The Black Star (Book 3) (12 page)

But thinking like that was what had caused Blays to renounce him.

He closed his eyes and nodded. "You'll get every penny of the bounty I've promised. Up front. And the
possibility
of long-term employment."

"I don't want words. I want a writ."

"You'll get it as soon as I see Blays," Dante said between his teeth. "If you've found him where so many others have failed, I'm sure the Citadel would be happy to retain your talents."

She gazed at him, hair teased by gusts of salty wind and sporadic ocean spray. "I trust you'll want to leave tonight?"

"Are you ready?"

"I plan my day expecting to leave the place I woke up in."

"That would explain why you're not married," he muttered. "Do you have a horse?"

Cee gave him a look. "I wouldn't be much of a nomad without one."

"Well, I left mine in my castle. Meet me outside the Cathedral of Ivars in two hours. If this is a joke or a scam, you're a dead woman."

"Oh, I know," she said. "I saw you in the war, remember?"

He didn't offer to share the ride back to shore. Her rowboat kept easy pace with his. He pushed it without making it obvious he was pushing, yet they still hit the sands within seconds of each other. He hurried back to the Sealed Citadel, tasked a servant to ready a horse, and jogged up to his room to gather his things. By the time he got back downstairs, his horse was there, breath wreathing its nostrils.

"Where are you going?"

Dante turned, expecting to see the stablehand, and gazed on Lew instead. Dante froze. "What are you doing here?"

"Walking," Lew said. "Around."

"In the courtyard? In the middle of the night?"

"You don't expect me to take my walks in the city, do you? They'll let anyone in
that
place."

"You're spying on me, aren't you?" Dante said. "For Olivander."

"I think Arawn would look down on one of his monks spying on his high priest!"

"He frowns on lying, too. I want the truth. Or I'll demote you to chief manure bin."

"I'm not
spying
," the monk said. "Just...lounging about."

Dante stepped closer. "With the express purpose of keeping an eye on me. Was Olivander concerned I'd get into trouble in the Woduns?"

"Get into trouble? No.
Cause
trouble? Yes."

"Which I didn't. I was an upstanding representative of this institution. Yet here you are, malingering like a case of Mallish Pox."

"I'm not telling him anything bad. He just wants to make sure he's training you right. That's a big responsibility for him, you know?"

"And running off in the middle of the night runs directly counter to it." Dante sighed. "Well, there's only one thing I can do, then. Get a horse. You're coming with me."

"Like hell I am!"

"I'm leaving. Unless you want to fail in your mission to keep tabs on me, so are you."

Lew drew back his head. "You're going to find Blays, aren't you?"

"This time?" Dante glanced toward the Citadel gates. "There's nothing in the world that can stop me."

6

Birds burst from the canopy, fluttering and squawking. Arrows whacked into the sides of the wagons with the metallic snap of a hammer ringing on a nail. Human arrows, Blays registered dully. Not that he expected to be attacked by norren in the heart of Old Gask. But he had become something of an expert on wagon train ambushes, both on offense and defense, and had learned that norren arrows—primarily obsidian, glass, or bone—didn't have the same clapping retort as iron arrowheads. The iron ones
sounded
nasty. If you imagined that noise as applied to your ribs, or your head, it could paralyze you with fear. Until the bandits honed in on your indecisive self and put one of their arrows through your spine, paralyzing you for real.

"Bandits!" He jumped from the seat of the wagon and hit the ground running. "We're under attack!"

Which was obvious to everyone with the ears to hear the arrows sizzling through the leaves and slamming into the wagons. But guiding people through the Straits of Oh Shit was much easier when you put a firm hand on the till.

"Archers, return fire!" Crouched low, he dashed into the trees beside the path. At some point he'd drawn his swords. "Others, to me. Left sweep.
Move!
"

Men called out, thrashing through the brush behind him (his people) and ahead (the enemy). Someone was already screaming. Probably one of their own. Strangers moved in the trees, wearing green and brown clothing that matched the woods. Without breaking speed, Blays began zigzagging, meaning to throw off anyone drawing a bead on him and to allow his people to catch up.

