Sapphire Crescent (3 page)

With a second soldier down, Xaphira ran forward, leaping high over his prone form and at the crossbowman standing a bit farther back, who had just reloaded and was about to fire again. Before he could get the weapon up and aimed properly, Xaphira planted her right foot squarely into his chest and kicked off of him, sending him skidding backward several feet and reversing her own direction in the process. The woman used her momentum to spin and kick at the only soldier still standing, snapping the instep of

her left foot into his ribs. He flinched sideways and crumpled to the ground, moaning.

Xaphira landed on her feet and turned quickly in place, noting that all four of the soldiers were prone but not seriously hurt. She turned to jog off, leaving them to recover on their own, when a crossbow bolt whistled out of nowhere and plunged into her thigh. The mercenary officer gasped in pain and went down to her good knee, swearing. Her hidden opponent had fired from a rooftop across the street, and she could see the silhouette of a figure crouched there, reloading. At the same time, a shrill whistle erupted from nearby.

Xaphira turned to see the first of the four soldiers she had downed up on his knees, holding a whistle in his mouth. She shook her head in frustration. Reacting quickly, the woman mouthed a quick prayer to Waukeen while making a slight undulating gesture with both hands to either side of her body. A thick, damp mist rose up from the cobblestones, thicker than the light fog that had risen up naturally from the cool night air. In a couple of breaths, the mist had completely enveloped Xaphira.

Not waiting to see what the crossbowman on the roof would do, she turned and limped away, fleeing down the closest alley, then along another street and into a second alley. From there, Xaphira sought a place to hide, ducking down behind the barrels near the net mender’s shack.

Thinking quickly, Xaphira grabbed one of the bolts from the quiver hanging from her shoulder and considered it carefully. It would do, she decided, and wedged the thick wooden shaft of that bolt between her teeth.

Biting down hard on the wood, Xaphira prepared to jerk the bolt from her leg. She closed her eyes and placed both hands on it, gripping the end of the missile firmly. She took one, two, three deep breaths and,

before she could think about what she was doing, withdrew the shaft from her flesh.

The motion was like burning steel sliding through her, and she gave a deep-throated howl of agony, biting down hard into the wood of the bolt in her mouth. She had to bury her face in her shoulder to stifle the cry. A single shudder passed through her body as she trembled from the pain, breathing hoarsely. Finally, the initial nauseating waves of torment subsided enough that she was able to refocus.

Grabbing at the medallion that hung from a small chain down inside her shirt and between her breasts, Xaphira kissed the image of the Merchant’s Friend and softly muttered a second prayer to the goddess of trade. Then she pressed both of her hands palms down against the freely bleeding wound and held them there for several moments. As she felt the slight tingle of healing course through her leg, Xaphira breathed a sigh of relief. When she removed her palms, all that remained was the torn and bloodied breeches and a pink, puckered scar on her flesh.

Xaphira examined the bloody bolt that had wounded her. As she gazed at it, her eyes narrowed and she gritted her teeth in anger. She tucked the missile away for safekeeping and prepared to flee the city. Peeking up over the top of the barrels, she saw that the alley was clear. Rising slowly, she tested her leg, putting weight on it gradually. It felt a bit weak, but she could stand on it.

Cautiously, the mercenary moved out from behind the wall of barrels and prowled toward the end of the alley. She peered around the corner into the street itself and saw no one. Carefully, fearful that she was being watched from some unseen place, she took the first cautious step out into the open. Then another. She slowly worked her way to the end of the street, down to the docks. When she got there, she slipped into the water and swam toward a ship that sat at

anchor a few yards off the pier. Carefully and quietly, she climbed up the side of the ship and slipped over the side onto the deck.

By dawn the next morning, the ship and Xaphira were well gone from the port of Arrabar.

