and we will survive this one-if we keep our heads!”
Her unfortunate phrasing reminded them of poor Oropash, being hung in disgrace from the Inner City wall. On that somber note they dispersed to their private chambers.
Winath climbed the stairs to her former master’s rooms, which opened onto the second level of galleries overlooking the main chamber. His quarters still smelled of berry jam, for which Oropash had had a well-known weakness. She uttered an illumination spell. Every lamp ignited at once.
On the table in his study were several manuscripts, a brass censer, and a shard of pottery covered with figures scrawled in Oropash’s distinctive hand. Winath studied the scrolls. They were notes on tele-clairvoyance-it appeared this had been Oropash’s last conjuration. He had summoned an image of the future, but not for himself. Winath frowned. To whom had he sent it? And why?
She took the pottery shard back to her own room, on the opposite side of the tower. The writing was a cipher of Oropash’s own devising. Knowing him well, it took her only one mark to discern who he had gifted with a glimpse of the future. The name surprised her.
Winath rubbed away the letters with a piece of cloth. If anyone in the emperor’s pay saw that name, the life of every White Robe in Daltigoth would be forfeit.
“Down! Down!”
Zala grabbed Tylocost by the hem of his tunic and dragged him to the ground. A band of mounted nomads galloped past, brandishing firebrands and screaming. Although the stars and moons were shrouded by clouds, Zala feared discovery. The blazing town cast a great deal of illumination.
Juramona was in flames. Mounted nomads filled the streets, battling the few townspeople still trying to fight. Zala and Tylocost lay next to a gutted tavern, in the cover provided by a jumble of broken wheelbarrows and crockery.
“We waited too long,” she murmured.
“The actions of savages are notoriously difficult to predict,” Tylocost answered. His pedantic tone was at odds with his disheveled appearance. Free of its confining band, his hair hung loose about his shoulders, and soot stained his face and clothing.
“I heard that some townsmen thought they could save their own lives and property by arranging for Juramona to fall without a fight. They opened the south gate for the nomads.” Zala shook her head. “I hope they were among the first to die!”
“Humans. They’re never so foolish as when they think they’re being clever.”
The last of the mounted nomads passed. In the lull, Zala and the elf sprang to their feet and ran for the open gate. Away from the dying town. Away from the flames and screaming.
Tylocost might be ill-favored in some ways, but he was by no means awkward physically. He easily outpaced his companion during the dash across the open ground beyond the city gate. He reached a line of cedars and pushed through, promptly colliding with a fiercely painted nomad.
Elf and man both were shocked at the unexpected encounter. While they gaped at each other-for no more than a few heartbeats-Zala sprinted by, ran the man through, and kept going. Tylocost stepped over the falling body and raced after her.
Near a dry creekbed, they found horses tethered to a stand of saplings. Zala dropped to the ground. With commendable silence, her companion fell into place beside her. She glanced his way and almost cried out. Tylocost’s face and chest were covered in blood. She quickly realized the gore had come from the nomad she’d slain, but the elf resembled a ghastly specter, come back from the dead.
Composing herself, Zala turned her attention back to the tethered horses. Their owners were arguing over the division of the booty they’d taken from the town. Zala could see the men’s bare, suntanned legs on the other side of their horses.
“Mocto killed the Ergoth warrior. Let him have the first choosing!” said one loud voice.
“Warrior? Ha! An old man with a soup pot on his head!”
“But I did kill him,” said a third voice, presumably Mocto.
“Well, I killed the woman and boy who carried the goods in a rolled-up rug,” said a fourth voice. “I should get first choosing!”
Disparaging remarks were made about parentage. Punches were thrown, and one nomad fell to the ground. More curses filled the night air.
Zala gathered herself, holding her knife so its blade lay flat against her forearm. Soundlessly, she slipped between two of the tethered horses. The biggest nomad, the one who claimed to have slain a woman and boy to steal their goods, received the point of her long knife in his kidney. He dropped to his knees, his face a mask of astonishment. He died thinking one of his comrades had murdered him.
The other three spotted the intruder in their midst and lunged for the weapons they’d left sheathed on their saddles. Zala got one fellow in the ribs. He backhanded her, sending her reeling away, then fell to his knees, lung punctured, unable to breathe.
A third nomad drew his own knife. He and the half-elf traded cuts, but her fighting style confused him. Zala feinted an overhand stab, which the nomad tried to block with both hands. Pivoting backward on one heel, she drove her blade into his chest.
The last nomad had taken to his heels, running back toward Juramona and his comrades. Tylocost retrieved a bow lying next to the nomads’ swag, nocked an arrow, and let it fly. The fellow tumbled head over feet and did not get up.
It was a skillful shot, and Zala congratulated Tylocost on his prowess.
“I was a warrior of House Protector. I am proficient with all arms, no matter how coarsely rendered,” he said, dropping the bow.
Nettled by his arrogant tone-after all, she had dispatched three of the savages-she swung herself gracefully into the saddle of a painted horse without touching the stirrup and asked sarcastically, “Can you ride?”
In answer, Tylocost vaulted over the rump of the nearest animal, using his hands to boost himself over the leather pillion and into the saddle. He leaned down and loosened the reins. With a quick glance at the stars, he pulled his mount’s head around and cantered off, south by east.
Zala thumped heels into her mount’s flanks and followed, wrapped in a thoughtful silence. Her peculiar companion was proving to be rather useful.
Being mounted proved a camouflage for the two travelers, Several times they passed sizable bands of nomads in the dark, yet none challenged them. They were taken for fellow plainsmen, or perhaps it was the blood- spattered visage of the elf that forestalled questions. Tylocost certainly looked as though he’d come from a frightful battle.
They rode long into the night with Tylocost in the lead, following a trail only he could see. Other than studying the stars periodically, he did not take his eyes off the tall grass before him.
A few marks before dawn they halted by a small creek that wound around the foot of a bramble-covered knoll. While their mounts drank, Tylocost splashed water on his gory face.
Zala watched his ablutions in silence for a moment then said, “You’re not the overbred, high-toned fellow you pretend to be.”
“Well, I certainly am overbred. How else did I acquire this misshapen face? I’m high-toned, too, if I understand your meaning.” He looped wet hair behind ears that stood out like jug handles. “What I am not is a weakling, or a fool.”
“No? Then why did you stay in Juramona all these years, even after Lord Tolandruth was exiled? You could have left any time.”
“And gone where? I’m an outcast in my homeland. Besides, I gave my word of honor to Lord Tolandruth when he paroled me. After my defeat at Three Rose Creek, I could have been executed or imprisoned. Tolandruth preserved me from that. In return, I swore to remain where he sent me and not take up arms again. It was a matter of honor.” Clean but dripping, he sat back on his heels and looked up at her. “Though you’re a half-breed and a female, I think you know what honor is.”
Ignoring the gibes, Zala gave a slight nod. Completing her mission for the empress was not only a matter of earning her pay, or protecting her father from the empress’s anger should she fail, it also was a matter of honor for Zala. She had given her word to the empress. She would not break that vow.
