Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

Wishes were meaningless, but she wished, nonetheless. Roth was an accomplished assassin in its own right. It thought the way an assassin thinks — without rules. Anything might be a weapon. It might come as a friendly face, or a missile from the rooftops. Assassins rarely worked in groups, but that, too, was a possibility she could not dismiss.

Cats screeching from behind an alley wall startled her into drawing her daggers, but j’ark seemed unperturbed. He merely strolled on, shoulders rolling with his easy, self-assured gait. A long bladed knife hung from his belt, underneath the grey cloak he wore. The heat was prohibitive, but hard questions would be asked if a Protectorate patrol stopped them in the darkness. This night was too important to be delayed. Everything rested on their success, or gods forbid, their failure.

Time was as much their enemy as the faceless assassin. If they failed tonight, they would be without a guide, lost on the wrong continent. Tirielle would not allow that to happen. She had allies fighting the same fight, and she would not let them down. If someone relied on her, she would fight to the last to aid them. She would do so because she expected nothing less from her friends. The Sard had fought for her, and, although she had never met them, and knew nothing of the men across the ocean other than their fate, they were doing the same for her. Together, their battle might be small, but they fought for the greatest prize of all — the freedom of every human on Rythe.

Failure was not an option. Fail, and she might as well be dead. Already she had staked her life on her quest, and the lives of everyone who followed her.

How could she risk any less?

“It seems we have company,” said j’ark in subdued tones, startling her again. Her heart skipped a beat. “Don’t look up.”

She hid her face in her hair and stared at the ground. She did not think her lips could be read in the growing darkness, but there was still a little light lingering in the air.

“Where?”

“On the rooftop to our left. The house with the nested eves. I saw nothing but a silhouette.”

“Just one?”

j’ark nodded his head.

“No,” said Typraille, just behind them. He spoke quietly, and Tirielle had to strain to hear him. “There’s another to the right. I saw a strangely shaped huddle in the alleyway we just passed. I think they are just watching. He could have loosed an arrow before I noticed him, but he stayed where he was.”

“Let us hope you are right, but we should not count on it. Perhaps they work together, and wait to kill us all at once. Signal Carth. Tell him to take the man in the alleyway. We can do nothing about our rooftop watcher.”

Typraille nodded, although j’ark was not looking at him. Behind his back the willing warrior formed signs with his hand. Tirielle imagined he wished he could take the battle to the enemy. It was not Typraille’s way to stand aside while a fight was in the offing.

Typraille did not have to look to know that Carth had moved down the alleyway. They heard no sounds of a struggle. Carth was soft spoken in all his dealings.

A tense few minutes passed, Tirielle occasionally asking j’ark if their silent observer was still there, j’ark answering in the affirmative each time. Tirielle found her shoulders bunching, waiting for an arrow to pierce her neck, or her back…but to convince herself of the possibilities was foolish. She made herself relax, and concentrated on reaching the door, now in sight, unscathed. In this, she had to trust j’ark’s reflexes, and his instinct.

No arrow came. They reached the door unharmed. Tirielle knocked, and waited, and itch between her shoulders.

“Open, damn it,” she whispered between clenched teeth.

“Relax, Lady. I have our watcher in sight.”

It was unspoken, but Tirielle believed j’ark meant to snatch any missile from the air with his bare hands. She almost believed he could do it.

As she rapped on the door again, it opened a crack. She pushed harder than she intended to. The door swung wide as she shouldered her way inside. J’ark stepped in and pushed her away roughly.

“Back!” he said. She moved instantly, recognising her mistake. J’ark stepped around the door in one fluid motion, checking the blind spot, but only found a bewildered reader rubbing a sore shoulder.

Typraille stepped inside more calmly, watching their backs.

“Sorry, old chap,” said Typraille, closing the door on the night and their unwelcome observer. “Sudden chill. Couldn’t wait to be inside.”

“It’s not the kind of behaviour we condone,” said the reader, hurt, as j’ark pulled him to his feet. “Lady Belvoire,” he stated, as he rose. “Lord Resnor.”

There was little respect in his voice, the simple statement of their assumed names sounded more like an admonishment.

“My apologies, master reader, for the brutal entry,” said Tirielle, and by way of consolation offered him a dazzling smile.

He melted under the heat of that smile, even though for him it must have been somewhat muted, considering his myopic eyes.

“Well, I suppose it was just a mistake.”

“Just that, my good man. Our coin, for the night, and a little donation. I hope that makes up for this…mishap.” Typraille tossed the man a gold coin, which the reader fumbled and bent to pick up. When his back straightened, Tirielle and her guard for the night were already striding into the depths of the library.

They stopped when they reached the cloistered passage to the rear rooms, containing priceless scrolls. The architecture differed subtly from the rest of the library. Erosion worked mystery into the carvings. Forgotten faces that peered from the stone — perhaps patrons, or lords, or figures out of legend — were worn thin, blurring what once had no doubt been fine features. Vines were carved into the archways, what looked like Orwain leaves, and three-dimensional bulbs that looked like rough fruits. The marble floor was no longer smooth, but pitted and dimpled with wear.

Typraille dumped the pack he had been carrying unceremoniously on the stone floor, and said, “Time’s wasting. Shall we?”

Tirielle nodded with a smile. “Why not?” she said, and loosened the drawstrings to draw out a candle, and a ladylike pick. They lit their candles from one burning at the reading tables, and began their search.

Tirielle wandered off on her own, her features as blurred as the carvings in the dull flickering glow of candlelight. She walked slowly one way around the hall, while j’ark followed the line of the other wall. Typraille stood guard, ensuring none of the readers disturbed them. He would concoct a story to dissuade them from entering the back rooms — failing that he would knock them insensible. With regret, Tirielle knew, but without hesitation.

The candle roamed across the wick almost as if it had a will of its own. From a study of the outside of the library, and comparison to the inside, it seemed as though the wall she examined was unnaturally thick. There were no windows, so no one would ever notice this disparity from inside or out…but something was there. She just had to find it. If only the candle would remain still. There was such a draft in the building she was unsure if she would even notice if she found a hidden opening.

Scrolls in leather tubing were stacked on shelves all along the wall, tagged with their title, or subject, date and author if known. She would have loved to take the time to peruse them. It was amazing to her that so much had survived the years. But peace had a way of preserving knowledge. In the years before peace had come to Lianthre, in the age of dissent, much had been lost. For a thousand years or more, much more had been preserved. Unfortunately, none of it would be of any use in the hunt for the red wizard. Tirielle was sure that if mention remained, the Protectorate would have expurgated it from the records. The red wizard could be their undoing, and the Protectorate allowed no threats.