she’d received Steel. She’d been lucky to survive the experience. A resentful group of former soldiers, selling all they could to raise enough gold to buy mystical weapons on the black market… it might be unlikely, but she could see why Cadrel would be concerned. “What’s the plan?”
“Gal will take the prince’s place in the royal carriage. The house guards will join him there, so anyone who knows our staff will see them. His highness will travel in this coach, disguised and guarded solely by you Brelish. We’ll follow Blackmarket, and take the King’s Bridge-a foolish route, to be sure, but that’s the point. A merchant envoy, bringing goods to Brokenblade Castle.” He glanced at her black clothing and the vambraces of blackened mithral protecting her forearms. “Do you have something in gray?”
“I think I can find something suitable.” She closed her eyes and let her fingers pass down along her torso, crafting an image in her mind. She could feel her clothing changing with her thoughts. Her working clothes were formed from shiftweave, fabric enchanted to hold a wide range of forms. A moment’s work and she was dressed in the clothes of a simple laborer, complete with mud stains on her gray breeches; puffy sleeves covered her vambraces. “Satisfactory?”
“I would prefer a darker gray but it’ll do. I believe that’s his highness approaching now. I’d like you on the back of the coach, if you will.”
A group of guards in Cyran green and gold escorted a handsome young man, the jewels on his crown sparkling in the light of the cold-fire lanterns. Thorn had met Gal back in New Cyre; the changeling’s family had served the Cyran crown as body doubles since before the Last War. A strange life to be sure, yet one he excelled at; if she didn’t know the plan, Thorn would never have guessed the difference. Gal had mastered Oargev’s cocky smile, his confident stride, even the way he wore his crown just a little cocked. And he’d even worked in the tension Thorn had noted in the prince, the faraway look in his eyes.
Footmen helped the false prince into the carriage. Guards took their posts, and a few cavalry soldiers spread out in front and behind. The great gates were opened, and the coach rolled out onto the streets of Wroat.
Those who followed were less remarkable. A group of servants loaded a few casks and crates on the smaller wagon. Smiling, Essyn Cadrel made an elaborate gesture, and his clothes shifted and changed. He was no doppelganger, but as a bard, he’d learned a trick or two with illusions. Within seconds he was a little younger, a little plumper, with clothes suited to a middle-class merchant, not ostentatious enough to stand out, but prosperous enough to possibly have business at the castle. Three footmen helped him into the coach and followed him up. Only the keenest of watchers would have recognized the youngest member of the trio as Prince Oargev himself and the others as King’s Shields.
Thorn took her place on the back of the coach. Jovi mounted a lean, gray mare and took point. Then the coachman cracked his whip and the carriage rumbled forward, out onto the streets of the Lower Crescent.
If you ask me, we’re running from the prince’s own fears.
“I don’t recall asking.” Thorn held Steel tight against her inner arm, hidden by the baggy sleeves of her gray blouse.
It’s been four years since the Mourning. His people are still scattered, confined to ghettos and resettlement camps.
The coach bounced on a misplaced cobblestone, and Thorn tightened her grip on the rail. She kept her eyes on the crowds milling around the edge of the streets, but no one seemed to be paying any mind to the merchant carriage. “And he blames himself.”
Exactly. We know there are militant Cyran factions out there. Dannel’s Wrath attacked the Lyrandar shipyards in Stormreach a month ago, promising it will get worse until the Cyrans receive new lands. But in their statements they’ve never even mentioned Oargev.
“So he’s afraid that his people blame him… and equally afraid that they just don’t care.”
Precisely.
There was a glint of metal in the crowd, a blur of motion. Thorn shifted Steel into a throwing grip. There! A halfling with a tiny blade in one hand and a leather purse in the other. He was ducking between the legs of the crowd. Thorn’s thoughts raced, evaluating the little man’s path and speed. A cutpurse, or so it seemed; a woman in the crowd was already waving her arms. Likely it was just random chance that was bringing him toward the wagon, and Thorn wasn’t paid to take on the duties of the City Watch. But there was no telling what might be hidden in that pouch, and it seemed as if his path would take him directly under their carriage.
