The light from the torches. Of course. The magic fire burning in them revealed those hidden normally from sight. He had not noticed the shadow he was leaving on the ground behind him. He had to give the King of Wayland credit. He truly had thought it through.
As the crossbows began to fire, Kiranrao whipped one direction and then another and took in a big breath of air, rising above the torches. The light from the flames had no canvas on which to paint his shadow. He floated above the pavilion, watching as some of the bolts tore gashes into the fabric. He scudded like a cloud, breathing even deeper until he rose as high as the monstrous trees. With a kick in the air, he angled his way to the upper branches and grasped a hold of the trunks. The soldiers down below scurried like ants from a kicked hive. He stood on the slender branch, keeping his breath carefully measured so that it would easily support his weight. The throbbing feeling in his arm began to settle. How close he had come to losing the blade! He did not think for a moment he had come close to dying. He was far too clever to ever risk that.
Watching as the army of Wayland began to search the camp, he nearly shouted his laughter from the tree tops. Instead, he slunk away, vowing to return and drive the blade deep into the king’s chest. The siege would continue to choke his people. Murderous rage continued to burn in his heart.
Shoving away from the tree, he rapidly descended into the camp and made his way through the confusion of the raid. Soldiers were talking about an intruder in the camp. A man had been seen. The thief Kiranrao. His name was said with contempt. It made him grind his teeth with fury. He would kill them all. One by one if he had to. One soldier at a time. But would that be fast enough to save his wealth from vanishing? The cask was caved in, the wine already spilling out. He wanted to save as much of it as he could. He was frantic at how quickly his wealth was vanishing.
Kiranrao killed another sentry on his way out, leaving the man crumpled in his bones. He did not even bother lingering to taste the man’s memories. It was not a great distance to the Romani hideout. They were lurking all around the camp, awaiting orders to launch a raid or strike at the enemy’s supply lines. They were waiting for him to return with news of the King’s death. They had waited in vain.
He released the pommel of the sword and shrugged off the magic that hid him from the sight of others. He would sleep in a bed tonight. In a bed on a wagon. He wanted to get drunk. He craved it with a great thirst. He would not give in to the craving. Not tonight. He would plot the king’s death again. He would find a way to stop the assault. He would rally. He always did.
As he approached he found the Romani alert, as always. Beckett was a Preachán with a sharp nose. He was digging beneath his fingernail with a jeweled spike.
“He’s here,” Beckett said, nodding to the unhitched wagon at the far edge of camp.
Kiranrao looked at the little man, scrutinizing his face. “What?”
“I said he’s here. Arrived a little while after you left. Offered a bet that you wouldn’t succeed.”
Kiranrao’s scowl made some of them step back. “And how many of you craven dogs took that bet?”
Beckett flicked a rind of fingernail away. “No one bets against Tyrus of Kenatos.”
Kiranrao shut the door of the wagon, narrowing his eyes at the small candle flame illuminating the face of Tyrus. The Paracelsus was a large man and he seemed to dwarf the size of the wagon interior. There was a half-wince of pain in his expression.
He has pain in his back from a knife wound that did not heal fully. It was a death blow but he survived it. Below his shoulder blade. His neck is exposed. He has magic protecting him but if you move quickly, you can kill him before he brings it to bear. See his right hand?
“How did you find me?” Kiranrao asked softly, glancing at the strange brass cylinder half-hidden behind the big man. Was it a weapon or a defense?
“I know how to find those I seek,” Tyrus replied evasively, as Kiranrao expected he would.
“I should kill you now. You are at a disadvantage.”
A small smile. “A scholar’s ink lasts longer than a martyr’s blood.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It is what has always motivated me, Kiranrao. I care not for ducats or duchies. I want to leave a legacy in this world. I want to be known as the man who stopped the Plague. You will help me achieve this.”
Kiranrao leaned back against the door, studying the Paracelsus quizzically. “Why would I care to do that? If you could not tell, I have my own problems to sort through.”
“Because, as the Romani like to say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Tyrus leaned forward, his expression haggard yet intense. “Your enemy is not the King of Wayland, Kiranrao. He is only the Arch-Rike’s puppet.”
Kiranrao stepped closer, smelling the other man’s scent for the hint of fear. He was so close. One thrust from Iddawc would end him. It would end all of his tricks and mischief. What toys and trinkets did he hide within those robes?