10 Tarsakh, 1373 DR

Only the glow of the waxing moon shining through vine-covered trellises shielding the balcony where Emriana crouched let her see her surroundings. Even with such muted light, she could clearly make out the grounds of the estate far below her. She spotted three house guards wandering along one of the paths that meandered through the hedges and trees of the gardens. There to keep unwanted guests from gaining the grounds, they were usually easy to elude when coming from the other direction, from inside the house. The panthers were another matter. She knew that they would catch wind of her if she got too close.

The breeze carried the smell of bougainvillea and passion vine blossoms, of wandering hearts and orchids. There were so many of the blooming vines and plants—climbing

the trellises, dangling from hanging planters, and overflowing from large pots and basins—all around the balcony that their fragrances were almost overwhelming, blending together with the fainter scent of the citrus trees in the gardens below. She hoped they would help to mask her smell from the great cats.

Beyond the walls, in the streets of Arrabar, the girl could hear throngs of people celebrating Spheres. The sounds of the festival were muted from where she crouched, but they wafted in just the same. She imagined the crowds, all dressed in bright clothing and dancing in the streets, waiting for the parades. She craned her neck to hear the voices and the music drifting across the warm, damp air like the cloying scent of the large blossoms all around her. Hints of laughter and singing rose up from time to time, clearer than the general din. Perhaps that would help muffle any unintentional noises she herself made.

With a faint smile, Emriana checked to make certain the three guards had passed, then she turned and crept over to the last trellis in the row, reaching out and giving it a gentle shake to make sure it was still firmly anchored to the wall. When she was satisfied at its stability, she deftly hopped up onto the balustrade, swung out and around to the outside of the trellis, slipped her foot into one of the small openings, and began to climb.

Careful to disturb only minimally the leafy vines coiled about the trellis, Emriana rose at a steady pace, ascending all the way to the top of the frame, where it was attached to the overhang that protected the balcony below. Easing herself up, she swung one leg over the top of the portico and went flat on the gently sloped roof, catching her breath for a moment and peering back down to see if anyone in the gardens had been close by and managed to spot her. Satisfied that she had not been discovered, she spun on her stomach and shimmied to the top of the roofline.

At the high end of the inclined porch roof, the wall of the estate rose up another two stories. To either side of the space where she hunched against the wall, windows pierced the surface, broad openings that let light into a long hallway inside the building. The window frames themselves were formed of blocks of stone that protruded outward from the wall itself perhaps the width of Emriana’s hand when she spread her fingers wide.

Standing with her back to the wall and keeping herself as flush against it as possible, the girl let out one deep, calming breath and lifted her left foot up, jamming it against the side of the window frame at an angle. Then she shoved upward and planted her right heel against the opposite frame, so that her legs were in an inverted V shape and her own weight kept her wedged and prevented her from slipping back down. She shoved her hands into a similar position, bracing herself firmly. Carefully, a little at a time, Emriana began to climb up, shifting her weight back and forth and inching her hands and feet higher on alternating sides.

The going was slow and nerve-wracking, for Emriana had to keep herself pressed flat against the wall to avoid tipping forward and losing her balance. She thus could not lean out to peer down and monitor her progress. It all had to be done by feel. Fortunately, she had climbed that wall a number of times and no longer felt her insides doing flip-flops at the thought of slipping and falling.

Finally, Emriana reached the limit of the lower level of windows and could stand on the top of the frame and rest her shaking legs. Catching her breath, she surveyed the grounds again, even farther below her. If she slipped then, she would fall to the inclined roof of the porch and quite possibly tumble over the side and fall the remaining story to the grassy lawn below. The girl forced that thought out of her head and took another deep, calming breath before continuing.

The higher set of windows were more difficult to wedge into, simply because they started a few feet above the top of the lower openings. She could bend her knee and bring one foot up, but she would have to actually jump up in order to bring the second foot high enough, all the while still pressing firmly into the wall, and there was no room for half-hearted efforts. She considered it the hardest part of the climb.

