Phoenix Rising (45 page)

“No. Someone else. Either that, or the survivor came back.”

“Hm. Hadn’t thought of that. Could be. Boots are about the same size . . . anyway, how do you read it?”

“Shrike actually made the first move; came up and wrestled the Phoenix—we assume it was Phoenix—to the ground. Then somehow Phoenix got free—hard to imagine, given how well-trained the Justiciars are—and the two of them talked for a while, moving a bit to get in position for attack.”

“Maybe.” Poplock said. “But these marks here are the Phoenix’s, and it looks to me like he or she was trying to leave. Over there, Shrike suddenly charges, as though to stop him from getting away.”

Tobimar squinted. “I guess I can see that. But judging by the way the battle goes . . . it wasn’t because Phoenix was
afraid
of Shrike. Shrike seems to have gotten in maybe one or two good shots, but most of the time the battle was going to Phoenix—and there’s no trace of pieces of either the Phoenix’s weapon or armor.”

Then Tobimar looked at him. “Part of me wants to back out. But . . . no, I can’t. Not just pride—although there’s a lot of that involved. He hasn’t been dead more than a day. If we’d just been a little faster, he wouldn’t be dead now.”

“Or maybe he would, and we’d be dead with him,” Poplock pointed out.

“I don’t think so. If we’re right about the battle, Shrike wasn’t quite this Phoenix’s equal, but it wasn’t completely one-sided, either. Adding the two of us into the fray—especially when one of us would probably not be noticed until the right minute—would almost certainly have either defeated Phoenix, or forced him to retreat.” He studied the ground again, paced out a few of the moves. “Tall indeed. I’m guessing six foot three, maybe six foot four.”

“You know, that would argue for a woman as this Phoenix.”

“What? Most women are shorter than that.”

“True,” Poplock agreed, “but if this Phoenix is over six feet tall, he still didn’t weigh as much as Shrike, who’s a lot shorter. Look at the footprint depth in similar soil. Total burdened weight—because this Phoenix is travelling light, not leaving possessions behind—around two hundred ten, two-twenty.”

Tobimar shrugged. “I bow to your superior expertise at this sort of thing. But it still doesn’t make much difference.

“The real point is still that this almost has to be part of the whole . . . tapestry of events, the battlesquares game that Khoros is trying to direct through us and those other five . . . and maybe others. And it’s right where my quest takes me. I can’t back out. This is . . . what he trained me for.”

Poplock bounced a subdued nod. “And what I’m already mixed up in. We’re only a day or so behind this Phoenix. I think we can get a read on his direction pretty quick and then figure out who his next target is.”

“The number of choices is getting narrowed fast, Poplock.”

“Don’t I know it. Seven Justiciars total, one died a while back, now two more, there’s four possibilities left.” Poplock scuttled along the forest floor. “C’mon, Tobimar, carry the lightglobe over here. I need to read our quarry’s footsteps.” As they moved along, he checked each impression.
Okay, after that last clash, both of ’em were knocked down—Shrike permanently. Phoenix gets up . . . looks like he was still a little shaken, staggers a bit here, trying to get his bearings, probably not sure if Shrike’s finished or about to finish him. Moves in carefully, sees his target’s down for good. Kneels beside him, maybe just to make sure. Doesn’t touch him as far as I can tell. Then . . . sits there for a minute or two.

Something about what Tobimar said struck a chord. “You know, Tobimar . . . I just had a thought.”

“That’s a dangerous thing for a Toad,” his friend said, trying to keep some humor. “What have you thought up this time?”

“Well . . . look at the picture we have of this guy now. He—or she—is really familiar with this area.”
Gets up, moves away a bit . . . hmm, much
much
steadier now—healing concoction? Meditation? Actual healing gifts?—but no clear direction . . .
“He’s calling himself a Justiciar; he either has similar powers or he’s good at faking them. The god’s not telling them what’s going on.”
Hmm. Takes two, three steps in this direction with force, made a decision . . . stops . . . thinks again . . . starts moving off again.
“He knows the area—and the people—well enough to get where he wants, how he wants, and for them not to question him. He fits in.”

“And? We know this.”

“Well, try
this
mud out for feel: ever hear the term ‘inside job’?”

