Stormseer (Storms in Amethir Book 3) (10 page)

Tish's face melted into an expression he didn't quite understand. Did she feel sorry for him or was she just glad she wouldn't have to spend time with him today? "Well," she said, "you'd better not keep him waiting." She tilted her head. "At least it isn't Rith."

"I know," he said, making his voice happy, and he turned and left her standing there. He didn't know if she realized Rith beat him. Kesh knew and did nothing most of the time, but Kesh was the only one who really could do anything. Tish would lose her place in the house if she spoke out. Yar chose to believe she didn't know, but he had a feeling he was just lying to himself.

When Yar reached Kesh's quarters, he let himself in. If he knocked, Kesh might not let him in. This way, his brother would have to at least talk to him. There were others in Kesh's quarters. The room smelled of cloying smoke and tangy drink. Four men were gathered around Kesh's table along with two women. They were playing cards. Yar liked to play cards, especially Queens and Ship's Trades, which were Orya's favorites, but no one ever asked him to play cards anymore.

He couldn't really blame them. He and Orya had played often, but even with Orya, he would sometimes come back to himself and realize a vision had taken him in the middle of the game. He would be clutching his cards so tightly they had creased his palm, and Orya would be asleep or reading a book or simply gone.

"It's the freak," someone said. "Kesh, you ought to lock your door."

Yar felt a shiver down his back, but he was glad the others were there. If he acted out enough, Kesh might answer his question just to calm him down and get rid of him. It was a good plan.

"Kesh, why did they ask about Orya?" he asked.

He saw his brother go still, cards lowering to the table. One of the people snickered. "Go away, Yarro."

The visions could be an advantage. If people thought you were a simpleton, they expected you to act wrong. They were almost disappointed if you held a normal conversation with them. Yar opened his mouth and eyes wide.

"Why did they ask about Orya?" he repeated.

"Get him out of here so we can play," said one of the women. "If this is a ploy to keep from paying your debt—"

"Go on, Yarro." Kesh's voice was stern, but the hint of kindness was still there.

"Why did they ask about Orya?" Yar said again. "Is Orya coming home? Is Orya coming home? Is Orya coming home?" He let his voice fall into a singsong. "Orya, Orya, Orya, home, home, home."

Kesh's chair scraped across the tile as he pushed it back. "
You
need to go home, Yarro." He stood and came towards Yar. He was going to touch him. Yar steeled himself for it.

"Orya's coming home? Tell me, Kesh! Tell me! Tell!"

Kesh didn't really want to touch him. He paused, hands hovering close to Yar's shoulders. "There's someone operating who is as good as Orya. People think she must have been pretending to be dead." He gripped Yar's shoulders with both hands and ducked his head until Yar would meet his eyes. "But Orya's dead, Yarro. She's not coming back. Never."

Yar let his face crumble into disappointment, mouth open, tears leaking from his eyes, even as he turned the new information over in his mind. There were people who thought Orya was alive just because someone killed people as well as she had? It wasn't logical. But not many people needed logic. They believed what they wanted to believe.

He shook his shoulders until Kesh's hands dropped to his sides.

"Go on," Kesh said. His voice was soft. "Tell Tish I said you could have a fruit ice. She shouldn't have let you out."

"I told her you wanted me to." Yar spoke with no inflection. He let his thoughts roll on. Logical or no, could there be truth to the idea that Orya had faked her own death? To what end, though? Why would she need to get away from here and stay away?

Well, to get away from Grandfather. That made sense.

Why else?

To get away from their brothers? Probably.

Why else?

To get away from Yar?

He let his brother push him towards the door. He stubbed his toe on the threshold but ignored the pain. As the door closed behind him, he heard someone say, "He didn't even have shoes on. What a freak."

It didn't bother him. He
was
a freak. Even though he had lived like this his whole life, he knew it wasn't normal for people to have visions all the time. He knew from Orya that most people didn't hear Voices in their heads. If they did, it wasn't polite to talk about them.

Yar was fine with not talking about them. But sometimes the Voices weren't fine with it. Sometimes they made him speak. That was usually when he got in trouble.

The passage back to his room was long. The house was built out of golden stone, and the sun slanted into this passage through the western windows. It felt good on his left cheek, so he turned his head to face the sun. He went to the window and leaned on the ledge, staring out into the sunset. Flat roofs and domed ones mingled along the canals and alley walkways. Meekin was a good city, he thought. They were nestled into the foothills by the Scarim Mountains, with plenty of trade. There was a school for musicians and bards, which he had heard about but never seen.

