Emissary Page 13

  She aborted her glance over her shoulder and nodded. Even so, the shadow-eyed man turned his face in their direction. “Most nights, ‘less they’re working, my lord.”

  Draken was dressed as no lord, but her gaze had flicked downward. The chain to Elena’s pendant must be showing from under his collar. “Working at what?”

  “Tradeguarding.”

  Draken had no idea what that was. He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Thanks, lass.”

  “Profiteering.” Tyrolean said when she was out of earshot. “They take bribes for ‘protection.’ Ships, taverns, merchants. Whoever they can intimidate.”

  Draken shrugged. Such activity might not mean they were so dangerous—though they might work for someone who was. But his curiosity about why Aarinnaie had singled them out was piqued. Maybe it had to do with her last report. “Is such activity legal?”

  “Your father did not persecute such, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “And Elena’s father? Did he?”

  Tyrolean drank and considered the foam slicking the inside of his rough clay mug before answering. “The King had more to worry about than Tradeseason crime in Brîn.”

  Another round of laughing jeers. A couple of them tossed coins toward Aarinnaie and she scooped them up as they bounced and rolled.

  “She does well to hide her ability,” Tyrolean said.

  “No one thinks she can fight at any rate,” Draken said. “She’s so slight.” He’d made that mistake himself.

  They sat a good while, drinking another round and talking. He couldn’t watch as carefully as he liked, but Draken deduced the men treated Aarinnaie as one of them. She didn’t wear the wide-legged trousers favored by so many men and women in Brîn, but a long, loose tunic over tight trousers and boots, drogher driver apparel for cooler weather. Rolled up sleeves bared blades at her wrists. With her many braids, maybe they took her as Gadye-Brînian sundry. Only purebloods like Thom got the moonwrought mask embedded into half their faces, enabling their healing and sight magic.

  At last the group all got up and walked out, Aarinnaie with them. Draken downed his drink and started to rise; Tyrolean reached over and grasped his forearm. “Not yet.”

  “We should go after her,” Draken said.

  “She can handle herself. If she’s spying on these men, our presence won’t help.”

  They looked rough. Draken knew on some level she managed men like this all the time. On the other hand … “She’s my sister.”

  “She’s also your assassin,” Tyrolean said.

  Shadow-eyes lingered near the door. Surely not for another drink; custom demanded they only serve those seated with coins to hand. After several breaths Draken realized the man wasn’t moving. Aarin would soon gain too much distance to follow.

  “I don’t like it. Why has he stayed if not to keep someone from following. And why would he keep someone from following if it were on the level?” Draken pushed back from the table. “Best get it over with.”

  Tyrolean released an uncustomary, noisy sigh and rose.

  Shadow-eyes slid between them and the door, right on schedule. The man moved like a fighter: contained, solid, calm. Typical Brînian, loose trousers with a sea-faded pattern, rough feet bare, as was his chest. Spiraling tattooes centered on pierced nipples. Dull metal rings punctured each earlobe and his nasal septum. Up close Draken could see why his eyes were so dark; bruising stained the whites brackish grey. Eventide, then; a longtime user.

  Draken paused and drew himself up, ignoring the catch of tight muscle in his lower back. “Problem?”

  “You’re paying a little too much attention to the lady. She’s taken.”

  “Oh?” Draken asked mildly. “By who?”

  “Me.”

  Draken made a show of glancing about. “She’s not actually with you at the moment.”

  “So you don’t deny your interest in her.”

  Draken just held his gaze.

  “Blue eyes,” the man hissed. “Like hers. Sundry. Who are you?”

  His blue eyes had come from his father. Had he been sundry? Perhaps Draken was more of a mongrel than he’d realized.

  He reached down and grasped the man’s arm, lifted it to the light. Brands peaked from beneath leather bracers. “Bloodlord.”

  “An islander, aye. Like yourself.”

  Draken was fair certain he didn’t mistake the man’s dry tone. He locked eyes with the man. They were of a height and matched in breadth.

  “They’re noticing.” Tyrolean.

