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Authors: Helen Lowe
Tags: Fantasy
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war.
“Enemy. There.” She followed Tarathan’s thought and caught the quick dart of movement, ducking below the roofline of a nearby inn. A moment later, a black-clad figure eased into view again and aimed a crossbow down at them. Both heralds leapt for the protection of an overhanging canopy as others in the crowd saw the assassin and yelled, scattering apart.
Jehane Mor caught at the light breeze with her mind and funneled a gust of dust and festival debris up from the street and into the assassin’s face. The crossbow wavered and the heralds were at the corner by the time he recovered. They swung into a narrower street that led to one of the many small canals that threaded the city; this one was wide enough to warrant a wooden bridge, the arch garlanded with festival streamers. Tarathan swung over the parapet and beneath the bridge, steadying Jehane Mor as she slid down beside him. Her camouflaging shield was already back in place as they climbed into the deep shadow of the struts that supported the bridge.
They lay there for a long time, listening to the passing and repassing of footsteps overhead and studying the reflections cast across the water. Two black-clad figures hung head down from either side of the bridge to peer into the darkness underneath, but did not detect the heralds flattened against the struts. “Three more on the bridge overhead.” Tarathan’s mindvoice was dark. “That makes ten altogether. So far.”
The heralds did not move for a long, bone-chilling half hour after the assassins left. “ And this time, ” Tarathan said, as they eased down onto the damp stone of the canal edge, “ we leave the masks. ”
Jehane Mor took off the exquisite owl mask, studying it thoughtfully as she recalled how Prince Ath had boomed out his offer of masks last night, yet had not seemed to notice their new masks at all, earlier in the evening. “Because he did not send them.”
Tarathan nodded, his eyes gleaming through the darkness as he tied the falcon mask around one of the struts. Jehane Mor tied the owl visage beside it, thinking that some river urchin was going to have a fine disguise for next year’s festival. She shook her head. “It’s impossible to know who to suspect when so many heard Prince Ath’s offer.”
“ That’s easy.” Tarathan untied his distinctive knot of braids and let them fall between his tunic and his coat, turning up the collar . “We suspect everybody . ”
But Jehane Mor was frowning as they resumed their indirect course toward Westgate and the Guild House, keeping to canal banks and unlit lanes. “Could it have been the minstrel who ordered this?” she asked. “We’ve suspected for some time that the Ilvaine have ties to the School of Assassins, as well as to the Sages and the Minstrels.”
“ Close enough to influence ten assassins to break Ijiri and River law for him?” Tarathan shook his head. “It doesn’t ring true, especially when he has lived on the Derai Wall for so long. But we can take nothing for granted right now, rule no one out.”
It was almost an hour later, having twisted and ducked across the city, that they turned into the long street where the Guild House stood. The noise of the festival fell away, cut off by the large buildings and high walls that lined the thoroughfare. All the trading houses were silent, unlit except for the legally required lantern above their closed gates. The few residences were quiet as well, closed in behind shuttered windows and barred gates. The heralds did not speak, but their footsteps quickened—until Tarathan stopped, placing a hand on Jehane Mor’s arm and drawing her against the nearest wall. Startled, she followed his gaze up the long street to the Guild House gate. The lantern set above it was dark, and although the gate stood ajar, as though waiting for festivalgoers to return, no light or sound flowed out into the midnight street. Everything was utterly still.
Chapter 5
The Guild House
“I
“Enemy. There.” She followed Tarathan’s thought and caught the quick dart of movement, ducking below the roofline of a nearby inn. A moment later, a black-clad figure eased into view again and aimed a crossbow down at them. Both heralds leapt for the protection of an overhanging canopy as others in the crowd saw the assassin and yelled, scattering apart.
Jehane Mor caught at the light breeze with her mind and funneled a gust of dust and festival debris up from the street and into the assassin’s face. The crossbow wavered and the heralds were at the corner by the time he recovered. They swung into a narrower street that led to one of the many small canals that threaded the city; this one was wide enough to warrant a wooden bridge, the arch garlanded with festival streamers. Tarathan swung over the parapet and beneath the bridge, steadying Jehane Mor as she slid down beside him. Her camouflaging shield was already back in place as they climbed into the deep shadow of the struts that supported the bridge.
They lay there for a long time, listening to the passing and repassing of footsteps overhead and studying the reflections cast across the water. Two black-clad figures hung head down from either side of the bridge to peer into the darkness underneath, but did not detect the heralds flattened against the struts. “Three more on the bridge overhead.” Tarathan’s mindvoice was dark. “That makes ten altogether. So far.”
The heralds did not move for a long, bone-chilling half hour after the assassins left. “ And this time, ” Tarathan said, as they eased down onto the damp stone of the canal edge, “ we leave the masks. ”
Jehane Mor took off the exquisite owl mask, studying it thoughtfully as she recalled how Prince Ath had boomed out his offer of masks last night, yet had not seemed to notice their new masks at all, earlier in the evening. “Because he did not send them.”
Tarathan nodded, his eyes gleaming through the darkness as he tied the falcon mask around one of the struts. Jehane Mor tied the owl visage beside it, thinking that some river urchin was going to have a fine disguise for next year’s festival. She shook her head. “It’s impossible to know who to suspect when so many heard Prince Ath’s offer.”
“ That’s easy.” Tarathan untied his distinctive knot of braids and let them fall between his tunic and his coat, turning up the collar . “We suspect everybody . ”
But Jehane Mor was frowning as they resumed their indirect course toward Westgate and the Guild House, keeping to canal banks and unlit lanes. “Could it have been the minstrel who ordered this?” she asked. “We’ve suspected for some time that the Ilvaine have ties to the School of Assassins, as well as to the Sages and the Minstrels.”
“ Close enough to influence ten assassins to break Ijiri and River law for him?” Tarathan shook his head. “It doesn’t ring true, especially when he has lived on the Derai Wall for so long. But we can take nothing for granted right now, rule no one out.”
It was almost an hour later, having twisted and ducked across the city, that they turned into the long street where the Guild House stood. The noise of the festival fell away, cut off by the large buildings and high walls that lined the thoroughfare. All the trading houses were silent, unlit except for the legally required lantern above their closed gates. The few residences were quiet as well, closed in behind shuttered windows and barred gates. The heralds did not speak, but their footsteps quickened—until Tarathan stopped, placing a hand on Jehane Mor’s arm and drawing her against the nearest wall. Startled, she followed his gaze up the long street to the Guild House gate. The lantern set above it was dark, and although the gate stood ajar, as though waiting for festivalgoers to return, no light or sound flowed out into the midnight street. Everything was utterly still.
Chapter 5
The Guild House
“I
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