Stalking Darkness n-2 Read online

  Stalking Darkness

  ( Nightrunners - 2 )

  Lynn Flewelling

  Lynn Flewelling

  Stalking Darkness

  (Nightrunners — 02)

  0

  The lean ship smashed through foaming crests, pounding southwest out of Keston toward Skala. By night she ran without lanterns; her crew, accomplished smugglers all, sailed with eyes lifted skyward to the stars. By day they kept constant watch, though there was little chance of meeting another ship. Only a Plenimaran captain would chance deep water sailing so late in the year and this winter there would be none so far north. Not with a war brewing.

  Ice sheathed the rigging. The sailors pulled the halyards with bleeding hands, chipped frozen water from the drinking casks, and huddled together off watch, muttering among themselves about the two gentlemen passengers and the grim pack of cutthroats who'd come aboard.

  The second day out, the captain came above slobbering drunk. Gold was no use to dead men, he howled over the wind; foul weather was coming, they were turning back. Smiling, the dark nobleman led him below and that was the last anyone heard of the matter. The captain fell overboard sometime that same night. That was the story, at least; the fact was that he was nowhere to be found the next morning and their course remained unchanged.

  The mate took over, tying himself to the wheel as they wallowed along. Blown off course, they missed Gull Island and sailed on without respite through lashing sleet and exhaustion. On the fourth day two more men were swept away as waves nearly swamped the ship. A mast snapped, dragging its sail like a broken wing. Miraculously, the ship held true while the remaining crew fought to cut away the tangled ropes.

  Clinging among the frozen shrouds that night, the men muttered again, but cautiously. Their finely dressed passengers had brought ill fortune with them; no one wanted to chance attracting their eye. The ship plunged on as if helpful demons guided her keel.

  Two days out from Cirna the gale lifted. A pale sun burst through the shredding clouds to guide the battered vessel westward, but foul luck still dogged her. A sudden fever struck among the crew. One by one, they sickened, throats swelling shut as black sores blossomed in the warmth of groins and armpits. Those untouched by the illness watched in horror as the gentlemen's men-at-arms laughingly tossed the bloated corpses overboard.

  None of the passengers sickened, but by the time they sighted the towering cliffs of the Skalan Isthmus the last of the crew could feel the weakness overtaking them.

  They reached the mouth of Cirna harbor in darkness, guided by the leaping signal fires that flanked the mouth of the Canal. Still sagging at the wheel, the dying mate watched the passengers" men strike the sails, lower anchor, and heave the longboat over the side.

  One of the gentlemen, the dark-haired one with a long scar under his eye, suddenly appeared at the mate's elbow. He was smiling, always smiling, though it never seemed to reach his eyes. Half-delirious, the mate staggered back, fearful of being devoured by those soulless eyes.

  "You did well," the dark man said, reaching to tuck a heavy purse into the mate's pocket. "We'll see ourselves ashore."

  "There's some of us still alive, sir!" croaked the mate, looking anxiously toward the signal fires, the warm lights of the town glimmering so close across the water. "We've got to get ashore for a healer!"

  "A healer, you say?" The dark gentleman raised an eyebrow in concern. "Why, my companion here is a healer of sorts. You had only to ask."

  Looking past him, the mate saw the other man, the weedy one with the face like a rat's, at work chalking something on the deck. As he straightened from his task the mate recognized the warning symbol for plague.

  "Come, Vargul Ashnazai, isn't there something you can do for this poor fellow?" the dark man called.

  The mate shuddered as the other man glided toward him.

  Not once during the voyage had he heard this man speak. When he did now the words were unintelligible and seemed to collect in the mate's throat like stones. Gagging, he slumped to the deck. The one called Ashnazai laid a cold hand against his cheek and the world collapsed in a blaze of black light.

  Mardus stepped clear of the bile spreading out from the dead sailor's mouth. "What about the others?"

  The necromancer smiled, his fingers still tingling pleasantly from the mate's death. "Dying as we speak, my lord."

  "Very good. Are the men ready?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  Mardus took a last satisfied look around the deck of the ravaged vessel, then climbed down to the waiting boat.

