Master of the Dance (40 page)

Cursing under his breath, he sprinted towards the gate through which he had entered the courtyard. Boot-blades were excellent weapons, but they became a liability when he had to climb walls. He outran the dogs for a fair distance, but when they started to catch up, he turned to face them. The first dog to reach him died with a boot-blade through its throat, the next he impaled in the chest. The last halted out of reach, called off by its bondsman, who was amongst those who pounded in pursuit. Knowing that every second he delayed brought him closer to capture, Blade leapt at the dog and slashed at its legs. It sprang back with a yelp, bleeding from a shallow gash in its shoulder, and limped away.

The assassin ran towards the gate once more, wanting to quit the courtyard before reinforcements arrived. The courtyard thronged with running men, most of whom could not see him in the dim light. His pursuers drew attention to him, however, by shouting and pointing. Ahead, a group of men that stood peering into the gloom heard the exhortations of those behind Blade and turned, spying him. Realising that he would not reach the gate before the soldiers did, Blade skidded to a halt on the slick stone.

Even in the poor light, he judged that a dozen soldiers blocked the way ahead. Too many to fight his way through, especially considering that at least that many pursued him, and more approached from the side. He glanced around, gasping in the chill, smoky air, his breaths forming clouds of steam. His only avenue of escape now was the wall beside him, but he had no time to remove the boot-blades. Sheathing his daggers, he turned to it and hooked his fingers into the deep grooves between the stones, which were filled with sandy mortar. He lifted a leg and stabbed the boot-blade into the mortar. It sank in to the hilt, giving him some of the purchase he needed.

Hoisting himself up, he climbed, his inability to grope for purchase with his feet slowing his progress. The three-inch blades scraped on the stone, and he had to look down to see where the lines of mortar were, then stab a boot-blade into one. Uncaring of the damage that he did to the keen-edged footwear, he ascended the wall as quickly as he could, using his arms more than his legs.

At times, he was able to turn his foot sideways and fit it into a groove between the stones, but this footing was unreliable, and several times he slipped, clinging with his hands. He was barely out of reach of the soldiers' swords when they arrived beneath him, and their dogs leapt up to snap at him while the soldiers tried to stab him. One attempted to follow, but soon slipped back, cursing. A man shouted for an archer, and another ordered some soldiers to go around to the outside and wait there.

Blade cursed as he climbed the wall, his fingers aching from the strain, his feet almost useless. As he grabbed the top of it, shouts of triumph came from below, and he glanced down. Two archers had arrived, and notched long, barbed war arrows into their bows. Blade hauled himself onto the wall and flattened himself to it as two arrows hissed past, barely missing him. While the archers reloaded, he glanced over the wall, where several soldiers had just arrived, and gazed up at him, their swords drawn. His avenues of escape were dwindling fast, and a sick, doomed feeling blossomed in his chest.

Blade jumped up and ran along the wall, heading for a place where it abutted a city wall. The soldiers followed, and two more arrows hissed past, making him duck. The top of the wall was only a couple of feet wide, and the metal pieces on his boots made the footing treacherous. Twice he skidded and almost fell, keeping his balance with difficulty. As he reached the city wall, a powerful blow on his arm spun him around and sent him sprawling, forcing him to grab the rough stones as he almost slid over the edge.

Agony shot up his arm, and he clung to the stone, panting. Forcing himself to ignore the pain, he pulled himself back to safety and rose to his feet once more, gritting his teeth. Four strides carried him past the city wall, foiling the soldiers on the outside, who could no longer follow him. A few servants' huts occupied the area beneath the outside of the wall, and beyond them were houses.

As Blade turned to jump down onto the roof of one of the huts, something hit him in the back with tremendous force, sending him flying into space. The force of the blow flipped him head over heels, and he landed on a sloping thatched roof on his back, almost smashing right through it. A soft cry was torn from him as the impact thrust the arrow lodged in his back out through his belly. He stared at the bloody, barbed arrowhead protruding from his gut with dazed eyes, unable to take in the enormity of his injury.

