Trial of Kings Page 7

  His face. No time for a shave, to pluck his eyebrows, paint his lips and do all the thousand other things that Azo was wont to do before a night out on the Waystation. A veil, then, in the manner of the Dilmanians.

  The door rattled, then shook. “Open up!”

  No Dilmanian veils were in evidence. Azo never was one to hide his beauty.

  In desperation, Acharsis turned to Azo’s open wardrobe and yanked out a purple tunic. He tore it in half, tied it around his face so that only his eyes showed, and then hurried to the door just as the guards outside started battering at it in earnest.

  Thud. Thud. Before it could shake a third time, Acharsis threw the door open so that the guard staggered through, off balance.

  A second guard entered right behind him, sword drawn, and then stopped at the sight of Acharsis. “What—who—?”

  Acharsis stared at the guard, the tunic sucking into his mouth with each inhalation. Should he seduce the man? Simper? A detached part of his mind found it fascinating to watch the guard try to process what he was seeing, to wrestle with his incomprehension.

  One thing was clear: the man was in no way buying his disguise. Time to come up with a different plan. Acharsis spread his arms wide in a supplicating manner, and in a falsetto voice asked, “But what about the parade?”

  The guard narrowed his eyes again, flummoxed for a second time as Acharsis sauntered forward, placed both hands coyly on the man’s shoulders, yanked him forward and kneed him between the legs.

  The guard gasped, twisted, and keeled over to crash onto his side.

  Acharsis took the man’s bronze blade from his unresisting hand and rose quickly, blade extending to catch the second guard at the throat just as he was starting to move in to attack.

  “Uh-uh,” said Acharsis. “You wouldn’t strike a lady, would you?”

  The second guard tried to tilt his chin away from the blade, but to no avail. “What are you?”

  “'What'? Such an insulting question.” Acharsis glanced down at the silk dress that was straining to contain his frame. “And one I don’t quite know how to answer. But, for tonight, I believe I am all yours.”

  “All… mine?”

  The first guard was starting to rise to his feet, so Acharsis gave him a kick in the gut. All the air whooshed out of him and he collapsed like a punctured wineskin.

  “Yes. You’re going to tie up your friend, and then we’re both going to walk out of here. Understood?”

  “Walk out of here?”

  “Not the brightest of flames, are you?” Acharsis nodded at the fallen guard. “Give me your blade, then tie him up and gag him. And if you do a bad job of it, I’ll slit his throat to save myself further trouble. Hurry.”

  The guard did as he was bid, trussing up his fallen companion with brutal efficiency that left Acharsis in no doubt as to the man’s inability to escape.

  “Good. Now, what’s your name?”

  “Kadneza.”

  “Well, Kadneza, we’re going to walk out of here side by side. I’m going to have my dagger against your ribs. One wrong move and I’ll plunge it into your heart. Stand here, and I’ll stand beside you. Place your arm over my shoulder, like so. Yes, drape your cloak over me, very good. Feel that tip? It’s sharp. And if anybody speaks to you, you can only say, ‘It’s my lucky night.’ Any attempt to say anything different will result in your death. Understood?”

  “It’s my lucky night,” croaked Kadneza.

  Acharsis patted his cheek. “Sharper than I thought. Good man. Sheathe your blade. Now, we’re heading straight for the front door. If you stop walking for any reason, I’ll gut you like a fish. You’ve seen what innards look like?”

  Kadneza nodded.

  “Well, yours are just waiting to come out, glistening and gleaming like oiled-up snakes. Think on them if you’re tempted to break my rules. Now go.”

  They stepped over the bound guard and into the low-ceilinged room. A number of courtesans were standing in the corner, whispering to each other. They froze at the sight of Acharsis and the guard.

  Down the stairs they went, squeezed in together, Acharsis alert to the slightest indication that Kadneza might try for a headlock or cry out a warning.

  He didn’t.

  They stepped into the main hall and turned toward the front door.

  “Soldier!” The bark had the ring of authority to it. “Where are you going?”

  “It’s my lucky night,” said Kadneza.

  “Our quarry has escaped below. Leave that woman and—soldier! I’m speaking to you!”

