his drink and holding up a hand for another. “In the south we drink ale all year round, and even in the snows of winter it’s not cold enough to drink a brew such as this. Yet here in the north, where the wind is more evil than I could imagine, they have invented a drink to negate the ill effects of the weather.”
Bourninund grunted around a fish tail which was protruding from between his lips. He sucked the flesh from the bones, and spat the rest back into his bowl. “Keep your divagations to a minimum, Renir. Us old men tend toward befuddlement.”
Renir, feeling quite drunk already, said, “I don’t know what divigilation’s are, but it’s a potent brew.”
“It certainly is, and we should take it easy now, and head to bed. We must be off early in the morning. We’ve many miles to make up yet,” said Shorn, who together with Drun was taking only sips of the drink between mouthfuls of the noxious smelling stew.
“I think I’ll take that advice,” agreed Drun. “I’ll see you at sun rise.” With a nod to his companions, he finished his drink and headed toward the rooms.
Renir watched him go. “I suppose it’s the early bird that goes to bed early.”
“Sounds almost philosophical, Renir.”
”Is this cup half full?” asked Renir in reply. “Anyway, I don’t know anything of philosophy. It seems to me it’s the province of the old, and books.”
“I beg to differ,” said Bourninund. “In my experience I’ve found no better place for philosophy than taverns.”
“I’m going to sleep,” Shorn said, and rose. “I don’t like to be an old maid, but you three would do well to get some rest, too.”
“Yes, mam,” said Renir and Bourninund as one. Shorn scowled and went ahead.
“He’s right. A man needs his sleep to think straight.”
“Well, to bed then,” said Renir, with a little regret. He was enjoying his drink. He downed the rest, wincing slightly despite the pleasantness of the heat. Between them they had finished off twenty glasses. He thought twenty was about right. He counted what he could see, then halved it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Shorn was already deep asleep as Wen entered from the stables. Even here, in the north, Wen wore no shoes. His feet were so scarred and calloused they were practically their own boot. He made no noise on the wooden floorboards. He reached his bed, and felt something…amiss. It was enough. In his long life he had found out that the slightest inkling of danger should be heeded. He had lived so long because he was talented, and gifted with immense speed and strength, but also because he listened to his senses.
He was still alert, even after a hard day. Instead of drinking with the others, he had taken the time to wander around the village. It always paid to be sure of a way out. He took care of every eventuality. He was surprised. Shorn should have taken better care. From what he could smell on Shorn’s breath, his student had been drinking heavy liquor, enough to put him into a stupor.
There was danger on the air, and Shorn was insensible. Wen took a moment to wonder if the others were similarly laid out, fully clothed on their beds, their heads spinning in their sleep.
Wen put the thought aside. There was nothing he could do about the rest. Deal with the enemy in front of you first.
He closed his eyes.
The wind blew fiercely outside, and he could not trust his hearing. It was a moonless night. There was no light to discern that anything was wrong. But he had lived a lifetime of violence. He could feel it, feel the swell that preceded the tidal wave, the subtle signs a man could read, if he had the talent and the experience.
It was an out of place kind of feeling. Shorn slept soundly. Usually his student was as in tune with the ebb and flow of danger as the master, but perhaps the liquor had dulled his senses.
Without seeming to move, Wen melted back toward the wall, and in the scant light almost disappeared. He stood so still that even if someone had been looking directly at him, they would have only thought it was a strangely lumpy bit of plastering. Had the observer had a candle, the light would have flickered and split around him.
Wen had lived in the shadow for so long, the darkness had seeped into the old master. He had many tricks, some learned, some absorbed. Since learning his trade on his home continent, and following his expulsion, he had made use of his life, hunting killers, meting out his own brand of justice. His time pitting himself against the merciless (often cowards, but just as often men of rare cruelty and talent) had granted him some special skills. He had needed them over the years. Any edge granted against some of the gifted warriors he had slain was welcome.
Shadowed, perfectly still against the wall, Wen waited, only a hint of mist to give him away where his breath frosted in the air.
It did not take long. The door creaked open slowly. Wen opened his eyes. A man stepped into the darkness. Wen’s eyes were accustomed to the murk, but could see beyond mere mortal sight. The man wore an apron, stained with food and sweat at the armpits. He could see it was the proprietor of the Grumbling Sprout. But there was something wrong. He was no man. To the trained eye, there was the shimmering of a glamour about the smiling face. In this light the smile was cold. It takes the dark sometimes to see what really was.
Then, before Wen’s extraordinary eyes, something remarkable happened. The glamour passed, whatever spell had granted the illusion fading. The man became taller, his clothing changing to the black of the assassin. His hair lengthened. His face became narrow, with a hooked nose, and an inhumanly pale face. Pure magic, in some ways a learned trick, like Wen’s tricks, but for one subtle difference. Wen’s ability was talent. This was magic.
Wen waited to see what would happen next. Shorn’s sword sung from within its scabbard. But Shorn did not wake.
Wen waited for the perfect moment. The owner of the tavern drew a short blade from his belt, and advanced toward Shorn.
His attention turned, expecting no threat, the man let out a startled cry as Wen’s bare foot connected with his knee. But instead of crumpling to the floor with a broken knee, as Wen had intended, the assassin turned and slashed with the blade. Wen took no chances. He smashed the edge of one rock hard hand into the assassin’s throat, blocking the assassin’s knife arm with his free hand.
This time the man fell to the floor. Still, Shorn did not stir. As Wen struck a match and lit a candle on the table between his and Shorn’s beds, Wen swore softly. The man’s face looked far from human in the flickering light.
He was a Protocrat.
Wen ran to the other rooms to check everyone, but they were sleeping comfortably. The prickle of danger he had felt earlier was gone. He relaxed, and tried to shake the men awake.
Not one of them stirred.
No doubt a drugged sleep, he thought. Something in the drink. Their breath all smelled rank, and he did not recognise the poison. There was nothing he could do about that. With any luck, they would wake with no ill effects but a sore head in the morning. They were safe for the time being.
One by one, Wen carried them into one room, and stood guard for the remainder of the night.
He did not expect more than one assassin — it was the way of most assassins to work alone. But this was the work of the Protectorate. It did not pay to be careless, or make assumptions, when dealing with an inhuman race. One could not presume to know such an alien mind.
He prodded the inert body on the floor, just to make sure it was dead, and sat with his back against the wall. He studied it for a moment, searching the body. The blade was tipped with some purple fluid — they liked to make sure. Wen did not understand why they did not come in force, but snuck about in the dead of night. Surely there were enough of them to come in force. He knew as well as Shorn that they could travel on the air, that they could send an army in an instant.
He found no clues on the body of the assassin. There was a tattoo on the inside of his wrist, which was unusual, but the mark, of a scroll, did not help at all. He did not know what it signified, and what he did not understand he did not waste time chasing.
