But these were risks he would simply have to take. He looked back over at the waiting consul.
"Very well," Wulfgar said. He walked to his throne and sat down.
"You don't wish to lie down, sire?" Einar asked, sounding concerned.
"Where? On the floor?" Wulfgar shook his head. "No. My throne will do."
As the consul walked to his master's side, the hovering text followed him. Narrowing his eyes, Einar caused the glowing numbers and symbols to rise to a place just above his master's head. He placed one palm upon Wulfgar's brow.
"Are you ready, sire?"
Taking a deep breath, Wulfgar closed his eyes.
"Proceed," he answered. "And may the Afterlife watch over all of your gifts this night."
CHAPTER XI
AS satine walked her gelding down the nearly deserted streets of Tammerland, the city seemed gray and mournful. Dead bodies littered the gutters. Rain had recently fallen. It had soaked through her cloak, and the dampness caused her to shiver. Pulling the garment closer, she rode on.
She had been navigating the streets for the last three hours. Dawn would soon arrive. With so few people out and about, it sometimes seemed that she had the entire city to herself, a sensation that she did not mind.
After leaving Ivan, she had followed the winding tunnel to a cramped, windowless shed that opened onto an abandoned alleyway. From there she had made her way to the adjoining street and back to the still-closed archery shop, where she had reclaimed her horse.
Satine had two more stops to make before commencing her sanctions, and she was on her way to the first of them-a personal job, not professional, but one she meant to see through, despite the delay it would cause.
Satine rode the twisting, dilapidated streets until she reached the dead-end alley she had been searching for. She stopped her horse and jumped down. The place was deserted. Deciding to leave the gelding in the street, she tied him to a nearby rail. Then she unfastened the worn leather satchel from the back of her saddle and quickly entered the alley. After another look around, she slipped behind a pile of trash. She hurriedly began changing her clothes in the forgiving darkness.
The woman who emerged looked far different. Her usual leather clothing was gone. Instead she wore a close-fitting outfit of black cloth. On her feet were supple black slippers. Her black scarf was wound completely around her head and face, leaving only her watchful eyes showing. Black gloves covered her hands; her long braid she neatly tucked beneath her clothing. Cloak, bow, and quiver were left behind. Her only weapons were her sword, her four daggers, and her skill. If she was lucky, they would be all she would need. If she were unlucky she would soon be dead, and it wouldn't matter.
She searched the length of the alleyway again. She was still alone. Hurrying to the other side, she flattened herself against the slick wall.
Praying it would hold, she grasped the rusty downspout with both hands and, like a spider, quickly climbed to the roof.
She took a few precious moments to look around again. Still, she saw no one. Turning north, she ran and jumped across the rooftops toward her target.
Satine knew the rooftop terrain well. She had been raised in this area of Tammerland and had played upon these roofs as a child. This night she was a child no more, and her task was deadly serious.
She knew that the sun would soon rise, chasing away her cover of darkness. If she did not reach her target in time, her chance would be lost. Once her sanctions had begun in earnest, there might never be another opportunity like this one.
Finally seeing the familiar roof up ahead, she took a flying leap between buildings and landed surely on all fours. Just as she had hoped, the nearby skylight emitted a soft glow through its frosted glass. Someone in the house beneath her had already risen, and she knew who it would be.
Moving silently to the skylight, she removed one of her daggers from its sheath and began to pry open the window. As it gave way its hinges creaked, and she winced. She replaced the dagger in its sheath, raised the window, and surveyed the room. Then she grasped the edge of the skylight, curled her supple body over it, performing a perfect forward somersault down into the waiting room below, dropping silently onto a table that stood against the near wall.
Before taking her first step down, she looked carefully around the room. Translucent paper filled the wood-framed panes that made up the four walls. The wall opposite her perch held a sliding door.
The foyer she had entered was small and unassuming. A single oil lamp glowed softly across the highly polished hardwood floor. Each of the interlocking floorboards looked perfect and smooth, just as she remembered them. But this floor held a secret.
She looked at the boards, trying to remember which of them were safe to step upon. They were each only the width of an average person's foot. Only eight of them could be traversed without emitting a squeaking sound-an unobtrusive yet effective intruder alert.
Desperately hoping that the path of the boards had not been altered since she had last visited, Satine sat down upon the table and dangled her long legs over the side. She stretched forth a slippered foot and gingerly placed it upon what she remembered to be one of the safe boards. She stayed that way for a moment, wondering whether to put her full weight upon it. Finally, she did. Nothing happened.
With a sigh of relief, she made her way across the room. Blessedly, each of the boards she chose proved to be the correct one. The final board lay just before the sliding door. That was when she heard the sound of footsteps coming down the hall on the other side.
Satine froze. What mattered now was whether the person in the hallway would stop to slide open the door. Satine could move out of view to one side, but if she did, the boards would sound. If she remained where she was and the door opened, there would be no escape.
Holding her breath, she listened intently as the footsteps slowed to a stop directly opposite her on the other side of the paper door. As she stood there, she imagined that she could hear the other person's heart beating. Steeling herself for what might follow, she curled and separated the fingers of her right hand. It would have to be done quickly, and without hesitation.
Silently, the door began to slide open.
Satine leaped into the hallway. Raising her arm, she used the claw of her readied fingers to take him by the throat. He instinctively tried to cry out, but no sound could come. She kneed him in the groin, doubling him over and eradicating his will to fight. She recognized his face, but she refused to let that deter her. Slipping quickly around him, she laced one arm under his throat and choked him unconscious. As she cradled him silently to the floor his eyes fluttered shut. The entire process had been silent, and had taken no more than a few seconds.
Satine placed the tips of her first two fingers to the side of the man's throat. His heartbeat was weak but regular. He would soon regain consciousness and, no doubt, do his best to send out an alarm. From here on she would have to move quickly.
It had not been her intention to kill the man. If it had, he would already be dead. Stepping over him, she silently made her way down the narrow hall toward the next paper door.
She removed one of her daggers from its sheath, and used it to make a short, vertical incision in one of the wall's paper panels. Holding the slit open with the blade of her knife, she peered into the chamber just beyond.
In the center of the room, Satine's true target sat cross-legged, his back to the door, upon a long, green mat. His shiny, shaved head reflected the light of the oil lamps. He wore a short white robe covered by a pleated black cloth skirt. Its ties wound around his waist and ended in a distinctive knot. He was barefoot and still, save for an occasional movement of his hands. A familiar scent drifted to Satine's nostrils, and she realized that he was taking his morning tea. She moved away from the slit.