  Acharsis dug the tip of his blade a little deeper between Kadneza’s leather armor.

  “It’s my lucky night!” shouted Kadneza.

  “It’ll be your last night if you don’t get back here! Have you gone mad?”

  Acharsis pulled Kadneza into a jog. They began to run toward the door just as two more death watch guards appeared in its frame.

  “Stop that guard!” bellowed the commander from behind them. “Stop him!”

  “Lucky night!” screamed Kadneza as Acharsis jabbed him once more. “Lucky night!”

  The two new arrivals stared, dumbfounded, as Acharsis and Kadneza charged them. Incredulously, they began to draw their blades, but at the last Acharsis tripped Kadneza, hurling the man into the pair of them and then leaping over their sprawling forms to the sound of his dress tearing.

  He bolted out into the cavern, ignoring the stares and cries, running alongside a cart and then ducking around the mules, past the fountain and diving into the crowd. The shouts from the soldiers behind him were soon lost.

  Where was Elu? He was smart - smart enough to not head out of the Waystation alone without transport and supplies. He’d have gone down, then; to the bridge cavern, where he’d try to find a ride to Uros on a recently arrived caravan.

  Acharsis was so preoccupied that he barely noticed the change. The crowd was a static thing, pressed back against the walls, all eyes on the center of the market where a confrontation between two opposing lines of guards was taking place. Acharsis didn’t have time to investigate. Elbowing people aside, muttering apologies, he fought free of the press and out onto the main ramp. Down the gritty slope he ran, sandals smacking the rock, torn dress fluttering around him, dagger in hand.

  The ramp spiralled down, down, down, its length lit by the occasional lantern. As many people were struggling to make their way up as were fighting to escape what was happening above. Voices cried out questions, called out curses, and trains of wagons were mired in the crowd, their drivers lashing out at the people before them with whips in an attempt to get them to move.

  Acharsis skirted the wall, following its curvature and ducking the worst of the traffic until at last it gave out into the great bridge cavern. Here, scaffolding rose on all sides with ramps for hauling goods onto and off the waiting wagons, while the stench of animals and their ordure mingled with the lantern smoke to make the atmosphere close and cloying. The braying of mules, stern shouts from caravan masters and cries of those escaping the scene above made the scene chaotic, and Acharsis staggered to a stop, gazing about the milling crowd in despair.

  How was he to find the boy in this great shifting morass? He could comb through the crowd all evening and never catch sight of him. He had to think, to puzzle this through. Elu was his son. He’d have done the same.

  The cavern was divided in two, with the left half holding those who were overnighting at the Waystation before heading out into the River Cities or down to Dilman, and the right holding those about to venture forth into the Golden Steppe.

  Elu would be looking for transport to Uros. That meant the left half. Fighting his way through, Acharsis reached a well-positioned scaffold and began to climb, hoisting himself up and not caring for the catcalls his torn dress elicited.

  Up he climbed, and when he reached the loading platform - some four yards above the ground - he leaned out, arm hooked around a pole, and scanned the waiting caravans. They were lashed
down for the night, mules unhitched and taken away to the huge stables at the end of the cavern. Guards stood alert, bows in hand.

  No sign of caravan masters. Elu would be out of luck. He’d need to track the owners down to their quarters above, awaken them, and plead for a free ride. No; he’d know such a tactic was futile. What, then?

  If Acharsis were as desperate, wounded, and young as Elu, what would he do? Try to stow away on a caravan, most like. Find the most poorly guarded and sneak in under a pile of goods.

  Desperation grabbed Acharsis by the throat. If Elu had already managed this ploy, there would be no finding him. No way of knowing which caravan he’d snuck aboard, or which one to follow to recover him. They’d have to travel to Uros, wait and watch - no, impossible. He had to find him now.

  Luckily, events were conspiring against the youth. With all the shouting and tension, every guard was alert and watching for trouble. Acharsis peered into the shadows around the loading area, seeking some sign of the boy.

  “Hey there! What do you think you’re doing?” Acharsis turned to see an overweight man staring at him from the far end of the platform. “Get down!”

