The Last Mortal Bond (103 page)

Pyrre ducked into one of the crumbling buildings, emerged a moment later shaking her head. “No leach. No invincible Csestriim warrior. Quite a disappointment.”

Triste was turning in slow circles, as though trying to watch the whole town at the same time. “Where is he?” she whispered. “What's he doing?”

Kaden frowned. “I have no idea. I've never really known.”

“Well,” Gerra said, “it'd take the four of us all day to excavate your gate.” He cupped a hand behind his ear, turned back toward the canyon from which they'd just emerged, “And I don't think we have all day.”

Kaden could hear it, too, the racket of their pursuit. The way the sound echoed off the canyon walls, it was impossible to know how close the soldiers were. Maybe half a mile, maybe less. He turned back to study the heap of stone. It was almost twice as high as he was, thousands of pounds of rock, but haphazardly constructed. Clearly, the soldiers had dragged it together in a rush. Not that that mattered. Gerra was right; moving the whole thing, moving enough of it, even, for them to slip through the top of the
kenta,
would take the better part of the day. Maybe, though …

He stared at the pile a moment longer, then closed his eyes.

The stones were there, all of them, some the size of a man's chest, others not much larger than his head, some balanced on a single corner, others bedded so deeply a team of oxen would have struggled to pull them free. Still, there were gaps in the pile, some almost wide enough that Triste might fit inside. And suddenly, Rampuri Tan's words tolled in his mind, so strong it almost seemed the monk was still alive, standing just behind him, shaking his head:
You need to see what is
not
there
.

All at once, Kaden was back at Ashk'lan, a novice whose bowl had been replaced by a block of rock, licking soup off the unforgiving stone, listening to the laughter of Huy Heng, his first
umial,
as he learned the value of emptiness.

It's not the stones that matter,
Kaden thought, staring at his private vision of that massive pile.
It's the space between them
.

And slowly, carefully, tracing the invisible lines of force and support, he shifted a single block, filling one empty hole, but leaving another in its place. The work was purely mental. He hadn't moved, hadn't even opened his eyes, but he found himself sweating with the effort, trying to hold that whole structure in his head, to see the entire thing at once, to find those hidden places that had been spared the weight, to parse the layers of emptiness, to find a way to move the stones that could be moved without disturbing the looming mass.

“Kaden?” Triste asked, her voice wary.

He shook his head, worked faster, shifting the rocks inside his mind, moving them back, stacking them, sliding them, searching for a way past, a way through, searching for the emptiness buried in all that unfathomable weight.

“There,” he said finally, exhaling as he opened his eyes. He pointed. “We need to start with that block. Then move that…”

“Fascinated as I am by the mechanics of stonemasonry,” Pyrre said, “I'm not sure this is the perfect venue.”

“We can get through,” Kaden said. “I can see it.”

The assassin raised her brows, then gestured back up the canyon with her knife. The clatter of boots over stone was closer now, closing, undeniable.

“You're just in time to explain it to our friends.”

“I just need time. Maybe a thousand heartbeats.”

“We don't
have
time,” Triste exploded, hauling him by the arm. “We need to get out of here,
now
.”

Pyrre, however, was looking at Gerra, her eyes raised in a silent question. The priest ran a thumb along the point of his spear, as though testing the edge, then nodded.

“We'll give you your heartbeats,” Pyrre said, turning away. “There is a place just around the bend, a narrowing of the canyon where the water drops off a small shelf. It is a good place.”

Triste stared at her. “They'll kill you.”

Pyrre smiled. “Why do you think we came?”

“No,” Triste said, shaking her head. “No. There's another way. Around them or past them. A better way.”

Pyrre's grin just widened. “Perhaps you are confusing us with another order of priests. I'm sure you would have preferred to go somewhere else, but you came to Rassambur, and this, you sweet, blood-shy children, the fighting and the dying—it
is
our way.”

 

56

“We could kill him,” Adare said quietly.