  Cloaked in Ashnazai's magic, they passed the quay and custom house without challenge. Climbing a steep, icy street, they found rooms ready for them at the Half Moon tavern.

  Mardus and Ashnazai were just settling down over a hot supper in Mardus' chamber when someone scratched softly at the door.

  Captain Tildus entered with a grizzled man named Urvay, Mardus' chief spy in Rhiminee for the past three years. The man was invaluable, both for his skill and his discretion. Tonight he was dressed as a gentleman merchant and looked distinguished in velvet and silver.

  Urvay saluted him gravely. "I'm glad to see you safe, my lord. It's nasty sailing this time of year."

  Mardus dismissed Tildus, then waved the spy to a nearby chair. "What have you to report, my friend?"

  "Bad news and good, my lord. Lady Kassarie is dead."

  "That Leran woman?" asked Ashnazai.

  "Yes. The Queen's spies attacked her keep about a week ago. She died in the battle. Vicegerent Barien committed suicide over the matter and there are rumors that the Princess Royal was implicated somehow, though the Queen's taken no action against her. The rest of the faction has gone to ground or fled."

  "A pity. They might have proved useful. But what about our business?"

  "That's the good news, my lord. I have new people in place with several influential nobles."

  "Which ones?"

  "Lord General Zymanis, for one-word is he's about to be commissioned with overseeing the lower city fortifications. And one of my men just got himself betrothed to Lady Kora's second daughter and has the run of the villa. But of particular interest, my lord—" Urvay paused, leaning forward a little.

  "I'm in the process of establishing a contact inside the Oreska House."

  Mardus raised an eyebrow. "Excellent! But how? We haven't been able to get a spy in there for years."

  "Not a spy, my lord, but a turncoat. His name is Pelion i Eirsin. He's an actor, and highly thought of at the moment."

  "What's he got to do with the Oreska?" demanded Vargul Ashnazai.

  "He's got a lover there," Urvay explained quickly, "a young sorceress said to be the mistress of one or two of the older wizards as well. Her name's Ylinestra, and she's got a bit of a reputation around the city; a fiery little catamount with an eye for handsome young men and powerful old ones. This man Pelion is evidently part of her collection. Through him we may be able to get to her and perhaps others. She's not a member of the Oreska herself, but she lives there and has rooms of her own."

  "I hardly think we need the services of some slut to get into the place," the necromancer scoffed.

  "Maybe not," Urvay interrupted, "but this slut numbers the wizard Nysander among her lovers."

  "Nysander i Azusthra?" Mardus nodded approvingly. "Urvay, you've outdone yourself! But what have you told this actor of yours?"

  "To him, I am Master Gorodin, a great admirer of his work. I also understand how important patronage is to a young actor on the rise, and to a certain playwright who's willing to create roles especially for him. In return, my new friend Pelion passes on whatever bit of gossip he picks up around town. He likes the deal, and knows better than to ask too many
questions. As long as the gold flows, he's ours."

  "Well done, Urvay. Spare no expense with him. We must infiltrate the Oreska before spring. You understand? It is imperative."

  "I do, my lord. Shall I make arrangements for you in Rhiminee?"

  "No. Nothing's to be arranged in advance. I'll contact you when I need you. For now, keep an eye on Pelion and his sorceress."

  Urvay rose and bowed. "I will, my lord. Farewell."

  When he was gone Mardus returned to his interrupted meal, but Vargul Ashnazai found his appetite had fled.

  The Oreska, he thought bitterly, fingering the ivory vial that hung from a chain around his thin neck. That's where they'd gone, the thieves who'd stolen the Eye from under his very nose.

  Mardus had nearly killed him that night in Wolde. Worse yet, he'd threatened to banish him from their quest. If Mardus had entrusted him with the disks in the first place, of course, it would never have happened, but that was a point not worth arguing. Not if he cared to live longer than his next word.

  His standing with Mardus had eroded steadily ever since.

