“Perhaps not,” said Kieran, “but then the prosecution of them is not my responsibility. I will simply lay the case before Lord Jhamri, and it will be up to him to make the final disposition.”
“The final disposition will be made right here, tonight,” said Sorak grimly.
Kieran shook his head. “I think not,” he said. “You have had a busy enough night, my friend. I just came from the pleasure house, where I saw what you did to Edric. Under the circumstances, I can hardly blame you. I know how you must feel, and I share your grief over your loss, but I cannot stand by and watch you commit murder, however justified it may be.”
“Justified!” said Ankhor in outrage.
“Yes, justified, my lord,” said Kieran. “You were the one who sent Sorak and Ryana to the place where they were ambushed. I was there, if you’ll recall, and you were most insistent, even to the point of saying they should go there right away. You also took care to see to it that I was occupied with my report to you and reviewing the full complement of the guard. Now perhaps one or two raiders might have followed them to Lorian’s from the caravan plaza, but nearly a dozen would have been conspicuous. I spoke to Lorian and learned that they were not in his shop more than a few moments, and so the ambush must have already been in place. The Shadows did not follow them. They knew they would be there. And you were the Only one who could have told them. I suspect that will be all the proof Lord Jhamri will require.”
Ankhor paled. He could think of no response.
“I already have all the proof I need,” said Sorak.
“No doubt,” said Kieran, “but you are not the law in Altaruk, and regardless of who hired me, I have a duty to that law. I must apprehend Lord Ankhor and deliver him to justice.”
“Do not speak to me of justice,” Sorak said. “Ryana died as much by his hand as by Edric’s. Keep out of this, Kieran. I’ll not let you take him.”
“And I cannot let you kill him,” Kieran said. “Stand aside. I am still your superior officer, if you will recall.”
“We are at cross purposes,” Sorak said coldly. “I hereby tender my resignation.”
Kieran shook his head. “Don’t do this, Nomad,” he said. “Please, I have no wish to fight you.”
“Then give way.”
“I cannot,” said Kieran. He drew his blade.
There was a sudden crash of shattering pottery.
Kieran grunted and collapsed, unconscious. As he fell, Cricket stood revealed behind him, the shattered remains of a heavy vase in one hand.
“I… I couldn’t figure out how to get the secret panel open,” she said. “It took me a long time to find the lever—”
Ankhor lunged past Sorak and snatched up Kieran’s blade. But as he moved toward Cricket, Sorak pulled Galdra from his belt and threw it. The broken blade streaked across the distance between them and struck Ankhor in the right shoulder. He cried out, and Kieran’s sword fell from his grasp.
As he bent to retrieve it, Cricket rushed him, shoving him hard with both outstretched arms. He staggered backward, struck the low wall of the veranda, and fell over. His scream was cut off as he struck the courtyard—the smooth expensive tiles of yellow and blue—four floors below.
Cricket gasped and brought her hands up to her face. “I… I didn’t mean to push him! I… I was afraid he would…” Her voice trailed off.
Sorak looked down into the courtyard. Several guards had rushed over to the body. From its position, Sorak could tell Ankhor’s neck and back were broken. Matullus looked up and, for a moment, their eyes met.
“Get him!” said Matullus. At once, the guards rushed for the front door, their weapons drawn.
Cricket was pulling at his arm. “We must get out of here!” she said. “Come, quickly!”
Sorak turned and started back inside, toward the secret panel, pausing only briefly to examine Kieran. He was already starting to revive.
“Hurry!” Cricket said from the open panel.
“Good-bye, my friend,” said Sorak softly, then he followed Cricket through the secret panel. It closed behind them just as running footsteps sounded on the stairs in the hall.
Epilogue
Sorak lay on a cot in the small, spartan room on the second floor of the hostelry where Cricket stayed, a short walk from the gaming district. His eyes were shut, and he held a damp cloth against his forehead. It was late afternoon, and the intense ache was only beginning to recede. His psionic exertions had belatedly taken their toll.
He recalled what Elder Al’Kali, the pyreen shapechanger who had found him in the desert all those years ago, had told him.
She had made her annual pilgrimage to the summit of the Dragon’s Tooth, the tallest peak among the Ringing Mountains, and as she renewed her vows, she heard a powerful psionic cry for help. His cry. It had traveled all that distance to reach her on a mountaintop miles from where he lay. She responded, flying down to find him, and it was that cry that made her bring him to the villichi convent after she had nursed him back to health. The villichi sisters were masters of psionics, and his power was the strongest the pyreen had yet encountered in all her many years.
He had always believed power came from one of the others of his inner tribe, for he had never been able to perform any of the psionic training exercises at the convent unless the Guardian or one of the others came to the fore. But now they were gone, and the power remained. Perhaps, somehow, it had been transferred to him when the others left; perhaps it had been there all along. But he would just as soon have remained ignorant of it if only he could have Ryana back.
Cricket had brought him to her room,
