“Guard changed yet?”
“Should have, but we better check.”
They landed on the roof of the tower, blurred and oozed through the tiles into the rafters where they hung as mottled serpents lost among the shifting shadows from the smelly oil lamp sitting in the center of a worn table. The room was empty for a few breaths, then the guards came in, stomped about shaking off the wet, using their sodden cloaks to mop faces arms and legs, then a blanket off the cot in the corner, grumbling all the time about having to nursemaid a clutch of mudheads like that, not even able to have a little fun with the women, stuck out here the rest of this stinkin night to sit and shiver in case one of those know-nothing shits tried to run.
Yaril lifted her serpent head, looked at Jaril, nodded. She blurred into a beast rather like a winged marmoset with poison fangs, then moved silently along the rafters until she was in position above one of the guards. When she heard the click from Jaril that told her he was ready, she dropped on silent wings, gliding onto her target’s shoulder and back, sinking her fangs into his neck, shoving off before he could close his hands on her, fluttering up in a steep narrow spiral as he collapsed, twitched a little, went still, his mouth open, a trace of foam on his lips. Jaril struck a second later than she did, his guard fell over hers, dead before he hit the floor.
They blurred into light smears, oozed through the roof and flew down to the gate. With a little maneuvering, they swung the bar out of its hooks, but left the gate shut for the moment so the gap wouldn’t be noticed. They filtered through the planks, then were small blond children running unwet through the rain to the living quarters.
TAGUILOA KICKED the club into the air, then hopped about holding his foot with one hand while he kept that club circling in long loops with the other, a grimace of exaggerated anguish on his face. Throwing the club higher than before, he danced back and back while the club soared, hopped closer and closer to the club abandoned on the floor, the music rising to a screech. He bumped his heel into the floorclub, wheeled into a series of vigorous back flips, landed flat on his back and caught the descending club a second before it mashed his head, waved it in triumph then let his arm fall with a loud thump that cut the music off as if with a knife. He lay there a moment, then got to his feet with a quick curl of his body, bowed and ran off the padded part of the floor into the protection of the screens.
The Hand chuckled throughout the performance, apparently deciding he approved of these players. There was more stomping from the youths, a few whistles. Taguiloa went out, bowed again, then retreated behind the screens. Negomas and. Linjijan began playing a lazy tune while Harra came behind the screen to collect her wrist hoops and finger bells. She nodded to Branco, then Taguiloa, flicked her fingers against his cheek, wriggled her shoulders, clinked her hells once to let Linjijan know she was ready, stood waiting until the music changed.
JARIL GRINNED UP at Cathar. ‘This is it. Time to go.”
“Right.” He looked over his shoulder. “Duran, go get the others,” Back to Jaril. “The guards?”
“Dead. Gate’s open. Downpour out, so there’s nobody much about. We have to get to the lake, but that shouldn’t be a problem; Yaril and me, we can take care of just about anything that pops up. All you and the rest need to do is follow us.”
“Good enough. Duran’s going to be handling one boat with me. Farra and Fann will take the other. Boats are ready?”
“Well, we wouldn’t be here now, if they weren’t.”
“Didn’t mean to insult you, just nerves.”
“Yeah. Get a good hold of ‘em, it’s a long hairy walk to the lake.”
With Uncle Idadro gagged and supported by Camm and Theras, Duran and Reanna giving their shoulders to Callim, the Arth Slyans followed Jaril out of the compound. Cathar closed the gates and put the bar in place with Garrag’s help, then joined with him to act as rear guard. Garrag was a woodcarver who’d puttered about in the workshop without doing much, telling himself he was doing it to fool the Censor who was in each day to check on them, but he was a man who couldn’t stand idleness, he had, to do something with his hands, even if it was only whittling. He’d found a short length of seasoned oak in the supply bin and shaped it into a long lethal cudgel. Though the chisels and other tools were counted and taken away every night, the Censor and his minions didn’t bother with the wood. He carried that cudgel now and walked grim-faced beside Cathar, short-sighted eyes straining through the gray sheets of rain.
They moved through the rain along a twisting service path toward the main gate, the only way out of the Palace grounds. Yaril flew ahead, scouting for them, Jaril walked point, leading them through the maze of paths and shrubbery, past the stables of the dapples, past the echelons of slave quarters, into the gardens before the gate, deserted gardens with gardener and guard alike inside out of the miserable weather; even the hunting cats loosed at night were snugged away out of the wet. They came close to one of these lairs where a malouch lay dozing. Cathar and Gan-ag spun around to face the charge of the large black beast, but light streaked between them and the malouch, wound in a firesnake about the beast, sent him in a spinning tumbling yowling struggle to rid himself of the length of burn searing his hide.
He went whining off into the darkness and the light streak was once more a blue gray mistcrane flying precariously through the rainy gusts, predator eyes searching the foliage for other dangers.
HARRA STOOD POSED, listening to the whistles and applause and shouted suggestions, trying to ignore most of it. Spoiled young brats, many of them the prime sons of the meslars and magistrates here in Audurya Durat. She broke her pose, bowed and ran into the relative quiet behind the screens. “Louts,” she muttered.
Taguiloa dropped a hand on her shoulder. “They like you and want you back.”
“Hah. They’d like anything in skirts, especially if she took them off.-She grimaced, pasted a smile on her face, stepped into the light, bowed, retreated again. “You’re going to have a job getting them back, Taga; they haven’t the sense to know what they’re seeing. Godalau grant the Meslar has and does.” She stripped off the gold hoops and the finger hells, laid them on the table, stood rubbing her hands together.
Taguiloa listened to the whistles and shouts that showed little sign of tapering off, knowing all too well what he’d have to face. It was a gamble sending Harra out to dance before this herd of spoiled youth, but he needed the rest time after the comic dance. He moved away to the food table the Hand had set up for them, poured some water and drank a few sips, just enough to wet his mouth, watched as Harra drank more greedily then dipped her fingers in the water and sprinkled it across her face. Outside, Linjijan was playing a lyrical invention of his own with Negomas delicately fingering his drums to produce a soft singing accompaniment, their skill almost drowned by the noise of the watchers. Harra sighed, took up her daroud, frowned. “You want me to stay here so that won’t go on even more?”
“No. I can get gem. Go on out. I need you there.”
She nodded, wiped her hands on the cloth laid out by the house steward, threw the cloth down, went around the back end of the screen and settled herself as inconspicuously as she could beside Negomas, ignoring the flare-up of noise that only stopped at a sharp tap of the gong at Maratullik’s elbow. She picked up the beat and fit herself into the music, then helped it change into the sharp dissonances and throbbing hard beats of Taguiloa’s dance music.
Taguiloa shivered his arms, sipped at the air, closed his eyes and once again played over in his mind his first tumbling run and the dance moves immediately after; he’d be moving at speed, carried on the music, going faster and faster until he was at the edge of his ability to control his body. He tapped the small gong to let them know he was ready, shook himself again, then listened for the music that would lift him into his final dance.