The Hand of Chaos

25

Hugh roused Iridal from her slumber while they were still in the skies, the weary dragon searching eagerly for a place to land. The Lords of Night had removed their dark cloaks, the Firmament was beginning to sparkle with the first rays of Solaris. Iridal started to wakefulness, wondering that she had slept so deeply and heavily.

“Where are we?” she asked, watching with half-drowsy pleasure the island emerge from the shadows of night, the dawn touching villages that were like toy blocks from this height. Smoke began to drift up from chimneys. On a cliff—the highest point on the island—a fortress made of the rare granite much prized on Arianus cast the shadow of its massive towers over the land, now that the Lords of Night had departed.

“Skurvash,” said Hugh the Hand. He steered the dragon away from what was obviously a busy port, headed for the forested side of town, where landings could be kept private, if not necessarily secret.

Iridal was wide awake now, as if cold water had been thrown into her face. She was silent, thoughtful, then said in a low voice, “I suppose this is necessary.”

“You’ve heard of the place.”

“Nothing good.”

“And that probably overrates it. You want to go to Aristagon, Lady Iridal. How did you plan to get there? Ask the elves to pretty please let you drop by for tea?”

“Of course not,” she said coolly, offended. “But—”

“No ‘buts.’ No questions. You do what I say, remember?” Every muscle in Hugh’s body ached from the unaccustomed rigors of the flight. He wanted his pipe, and a glass—several glasses—of wine.

“Our lives will be in danger every minute we’re on mis island, Lady. Keep quiet. Let me do the talking. Follow my lead and, for both our sakes, don’t do any magic. Not so much as a disappearing barl trick. They find out you’re a mysteriarch and we’re finished.”

The dragon had spotted a likely landing site, a cleared patch near the shoreline. Hugh gave the beast its head and allowed it to spiral downward.

“You could call me Iridal,” she said softly.

“Are you always on a first-name basis with your hired help?” She sighed. “May I ask one question, Hugh?”

“I don’t promise to answer.”

“You spoke of ‘they.’ ‘They’ mustn’t know I’m a mysteriarch. Who are ‘they’?”

“The rulers of Skurvash.”

“King Stephen is the ruler.”

Hugh gave a sharp, barking laugh. “Not of Skurvash. Oh, the king’s promised to come in, clean it up, but he knows he can’t. He couldn’t raise a force large enough. There’s not a baron in Volkaran or Ulyndia who hasn’t a tie to this place, though you won’t find one who’d dare admit it. Even the elves, when they ruled most of the rest of the Mid Realms, never conquered Skurvash.” Iridal stared down at the island. Outside of its formidable-looking fortress, it had little else to recommend it being mostly covered with the scraggly brush known as dwarf-shrub, so named because it looked somewhat like a dwarfs thick, russet beard and because once it dug its way into the coralite, it was almost impossible to uproot. A small and scraggly-looking town perched on the edge of the shoreline, holding on as tenaciously as the shrubs. A single road led from the town through groves of hargast trees, climbed the side of the mountain to the fortress.

“Did the elves lay siege to it? I can believe such a fortress could hold out long—”

“Bah!” Hugh grimaced, flexed his arms, tried to ease the muscles in his stiff neck and shoulders. “The elves didn’t attack. War’s a wonderful thing, Your Ladyship, until it begins to cut into your profits.”

“You mean these humans trade with the elves?” Iridal was shocked. Hugh shrugged. “The rulers of Skurvash don’t care about the slant of a man’s eyes, only the glint of his money.”

“And who is this ruler?” She was interested and curious now.

“Not one person,” Hugh responded. “A group. They’re known as the Brotherhood.” The dragon settled down for a landing in a broad, cleared space that had obviously been used for this purpose many times before, to judge by the broken tree limbs (snapped off by the wings), the tracks of claws left in the coralite, and the droppings scattered around the field. Hugh dismounted, stretched his aching back, flexed his cramped legs.

“Or perhaps I should say ‘we,’” he amended, coming to assist Iridal down from the dragon’s back. “We are known as the Brotherhood.”

She had been about to place her hand in his. Now she hesitated, stared at him, her face pale, her eyes wide. Their rainbow hue was muddied, darkened by the shadows of the hargast trees surrounding them.

“I don’t understand.”

“Go back, Iridal,” he said to her, grimly earnest. “Leave, right now. The dragon’s tired, but the beast’ll make it, take you at least as far as Providence.”

