4
Tayron woke up with a start that would leave him shaken for the rest of the day. A sharp shout brought the light sleeper out of dreams that he never remembered anyway. He slept in his regular clothes, so there was no need to get ready. He decided that the time to get his armor on could not be afforded and, struggling to get his eyes focused, he attached the scabbard of his short sword to his belt and drew the weapon.
Bolting through his door, he saw that the main room was clear. The lack of sunlight from the window told Tayron that it was still before dawn, so he had not overslept. Not that he ever did. The sounds of violent struggle came through the door standing open to the hallway. He kept all panic suppressed as he neared the door carefully.
The second he could see clearly out into the hall, a body flew clear across his viewing angle, crashing into the ground to the right. Tayron recognized the figure as one of his fellow bodyguards. He ran into the hallway and surveyed the scene with the swift and refined sensory perception that his training allowed for. To his right, the guard was huddled on the floor, slow to get up, and Councilor Jaksen stood prepared to face the enemy himself if necessary. Jaksen had a line of blood on his chin, a ceremonial long sword in both hands, and a dangerous intensity pasted on his face. Seeing that the right was the defensive end, Tayron pivoted to face the enemies that had to be to his left. In front of him, one guard was sprawled unconscious and the last stood ready, facing three masked foes in full battle dress.
Training took over without delay. Tayron dashed at one of the men, then slid to take his enemy’s footing out from under him. The attacker jumped over the knight to avoid the tackle, then turned, prepared for armed combat. Tayron charged with his sword. The enemy braced for the impact and countered with his own blade. Only the unexpected could tip the balance against the knight, who had strength enough to overwhelm in a competition of arms.
“Careful! One of them is a mage. That’s how they got the other two,” the other active knight shouted just as one of the two he was fighting revealed his talent by sending a fireball at him. The knight went wild with face ablaze, beating himself and rolling on the floor to put it out.
Tayron marked the one that had let loose the flames. Disengaging from the assassin he was fighting by forcing him off balance, Tayron plunged into the fighter-mage before another spell – one directed at him – could be spoken.
He was too late. The mage anticipated the move, and had started to cast another spell as soon as he had finished with the fireball. His sword cast carelessly on the floor and his hands fully extended, making the necessary motions in front of him, the mage shouted the final words and let loose with Tayron’s sword no more than two arms’ lengths away.
But the spell missed Tayron. Tayron cringed as the magic ricocheted off of his sword and instead had its effect on the assassin at the mage’s side. By the way the enemy walked into a wall, and kept rubbing his eyes with growing frustration and despair, Tayron guessed it had been a blinding spell. Once the happenings registered, Tayron wasted no time. The mage was still confused and off guard when the knight plunged sword into chest. Eyes of wonder were turned toward Tayron as the body they belonged to slid off his weapon.
Tayron registered the footfall of the last antagonist approaching, but before he could bring his weapon to bear, the enemy was already in striking position, with sword in mid-swing. Tayron dropped down just in time to avoid decapitation. He did not have to get up to continue the fight. Jaksen had entered the fray by plunging his sword into the assassin’s back, neatly between the ribs.
Jaksen caught Tayron’s eyes as the criminal fell. He wore a weaker version of his childish grin. The very marvel of life itself was expressed on the man’s face. The councilor extended a hand to the knight, helping him to his feet.
“You’re very lucky,” was the first thing Jaksen said, “how very odd.”
“You’re telling me,” Tayron said. He had always expected that he’d die on the first mistake he made, on the first chance Tayl had to skewer him. “What about these three?” He pointed to his fellow guards, not the assassins. He knew what would happen to the assassins who remained alive – interrogation, torture, and execution.
“They’ll be fine. I didn’t see them hit with anything life-threatening. It takes a fairly powerful mage to kill a man with one blow – they usually have to visualize internal organs or something like that. This mage was just knocking our men out cold so that his comrades could finish them off. Good thing you woke up, we didn’t exactly have time to fetch you. Three knights against three assassins, though. Would have thought that would be enough. These assassins are getting better and better by the day.”
“Well, there was a mage with them,” Tayron said defensively, protective of his knightly training.
“Still. . . why don’t you get the medicals to take care of the lot of them. Head down this hall to the end and turn right. You should find the doctors without much trouble. After that, we’ll talk. This attack was pretty brazen, and you’re my only guard now.”
Tayron nodded, aching. He followed the councilor’s directions and found the hospital area. The doors to the area stood open and the stench of decay flooded into the hall, threatening all those who approached. Tayron ran in and, glossing over the pending patients bedded in the waiting room, hailed the first person who looked competent.
“I need some help. There’s been an assassination attempt,” he said to a rather stern middle-aged woman in the bright yellow coat of a medical mage. She grasped a clipboard in her left hand and twirled a wand in her right. “Three knights are injured.”