Shouts of triumph from the other side of the wall galvanised him back into action, and he clawed his way out of the deep indentation he had made in the thatch, slid to its edge and dropped to the ground. His legs buckled as a wave of weakness washed over him, his vision darkening with the familiar onset of shock, and he fell to his knees with a groan. Soon the soldiers would find their way around the city wall, and unless he found a hiding place, he was doomed. He glanced down at the arrow head protruding from his belly again, and reflected that he was probably doomed anyway.

Blade gripped the base of the shaft, ideas of pulling it out or breaking it off coming into his mind, but the lance of agony that shot through him dispelled the notions. Blood oozed from around the shaft, seeping down inside his clothes, but as yet it was not dripping onto the ground, which still gave him a chance to escape. He inspected his injured arm, finding a hole in his biceps through which the other arrow had passed, which oozed more blood.

Climbing to his feet, he glanced around. The shed he had landed on was a cow byre, and several surprised bovines eyed him with deep misgivings. Fate had thrown him a boon, it seemed, and he staggered into its warm redolence. A short search found a pair of the farmer's over-boots lying beside one of the stalls. He pulled them on over his sharp footwear, which punched through the toes of the dung-caked boots. Only a few minutes remained before the soldiers arrived, and the further away he got in that time, the better.

Holding the wound in his belly, he staggered past the huts around the byre and headed across an unkempt garden towards the houses. He passed two, pushing through hedges and climbing over a low fence before exhaustion slowed his steps. Veering towards the nearest house, he reached the back door and released the simple latch, staggered inside and almost fell over a table. As his eyes adjusted, he made out a shoddy kitchen and the well-scrubbed table on which he leant. He removed his hand to inspect the wound in his belly, reaching around to find the fletched end that protruded from his back.

Distant shouts and barking warned him of the soldiers' approach, and he reeled into a cramped dining room. He spotted a stairway in the corner and headed for it, stumbling up it with dragging feet. At the top, he found three doors and went to the nearest, hoping for a storage room or loft in which he could hide. Instead, he found himself in a bed chamber. A wide-eyed woman stared at him from the bed, her face rigid with alarm.

As she opened her mouth, he lunged at her, intent on silencing her before she could cry out. His speed and grace had deserted him, however. He staggered across the room and grabbed the end of the bed as his knees buckled, using the last of his strength to throw himself onto it before she could leap up. Snatching a dagger from his belt, he grabbed her arm and pressed the weapon to her throat. She gasped and stared at him with wide dark eyes.

Rayan studied the stranger who gripped her arm with bruising force, terror and outrage making her heart hammer. He seemed to be injured, his face so pale that it looked like it was carved from alabaster, and he gasped with pain and exhaustion. In the dim light, his visage riveted her with its startling purity and strange beauty, its clean-cut lines rigid with suffering. His black hair and grey eyes assured her that he was not Cotti, and her frightened mind whirled with a dozen possibilities. He met her gaze with eyes so cold that they sent shivers through her, and spoke in a rasping whisper, forcing the words through gritted teeth.

"Hide me, or die."

Rayan nodded, keenly aware of the dagger's razor edge pricking her throat. Groping for her husband's voluminous nightshirt on the bedside table, she held it out, and he gazed at it before raising his eyes.

"I won't hurt you if you help me."

Rayan glanced down at the dagger, and he lowered it. He lay on his side, propped up on one elbow. She slid off the bed, clutching the front of her nightdress. He seemed to have lost interest in her, and cocked his head to listen. Faint shouts came from outside, and from their accent she knew they were Cotti. She came to a decision. Anyone who was an enemy of the Cotti deserved her aid, and clearly this man was a fugitive. She approached the bed, flinching when his eyes flicked to her, and picked up the nightgown.

"Put away your knife, and I'll help you."

His eyes narrowed, then he bowed his head as if accepting defeat and sheathed the dagger in his belt with a shaking hand. Rayan lighted the lamp beside the bed and turned to him again, holding out the nightgown. He pushed one arm into a sleeve, and she pulled it over his head. As she helped him to push his other arm into the sleeve, she noticed the fresh blood on his hands.

"What have you done?"

"Does it matter?"

