The Broken Blade

Chapter Twelve
“Nomad!”

He spun around, his sword poised to strike. He did not know where he was. The street was unfamiliar. He had been wandering around for hours in a semi-fugue state, looking for the one Shadow who had escaped. Edric. The thought of finding him was foremost in his mind, driving out everything else.

But the man who faced him in the dark and empty street was not Edric. He was a human, slight in stature, dressed in a dark, hooded cloak. His face was wrinkled with age, as was his hand, which he held across the lower part of his face, miming a veil.

Sorak simply stood and stared at him. In one hand, he still held the sword of Valsavis. In the other, he held the broken blade. Both were blood stained.

The old man lowered his hand and came forward, hesitantly. “We have been looking for you,” he said, as he approached. “We know about what happened. By the time we got there, it was too late. Words cannot express our sorrow.”

Sorak said nothing. He just stood there, motionless.

“You are hurt,” the man said, reaching out toward him, then drawing his hand back. “You are losing blood. Please… come. Let me help you. You cannot wander the streets like this. There is danger. Please…”

The man reached forward once again, slowly and deliberately, and took his arm. “I am Andreas. I have some skill at healing, but I cannot do it here, out in the street. We may be seen. Please, come with me. In the name of the Path and the Way, please come…”

Numbly, Sorak allowed himself to be led down a series of deserted back streets and dark alleys until they came to small tavern on a side street, near the merchants’ plaza. It was late, and the tavern was closed for the night, but the old man knocked softly on the wooden door: twice, then a short pause, then three times, then a pause, then twice again. The door was unbolted from within, and they went inside.

It was dark within, and the benches had been turned upside-down and placed on the tabletops for sweeping of the floor. The man who had admitted them was human, middle-aged, and portly— balding on top and dressed in loose brown breeches, sandals, and a slightly soiled white tunic. He bolted the door again behind them and said nothing. He merely conducted them back to the bar, behind it and to a small storage room.

At the back of the room was a beaded curtain. He drew it aside and beckoned them through, but he did not follow them into the dimly lit chamber. Within stood a long table with several benches pulled up to it and three thick candles spread out along the tabletop. Seated at the table in the back room were three men in white robes, who immediately rose to their feet as they came in.

“You’ve found him, Andreas!”

“He’s hurt!”

“Bring him here, quickly!”

They gathered around him and led him to a bench, easing him onto it. He felt them trying to take the weapons from his hands, but his fingers were tightly clamped around the hilts, as if of their own volition, and would not let go.

“Do not be afraid,” one of the men said. “You are among friends. There is no need for these.”

“Let it be,” Andreas said. “He needs something to hold onto. He has suffered a terrible shock.”

Andreas removed his cloak, revealing the white robe of the Alliance, and knelt in front of him, taking each of his hands gently by the wrists. He breathed deeply, closed his eyes, and concentrated while the others watched. Gradually, Sorak became aware that the old man’s hands were growing warm. The warmth seeped into his wrists and started flowing up his arms. He felt the heat increase as Andreas breathed more deeply, drops of perspiration forming on his forehead. Sorak felt the warmth reach his shoulders and start spreading across his chest. The heat increased, flowing down his torso, into his legs, and rising into his neck, suffusing his face and head.

The cuts and slashes on his body slowly closed and began to fade away. He felt a warm, comforting, drifting sensation, as if he were floating on a summer desert breeze, and the pain slowly went away. He breathed more deeply, and his eyelids fluttered. His muscles relaxed, and he felt the blades drop from his fingers to the floor.

Abruptly, his body stiffened with a sharp, jerking spasm, and the jolt broke the contact with Andreas, who cried out and fell back on the floor, releasing him. Sorak heard the alarmed voices of the men around him, but they seemed to be fading away into the distance.

“What happened?”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know…”

Then everything was spinning as the room went away and Sorak found himself out in the street, striding down a dark alley, a cloaked and hooded figure walking just ahead of him. But it was not he walking through the alley. It was the other, the killer, and as the hooded figure turned into a side street and looked back briefly, Sorak recognized the templar he had seen before in his last vision.