“For the thousandth time this week,” she said without sympathy. “I swear, the minute I start work in the morning, I have an assassination attempt to deal with. It’s a miracle there’s anybody of rank left in this palace.” Setting down the clipboard, she grasped a cup of steaming liquid from the counter and gulped greedily from it. Whatever the brew was, its putrid smell and the way her lips pursed as the aftertaste lingered, told Tayron that it was consumed for practical value, not taste.
“The attempt was on Councilor Jaksen,” Tayron said, hoping this would catch her attention and reflect the urgency he felt. The battle fervor was far from diminished – it would probably remain for the rest of the week.
The medi-mage nearly spat the liquid back into the cup. She settled for coughing just short of choking. On regaining control, she shouted, “Yerl, Durinial, Floris, follow this knight and administer preliminary spells and remedies. Then bring the injured here. I’ll get set up here. Knight, is Lord Jaksen himself injured?”
“No, at least not that I could tell.”
“Thank the gods for that, though who knows what you didn’t notice. A man of his age . . . convince him to come here as well and I’ll take a look at him personally. Go!”
The three tasked to follow Tayron were a mage, an alchemist, and a lay doctor. The lay doctor’s starch white cloak, his skin lacking sunshine’s touch, and his icy thread hair made him look in need of medical attention himself. As Tayron led them, they kept to silent professionalism, allowing him to form questions in his mind that he filed away, pending unlikely responses from Jaksen.
Within sight of the strewn bodies, the mage grunted. “You should have said there was magic involved in the attack. I need my notes to counter some spells. It would have saved some trouble at the ward if I’d been able to get them on their feet. Remember that for next time.”
“How can you tell from a distance?” Tayron asked as the three rushed forward and knelt, each to one knight.
“It’s in the air. The air gets charged,” the mage answered distracted. “Where’s Lord Jaksen? Go get him and leave this to us.”
Tayron assumed that Jaksen had left in search of jailers to deal with the assassins. After jogging down the hall for a minute, not entirely sure where to head to, Tayron spotted Jaksen, marked by his shock of hair, moving toward him with six knights, probably from main palace security. Bathis was among them.
“Ah, Tayron,” said Jaksen, “good. You brought the medicals?” Tayron nodded. “Excellent. This bunch will clean up the rest of the mess. Are you all right?”
Tayron nodded again, then said “the mage I talked to at the hospital suggested that you should drop by in case there’s something wrong with you.” Tayron’s phrasing and tight voice betrayed his contempt for the mage’s toadying.
“They’re always trying to do favors hoping they’ll get more in return,” Jaksen surprised Tayron with frankness. Jaksen’s last bodyguard went ahead, leading the pack to the incapacitated assassins. The medicals were still at work when the six members of security each took an arm of an unconscious attacker, dragging them dishonorably down to the jails. There was no point to waste medical treatment on them even if it would save their lives, since they would soon face death anyway. And the blood trails would justify the high wages paid to palace janitors. Neither word nor glance was exchanged between Bathis and Tayron.
The alchemist smoothed some cream over the burns of the fireballed knight. One of the knocked out knights was awake, but too weak to rise. Both the mage and lay doctor were trying to revive the last knight, and both wore furrowed brows and concerned eyes. Jaksen stopped above them, looking their efforts over, still grinning with the thrill of being alive.
“Amazing luck you have, Tayron, with your sword deflecting that spell. I had a feeling, you know,” said Jaksen without explanation. After Tayron had mulled the words over in his mind for a bit, Jaksen advised, “just act like you’re still under the sword of the trickster god. Don’t let Tayl’s capriciousness catch you off guard. Don’t let anything ever catch you off guard, for your own good as much as mine.” Then, addressing the medi-mage, Jaksen asked, “how is he? What’s wrong with him?”
“Not really sure. My mundane friend here thinks that his system was shocked on impact. I think the spell might have done something, made more serious by the impact against the head, but if we can lift the spell he might revive. Can you tell us what the spell looked like? I can tell one was involved, but have no idea which one it was. Usually there are clear physical indications.”
“Let’s see,” Jaksen said, looking up at the plaster ceiling, thinking back. “It was definitely a light blue. It didn’t require a wand or any focuser that I could see, so it couldn’t have been that powerful, since it was a physical spell. It was a beam, though, not diffused.”
Nodding thoughtfully, the mage said, “then it was probably the post-spell impact that was most serious. In any case, he’s living dead – heart beating, but no consciousness. I have tried all the reviving spells I know. Perhaps others in the hospital will know more, but I doubt he will be saved.”
The councilor bowed his head and murmured, “let the gods keep him if we cannot. I will inform his family. Whether alive or dead, he’ll be released with full honors to their care after this. Get these three to the hospital and make certain they get every treatment possible.”
The mage chanted a spell and, indicating with his wand each of the knights, levitated them prone. The two that were conscious remained still. They had been through this enough times, at the academy if not the palace, to know not to fidget as they were floated away, lest they throw the mage’s concentration off.
