Enemy Read online

  I already miss those swords of his, Bruche said.

  I won’t have him killing his own people, Draken replied.

  Your people, too, Prince.

  It was far too late to worry about him killing anyone. And who knew where things would stand when all the blood dried? Draken had already begged one known enemy for help. He had no illusions that Khisson was the only person in Brîn who wanted him dead. Favors could be called in even if he did achieve the throne again, leaving everyone close to him under threat. Khisson could demand more favors in exchange for silence and alliance. Some disgruntled Akrasian lord could accuse Tyrolean of treason if he had Akrasian blood on his sword.

  Worry about getting the throne and city first, then worry about your friends.

  Tyrolean looked at him from across the market, brows creased. Even in a plain homespun shirt he moved like a soldier. People would mark him as one of Ilumat’s Escorts. Draken thought, hoped, he had the good sense to disappear when the attack started, futile as that was.

  Half a dozen Khissons, the ones who were best with a bow, were to take position atop buildings. The rest, who numbered fifteen, would scatter across in the market in pairs and threes, placed to wait for the procession to pass by and make their move. One of Khisson’s men would give the signal to be in position by dropping a rough celebratory banner down the façade on the building nearest where the procession would enter. That building was opposite from where he and Aarinnaie entered and remained unadorned.

  The main cobbled thoroughfare open to carters and horses and foot traffic wound through hard-packed dirt patches where stall tents were usually set. People milled everywhere, obscuring the roadway. In this crowd the Akrasian procession might take quite a while to work their way through. Aarinnaie tugged his arm, nodding to a couple of Akrasian servii standing at the perimeter of the market. As he started looking, he found more. Many more, and not all in uniform.

  “Ilumat isn’t taking any chances,” he replied.

  His gaze kept straying toward the building where the signal would display, though Ilumat’s procession hadn’t yet appeared. There weren’t anything like enough Khissons to stage a proper disruption in a gathering this size. He’d anticipated dozens of servii guards, not three hundred or more. He’d hoped the average Brînian would be more loyal to their royals, and stage, if not active protests, a silent one by not attending this farce of a triumph.

  He slowed as they reached the center of Korde Market, partly because of the throngs of people and partly to make a good study of the area. It seemed half the city had come out to see this new lord who decreed Brîn reconquered by the Kingdom that already controlled it. Despite prejudice, fury over the coup, and lack of trust, no one seemed to be turning down Ilumat’s wine. Draken couldn’t recall ever seeing so many tapped barrels in one place, even in Sevenfel when Monoea had driven Akrasia from their shores. Perhaps Ilumat had found Draken’s coffers after all. He’d certainly found his wine.

  Fresh ribbons and conservatory flowers swagged railings like it was Sohalia Night. Wealthy merchants who lived in the buildings footed by their shops gathered on the balconies to look down on the festivities and debate whether the new arse sitting the throne at the Citadel would help or hinder trade. Boisterous, tense opinions drifted down.

  Draken stalled as he reached a rope fence surrounding a cleared area. Stern servii placed every few steps guarded a few men still assembling a stage out of crate-wood. Truls appeared, filtering from the crowd to materialize within the ropes. He watched the men with obvious curiosity.

  Speeches. Ilumat loves the sound of his own voice.

  Draken nodded, agreeing with Bruche. That must be it. Not that anyone would hear him in this crowd.

  Some few Akrasian bowmen crouched on rooftops, arrows on strings. Khissons would have to kill them to take their place. He wanted to go after Ilumat, to kill him. But the damned archers would bring any attackers down, certainly would if they were Kheinian. They were woodland soldiers, among the best bows in Akrasia.

  “We needed more people on rooftops to take out the archers.” He frowned as he spoke lowly to Aarinnaie. “I underestimated this crowd.” And Ilumat’s security efforts. Now he suspected many of the sundry in the crowd would turn on their masters if there were riot or rebellion.

  He lowered his voice further and leaned toward Aarinnaie. “This is hopeless. No one can get close enough to him in this, especially once he gets to the stage.”

  “I will do it,” Aarinnaie said with a sidelong glance. “I can get to him and get out again, too.” Her body was tight, her face set into sharp lines.