The street they had turned into looked familiar. And an instant later, the realization struck him that it was the same street he had walked down with Andreas moments earlier. The door to the tavern they were in was just ahead. They were coming here.

Panic rose in him. He had to warn them, somehow, but he did not know how. He could not break free of the vision. It felt as if he were having a terrifying nightmare, one in which he knew he was dreaming, and he kept desperately trying to wake up, but just could not shake the dream.

He struggled to wrench free as the templar paused outside in the street, just by the door. In his shared perception with the other, Sorak saw the door in front of him, felt it as the killer kicked it in, and then saw the interior of the darkened tavern rushing past as the killer ran through it, heading toward the bar and the back room.

The tavernkeeper came rushing out, brandishing a blade, but the killer sidestepped his lunge smoothly and crushed his chest with one powerful blow.

From somewhere beyond the curtain, Sorak heard the front door of the tavern splinter, heard the alarmed reactions of the men, but it all seemed very far away. The effect of the shared consciousness increased as the killer drew closer, moving swiftly, vaulting the bar and running through the storage room, plunging through the beaded curtain…

Then Sorak saw himself through the killer’s eyes. He saw the killer sweep one of the white-robed men aside as he raised his arms to cast a spell. One powerful blow sent him reeling back against the wall with stunning impact, and then the killer seized Andreas, grabbing him by the throat…

With a desperate effort, Sorak’s mind screamed, STOP!

Kah froze. Yes, that was her name—Kah. And, yes, the killer was a she.

She had heard the shouted command, but not aloud. It seemed to explode within her mind. For a moment, she simply stood there, confused and puzzled, using Andreas as a shield so that none of the others could throw a spell at her. Then her gaze focused on the elfling sitting on the bench before her, and she saw him gazing back at her, unafraid, eyes blazing.

Sorak slowly rose to his feet, his gaze locked with the deadly mul’s. “Release him,” he said aloud.

Kah heard the command echo in her mind. Get out of my mind, she thought, a chill clutching her.

No. Release him.

This time, he had not spoken aloud, yet she had heard him clearly. More significantly, he had heard her. The realization struck her with a shock. She spun Andreas around and held him in front of her, a powerful arm clamped across the throat. For the first time in her life, someone had heard her. She had communicated.

You can hear me?

I hear you. Release him. He has done you no harm.

The other members of the Alliance cell all stood perfectly still, staring with a mixture of fear and fascination. They could not hear the exchange but knew something was happening, something powerful and momentous, and those of them who were sensitive could feel the vibrant emanations of psionic energy in the small back room.

I must kill him, Kah communicated. I must kill you all.

Why?

The master wills it. He bought me. It is what I do.

And in that instant, as Kah thought of Ankhor, Sorak saw him in her mind and knew everything. A cold rage welled in him, a fury and hatred unlike anything he had ever known. He understood then what had been born in Ryana’s death, and he embraced it.

I am the master now. Release the old man.

No…

Release him…

Kah felt her right arm tremble. Slowly, involuntarily, she loosened her hold on Andreas. She fought to clamp her arm tighter against his throat, to squeeze the life out of him, but her own arm resisted her, fought her, pulled away. She redoubled her efforts, sweat forming as the powerful muscles of her arm and shoulder stood out with the strain.

GET OUT! she screamed inwardly.

Release… him… now!

Gritting her teeth, Kah fought the inexorable pull, but she was losing the battle. Slowly, her arm came away, and Andreas drew in a hungry, gasping breath as he broke free, falling to his knees, clutching at his throat, straining to draw air into his tortured lungs.

In that moment, a bright blue bolt of thaumaturgic energy lanced across the room and exploded with a blinding glare as it struck one of the Alliance men squarely in the chest. He screamed, hurled back against the wall, and the scream was cut off as his body flew apart into chunks of viscera and incinerated flesh.

The room became a blinding latticework of energy bolts as the remaining Alliance adepts responded to the templar’s attack.

