Night of Knives

Suicide? No, she couldn’t imagine that either. Not those two. Kellanved had clawed his way to power over too many obstacles. He would destroy anyone or anything in his path. It was his signature.

Tayschre

Kiska bit her lip, sca

‘How will we-’

Tayschre

Kiska strained to penetrate the quiet. The subtle throb of the surf shuddered through the rock. Dust falling and the stones losing heat to the night brought ticks and trickled motes from the walls.

Then she heard it. A distinct tap and faint shush – tap-shush, tap-shush – crossing the ceiling, side to side.

Kellanved.

She’d never seen him of course, but had heard many descriptions – some contrary, most vague. Many mentioned his walking stick and his slow gait, but all told of his extreme age and the black skin and curled silver hair of a Dal Honese elder from the sava

As if to confirm Kiska’s suspicions, Tayschre

An overpowering sensation of pressure bore down upon her like an invisible hand. She sensed something enormous nearby, silent in the dark, like a Talian man-of-war passing within arm’s reach. A gravid deadly presence too huge to grant her notice. She glanced to Tayschre

It’s him, she thought, amazed. Even I can feel it.

The pacing – for that is what it seemed to Kiska – abruptly stopped. A long silence followed. She imagined conversation and wondered how desperately Tayschre

The limestone blocks of the ceiling jerked then, like child’s toys, and dust showered down. The soundless impact drove Kiska down into her chair and popped her eardrums. The candles snuffed out. Metal rang from the stones above. Weapons, Kiska imagined. A thumping and clatter as of bodies falling. A shout – a wordless roar of rage – that faded into silence. In the charged calm that followed, she barely breathed.

Light flared up. Hattar, calm and phlegmatic, relit the candles. Kiska could not believe the man’s aplomb.

Then a woman’s shrill scream tore through the solid stone, and Kiska leapt from her chair. She glanced to Tayschre

Tayschre

Hattar stepped up to block the doorway and Tayschre

Hattar, hands clamped at the grips of his sheathed knives, glared at Kiska, spat, ‘No.’

Kiska stood, moving to centre the table between them and her. She massaged her hip where she’d struck her side. What was this – housecleaning? Was she to be silenced? But why should Hattar refuse that? She imagined he’d relish the chance. Yet why wait till now?

Tayschre

‘Well,’ he observed, eyeing her. ‘Something of a quandary. I must go upstairs. Hattar refuses to stay here to guard you and I think it still too dangerous to leave you alone.’ He coughed into one fist, cocked a thin brow. It was as if he were guessing her thoughts. ‘How would you suggest we resolve this?’

Kiska wet her lips. ‘Take me with you.’

Tayschre

‘You will stay with me. Stand to one side and back two paces. Say nothing and take your cue from Hattar or myself in all things. Do you concur?’ Hardly able to breathe, Kiska nodded. ‘Good.’ He looked to Hattar. Grudgingly, the plainsman edged aside from the door. Tayschre

Side by side, she and Hattar climbed the stairs behind Tayschre

Hattar watched her sidelong. His lip curled away from his sharp teeth in a sneer of contempt. She glared back. Looking away, he snorted a laugh that said, just you wait.

Light flickered up ahead. These halls were warmer, cosy, and inhabited. They stepped up into a richly appointed hall faced at intervals by doors of polished wood. Sub-Fist Pell and his i

Tayschre

At the entrance Tayschre

Heat struck her at the doorway like the blast from a stoked stove. That, and the stink of smoke mixed with the sour iron tang of spilled blood. Hattar moved to one side of the doorway. Kiska stepped to the other and pressed her back against the warm stones.

It was a long rectangular room. She wondered if perhaps it was some kind of a reception chamber. Now it was devoid of furniture and ornament. A roaring fire filled the huge hearth towards the left i

At the centre of the room a woman sat in the chamber’s only furnishing: a plain wood chair. The woman’s brown hair was cut short, military-style. The bluish tinge of her skin marked her as Napan. She wore a green silk shirt, torn and blood-spattered, a wide sash of emerald green, and loose pantaloons gathered snug at the ankles. Her feet were dark and calloused as if always bare. A Claw, kneeling at her side, was wrapping her hand in dressings. Kiska recognized him as the one from the duel with the armoured colossus: Possum.