Kegellen took a long sip of wine, set the goblet on the table before her, leaned back in her chair, and pursed her lips. “I assume,” she said finally, “that when you say
we,
you are not, in fact, imagining the three of us taking turns plunging knives into the poor man's heart.”

“The
poor man
?” Adare demanded. “The son of a bitch has as good as seized the city. He's got men on the wall, men in the Dawn Palace, men in the Spear itself, and that's not all—there are patrols on all the major streets, barricades and checkpoints between neighborhoods.…”

Kegellen waved the objection away. “I am aware, of course, of General Van's … zeal when it comes to the defense of our city.”

“He's so fucking zealous that I'm afraid to hold this meeting in my own 'Kent-kissing palace,” Adare said. “It is because of his zeal that we are
here
.”

They were back in Kegellen's wine cellar. The same priceless, dusty bottles lay silently in their racks. The same marble gods fixed them with empty eyes. It wasn't lost upon Adare that the last time she'd been in the room had been with Triste, just before the leach escaped. It hardly seemed like an auspicious meeting place, but then, all the auspices had been pretty 'Kent-kissing bleak of late. At least Kegellen's manse wasn't overrun with the general's soldiers. At least inside the wine cellar the only person spying on them would be the Queen of the Streets herself, not that she had any need to spy, sitting as she was half a pace away, blandly sipping her wine.

Unlike Kegellen, Nira hadn't stopped moving since they closed the heavy wooden door. The narrow cellar didn't offer much room to prowl, but the old woman did her best, cane tapping against the stone floor as she stalked back and forth, muttering sometimes—mostly curses against il Tornja—sometimes silent. At first, Adare thought the constant motion might drive her insane, but she'd quickly come to find in it a strange sort of relief. At least one of the people in the room was as furious as she felt.

“I'm surprised that you're not angrier,” Adare said, turning back to Kegellen, trying a different tack. “The soldiers are even more a threat to your power here than they are to mine.”

“Anger,” Kegellen said, closing her eyes, tipping her head back until it rested against the back of her chair. “It's so exhausting. Who has the energy for it?”

“Spare me the act,” Adare spat. “I know your history. You've got more blood on your hands than I do. How many people did you kill to end up where you are? A hundred? More?”

“You can kill a man without being angry,” Kegellen replied mildly. “You can kill a great many men without being angry.” She took another sip of her wine, held it in her mouth a moment, swallowed, smiled. “I find it's better that way. Easier on the heart.”

“Then kill Van. I don't give a pickled shit if you're angry when you do it, just make him
dead
.”

“The one-footed general,” Nira snapped, turning from the ranks of bottles, “is not the problem.”

Adare raised her brows. “He's commanding the soldiers occupying the palace.”

Nira snorted. “He's il Tornja's dog. You could kill the son of a bitch, and another son of a bitch would just take his place. That's the way an army works—chain a' command, and all.”

“So we kill the next one,” Adare said. “I'm sure Kegellen can manage more than one murder per month.”

The Queen of the Streets opened her eyes. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Now it is just
me
doing this hypothetical killing? What happened to our happy triumvirate of high-minded murderers?”

“What do ya keep between those ears?” Nira demanded, raising her cane as though preparing to rap Adare on the skull. “A pair a' very small, very stupid worms? An army doesn't run outta commanders until ya kill the last man, and I don't think I need ta point out that you might
need
some a' those bastards on your walls when the Urghul arrive.”

Adare blew out an angry breath. “They're not
all
part of il Tornja's plan.…”

“I wager shit against silver even Wobbly Van himself isn't part of il Tornja's plan. He has orders ta hold the palace, and so he's holdin' it. It's not him you have ta go after.”

Kegellen nodded slowly. “Though your councillor and I don't always see eye to eye on matters, in this case, I have to agree.” She tapped a finger against her generous chin. “Is there any word from that spirited young woman you sent north with all those birds?”