Livanna’s assault broke Sorak’s psionic link with Kah, and she charged in with a snarl, but Sorak ducked beneath her lunge and rolled, coming up with Galdra in his hand.

As energy bolts flew back and forth across the room, igniting everything around them, Kah spun and charged again. Instead of trying to avoid her lunge, as she expected, Sorak stepped right into it, slamming into her and driving the broken blade deep into her huge, powerful midsection.

The breath whistled out of the mul in a startled gasp, and she stared in shock at the blade buried in her stomach, then looked up at Sorak, their faces only inches apart. With an animal growl of fury, she grabbed him by the throat with both hands and started squeezing.

No!

She felt him boring into her mind like an auger and fought the savage intrusion, but felt her hands resisting her, opening slowly despite all her efforts to close them around his throat.

NO!

The command was punctuated with a jerk as Sorak twisted Galdra in her stomach and pulled up, ripping her insides. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, and waves of pain washed over her. Her fingers slipped from around his neck as her eyes started to glaze over, and a moment later, it was finished. Her huge body went limp, and she collapsed to the floor, lifeless.

The spell battle, in the meantime, had progressed to the front room of the tavern as Livanna beat a hasty retreat. Though she had killed two of her antagonists, two more remained. Andreas had struggled to his feet after the initial assault, and despite already being weakened by the healing, had joined the one remaining Alliance adept in the counterattack.

As Kah slipped off his blade and fell lifeless to the floor, Sorak retrieved his other sword and left the room. He plunged through the beaded curtain to the taproom, which was already in flames.

He ducked down behind the bar as an energy bolt hurled by Livanna passed overhead, and then he heard a scream, cut off sharply as another Alliance adept met his end.

He came out from behind the bar, staying low and moving quickly, Livanna was facing off against Andreas. They both threw their spells at the same time. Andreas cried out and fell as his right arm was vaporized, but his bolt of energy struck Livanna in the legs as he fell.

She screamed and fell to the floor, a double amputee. The intense heat of the energy bolt had instantly cauterized her wounds, but she was legless from her thighs down and continued screaming, writhing on the floor in agony.

Sorak ran over to Andreas, but one glance told him there was nothing he could do. Already weakened by the healing spell he’d cast, the old man had thrown everything he had into his last spell. He had used up all of his remaining life force, sacrificing himself, leaving behind only a withered corpse.

As he straightened, Sorak saw Livanna struggling to drag herself toward the door. He crossed the burning room in several quick strides and pinned her to the floor, a foot in the middle of her back. The flames were spreading rapidly, and the tavern was filling up with smoke and the sounds of crackling fire. He bent and turned the templar over, pressing the broken blade against her throat.

Livanna stared at him with loathing, and as her lips moved to cast a spell, Sorak went in.

He focused his burning hatred upon her brow, and his mind tore into hers, psionically smashing its way past all resistance, driving to the core the way a termite bores through wood. He found everything he wanted in there—her plot with Ankhor and the mul; her bargain with the Shadow elves to betray Ankhor and clear the way for Nibenay; her spell link with the treacherous Edric.

He brushed everything else aside and seized on the spell link, focusing his energies on it… and he tore it out, appropriating it.

As he withdrew from the templar’s mind, he left her ravaged, her consciousness psionically shredded. Her eyes stared up at him emptily, seeing nothing. He left her a crippled, mindless shell. She would survive, but not long. He glanced around at the conflagration. Not long at all.

As he stepped through the smoke pouring out the busted front door of the tavern, he saw a crowd gathered in the street. They stared at him and pointed, but he did not pause. He came toward them, and they hastily moved aside to let him pass. In the center of the street, he hesitated only a moment, cocking his head to one side slightly as if listening, then set off at a run for the gaming district.




* * *




The audience, composed almost exclusively of males, broke out into wild cheering and applause as Cricket shed her clinging, diaphanous gown and stood before them clad only in a tiny strip of cloth and a silver ankle chain. Seated among the male patrons were the other dancers, who had stopped hustling their customers long enough to watch the new girl and see what she could do. Cricket saw in their expressions a mixture of responses—admiration, envy, resentment, hunger—reactions she had seen often before.