The dragon, hearing itself mentioned, shifted irritably from foot to foot and rustled its wings. It wanted to be rid of its riders, wanted to skulk off into the trees, go to sleep.

“First you were eager to join me. Now you’re trying to drive me away.” Iridal regarded him coldly. “What happened? Why the change?”

“I said no questions,” Hugh growled, staring moodily out over the rim of the island, into the fathomless blue depths of deepsky. He flicked a glance at her. “Unless you’d care to answer a few I could ask.” Iridal flushed, drew back her hand. She dismounted from the dragon without assistance, used the opportunity to keep her head lowered, her face concealed in the recesses of the hood of her cloak. When she was standing on the ground, and certain of maintaining her composure, she turned to Hugh.

“You need me. You need me to help find Alfred. I know something of him, quite a lot, in fact. I know who he is and what he is and, believe me, you won’t discover him without my assistance. Will you give that up? Will you send me away?”

Hugh refused to look at her. “Yes,” he said in a low voice. “Yes, damn it. Go!” His hands clenched on the dragon’s saddle, he laid his aching head on them.

“Damn Trian!” he swore softly to himself. “Damn Stephen! Damn this woman and damn her child. I should have set my head on the block when I had the chance. I knew it then. Something warned me. I would have wrapped death around me like a blanket and slipped into slumber...”

“What are you saying?”

He felt Iridal’s hand, her touch, soft and warm, on his shoulder. He shuddered, cringed away.

“What terrible grief you bear!” she said gently. “Let me share it.” Hugh rounded on her, savage, sudden. “Leave me. Buy someone else to help you. I can give you names—ten men—better than me. As for you, I don’t need you. I can find Alfred. I can find any man—”

“—so long as he’s hiding in the bottom of a wine bottle,” Iridal retorted. Hugh caught hold of her, his grip tight and painful. He shook her, forced her head back, forced her to look at him.

“Know me for what I am—a hired killer. My hands are stained with blood, blood bought and paid for. I took money to kill a child!”

“And gave your life for the child...”

“A fluke!” Hugh shoved her away, flung her back from him. “That damned charm he cast over me. Or maybe a spell you put on me.”

Turning his back on her, he began to untie the bundle, using swift, violent tugs.

“Go,” he said again, not looking at her. “Go now.”

“I will not. We made a bargain,” said Iridal. “The one good thing I’ve heard said about you is that you never broke a contract.”

He stopped what he was doing, turned to stare at her, his deep-set eyes dark beneath frowning, overhanging brows. He was suddenly cold, calm.

“You’re right, my lady. I never broke a contract. Remember that, when the time comes.” Freeing the bundle, he tucked it under his arm, nodded his head at the dragon. “Take off the enchantment.”

“But... that will mean it will fly loose. We might never catch it.”

“Precisely. And neither will anyone else. Nor is it likely to return to the king’s stables any time in the near future. That will be long enough for us to disappear.”

“But it could attack us!”

“It wants sleep more than food.” Hugh glared at her, his eyes red from sleeplessness and hangover. “Free it or fly it, Lady Iridal. I’m not going to argue.”

Iridal looked at the dragon, her last link with her home, her people. The journey had all been a dream, up until now. A dream such as she had dreamed asleep in Hugh’s arms. A glorious rescue, of magic and flashing steel, of snatching her child up in her arms and defying his enemies to seize him, of watching the elves fall back, daunted by a mother’s love and Hugh’s prowess. Skurvash had not been a part of that dream. Nor had Hugh’s blunt and shadowed words.

I’m not very practical, Iridal told herself bleakly. Or very realistic. None of us are, who lived in the High Realms. We didn’t need to be. Only Sinistrad. And that was why we let him proceed with his evil plans, that was why we made no move to stop him. We are weak, helpless. I swore I would change. I swore I would be strong, for my child’s sake.

She pressed her hand over the feather amulet, tucked beneath the bodice of her gown. When she felt stronger, she lifted the spell from the dragon, broke the last link in the chain.

The creature, once freed, shook its spiky mane, glared at them ferociously, seemed to consider whether or not it should make a meal of them, decided against it. The dragon snarled at them, took to the air. It would seek a safe place to rest, somewhere high and hidden. Eventually it would tire of being alone and go back to its stables, for dragons are social creatures, and it would soon feel the longing for its mate and companions left behind. Hugh watched it well away, then turned and began to walk up a small path that led to the main road they had seen from the air. Iridal hastened to keep up with him.

