Bloodheir (9 page)

Her head rolled slowly to one side. One of her hands opened, splaying itself out on the bed sheet.

Hammarn stood up and edged closer to the window, though never taking his eyes off Yvane.

“Not sure,” he whispered. “Not sure.”

“Not sure of what?” Anyara asked.

The old
na’kyrim
shook his head sharply. “Feels . . . Not sure.”

There was a tremor in Yvane’s shoulders. Her breaths were coming faster and faster, turning into a faint panting.

“Is something wrong?” Orisian asked, pushing himself away from the wall. “Hammarn, is something wrong?” If Yvane came to harm in this endeavour, he knew that much of the blame would be his to bear.

Hammarn did not seem to have heard him.

“No,” breathed Yvane. Her eyes were still closed, but her head was lifting now, coming away from the pillow. “That is not my name. I am not her.”

“We should wake her,” said Anyara, stepping towards the bed.

“No,” snapped Yvane, much louder this time. Orisian could see the muscles in her pale neck, strung taut as a bowstring. Her hands were bunching into fists. A shiver ran down Orisian’s spine.

Hammarn was sinking down to the floor, shaking. A faint moan escaped his lips.

Yvane pressed her head and shoulders back against the wall. Her eyes snapped open. Orisian saw alarm in them. He moved to go to her side, but before he had taken more than a couple of strides Hammarn was yelping and scrambling towards the corner of the room.

“He’s here!” Hammarn cried. He twisted his head violently round and down, as if averting his eyes from some horrifying sight.

“Go,” Yvane rasped. “Go.” She was staring fixedly towards the door. Orisian and Anyara, standing side by side, looked that way. There was nothing: the plain wood of the door, the grey stonework of the walls. Nothing.

“I am not the one you seek,” Yvane said.

Orisian’s skin was crawling. The air was suddenly thick in his throat, the light fading around the edges of his vision. He put a hand on Anyara’s arm, as much to stave off the dizzying sense of disorientation that beset him as anything. Shadows seemed to be . . . moving, shifting. He believed, in that moment, that there was something in the room with them. Something he could not see, or hear, but something that nevertheless had a weight, a presence.

“Leave me. Leave us.” Yvane spat the words out. Fear and anger and insistence swelled her voice.

Anyara swayed against Orisian. He glanced at her, and saw beads of sweat on her brow, her eyelids sagging. He put an arm around her. Something unseen, intangible, was constricting his chest.

Then, without warning, it was gone. He breathed again, deeply. Anyara stiffened and straightened at his side. The tension ran out of Yvane’s frame. Her shoulders sagged and she put her good hand to the side of her head, pressing briefly against her skull as if fighting off an ache.

“I will be listening to your suggestions with much less sympathy in future,” the
na’kyrim
murmured.

“What happened?” Orisian asked.

“I turned stupid. That’s what happened.”

Hammarn unfolded himself out of the corner and hurried to Yvane’s side. He regarded her with acute concern.

“Gone, though?” he whispered. “Gone? And you safe, lady? Safe and well.”

Yvane smiled at him. Orisian noted the fragility of that smile; its weary, almost sad tone.

“He’s gone, my friend,” Yvane said, and turned to Orisian. “The Shared’s a seething pit, and Aeglyss is the snake in its depths. I should have turned away, but . . . I was so close. I looked upon him. It might have been . . . I can’t be sure. Perhaps there were Kyrinin there. He might be amongst the White Owls.”

She closed her eyes, wrinkled her brow. The rawness of the memory was plain in her face.

“Whatever he’s become, it’s far beyond me. He had hold of me at once. But didn’t know me.” She grunted. “Thought I was someone else. And when I pulled away, came rushing back to myself, he followed. He couldn’t do that before.” She stared at Orisian. “He’s learning new tricks.”

“He didn’t harm you, though,” Orisian said quietly. “Did he?”

Yvane shook her head just once. “He’s got ten – a hundred – times my strength in the Shared, but he doesn’t know how to use it. Not yet. He’s wild, half-mad. Still, I’ll not be trying it again. Next time, I wouldn’t get back; not unless he’s the slowest learner the world has ever seen.”

“At least we know it’s him now,” Anyara said. She spoke much more gently than was her wont, almost hesitant. “For sure, I mean. We – you – learned that much.”