The one response she had never seen, and wished she could, was someone who enjoyed her dancing merely for its own sake. Once, so long ago it seemed as if it were another lifetime, she had danced for the sake of dancing, for the simple joy it brought her. Now, it had become an exercise in manipulation.

Unlike other dancers, who wasted little time before disrobing, she had left her gown and scarves on through most her dance, only removing them slowly and provocatively at the end. The other dancers sold the fantasy of wantons, lustful, desirable, and easily available.

Among them, her presentation was unique. She was not a trollop, but a graceful half-elf girl, demure and feminine, conscious of her body and the joy it could bring. Instead of flaunting open sexuality, she showed flirtatious femininity. Instead of lewd gyrations, she presented charming sensuality. Instead of brassy provocation, she danced subtle invitation, with a shy surrender at the climax. It never failed to drive them wild.

Yes, she thought, that she could do. But in the end, it was merely illusion, a paltry substitute for a reality she had never even known.

She had thought it would be different in Altaruk. Yes, the house was larger and catered to a more well-heeled clientele. Yes, the pay was better, and the tips more generous. And yes, the working conditions were improved, with larger and more comfortable dressing rooms and attendants to assist with costuming and makeup. But in all other respects, it was the same: the pressure to be more “friendly” with customers, the blatant sexual overtures from patrons and management, the crude shouted comments from customers, the constant groping, feeling, pinching… In the end, only the place had changed. Even the faces seemed the same.

Cricket retrieved her gown and headed offstage, toward the dressing room. In the corridor, as she slipped the gown back on, she felt hollow, a sensual facade over deep melancholy. She had found a new job and new quarters, but otherwise, nothing had changed. She was still just going through the motions of a life.

What was the point in holding out for an ideal that did not exist? What was the purpose in waiting for a hero when, in the end, heroic talk led only to base actions? Why bother to believe in virtue, love, and honor—mere masks for ambition, lust, and expedience? If men told lies, was she any better for selling them illusions? Why stop there? Why not simply sell it all?

She came to an abrupt halt as she entered the dressing room, eyes widening in surprise. The other dancers were outside, working the crowd, but she was not alone. Edric sat in a chair before her, legs casually crossed. His hands were toying with a dagger.

“What, no greeting for an old friend?”

Her lips turned down into a sneer. “You bastard,” she said. “You never were my friend. You lied in everything you said.”

“Well, in many things, perhaps, but not everything. I said you were beautiful, and so you are. I said you could drive them wild, and so you can. I said the same elven blood flows through our veins, and so it does. I also said I was tribal.

“I did lie about the boy, though. It was part of the role I chose to play. My true tastes do not happen to lie in that direction.”

“I can’t believe you had the nerve to come here after what you did,” said Cricket. “What do you want?”

“You,” said Edric.

“Me? You must be joking!”

“Actually, I had other plans when I arrived in Altaruk, but as luck would have it, things did not work out. My luck, it seems, has not been good of late. Now, I need to leave town with some alacrity, and it strikes me a hostage will improve my chances.”

Cricket turned and bolted for the door, but Edric moved quickly, catching her just as she stepped into the hall. He seized her arm and twisting it behind her as he brought the dagger to her neck. “Don’t be a fool,” he said. “This is no life for you. You’ll wind up like the other sluts. It doesn’t have to be like that. You were tribal once. You can be tribal once again, a lady of the Shadows, free and proud, beholden to no man.”

“Except to you?” she said. She snorted her derision. “How could I possibly resist such a charming invitation? A dagger at a lady’s throat—truly the height of gallantry.”

“I readily concede I am not much of a gallant,” Edric said. “But then, of course, you are not much of a lady. Granted, we are starting off rather awkwardly, but though you may not appreciate it now, I am doing you a favor. You have far too much potential to waste yourself on a life of degradation in a pleasure house.”

