The Ghost Tiger's Lament

Chapter Three

People milled out into the streets, rubbing their eyes and looking at each other, bewildered, as lanterns flickered to life. Few paid Ashne any heed as she splashed past the barracks and through the marketplace, towards the palace grounds.

“Fire?” Ashne heard one curious bystander ask.

“An attack?” muttered another.

Ashne smelled smoke, but saw no blaze, and the city walls were silent. But there was no time to stop and think. The bells echoed on, ringing in her ears.

“Ashne!”

Zsaran. Ashne turned. Their eyes met; Zsaran sped past her, sword drawn, and Ashne lengthened her stride accordingly, ignoring the dull ache that throbbed at her side.

Before long, they reached the palace’s outer perimeter.

Ashne saw the assailant first, a dark blur of motion hurtling towards them from above. But Zsaran moved faster. The flash of a blade, a strangled cry. Ashne held back, watching the shadows, listening for the wind against the bells and the now audible shouts of panic.

No one.

She gathered her internal energy, half-dashing and half-leaping up the damp wall before landing on the other side with practiced grace. The effort took more out of her than she had expected; she steadied herself with a hand, catching her breath, recirculating the flow of energy within her.

Moments later, Zsaran fell into step beside her.

“Here,” said Zsaran, handing her the sword that had presumably belonged to the fallen assailant.

Ashne accepted it. The grip was comfortable and familiar, though no maker’s origin or name marked the blade.

“One of ours!” And a new one, too: sturdier than the bronze of the wars with Khonua.

But there was no time to consider the implications, if indeed there were any. The swordsmiths of Awat were famed far and wide.

Zsaran took the lead again, much to Ashne’s relief. The scent of smoke had gotten stronger, the sounds of battle louder. Lights flickered in one of the courtyards nearby.

They entered the enclosure side by side. Old Shranai whirled into sight, maneuvering both staff and good leg against three assailants. She was just barely managing to fend them off, but the wary movements of her opponents showed that they had not expected a crippled old woman to prove their match. They could not, of course, have known the years and years Shranai had spent honing her skills in order to make up for her crushed leg; the unusual rhythm of her movements threw them off their own.

Ashne and Zsaran exchanged a look. Sprang into action. Within moments, the three men slumped to the ground, two with their throats slit, one bleeding from his forehead.

“What’s going on?” demanded Zsaran. She kicked at one of the bodies, then sliced away the cloth and straw cap that hid his face. The man did not bear the symbols of protection, the old marks of adulthood. Yet his hair was cropped short, and he was dressed in a plain dark tunic of the south, almost eerie in its lack of embroidery or any other ornamentation.

Shranai, who did not seem at all surprised to see Ashne there as well, smoothed her graying hair back into place with a sneer before replying. “What do you think? Another assassination attempt, most like.”

Zsaran snorted. “A quieter attempt I have never seen.”

“Must be desperate,” said Shranai, between sharp, unsteady intakes of breath.

“Yes,” replied Zsaran, in a breezy but pointed manner. “I suppose only desperation could result in such incompetent fools.”

“But who?” murmured Ashne. The king, respected if not quite loved by his people, had many enemies. And these men had not only clearly been trained, they had taken great pains in disguising their true origins. Despite their seeming incompetence, the evidence spoke of calculation, rather than desperation.