As he walked, he was rummaging through the bundle, extracted an object from it—a pouch. Its contents gave off a harsh, metallic jingle. He looped its ties over the belt he wore at his waist.

“Give me your money,” he ordered. “All of it.” Silently, Iridal handed over her purse.

Hugh opened it, gave it a swift eye-count, then thrust the purse inside his shirt, to rest snugly and firmly against his skin. “The lightfingers[53] of Skurvash live up to their reputation,” he said dryly. “We’ll need to keep what money we have safe, to buy our passage.”

“Buy our passage! To Aristagon?” repeated Iridal, dazed. “But we’re at war! Is flying to elven lands... is it that simple?”

“No,” said Hugh, “but anything can be had for a price.” Iridal waited for him to continue, but he was obviously not going to tell her more. Solaris was bright and the coralite glistened. The air was warming rapidly after night’s chill. In the distance, perched high on the side of a mountain, the fortress loomed strong and imposing, as large as Stephen’s palace. Iridal could not see any houses or buildings, but she guessed they were heading for the small village she’d seen from the air. Spirals of smoke from morning cooking fires and forges rose above the brush.

“You have friends here,” she said, recalling his words, the “they” that had been altered to “we.”

“In a manner of speaking. Keep your face covered.”

“Why? No one here will know me. And they can’t tell I’m a mysteriarch just by looking at me.”

He stopped walking, eyed her grimly.

“I’m sorry,” Iridal said, sighing. “I know I promised not to question anything you did and that’s all I’ve done. I don’t mean to, but I don’t understand and and I’m frightened.”

“I guess you’ve a right to be,” he said, after a moment spent tugging thoughtfully on the long thin strands of braided beard. “And I suppose the more you know, the better off we’ll both be. Look at you. With those eyes, those clothes, that voice—a child can see you’re noble born. That makes you fair game, a prize. I want them to know you’re my prize.”

“I will not be anyone’s prize!” Iridal bristled. “Why don’t you tell them the truth—that I’m your employer.”

He stared at her, then he grinned, then threw back his head and laughed. His laughter was deep, hearty; it released something inside him. He actually smiled at her, and the smile was reflected in his eyes.

“A good answer, Lady Iridal. Perhaps I will. But, in the meanwhile, keep close to me, don’t wander off. You’re a stranger here. And they have rather a special welcome for strangers in Skurvash.”

The port town of Klervashna was located close to the shoreline. It was built out in the open, no walls surrounded it, no gates barred entry, no guards asked them their business. One road led from the shore into town, one road—the same road—led out of town and up into the mountains.

“They’re certainly not worried about being attacked,” said Iridal, accustomed to the walled cities of Volkaran and Ulyndia, whose citizens, continually on the alert for elven raiders, lived in an almost constant state of fear.

“If anything did threaten them, the residents would pack up and head for the fortress. But no, they’re not worried.”

A group of boys, playing at pirate in an alley, were the first ones to take note of them. The children dropped their hargast-limb swords and ran up to stare at them with ingenuous frankness and open curiosity.

The boys were about Bane’s age, and Iridal smiled at them. A little girl, clad in rags, ran up, held out her hand.

“Will you give me money, beautiful lady?” begged the child, with a winsome, pretty smile. “My mother is sick. My father is dead. And there is me and my baby sister and brother to feed. Only one coin, beautiful lady—” Iridal started to reach for her purse, remembered she didn’t have it with her.

“Off with you,” Hugh said harshly. He held up his right band, palm out. The little girl looked at him shrewdly, shrugged, and skipped off, returning to the game. The boys trailed after her, whooping and shouting, except for one, who dashed up the road into town.

“You didn’t need to be so rough with the child,” Iridal said reprovingly. “She was so sweet. We could have spared a coin—”

“—and lost your purse. That ‘sweet’ child’s job is to find out where you keep your money. Then she passes the word to her light-fingered father, who is undoubtedly very much alive, and who would have relieved you of your wealth once you were in town.”

“I don’t believe it! A child like that...”

Hugh shrugged, kept walking.

Iridal drew her cloak more closely about her. “Must we stay long in this dreadful place?” she asked in a low voice, moving nearer Hugh.