“Becoming your woman would be an even greater degradation,” Cricket said.

One of the large, muscular bouncers appeared before them in the hall. “What’s going on here?”

“Step aside, you thick-headed lout,” demanded Edric, “else I will slash her throat from ear to ear.”

The bouncer’s eyes grew wide as he noticed the dagger against Cricket’s neck. He backed away several steps, then moved aside to let them by. As Edric passed the bouncer, he suddenly shoved Cricket into him, trapping him against the wall. With a quick, deft stroke, he plunged the blade into the bouncer’s side, then jerked Cricket back again as the man slid down against the wall.

“Why?” asked Cricket with despair.

“To insure he didn’t do anything foolish, and as an object lesson to you, my dear,” said Edric. “The same will happen to anyone who tries to interfere, so keep that in mind if you want to avoid any more bloodshed.

“Now we are going to go outside together and walk calmly toward the door. If anyone tries to stop or question us, get rid of him quickly, or I will.”

He urged her out into the main room, where one of the other girls was dancing on the stage. They kept close to the wall, moving around toward the front door, Edric walking close beside her, holding onto her and using his body to shield the dagger.

They were almost to the door when it opened, and Sorak came in.

Edric stopped, cursing under his breath. Cricket saw Sorak’s gaze quickly sweep the room, and then focus on them. He drew his sword. In an instant, several bouncers moved toward him, but Cricket yelled out, “No!”

All eyes turned toward them. Edric jerked her arm up painfully behind her back and pressed the edge of the dagger under her chin. All conversation stopped. A moment later, so did the music. Everyone quickly moved back out of the way except the bouncers, who stood watching alertly, tensely, unsure what to do.

Sorak gave them a quick glance. “Stay out of it,” he said. “He’s mine.”

“Move aside. Nomad,” Edric said, urging Cricket forward. “Back off if you want the girl to live!”

“And if you kill her, then what?” Sorak asked, moving closer, staring at Edric intently.

“Then you will have another death on your conscience,” Edric said. “The priestess died because of you. You want this girl to die on your account as well?”

“The only one who’s going die here is you,” said Sorak, still coming toward them.

“Stop right there!” said Edric. “One more step, elfling, and I’ll cut her throat!”

“Go ahead,” said Sorak, advancing. “Try.”

Edric tried to press the blade in closer, to draw blood and show that he meant business, but he suddenly discovered his hand would not respond. He tried again, but his entire arm began to tremble as he strained against a strong, invisible force. It was as if his own muscles resisted him.

Sorak simply stood there, staring at him, concentrating, and suddenly Edric understood what was happening. The Nomad was using psionic force against him.

Fear shot through him as he realized he was powerless to resist. He grunted, straining against the force, and Cricket held her breath as she saw the dagger trembling before her, just below her chin. But slowly, steadily, it moved away.

Edric’s wrist cocked as he fought against the pull, and the dagger blade pointed back toward him. His arm shook, and slowly started to bring the point closer to his face.

With a cry, Edric released his grip on her arm, and as she lunged away, he grabbed his right wrist with his left hand in an attempt to keep the knife away. Then he stumbled, off balance, as the force abruptly went away. The bouncers started to move in, but Sorak turned his blade toward them.

“I said, stay back!” he cautioned. “I’ll kill the first man who tries to interfere.”

“We want no trouble here, friend,” one of the bouncers said. “Take your quarrel outside.”

“No,” said Sorak. “He dies here and now.”

Cricket cried out; Edric had snatched up a chair and hurled it at Sorak’s head. Sorak ducked aside, and the chair missed him. Several of the bouncers cut off the elf’s retreat. Edric glared about, panicked, but there was no escape.

Sorak glanced down at his sword. “No,” he said. “This would be too easy. And too quick.” He sheathed it.

Edric lunged.

Sorak drew the broken blade. It sparkled with a blue aura as he blocked the knife thrust, turning it aside and sidestepping in one smooth motion. He slashed Edric with a sharp, upward sweep of his arm. The elf cried out and brought a hand up to his ear, which was only a bleeding hole. It had been neatly severed, and blood poured down the side of his face.