  Even with the power of the Eye itself to aid him, he'd been unable to exercise sufficient power over the fugitives to stop them. The Aurenfaie had proven infuriatingly resistant to his magicks and when he'd finally succumbed to the dragorgos attack at the inn, the boy, that wretched boy, had outmaneuvered them, spiriting his partner away before Mardus and his men could reach the place.

  Still holding the vial between his fingers, Vargul Ashnazai pictured the precious blood-soaked slivers of wood inside, slivers he'd gouged from the floor of the Mycenian inn where his dragorgos had overtaken them.

  The talisman he'd made with their blood was a powerful guide, so powerful that he'd almost caught them at Keston. But then they'd slipped on ahead by sea and another's power was growing around them, occluding his own. He'd recognized the resonance of the magic at once. Oreska magic.

  And so Mardus and his men had tracked them by methods thoroughly mundane, while he, a necromancer of the Sanctum, rode along like so much useless baggage.

  Mardus had been sanguine. They already knew where the thieves were headed, result once again of Mardus' cold-blooded methods rather than his own. One of the river sailors captured after the destruction of the Darter—this, at least, was Vargul's work—had screamed out with his last breath what they'd needed to know.

  To be sitting here now, no more than two days ride from the stronghold of his enemies, was maddening.

  So close! he thought, closing his fist around the vial.

  Mardus saw, and guessed his thoughts. "Why not scry for them again?"

  Vargul Ashnazai shifted uncomfortably. "It's been the same for weeks now."

  Mardus glanced over at him, much the way any man might look at another who's said something mildly surprising. But Mardus was not just any man.

  As his gaze met Ashnazai's, the necromancer felt a stab of fear. It was not madness he saw in his companion's eyes—never that—but something worse, an obdurate purposefulness steeped with the shadow of their god. Mardus might not have magic, but he had power.

  He was touched, chosen.

  Held in that remorseless gaze, Ashnazai felt the blood slow in his veins. Clasping the vial more tightly, he placed his other hand over his eyes and summoned the image of the thieves.

  For a moment he felt the reassuring pulse of his own considerable power. The inner blackness flowed through him to the vial and beyond, using the essence of the blood to seek its source. Ever since the thieves had reached Rhiminee, however, a veil had dropped over them.

  Someone had placed a protective spell over them, and the resistance to his magic was fierce and decisive.

  This time was no different. The moment he focused his concentration on their location, he was blinded by a searing vision of fire and huge, leathery wings. The message was clear enough: These people are under the protection of the Oreska. You cannot touch them.

  Gasping, Ashnazai let go of the vial and pressed both hands to his face.

  "No change?"

  Ashnazai could tell without looking up that the bastard was smiling.

  "Then Urvay's actor is truly a blessing placed in our path. If these two are still under the protection of the Oreska wizards, where better to seek them?"

  "I hope you're right, my lord. When I find them, I'll crush their beating hearts in my hands!"

  "Vengeance is a dangerous emotion."

  Looking up, Vargul Ashnazai saw a familiar blankness pass across his companion's face, the touch of the god.

  "You should be grateful to them for leading us to the completion of our quest," Mardus continued softly, staring into the depths of his cup. "This actor and his sorceress are the seal on that. Patience is the key now. Be patient. Our moment will come."

  1

  Sleet-laden winds lashed in off the winter sea, racketing through the dark streets of Rhiminee like a huge, angry child. Loose shingles and roof tiles tore free and clattered down into streets and gardens. Bare trees swayed and clashed their branches like dead bones in the night. In the harbor below the citadel, vessels were tossed from their moorings to founder against the mores. In upper and lower city alike, even the brothel keepers put up their shutters early.

  Two cloak-wrapped figures slipped from a shadowed courtyard in Blue Fish Street and hurried east to Sheaf Street.

  "I can't believe we're out in this to deliver a damn love token," Alec groused, shaking his wet, fair hair from his eyes.

  "We've got the Rhiminee Cat's reputation to maintain," Seregil said, shivering beside the boy. The slender Aurenfaie envied Alec his northern-bred tolerance for the cold. "Lord Phyrien paid for the thing to be on the girl's pillow tonight. I've been wanting a peek into her father's dispatch box anyway. Word is he's maneuvering for the Vicegerent's post."

