Mistress of the Empire. Janny Wurts

this southern city days later; news tended to travel slowly across provinces as the rivers fell and deepwater trade barges were replaced by landborne caravans. Aware that Lady Mara would require his updated reports by the fastest possible means to guard against possible countermoves by the Anasati or other foes made bold by the Assembly’s constraints, Arakasi had shortened his stay to a hurried exchange of messages. On leaving the premises, he had suspected he was being followed.

      Whoever had tailed him had been good. Three times he had tried to shed his pursuit in the teeming crush of the poor quarter; only a caution that approached the obsessive had shown him a half-glimpsed face, a tar-stained hand, and twice, a colored edge of sash that should not have been repeated in the random shuffle of late-day traffic.

      As well as the Spy Master could determine, there were four of them, a superbly trained team who were sure to be agents from another network. No mere sailors or servants in commoners’ clothing could work with such close coordination. Arakasi inwardly cursed. He had blundered into just the sort of trap he had set for informants himself.

      His backup plan could not be faulted. He had quickly crossed the busy central market, where purchase of a new robe and sudden movement through an inn packed with roisterers had seen the trader from Yankora vanish and a house messenger emerge. His skill in altering his carriage, his movements, the very set of his bones as he walked had confused many an opponent over the years.

      His back trail had seemed unencumbered as he jogged back to the factor’s quarters and let himself in through a hidden door. There he had changed into the brown of a common laborer, and taken refuge in the warehouse behind the trade shop. Crawling atop the cloth bales, his intent had been to sleep until morning.

      Now he cursed himself for a fool. When those following had lost sight of him, they must have dispatched one of their number to backtrack to this warehouse, on the off-chance he might return. It was a move that a less cocky man might have anticipated, and only the gods’ luck had seen the Acoma Spy Master inside and hidden before the enemy agent slipped in to wait and observe. Sweat trickled down Arakasi’s collar. The opponent he faced was dangerous; his entrance had almost gone undetected. Instinct more than sure knowledge had roused Arakasi to caution.

      The gloom was too deep to reveal his adversary’s location. Imperceptibly slowly, the Acoma Spy Master inched his hand down to grasp the small dagger in his belt. Ever clumsy with handling a sword, he had a rare touch for knives. If he had clear view of a target, this nerve-rasping wait might be ended. Yet if a wish was his for the granting, he would not ask the Gods of Tricks and Fortune for weapons, but to be far from here, on his way back to Mara. Arakasi had no delusions of being a warrior. He had killed before, but his preferred defense relied more on wits, surprise tactics giving him the first strike. This was the first time he had been truly cornered.

      A scuffle sounded at the far end of the warehouse. Arakasi stopped breathing as a loose board creaked, pulled aside to allow a second man to slip inside.

      The Spy Master expelled his pent air carefully. The hope of a stealthy kill was lost to him. Now he had two enemies to consider. Light flared as a hand-carried lantern was unshuttered. Arakasi squinted to preserve his night vision, his situation turned from tense to critical. While he was probably concealed from the first agent, the new arrival at the back of the warehouse could not help but discover him as he walked past holding a light.

      Out of alternatives, Arakasi probed for the gap that should exist between the stack of bales where he rested and the wall. Cloth needed space for air circulation, lest mildew cause spoilage in the dark. This merchant was not overly generous in his habits; the crack that met the Spy Master’s touch was very narrow. Prickling in awareness of his peril, he slid in one arm to the shoulder and wiggled until the bale shifted. The risk could not be avoided, that the stack might topple; if he did not act, he was going to be discovered anyway. Forcing himself flat against the wall, and nudging on the bale, Arakasi wedged himself into the widening gap. Splinters from the unvarnished boards gouged into his bare knees. He dared not pause, even to mouth a silent curse, for the light at ground level was moving.

      Footfalls advanced on his position, and shadows swung in arcs across the rafters. He was only halfway hidden, but his position was high enough that the angle of illumination swept above him; had he waited another heartbeat, his movement would have been seen. His margin for error was nonexistent. Only the steps of his adversary covered the slither of his last furtive shove as he nestled downward into the cranny.

      A mutter arose from beyond the bale. ‘Look at that!’ As if summarising an inspection, the man rambled on, ‘Tossing good cloth as if it were straw bales, and unworthy of careful packing … Someone should be beaten for this –’

      The musing was interrupted by the original stalker’s whisper. ‘Over here.’

      Arakasi dared not raise himself to risk a glance.

      The lantern crept on in the hand of its unseen bearer. ‘Any sign of him?’

      ‘None.’ The first stalker sounded irritable. ‘Thought I heard something a bit ago, but it was probably vermin. We’re surrounded by grain warehouses here.’

      Reassured enough to be bored, the newcomer lifted his lantern. ‘Well, he’s around somewhere. The factor’s slave insisted he’d come back and gone into hiding. The others are watching the residence. They’d better find him before morning. I don’t want to be the one to tell our master he’s escaped.’

      ‘You get wind of the gossip? That this fellow’s been seen before, in different guise? He’s got to be a courier, at least, or even a supervisor.’ Cheerfully the stalker added, ‘He’s not from this province, either.’

      ‘You talk too much,’ snapped the lantern bearer. ‘And you remember things you should forget. If you want to keep breathing, you’d best keep that sort of news to yourself. You know what they say: “Men have throats and daggers have sharp edges.”’

      The advice was received with a sigh. ‘How long must we keep watch?’

      ‘Unless we’re told to leave, we’ll stay until just before daybreak. Won’t do to be caught here, and maybe killed by guards as common thieves.’

      An unintelligible grumble ended the conversation.

      Arakasi resigned himself to a long, uncomfortable wait. His body would be cramped by morning, and the splinters an additional aggravation, but the consequences if he should be captured did not bear examination. The loose tongues of his trackers had confirmed his worst surmise: he had been traced by another spy net. Whoever commanded the pair who hunted him, whoever they reported to, the master at the top of their network worked for someone canny, someone who had constructed a spy system that had escaped notice until now. Arakasi weighed this fact and knew fear. Chance and intuition had spared him when intricate advance precautions had failed; in discomfort, in warm darkness, he agonised over his assessment.

      The team who sought to capture him were skilled, but not so polished that they refrained from indulging in idle talk. It followed that they had been set to catch what their master presumed must be a low-ranking link in the operation he sought to crack. Arakasi suppressed a chill. It was a mark of the deep distrust that drove him, that he preferred when he could to accomplish occasional small errands in person. His unseen enemy must have the chance to know who he was, how highly he was placed, or the name of the mistress he reported to. Possibly he faced the most dangerous opponent he had ever encountered. Somewhere Lady Mara had an enemy, whose subtleties posed a threat greater than anything she had confronted in her life. If Arakasi did not escape alive from Ontoset, if he could not get a message home, his mistress might be taken unwarned by the next strike. Reminded by the ache in his chest that his breathing had turned swift and shallow, the Spy Master forced control.

      His security had been compromised, when he had no inkling of impending trouble. The breach spoke of intricate planning. The factor’s second role must have been discovered; precisely how could not be surmised, but a watch had been set over the traffic at Ontoset’s docks closely enough to differentiate between regular traders and those who were strangers. That the team that lay in had been clever enough to see through two of Arakasi’s disguises, having