Dhulyn stepped around the bodies and blood on the floor, grasped the jeweled hilt, and pulled the dagger free.
“Throws well, too,” she said, wiping the blade clean on the dead man’s shirt.
“Look what I have.” The dead soldiers had all been wearing badges in the Tenebro colors of black, teal, and dark red pinned to their chests. Hernyn had removed them. “We can wear them as a disguise.”
Dhulyn leaned forward and picked one out of his hand. “This one has blood on it.”
They had not progressed much farther when noises came from behind them. Parno twisted around to listen more carefully, holding up his hand for Dhulyn and Hernyn to be still.
“We’re between them and the Tarkina’s rooms,” he said. “But they sound like they’re coming this way.” He lowered his hand. “Dhulyn? You’re Senior.”
“You wait here for them. Join us if you can. If not, we’ll be back for you.”
“My Brother, I could stay.”
Parno caught Dhulyn’s eye but should have known better; of course she’d seen what he’d seen. The nervous half smile that appeared on Hernyn’s face whenever he stopped controlling his features. Those two Tenebro soldiers could very well be the first people he’d killed since his Schooling had finished. The boy had done well, and he knew it, but was trying to be as offhand about it as his Senior Brothers. Since he was paying more attention to his attitude than his job, this was not the time to put Hernyn in charge of their rear guard.
“My Brother,” Dhulyn said with command in her tone. “This is not your time.” Parno caught her eye and winked.
“In Battle,” he said.
“Or in Death,” they responded as they trotted down the hall toward the Tarkina’s rooms. Parno adjusted the badge pinned to the front of his tunic and stood, feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, shoulders relaxed, swords held out from his body. He released all the breath from his lungs and breathed in, consciously beginning the rhythms of the Eagle Shora. His heartbeat slowed, sounds became clearer, the light brightened.
The first man into the hallway was Dal-eDal Tenebro.
Parno felt his lips peel back from his teeth. The blond man motioned his fellows to wait, stepped forward himself to striking distance and stopped, but Parno wasn’t stupid enough to move. He was already in the best spot to stop them from advancing, close enough to the corner to crowd them as they came around, far enough from the other end to give him room to fall back.
Dal’s eyes flicked to the badge on Parno’s chest.
“We’ve engaged no Mercenary Brothers to fight for us,” Dal said.
“Do all your allies know? Because once I’ve killed you, you won’t be telling anyone else.”
“I would tell you something, Mercenary,” Dal-eDal said, with a noticeable pause before the last word.
“And what might that be? If I recall correctly, the last thing you told me was a lie.”
“This is not. You might wish to know that your Household fell almost two years ago. The Lady Pen-uPen is Householder now.”
Parno managed to stop himself from lowering his sword, but his heart rate did speed up. His father was gone, then. But his sister had been allowed to inherit. He shook his head. “Who do you think you’re speaking to?”
“My cousin, Par-iPar Tenebro. I didn’t remember you at first, but the only time I was here in Gotterang with my father, you were here as well, and you helped me with my pony. My father liked you.”
“The man you speak of was Cast Out,” Parno said, gratified that his voice was steady. “I am Parno Lionsmane the Chanter, I fight with my Brother, Dhulyn Wolfshead.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, man. You’re closer to the main line than I. If Lok-iKol dies, you would be Tenebroso.”
“And Tarkin, too, I suppose?”
Dal shook his head. “With Lok gone, no need for Tek-aKet to die. And the man has children to inherit, besides.” Dal sheathed his own sword and took a half step forward. For a moment Parno saw, not the tormented, torn man Dal had become, but the laughing child he’d once put on a pony. “Think about all you give up!”
This time Parno did lower his sword. Dal wasn’t going to hurt him. Not here anyway, maybe not ever, if he thought there was a chance that Parno would step back into the life he’d left. The life I was Cast Out of. He shrugged one shoulder. When he’d talked of this to Dhulyn-was it only hours ago?-he had no way of knowing such a temptation would come his way. His sister would keep the Household; he’d be taking nothing from her. He thought of his mother, still alive. He could place House Tenebro and all its power behind Tek-aKet and defeat the Jaldeans. His thoughts faltered as he remembered the green shadow that looked from men’s eyes. What power would they need to defeat that?
He thought then of his Schooling, of the feeling in his stomach on the morning of a battle; of the smell of spring as he rode his horse down from the mountains; of the way the air of a foreign country filled his lungs. Of the look on Dhulyn’s face when she turned over the right vera tile. Of her husky voice singing while he played the pipes. Of the smile she smiled only for him. He thought of the years on the road together since Arcosa. In Battle or in Death.
“You have no idea what I’d be giving up,” he said finally.
Hernyn rattled the door latch to the Tarkina’s suite with no results.
“Locked and barred,” he said. Dhulyn rolled her eyes. “And there is no light that I can see.”
“I doubt she’d bar the doors if the rooms were empty.” Dhulyn took her Brother firmly by the sleeve and pulled him to one side. She gave the door three sharp blows with the side of her fist and called out. “Tarkina! It’s Dhulyn Wolfshead. Let us in.”
There was a thump, and a small bang on the far side of the door as the bar was removed and laid to one side. The door cracked open and a woman’s hand beckoned them in. Dhulyn wasted no time entering, and she and Hernyn made short work of rebarring the door. It was good stout work, she saw with satisfaction, the insets for the bar not merely attached to, but part of the structure of the walls. They were as safe as could be-short of treachery or starvation.
Dhulyn almost didn’t recognize the woman who’d let them in. Gone were the Tarkina’s veils, and her palace gown with its fluttering sleeves. In its place Zelianora wore the loose trousers, long-sleeved blouse, tight vest, and short boots of her own desert people. An older woman, similarly dressed, stood at the doorway across the drawing room with a curved knife in her hand. Her surprise must have shown on her face, because Zelianora Tarkina took one look at her and smiled.
“Denobea saw strange soldiers in the courtyard,” she said, “and what with the noises…”
“Strange soldiers?” Dhulyn said to the older woman.
The nurse Denobea cleared her throat and gestured to the arrow niche that served this drawing room for a window. “They wear Tenebro color.” Her accent was the same as the Tarkina’s, but her words more hesitant.
“For them to be in that courtyard, someone had to let them in,” the Tarkina said, sinking into a nearby chair. “One of my husband’s people.”
“Not necessarily.” Hernyn spoke from the doorway to the suite of rooms. “The Tenebros were Tarkins not so long ago. They might know a way in that doesn’t rely on treachery.”
Dhulyn snorted, then rolled her eyes as everyone turned to her. Youngsters. “Say what you like, my Brother, but treachery’s the simpler answer and you know it.”
“I was trying to spare the Tarkina suspicions of her own household,” Hernyn said shyly.
“Please don’t.” The Tarkina stood up. “I may not be a Mercenary, young man, but I prefer not to be told that the wolf at the door is only a pet dog. We must go at once to my husband.”
“It’s under his orders that we’re here, Tarkina.” Dhulyn eyed the other woman’s clothing. “You’re Berdanan, aren’t you, Lady? As you’ve been Tarkina of Imrion for several years, I must ask, do you still keep your travel packs ready?”