  Draken’s lip curled. Fine. He’d give them something to look at then. He slammed against the man, shoving him out into the little walled courtyard that on fine days would be filled with patrons. The man reached for his sword, but Draken pressed him back against the shoulder-high wall, trapping his blade between his back and the stone. The man grunted but Draken had leverage to hold him.

  “You’re going to take me to her,” Draken said.

  The man spat at his face, momentarily blinding him. Draken blinked and the man shoved, making Draken back a step. The man went for a dagger at his belt, jabbed it toward Draken. It sliced through his shirt and into the skin under his ribs, forcing Draken back again. He winced at the cut and went for his sword, but the motion left him open. The man snarled and slashed out again, but one of Tyrolean’s narrow sword blades nicked the man under the chin, slicing through the tender skin there. Blood welled from the narrow cut and dripped down his throat. The man froze, forced to lift his chin lest Tyrolean’s blade cut him again. Draken shrugged out from between them.

  “You would dare defy your Khel Szi?” Tyrolean murmured.

  The man blinked his muddied eyes and flicked his gaze to Draken’s face. “No. That’s impossible.”

  Draken tipped his head and shrugged. “The lady is my sister. Aarinnaie Szi-rin. Obviously I’m most interested in her destination.”

  The man stared, swallowed. “They’ll kill me if I take you.”

  Or withhold his drugs, more likely. No matter what he said before or his brands, the man was obligated to whoever Aarinnaie was investigating.

  Tyrolean released him but kept the swordpoint wavering near him. “Take us or it will be my pleasure to cut your rotten heart from your worthless body. Give us your weapons.”

  His gaze flicked between them again. His lips in a thin line, he slowly drew his sword and handed it to Draken, and then his dagger. Tyrolean put his blade away and searched the man, coming up with two more daggers. He gestured with one of them. “After you.”

  “This way,” the man said, and strode past them.

  Draken’s nerves ran hot and high. The ordinary population on the street parted for them; bloodlords with determination in their strides made paths best avoided.

  The man strode without talking, quickly splitting off into a nearby alleyway and along the backs of the buildings. Tall craggy walls closed in tight on either side. Insects swarmed, trapped amid the waste smells and piles of rubbish. Draken wiped them away but they tormented his eyes and ears. He cursed and ducked his head, waving his arm again. They walked for blocks, darted between horses and carts across a street, and into another alley. Shadows closed in ahead; the buildings made a dead end. It was partially blocked by an abandoned cart. Shadow-eyes shoved it aside. A small group crowded behind it, standing amidst the rubbish, centered on Aarinnaie. Her hands were fisted. No knives out. Yet.

  One man was so black in clothing and skin Draken had a tough time making out detail in the dim light, like weapons. Another bald man had a long-sword strapped across his back and was tall enough to wield it with ease. The third seemed younger and more skittish; he bounced on the balls of his feet and had some rudimentary bits of armor, thin, cheap leather. No weapons to hand; he must think he wouldn’t need them against this mere slip of a young woman.

  Her gaze flicked from the three men surrounding her to the newcomers. Her eyes narrowed. Draken pushed ahead of Shadow-eyes. Tyrolean grunted and strode closer. To
o late, Draken realized it could be a trap for him. Gods curse him, he was so eager to get to Aarinnaie he had forgotten to think.

  He drew a breath so he would sound off-hand rather than alarmed. “Bite off rather more than you could chew?”

  The men looked back at him; eyes narrowing in quick assessment. He knew what they saw. Whatever weight Draken had lost in Monoean gaol and the abuses he’d suffered at the hands of the Mance King last Sohalia had been more than replenished by hard training with Tyrolean and a rich Prince’s diet.

  Aarinnaie snarled and her body tightened. “I’m fine, nêrel baak.” Warrior-brother.

  He forced back his annoyance and gentled his tone. “I was talking to them, sishah.”

  She frowned at his use of the affectionate form of sister.

  “Sisk?” Sister. The big one frowned, a flash of silver at his teeth. His eyes were bloodshot, though not bruised like Shadow-eyes’s.