Left alone, Tayron and Jaksen participated in an awkward silence. Jaksen, quickly developing a plan of action, gestured for Tayron to enter the councilor’s living area, entered himself, and shut the door. Tayron plopped himself onto one of the black breka hide couches in the living room. There was a cooler next to him, and on opening it up, he treated himself to a bottle of Phrenx, a non-alcoholic drink made from galenes seeds and liberal quantities of sugar that he had never tried, but heard about often. On tasting it, he decided that it could have been worse. At least it was refreshing.
Jaksen pulled out a bottle himself and guzzled it while sprawling on the couch opposite to Tayron. Excitement left his face and earnest concern had set in. With assassination touted as an integral part of court intrigue, Tayron guessed that something specific worried the councilor about this most recent attack. Jaksen provided explanation without hesitation.
“The king’s health is failing. You must have seen that during your brief presence in his reception chamber.”
“He didn’t seem all that bad. I mean, he wasn’t the youngest man in the world. I was surprised by how old he was, but I don’t think I noticed his health failing, no.”
“Mmm, well, I suppose we do a better job of covering it up than we thought we did. Where do I begin? Well, the first thing I guess you must be told is that there are two main factions in the court – mine and Quenari’s. That, I’m absolutely sure you saw already. Now, there’s a problem with the succession. His majesty does not have a living eligible child, a fact concealed from the public to avoid panic. He had a son, who was displayed to the public, and as far as they know that son is still alive, receiving secret training and going among the people anonymously to learn about his people. In fact, that son fell ill and died years ago. His closest eligible relatives are his cousins’ sons and there are two of them, each with equal claim to the throne. I am supporting the ascension of one, Quenari the other. So, as the king’s life fades more and more, the struggle between us will grow more and more blatant. This latest attack tells me that Quenari is beginning to make serious moves. The king is on his deathbed.”
Tayron was appropriately shocked. “But won’t the king declare an official heir himself?”
“For reasons I can’t explain to you right now, no. The king never declares an official heir. There are . . . other processes that take place to make the decision, processes that must be protected and kept secret so that they are not compromised.”
“But if the conflict between your chosen successor and Quenari’s isn’t resolved soon, what’ll happen?”
Jaksen smiled. “My choice will gain the throne no matter what. I can’t explain to you why, but it will happen. The question is how much trouble Quenari will make before the inevitable takes place.”
“How much trouble can he make?”
“Enough to make me tell you this now, so you’ll be prepared.”
Jaksen was now sitting upright, leaning forward with the bottle of Phrenx clasped in both hands. Tayron slouched back, trying to understand. Of all times to enter the court, it had to be when a civil war was brewing around the corner. He felt the trickster god at work once more. Being on the side most likely to win was certainly fortunate, though. Then again –
“Who else is with us? You must have been making alliances.”
Jaksen stared knives into Tayron, but softened his gaze when he saw in Tayron’s face the purpose behind the question. “You trying to conspire with me, Tayron? This matter is a bit beyond you right now. I only tell you this much to put you on your guard. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re of any rank to deal with the affairs of the court.”
Tayron, not the least bit put off by the response, said, “I only wanted to know so that I could better protect you. If I knew who to watch out for and who to trust – “
“Trust?” Jaksen chuckled bitterly. “Don’t trust anyone. Alliances shift daily here. I can tell you who was with me today, but that says nothing about tomorrow. Anyway, you won’t be able to match the faces to the names I give you. You haven’t been at court long enough, and once you have been at court for a while, you’ll probably be able to tell instinctively who’s with us and against us. It’s subtle to newcomers, but the men and women of the court wear their affiliations like clothes. Except the henchmen, who you have to worry about. That’s the thing – even if I told you who was with us, its not as if courtiers conduct attacks personally, they always have people who can’t be traced back to them do the dirty work. Assassination might be a tradition here, but a certain amount of decorum must be preserved.”
Tayron wanted to ask whether Jaksen had ever ordered the assassination of anybody, but the very thought of asking was idiotic enough to make him embarrassed. It reminded him how naďve he was, and how far from court he had been raised. Bathis’ store of knowledge would have been a great boon. Bathis would probably want to end up on Jaksen’s side, the way he had been talking, but would the shifting alliances catch up with him? The world was pushing him back into the hole of paranoid isolation of the academy. Maybe this was what they had been preparing the cadets for.
Without anything more to say, Jaksen decided, “it’s time we went to the audience chamber – if he is well, the king will be there in a few moments to open the day after the morning meal. We’ll learn the news of the court there. I admit it would be helpful to have an extra pair of ears, so keep yours open and be prepared to recount everything you hear. Don’t read into anything, though, since they might try to deliberately fool you, knowing you’re listening. Leave sorting everything out to me.”
They stood up and headed to the plushness of the king’s chamber, the day already taxing, yet barely started.