Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 by Ian C. Esslemont

contents of night buckets into the streets. Hengans walked the streets holding their heads and groaning. He overheard stories of one large gang of celebrants, overcome with alcohol and confidence, that sallied out into the field in the pre-dawn. They’d been armed only with what they could pick up, and made a charge for the Kanese camp. Cooler heads had prevailed, however, or perhaps it was the chill prairie wind in their faces, or rumours that Ryllandaras had been seen in the vicinity, but they thought better of the assault and retreated. The mounted Kanese pickets had kindly allowed them to go with only a few jabs of their lances to hurry them along.
    What made everyone twice as sick was the news on all tongues of the Crimson Guard’s being seen riding out of the north gate, the Gate of the Plains, that very morning. Evidently, as he and Rheena had deduced, they’d not come to rescue Heng but to escort a Grisian royal brat on yet another of those idiotic campaigns to hunt down the man-beast, Ryllandaras.
    Walking the main way, Dorin found he was close to Ullara’s family stable. He jiggled the few poor coins in his pouch – his share of the remaining takings, hardly worth his bother, but she could clearly use them.
    Though it was light, he risked the climb up the side and ducked into the open gable window. Within, the usual crowd of birds of prey roosted. They stirred uneasily at his entrance, but soon calmed and returned to cleaning their feathers. The night-hunters among them eased back into sleep. Dorin peered about for the gigantic raptor he’d glimpsed on earlier nights but saw no sign of it. Not surprising, as he doubted it could even fit through any of the windows. He bunched up some straw and lay back to join the other night-hunters in their rest.
    He awoke to the birds’ muted mutterings and yawned, stretching. It was mid-day.
    ‘Good morning.’
    He turned over. Ullara was sitting on a box, feet tucked up beneath her, watching him.
    ‘Morning.’
    ‘You were working last night,’ she said.
    He nodded, then frowned; that hadn’t been a question.
    She jumped up. ‘I’ll get some tea.’
    ‘Well . . . my thanks.’
    ‘Thanks?’ Her brows shot up. ‘Again? Your manners
are
improving.’
    He searched for a response but she was gone down the trapdoor. Alone with the birds, he studied one stately russet plains falcon – the namesake of one of the Seti tribes. It returned his gaze with the cutting superiority that only a bird of prey can manage. Ullara returned with a cup of weak green tea, and a bowl of yogurt and bread.
    ‘My mother makes the yogurt,’ she explained. ‘We have goats.’
    Dorin sat cross-legged and scooped up the mix. ‘It’s very good.’
    ‘Thank you, Dan—’ She stopped herself, blushing.
    ‘What was that? Dan?’
    She plucked at her threadbare tunic, her head lowered, obviously mortified.
    He cleared his throat. ‘You don’t have to say . . .’ Her hair, he saw, had dirt and straw clumped within, and hadn’t seen a brushing in a good long time.
    She dared a quick glance up, her lip in her teeth. ‘I . . . I name all my . . . rescues.’
    It seemed to him that she was going to say something different there, but he did not comment. He waited, instead.
    She gestured to the tall plains falcon. ‘That’s Prince.’ She pointed to a savage-looking split-tail hawk. ‘Keen.’ A huge dozing tuft-eared owl, ‘Biter.’ Several more names followed: ‘Swift, Watcher, Fury, Red, Cutter.’
    Dorin nodded to each then returned to Ullara. ‘And me?’
    She hid her face once more, whispered, hushed, ‘Dancer.’
    He raised a brow at that; he had indeed been forced to train for a time as a dancer – for flexibility and speed. And his teacher had always treated duels as a dance as well. ‘Well, thank you, Ullara.’ His hand rested on his coin-pouch and he jumped, remembering. ‘Oh, yes. This is for you.’ He held it out.
    She eyed it but made no move to take it. After a