  “Come any closer and I’ll kiss you,” said Acharsis, and resumed scanning the caravans. He probed at dark corners, peered into shadowed recesses.

  Nothing.

  “All right, I warned you nice. Now I’m going to have you thrown off. Guards!”

  Just then, Acharsis saw a familiar figure dart out from behind a pile of crates and disappear behind the rear of a heavily-loaded wagon. “There you are,” whispered Acharsis, and leaped off the platform just as two men began to approach him, blades in hand.

  He landed lightly on the headboard of a large wagon, dress splitting further up his thigh as he crouched, then dropped over the side before the drivers could object. Moving quickly, he darted past just in time to see Elu wiggle his way under a heavy tarp and disappear into the wagon.

  “Hey, you,” barked a voice from above. Acharsis looked up at a drawn bow, then past that to the caravan guard. “Get away from there.”

  A number of different ploys played through his mind in an instant. Lies, tricks, retreats, confrontations. In the end, he simply raised his hands. “My son’s snuck aboard your wagon. I’m just trying to get him out.”

  The guard eyed him up and down. “Your son.”

  “My wife’s dress. It’s surprisingly comfortable,” said Acharsis. The truth could only get you so far. “Here, I’ll just get him and go. Shoot me if I pull out anything but a very angry boy.”

  “No!” hissed Elu from within the wagon. “Get away!”

  “Sorry,” said Acharsis, raising the tarp and revealing his son’s furious face. “Your mother would never forgive me. Let’s go.”

  “Hey,” called the guard. “We’ve a stowaway! Hurry round the back, there!”

  “Come with me, or get cut down by who’s coming,” said Acharsis. “Your choice.”

  “No choice at all,” said Elu, squirming free. “Just another one of your lies.”

  “Another one?” Acharsis paused. “All I’ve done so far is save your life.”

  “You call this saving my life?” Elu clearly had more to say, but the sight of three guards closing in cut him off. “Leave me alone!” And with that, he darted away.

  Acharsis followed. He put on a burst of speed and caught Elu by the arm. The kid came wheeling around, and Acharsis barely missed a punch that would have cracked him across the jaw. I've just about had enough of this.

  “Now, listen,” said Acharsis. But he got no further.

  “They’re firing the bridge!” yelled a voice from the entrance ramp. “Istrikar’s given the order! They’re firing the bridge!”

  The effect on the crowd was immediate. People shoved frantically at each other as they fought to reach their caravans; voices were drowned in a roar of confusion and anger, and then screams sounded as hound-helmed guards carrying torches began to flood out of the ramp, blades raised and glimmering.

  “Come on!” yelled Acharsis, hauling at Elu’s arm.

  “No!” Elu gave a futile yank, trying to break Acharsis’ grip. “I’m not going with you!”

  Acharsis pulled Elu in close. “They’re firing the bridge. That means this Waystation is done. It’s going to be chaos up there. None of these caravans are going to get out in one piece. Irella will probably order them all confiscated to punish the merchants. You try and go with them, you’ll be found and killed.”

  “I’ll take my chances!”

  “You’re smarter than that,” said Acharsis. “Put your anger and pain aside. Think! You’ve no money, no weapons, no knowledge of the cities, nothing. Come with us! You can always get revenge later - when you’re ready for it!”

  The sound of clashing blades rang out, accompanied by hoarse shouts and screams. Acharsis saw Elu waver, and seized his opportunity. Pulling the youth after him, he fought his way through the crowd.

  “Where are we going?” cried Elu.

  “To the bridge!” Acharsis shoved a stumbling man away, then turned to shoulder his way through a knot of arguing merchants. A corridor opened in the crowd, and he ran down it, only for it to squeeze shut and trap them before he was more than halfway through. The sound of fighting grew louder. For the first time, he smelt smoke.

  Suddenly, the crowd parted and Acharsis saw the battle taking place. Istrikar’s hounds were fighting a retreat toward the bridge, torches in hand, a growing force of death watch guards attacking them ferociously. The battle was taking place amid the caravans and wagons, surrounded on all sides by the heaving crowd.