Tobimar stopped in his tracks, and stared at Poplock so long that he started to get uncomfortable. Finally he let out his breath in a
whoosh
. “You have a nasty imagination, my amphibious friend.”

“And by that you mean it makes sense.”

“A lot of sense in some ways. No need to fake the powers if they
are
your powers. You’ll know where the Justiciars are going to search . . . because you
are
one. Maybe the first victim of the Phoenix wasn’t Mist Owl; might’ve been Silver Eagle himself. That armor isn’t in use now, is it?”

“Oooo. That’s one I hadn’t looked at. You’d need some really good armor to fake up being a Justiciar, and if you made something with a design that silly—I mean, silly if you weren’t a Justiciar or God-Warrior or other type where the armor’s a symbol, anyway—people’d remember it.”
Walking in this direction, quickens pace a bit. Yes, he’s made a decision. Shifts course here, I’m betting to throw off pursuit. Need to track a little farther.
“But what if you could just, oh, dress up one of the real Justiciar armors a little? Using your own, there’s risks with that, but if you had
another
Raiment set . . . why, you could put a real glamour on that, make it permanent . . . no, better, you make it conditional, so it’s only going to look like this Phoenix when
you
wear it.”

“Might be. And it explains how you can also be good enough to
kill
these Justiciars. You’ve worked with them. You’ve fought and sparred with them. You could have figured out a strategy against each one.” A thought seemed to strike Tobimar now. “You know, that makes sense. You’d also know what you could use
against
them—with words—to confuse them, throw them off. That’s how Shrike lost his grip on Phoenix.”

“And now we know who our likely culprit is,” Poplock said.
Yes, he’s changed direction a couple of times . . . but this time he’s got a line and he’s holding to it. It’s definitely this way.
“Six foot four, said to be one of the strongest of the Justiciars.”

“
Condor.
” Tobimar nodded slowly. “And it explains that little circling, talking bit. Shrike and Condor are direct partners; from what I’ve heard around they’re very close. So Shrike’s trying to figure out what’s going on, and maybe Condor’s trying to explain it to him. But that doesn’t work out, and Condor finishes it.”

“Our Phoenix was definitely flying off in that direction. If I haven’t gotten all turned around, that’s the Gharis region?”

“I think so.” Tobimar put the lightglobe in a nearby tree fork so he could riffle through their notes.

Poplock was still thinking. “Of course, none of this gives us a
reason
for what he’s doing, if we’re right. Unless . . .”
That’s it!

“Unless what?” Tobimar supplied the obvious question, while still searching.

“Unless Silver Eagle wasn’t
his
victim, but someone else’s. Maybe it’s . . . a power play, a, a, what do you call it, a
schism
, a conflict in the faith itself, being played out inside the Justiciars!”

Tobimar winced. “Terian and Chromaias, you like to think of the worst possible . . . But it explains why Myrionar can’t answer. The motivations are internal; justice can’t be served either way, and both sides need or want vengeance.” He looked down at the paper in his hand. “And our next target is . . . probably Thornfalcon. I hear he’s the most popular of the Justiciars—and the one most people suspect is the weakest, though he’s got tales of unlikely heroism to amuse at any moment.” He shook his head. “If we don’t get to him before Phoenix does, it’s going to be ugly.”

“Twice as bad,” Poplock observed with grim humor as he bounced back to his accustomed position, “if this theory’s right. Nothing’s so ugly as getting involved in a family fight.”

43

Kyri let out her breath in a silent sigh of relief. Through the window of the Southern View (which mysteriously faced north) she could see the soft brown hair and long profile of Thornfalcon, nodding with a faint smile on his face to the rhythm of the entertainer of the evening, a girl about her own age who was singing and playing the winged harp.
He’s there, and—for the moment—alone. With his reputation, that’s some luck right there.

It had taken her longer than she’d hoped—almost two days; she’d found the right region after realizing that the first town she was in was Skyharrier’s patrol area, and remembering that Thornfalcon was supposed to have a house just a little farther to the west.

She pulled the cloak up over her head to make her hair unnoticeable and hide her face from casual recognition; the heavy mist of this evening, from chill air coming off the Khalals, made this ploy reasonable. The Phoenix Raiment and Flamewing were packed away for now in the neverfull pack; she now wore the same armor and weapons she’d worn when she began her quest.