The problem with an ambush like this was that it was so damn effective. For one thing, the enemy had the advantage of surprise. For another, they had total mobility within a covered environment; on the other side, the wagon train was confined to a one-dimensional track. Turning around was a) impossible and b) fruitless. You
could
plow ahead, but this was a wagon team, not a legion of warhorses. The enemy could keep up on foot. In the chaos, your wagons could get separated—or the bad guys could get frustrated and shoot your horses, leaving you screwed even if you won the day.

Against a concealed opponent who could move around however they pleased, hiding behind the wagons and exchanging fire was a fool's game. Instead, you had to organize a counterstrike on the fly and execute it before their snipers sliced your squad to ribbons.

Blays' first mark was just noticing his less-than-subtle charge, pivoting beside a tree trunk and nocking a fresh arrow. Blays waited for the archer's elbow to hook back, then flung himself to the left, rolling in the damp leaves. The arrow rushed by, rapping into a tree trunk. Blays popped up on his feet and ran toward him, but the man was already nocking another round. Blays slung his left-hand sword at the archer, the weapon spinning end over end.

The man grunted and jerked up his bow, deflecting the incoming blade with a clang. Blays rushed in behind it and jabbed at the man's chest. The archer turned aside, using the bow to guide the thrust past him. Blays cocked his left elbow and slammed his empty fist into the man's chin. The archer's head snapped into the trunk with a dull thud. Blays stabbed again, hooking in from the side, burying four inches of steel in the soft spot between the man's hips and ribs. The man gasped and feebly poked the bow's tip at Blays' face. Blays pushed the blade deeper, dropping him, then finished him off.

He rolled behind the trunk for a quick look at the field. Taya and the wagon's guards had raced past him, engaging targets of their own. Men shouted orders back and forth. Arrows hummed through the trees, but the shots were sporadic and hurried. The few of the enemy who weren't directly engaged were being peppered with fire by Blays' archers at the wagons.

Blays grabbed his fallen sword and sprinted to assist the nearest guard, who was in a vicious one-on-one twenty feet away. Steel rattled on steel. The wagon guard feinted and the bandit flicked his short sword at the man's hand. The guard cried out and reeled back, knuckles bloodied. The bandit smiled grimly and hurled himself forward—lunging directly into Blays' sword. The guard put an end to him.

Further ahead, Taya's thin swords were doing messy things to two men in green cloaks. They screamed for a second, then didn't. The woods were dense and the ambushers had had to position themselves close to the road, allowing the wagon's guards to close on them in moments. Unseen bandits were calling out names from the other side of the path. The men on the wagons replied with arrows.

Blays ran forward, scanning the forest. He tried to join another engagement, but the guard cut his foe's throat before Blays got within reach. The coppery scent of blood mingled with the rotting leaves. The voices from the other side of the road faded, retreating. Blays' guards called to each other, checking off names. The battle was over.

Taya jogged up to him, sweat sheening her forehead. "We should chase them down."

"Did they piss you off that bad?" Blays got out a rag and began to wipe his swords. "Bandits are just one of the hazards of the open road. Like a storm. That rains iron-tipped arrows."

"You think these were common bandits?"

"I didn't see any crowns or purple robes."

She glanced at their guards, who were tending to the wounded. "We deliberately let all of Setteven know we had access to a fortune in bossen. That would have motivated any number of candidates to arrange to take it away from us."

Blays rubbed his mouth. "Whoever they are, they have a head start and know these woods better than we do. Did we leave any survivors?"

Taya swiveled on her heel and went from bandit to bandit. Most were dead or unconscious. Two could speak, but one of them seemed incapable of words besides "mother" and "water."

The other gave Taya a wicked smile and coughed blood at her face. "We weren't hired by no one."

She drew back, but made no motion to wipe her face. "You sure about that? You have been stabbed in the vitals. It will take you hours to die."

"And whose blade put me here?" He laughed coldly. "I'd no sooner turn over a name than I'd hand you my children."

"You can always be hurt worse."

"Than a gut wound? Have at it."

Taya turned to Blays and raised her eyebrows. "Do I have permission?"

Blays blinked and moved beside her, dropping his voice. "To mutilate this fellow?"

"This 'fellow' was attempting to kill us."

