will be one of us and then their hate must drain
away, and they must accept her.’
‘“Must” . . . ?’
Stenwold prodded.
Tisamon was silent.
‘Well, if Cheerwell can
be accepted by the Moth-kinden, then anything is possible,’ Stenwold allowed,
and rose to greet Tynisa as she approached.
It was late when they
finally returned to Stenwold’s townhouse. Tisamon had cautioned him to reside
elsewhere after the last attack on it, but Stenwold had a stubborn streak when
it came to giving up what was his. He would not be harried out of his own home,
his own city. Besides, with Tynisa and Tisamon under the same roof with him, he
reckoned it would be a brave assassin that tried it.
After watching the duel
he had gathered reports from some of his people within the city. They were not
his agents as such, but he had slipped them a little coin to keep their eyes
and ears open. He knew that the Assembly still kept its doors closed to him,
out of pique more than anything else. Until that attitude changed, the Wasps
had time and, while they had time, they would move carefully.
But there would come a
moment, as there had in Helleron, where the metal met, as the saying went, and
caution went out of the window. A night of knives, it would be. He was glad to
have Tisamon and Tynisa with him, glad also to have sent his niece Cheerwell to
the relative security of Sarn.
In the quiet of his own room
he shrugged out of his robes, letting them pool on the floor. The night air was
cool on his skin through the knee-length tunic, and the water he splashed on
his face made him shiver. They were forecasting a cold winter for Collegium –
for the Lowlands as a whole. Cold, of course, meaning a few cloudless and icy
nights. Salma, hailing from north of the Barrier Ridge, had claimed that nobody
in the Lowlands knew what winter really meant.
It was still warm enough
to sleep in his bare skin, so he stripped off the tunic and cast it on the
floor, then turned the flame of the lamp out. Finding his way in the moonlight
to his bed he threw himself down on it. His mind was alive with stratagems,
shreds of information, clues and counter-intelligence. The threat of the Wasps
was bad for his sleep patterns.
And then he became aware
that he was not alone in the room. Somewhere in the darkness someone moved.
All at once he went
colder than the night could make him. At first he was going to call out for
Tynisa or Tisamon, but if he did so then it would only mean a swift blade – a
blade that might come at any time, but would surely come now, right now, if he
called.
Why
couldn’t I have listened to Tisamon?
He reached out. There
was always a sword within reach of his bed, a judicious precaution that had
borne fruit more than once. His fingers brushed the pommel, so he stretched a
little further to grasp the hilt.
‘There is no need for
that, Master Maker,’ said a woman’s voice, one he knew, he realized, although
he could not immediately place it.
‘Who’s there?’ he asked,
excruciatingly aware that whoever it was could obviously see better than he
could in the dark.
‘Wouldn’t you be more
comfortable if you lit the lamp again?’
Yes.
Yes I would. He crawled backwards off the bed, sword in one hand, still
sheathed, and in the other a sheet clutched demurely to his chest. He thought
he heard a snicker from the unseen woman which helped not at all. Then he
realized that he would need both hands free to light the lamp.
Both hands. His
sword-hand included. Or perhaps not. He let the sheet go, modesty playing
second fiddle to mortality, and opened the lamp hatch single-handed. Thick
fingers fumbled across the cabinet top until they located his steel lighter. He
flicked at its catch until it caught, and then brought the fragile flame to the
oil. It lit with a gentle, golden glow and, with his sword firmly presented, he
turned to face the intruder.
She had a hand over her
mouth, in hilarity or horror, and it was a moment before he
away, and they must accept her.’
‘“Must” . . . ?’
Stenwold prodded.
Tisamon was silent.
‘Well, if Cheerwell can
be accepted by the Moth-kinden, then anything is possible,’ Stenwold allowed,
and rose to greet Tynisa as she approached.
It was late when they
finally returned to Stenwold’s townhouse. Tisamon had cautioned him to reside
elsewhere after the last attack on it, but Stenwold had a stubborn streak when
it came to giving up what was his. He would not be harried out of his own home,
his own city. Besides, with Tynisa and Tisamon under the same roof with him, he
reckoned it would be a brave assassin that tried it.
After watching the duel
he had gathered reports from some of his people within the city. They were not
his agents as such, but he had slipped them a little coin to keep their eyes
and ears open. He knew that the Assembly still kept its doors closed to him,
out of pique more than anything else. Until that attitude changed, the Wasps
had time and, while they had time, they would move carefully.
But there would come a
moment, as there had in Helleron, where the metal met, as the saying went, and
caution went out of the window. A night of knives, it would be. He was glad to
have Tisamon and Tynisa with him, glad also to have sent his niece Cheerwell to
the relative security of Sarn.
In the quiet of his own room
he shrugged out of his robes, letting them pool on the floor. The night air was
cool on his skin through the knee-length tunic, and the water he splashed on
his face made him shiver. They were forecasting a cold winter for Collegium –
for the Lowlands as a whole. Cold, of course, meaning a few cloudless and icy
nights. Salma, hailing from north of the Barrier Ridge, had claimed that nobody
in the Lowlands knew what winter really meant.
It was still warm enough
to sleep in his bare skin, so he stripped off the tunic and cast it on the
floor, then turned the flame of the lamp out. Finding his way in the moonlight
to his bed he threw himself down on it. His mind was alive with stratagems,
shreds of information, clues and counter-intelligence. The threat of the Wasps
was bad for his sleep patterns.
And then he became aware
that he was not alone in the room. Somewhere in the darkness someone moved.
All at once he went
colder than the night could make him. At first he was going to call out for
Tynisa or Tisamon, but if he did so then it would only mean a swift blade – a
blade that might come at any time, but would surely come now, right now, if he
called.
Why
couldn’t I have listened to Tisamon?
He reached out. There
was always a sword within reach of his bed, a judicious precaution that had
borne fruit more than once. His fingers brushed the pommel, so he stretched a
little further to grasp the hilt.
‘There is no need for
that, Master Maker,’ said a woman’s voice, one he knew, he realized, although
he could not immediately place it.
‘Who’s there?’ he asked,
excruciatingly aware that whoever it was could obviously see better than he
could in the dark.
‘Wouldn’t you be more
comfortable if you lit the lamp again?’
Yes.
Yes I would. He crawled backwards off the bed, sword in one hand, still
sheathed, and in the other a sheet clutched demurely to his chest. He thought
he heard a snicker from the unseen woman which helped not at all. Then he
realized that he would need both hands free to light the lamp.
Both hands. His
sword-hand included. Or perhaps not. He let the sheet go, modesty playing
second fiddle to mortality, and opened the lamp hatch single-handed. Thick
fingers fumbled across the cabinet top until they located his steel lighter. He
flicked at its catch until it caught, and then brought the fragile flame to the
oil. It lit with a gentle, golden glow and, with his sword firmly presented, he
turned to face the intruder.
She had a hand over her
mouth, in hilarity or horror, and it was a moment before he
Similar Books