  Seregil grinned to himself. For years, the mysterious thief known only as the Rhiminee Cat had assisted the city's upper class in their endless intrigues; all it took to summon him was gold and a discreet note left in the right hands. None had ever guessed that this faceless spy was virtually one of their own, or that the arrangement was as much to his benefit as theirs.

  The wind buffeted at them from all sides as they pressed on toward the Noble Quarter. Reaching the fountain colonnade at the head of Golden Helm Street, Seregil ducked inside for a moment's shelter.

  "Are you sure you're up to this? How's your back?" he asked as he stooped to drink from the spring at the center of the colonnade.

  Less than two weeks had passed since Alec had pulled Princess Klia from the fiery room below the traitor Kassarie's keep. Valerius' malodorous drysian salves had worked their healing magic, but as they'd dressed tonight he'd noticed that the skin across the boy's shoulders was still tender-looking in places. Not that Alec would admit it and risk being sent back, of course.

  "I'm fine," Alec insisted as expected. "It's your teeth I hear chattering, not mine." Shaking out his sodden cloak, he tossed one long end over his shoulder. "Come on. We'll be warmer if we keep moving."

  Seregil looked with sudden longing toward the entrance to the Street of Lights across the way. "We'd be a hell of a lot warmer in there!"

  It had been months since he'd visited any of the elegant pleasure houses. The thought of so many warm, perfumed beds and warm, perfumed bodies made him feel even colder.

  Invisible in the shadows, Alec made no reply, but Seregil heard him shifting uncomfortably. The boy's solitary upbringing had left him uncommonly backward in certain matters, even for a Dalnan. Such reticence was unfathomable to Seregil, though out of respect for their friendship he did his best not to tease the boy.

  The fashionable avenues of the Noble Quarter were deserted, the great houses and villas dark behind their high garden walls. Ornate street lanterns creaked unlit on their hooks, extinguished by the storm.

  The house in Three Maidens Street was a large, sprawling villa surrounded by a high courtyard wall. Alec kept an eye out for blueco
at patrols while Seregil tossed the grapple up and secured the rope. The roar of the storm covered any noise as they scrambled up and over. Leaving the rope in a clump of bushes, Seregil led the way through the gardens.

  After a brief search, Alec found a small shuttered window set high in a wall at the back of the house. Climbing onto a water butt, he pried back the shutter with a knife and peered inside.

  "Smells like a storeroom," he whispered.

  "Go on then. I'm right behind you." Alec went in feet first and disappeared soundlessly inside.

  Climbing up, Seregil sniffed the earthy scents of potatoes and apples. Squeezing through, he lowered himself in onto what felt like sacks of onions.

  He reached out, finding Alec's shoulder in the darkness, and together they felt their way to a door.

  Seregil eased the latch up and peeked out into the cavernous kitchen beyond.

  The coals in the hearth gave off enough of a glow to make out two servants asleep on pallets there.

  Deep snores sounded from the shadows of a nearby corner. To the right was an open archway. Tapping Alec on the arm, Seregil headed for it on tiptoe.

  The arch let onto a servant's passage.

  Climbing a narrow staircase, they crept down a succession of hallways in search of Lord Decian's private study. Not finding it, they moved up to the next floor and chanced shielded lightstones.

  By this dim light they saw that these nobles left their shoes outside their bedroom door for a servant to collect and clean. Seregil nudged Alec and flipped him the sign for "lucky." The lord of the house had only one daughter; it was a simple matter to find the footgear appropriate for a maiden of fifteen.

  A pair of dainty boots stood before a door at the far end of the corridor. A stout pair of shoes next to them warned that the young woman did not sleep alone.

  Seregil stifled a grin. Alec was in for more than he'd bargained for, in more ways than one.

  Alec lightly fingered the latch, found the door unbarred. The delivery was his task tonight, more training in the ways of the Cat. This sort of job, though hardly as significant as their recent work for Nysander, required a high level of finesse and he was anxious to prove himself.