Lynn Flewelling - Tamir 02 - Hidden Warrior

VIP免费

2024-12-05 0 0 1.18MB 354 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

(V0.5—Formatted and cleaned up. NOT checked against the book. Some

parts remain garbled.)

"What is it? You look like you've just seen your own ghost."

A desperate ache lanced through Seregil as he looked down into Alec's dark

blue eyes.

Damn you, Nysander!

"I can't tell you, tali, because I'd only have to lie," he said, suddenly

dejected. "I'm going to do something now, and you're going to watch and say

nothing."

Taking the final page of the manuscript, he twisted it into a tight squib and

tossed it into the fire.

"But what about Nysander?" Alec asked. "What will you tell him?"

"Nothing, and neither will you."

"But—"

"We're not betraying him. You have my oath. I believe he already knows

what we just learned, but he can't know that you know. Not until I tell you it's

safe. Understand?"

"More secrets," Alec said, looking solemn and unhappy.

"Yes, more secrets. I need your trust in this, Alec. Can you give it?"

STALKING DARKNESS

LYNN FLEWELLING

A Bantam Spectra Book/March 1997

SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed's' are trademarks of Bantam Books, a

division of Random House, Inc.

Cover art copyright ) 1997 by Gary Ruddell

Maps by Virginia Norey

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by

any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book

is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher

and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this

"stripped book."

ISBN 0-553-57543-0

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House,

Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal

of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other

countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New

York 10036.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For my sons Matthew and Timothy, who laugh at the same goofy things I do.

You're the best, guys.

Special thanks to Doug Flewelling, Darby Crouss, Laurie Mailman, Julie

Friez,

Scott Burgess, Anne Groell and the Bantam folks, and my agent Lucienne

Diver for all their support, input, and wonderfully ruthless editing.

The lean ship smashed through foaming crests, pounding southwest out of

Keston toward Skala. By night she ran without lanterns; her crew,

accomplished smugglers all, sailed with eyes lifted skyward to the stars. By

day they kept constant watch, though there was little chance of meeting

another ship. Only a Plenimaran captain would chance deep water sailing so

late in the year and this winter there would be none so far north. Not with a

war brewing.

Ice sheathed the rigging. The sailors pulled the halyards with bleeding

hands, chipped frozen water from the drinking casks, and huddled together

off watch, muttering among themselves about the two gentlemen passengers

and the grim pack of cutthroats who'd come aboard.

The second day out, the captain came above slobbering drunk. Gold was no

use to dead men, he howled over the wind; foul weather was coming, they

were turning back. Smiling, the dark nobleman led him below and that was

the last anyone heard of the matter. The captain fell overboard sometime that

same night. That was the story, at least; the fact was that he was nowhere to

be found the next morning and their course remained unchanged.

The mate took over, tying himself to the wheel as they wallowed along.

Blown off course, they missed Gull Island and sailed on without respite

through lashing sleet and exhaustion. On the fourth day two more men were

swept away as waves nearly swamped the ship. A mast snapped, dragging its

sail like a broken wing. Miraculously, the ship held true while the remaining

crew fought to cut away the tangled ropes.

Clinging among the frozen shrouds that night, the men muttered again, but

cautiously. Their finely dressed passengers had brought ill fortune with them;

no one wanted to chance attracting their eye. The ship plunged on as if helpful

demons guided her keel.

Two days out from Cirna the gale lifted. A pale sun burst through the

shredding clouds to guide the battered vessel westward, but foul luck still

dogged her. A sudden fever struck among the crew. One by one, they sickened,

throats swelling shut as black sores blossomed in the warmth of groins and

armpits. Those untouched by the illness watched in horror as the gentlemen's

men-at-arms laughingly tossed the bloated corpses overboard.

None of the passengers sickened, but by the time they sighted the towering

cliffs of the Skalan Isthmus the last of the crew could feel the weakness

overtaking them.

They reached the mouth of Cirna harbor in darkness, guided by the leaping

signal fires that flanked the mouth of the Canal. Still sagging at the wheel, the

dying mate watched the passengers" men strike the sails, lower anchor, and

heave the longboat over the side.

