He led his Torovan guests now to the feast, where they looked on with curiosity. Wine was pressed upon them and soon they were talking and laughing with rowdy locals, Parrachik providing translation where local accent or general noise proved too great for the traders’ Lenay. Soon the merchants were clapping along to the rhythm with the rest of them, and being invited to dance by local Baerlyn women, all eagerly accepted.
Lynette was dragging at Andreyis's arm, trying to get him to the dance, but Andreyis was resisting. Jaryd pushed himself off the balcony railing with a thud of boots on the deck…and nearly missed the second thud on the wall behind. He turned, frowning, thinking someone had thrown something. Instead, he saw a crossbow bolt protruding from the wall.
He dove flat, but no further shot came. Then he scrambled for the inn's doorway and crouched there, staring up at the opposing row of rooftops, bright and dancing in the glare of the bonfire. There was a flash of movement…or was it merely a shadow? No one had noticed his little commotion, one more flailing, dancing man at a wedding was hardly an event. If he yelled warning to them, none would hear.
Besides, warning of what? They were not in danger. The assassin was after him. Maybe, the cold thought occurred to him, as he edged back into the cover of the doorway, one of the locals had arranged it. Maybe they felt his presence threatened Baerlyn's relations with the lords. Or maybe Great Lord Arastyn had partisans, or at least paid help here in Baerlyn. If he shouted warning, he would only advertise that their attempt had failed, and perhaps invite a second or third attack. No, he had to capture the assassin himself. Only then could he know what he was dealing with.
He strode through the inn, adjusting his swordbelt where it had twisted in his dive. Through the main room, stripped of chairs and tables, Jaryd found the side exit and pushed out into the paved lane to the stables. Then he ran back toward the road, where the fringe of the crowd milled across the lane's mouth hoping any waiting crossbowman on the surrounding roofs would have far too brief a sighting to take a shot. He ran fast, hand on his sword hilt, to keep his legs free, taking a wide route through the crowd. He skidded between two men, hurdling a running child, collided with the arm of a lady, her drink spilling.
Then he was down a narrow lane between two houses, unscathed and, as far as he knew, untargeted. He hurdled a fence between the houses and took shelter beneath the rear verandah roof. Crouched against a wall, he drew his sword and listened. He heard only the raucous music and laughter of the wedding. He moved as lightly as he could across the verandah planks, pausing with a wince each time one began to squeak. He stopped and listened again.
Nothing. Then a muffled slide overhead. A creak. Two thumps. Then nothing. Jaryd reached to his belt and drew a throwing knife. Reversed it with a flip, catching the blade, his sword now in his left hand. Someone jumped from the verandah roof, thumped into the grassy yard and rolled, pausing to retrieve a fallen crossbow.
“You missed,” Jaryd told the crossbowman. The figure spun in shock. Jaryd threw the knife and took him in the thigh. The man yelled, dropping the crossbow again, and fell, clutching his leg. Jaryd stepped from the balcony and walked to him, sword ready, his grip tightening. This must be one of those who had schemed to kill Tarryn. This, he had waited for for a long time.
More movement from the gloom of orchard trees in the neighbouring yard. Jaryd's eyes widened as he saw the questing muzzle of a crossbow through the branches. He threw himself flat. Frustratingly, the crossbowman held his fire. Jaryd rolled desperately for the fallen man, holding him as a shield. The bowman emerged from the orchard and cursed, darting one way, then the other, seeking a shot over the fence. Jaryd rose, his hostage sobbing and holding his leg. A rush of footsteps from behind told him a third man was coming.
Jaryd reached for his boot knife-not really a throwing knife, but he threw it anyway. The bowman ducked, the knife deflected off the crossbow and Jaryd charged. The bowman dropped the crossbow, scampering back as Jaryd hurdled the fence, drawing his blade. Jaryd swung hard, the other man defended desperately, fended the second and third with a clash of steel, yet was simply overpowered by the fourth, lost his hand on the fifth, and was sliced through the chest by the sixth before he could scream.
Jaryd turned and found the third man staring in horror. This man had no crossbow, just a sword. Evidently he did not relish the prospect of using it now. This was no hired blade. This man knew exactly whom he'd been sent to kill. The assassin turned and fled. Jaryd chased, his heart pounding, blood singing in his ears. He hadn't felt this alive since Tarryn had still been in the world. He pursued the fleeing shadow past a chicken run, then hurdled another fence onto a vegetable patch. Another fence, and he was out into an open field in the middle of the Baerlyn Valley. The light of the wedding bonfire grew dimmer behind and the stars overhead were bright and clear. His boots sank into the grass as he ran, stumbling on an uneven patch in the dark. The fleeing shadow before him was slim, and fleet of foot. Jaryd was a powerful young man, and knew how to use that power to intimidating effect with a blade. But now, his legs grew weary, and his breathing came hard, and the light figure ahead seemed barely troubled when he hurdled the next fenceline and raced on into the dark.
It was two fencelines later before Jaryd finally gave up. He'd headed up-valley, past empty farmhouses, tripping on plough furroughs and splashing in irrigation ditches as he went.
“Come back and fight, you horse-fucking coward!” he roared at the dark, with the last of his energy. Now that he'd stopped, the night air chilled his sweat. He was exhausted from the effort, and barely able to keep his feet. The unfairness of it infuriated him. He swung his blade at the dark, smiting invisible foes. Gleaming in the night sky, he saw Ambellion's Star, bright and clear. Cathaty's Eye, the Goeren-yai called it. In the lowlands, and amongst Lenay Verenthanes, it was the Verenthane Star. “You!” Jaryd yelled, pointing his sword at the star. “You saved him! You defy me once more, you bastards! Well I've had it with you! I've rejected you, do you hear? This isn't your land, and you can't fuck with me any longer!”
A sharp wind blew upon the Cliff of the Dead. Marya Steiner put a hand to her hair and hoped that the pins would not tear out from the force of it. She walked with her other hand in that of her nine-year-old son, and her husband by her side, with a pair of guards to their front and back.
“I absolutely forbid it, Symon!” Marya insisted in a low voice. “This is my sister, she would never put me in danger.”
“I hear stories, my love,” replied Symon Steiner, edgily. He looked good in black, with a gold-pommelled sword at his hip. A little slimmer and shorter than a Lenay bride might typically have hoped, but he was handsome, and clever, and kind. “This particular sister of yours-and the gods know you have so many I am frequently confused-has a reputation that would insult the good breeding of a rabid dog-”
“Oh, Symon, don't be like that! The Sashandra I remember was a gorgeous little girl, always full of life and mischief…”
“There are many definitions of mischief, my love.” Symon threw a glance up and down the terraced incline. “One might think that leading an armed rebellion against Verenthane patriots in the north, against the wishes of her father the king, goes a little beyond simple mischief.”
Marya sighed, not halting her stride. “Sashandra always went a little beyond simple mischief,” she admitted. “But…oh Symon, you never knew her like I did. You don't know how much fun she was! She was a delightful little scoundrel.”