Lords of Rainbow (2 page)

The Inn

CHAPTER 1

R
anhéas Ylir was alone in the wilderness, and she bristled with steel. There were twelve daggers hidden in impossible places about her body. At her waist was a sheathed thirteenth one intended to be seen. And at her left side, phallic, hung a prominent sword.

Even in this remote place, they would think twice before challenging someone well-armed. But you must never reveal the full extent of your arsenal.

And yet, up ahead there was that sound.

She heard it rise in dissonance above the chord of living forest silence. It was a sound of the unknown; likely, it signified danger.

But she was arrogant. She was Ranhéas Ylir, and she continued to ride along the path toward it.

Or, maybe she just wanted to be hurt.

The path was narrow, and the wild tangle of growth was all about, sharp skeletal branches just missing her face, trees arching overhead, graphic apparitions against a fading sky. Creatures moved in the heights, and occasionally she imitated their sound, humming. But her throat was parched, so soon enough her voice would fade into silence.

The horse underneath her was a ghost, poured from shadows. The rider herself also seemed to vanish into the background—nothing but eyes in a mutable face, a blink, the manner of a quick darting bird. Her bleak hair was gathered into a braid, and tucked in nondescript darkness beneath the travel coat. Her jacket, trousers, and threadbare boots were of a vaguely masculine shape. Beggar dress.

The sound coiled at the back of her mind.

She noted the path ahead. It was dissolving. Within minutes, all vestiges of contrast would fade into the absolute night.

There was no fear, only wary professional reflex. She was alert, ready, in her ever-present paranoia, an intensity of perception that never left her, never allowed her to underestimate the environment. For this was a remote place. And ahead was that sound.

Listen
 . . .

At first, only the cicadas on both sides of the trail.

Then, like a filigree lacework of shadows, trees thinned before a clearing. Likely, a major road ahead. She slowed the horse to a near-silent walk, and continued forward.

About a hundred feet in the distance, through the whirling mist, came human cries.

They were oddly ritualized male high-pitched screams, shrill and emotionless. It triggered a memory, and she thought of the battle shrieks of known military groups—which one, she wasn’t sure yet. This was intermingled with several female cries, quickly muffled. Then, a clash of metal, more voices, most cut short abruptly.

Choices danced in her thoughts.

Temporarily lose the path and ride around this inconvenience. Of course, there might be an ambush off the path. Or else, ride ahead, and you may be in luck. A nest of the lawless, preying upon helpless travelers. These innocents might pay well for your interference just now.

Or, here might be clan war. Or Guild war. Crossroads are notorious for such idiotic enactments.

As she considered the options, the sounds of violence dwindled. That new silence caught her attention.

A rhythm beginning in her temples, she urged her mount into a faster pace.

Foolish bitch
.

The trees ended at a crossroads, where the trail merged with a wide, well-traveled road. The road receded like a ribbon of pure darkness against the variegated gray of the forest.

Her heartbeat pounded, yet her posture appeared lazy.

In the clearing somewhat off the road stood a fine closed carriage. Around it, a small battle was being fought to its near end. The forms were all silhouette, unreal against the low mists.

A pale-cloaked rider. Half a dozen black figures. Surely, they were animated caricatures of some other reality. The other half of the dozen lay sprawled along the grass of the clearing, off the road. Masks covered faces. . . .

Could it be?

Bilhaar!

The Assassin Guild itself.

No, impossible. Look closer, idiot, look. You must look again, and for that reason you must approach. . . .

The Guild is legend. It does not exist. It is an ephemeral dream of fear, a bit of illogic to fill a gnawing need for the occult in the minds of those who are weak.

Ranhé was affected, quickened. She had to know.

Bilhaar were purported to be deathless. They were, supposedly, like that intangible called black. They carried curiously hidden swords, and remained silent under any torture.

Obviously idiocy. Black does not exist, and neither do Assassin Guilds
. These creatures before her bled and died, and moved like human puppets do in times of combat.

But she could not be sure. Not when there had been eyewitnesses to other Guild “activity,” elsewhere. If these were indeed Bilhaar, she would love to have the chance of finally seeing a living breathing Guildmember.

Barring that, even a corpse would do.

But first, her attention was upon the rider fighting against them. This one had alone slaughtered half a black pack.

Just at that moment, stifled female cries came from the cloaked interior of the carriage. A black figure moved, and the murdered driver slumped in his seat, dropping the reins, while the impeccably trained horses stood their ground without bolting, like poised marionettes.

On the other side of the carriage, the gray rider remained in the saddle, at the same time barely moving his long blade—swift and methodical as logic. Before her eyes, one more Bilhaar was dispatched cleanly, with the same minimum of effort. They were on foot, and trying to unseat him, coming from all sides.

Ranhé paused in the shadows, hesitating to involve herself. He didn’t appear to need help. Indeed, some would only be offended.

But these Bilhaar creatures learned from their mistakes. The remaining five dropped back. Regrouping, they broke in pairs, while the fifth retreated to wait in the shadows. As the mist moved gently, two black forms went into a feinting dance, to maneuver the mounted gray stranger in one direction, while he hesitated for one instant. The remaining pair went for the carriage.

That was the moment for her to act.

A poor drawn-out attack, black ones
, she thought.
Whoever the hell you are, you’ve wasted lives. Your first target should’ve been the occupants of the carriage.

In absolute silence she drove forward, at the same time drawing her own long blade, and then became quicksilver.

In such moments, the world does not exist. Everything whirls, and only details, both relevant and extraneous, become magnified. The carriage was before her, trimmed with dull gleaming metal and some heraldic symbols (normally she’d know those symbols, but now was nearly night, and her focus was re-directed).