One of the gentlemen, the dark-haired one with a long scar under his eye,

suddenly appeared at the mate's elbow. He was smiling, always smiling,

though it never seemed to reach his eyes. Half-delirious, the mate staggered

back, fearful of being devoured by those soulless eyes.

"You did well," the dark man said, reaching to tuck a heavy purse into the

mate's pocket. "We'll see ourselves ashore."

"There's some of us still alive, sir!" croaked the mate, looking anxiously

toward the signal fires, the warm lights of the town glimmering so close across

the water. "We've got to get ashore for a healer!"

"A healer, you say?" The dark gentleman raised an eyebrow in concern.

"Why, my companion here is a healer of sorts. You had only to ask."

Looking past him, the mate saw the other man, the weedy one with the face

like a rat's, at work chalking something on the deck. As he straightened from

his task the mate recognized the warning symbol for plague.

"Come, Vargul Ashnazai, isn't there something you can do for this poor

fellow?" the dark man called.

The mate shuddered as the other man glided toward him.

Not once during the voyage had he heard this man speak. When he did

now the words were unintelligible and seemed to collect in the mate's throat

like stones. Gagging, he slumped to the deck. The one called Ashnazai laid a

cold hand against his cheek and the world collapsed in a blaze of black light.

Mardus stepped clear of the bile spreading out from the dead sailor's

mouth. "What about the others?"

The necromancer smiled, his fingers still tingling pleasantly from the

mate's death. "Dying as we speak, my lord."

"Very good. Are the men ready?"

"Yes, my lord."

Mardus took a last satisfied look around the deck of the ravaged vessel,

then climbed down to the waiting boat.

Cloaked in Ashnazai's magic, they passed the quay and custom house

without challenge. Climbing a steep, icy street, they found rooms ready for

them at the Half Moon tavern.

Mardus and Ashnazai were just settling down over a hot supper in Mardus'

chamber when someone scratched softly at the door.

Captain Tildus entered with a grizzled man named Urvay, Mardus' chief

spy in Rhiminee for the past three years. The man was invaluable, both for his

skill and his discretion. Tonight he was dressed as a gentleman merchant and

looked distinguished in velvet and silver.

Urvay saluted him gravely. "I'm glad to see you safe, my lord. It's nasty

sailing this time of year."

Mardus dismissed Tildus, then waved the spy to a nearby chair. "What

have you to report, my friend?"

"Bad news and good, my lord. Lady Kassarie is dead."

"That Leran woman?" asked Ashnazai.

"Yes. The Queen's spies attacked her keep about a week ago. She died in

the battle. Vicegerent Barien committed suicide over the matter and there are

rumors that the Princess Royal was implicated somehow, though the Queen's

taken no action against her. The rest of the faction has gone to ground or

fled."

"A pity. They might have proved useful. But what about our business?"

"That's the good news, my lord. I have new people in place with several

influential nobles."

"Which ones?"

"Lord General Zymanis, for one-word is he's about to be commissioned

with overseeing the lower city fortifications. And one of my men just got

himself betrothed to Lady Kora's second daughter and has the run of the villa.

But of particular interest, my lord—" Urvay paused, leaning forward a little.

"I'm in the process of establishing a contact inside the Oreska House."

Mardus raised an eyebrow. "Excellent! But how? We haven't been able to

get a spy in there for years."

"Not a spy, my lord, but a turncoat. His name is Pelion i Eirsin. He's an

actor, and highly thought of at the moment."

"What's he got to do with the Oreska?" demanded Vargul Ashnazai.

"He's got a lover there," Urvay explained quickly, "a young sorceress said to

be the mistress of one or two of the older wizards as well. Her name's

Ylinestra, and she's got a bit of a reputation around the city; a fiery little

catamount with an eye for handsome young men and powerful old ones. This

man Pelion is evidently part of her collection. Through him we may be able to

get to her and perhaps others. She's not a member of the Oreska herself, but

she lives there and has rooms of her own."

"I hardly think we need the services of some slut to get into the place," the

necromancer scoffed.

"Maybe not," Urvay interrupted, "but this slut numbers the wizard

Nysander among her lovers."