Myrionar and Terian, I hope I’m doing the right thing.
On the one hand, she knew she had to give the Justiciars every chance, and her prior approach had been confrontational—almost calculated to bring things to a bladed end. But on the other hand, this was far more risky in that it inherently revealed her identity, and might leave enough clues for the other Justiciars and their unseen master to figure it out ahead of time, even if she killed Thornfalcon (and what a horrid thought
that
was).

She took a deep breath and moved, pushed the door and entered the inn.

The air was not that much warmer than outdoors—having experienced real cold now in faraway climes, she found this night much less chilling than she would have before—but the warmth was filled with the smell of baking rolls and bread, cooked meat and roasting vegetables, beers and wines and juices of a dozen types, a welcoming smell echoed by the double-chiming ring of the winged harp and the light songs of the entertainer.

She saw Thornfalcon’s gaze flicker in her direction when she entered.
I’d expect no less. A Justiciar—or a false Justiciar—has to be aware of danger, even in a place that
should
be safe. But I’m not a threat to him right now, and he should be able to see that . . . good, he’s looked away, almost as fast as he looked at me. Saw me, categorized me as a traveller, decided I was of no immediate importance. Not enough to look away from the singer, anyway.

She walked up the side aisle as though headed for the far corner, then slid smoothly onto the carved bench that faced Thornfalcon across his booth’s table.

He instantly focused on her. “Sir, if you’ll pardon me, I was—”

Thornfalcon broke off as he identified the face under the hood, and she found that—despite the tension and deadly seriousness of the situation—she was barely able to stifle a laugh at the way his jaw sagged and eyes widened in an expression of dumbfounded shock that was only exaggerated by his long, mournful minstrel’s face. It was a tribute to his control that the shocked expression lasted only an instant—so brief that only someone else who had been watching him closely would have seen it.

“
Kyri?
” he murmured finally, barely loud enough to hear over the music and subdued conversations around them. “By the Balance, what are you
doing
here?”

“Looking for you, actually,” she answered. “I need to talk to you, Thornfalcon.”

He gave her one of his famous smiles. “Ahh, now, if only I could believe that you came all this way merely to profess your adoration. But I suspect it’s something much more serious.”

She tried to match his lightness. “Oh, now, I would never dare; you’ve so many other choices, from what I’ve heard, that a girl like me would be wasting her time. But yes, serious enough.”

“As I always told your aunt, you insist on underestimating yourself. But this is not at all a good time, Kyri. There’s a—”

This time he managed to keep his expression mostly under control, but his face went nearly white. “
You?”

“Yes. But please, we need to talk, that’s why I came here, like this, please, Thornfalcon!”

She saw his expression go through several shifts. A flash of understanding first, when he broke off, with simultaneous disbelief that it could be true. A deeper understanding, and at her words she saw what she thought was a flash of the same fear that had driven Mist Owl and Shrike. But he glanced at her again, and she thought that—because she had come in ordinary clothes, not the armor of an avenger—he was seeing, not someone judging him, threatening him, but the girl he’d watched grow up, and that made him hesitate.

Finally he nodded, his face back to its normal color and humorous expression. “Of course, Kyri. But not here.”

“Where, then?”

He looked undecided, then resigned. “This is my normal patrol area. I have a small estate of my own . . . well, that is far too grand a description, really, a house in the forest that protects the people from my caterwaulings that might charitably be described as practice by those with tolerance in such things.”

She smiled under the hood as he rose, and she followed, noting that he placed three coins on the table—vastly overpaying for the meal she saw before him. As they exited, she asked, “Why so much?”

He clearly knew what she meant. “Firstly, most lovely and mysterious lady, because he would normally expect my custom there to last all the night, and thus I am signifying that I did not leave due to a displeasure with the food or the entertainment; and second, because we do not wish him to speak of anything he may have noticed, and money is an excellent lever in this sort of game.”

He gestured as she opened her mouth again. “No more, please. We both have . . . innumerable questions, but until we are inside and safe, I cannot be sure
what
ears are listening, what eyes are watching.”