"Typically I try to hold myself to higher standards than murderers."

"He's dead either way," she said. "The question is whether you want to use his death to learn how to stop the next attempt."

Blays inhaled deeply. "I left Narashtovik to escape that kind of thinking. Put the bastard out of his misery and let's see what's left on the bodies."

She gazed at him, judgment clear in her eyes, then knelt and cut the bandit's throat. Blays didn't turn away. Even as the man gurgled and clutched his neck. He had seen enough to know that looking away from a thing couldn't save you from its memory. Instead, looking was the only way to understand what you were doing.

They went from bandit to bandit, rifling pockets, examining their clothing and weapons. Banditry was dangerous work. As a general rule, the only people willing to risk their lives to prey on the roads were homeless vagabonds. The rare few who actually struck it rich tended to retire or attempt to use their gains to establish a business that didn't involve crossing pointy objects with angry travelers fearful for their lives. In short, your average highwayman was dirty and dirt-poor, often unable to field weapons more expensive than cudgels and spears.

These men were a cut above that. All had bows and at least one iron blade. Their clothes weren't straight from the Setteven salons, but their cloaks were warm and showed little sign of mending. None were shoeless. Neither, however, did any of them wear any fancy jewelry besides the odd earring or necklace, or carry ruby-handled swords of watered steel. It was enough so Blays could believe they'd been hired, but it left plenty of room for doubt.

The dead carried little in the way of personal objects. A crude wooden frog. A knife with a handle made of antler that had been carved with images of ships at sea. A badly-spelled letter from a wife urging the recipient to come home. A couple of wooden combs, one broken. The sundries of survival. Nothing to tie them to a palace aristocrat. Blays rinsed his hands of blood and dirt and returned to the wagons.

They'd lost two men. Five others bore wounds ranging from sliced knuckles to an arrow through the ribs that had probably punctured the man's lung. The crew's barber removed the arrow and bandaged him best he could, but there was little else they could do besides install the man in one of the wagons, resume the trip, and get him to a proper bed as soon as they could.

For just a moment, Blays missed traveling with Dante: cold and violent as he often was, he was a born healer. If the dirty shadow-slinger had been here, the man gasping in the wagon would already be back on his feet.

Taya sat beside Blays on the front wagon, watching the trees. "This won't be easy to track down."

"What, you don't think I should drunkenly accuse everyone at the next ball?" Blays said. "That's what a
real
nobleman would do."

"You're right, you should speak out. Getting assaulted on the highway, and surviving, is something you should brag about for cachet. But don't make accusations."

"But that's where I'm an artisan." He was quiet for a moment, the wagon rumbling beneath him. The sun was falling and the air was growing cold. "If this attack was paid for, seems to me there are two suspects with the most to gain."

"The duke," Taya said. "He might not be able to afford the bossen, but he can pay to have it stolen. Who's the second?"

"Lady Carraday."

"When she thinks you've got a deal in place? Why?"

"Because she's sly enough to know that makes her least suspicious," Blays said. "Also, her family was here before Gask and I bet they'll still be here after the empire crumbles. They're survivors. They know how to scramble."

Taya considered this, then nodded once. "A fair argument."

"Then there's the third candidate: everyone else in Gask who likes money."

"Shadowy sedition can be so inconvenient," she grumbled. "I'll turn over all the stones I can, but I doubt we'll get far."

"Then how do you suggest we proceed?"

"Boast about the attack. Offer a reward for any information relating to the bandits—you wish to pursue those who got away. With any luck, someone on the inside will have a score to settle with the perpetrator and seize the opportunity to bring them down. They dispose of an enemy while scoring points with you."

"I'll make one last offer to Duke Dilliger, too," he said. "But I can't let Carraday dangle for too long."

He wasn't terribly happy with these resolutions. They were passive. Unlikely to yield results. Perhaps he ought to petition the king—concern for the safety of the roads, the prosperity of Gask, and so on and so forth—but that too was unlikely to gain him anything besides a small amount of political credit. Well, like they said, the longest journey begins with a single step. Maybe he could, in time, parlay this incident into real pull with the king. That would be something. Mentally, he started composing his missive.