Orjin waved it all away. ‘Never mind. Ancient history.’ Groaning and wincing, he stood. ‘I’m out of wine and you need that leg looked at.’ He held out a hand. ‘Let’s go.’
Kyle pulled himself upright, held on to the man’s shoulder as he limped along. ‘So we’ll sign on to a ship?’
‘Trake no! We’re going to get your sword back.’
‘But I told you – someone stole it from my room.’
Orjin shook his head. ‘Kyle … you’re too trusting.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Best is one of the heads of Delanss’ black market. The man’s a thief. He stole it.’
‘He said he’d get it back for me!’
Orjin stopped short and peered down at him for a time. ‘And then he suggested that you might as well do some work for him in the meantime …’
Kyle gave a sheepish shrug. ‘Something like that.’
‘That settles it. Can you walk?’
‘Yeah – some.’
‘Okay. Head to the waterfront. Wait for me there. I’ll be back with your sword and then we’ll have to be off right quick.’
‘Grey— Orjin, I can’t let you do that.’
‘Might as well make it Greymane, Kyle. I took a stab at being plain old Orjin Samarr once more, but it didn’t take. So it’s Greymane again. And it’ll be Greymane who’ll be visiting Best tonight.’
Kyle peered about at the silent rain-slick street, the moonlit shop fronts. ‘Grey, it’s not worth it. Let’s get out of here while we can.’
‘Not worth it? You know that’s a lie. Your friends in the Guard, Stalker and his cousins, they told me who gave you that weapon. So we both know it’s worth it.’ His pale blue eyes, buried deep in their sockets, flashed something that might have been amusement. ‘We’re both burdened by blades that are more than we would want.’ He motioned Kyle on. ‘Get us berths on a ship leaving at dawn!’
Kyle watched him go, then limped for the waterfront. So Stalker had told him – or he’d asked. In any case, it was true. Osserc, a being Kyle’s people worshipped as a patron god of Wind, Sky and Light, had given him the blade. Since then he’d discovered that Osserc was merely – merely! – a powerful entity, an Ascendant. Such as the Tiste Andii leader Anomander, Son of Darkness, or as some name the Enchantress, the Queen of Dreams.
But now Kyle considered all its power more trouble than it was worth. He couldn’t even draw the thing without calling extraordinary attention to himself, just like Greymane. And now the damned fool was off to get himself killed … and for what? Maybe, it occurred to Kyle as he hobbled along, the man was doing it to prove a point to himself – that he could do it.
It was close after dawn and Kyle was sitting high on the afterdeck of a galley out of Curaca when he spotted the renegade. The ship’s bone-mender was wrapping his leg but he sat up, yelling: ‘There he is! Let off! Go!’
‘Aiya!’ the old woman shouted, and gave his leg an agonizing squeeze. ‘Sit still!’
From the railing, the mate warned, ‘Your man better be worth it.’ Then he called, ‘Cast off all lines!’
The big man was jogging down the wharf, a long wrapped object in one hand. Behind him, between buildings, erupted a mass of armed men and women, civilians and city guards alike. The bone-mender let go a wild cackle at the sight.
‘Wide Ocean below!’ the mate swore. ‘Your man’s stirred up a hornets’ nest! What’s he done?’
‘You know Best, the black marketeer?’
‘That cockroach? Yeah.’
‘Well, I think my friend has kicked him in the balls.’
The mate grinned and turned to his men. ‘Look lively and ready pikes to repel boarders!’
The old crone laughed again. Her riotous cackle unnerved Kyle far more than he thought it should.
*
A Delanss nobleman entered the ransacked and empty practice quarters of Orjin’s School of Swordsmanship and tucked his hands into his thick robes behind the heavy silver links of rank. Everything, he noted, had been stripped overnight. ‘Hello?’ Blood stained the sand but he saw no signs of the bodies. ‘Anyone here?’
‘Yes.’
The man jumped, and turned to where a woman stepped forward from the shadows. She wore plain dark clothes and soft leather shoes. She was a very deep brown, her hair tightly curled and cut short. Something about her reminded the nobleman of the Korelri he’d just dealt with, though he knew this woman for no Fistian. Perhaps it was the stink of fanaticism that seemed to hang about them both.