Rayan shivered at the soft, seductive timbre of his voice, and eased the nightgown over his torso. Catching sight of the barbed war arrowhead protruding from his belly, she recoiled with a gasp. He glanced down at it and grimaced, then lay down on his side with a soft groan. Rayan jerked the nightgown over the arrowhead and pulled the blankets back, tugging them from under him, then drew them up to cover him up to the neck. The shouts outside grew louder and closer, and she hoped that he had not left a blood trail to her door.

A strong smell of cow dung arose from him, mingled with the slight scent of stale sweat and the coppery tang of blood. She lighted a few incense sticks and waved them around, filling the air with their spicy aroma. The stranger did not seem stunned by the shock of his injury, which she found remarkable. Few men would have had the strength to go on with such a terrible wound, never mind think clearly, yet he appeared to have retained full control of his faculties.

When the scent of incense filled the air, she stubbed out the sticks and picked up her robe just as a thunderous knocking reverberated through the house. The man in the bed flinched, his brows drawing together above pale eyes, yet he did not glance at her. Sweat beaded his brow, and his pallor had worsened. Clearly he knew that he could flee no further with his injury, and could do nothing to prevent her from turning him over to the Cotti if she chose. He had resigned himself to fate, and placed his life in her hands. She brushed back her long dark hair, wondering who he was, and what he had done to the Cotti. Whatever it was, they seemed mighty angry, and that was in his favour, in her estimation.

Rayan ran downstairs and opened the door. Three soldiers stood on her doorstep, one with his fist raised to pound on the door again. They pushed past her, ignoring her angry exclamation, then turned to her, their eyes glinting in the light of the torch one carried.

The tallest man said, "We're looking for a man. He's in this area."

Rayan glanced down at the hound that sniffed the hem of her robe. "I haven't seen anyone."

"He may be hiding in your house, we'll search it."

They turned away, and she hurried after them. "Wait. My children are asleep and my husband's sick. I don't want them disturbed."

They ignored her, spreading out to poke around in the room's dark corners. The tall one, who seemed to be in charge, headed for the stairs. She followed him, helpless to stop him thrusting open the door to her children's room. Rayan pushed past him to comfort her daughter as the child sat up, her eyes wide. Her son slid from his bed and ran to her, and she hugged them as the soldier tramped around, yanking open cupboards to poke his sword into the darkness within.

The Cotti's dog sniffed about, whining, and when it raised its head to gaze at its bondsman, the soldier headed for the door, apparently satisfied that there was no one hiding in the room. Rayan hugged her children and disentangled herself from their arms, pushing them down on the bed before following the soldier. The two men who had been searching the dining room had come upstairs, and the one with the torch went into the storeroom while the other two headed for her bedroom door. Rayan pushed her way in just ahead of them and went over to the bed, where the stranger lay as if asleep. She sat next to him and placed a hand on his brow in a show of concern, turning to glare at the soldiers.

"My husband's sick. I don't want him disturbed."

The dog sneezed as it got a noseful of incense, and the Cotti wrinkled their noses. While the other man poked through her wardrobe, the tall one came over and gazed down at the stranger in her bed.

"This man's your husband?"

"Haven't I just said so?"

"Don't get cheeky with me, woman." The soldier scowled at her. "What's wrong with him?"

"I'm not sure. It's a fever."

"Is that why this room stinks?"

"Yes, it's to drive away illness."

The soldier's lip curled. "Contara superstition."

"It works."

The Cotti snorted and turned to his companion, who had finished poking around the room, and shook his head. The dog sniffed the floor, coming closer to the bed, but gave no sign of excitement. Evidently it had picked up the trail of cow dung from the stranger's boots, but did not associate the scent with the fugitive for whom the Cotti were searching. Nevertheless, the tall soldier swung back to the bed and peered at the man in it. Rayan held her breath, terrified that he would spot something, or the dog would scent the blood. If they discovered the fugitive in her bed, she would be executed.

To distract him, she asked, "What has this man done?"

"He's a murderer."

The soldier reached down to pull away the blankets that covered the stranger, revealing some of her husband's nightgown. Rayan tugged it back up, earning herself a glare. She frowned at the soldier, and he turned away with a derisive snort, signalling to his companion, who preceded him to the door. Rayan followed them downstairs and latched the door behind them, then trotted back upstairs to comfort her children. When they were calm and tucked into their beds once more, she returned to her bedroom.