He came in with a cry, slashing wildly.

Cricket watched with horrified fascination as Sorak danced aside, and the broken blade flicked in once more, opening a deep gash across Edric’s face. The Shadow screamed and staggered as the crowd surged back, giving the combatants plenty of room, but shouting their encouragement, all the same. Rather than trying to stop the fight, the bouncers worked to keep bystanders out of the way.

Edric lunged in again, and Sorak’s blade rang dully on his obsidian one as a piece of Edric’s knife flew off. Once more, Sorak followed his parry with a lightning slash, opening a deep cut in Edric’s shoulder. Edric backpedaled, staring with dismay at his obsidian dagger. The point had been knocked off.

Sorak reached down and pulled a steel dagger from his boot. “Here, try this,” he said, tossing it to him.

Edric caught it and threw aside his own ruined blade. He was breathing heavily and bleeding profusely from his wounds. His eyes had a wild look. He was overmatched, and there would be no possibility of yielding. The elfling meant to kill him, slowly cutting him to ribbons. A look of determined resignation came into his eyes.

“Finish it,” he said, gasping for breath. “Come on, finish it, you misbegotten half-breed bastard!” And he charged in.

Sorak attempted to sidestep the rush, but Edric anticipated the move and compensated, leaving himself wide open as he stabbed down hard with the dagger. With his free hand, Sorak grabbed Edric’s wrist and simultaneously drove the broken blade into his midsection. Edric gave out a hissing gasp, and his eyes opened very wide. He coughed, and a bloody froth appeared on his lips.

“I salute the Crown of Elves,” he said in a constricted voice, and spat blood into Sorak’s face.

Sorak pulled out the broken blade and stabbed it in once more, directly into Edric’s heart. The Shadow made a brief, gasping noise, then his eyes rolled up, and he died. Sorak shoved him back onto the floor, then wiped the bloody spittle from his face. As he turned and walked away, the crowd parted for him quickly.

Cricket watched him go, then ran up and bent over Edric’s body, retrieving Sorak’s knife from his dead fingers. She hesitated for a moment, then ran after him.




* * *




Ankhor stood on the veranda outside his private quarters, looking out over the town as the first faint light of dawn appeared on the horizon. In the distance, he could see flames rising near the market plaza as the fire brigade fought to extinguish the blaze.

The previous evening, Kieran had gone with the house guard to investigate a report of an armed brawl in the shopkeeper’s district. He had been instructed to send a guard back with news of what occurred. Kieran had come back himself to tell him what they’d found.

“The fight took place in the alley by the shop of Lorian the Bootmaker,” he had said. “Lorian himself saw nothing. He wisely stayed inside when he heard the commotion. The alleyway was littered with corpses. All elves, save one, and that one was the priestess, Ryana. Sorak’s lady.” The mercenary’s gaze was hard. “It was an ambush by the Shadows, that much was obvious, but they got far more than they had bargained for.”

“What of Sorak?” Ankhor asked.

“There was no sign of him.”

“Dead, you think?”

Kieran shook his head. “He was seen wandering the streets, wounded, clutching bloody weapons. His current whereabouts remain unknown.”

“A tragedy,” said Ankhor, silently cursing Edric for botching the job.

“Indeed,” said Kieran, keeping his face carefully neutral. “I wonder how the Shadows knew where he would be.”

Ankhor shook his head. “They must have followed him from the caravan plaza. The crowd was large; the raiders could have blended in easily. Sorak must be found. If he is hurt, he may have collapsed somewhere…”

“I have already instructed the guard to comb the streets for him,” said Kieran.

And it was then that they had noticed smoke rising from the rooftops near the merchant plaza. Kieran had departed quickly to investigate.

He sent back word that witnesses reported a mage battle in a tavern, that a number of charred bodies were pulled out of the blaze. One was a female mul. Another was also female, barely recognizable, and legless, but a blackened silver chaplet around her shaved head identified her as a templar of Nibenay, the Shadow King. Witnesses also reported seeing someone leaving the scene. From the descriptions, Kieran knew it was Sorak. His current whereabouts were unknown.

