Time's Assassin, page 35
part #3 of The Islevale Cycle Series
Before she reached the door, something crashed into her from behind. Someone. Gillian.
Lenna stumbled, dropped the sack, wheeled, slashing with the knife. Her blade sliced through the skin on Gillian’s arm. The minister cried out. At the same time, she tried to raise the pistol. Lenna threw a punch that landed high on the minister’s cheek. Gillian’s knees buckled, and she started to fall.
But she grabbed Lenna’s gown, kept her feet.
Lenna tried to pull away. She didn’t want to kill the woman, but she had to leave. She drew back her arm to stab at Gillian. Her shoulder, or her side. A wound that would stop her without killing her. That was her intent.
Gillian tried to seize her blade arm, and managed to briefly.
Lenna was stronger. She ripped her arm out of the minister’s grasp, slashed at her again. Gillian shoved her with both hands.
Lenna’s blade bit a second time. Gillian’s collar this time.
The minister wailed, but the sound was lost beneath the blare of her pistol.
Flame. Smoke. A burning in Lenna’s chest. She looked down, thinking her gown had caught fire.
The cloth did smoke, but there was no blaze. Only blood. So much blood. She coughed. Blood flew from her lips, staining Gillian’s gown and face and neck.
The minister stared open-mouthed, glanced at the pistol in her hand, and then at Lenna again. At her middle. A haze of smoke hung between them.
Somehow Lenna found herself on her knees. The burning in her breast tipped over into agony. She huffed a breath, wrapped herself in her arms, cradling her wounded heart. Blood soaked her gown, her sleeves. She raised her gaze to Gillian’s, her vision darkening, blurring. Breathing was hard. Her hearing was muffled.
She thought Gillian said something. Or maybe the Binder. She couldn’t tell. A moment later, she toppled to her side. Darkness settled around her.
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Her arm hurt. So did the cut at her clavicle. Smoke stung her nostrils and eyes, and her ears rang. And none of that mattered.
She edged closer to the woman. To her body. She was reasonably sure the woman was dead. Reaching her, she knelt in a spreading puddle of blood and held her fingers to the woman’s neck. Feeling nothing, she tried the wrist. No pulse. No rise and fall of the chest.
She should have been unnerved, distraught, sick to her stomach.
She was none of those things.
Can you kill? Orzili had asked her once, long ago.
When she said that she didn’t know, he said, Then you probably can’t.
He’d been wrong.
“Gillian, are you all right?”
Bexler. She rose, crossed to him, set the pistol on a table, the drawer of which held another pistol. His. She knelt beside him.
“You came back to me.”
“I came back,” she said.
She scrutinized his wounds. She didn’t know much of such things, but she guessed he would live. She didn’t think his injuries would keep him from completing the tri-sextants.
Footsteps on the stairway. They looked toward the door. A soldier in Sheraigh blue entered the flat, eyed them, stared briefly at Lenna’s body, turned back their way.
“You both are hurt,” the man said.
“We’re all right. Please inform Lord Orzili in the castle that there has been...an incident. A woman is dead. A woman he knows.
He should come right away.”
Orzili would be upset, perhaps enraged. He might blame her. But the soldier was here. He had seen. There was nothing to be done except the right thing.
“Yes, all right.”
“Bring a healer as well. Please.”
The man cast another look at Lenna and left.
“Who is she?” Bexler asked, dark eyes returning to the corpse.
“A Traveler. She served Orzili, who serves the Sheraighs and, I believe, the autarch of Oaqamar. She and Orzili might have been lovers. Certainly they worked together. If he does work for the autarchy, chances are she did as well.”
“And who are you?”
She turned at that, found him watching her, his expression grave.
He looked much the same as he had when she left, despite the pain etched around his eyes and mouth. She did still care about him.
But she was more certain now than ever: She didn’t love him and wouldn’t ever again.
“A spy, I suppose,” she said. “An agent of the supremacy.”
“Where have you been all this time?”