“We don’t even stop here. We go on. To the fortress.”

“Isn’t there another route?”

Hugh shook his head. “The only way is through Klervashna. It allows them to get a look at us. Those boys play here for a reason, to watch for strangers. But I’ve given them the sign. One’s gone now, to report our arrival to the Brotherhood. Don’t worry. No one’ll bother us, from now on. But you best keep quiet.”

Iridal was almost grateful for the order. Child thieves. Child spies. She might have been shocked to think parents could abuse and destroy the innocence of childhood. But she recalled a father who had used his son to spy on a king.

“Klervashna,” said Hugh, gesturing with his hand.

Iridal looked about in surprise. From his introduction, she had been expecting a raucous, brawling city of sin—thieves harking in the shadows, murder done openly in the streets. She was considerably startled therefore to see nothing more frightening than young girls driving geese to market, women carrying baskets laden with eggs, men hard at apparently legitimate work. The town was bustling, thriving. Its streets were crowded, and the only difference she could see between it and any respectable city of Ulyndia was that the population appeared to be of a widely varied nature, encompassing every type of human, from the dark-skinned inhabitants of Humbisash to the fair-haired wanderers of Malakal. But even this did not prepare her for the astonishing sight of two elves, who emerged from a cheese shop, almost ran into them, elbowed past with a muttered oath.

Iridal was startled, glanced at Hugh in alarm, thinking perhaps that the town had been conquered, after all. He did not appear concerned, barely glanced at the elves. The human inhabitants paid the enemy scant attention, except for a young woman who followed after them, trying to sell them a bag of pua fruit.[54]

The rulers of Skurvash don’t care about the slant of a man’s eyes, only the glint of his money.

Equally astounding was the sight of well-bred servants, belonging to wealthy estates of other islands, strolling through the streets, packages in their arms. Some wore their liveries outright, not caring who knew the names of their masters. Iridal recognized the coat of arms of more than one baron of Volkaran, more than one duke of Ulyndia.

“Smuggled goods,” Hugh explained. “Elven fabric, elven weapons, elven wine, elven jewels. The elves are here for the same reason, to buy human goods they can’t get in Aristagon. Herbs and potions, dragon’s teeth and claws, dragon skin and scales to use on their ships.”

The war for these people is profit, Iridal realized. Peace would mean economic disaster. Or perhaps not. The winds of changing fortune must have blown through Klervashna often. It would survive, just as legend held it the rat had survived the Sundering.

They walked through the town at a leisurely pace. Hugh stopped once, to buy stregno for his pipe, a bottle of wine, and a cup of water, which he gave to Iridal. Then they moved on, Hugh shoving his way through the crowds, keeping firm hold of “his prize,” his hand over Iridal’s upper arm. A few passersby gave them sharp, inquisitive glances that flicked over Hugh’s stern, impassive face, noted Iridal’s rich clothing. An eyebrow or two raised, a knowing smile quirked a lip. No one said a word, no one stopped them. What one did in Klervashna was one’s own business.

And that of the Brotherhood.

“Are we going to the fortress now?” asked Iridal.

The rows of neat, gable-roofed houses had come to an end. They were heading back into the wilderness. A few children had seen them on their way, but even they had disappeared.

Hugh pulled the cork out of the wine bottle with his teeth, spit it on the ground. “Yeah. Tired?”

Iridal raised her head, looked up at the fortress that seemed a great distance away. “I’m not used to walking, I’m afraid. Could we stop and rest?” Hugh gave this thoughtful consideration, then nodded abruptly. “Not long,” he said, assisting her to sit on a large outgrowth of coralite. “They know we’ve left town. They’ll be expecting us.”

Hugh finished off the wine, tossed the bottle into the bushes at the side of the road. He took another moment to fill his pipe—shaking the dried fungus out of the bag—then lit it, using tinder and flint. Puffing on the pipe, drawing the smoke into his lungs, he repacked the bundle, tucked it beneath his arm, and stood up.

“We best be going. You’ll be able to rest when we get there. I’ve got some business to transact.”

“Who are ‘they’?” Iridal asked, rising wearily to her feet. “What is this Brotherhood?”

“I belong to it,” he said, teeth clenched on the pipe stem. “Can’t you guess?”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t.”

“The Brotherhood of the Hand,” he said. “The Assassins’ Guild.”