  Draken shook his head. “Not without getting shot.”

  “The Khissons will be on the rooftops soon, if they aren’t already,” she said. “They can cover me.”

  “What’s to say they didn’t look at this madness and reconsider? We may be alone here.”

  “Even so, you’re right.”

  He couldn’t joke. “About?”

  She looked up into his face, and he looked at her, forgetting he wasn’t supposed to be able to see. Her mouth pressed into a determined line and her chin jutted upward, but the sprigs of curls escaping her scarf trembled. “We can’t let him have her.”

  He wished Truls, transparent in daylight as steam against a cloud, could put himself to use in killing Ilumat. He leaned down to speak in her ear, “If anyone can kill him, it’s you. I know it. But I don’t like it.”

  Aarinnaie swallowed and nodded, pulled away from him.

  “Aarin,” he said, letting his hand fall to his side. “I—”

  “You’ll see me soon,” she said over her shoulder and melted into the crowd, falling away toward the middle of the market, slipping between revelers, barely touching anyone, largely unnoticed. His heart tugged at her childlike size. Bruche reminded him she’d saved his life more than once. Still, a discomfiting chill settled in his bones.

  He kept moving, people parting for his breadth and tapping staff as soon as heads swiveled his way. The crowd thinned as he backed away from the stage, leaving more space to move about. He’d totally lost sight of Aarinnaie and didn’t try to look, keeping cognizant that he was supposed to be blind.

  Impatience began to flow through the crowd despite the wine. Gusts of wind tested nerves. The sky darkened as a low bank of clouds churned overhead. He looked for Truls. The ghost-Mance was near, slipping between and through people. A strange feeling of remembrance came over Draken. The night he’d killed Truls a sudden storm had rolled in. The Eros had risen and the moons turned blood red. He couldn’t help casting a glance at the sky but no moons appeared, of course. This day the clouds refused to reveal the Eyes.

  A low rumble rose through the people, sweeping from the narrow end. He turned toward the sound. No banner fell from the rooftop yet, so perhaps the procession hadn’t passed by it. He scanned the building tops. Many had facades that made a sort of battlement to provide cover for a bowman. Some few had actual terraces, made for the gatherings that filled them. Most were empty, though he thought he caught a flitter of a shape on a couple. There, for certain. An archer dropping into position, a dark head peeking up.

  About bloody time a Khisson turned up.

  Anxiety grew with the storm. Mutterings swept through the crowd, broken by the rising gale rattling signs and rustling clothes. The air was damp, icy. Pickbirds flitted over the buildings. A poor omen, if one believed in such things. Over the tops of most of the heads Draken could see the surge of organized activity at the other end of the market. The procession gradually materialized as the crowd parted, pushed back by servii. Horses kept in near perfect step, green ribbons in their manes, cloaks of the Escorts fluttering. Armor and hair gleamed Akrasian black, dozens of heads perfectly combed and coifed, outlined eyes seeming distorted and too large at a distance.

  The royal sigil embroidered in golden thread adorned the front of Ilumat’s green tunic. That wasn’t unusual; all Royal Escorts wore the royal sigil. But he also wore
a bloody crown of sorts. Not a royal piece Draken had ever seen, but a jeweled band just the same. He had a hand up, waving, a benevolent smile playing on his lips.

  Draken’s hand tightened on his staff, wishing for a bow, but armor protected Ilumat’s vulnerability to arrows. Ilumat was not a large man and he looked bulkier than usual. An arrow through the eye would take him down, but he wasn’t at the right angle, he kept twisting his head from side to side, the wind toyed with everything in its path, and the cobbles would lead him even further astray of Draken’s position.

  The press of people toward the procession was convenient in that it gave Draken more cover. He couldn’t help looking for Aarinnaie but she would be hidden among the taller people anyway. If he could reach the procession first he might have a decent chance at distracting them for her benefit. He could keep the guards busy with his sword while she plied her ugly trade on Ilumat. Bruche wordlessly wondered how many Escorts she’d have to kill to get to him. Draken judged it not so many; he paraded in a line only three abreast.

  But where are the damned Khissons?

  A storm-shadow slid over the market. Several faces lifted as cloaks flapped. The racket of the Brînian voices drowned out the shouts of the Escorts, though their mouths moved and their arms waved. Ilumat had enough sense to tell them not to draw their blades, or the horsemarshal did. They eased away from Draken, but not anything like as quickly as he parted the crowd and strode toward them. Voices of protest faded in his wake. Ilumat still had his arm up, but his face was pinched, pale. Draken felt another surge of satisfaction, until the lord turned his head and his attention locked on someone close by him.

  Ilumat’s lips gaped and then he shouted: a clear, high wordless alarm that pierced the noise on the street.

  Aarinnaie. It had to be. Draken cursed and shoved ahead harder as the crowd shifted and turned like eddies at a river mouth. This time people did protest his passage; a woman he pushed aside cried out as someone else stumbled into her. He achieved the little pocket of free ground she left and drew his sword. The space grew as people backed away from him. Draken strained to see past them, past the parade. He saw not one mask. Were the Khissons coming from behind? Escorts converged on the other side of the procession line, which broke and curved as horses skittered across the cobbles. He kept moving but couldn’t see, until the flash of a Escort’s sword caught his eye. Truls flitted ahead, weaving through the throng, which was frantically backing away from the procession. His sword heated in his hand. He wanted blood. Ilumat’s blood. If Aarinnaie were harmed in any way—

  Someone grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. He spun, sword lifted. A hand batted the flat, knocking it aside. Draken met Akrasian lined eyes, a hard face. Black hair falling loose of a usually perfect tail.

  “Come, Draken.” Tyrolean tugged on his shoulder.

  “But Aarin—”

  “Aye, Aarin. We must go from here.”

  He stood firm. “Where are the bloody Khissons?” There wasn’t a mask in sight. No flying arrows. No crowds screaming from a dozen swordsmen descending upon the Akrasian procession. Just nervous, loud chatter around them.

  “I don’t know—”

  “They agreed, damn them.”

  Draken. Hush now before they hear you. Draken chilled to his core—Bruche, taking a measure of control to lead him out. “No.”

  Tyrolean, silent, firm, took hold of his sword and pulled it from Draken’s grip. His other hand tangled in the buckles of Draken’s bracer so Draken couldn’t break free without twisting and maybe breaking his friend’s fingers. Tyrolean tugged him away from the tightening crowd around the parade. Bruche worked in tandem with Tyrolean, forcing Draken’s legs into motion from inside his body. Draken’s jaw set and his neck heated. He could twist his head around to look as they propelled him away from the procession—he could do that much. The people nearby must have believed Tyrolean one of Ilumat’s Escorts for they parted readily enough. Did he imagine the hissing whispers in his wake: Khel Szi Khel Szi …

  Close enough. You must free yourself of this place before you’re noticed.

  But Aarinnaie—

  You’re no use to her imprisoned, or with your head on a spike on the Citadel wall.

  The anticipated panic rose up then, wordless cries and shouts. Brînians surged in all directions. Draken kept twisting to see and stumbled over Tyrolean’s heels. Bruche cursed. Watch where you’re going. Draken paid him no mind. A servii tumbled from a nearby rooftop; a Khisson in black and a mask rose behind him. About bloody time. Draken stalled and Tyrolean cursed low as his fingers twisted in his bracer buckle. He pulled his hand free of the bracer, speaking in an earnest whisper. “You can’t help them now. Let them do their work.”

  Faces turned toward them. Someone squinted. “… Khel Szi?”

  Draken turned his head toward the voice; it had been his name too long to disregard without effort, and he was distracted. A youngish Brînian with his arm around a woman gaped at him. Dark eyes met his. Draken couldn’t summon a denial. The man spoke. “It’s him. I seen him at—” Voices clamored, drowning him out. Hands glided over his skin and armor, as if to confirm he was real.

  “Out—I need out.” He searched their faces for someone who would help him.

  He sought any gap that might provide escape. But the people closed on him; hands gripped him. More cries rose up, further back in the crowd as the realization of his presence spread.