Emriana began to will herself to succeed, taking several strong breaths, and, before she could think about failure, she shoved her left leg up against the frame, bent her other knee as much as she dared without overbalancing, and shoved up as hard as possible. Again, she could not look down to spot where her feet must be planted—the girl simply had to work by feel.

The sudden lift was agonizingly slow, her heart pounding in fear that she would not get high enough. As she reached the apex of her hop, she shoved her right foot out to the side, thankfully feeling the solid form of the jutting stone against her other heel. She rammed her legs apart hard to keep from slipping and just froze there, trembling.

One of these days, I’m going to have to hang a rope out here, she thought, closing her eyes in relief.

Carefully but quickly, Emriana began to work her way up again, until at last, she was near the very top of the second row of windows, fully twenty feet above the roof of the porch. She was actually glad she couldn’t look down to see how far the drop was. Her hands rested on the top of the window frames, and she could go no higher and still use them for support. Slowly, still in danger of losing her balance, the girl brought her arms up to either side and over her head, keeping them pressed flush against the wall the whole time.

Overhead, Emriana could feel the top of the wall, where a parapet surrounded a platform. The platform was the highest point of the house and had been made into an observation deck, perhaps for looking out over the walls of the estate to the city beyond or just to study the stars above. The top of the wall was smooth stone, with no protrusions or crenellations to make it easier to grasp. She rested both hands there, palms to the wall and thumbs pointing out away from her body, hooking her fingers over the top and taking some of the weight off of her rapidly weakening legs.

Drawing yet another deep, slow, calming breath, the girl gathered her strength and prepared for the last effort to get over the wall. She rebraced her legs and twisted her right hand around a full turn, swiveling it in a complete circle and once again grasping the top of the stone. Then she released her other hand and crossed it over her right, allowing herself to roll out into space and make a half turn with her whole body. She lunged around and caught hold of the top of the wall with her free hand and hung there, facing the wall, her nose pressed against it. Her toes found a hold on the top of the window frame, and from there it was easy to drag herself up and over the top of the parapet and to the platform.

Emriana collapsed in a heap there, breathless. She had done it. She had managed to scale the wall. She closed her eyes and sighed in relief. From that point, getting out of the estate was a simple process.

“Sneaking out again, 0 sister of mine?” came a voice from the darker shadows on the far side of the platform.

Emriana nearly shrieked in fright before she realized it was Evester, her oldest brother.

“Waukeen! You scared the hells out of me!” she fussed at him, flopping her head back onto the tiles and waiting for her heart to stop thumping. “What are you doing up here?”

Evester laughed softly and stepped out from where he had been standing, hidden in the murky darkness of a great chimney.

“I could ask you the same thing, Em,” he said, coming to lean over the parapet next to Emriana and peer down over the edge, where she had just ascended. “At least I used the stairs to get here. You could have broken your neck.”

“But I didn’t,” was all the girl replied, feeling a little smug. “You and Uncle Dregaul can’t seem to figure out that I’m not a little girl anymore. I can take care of myself.”

“That may be,” Evester replied, still leaning on his elbows as he stared out over the city beyond the walls, “but only children take such foolish chances just to prove others wrong.”

Emriana pursed her lips and refused to answer her brother. She sat up finally and looked at him. Everyone in the family said Evester resembled their father, with his strong jawline and piercing black eyes, but Emriana really couldn’t have said one way or another; she was too young when Obril Matrell died, barely over a year old, and she didn’t remember him. The only thing she had to go on was a great portrait of her father when he was much younger, which hung over a fireplace in her grandmother’s sitting room.

Emriana thought Evester looked older than the person in that painting, much older than she would have expected for his twenty-eight years. He appeared old enough to have been her father, though he certainly didn’t much act like one, nor did he seem much like a brother. In truth, she saw more of Evester’s twin children than she did of him lately.

“How’s Uncle Dregaul?” Emriana asked finally, just to change the subject.

“Fine, I would assume,” Evester answered absently, still gazing out over the lights of Arrabar. “He’s in the offices still, looking over some bills of lading.”