Vergence (56 page)

P
ALONA WATCHED
with amusement as her dancing teacher, Master Rassine, shrieked with rage at the three blank-faced stable boys. His face turned an ugly shade of red, and spittle flew from his mouth as he tried to adjust their foot positions in the midst of a formal set with three of her housemaids.

The day after her dance humiliation she'd hired Master Rassine, the most prestigious dancing instructor to be found in the city, and set herself a daily training routine. Hapless servants were dragged into the lessons from whatever task they might be doing, to act as extras, models and, on a few occasions, dance partners. She spared only those on immediate business for her uncle, although nothing she did would persuade Jaquit to join in, nor would Dr Elali, and she didn't even bother asking any of the household guards.

The only space large enough for dance training had been the entrance hall at the front of their residence and, as always, her uncle had indulged her, agreeing to let her use the space every morning for as long as she needed it.

On the second day following the ball she'd received a message that Lord Muro had died. She thought it a rather fortunate turn of events as she knew nobody would even remember the dancing after hearing news like that, although it also made her a little sad as he'd been rather handsome. She persuaded herself she would have forgiven him, and invited him again if he'd promised to behave better next time.

After that, she lost interest in the lessons, but continued them anyway for the pleasure of watching Master Rassine struggling to teach. Most of the sessions were a complete disaster, with bewildered servants staggering in random directions as Master Rassine screamed incomprehensible instructions to unwilling students and musicians by turn. Jaquit didn't like dancing, and couldn't hear the music, so she exhibited her feelings by sitting in full view of Rassine, alternately pouting and scowling at him.

Palona held a pose at the end of the double lines of dancers, with the three boys on one side, and the girls on the other. She watched them critically as Rassine moved a foot, adjusted an arm position, tilted a head. Anybody would think they'd be more grateful for the opportunity to train with such a great master rather than spend the morning cleaning or mucking out stables, or whatever it was they might have been doing.

The main doors opened just as Rassine clapped his hands for the dance to continue, and a guard stepped into the room, closely followed by Lord Bae. Dressed in full armour, he carried his helmet under his arm, his lips drawn into a tight line. He stalked around the outside of the room, ignoring everybody, including Palona.

“
Did you see that
?” Palona signed at Jaquit. “
He didn't greet me, he didn't even look at me. How rude.
”

“
Didn't you say he looked fine in his uniform
?” Jaquit signed.

“
Better with the helmet on I said,
” Palona signed back, pulling a face at Jaquit.

The lesson seemed to be dissolving into chaos around her as confused stable boys collided and stumbled into the line of girls. Rassine's mouth opened and shut like a landed fish, his eyes bulging. He looked like a man on the verge of tears.

“Are any of you really trying?” Palona said. “Master Rassine, see if you can teach them to do this properly. It can't be that hard to get it right. I'll join in again, when you're doing this bit properly.”

The dance had just resumed when main doors opened again, wider this time, and the merchant Phar Salsa swayed into the room. Palona sighed, wondering if she would be interrupted by every one of her uncle's friends.

His eyes swept the room, taking in every detail as he approached. As usual, he smelt of sweat, grease, and spices.

“Dear Lady Palona, how ill considered of me to intrude when you're taking such trouble to educate your people. Your generosity is boundless. You leave me breathless at my own inadequacy, at the paucity of my charity.”

“My uncle's in his library. I wouldn't want to keep you from your business,” Palona said shortly, trying hard not to wrinkle her nose.

“Ah, but it isn't your uncle I am here to see lady Palona. A little leatherwing tells me my good friend Lord Bae has stopped here. Poor fellow, I hear he's inconsolable with grief over the murder of his brother. It pains me, but I have business with him which I cannot delay.”

This was news to her. It hadn't occurred to her to find out how Muro died.

“Murdered?” Palona asked.

“Terrible business … terrible,” Salsa said, looking like he was enjoying himself. “His vitals were eaten up from the inside. No doubt Vittore's party put it out he died pleasuring himself on one of his bawds, to avoid trouble and protect their allies, but there is no doubt he was murdered.”

Palona could feel herself colouring at Salsa's vulgarity. “What in this city could do that?”

“Ask not what, ask who, my lady.”

“Was it that woman he was with? I said she looked like trouble, didn't I, Jaquit?”

“I couldn't say, Lady Palona. She was arrested, but Vittore himself has declared her innocence.”

“Vittore said she was innocent?” Palona asked.

“There is no need to concern yourself with such ugly things,” Salsa said, waving a chubby hand in the direction of the stable boys. “I have imposed on your generosity long enough. You have your beautiful art to make, and unless I am mistaken I hear Lord Bae now.”

A door banged open and they heard Bae's voice raised, shouting. “— my city. My ancestors built this city with their own hands. Their sweat, their very blood, is in the mortar that binds the stones—”

Salsa trudged past Palona, following the sound of Bae's voice.

Palona moved closer to the door, placing herself where she could see Bae standing in the entrance of her uncle's library room. Salsa shuffled towards him, nearly blocking the passageway.

“You bring your fine soldiers here, and then what?” Bae said. “They spend their days guarding old men who do nothing but sit around all day, drinking and scratching, waiting for some nonsense dream plan to be completed. And when will that be? My brother is dead, and everywhere we have ungodly criminals flouting the law.”

Bae pulled the library door shut with a bang and turned to find himself face to face with Salsa. “He's in there, and good luck to you.”

“But my dear Lord Bae, it was you I sought to speak with.”

“Me? What about?”

