soaking his gauntlet and dripping off his knife.
He’d practiced that stroke thousands of times in sparring practice or against wood and sawdust dummies, but had never before used it on another living being.
“Nice work,” Barus commented, grinning broadly. “Almost as smooth as if I’d done it. Next time twist your wrist a little harder to the right, and you can get both chambers.
Even quicker that way.”
“We’d better get rid of the body,” Jezzil said. “Do you want to put on the armor?”
Barus turned the man over and regarded the blood-soaked form measuringly. “No, too stained,” he said. “You stay here, so they’ll think the sentry is still on duty, and I’ll scout the fortress, count how many troops.”
Jezzil nodded, and together they lugged the body out of the tunnel and dumped it into the moat. As before, it barely sank before something they could only glimpse was upon it.
Then Jezzil took up his supposed station, while Barus stole into the fortress.
The young Chonao fretted as he stood guard, his unfortunate imagination presenting him with images of Barus discovered, attacked, killed, and m’Banak alerted and impossible to take from within—their mission a total failure.
Nobody came near him. Jezzil had little way to judge the passing of the time; only his increasing need to relieve himself made him guess that nearly an hour had passed before a gray shadow flowed down the ladder leading up into m’Banak.
Jezzil repressed a sigh of relief. “What took you so long?”
Barus gave him a quizzical glance. “I came and went as quickly as I could. What’s wrong? Place giving you the jumps?”
“Of course not,” Jezzil snapped. “Are you ready to report?”
Barus nodded. “Zajares is quartered in the west dome, on the top floor. The guards are all wearing surcoats with his in-signia, just as Intelligence said. If we put on the ones we brought with us, taken from those prisoners, we can march right in.”
“How many?”
“No more than sixty. They’ve got patrols out, all right.”
“What if one of those patrols returns while we’re attacking?”
Barus made a dismissive gesture. “You worry too much.”
“What about the security surrounding Zajares?”
His friend shook his head. “That will be harder,” he admitted. “They change the passwords with every shift of the guard. But we should be able to divide our force, set fire to the main hall, and use that as a diversion. Then we’ll just have to deal with Zajares’s personal guard. The door’s locked, but we can handle that. We’ll get in, never fear, youngster.”
Jezzil glared at his friend. Barus was a year older than he, and never let the younger Chonao forget it.
“You’d better get back to Gardal and report. I’ll stay here,” Jezzil said, with a swift glance up the ladder. “Try to bring the troop in before midnight. I’m betting that’s when the guard changes.”
“Likely,” Barus agreed. “We’ve got at least two hours before then. We should make it.”
“Don’t forget to bring my blade. I don’t want to have to fight with this,” Jezzil said, resting his hand on the pommel of the Taenarith sword. “Clumsy thing.”
“You said it,” Barus nodded. “Don’t worry, I won’t forget.”
“Good. Hurry.”
When his friend was gone, Jezzil walked a little way down the tunnel to relieve himself, then waited impatiently, striding back and forth to keep warm in the dankness of the tunnel. He found the sentry’s half-eaten supper and drank the half cup of overly sweet wine, then chewed determinedly at the tough, grainy bread and nearly tasteless cheese. Even though he was not hungry, he knew the food would give him energy.
The faint sound of footsteps finally reached his ears, and he straightened, hand on his weapon. Recognizing his Amato in the lead, he saluted briskly and signed, “Quiet here, sir.”
Gardal’s fingers moved in answer. “Good. Follow me, Risore.”
Jezzil joined