And there were fountains everywhere. In every square, every plaza, every courtyard, there were fountains. The foothills were dry, but Meekin had been built in a low, wet spot where two rivers came together. However many hundreds of years ago it was, Meekin's founders had deepened the low spot into a lake and channeled the water right around the buildings to create the canals. Orya had hated the canals, but Yar loved them, and he loved the fountains even more. The fountains seemed to sing at him, and if he were close enough, they sometimes even drowned out the sound of the Voices.

So what now?

He ought to go back to his rooms, but he didn't want to have a fruit ice with Tish. He didn't want to sit on one of the low couches with his doubts and questions. He took a deep breath.

So what did he want?

To find Orya.

SHE'S DEAD, said one of the Voices.

What if she isn't?
he asked.
What if the rumors are true?

But it was illogical. He knew it was. He just wanted to believe it himself, so he let himself be seduced by the hope. The truth was usually the simplest thing, and the simplest thing was that Orya had been killed while assassinating Princess Azmei. No one had ever told Yar why they had taken a contract to assassinate their own princess. Yar had never wanted to know anything about the killing business. That changed after Orya didn't come back, but by then it was too late. Orya was the only one who might have told him, and she was gone.

He traced his finger in circles on the rough windowsill. He liked the feel of sandstone. It scraped the pad of his finger as he drew letters and numbers in no order. Orya was probably dead, but there was an assassin good enough to be mistaken for Orya. Then who was it, if not Orya? Why did it matter to Yar? Because anyone as good as Orya might have met her? Or was it more than that?

YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW.

He turned his head, humming to try to drown out the Voice in his head. Maybe he didn't want to know. Maybe he did. But the Voice couldn't tell him.

What would be the best way to find this other assassin?

FIND US. WE ARE WHAT MATTER.

He scoffed and turned away from the window, scuffing his heels along the stone floor as he walked. Why would he want to find the Voices? And how could you find a Voice? Would
they
help him find out the truth about Orya?

FIND US.

But perhaps they would. What if they knew what had happened? What if they had Orya with them somehow? What if they could answer all his questions?

But how did you find a Voice?

FOLLOW.

Yar shoved his fingers into his hair and gripped. He was so
tired
of the Voices. Tired of having them in his head, tired of sharing his life with them, tired of being ruled by them. He was tired of how they could force visions on him without his desire or consent, how crippling the visions were. He wanted a real life, not this half-imaginary one.

He wanted to not be a freak.

"If I follow, if I find, will you help me?" he whispered. "Help me find Orya."

FOLLOW. FIND.

That wasn't an answer. Nor did it illuminate how he would be expected to follow or find. He groaned and headed for his rooms. It was ridiculous for him to believe he could make any difference, even if he did find them. What would it accomplish? Free him? More likely the Voices, once he was in their grasp, would enslave him utterly.

And how is that any different from how you live now?
he asked himself.

He had no answer.

Chapter 8

Azmei frowned at the off-white buildings of Meekin. Her journey from Tamnen City had been an uneventful one, punctuated by brief stops in towns along the canal to drop off merchandise shipments or take on new cargo bound for the east end of the line. She had spent much of the journey brooding over things she could not control, such as the as-yet unidentified threat against her father's life that Tanvel was attempting to puzzle out, and planning her approach to the task ahead of her.

Now she was here, in the city Orya had once described as a clean trade town with little crime, with a spring trade fair and fountains and beautiful parks. At the time, Azmei had wished that she had taken the time when she was younger to travel her home kingdom and appreciate all its many facets. She had not expected she would have a chance to visit it after marrying Vistaren. Then again, she hadn't married Vistaren, had she?

She paid the captain and stepped off the canal boat, pushing back her hood to gaze at the bustling docks. The Spring Evener had come and gone while she was traveling, so she hadn't had a chance to enjoy the bonfires and dancing, even as an anonymous visitor rather than a participant. It was probably for the best, though she had a hard time acknowledging the fact. All the same, it meant the town's population was swelling for the spring trade fair. That would be good. Plenty of outsiders, so no one would pay as much attention to one woman traveling alone.

"Is there a direction I can point you, my lady?" the captain asked. He'd been watching her take in the sights. Azmei should have walked away if she didn't want to be disturbed.

"What is your favorite inn?" she asked.

"The Laughing Dog, m'lady," he answered, "but it caters mostly to a merchant crowd. Not to tell you your business, but you might be better pleased with the Owl's Nest. They're closer to the university, so the people who stay there are a bit more varied."

Azmei raised an eyebrow. "And a woman alone might not stand out as much, you mean," she observed. It occurred to her that, while she knew her people well, she had never had the opportunity to travel much, so she had no idea how women usually traveled.

"It isn't that you're without a chaperone, m'lady, so much as that you're without a guard. Women usually have a couple of those." The captain looked away from her. "And since you seem to wish to pretend you don't know how to use a blade, it would seem more natural to stay there."

