when they dived into the shrubbery. “Too dangerous. I don’t trust these people. We need to get back to the Guild House as quickly as we can.”
They turned and walked away, keeping to the shadows cast by the palace as they made for the far side of the complex and the main gates. The gates were guarded, but the retainers there were all staring toward the gardens, intent on the clamor concealed by the palace buildings. “Even with your shielding, we won’t get by. We’d have to pass too close to them . If we go farther along,” Tarathan nodded toward the stables and their adjoining buildings, “we can scale the wall . ”
They angled away from the gate, hugging the shadow of the palace outbuildings until they saw a gnarled tree growing between the stable and the wall. After a last, careful check, first Jehane Mor and then Tarathan climbed the tree and dropped over into the lane that separated the Athiri palace from the neighboring residence. The walls on either side were high, the lane deserted, but the thoroughfare at its far end was crowded. A fresh burst of fireworks split the night over Landward, and most of those in the busy street craned to look, apparently unaware of any disturbance in the Athiri palace.
Tarathan looked at the crossbow with regret, for although small, they did not have their cloaks and the weapon would be impossible to conceal. “Time to blend with the crowd, unfortunately,” he said, and pushed the crossbow over the top of the wall and into the grounds of the adjoining residence. Jehane Mor knotted the broken strings of his now-battered mask together, to make sure it stayed on, before they left the lane and moved into the heart of the festival crowd, strolling toward Westgate. The jostling, brightly colored throng made it difficult for Jehane Mor to hold her concealing shield in place, but she knew the sheer number of people around them would also screen their passage. Reluctantly, she let the shield go.
Although outwardly relaxed, she was aware of the crackling tension in Tarathan, mirroring her own. Her training allowed her to walk slowly, applauding the firebreather on the next street corner and exchanging a jest, rather than an insult, when an intoxicated reveler lurched into her. Beneath the apparent calm, her thoughts churned: she had heard of unlicensed assassinations happening before, but never against heralds. And an unlicensed attack should mean one rogue assassin, not five acting together. For assassins to defy the law in such numbers—she bit her lip and thought uneasily about the unprecedented lack of School activity in the dispute between Emaln and Sirith, a dispute that had now come to the brink of
“Run!” Tarathan was already up and moving toward her. “Back up the hill to the palace, since the other two are below us still .”
They ran, dodging between trees and shadows to confuse their attackers, and heard a shout and the rush of feet—followed by curses as the partygoers began pouring onto the terraces, calling out to know who was hurt and what was happening. Jehane Mor sprinted after Tarathan, up the grassy slope and into the lee of the palace as a detachment of armed, Athiri retainers pushed their way down the steps and onto the lawn. A quick look back showed two dark-clad figures veering toward deeper shadow. On the terraces, a woman began to scream, a thin, high, shocking sound.
“Assassins!” another voice shouted. “Send for the Guard!” More Athiri retainers shouldered through the throng and onto the lawn, and the assassins fled, racing back down the hill toward the river while the armsmen moved in cautious pursuit.
“Do we come out now, outraged but unharmed?” Jehane Mor asked.
Tarathan shook his head, rewinding the crossbow behind a marble buttress. He still had the falcon mask, she noted; he must have shoved it into his belt when they dived into the shrubbery. “Too dangerous. I don’t trust these people. We need to get back to the Guild House as quickly as we can.”
They turned and walked away, keeping to the shadows cast by the palace as they made for the far side of the complex and the main gates. The gates were guarded, but the retainers there were all staring toward the gardens, intent on the clamor concealed by the palace buildings. “Even with your shielding, we won’t get by. We’d have to pass too close to them . If we go farther along,” Tarathan nodded toward the stables and their adjoining buildings, “we can scale the wall . ”
They angled away from the gate, hugging the shadow of the palace outbuildings until they saw a gnarled tree growing between the stable and the wall. After a last, careful check, first Jehane Mor and then Tarathan climbed the tree and dropped over into the lane that separated the Athiri palace from the neighboring residence. The walls on either side were high, the lane deserted, but the thoroughfare at its far end was crowded. A fresh burst of fireworks split the night over Landward, and most of those in the busy street craned to look, apparently unaware of any disturbance in the Athiri palace.
Tarathan looked at the crossbow with regret, for although small, they did not have their cloaks and the weapon would be impossible to conceal. “Time to blend with the crowd, unfortunately,” he said, and pushed the crossbow over the top of the wall and into the grounds of the adjoining residence. Jehane Mor knotted the broken strings of his now-battered mask together, to make sure it stayed on, before they left the lane and moved into the heart of the festival crowd, strolling toward Westgate. The jostling, brightly colored throng made it difficult for Jehane Mor to hold her concealing shield in place, but she knew the sheer number of people around them would also screen their passage. Reluctantly, she let the shield go.
Although outwardly relaxed, she was aware of the crackling tension in Tarathan, mirroring her own. Her training allowed her to walk slowly, applauding the firebreather on the next street corner and exchanging a jest, rather than an insult, when an intoxicated reveler lurched into her. Beneath the apparent calm, her thoughts churned: she had heard of unlicensed assassinations happening before, but never against heralds. And an unlicensed attack should mean one rogue assassin, not five acting together. For assassins to defy the law in such numbers—she bit her lip and thought uneasily about the unprecedented lack of School activity in the dispute between Emaln and Sirith, a dispute that had now come to the brink of
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