“Belsan, searching for a Walker who has eluded the Sheraighs.”
“Were you alone?”
A brave question. She knew he feared her answer. “I was,” she said. “And to be honest, I quite liked it.”
He nodded, still grave, but clearly relieved. Men were odd. She guessed that Bexler would prefer she choose to be alone rather than with another man, even if either option left him without her.
“How have you been, Bexler?”
“Lonely. Confused. I’ve made a lot of tri-sextants.” A smile flickered.
Gillian answered with a dry chuckle. She surveyed the home they had shared, her gaze coming to rest on the dead woman. She sobered, stood, winced at the pain in her arm. With some effort, she helped Bexler off the floor and to a nearby chair. Both legs of his breeches were glazed with blood. She knew better than to move anything else. The soldier had seen, and nothing she might hide or alter would change the essential truth: She had killed a woman Orzili probably loved.
In the end, she shifted a second chair so that it rested next to Bexler’s and she sat as well. They didn’t have to wait as long as she had thought they might.
Footsteps on the stairs made the building tremble, and men swarmed into the flat. Four of them, all in Sheraigh uniforms, and Orzili, in his robes. He regarded Gillian and Bexler wordlessly, stepped to the middle of the flat, and halted over the woman.
Gillian watched him, wary and afraid. Emotions played across the handsome face. Shock, grief, anger, anguish. He squatted beside the corpse, ran fingers over her bronze hair. He heaved a sigh and stood again, rounding on Gillian and the Binder.
“What happened?” His voice was tight, not particularly loud, utterly compelling.
“She came to my door claiming to need a Bound device,” Bexler said, though Orzili had asked the question of Gillian. “I had never seen her before, but given her appearance, I had no reason to doubt her. Once she was in the flat, she attacked me and demanded to know where the tri-sextants were. She would have taken them, but Gillian arrived and recognized her. They fought, and in the struggle, Gillian’s pistol went off.” As he said this, he pointed to the flintlock resting on the table.
Orzili crossed to it, picked up the weapon, and sniffed at the barrel before setting it back down.
“You say she wanted the tri-sextants?” At Bexler’s nod, he asked,
“Did she say why?”
“She said you had sent her, because they’re late. I...I didn’t believe that.”
Orzili walked to the dead woman again and stood over her. “No, I don’t imagine.”
To Gillian, he said, “Did she recognize you?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And you recognized her.”
“Almost immediately.”
He nodded. For a long time, he regarded the woman’s corpse, pain carved in his features. At last, he spun away and walked to the door. He halted there, light from outside warming his face. “You were right to send for me. Thank you. This changes nothing. Our arrangements remain. I need those tri-sextants, Binder. Soon. I’m tired of waiting. And minister, you’re to leave here in the morning.”
“Yes, my lord,” she said, speaking for them both.
“A healer is coming,” he told them. He lingered for another fivecount. Gillian thought he would say more. He didn’t. His footsteps scraped the stairs, and he was gone.
“Where are you going now?” Bexler asked.
“Away,” she said. “Orzili has forbidden me from saying more.” A convenient lie.
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Two of his soldiers remained at the flat. The other two followed him back to the castle. Both were smart enough to keep their mouths shut.
This Lenna had long since declared herself his enemy. Even before he knew who she really was, she had tried to feed him to Tirribin. She had avoided him, mocked him, fled from him. Her death shouldn’t have bothered him.
Foolishness. Of course it would bother him. How could it not? The sight of Lenna—any Lenna—bloodied and still was like a sword through his heart.
One had returned to her future. One had banished him from their home in Fanquir. One lay dead in a flat in Hayncalde. He had lost them all.
What bothered him most, though, was that this Lenna had chosen to pit herself against him. There was no other explanation for what the Binder said of their encounter. What use would a Walker have for tri-sextants? He supposed she could sell the devices to someone. If nothing else, the gold had value. But she had stolen coin from his purse before she left Hayncalde. She wouldn’t need more.