"Nysander i Azusthra?" Mardus nodded approvingly. "Urvay, you've

outdone yourself! But what have you told this actor of yours?"

"To him, I am Master Gorodin, a great admirer of his work. I also

understand how important patronage is to a young actor on the rise, and to a

certain playwright who's willing to create roles especially for him. In return,

my new friend Pelion passes on whatever bit of gossip he picks up around

town. He likes the deal, and knows better than to ask too many questions. As

long as the gold flows, he's ours."

"Well done, Urvay. Spare no expense with him. We must infiltrate the

Oreska before spring. You understand? It is imperative."

"I do, my lord. Shall I make arrangements for you in Rhiminee?"

"No. Nothing's to be arranged in advance. I'll contact you when I need you.

For now, keep an eye on Pelion and his sorceress."

Urvay rose and bowed. "I will, my lord. Farewell."

When he was gone Mardus returned to his interrupted meal, but Vargul

Ashnazai found his appetite had fled.

The Oreska, he thought bitterly, fingering the ivory vial that hung from a

chain around his thin neck. That's where they'd gone, the thieves who'd stolen

the Eye from under his very nose.

Mardus had nearly killed him that night in Wolde. Worse yet, he'd

threatened to banish him from their quest. If Mardus had entrusted him with

the disks in the first place, of course, it would never have happened, but that

was a point not worth arguing. Not if he cared to live longer than his next

word.

His standing with Mardus had eroded steadily ever since.

Even with the power of the Eye itself to aid him, he'd been unable to

exercise sufficient power over the fugitives to stop them. The Aurenfaie had

proven infuriatingly resistant to his magicks and when he'd finally succumbed

to the dragorgos attack at the inn, the boy, that wretched boy, had

outmaneuvered them, spiriting his partner away before Mardus and his men

could reach the place.

Still holding the vial between his fingers, Vargul Ashnazai pictured the

precious blood-soaked slivers of wood inside, slivers he'd gouged from the

floor of the Mycenian inn where his dragorgos had overtaken them.

The talisman he'd made with their blood was a powerful guide, so powerful

that he'd almost caught them at Keston. But then they'd slipped on ahead by

sea and another's power was growing around them, occluding his own. He'd

recognized the resonance of the magic at once. Oreska magic.

And so Mardus and his men had tracked them by methods thoroughly

mundane, while he, a necromancer of the Sanctum, rode along like so much

useless baggage.

Mardus had been sanguine. They already knew where the thieves were

headed, result once again of Mardus' cold-blooded methods rather than his

own. One of the river sailors captured after the destruction of the Darter—this,

at least, was Vargul's work—had screamed out with his last breath what they'd

needed to know.

To be sitting here now, no more than two days ride from the stronghold of

his enemies, was maddening.

So close! he thought, closing his fist around the vial.

Mardus saw, and guessed his thoughts. "Why not scry for them again?"

Vargul Ashnazai shifted uncomfortably. "It's been the same for weeks

now."

Mardus glanced over at him, much the way any man might look at another

who's said something mildly surprising. But Mardus was not just any man.

As his gaze met Ashnazai's, the necromancer felt a stab of fear. It was not

madness he saw in his companion's eyes—never that—but something worse,

an obdurate purposefulness steeped with the shadow of their god. Mardus

might not have magic, but he had power.

He was touched, chosen.

Held in that remorseless gaze, Ashnazai felt the blood slow in his veins.

Clasping the vial more tightly, he placed his other hand over his eyes and

summoned the image of the thieves.

For a moment he felt the reassuring pulse of his own considerable power.

The inner blackness flowed through him to the vial and beyond, using the

essence of the blood to seek its source. Ever since the thieves had reached

Rhiminee, however, a veil had dropped over them.

Someone had placed a protective spell over them, and the resistance to his

magic was fierce and decisive.

This time was no different. The moment he focused his concentration on

their location, he was blinded by a searing vision of fire and huge, leathery

wings. The message was clear enough: These people are under the protection

of the Oreska. You cannot touch them.

Gasping, Ashnazai let go of the vial and pressed both hands to his face.

"No change?"

Ashnazai could tell without looking up that the bastard was smiling.