“That much, and a little more. He thought I was someone else, and when that thought was in him, I felt such . . . need. Such longing. There’s someone he’s searching for, someone he longs for, and her name is K’rina.”

Ammen Lyre dar Kilkry-Haig had learned many things from his father, Ochan. He had learned that a clever man need not be subject to the same rules and restrictions as others; that the weak made themselves victims by virtue of their shortcomings; that a father might love daughters easily but would only love a son who fought for, and earned, that affection.

A year ago, not long after Ammen’s thirteenth birthday, he had been cornered in a Kolkyre alleyway by two youths. They had good cause. While out that night carrying messages for Ochan, Ammen had found a man sprawled in the middle of a narrow, dark street. The reek of drink was as strong as he had ever smelled. Groping through the man’s clothes, Ammen was disappointed to find not a single coin, but the sot did wear a fine little knife on his belt, a blade with a horn handle and a decorated scabbard of good leather. Ammen unbuckled the belt and slid the knife off, complete with sheath. As he straightened, glancing up and down the silent street, the drunken man suddenly cried out and grabbed at Ammen’s sleeve.

Surprised rather than alarmed, Ammen tried to pull away, but the man’s grip was much stronger than seemed reasonable. He rolled onto his side, shouting incoherently, pulling so hard at Ammen’s arm that the boy almost fell to his knees. Ammen kicked him as hard as he could in the face. The man wailed and relinquished his hold. Ammen wasted another moment in stamping ineffectually on his hand and then walked away. This was one of the many small pieces of advice – all of it seeming the greatest, fiercest wisdom to Ammen – that his father had imparted: a running man is more obvious than a painted dancing girl in a room full of fishwives. So if you want to avoid notice, walk.

On that night a year ago, the advice had failed. Ammen had covered less than two dozen paces before he’d heard angry shouts behind him. Two young men had come out from one of the shabby houses that lined the street, leaving its door open to spill feeble lamplight into the night. One crouched by the drunken, groaning figure on the ground; the other was staring after Ammen. The two youths exchanged a few curt words – enough to tell Ammen that the man he had robbed was their father – and then the chase was on.

Ammen knew the streets around Kolkyre’s harbour as well as anyone. It was his father’s territory, and thus his. But his pursuers had longer legs, and they were driven by powerful indignation. They ran him down in no time, and he turned at bay in a tight, lightless alley that stank of fish guts. Afterwards, turning the treasured memory of those moments over and over in his mind, he was proud that even then, with the two burly youths bearing down on him and shouting their fury in his face, he had not felt fear. Their anger made them careless: in the deep darkness of that alleyway they did not see Ammen draw their own father’s knife from its scabbard. He slashed the first one across the face and was rewarded with a piercing howl of shock and the sight of his assailant reeling away. There was no time to savour the victory, for the second closed and Ammen took a stunning blow to his head. The crunching sound and the splash of blood over his lips told him that his nose was broken, but he was so dazed by the impact that he felt only a numbness that spread across his cheeks. He fell, and his attacker threw himself down on top of him, fumbling for the hand that held the knife. Ammen never could remember exactly what happened then, but he knew that he stabbed the young man more than once. He might not have killed him, for the blade was short and his strength faltering. It was enough, though. Ammen staggered to his feet and ran, rather unsteadily, for home.

Ochan’s pleasure on hearing of the incident lit a glow of pride and joy in Ammen’s heart.

“Keep that blade close by you,” his father had laughed. “It’d be wrong to sell something that’s served you so well. We’ll call you Ammen Sharp now, shall we? The little boy who grew a tooth.”

So Ammen became Ammen Sharp, and treasured the name. Having borne it for a year now, it felt as much his true name as any other. Only Ochan called him by it; his mother and sisters remained ignorant of its origins. Being a secret shared only by Ammen and his father, it had become that much more precious to the boy.

He was with Ochan, watching as his father sorted through a pile of trinkets, when his cousin Malachoir –

one of the numerous distant relatives who served Ochan as thieves, runners, watchers, guards – poked his head nervously around the door. Ochan was engrossed, minutely examining each bauble and bracelet for any sign that it might have some true value.

Ammen had no idea where this little hoard had come from, and the question had not occurred to him.