"Ah." Azmei settled her bag on her shoulder. "And if I were to go looking for the horse market?"

"You'd find it inland from the canals, by what's called the Dry Gate." The captain looked back at her. "And you might wish to let it be a bit more obvious that you know the sword."

She smiled at him, hoping it looked genuine. "Let us hope that you forget I know the sword, Captain Farruth." She handed him another gold piece, which was a generous tip beyond her standard fare. "I mean no trouble to you or your boat."

"For which I'm grateful." He made the coin disappear. "Fare you well, Mistress Baelaric."

It was a clear dismissal, and Azmei was amused at how easily it fell from his lips. She had grown up a princess, and yet no lord or king she had ever met had spoken with any more assurance than a captain on his vessel. She nodded to him and began walking up the dock. In the distance she could see several towers, which she had already learned were the university buildings. She didn't want to stay at the Owl's Nest, since the captain would be able to name it, if he were asked. But she would at least see if there were other inns around the university. She glanced up, judging the time by the sun. Still at least two hours until dusk, she thought, which meant she would have time to take a room and then locate the Perslyn House.

An hour later, she had managed the first, but not the second. She had learned where the trade quarter was, where most of the guilds had their shops and guild halls. She knew where to look for the more expensive houses in the city. But she had not been able to force herself to actually go to the Perslyn cloth shop and follow someone back to the Perslyn family home.

Instead she had wandered through the university quarter and into the city's main park, watching the shadows grow longer and the crowds grow thinner. Though canals formed the main avenues through the city, there were narrow stone walks built along either side of the canals, and the city was dotted with several large squares built on more solid portions. The main city park was one such square, with paved pathways winding through groves of trees, bushes, and flowering plants. An immense fountain portraying an ancient battle between Tam and the Wyrm of Wynra created a watery playground that Azmei imagined must tempt children in the hotter months.

You're weak
, she berated herself.
You are here for one purpose only—to destroy the Perslyn power structure and rescue Yarro from that family. If you can't even bring yourself to embark on this purpose, what will you do? What would Tanvel think of you?

She shook her head.

What would Guira think?

Her nurse Guira was fresher in her memory than her mother, whom Guira had served first. She had taken Azmei under her wing in their shared grief over Queen Izbel's untimely death. Guira had served as nursemaid, counselor, aunt, older sister, mentor, and maidservant over the years. She had had much of the shaping of Azmei into the idealistic young woman who had agreed to marry a stranger in order to end the war that was tearing her country apart.

She had also hidden a playful side that rarely showed itself; one of the best days in Azmei's life had been the day in Ranarr when Guira had agreed that the princess deserved one final day of carefree happiness. They had wandered the Ranarri market, tasting of its delights and exploring its novelties and wonders. Azmei had purchased a sea-dragon bone comb for Guira as a present, and after Guira died saving Azmei from an assassin's blade, Azmei carried that comb with her everywhere, even though her hair was too short for it.

Azmei sat on the edge of one of the great fountain's smaller pools and trailed her fingers in the cold water. What
would
Guira think of Azmei's hesitance? She had been a peaceful, decorous woman for the most part, but she had fought fiercely at the last, and had sacrificed her own life to save the princess she had reared. Guira might dislike that Azmei had grown so familiar with killing. She might disapprove of the way she had walked away from statecraft. She might counsel against revenge for its own sake.

But Guira would approve of removing any threat to the throne of Tamnen. She would urge Azmei to do her duty, as she had always urged before. She would advise caution but firmness.

Azmei drew in a long, slow breath, enjoying the smell of cherry blossoms and honeysuckle. The day was drawing down into evening. The shadows had lengthened to the point that, were she dressed in dark clothing, she might pass unnoticed under the trees. She was still in her unbleached linen robe, which blended into the pale stone of Meekin in the light of day, but would serve her ill tonight. But under her robe she wore fine wool trousers and a silk shirt in shades of brown-gray. Boy's clothes, because she had preferred them even as a princess and had no reason not to wear them now. With her jaw-length hair in the dim light, it would probably pass unremarked.

She glanced up at the sky. The evening bell would ring soon, and most of the shops would close, the clerks hurrying home to dinner and family. Azmei stood from the fountain and made her way, unhurried, out of the park and towards the trade quarter. She would see if anyone was in the Perslyn shop. If they were still there, she would follow them home. Master Tanvel had discovered early on that no one without the Perslyn name was allowed to work in any of the shops. He was certain that many of the cloth merchant Perslyns were unaware of the shadowy work their brothers and cousins did behind the scenes.