“Do you think,” Adare asked, staring at the other woman, “that if the Kettral had returned, if they had word of il Tornja, that I would have forgotten to mention it?”

Kegellen heaved her shoulders into a shrug. “There is
so
much going on, and I find I grow more forgetful with each passing year.”

“Well, I don't. The Kettral are still gone. Il Tornja is still missing. And Horonius Van still has his booted heel on the throat of this fucking city.”

“Perhaps,” Kegellen suggested, “you should let him leave it there. At least until after this … war.” She frowned, as though that final word were unpleasant even to pronounce. “He will be weaker then and you might need him a little less.”

That, in fact, was exactly what Adare would have preferred to do. Much as she loathed the military takeover of Annur, there was no way around the fact that Van would make a better commander for the coming battle than Adare herself, probably better than Lehav. Certainly, the addition of the Army of the North gave the entire city a fighting chance against the coming horde. The Urghul, however, were not the only foe; not even, if Kaden was to be believed, the greatest foe. Il Tornja's absence from the front was evidence enough that there was another struggle going on, a quiet war invisible to almost everyone, a battle that might decide far more than the fate of a couple of continents. Adare had no idea why il Tornja would want the Dawn Palace or the Spear, but the fact that he wanted them was reason enough to try to deny him those very things. Not that she could tell Kegellen that. Despite their alliance, she didn't trust the woman much more than she would a half-rabid dog.

“It ought to be possible—” Adare began again.

A sharp rap on the door cut her off.

Kegellen frowned. “I try to give the clearest instructions to my staff, and still they will disturb me when I have asked not to be disturbed.” She shook her head as she set down her wine, then levered herself up from the chair. “If this is not a pair of naked young men—preferably beautiful but dumb, between the ages of twenty and twenty-five—I will be quite displeased.”

Despite the woman's levity, Adare's stomach had knotted up suddenly, viciously at the sound of the knock. It had been a long time since unexpected tidings meant anything but death or disaster. All over again she saw her son's eyes, burning, terrified. She was clutching her wineglass, she realized, clutching it so tightly she was amazed it had not already shattered. Deliberately, she set it down as Kegellen swung open the door.

“What is it, Serise?” the woman asked.

Adare exhaled slowly. No stranger come calling after all. Just one of the household slaves.

“Apologies, my lady,” a meek voice from beyond the door replied. “A note. It was delivered with some urgency.”

“And did the bearer of this note speak the crucial words?” Kegellen asked.

“No, my lady, but—”

“Then it cannot be so urgent, can it?”

“Pardon, my lady, but the note is not for you.”

Adare felt sick all over again.

“Ah,” Kegellen said, extending her hand. “How interesting.”

By the time the woman had closed the door, crossed the room, and passed the note across the table, Adare found she was trembling. There was no seal on the paper—it was folded over twice and tied with a length of rough twine. Hardly a terrifying epistle, and yet Adare eyed it as though it were a viper, and instead of reaching for the note, she raised her goblet, swirled the liquid around the glass, then drained it.

“And just what kinda lump-brained ritual is this?” Nira demanded finally. “Ya gonna look at the 'Kent-kissing thing or are we all gonna sit here guessin'?”

Adare ignored the woman, took up the paper, opened it. It didn't take long to read the hastily scrawled lines, and only a moment more to understand them. She looked up from the message, relief welling up inside her. There was no word of Sanlitun. It had nothing to do with her son. Which meant she could believe, if only for another day, that he was still alive.

Kegellen cocked her head to the side. “Good news?”

“Good news doesn't come creepin' in like a kicked dog,” Nira said, watching Adare warily. “Out with it, woman.”

Slowly, Adare dragged her eyes back to the text. Already, the relief was seeping away, replaced by something colder, more dangerous—some feeling balanced on the knife's edge between hope and horror.

“He has returned,” she said.

Nira leaned forward, suddenly hungry, predatory. “Il Tornja?”

Adare shook her head. “Kaden. My brother. And he has Triste with him.”