No, this had been an act of defiance, an attempt to thwart his plans and help Tobias. Did she hate him so much?
The answer was obvious.
“Fine,” he said.
The soldiers behind him had been whispering to each other. Now they fell silent. He didn’t look back at them, but said, “I want a watch set on the Binder’s flat. Not so that he’ll know, and only until he delivers to me the devices he owes. I don’t want him being attacked again, and I don’t want the devices lost.”
“Yes, my lord,” said one of the men.
He glanced back in time to see them turn and head back to the Binder’s lane.
Orzili walked on. He needed a cup of wine. Several. The image of Lenna on that blood-stained floor would remain with him for some time. He’d be fortunate if he slept at all this night.
Pemin would tell him that he had been lucky. He had lost a woman who was already lost to him. The tri-sextants remained his. This day could have been a disaster. Instead, it was merely a tragedy.
Lucky indeed.
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Droë and Ujie arrived at the strand south of Hayncalde’s waterfront shortly after sunset, expecting to find Lenna—this Lenna—waiting for them. Ujie had sensed the Binder’s magick early in the day, but not later. Still, it was enough that she knew approximately where the man could be found.
They waited on the shore for some time, Ujie standing like a statue, only her eyes moving as they scanned the coast. Droë sat, then paced. After nearly a bell, she left the Arrokad and walked the lanes near the wharves, thinking that perhaps Lenna had thought to meet them there. She didn’t find the woman. When at last she returned to the strand, she found Ujie exactly as she had left her.
It made no sense. Lenna had summoned them. She had seemed quite eager to help Teelo and to deny Orzili his Bound devices. Had she changed her mind? Or had she located the Binder on her own?
As the moon climbed higher in the night sky, its glow muted by high haze, she and Ujie decided this last was most likely. It was much like a human to cast aside an arrangement that no longer suited her. She should have come to the strand anyway. That would have been the polite thing to do.
Eventually, she and Ujie swam away. Ujie was annoyed. Droë glanced back repeatedly toward the city. Something troubled her.
The Lenna she knew had never been rude. Then again, all creatures could change. Who knew that better than she?
Chapter Twenty-Four
9th Day of Sipar’s Ascent, Year 634
By the time Tobias, Risch, and the others sailed from Duvyn for Trohsden, two days after the battle with the Belvora and Hanev, Mara had started to feel better. Her vision was clear, her speech didn’t sound so sluggish, the throbbing of her head had eased.
Which was not to say that she had recovered completely.
A dull, persistent ache had settled deep in her skull. She guessed it would linger for a few more days. If she stood too quickly, she grew dizzy, though not for long. And bright light hurt her eyes.
She mentioned these things to the young healer, who told her they were normal after an injury like hers.
“Rest,” he said. “That’s the best cure for what you’re feeling.
Don’t exert yourself, don’t do any more than you have to.”
An easier remedy to prescribe than to embrace. She had a child to care for and arrangements of her own to make. Tobias placed a great deal of faith in the willingness of Trohsden’s duke to help them. She hoped that faith would be rewarded, but she knew better than to count on any one man. During the night, even before Tobias left, she had made up her mind to get a message to Seris Larr aboard the Gray Skate .
It felt like an aeon had passed since she Spanned through the rain from their home in the highlands to speak with the captain on her ship, but in truth, it had been only days. She might not even have reached Tirayre yet. If Mara could dispatch a message this day—this morning—Larr might receive it before she had gone too much farther toward Herjes.
But that meant leaving the castle and walking or riding the short distance to the Duvyn waterfront. The healer would not approve.
So she wouldn’t let him know until after she returned.
They had moved her from the hall to the chamber she and Tobias briefly shared, making her escape easier.
She thought.
Mara rose, carefully dabbed water on her face with a cloth, and ran wet fingers through her hair. Then she dressed and eased out of the chamber. The corridors were clear, and she didn’t believe the gate guards would trouble her about leaving the castle, despite the bandage she still bore on her brow.