"Then Urvay's actor is truly a blessing placed in our path. If these two are

still under the protection of the Oreska wizards, where better to seek them?"

"I hope you're right, my lord. When I find them, I'll crush their beating

hearts in my hands!"

"Vengeance is a dangerous emotion."

Looking up, Vargul Ashnazai saw a familiar blankness pass across his

companion's face, the touch of the god.

"You should be grateful to them for leading us to the completion of our

quest," Mardus continued softly, staring into the depths of his cup. "This actor

and his sorceress are the seal on that. Patience is the key now. Be patient. Our

moment will come."

Sleet-laden winds lashed in off the winter sea, racketing through the dark

streets of Rhiminee like a huge, angry child. Loose shingles and roof tiles tore

free and clattered down into streets and gardens. Bare trees swayed and

clashed their branches like dead bones in the night. In the harbor below the

citadel, vessels were tossed from their moorings to founder against the mores.

In upper and lower city alike, even the brothel keepers put up their shutters

early.

Two cloak-wrapped figures slipped from a shadowed courtyard in Blue

Fish Street and hurried east to Sheaf Street.

"I can't believe we're out in this to deliver a damn love token," Alec groused,

shaking his wet, fair hair from his eyes.

"We've got the Rhiminee Cat's reputation to maintain," Seregil said,

shivering beside the boy. The slender Aurenfaie envied Alec his northern-bred

tolerance for the cold. "Lord Phyrien paid for the thing to be on the girl's

pillow tonight. I've been wanting a peek into her father's dispatch box anyway.

Word is he's maneuvering for the Vicegerent's post."

Seregil grinned to himself. For years, the mysterious thief known only as

the Rhiminee Cat had assisted the city's upper class in their endless intrigues;

all it took to summon him was gold and a discreet note left in the right hands.

None had ever guessed that this faceless spy was virtually one of their own, or

that the arrangement was as much to his benefit as theirs.

The wind buffeted at them from all sides as they pressed on toward the

Noble Quarter. Reaching the fountain colonnade at the head of Golden Helm

Street, Seregil ducked inside for a moment's shelter.

"Are you sure you're up to this? How's your back?" he asked as he stooped

to drink from the spring at the center of the colonnade.

Less than two weeks had passed since Alec had pulled Princess Klia from

the fiery room below the traitor Kassarie's keep. Valerius' malodorous drysian

salves had worked their healing magic, but as they'd dressed tonight he'd

noticed that the skin across the boy's shoulders was still tender-looking in

places. Not that Alec would admit it and risk being sent back, of course.

"I'm fine," Alec insisted as expected. "It's your teeth I hear chattering, not

mine." Shaking out his sodden cloak, he tossed one long end over his shoulder.

"Come on. We'll be warmer if we keep moving."

Seregil looked with sudden longing toward the entrance to the Street of

Lights across the way. "We'd be a hell of a lot warmer in there!"

It had been months since he'd visited any of the elegant pleasure houses.

The thought of so many warm, perfumed beds and warm, perfumed bodies

made him feel even colder.

Invisible in the shadows, Alec made no reply, but Seregil heard him

shifting uncomfortably. The boy's solitary upbringing had left him

uncommonly backward in certain matters, even for a Dalnan. Such reticence

was unfathomable to Seregil, though out of respect for their friendship he did

his best not to tease the boy.

The fashionable avenues of the Noble Quarter were deserted, the great

houses and villas dark behind their high garden walls. Ornate street lanterns

creaked unlit on their hooks, extinguished by the storm.

The house in Three Maidens Street was a large, sprawling villa surrounded

by a high courtyard wall. Alec kept an eye out for bluecoat patrols while

Seregil tossed the grapple up and secured the rope. The roar of the storm

covered any noise as they scrambled up and over. Leaving the rope in a clump

of bushes, Seregil led the way through the gardens.

After a brief search, Alec found a small shuttered window set high in a wall

at the back of the house. Climbing onto a water butt, he pried back the shutter

with a knife and peered inside.

"Smells like a storeroom," he whispered.

"Go on then. I'm right behind you." Alec went in feet first and disappeared

soundlessly inside.