  Draken could not read minds as the Mance did nor how the Gadye seemed to. Maybe because he knew Aarinnaie and because she knew him so well, he guessed her torn thoughts and dilemma in that moment: should she shelter her ability or shelter her position? This dilemma he could solve for her, if not in a particularly pretty manner. But he had Tyrolean at his back. She was trapped alone against the wall, three hulking bloodlords between her and him.

  He wished for an ambiguous bow. He wished for anonymity. But he only ever carried one sword. Feel free to keep quiet, he thought at it. But as he drew, Seaborn glowed in the dim light filtering between the clothing strung overhead to dry and reflected off the worn stone of the buildings.

  “Ahken Khel,” the darkest breathed. His eyes were very white in his face, his teeth yellow between his lips.

  Draken held his gaze. “Aye, so lay down your arms and no one has to—”

  The darkest leapt toward Aarinnaie, curses hissing from his lips even as blades hissed from their sheathes. She moved soundlessly to meet him, knives flashing in her hands. Draken didn’t give her good odds; the man was immense compared to her. He moved toward her, but the big swordsman engaged with him. He didn’t attack outright, but more put himself in Draken’s way with perfect form and expert slashes of the longsword to hold him at bay. Draken heard scuffling and grunts behind him; Tyrolean must have engaged Shadow-eyes. The third, younger man closed in on Aarinnaie’s other side in tandem with the dark one.

  Draken grunted and slashed, knocking the swordsman’s longer blade out of the way. The blow resonated up his arm, still sore from the fighting he’d done the day before. But it made an opportunity for him to slip through. Aarinnaie dashed at the darkest fighter, using her diminutive size to her advantage. Draken had always wondered how she managed to kill warriors twice her weight; now he saw she used her opponent’s own chauvinism against him. Quick and agile, she darted inside her opponent’s guard, stabbed her blade up into his chin, and shoved him away almost before blood spouted from the wound, bright crimson against his black clothing. This flashed in the corner of Draken’s eye; he was too busy striking Seaborn across his opponent’s back. The ready blade sliced through the thin leather armor as if cutting hot oil. The dark man fell with a ragged scream, hands scrabbling at the dirty stone floor of the alley, trying to twist onto his stomach, but not moving from the middle down. His eyes glowed in his dark face. Draken kicked his sword away and finished him off with a messy swing at his throat. More thick blood fouled the air.

  Behind Draken: footsteps, a rough slamming noise and a violent grunt. Draken spun. The bald man lay dead at Tyrolean’s feet, blood draining from two neat puncture wounds, eye and jugular. Shadow-eyes was gone. Tyrolean leaned against the wall, chest heaving. His dual blades hung loosely at his sides. His arm bled in a thick stream down his hand; a nasty slash had torn through his tunic. He didn’t curse, but his alabaster skin had taken on a grey cast in Seaborn’s bloodstained glow

  “Tyrolean!” Aarinnaie jumped over the big man she’d killed and pushed by Draken. She gently pried the weapons from Tyrolean’s hands, laid them carefully on the ground, and examined the flooding wound. She reached to lift his tunic.

  “I’m all right, Princess.” Tyrolean drew back.

  She growled, pulled her other wrist blade, and sliced off the hem of her long tunic to bind the wound. “The arm wound is fair deep, Captain.”

  “And your middle?” Draken asked.

  “Shallow. Ribs stopped it. We should get back.”

  Tyrolean was right. They needed to move on. Shadow-eyes could return with friends. He knelt and wiped his sword clean on the dead swordsman’s thigh. His wounds had done the job but lacked the efficient finesse of an expert. Doubtless his performance would be a topic for his next training session with Tyrolean.

  “Who are they?” Tyrolean asked.

  Aarinnaie scowled at his arm as she wrapped it tightly. “Your attackers on Monoea—or related to them, at any rate. You two ruined my cover.”

  “Some cover, given they were holding knives on you,” Draken said.

  “It was just a fight to prove my worth. An initiation.” Irritation clipped every word.

  Draken shook his head. “Aarin, I know you feature yourself my spy—”

  “Who else have you got?”

  He ignored that. “They’re just a few ruddy mercs.”