Ankhor could only guess at what must have happened. The Nomad must have gone straight to the Alliance, or else they had found him, and somehow Livanna and the mul had attacked that very cell. Ankhor knew the burning tavern had been a meeting place of the Alliance. It had taken months to place infiltrators in the support ranks of the Alliance to gather intelligence about the membership and gathering places.

It must have been purely a coincidence Sorak was there when the templar struck with Kah. Now both Livanna and the mul were dead. There was nothing to connect him with those two, but how had Sorak survived? The elfling had amazing luck. He had survived the ambush, and the murderous mul, and a senior templar of Nibenay. “There is a new viper loose in Altaruk.”

“Trouble sleeping tonight, my lord?”

Ankhor stiffened as he recognized the voice. He turned around slowly. Sorak stood behind him on the veranda.

“Sorak!” Ankhor said. “Thank goodness you’re all right. I’ve had the house guard combing the streets for you all night. I heard about what happened. I am so very sorry about Ryana.”

“If you dare speak her name again, I’ll cut out your tongue,” said Sorak.

Ankhor’s eyes widened. “What? Forgive me, but—”

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I managed to get in?” asked Sorak.

Ankhor felt a chill go down his spine. He nervously moistened his lips.

“I imagine the question itself gives you the answer,” Sorak said, “since I obviously did not come in by the front door.” He looked out at the smoke rising from the rooftops in the distance, beyond the low walls of the veranda. “You have a lovely view up here,” he said. “It appears the fire is almost under control. Some good people died there tonight. And two who very much deserved to die.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Ankhor.

“Oh, I think you do,” said Sorak. “Livanna revealed much before she died. Against her will, of course, but she revealed it just the same. Shall I tell you all about it?”

“Who… who is Livanna?” Ankhor asked as a knot formed in his stomach.

“You mean who was Livanna,” Sorak corrected him. “She was a senior templar of the Shadow King, with whom you had a bargain to sell out Altaruk to the defilers. Quite a complicated little plot you hatched. You hired the Shadows to attack your own caravan, to cause significant losses to the House of Jhamri and, ostensibly, to your own house, as well. Except your losses on that particular caravan would have been slight, and more than offset by your share of the plunder.

“Meanwhile,” he continued, “the templar and your mul would systematically assassinate members of the Veiled Alliance in Altaruk, defying all efforts to apprehend them, because of course, you would give them shelter and keep them appraised of all the movements of the guard. Lord Jhamri would be made to appear incapable of keeping the peace, and at the proper time, your own house guard would have caught the mul, who would have been killed in the attempt to apprehend her.

“You would have received credit for generously hiring the famous Kieran of Draj to protect the citizenry. By then, however, the Alliance in Altaruk would have been broken, and the way left clear for defilers to move in. Once they were in power, Lord Jhamri would be brought to heel and the House of Ankhor would become the most powerful merchant guild in the western Tablelands.”

“The templar told you that?” said Ankhor. “And you actually believed this nonsense?” He shook his head and chuckled. “I have never heard such a fantastic tale in all my life!”

“Then here’s another tale,” said Sorak. “One that is considerably shorter but should amuse you all the same. The templar was planning to betray you, She had made her own separate agreement with your friend, Edric. He was going to assassinate you.”

“Edric? Who’s Edric?” Ankhor said. “I have never heard that name.”

“Oh, but you have, my lord,” said Kieran, standing in the open doorway of the veranda, behind Sorak. Neither of them had noticed his arrival until he spoke. “I told you all about him when I gave you my report.”

“Kieran!” Ankhor said. “Thank goodness you’re here!” He pointed to Sorak. “He’s got an insane notion I’ve been involved in some fantastic plot!”

“Yes, I know. I heard,” said Kieran, leaning casually against the doorframe. “The funny thing is, I believe him.”

“You can’t be serious!” said Ankhor.