The pale flagstones of the park pathways gave way to rough-cut stone as she stepped from the park into an alley between two buildings bordering the park. She wanted to give her eyes time to adjust to the shadows before picking up the pace. She tugged off her robe and folded it into the small pack at her waist. Then she leaned her shoulders back against the wall, closing her eyes and concentrating on hearing everything that was going on around her.

Footsteps slapped past on the street she had just left, someone already running late, judging by the pace. A dog barked somewhere at least two streets over. Two people laughed in the park she had left behind, one male and one female; lovers, perhaps, but certainly two people who enjoyed each other's company. Ahead, someone shouted, the voice too distant for her to discern emotion. Overhead, the wing beats of a flock of birds. Doves, probably, from the soft whistle of the air through feathers. Azmei smiled. It had been far too long since she heard dove wings on a regular basis.

She opened her eyes and was able to see the distinct outlines of doors and windows in the alley. She could distinguish each individual cobble as she set out again, her pace quicker now.

She was perhaps five minutes' walk from the trade quarter, even at a pace that gave no indication of the urgency of her mission. She met no gazes of the people she passed, but she smiled impersonally at each of them, pleased when most of them smiled impersonally back. People didn't remember those who behaved normally. Azmei looked like a boy walking from his apprenticeship to his parents' shop, and that was what people would probably remember of her, if they remembered seeing her at all.

When she reached the square where the Perslyn shop was located, she paused several shops away, dropping to one knee and pretending to fuss with her boot. There were four other people in the square: three men and one woman. The woman and one man were walking together, conversing but not close enough to each other that they were anything but colleagues. One of the men was gathering wares from a display table outside an ink and quill shop. Many years ago, Azmei would have yearned to go into that shop and browsed through the inks until she found a color that suited her perfectly. Now she felt a vague wistfulness as she saw the sign, but she pushed it away. The last man was walking towards her.

His eyes were focused on the ground in front of him. His shoulders were slumped and his steps were slow. Probably he was a discouraged worker who saw no future at the shop where he was employed, or perhaps he had been reprimanded by his master that day. But it was equally possible that he was a cutpurse trying to give off as harmless an air as possible. Azmei stood and angled away from him as if she'd seen a shop she wanted to visit before they closed. When she ducked around the corner of a building and glanced back, she saw that he had continued on without looking at her. The first, then. She smiled ruefully and shook her head.

The Perslyn fabric shop was a large building with wide glass windows in front. Vividly colored fabrics were displayed in the window, draped to show the flow and texture of the fabric as well as the color. Many lamps were still lit inside the shop and the door stood open to let in the night breeze. With a satisfied smile, Azmei settled in to wait.

She wasn't as patient as some of her fellow Aspirants with the Shadow Diplomats. She had never grown to enjoy the peace of the half-trance that allowed her fellows to commune with the peace god while being somehow aware of everything around them. Master Tanvel had described it as resting assured that any disturbance of the peace would break the communion and bring him back to full awareness. Azmei had finally admitted to herself that she didn't have as much faith as the others; she opened herself to the god but also watched her surroundings.

Yet another way she was a poor servant of her chosen god.

Despite this, though, the Shadow Council had agreed that she should be tested. They judged her ready to pit herself against her selected mission and prove her worth.

Or
un
worth
, she thought wryly.
Perhaps they are just waiting for me to fall on my face.

She shook her head. Be that as it may, she still had a task here, and the god of peace would welcome her if she opened herself to him.

Cease this mental chattering
, she chided herself. She let her gaze scan from one side of the square to the other, seeing that only two shops were still open. Casting her thoughts back, she didn't remember hearing the bell, but she must have been hidden here for the better part of an hour. She looked back at the Perslyn shop.

Finally! As she watched, another lamp went out. Whoever was within had finished their closing tasks and was extinguishing the lamps. Only a few more minutes. Azmei rose from where she had been crouched and began moving to limber herself after the wait. She touched the hilts of each dagger in turn, making certain they were all there and ready. She did another scan to be sure no one had noticed her.

When she looked again, a man of about twenty was locking the door of the Perslyn shop. He had already closed the shutters over the wide panes of glass. He wore what appeared to be an expensive cape, a jaunty cap on his head. He didn't look around him as he stepped away from the shop at a lively pace. Azmei waited until he had a good lead, and then started after him.

She followed him out of the trade quarter and out to the canals. He hired a boat, but Azmei had no trouble following his progress from the walkways. He had the boat stop twice to pick up others about his age, another man and three women. All were dressed for a social gathering, if not an actual ball or party. Soon a merry crowd floated along the canal. Their boatman made the last stop without direction from anyone. Here three more men joined the party. Azmei judged from the ease with which they arranged themselves that they had done this many times.