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

moment, he laid it on the boards of the floor amid the straw and bird shit. ‘It isn’t much . . . I just thought . . .’
    ‘Thank you. My little brother is sickly, and we can’t . . . my thanks.’
    ‘I see. Well. I ought to be going.’
    ‘Yes.’ Again, so sad. How was it that he seemed only to make her sad? She reached to take up the bowl and his breath hissed from him in shock. ‘Your hands!’
    She tried to hide them but he was far quicker and took both, turning them over. The flesh of the fingers, backs and palms was cracked so severely that dried blood filled most of the deep crevasses and much of the ridged flesh was white – dead and hardened. ‘You work with lye and other such chemicals?’
    ‘It is my job to clean all the tack, and treat the leather for softness.’
    ‘It’s eating your flesh to the bone – you will lose your fingers.’
    She yanked her hands away. ‘I’ll not let my mother do it! Nor my sisters!’
    He raised his own hands in open surrender. ‘No – I’m not suggesting. I’m just . . . Here.’ From his shirt he drew another pouch and pulled out a packet wrapped in waxed parchment. ‘Use this.’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘A healing unguent. Here – let me.’ He urged her to give him her hands. She extended them like a scared, wary animal, and he kneaded the honey-thick preparation into them. It softened with the heat, like a wax. He rubbed her fingers, careful to get it between.
    ‘This is alchemy,’ she said, her voice rising in alarm. ‘You bought this.’
    ‘Yes.’
    She almost succeeded in yanking her hands from his. She hissed, ‘We – I – cannot afford this!’
    ‘Never mind. Consider it a gift.’ He returned to rubbing her hands. ‘Relax now.’ He hardly had to say it, as her shoulders had fallen, easing, and her eyes slowly shut. A dreamy smile came to her lips as he worked the unguent into the wounds.
    ‘This is infused with Denul magics,’ she murmured, seeming half awake.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You are wasting it on me.’
    ‘No. This is what it is for. Now . . . better, yes?’
    ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice barely audible. ‘Better.’
    ‘I’ve got to go. Will I see you again?’
    She shook herself, blinking and straightening. ‘Yes. Certainly.’
    ‘Good. Now, take care of yourself.’ He rose, and, peering down at her, fought an urge to take her head in his hands and press a kiss to her forehead and whisper
It will be all right. You will see. Everything will be all right.
He shook himself instead and retreated to the window, waved, and started down the side of the stable. As he made the alley, it occurred to him that perhaps their roles were now reversed – he the rescuer and she the wounded trembling bird.
    Alone, Ullara remained sitting. She allowed her eyes to close once more and tucked her hands under her chin and held them there, rocking. A smile came to her lips again, only this time much more fierce. She curled up among the scattered straw and breathed in the scents rising from her oh so warmed hands.
    * * *
    Silk knew of three hidden entrances to the catacombs far beneath Heng. One was through the sewers behind the palace, another was via a tunnel accessible along the riverside, while the third was theoretical: a door barred and secured in the very wall of the Outer Round. He opted for the riverside. He owned several river crafts and selected the one he used for his more clandestine journeys; one little more than a long narrow dugout. He unmoored it and paddled out among the forest of pilings that supported the countless docks, wharves, and waterside businesses.
    Since he was out on the Idryn, he decided to swing by someone, who, if not really a friend, could be described as a compatriot. For while all Heng knew there were five city mages in the Protectress’s employ, what those five knew was that, in truth, there were far more than that. He idled for a time close to the shore of the muddy ochre course that was the Idryn here on its slow