“I am completely serious,” Kieran replied. “And I fear I’ll have to take you into custody.”

“You must be mad,” said Ankhor. “You work for me! I hired you!”

Kieran raised his eyebrows. “As I recall, I was hired to serve the House of Jhamri.”

“But it was I who paid your salary! Besides, what grounds have you to arrest me? You have no proof of these ridiculous accusations!”

“Perhaps not,” said Kieran, “but then the prosecution of them is not my responsibility. I will simply lay the case before Lord Jhamri, and it will be up to him to make the final disposition.”

“The final disposition will be made right here, tonight,” said Sorak grimly.

Kieran shook his head. “I think not,” he said. “You have had a busy enough night, my friend. I just came from the pleasure house, where I saw what you did to Edric. Under the circumstances, I can hardly blame you. I know how you must feel, and I share your grief over your loss, but I cannot stand by and watch you commit murder, however justified it may be.”

“Justified!” said Ankhor in outrage.

“Yes, justified, my lord,” said Kieran. “You were the one who sent Sorak and Ryana to the place where they were ambushed. I was there, if you’ll recall, and you were most insistent, even to the point of saying they should go there right away. You also took care to see to it that I was occupied with my report to you and reviewing the full complement of the guard. Now perhaps one or two raiders might have followed them to Lorian’s from the caravan plaza, but nearly a dozen would have been conspicuous. I spoke to Lorian and learned that they were not in his shop more than a few moments, and so the ambush must have already been in place. The Shadows did not follow them. They knew they would be there. And you were the Only one who could have told them. I suspect that will be all the proof Lord Jhamri will require.”

Ankhor paled. He could think of no response.

“I already have all the proof I need,” said Sorak.

“No doubt,” said Kieran, “but you are not the law in Altaruk, and regardless of who hired me, I have a duty to that law. I must apprehend Lord Ankhor and deliver him to justice.”

“Do not speak to me of justice,” Sorak said. “Ryana died as much by his hand as by Edric’s. Keep out of this, Kieran. I’ll not let you take him.”

“And I cannot let you kill him,” Kieran said. “Stand aside. I am still your superior officer, if you will recall.”

“We are at cross purposes,” Sorak said coldly. “I hereby tender my resignation.”

Kieran shook his head. “Don’t do this, Nomad,” he said. “Please, I have no wish to fight you.”

“Then give way.”

“I cannot,” said Kieran. He drew his blade.

There was a sudden crash of shattering pottery.

Kieran grunted and collapsed, unconscious. As he fell, Cricket stood revealed behind him, the shattered remains of a heavy vase in one hand.

“I… I couldn’t figure out how to get the secret panel open,” she said. “It took me a long time to find the lever—”

Ankhor lunged past Sorak and snatched up Kieran’s blade. But as he moved toward Cricket, Sorak pulled Galdra from his belt and threw it. The broken blade streaked across the distance between them and struck Ankhor in the right shoulder. He cried out, and Kieran’s sword fell from his grasp.

As he bent to retrieve it, Cricket rushed him, shoving him hard with both outstretched arms. He staggered backward, struck the low wall of the veranda, and fell over. His scream was cut off as he struck the courtyard—the smooth expensive tiles of yellow and blue—four floors below.

Cricket gasped and brought her hands up to her face. “I… I didn’t mean to push him! I… I was afraid he would…” Her voice trailed off.

Sorak looked down into the courtyard. Several guards had rushed over to the body. From its position, Sorak could tell Ankhor’s neck and back were broken. Matullus looked up and, for a moment, their eyes met.

“Get him!” said Matullus. At once, the guards rushed for the front door, their weapons drawn.

Cricket was pulling at his arm. “We must get out of here!” she said. “Come, quickly!”

Sorak turned and started back inside, toward the secret panel, pausing only briefly to examine Kieran. He was already starting to revive.

“Hurry!” Cricket said from the open panel.

“Good-bye, my friend,” said Sorak softly, then he followed Cricket through the secret panel. It closed behind them just as running footsteps sounded on the stairs in the hall.