Climbing up, Seregil sniffed the earthy scents of potatoes and apples.

Squeezing through, he lowered himself in onto what felt like sacks of onions.

He reached out, finding Alec's shoulder in the darkness, and together they

felt their way to a door.

Seregil eased the latch up and peeked out into the cavernous kitchen

beyond.

The coals in the hearth gave off enough of a glow to make out two servants

asleep on pallets there.

Deep snores sounded from the shadows of a nearby corner. To the right

was an open archway. Tapping Alec on the arm, Seregil headed for it on tiptoe.

The arch let onto a servant's passage.

Climbing a narrow staircase, they crept down a succession of hallways in

search of Lord Decian's private study. Not finding it, they moved up to the

next floor and chanced shielded lightstones.

By this dim light they saw that these nobles left their shoes outside their

bedroom door for a servant to collect and clean. Seregil nudged Alec and

flipped him the sign for "lucky." The lord of the house had only one daughter;

it was a simple matter to find the footgear appropriate for a maiden of fifteen.

A pair of dainty boots stood before a door at the far end of the corridor. A

stout pair of shoes next to them warned that the young woman did not sleep

alone.

Seregil stifled a grin. Alec was in for more than he'd bargained for, in more

ways than one.

Alec lightly fingered the latch, found the door unbarred. The delivery was

his task tonight, more training in the ways of the Cat. This sort of job, though

hardly as significant as their recent work for Nysander, required a high level

of finesse and he was anxious to prove himself.

Sliding his lightstone back into his tool roll, Alec took a deep breath and

lifted the latch.

A night lamp burned on a stand beside the bed. The hangings were open

and inside he could see a young girl with heavy braids asleep on the side

nearest the door, her face turned to the light. Beside her, a larger form, her

mother or nurse perhaps, stirred restlessly beneath the thick comforter.

Creeping to the side of the bed, he took out the token, a tiny scroll pushed

through a man's golden ring.

Left to his own devices, he'd simply have put it on the lamp stand and been

done with it, but Lord Phyrien had been very exact in his instructions. The

ring must be left on his sweetheart's pillow.

Bending over the girl, Alec placed the ring as specified. Too late he heard

Seregil's sharp intake of breath. The heavy ring immediately rolled down the

curve of the pillow and struck the girl on the cheek just beside her mouth.

Startled brown eyes flashed wide. Fortunately for Alec, she saw the ring

before she could cry out. Her look of fear changed instantly to one of mute joy

as she mistook his muffled form for that of her lover.

"Oh, Phyrien, you are bold!" she breathed, stealing a quick look at the

sleeping woman beside her. Grasping Alec's hand, she drew it gently but

insistently under the bedclothes.

Alec blushed furiously in the depths of his hood.

Like most Skalans, she slept nude. He didn't dare resist, however. Any kind

of struggle would not only seem suspicious, but probably shake the bed

enough to awaken its other occupant.

"You're so cold!" she said with a hushed giggle, pulling his hand still lower.

"Kiss me, my brave lover. I'll warm you."

Holding his hood in place with his free hand, Alec pressed his lips hastily

to hers, then motioned warningly at the other woman. Pouting prettily, the

girl released him and tucked the token away beneath her pillow.

With his heart hammering in his ears, Alec extinguished the lamp and

hurried back out into the corridor.

"Seregil, I—" he began in a whisper, but his companion cut the apology

short, grabbing him by the arm and hustling him off the way they'd come.

Damn, damn, damn!

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

(V0.5—Formattedandcleanedup.NOTcheckedagainstthebook.Somepartsremaingarbled.)"Whatisit?Youlooklikeyou'vejustseenyourownghost."AdesperateachelancedthroughSeregilashelookeddownintoAlec'sdarkblueeyes.Damnyou,Nysander!"Ican'ttellyou,tali,becauseI'donlyhavetolie,"hesaid,suddenlydejected."I'mgoingtodosome...

展开>> 收起<<

Lynn Flewelling - Tamir 02 - Hidden Warrior.pdf

共354页,预览10页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Lynn Flewelling - Tamir 02 - Hidden Warrior

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: