Heirs of the Blade_ Shadows of the Apt_ Book Seven - Adiran Tchaikovsky [254]
But there: he saw them now – the riders. They had been a further distraction to the Salmae scouts, or so the word had come to him: a party of riders plainly not under Salmae command, an armed force with unknown intent. When the scouts had gone seriously hunting them, though, no trace had been found. Gaved could only envy the woodcraft.
He dropped down, hoping fervently that nobody was going to shoot him. Bad first impressions were likely to be fatal in this sort of situation. He had his arms out, fists closed, but who knew whether these people remembered civilized conventions like that, any more.
There were a dozen riders there, and the contrast to the Salmae’s people was plain: these were military, or at least the next best thing. There was a quiet discipline to them that put all the posturing of the local nobles to shame. Their armour was more functional than fancy, and they had a feel to them of men who had killed, and would kill again, and were utterly dedicated to their cause.
Gaved did not meet their gaze, because he was most certainly someone they would not hesitate to slay, given the order. Instead he hurried towards their leaders, two men he was at least on speaking terms with, even if those words were just orders that they gave him.
In the face of their stern looks, he had to fight the urge to salute.
‘I must report,’ he told them. ‘Please, hear me. There is a great deal I have to tell you.’
Tynisa stood there in the morning sunlight, feeling the easy weight of her rapier, like clutching the hand of an old friend. The Salmae’s people had started gathering at the trees’ edge, some venturing up the slope a little. There was no sign of Elass or of Isendter yet.
She sheathed the blade, its point finding the scabbard’s narrow mouth automatically, and took out her badge. The sword-and-circle glinted in the sun, looking polished as new. With care, she pinned it over her right breast.
The brigands had ventured out behind her, with plenty of nervous glances up at the sky. They held their weapons ready, and Tynisa realized that nobody cared about their supposed pledge to surrender themselves if she lost. When the tide of Salme Elass’s followers descended on them with spear, sword and bow, they would soon be scattered and killed. Some might make it back to the tower, or halfway back up the hill, but that would avail them little.
She glanced back, her eyes seeking Che. Her sister sat resting her leg, with Thalric standing guard over her, and the halfbreed Maure nearby. The magician was looking guilty, and Che had pointedly turned away from her, but Tynisa could feel philosophical. She was right, after all, this is the best way. I have done many bad things, and made many bad decisions, and I cannot blame them all on Tisamon’s ghost.
Even as she had this thought, the echo of his presence returned to her, almost like a plea to be allowed back in. I shall make you win. You will carve your way through them, spill the blood of your enemies. What else is there?
But she shook her head. If I die, it will not be undeserved. That was the bare truth of it. The Commonweal of Salme Dien, with its moral certainties, enlightened nobles and happy serfs, was already a lost world, and she had believed in it for too long, to her detriment. Perhaps men such as Felipe Shah and Lowre Cean did their best, but human nature was the same the world over. There was nothing magically pure about the nobles of the Commonweal. She had simply been lucky enough to know Salma, and he had been something special.
There was a murmur in the ranks, and she saw Salme Elass had arrived. Alain’s mother. Dien’s mother. The woman stared at her, the hard sun glinting and shimmering on her armour, then a servant brought forth a chair for her and she sat down, for all the world like the guest of honour at some theatrical presentation. Into the