The moment the halfling broke from the crowd, Thorn threw Steel. It was a sound blow, and the pommel of the black dagger struck the cutpurse directly on the bridge of his nose. He dropped the pouch and staggered backward, blood dripping from his broken nose. The crowd descended on the thief, and a watchman pushed his way toward the halfling. There’s one good deed for the day, Thorn thought. Steel flew back to her hand. She caught him and nearly dropped him; his psychic cry was as shocking as a blow.
Western inn! Second floor! Magical attack!
Thorn acted without thought. She could see a gleam of light from the corner of her eye, but there was no time to throw Steel again. Grabbing the railing, she flung herself around the edge of the coach, placing the body of the carriage between her and the enemy. She was reaching for the door when the blast came. Her skin tingled and the world was filled with flame and screams of pain. Broiling wind washed over her, threatening to fling her from the carriage. But she kept her grip, ignoring the stench of burning hair and flesh. The screams were coming from behind her, from the bystanders caught in the blast. The coach itself was still intact. The shielding glyphs carved into the coach had done their job well. Still, there was no telling how long the glyphs would last against a determined assault or what other weapons or spells the attacker could bring to bear. The King’s Shields could protect the prince if there were a ground assault; Thorn intended to take the fight to the assassin.
One quick pull and she was on top of the carriage. She could see the scorched wood on the opposite side of the coach; strong as the defensive enchantments were, they wouldn’t take another blast. And there was the shadowy figure standing in the window of a nearby inn, a wand leveled at the carriage. Thorn didn’t hesitate. It took her two steps to reach the edge of the coach, and on that second stride she leaped, flinging herself into the air.
“Kharbys!” Thorn snapped out the word as she jumped. A buoyant wave of magical force lifted her into the air. It wasn’t true flight, but the little spell was all she needed. The man in the window ducked out of the way as she came crashing in. Thorn rolled to her feet, lashing out with Steel, but the man was out of her reach. He raised his wand, but she was already charging.
Thorn knocked the wand aside before the man could unleash whatever spells were held within, and the weapon skidded across the floor. She made a quick thrust, hoping to catch her enemy in the shoulder and cripple him before the fight even began. She wanted to take him alive if she could. Oargev aside, the man had crippled or killed a host of civilians in the blast. She wanted to know exactly who was responsible for that.
Her enemy wasn’t going to make it easy for her. Thorn hadn’t seen the buckler in his hand, but he knocked Steel out of line with a swift, confident blow. Then the buckler was gone, replaced by a dark blade driving straight at her exposed breast. She twisted away, feeling a shiver of pain as the blade grazed her shoulder.
Only then was Thorn able to recognize details about her foe, as their blades clashed and they circled the room. His weapon was formed of shadow bound to a solid hilt, and it could shift between sword and shield to be whatever he needed. With each thrust and riposte, she was able to see more. Straight thrust, sidestep and move in, keep the distance close. Human. Male. Silver-gray hair. Gray eyes. Ugly scar on the left side of his face. Striking with the shield, evade and use the momentum against him. Dark skin. A build pairing speed and strength in equal amounts. Loose, black clothes sewn from enchanted shiftweave, more effective than any mundane camouflage. A blow to the throat, parry and lash out with a pommel to the face. A badge on his collar, a silver wedge with gray enamel. Leg sweep, leap over and kick low.
The kick connected and the man staggered back. Thorn didn’t hesitate; she threw Steel, burying the blade in her enemy’s right shoulder. She didn’t call him back; she wanted the assassin off balance. Instead, she ran forward, raising her empty hands for an overhead blow.
A weaker man would have been in shock from his wounds, but her opponent didn’t hesitate. His shadow- blade shifted into its shield form, and he brought it forward to meet her fists. An easy defense if she struck with her empty hand. But as the blow fell, she reached into her left glove and pulled another weapon out of the space bound within-a wicked axe with a long, curved blade on one end of the haft and a vicious spearhead on the other. Thorn didn’t strike with either blade; she just brought the full weight of the axe down on her enemy’s injured arm. As