  A group of caravan guards stepped out and mobbed one of the hounds, pulling him down right before Acharsis and Elu, tearing the torch from his hand. The death watch guard he’d been fighting spitted him through the ribs, then turned to attack another hound.

  “Hurry!” yelled Acharsis, racing just outside the worst of the fighting, keeping an eye on the skirmishes and swinging blades. “Stay close!”

  The wagons on this side of the cavern were being hitched up to protesting beasts, their drivers and guards fighting to get moving, to clear the crowds and soldiers before them. Their faces showed helpless fury: they knew they were too far back to have any hope of crossing the bridge, but still they fought.

  At the very front of the line was a massive team of wagons emblazoned with black flags and banners. These were already hitched, the drivers cracking their whips at the dead oxen even as their guards fought off opportunists who sought to clamber aboard. The crowd was a mass of arms reaching up to try and grab hold of the wagons.

  “There,” cried Acharsis. “Our only chance!”

  Spider silk affixed the bridge to huge columns of stone that flanked the chasm's opening. Its length gleamed like a band of cartilage in the light of the moon, and men were fighting furiously along its base, private guards struggling to keep the hounds at bay.

  “Up!” shouted Acharsis, throwing Elu against the side of the last wagon and then boosting him toward the top. “Mind the guards!”

  Elu scrambled up the ropes that lashed down the barrels, and Acharsis climbed up beside him. There were six guards fighting atop the uneven wagon, all of them wielding spears. They sliced and stabbed down in a furious frenzy.

  One of the guards - face drenched with sweat, eyes wide with panic - turned and saw Elu’s head rise over the wagon’s side. He cried and jabbed with his spear. Acharsis surged up and knocked Elu aside, then grabbed at the spear’s shaft and pulled. The guard, already off balance, tottered forward and fell right over the wagon’s side and into the crowd below.

  Acharsis found better footing, hefted his stolen spear, then hurled it at the next closest guard. It slammed into his armored side and fell away. It did little damage, but distracted the man, who cried out and turned only to have hands latch around his boot and haul his leg out from under him. In a moment he was gone, over the side, consumed by the crowd.

  The wagon lurched forward,
the driver’s whips cracking over and over as they bellowed their commands. Acharsis nearly fell, then managed to steady himself and climb onto the wagon’s top. The remaining four guards at the end of the wagon saw him, but couldn’t turn away from the crowd below; they lashed out and swung their spears, keeping the desperate souls at bay.

  Acharsis grabbed Elu by the arm and pulled him up, then shoved him down onto his back as a guard turned and charged him, stumbling awkwardly over the crates and skins that the wagon bore. Luck caused the wagon to sway at the right moment; Acharsis dropped to one knee as the guard overbalanced, and the spear passed over his shoulder. Instead of grabbing for the weapon, Acharsis launched himself up and into the guard, bearing him to the ground. The man yelled and shook him off, rising to a crouch, and then the wagon jostled and he lost his balance. Without thinking, Acharsis shoved him over the side, and then he, too, was gone.

  The wagon rumbled out into the night, and the roar of the crowd died away. The three remaining guards gathered to fight off the last, desperate few. Acharsis picked up the fallen spear and readied himself for their eventual charge. Elu rose to stand by his side, a dagger in hand.

  “Careful with the drivers,” said Acharsis. “Don’t let them cut your legs out from under you.”

  Elu inched further away from the headboard, where the two men were urging their oxen out onto the swaying silk bridge. The first five wagons were already moving ahead of them, causing the huge ropes of spider silk to groan and stretch as they took on the weight. Acharsis shook his head. Istrikar was a mad bastard. He’d never find another Waystation as good as this one.

  The hounds were now bunched at the head of the bridge, a half-dozen of them applying their torches to the huge ropes, the others fighting off Irella's guards. Acharsis watched, fear growing in his chest, as the massive white strands smoked and blistered.

  “Faster!” cried one of the drivers, whip cracking like repeated stabs of lightning. “Faster, damn your dead hooves!”

  On they rumbled. The three guards finished off the last of the hangers-on and then considered him. Acharsis fought to calm his breathing, but the men didn’t attack.