As she emerged into the courtyard, however, she heard a familiar voice cry out, “Mama!”
Joy overmastered chagrin. She scooped the charging princess into her arms. Pain made her squeeze her eyes shut. The strain of lifting Sofya, the stab of sunlight.
“How awe you feewing?”
“I’m fine, love. Are you having fun?”
Sofya nodded, her eyes as wide as her smile. “We’we hunting!”
“Hunting? Hunting what?”
The princess’s smile slipped. She twisted in Mara’s arms to look back at Corinne, who walked toward them. “What awe we hunting?”
“Sweet violet,” the duchess said. To Mara, she added, “The chef requires some for a dessert he’s preparing.”
Mara kissed Sofya’s cheek and set her back on the ground, weathering another twinge as she straightened. “You’re very kind to spend so much time with her.”
“It’s my pleasure. With her mother wounded, whom else would I trust to care for her?”
Mara’s cheeks warmed.
“Of course, her mother is supposed to be recuperating, which, according to my healer, means resting in bed and not taxing her strength in any way.”
Mara sensed no hint of mirth in Corinne’s face or tone. This was as close to angry as she had ever seen the duchess.
“What are you doing?” Corinne demanded.
“I have to go to the waterfront. Not for long, but—”
She broke off. Corinne was shaking her head.
“That’s too far for you to walk. As I understand it, the other end of this courtyard is too far.”
Corinne stood taller than she, and right now her eyes had a flinty look to them. Mara met her gaze as best she could.
“I’m grateful for your concern, my lady, as well as for your hospitality and your kindness toward Nava.”
The duchess waved away the niceties. “Get to it.”
“I have to do this. We need a second option, in case Tobias and Risch fail. I have to get a message to someone, and—forgive me—
but I can’t entrust this to anyone else. We’re using couriers known only to us and those I’m contacting.”
“I can offer you a mount.”
“I don’t ride, and in my present condition, a fall would be far worse than the walk. So would a Span, for that matter.”
“A carriage then?”
She shook her head. “It would draw attention. Please, I’ll be all right. And I won’t be gone long.”
Disapproval continued to crease Corinne’s brow, but she made a small gesture of surrender.
Mara glanced at Sofya, who circled the small plots of flowers.
“She’ll be fine. And if you leave while she’s ‘hunting,’ she won’t even know you’ve gone.”
Mara thanked her and started toward the gate, glancing back every few steps to make certain Sofya hadn’t noticed her leaving.
Corinne kept the princess occupied until she was beyond the castle walls on the cobbled lanes leading down to the firth.
She kept her pace leisurely, for appearances and for her own well-being. Upon reaching the wharves, she searched for a fishing vessel, a Kant, that Seris Larr had described for her some time ago. A little worn, with several patched sections of hull and a sail marked with the image of a soaring bird. The Sand Hawk .
Her captain’s name was Lanton. Mara didn’t know if this was a given name or a surname. She gathered that it didn’t matter. She didn’t find the ship on her first pass along the wharves, and before she undertook a second search, she needed to sit. The sun blazed overhead, not overly hot, but bright enough to bring on a steady, throbbing headache.
As she rested, she scanned the firth. Before long, a ship caught her eye. Small, the hull mottled at this distance, the billowing sail bearing the outline of a hawk. The vessel carved toward the docks. Mara was glad to have to do no more than wait.
It took a half bell for the ship to furl its sail, go to sweeps, and glide to the wharf, and then a bit more time for the ship’s crew to offload their catch, which was ample.
In time, as the comings and goings of sailors slowed, Mara stood and approached the vessel. She felt better.
“Ahoy, the Sand Hawk !”
“Ahoy,” came an immediate reply. A woman stepped to the rails.
She was tall and lean like Seris Larr, with white hair and a tanned, oval face. “Who are you?” Her tone was far less abrupt than the question.
“Are you Captain Lanton?”