Just ahead, two black backs. One Bilhaar she felled soundlessly, not bothering with the tactics of honor. She used not only the blade, but her bare hands, slipping her hand against the back of the neck and then twisting, as she’d learned on the streets. . . .

The other, his partner, turned, was aware, screamed that terrible trademark cry and focused on her—only to be answered by terrified female screams from inside the carriage.

Part of her wanted to laugh, while on another level another part of her became very cold and separate. It, that part, was moving high above the trees on soft cobweb wings . . . while she struck and parried and then thrust with her blade, feeling the resistance of flesh, feeling steel tear through muscle and grate against ribs.

And then the pale-cloaked man noticed her, paused, and it nearly cost him his life.

Or maybe it hadn’t. She merely saw his stilled face. And in those instants of rich detail, she observed the shape of gloved hands, dying half-light reflecting off jewels clustered on fingers.

“
To your right!” she cried, and he turned to avert and parry a Bilhaar sword. Then, like a methodical butcher, he slashed in turn, and the black man fell.

A nobleman. Bejeweled fingers. A self-confident fool. Where in hell are your bodyguards?
thought Ranhé while she cut the throat of the black assassin before her.

No. . . . Do not think of it, of what you are doing.

The gray man dispatched the last one of the pairs. The fifth had disappeared into the forest, she knew. His task as the last living of his set would be to report back, and to take the honorable Guild punishment—or so rumor had it.

Silence, and the world came back into focus. The clearing was littered with anonymous black bodies. Ranhé became aware that she breathed again.

Death
 . . .

Breathing harder than she, the gray stranger moved to dismount. He crouched, saying nothing, and wiped his fine blade on a Bilhaar’s dark garments, then walked quickly to calm the two horses of the carriage. His own trained mount followed like a familiar.

Stench inside me, so familiar, death
.

Ranhé also dismounted, and bent to clean her own blade against a dead man’s black cloth. Because of the gray stranger’s turned back, his lack of acknowledgment, she wasn’t sure how to proceed.

Temples pounding.

Slowing down.

She sheathed her blade, then remounted and slowly rode up to the carriage, her horse fastidiously stepping over the bodies and sniffing nervously.

“
May I be of any more help, sir? Are you hurt?”

Her voice had an uncanny quality. So steady, so matter-of-fact after what had just occurred. She heard its falsity as she was floating one moment outside her body, and the next, inhabiting it. Her tone was polite and cloaked, the kind she used with prospective customers.

The gray one had dark long hair. It spilled like a bit of the road darkness past the folds of his hood. And as he turned to regard her, there was at last a face, one of aristocratic refinement.

“
Thank you for the help already given, freeman,” came a voice devoid of emotion. “And no, I am unhurt.”

The keenness, the elegance of his features, as if wrought of candle wax. Impossibly distant. It reminded her of temple statues with their beautiful chilling asexual faces. She tensed with the effort of remembering what bloodline might have produced this likeness. For, this man’s Family was surely one of the Noble Ten. His eyes were absolutely opaque in expression.

He is taking my assistance for granted. And he doesn’t yet know I am a woman. Not that it really matters.

The closed curtains in the carriage window moved, and a veiled matron looked out.

“
Is it over?” sounded a shaking old female voice. “Elas?”

“
I am unhurt, aunt, everything is fine. They are gone.” He spoke to reassure, this man called Elas. How differently he addressed the old woman.

“
Ah—all Tilirr be praised!” the dame exclaimed, breathing with difficulty and holding a kerchief to her veiled face, as though she could shield herself from it all.

Stench is rising
. . . .

“
You’re both very shaken, aunt,” he said immediately. “And Lixa? They didn’t touch—”

“
No, of course not! No one got through.” The old woman sputtered with indignation at the very possibility. And then she noticed Ranhé.

“
Good evening, madam,” said Ranhéas Ylir. She herself now resembled but another shadow in the encroaching mist, and the old woman responded in fear.

“
Who is this, Elasand?”

“
A friend, madam. You are quite safe,” said Ranhé.

“
Yes, a friend,” said Elas, giving Ranhé a vacant look. “This honorable stranger came to aid us, and has very likely prevented harm from befalling you and cousin. He fought to protect your carriage.”

The old dame’s tone warmed immediately, and she moved her veils aside to observe better. Ranhé could at last make out a wrinkled face and eyes squinting in relief. “Then, sir, we’re much in debt to you, aren’t we, Elas? What’s your name, good sir, to whom are we obliged?”

“
It’s no particular matter, madam,” said Ranhé.

At that moment, a younger female, completely unveiled, peeked from behind the curtain, saying, “Mother? Is it over?” And then she saw Elas. “Cousin? You are unhurt?” she said to him faintly, “What of the driver? I am afraid he—”

“
I’m fine,” he said sharply. “But he is quite dead.”

“
Oh. What will you do?”

“
What do you think? What should be done with this unfortunate man?”

“
I don’t know.”

Ranhé observed this peculiar stilted exchange, noted the young woman’s wooden voice. Her rounded face had an odd expression, difficult to fathom, like the moon seen through the fabric of passing clouds.

“
Incredible, but he appears to be our only loss,” spoke Elas then, turning away suddenly from the woman in the carriage, and continuing with his back to them all. “Even the horses are untouched.”

“
You are very lucky,” said Ranhé. “One would think Bilhaar are usually better organized. Another time, and your horses would’ve had broken ankles, all. It appears your superior ability took the attackers by surprise, my lord. I wonder, were these really the Assassin Guild? We should take the masks off the dead and observe their faces.”