From his earliest years he had understood and accepted that goods and materials of every imaginable kind appeared in his father’s possession and then, just as abruptly and inexplicably, disappeared once more.

Malachoir cleared his throat.

“What?” snapped Ochan without looking up. He disliked interruption.

“Urik’s here,” the cousin reported. “He wants to see you.”

“What does that mudhead want?”

“He won’t tell us. Says he needs to talk to you. Says there’ll not be another chance if you won’t talk to him now.”

With a snarl of displeasure Ochan let a copper brooch fall from his hands.

“I pay that man so I never have to see him, not so that he can visit me in my house. It looks bad to have a Wardcaptain of the Guard showing up on my doorstep. Attracts attention.”

“Well, he was hooded when he came. And he did come to the kitchen door, not—”

“Enough, enough,” Ochan grunted. “Get him in here.”

The man who entered was short and broad-shouldered, a stocky little bull. He wore a voluminous rain-cape that concealed any hint of his standing as a member of Kolkyre’s Guard. Narrow, dark eyes darted from side to side as he edged into Ochan’s presence.

“Look at that, look at that,” said Ochan to his son. “Our very own Wardcaptain come to test our hospitality.”

Ammen smiled, and then tried to fill the gaze he turned on Urik with suitable contempt. He knew this man was useful – important, even – to his father, but knew as well that he merited nothing in the way of respect.

“Don’t puff yourself up too much, Ochan,” Urik growled. “I’ve come here to warn you, not amuse you.”

“Warn me? Warn me?” Ammen felt a shiver of anticipation at the tone in his father’s voice. He knew it well. It presaged anger, danger, violence. When he was younger, Ammen had soon learned its perilous implications. Urik evidently did not recognise it, or did not care.

“Yes, warn you,” he snapped. “And I needn’t have come, so don’t think you can—”

Ochan was up and out of his seat in a single smooth movement, lashing a long arm across the table to seize the collar of Urik’s cape. He pulled the Guardsman’s face close to his own.

“I think I can do as I like in my own house, don’t you, Urik?”

Urik hesitated for only a moment before nodding. Ochan released him and sank back into his chair. He had knocked some of his piled trinkets to the ground, and flicked a finger at them.

“Pick ’em up, boy,” he said to Ammen, who obeyed at once, going down beneath the table on his hands and knees.

“What is it you think you’re warning me about, then?” he heard his father asking.

“That your luck’s run out, that’s what. You’ve been named for taking. The Guard’ll be looking for you tomorrow. It’ll be me, as like as not.”

“You?” roared Ochan. He sprang to his feet once more. His chair tumbled backwards, one of the legs rapping Ammen’s hip as it went. “You? Is it that I’m not paying you enough, Urik? Is that it? You’ve got yourself a hunger for more of my hard-won coin. That’s what this is about, is it?”

Ammen stuck his head up above the level of the table, not wanting to miss such excitement. Urik had shrunk back towards the door, holding up both his hands as if he could fend off Ochan’s anger.

“No, no,” the Wardcaptain insisted. “It’s nothing to do with that. I don’t want a thing more from you, Ochan. Not now, not ever. You don’t understand. This isn’t us, it’s not the Guard. The word’s come down from higher places, from the Tower of Thrones itself. You’re to be taken and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Nothing.”

“Then what use are you to me?” hissed Ochan as he edged around the table. “I’ll have back every coin I’ve passed into your stinking, fat little hands all these years.”

“But I’m here, I’m here, aren’t I? I’m here to give you the chance to disappear.”

“Oh, yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? If they take me, your name’ll be the first to spill from these lips, Urik. You’ll join me in whatever cell they’ve got in mind for me, or under the headtaker’s axe.”

“Ochan, please . . .” Ammen grinned to hear such a note of pleading in the voice of this man who held high office in the city’s Guard. “Please don’t think such things. I’ve taken my life in my hands just coming here to warn you. If I could turn them aside from your trail, don’t you think I’d do it? Haven’t I done it often enough before? No, this is beyond me, far beyond me. Your only chance is to take yourself off somewhere you’ll not be found.”

Ochan the Cook rushed forward and drove the Wardcaptain back against the wall. He pinned the small man’s shoulders to the stone.

“It’s the Shadowhand,” Urik cried. “They say it’s his command that you be taken. Sweet Gods, what could I do in the face of that? Nothing! Nothing!”