  Tyrolean cursed and grabbed for Draken but people wedged in between them, forcing him back. Draken swung his fists but there wasn’t enough room to get momentum. He drew only a few grunts. Weight pounded on his shoulders, his back. He used all his bulk to shove bodily toward Tyrolean, who kept shifting, ever out of reach. Bruche filled Draken’s core with cold, ready to spring to action, but even their combined strength couldn’t move all these people as they pressed in on him,

  He lifted his chin, trying to get air into his chest. The sky blackened and churned with storm. He caught a flash of blade over the heads of the crowd—no. A faint glow against the shadows, shining in Tyrolean’s direction. Bruche filled his legs and moved, heaving against the weight of citizenry. Days of inaction and not enough food took their toll. Pain knifed up the back of Draken’s legs as his muscles strained. His heart thudded against his ribs. His bad knee buckled and he stumbled to the cobbles.

  Draken, up. UP—

  Whispers filled his head, hissing wet and cold along the back of his neck. Someone screamed, cut off by a gaping silence. The pressure eased. Magic. Time had stopped. The Abeyance—

  No. They were still moving. The churning air chilled and he drew the thick scent of death into his lungs. Misty shapes of ghosts, more than just Truls, rushed through the people to settle around Draken. Ice settled his marrow and ached in his bones. No amount of violent trembling would shake it loose. His stomach churned at the reek of death. Gasping, people shied away, back. Bruche pushed up to see, turned Draken’s head, forced his body toward Tyrolean. The cold ghosts surrounded him, parting the crowd.

  The Captain waited, his face, lips grey as stained snow, eyes black as a lifeless painted icon. Seaborn glowed faintly in his hand, flared as Draken drew closer. It clattered to the cobbles as Tyrolean cursed, shaking his hand as if burned. Draken darted forward, spurred by Bruche, and swept up the sword.

  Bruche took advantage of the distraction and pushed forward through the loosening outlying crowd. He turned Draken’s head, searching a means of escape. Tyrolean had already pushed ahead, leaving several dozen people between them. His way was as good as any. Draken cursed and picked up the pace, shoving between people. Still, people strained their necks to see what these two men moving with purpose were about, especially the blindfolded one. Draken resisted the continual urge to turn back. Tyrolean and Bruche were right. Aarinnaie was likely captured. Maybe dead. There was no point in looking. He could only hope the Khissons on the rooftops saw enough to report her situation to him.

  Khisson appeared b
efore him, parting the crowd. He was a big man, his face contorted in a growl. Draken eased a breath. Between the two of them, they’d be able—

  The blade came out of nowhere, flashing a perfect reflection of rooftops and sky at him before slicing into the tender skin under his jaw. It sank deep, bringing with it agony so consuming it made his head spin. He opened his mouth to scream and it spilled blood in a hot torrent down his chest. Draken succumbed to a weak, gagging cough as his knees crumpled. His head slammed hard against the cobbles and day closed into darkness.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Draken’s eyes fluttered and he shifted. His body snarled in protest, especially his bad shoulder, which he lay on, and the subsequent prickling of needles in his arm. His surroundings slowly registered. The canvas-clad side rail of a cot rested beyond his curled fingers. Aarinnaie’s bolt-hole, dim from shuttered windows and dusty walls. He turned his head and groaned. His neck was stiff and sore. Tyrolean moved closer and helped him roll over, then up to a sit.

  “All right, then?” Tyrolean kept his hand on Draken’s shoulder. His sore one, which was worse than usual.

  He shrugged him off, fighting to remember what had happened. A flash of blade. Khisson’s ugly face. His hand went involuntarily to his throat. The skin under his chin was smooth but the muscles felt as if he’d slept wrong.

  “Aye, sorry about that,” Khisson said, sounding not sorry at all.

  Draken lifted his head. Truls floated behind the bloodlord.

  “You tried to actually kill me,” Draken growled. Albeit not very fiercely because his throat wasn’t putting much voice behind it.

  “As soon as I realized people recognized you, I knew they had to see you dead.”

  It is a point he’s making, truth. You enticed him with your death.

  I enticed him with favors and coin. Draken growled and reached across his chest to loosen the straps on his mail. He needed it off. It was glued to his gambeson, which was glued to his skin with blood and sweat. Tyrolean brushed his hand away and undid the buckles for him.