  “No.” The word sounded like an arrow hitting stone. She drew in a breath and straightened her shoulders. “That one,” she nudged the giant dark man with the toe of her boot, “is the son of the most powerful islander family. Father shamed them once. Khisson is a bad enemy, and he wants revenge on our house. He also still harbors great resentment for the Akrasians. He thinks we should enslave everyone who isn’t Brînian. That you’ve taken up with the Queen and are fathering a bastard sundry destined for the ‘Wrought Throne only fuels his ire.”

  He squatted by the dead man. On his hands were brands of three intertwined crescent moons. He narrowed his eyes. The same as had been embroidered on Yramantha’s uniform. “So you believe they accepted a commission to attack Monoea?”

  “I don’t believe it. I know it.”

  “This might be best discussed back at the Citadel,” Tyrolean said, voice tight.

  “You know all I do, now.” Aarinnaie glanced at Tyrolean. “I need to keep my ear to the ground and I can’t do that locked away in the Citadel. The other Khisson got away to tell the tale. I need to stop him talking.”

  Draken frowned. Khisson was a proper Brînian name, old and respectable. He knew he’d heard it somewhere before. “Aarinnaie—”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You aren’t going to try to order me home, are you?”

  “He is your Prince,” Tyrolean said gently.

  She looked impossibly young to be splashed in blood. Once they had been at odds. Draken had gone to great lengths since to keep that from happening again, granting her the freedom she craved. She built too many walls around herself, but he didn’t dare tear them down. She might need them. She would need them, when she no longer had him to protect her. “No. I’m not ordering. I’m glad I saw you, actually. I leave for Monoea in the morning.”

  She stared at him. “You mean you’re really going? I thought Elena would stop you. By the Seven, I think you want to die.”

  He stared at her, willing her to say no more. Tyrolean was watching too carefully. He spoke slowly, so she would understand. “I am ordered by Queen Elena.”

  “Why? She wasn’t going to let you before. What happened?”

  Ilumat happened. “I need you here. Home, I mean. Elena needs your help with Brîn.”

  Aarinnaie frowned, opened her mouth, then shut it. “I cannot. I just …” She swallowed. “Please. You must understand.” She bolted past them fleet and silent into the shadows and alleyways lacing Brîn’s underbelly.

  Draken eased a breath from his chest, too weary to chase her down. Fools all, she’d only run again after he left. “Elena suggested I marry her off. Not a bad idea. She could be someone else’s problem, if I can keep
her in one place long enough for a ceremony.”

  Tyrolean stared after her. “Are you looking for advice or sympathy?”

  “Both.” He grunted. “Neither.”

  He studied the dead men, trying to memorize them but be quick about it because as stoic as Tyrolean was, his breath was labored and blood already blackened the binding Aarinnaie had fashioned.

  The dead were already cooling. He shoved down the sick feeling in his gut as he straightened. He learned nothing but the brands on their hands, which he would check against the House Scrolls later. Maybe there was some history there. He had little doubt they did answer to House Khisson, as Aarinnaie said, but the design and evidence suggested curious connections and politics at work. “Come. I must send someone to clean up this mess we’ve made.”

  He had a bad feeling the city couldn’t be scrubbed free of rebellion as easily as it could be scrubbed free of blood, which reminded him of the previous attacks. As they walked back to the Citadel, he explained to Tyrolean about the Escort Poregar coming to speak to him about the slaughter of animals, and about Ilumat’s similar issue on his lands. “Osias suggested the Moonlings are at fault.”

  Blood stained the front of Tyrolean’s tunic as he held his injured arm against his chest. “The Moonlings? Why would they attack like this?”

  “Oklai asked me to free the slaves. She considers herself a Queen among her people.”

  “There is only one Queen. She knows that.”

  Draken stared at him. Akrasian privilege was like battlements inside the mind. He decided not to try to broach them. “I have spoken against slavery. She considered me an ally, but her timing was poor. Of course she doesn’t see it that way.”

  “So you agree with Osias? It’s the Moonlings doing these killings?”

  He bowed his head in thought. “No,” he said at last. “I don’t. I think Oklai would have threatened me with more if she could. I think it is Monoeans, or something else at work.”

  “Banes? They could possess all of them and allow themselves to be killed.”