“The Sarite has never been anything to me, Kathaos,” she said. “He’s an ambitious upstart. I shan’t be sorry when Amrek’s rid of him.”
There was no intimation in Kathaos’s face of his own opinion. He would regret bitterly the necessity of Raldnor’s death—Raldnor, who might have been the key to so much. If there had been more time to plan. But the circumstances and the betrayal had been unforeseen. He had been forced to play for the lowest throw—Val Mala’s spite against Astaris—simply because the man he had been prepared to back was a fool. He regretted, too, that nothing better than the fire would sample the exquisite Astaris’s body.
“Majesty, if the Lord Amrek understands I’m working against the princess, he’ll try to stop me, perhaps find some way to remove me. If the investigation were undertaken in your name, I can apprehend whatever treason there is, unhindered.”
She nodded her gold-tiered head in unequivocal assent.
“Do it. What plans have you made?”
Concisely he told her. In a curious way he recalled Amnorh to her then—Amnorh, who had promised her Rehdon’s death and whose reward had been his own. But, as she heard him out, she smiled, for she saw the host of her enemies overthrown, the fall of bright stars and the exorcism of ghosts before her eyes.
A man bowed to Raldnor on the terrace of the Palace of Peace and slipped into his hand a jewel.
“Do you know this gem, my lord?”
“The Princess Astaris’s seal ring—how did you come by it?”
“No need for anger, my lord. My mistress could assure you of that. She asks you to attend her this evening.”
“Who is your mistress?”
“You know her well, Dragon Lord. Her last servant gave her request no tongue.”
Raldnor stared at the man, and in his heart feared for her. The speech seemed brashly put. She had chosen this time a poor messenger.
“You’re too open. Take care.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord. I only do as I’m bid. Will you go where you found her last?”
“She knows I will.”
“Do you remember the way? This time there’ll be no guide.”
“I remember it.”
“Leave here two hours after sunset then, when she’s left the feast.”
He bowed again and departed.
He himself, being master of a certain trade plied along the river bank, knew the old mansion on Water Street. It seemed they had questioned the princess’s women as to where their own trysts were taken, then wrung from the old imbecile of a caretaker all the rest—the hooded woman and her lover, the priceless jewels that had been given in payment. Then Astaris’s chief lady had stolen her seal ring. It had been easy enough to do, and the villain, as he slunk across the garden, felt scorn for their stupidity, these great ones who had everything and who thought themselves so beloved of the gods they would never come to grief. Well, let them rot, the pair of them.
Raldnor almost guessed the trap that had been laid for him. Not consciously—it was a prickling in the core of his bones. Yet he neither analyzed nor hesitated, for at that time he seemed to live in a limbo of desire. Besides, he had feared treachery before and found none.
As he left the gate, a figure, cloaked and hooded like himself, slipped out after him, unseen.
In the old unpaved alleys of the city, his dark intuitions came to the fore. When he reached the street of villas, his skin was crawling without apparent reason. He crossed under the arch, his knife drawn, and went through the rustling garden to the portico of the great house. Somewhere ahead the lamp was burning. Yet it did nothing to still his glittering nerves. He paused and reached out for her with his mind through the gloomy, river-smelling palace, and there was no answer.
He experienced an instant’s icy clutching dread that she was no longer living, yet Anici had taught him that this at least he would have known. He went through the shadows and into the salon.
The lamp shone as before, yet more dimly, and the river washed beyond. On the bed there was a dark muffled shape, which rose up suddenly and poked out its scarred and grinning face.
“Not such a dainty repast as you thought, Sarite.”
Ryhgon. He barely noted him. He knew abruptly that the shadows of the hall outside had been full of men. With a single leap he crossed the room and the narrow strip of terrace. Poised in the air, he saw the Okris gape for him, sprinkled with lights, until his passage cleaved them.
In high summer, in the streams of the Plains, he had swum to wash away the day’s dust. But this water, now, in Koramvis was sluggish and very cold beneath. When he lifted his head for air, he rose against a stone wall, viscous with muddy weeds, where an old cooking pot floated on the scum.
The terrace of the ruined palace lay some way back now, and lights had flared up there. They knew he was in the river, but he had been too quick for them. They had assumed that he had gone the other way, for this was where they pointed. A partially submerged plank had caught their attention, and one man flung a spear at it. He dived again.
Red moonlight filtered down to him, and the river gods hung on his heels.
He rose a second time; the mansion was now far off downstream. A stairway lifted itself brokenly out of the water. He climbed up onto the desolate wharf, and rats scuttled to shelter. Beyond, black alleys opened out. He chose one at random and moved into it.
Soon he heard the sound of men’s voices, the dull chink of scale plate. Then the color of the torches rose behind a row of hovels on his left. They must have recognized the plank for what it was and split their party in two. He gripped the pole of a street light and pulled himself up it to the level of a house roof, then dropped silently and lay flat on filthy clay still warm from the day’s heat.
They passed beneath him with flare-lit faces, thrusting spears into dark areas—doors, alley mouths—but never looked up at the parapet.
“Must have headed for the gate!” a man shouted below.
The hunting party made off northward up the narrow street.
His mind in turmoil, he lay on the roof. Besides himself and them, nothing seemed to be stirring. He lifted his head. He could still see the tawny lurch of their torches, off to the right now, and the hovels standing out like black paper against it. Yet beyond those, thrusting up like a pale marker in the uniform flat of the slums, he made out the battlements of the River Garrison.
The half-formed plan took hold of him, a madman’s plan as once before. Reach Kren’s hold and he could use his rank, perhaps, to commandeer a chariot, then drive across the searchlines to the Storm Palace—who could predict he would run that way? Then he must find some means to get to Astaris. He had had a moment’s chilling leisure now to understand what had happened, and to see what would be done to her. But he would pry her out of whatever imprisonment they had allotted her, however meager his chances or strong the jail. He would sell his life and freedom for hers, if he had to, without thinking, for it was impossible for him to imagine that he might lose her to the fire, and he infinitely preferred to envisage his death rather than her agony. It was a new wine that filled him. As in the garden at Abissa, impulse ruled him and drove him on.
He swung over the parapet and dropped noiselessly to the cobbles.
And saw, too late, the individual patrol lurking in wait for him. As they thrust from cover, the Star painted their eager faces. He doubled back and a shout went up. Torchlight converged behind him.
He sped up the narrow alley, doubled a second time into Date Street and emerged onto the open and unsheltered square that fronted the high Garrison gates. Two red-cloaked sentries stood leaning on their spears on the raised walk before the gate. They were at ease, expecting, until now, nothing special this night. The baying of a hunting pack and the glaring brands jerked up their heads. They leveled spears.