“You may not have known it, but for my part I was a friend to your dear brother, when he would allow it. My pain at his loss cannot compare with yours, I know, but I, too, would like to see some justice for his life, cut short in such a foul manner.”

Palona could hear the lie in Salsa's words, but she was as certain Bae wouldn't have the wits. If Salsa had slapped him, he couldn't have looked more surprised.

“Things have changed,” Bae said. “Our caster friend came to see me—”

“How do you know it was him?” Salsa said.

“He knew everything, and more,” Bae said. “It was him. He told me he'd changed his mind about the threat and said we need to act — as much as said it was a Volanian matter,” Bae said.

Bae glanced past Salsa and noticed Palona watching, dropped his voice and leant in close to Salsa, speaking too quietly for her to hear.

Salsa drew a small phial from a pouch hidden in his robes and handed it to Bae. Palona leant closer, straining to hear, as Salsa rumbled a response.

“— just take care not to cut yourself—” Salsa said, then held up a warning hand as Elali appeared in the passage behind Bae.

Elali led Bae away, and Phar Salsa entered her uncle's study. When they were gone Palona turned back to the room to find Rassine and the dancers standing in a disorderly group, staring at her. The musicians were paying close attention to their instruments, wearing careful expressions of concentration. She looked from the musicians to Rassine, and decided she didn't want to practice dancing anymore.

Yale

T
HE BITTER STENCH
of ash lingered in De'Argent's nostrils. He'd scrubbed his skin raw, and scraped off every last scrap of hair from his body, but nothing could rid him of it.

He'd returned to his keep to find half a lifetime's work gone, with nothing but a burnt shell left behind where his creations had lived. The fire had been hot enough to crack stone, melting glass and metal into unrecognisable lumps, and reducing everything capable of burning to a fine grey powder.

Remnants of two bodies lay in the midst of the destruction. The one recognisable thing he'd found was a single dart, lying scorched but intact on the floor near the end of the last corridor — the kind of dart he'd used to kill Spetimane in H'nChae.

In a cold rage he'd killed every other acolyte on duty that day. Workmen had been drafted in to clear the debris, and start with restoration of the displays. For days he'd wandered through his halls, unable to fully comprehend his loss, unable to admit much of his work was gone forever. The beauty lay in the precise detail — fine nuances impossible to recall or recreate decades after the events, and without these minutia the rest of the work meant less than nothing.

Word came from his contractor: the man once called Yale had been discovered. As before, a fragment of material accompanied the letter, and a caution. His target was somewhere in the great city of Vergence, and once more the Ronyon was close by.

De'Argent packed what he needed, and left. What else was there for him?

The passage from Cassadia to Vergence was considered easy, but he leat badly, tumbled through the between, landing off-balance, and dishevelled.

He'd left Cassadia in the evening, arriving after dark in the midst of a broad well lit street. Directly ahead of him stood a large wrought iron gate in a high curtain wall, surrounding a dark hulking structure. Two soldiers guarded the entrance, each with a short lance and long tapered shield in the Kurbezh style, and De'Argent knew intuitively he'd find his target somewhere in the building behind them.

Years of training asserted themselves, fingers and mind working seamlessly, even as he took in his surroundings. Aside from the soldiers, the street was clear of onlookers, well maintained and undoubtedly in a wealthier part of the city, which suggested the dwellings might have additional guards inside.

The men facing him were young, with the hardened faces of fanatics, and evidently skilled. Surprised by his appearance, they barely paused before swinging their shields into place, standing far enough apart to avoid entangling themselves, yet close enough for mutual support.

He swept his arms inwards, the shape and movement of his body acting as a substitute for words in shaping his casting, blending the outline of a second and third casting seamlessly into place to follow the first. A sound smothering blanket rolled outwards, as if the earth had exhaled a muffling silence to suck away minor noises and mask sharper, louder sounds.

De'Argent's hands finished the first movement resting above his belt and as he straightened he unclipped a sheaf of four-sided, palm-sized throwing blades from his belt with each hand, and threw them towards the soldiers. His hands twisted outwards to release the blades and second casting together. A powerful impulse seized the blades and hurled them outwards, scattering into a shower of humming steel, each spinning along its own path.

Some clanged from the ironwork gate, skimming across the ground, whilst others embedded into the surface of the stone wall on either side. One guard fell, his armour riven by the razor-sharp disks, the second turned them with his shield, shuffling forward with just his eyes and point of his lance visible over the rim.

The casting sequence completed with his arms held in a wide welcoming gesture, a narrow blade slipped from a concealed wrist mechanism into each hand, and he waited for the remaining soldier to strike.

As he closed the last few paces the soldier's movements shifted to a fluid close-quarters style, a rising lance thrust under his shield, using the movement of his body to lend power, and conceal the attack until the last moment.

De'Argent angled across the soldier, his blade slipping through a gap between body armour and helmet in a single clean action as he passed, and where he'd stood a perfect likeness remained — a shape illusion with arms still spread and inviting, impaled by a lance.

The soldier stepped forward a single pace, and then a second — much slower, and folded into a heap on the road. De'Argent didn't wait to check the bodies, but ran at the wall besides the gate and, with a single leap, caught the top, and vaulted over.

The stratagem he'd used was an old one, a version of the blended hand combat and craft system taught to acolytes, effective, but lacking in artistry. He stumbled as he landed on the far side — doubly disappointed with himself.

De'Argent entered through an upper window at the front of the building, finding himself on a narrow balcony which ran along the full width above the main entrance, and along both sides to the far end of the room. Below the balconies a single large room extended back some way, with an elevated wooden platform at the far end.