CHAPTER FOUR

“Ow! Go away!” Still half asleep, Janco swatted at the annoyance. It persisted, pricking him with sharp little jabs. The scar below his right ear tweaked in warning. “What the?” He jerked awake. A tall man wearing an obnoxious dress hovered over him. Although the garment was gaudy, Janco’s gaze had focused on the scimitar inches from his nose.

He rolled away, reaching for his sword, but his scabbard was empty. And now he had two men threatening him with their long blades. Liquid moonlight shone from the sharp metal.

Janco’s insides cramped for a moment. A painful contraction—his body’s reaction to his brain’s acknowledgement that he was seriously screwed. Then it eased. Calm and acceptance flowed. If this was the end, he’d make the most of it.

Glancing around, Janco spotted his partner kneeling in the middle of their camp with his oversized hands laced behind his curly head. Four other men flanked Ari.

“Get up.” The man closest to Janco ordered. The blue and gold stripes on his garment shimmered. “Hands behind your head.” Stripey poked Janco in the back. “Now join your friend.”

Janco shot Ari a poisonous glare as he knelt next to him. “What ja do, Ari? Fall asleep?”

“Ambushed,” Ari said in a flat voice.

Janco recognized the tone. If he gets the chance, Ari would make these men pay for ambushing them.

“We can take them. Three each. I’ll take the left,” Janco said. The men closed around them.

“They’re armed and we’re not,” his partner countered.

“Hasn’t stopped us before. And besides, if they wanted to kill us, we’d be dead by now and would be having an entirely different conversation. I wonder if I’d still be mad at you, or if we would talk in words or pictures. Maybe in smells. That would be cool.”

Their attackers glanced at each other in confusion. Good. It would keep them guessing. Janco drew breath to continue.

Ari interrupted, “Scimitars aren’t their only weapon. They’re magicians.”

His scar ached. Janco resisted the urge to rub it. “Magic.” He spat. “That’s not playing fair.”

“No one ever said life had to be fair,” Ari said.

“My mother did. Made me share with my—”

“Enough,” Stripey ordered. “No more jabbering. You will listen to me.” He frowned at them.

If it wasn’t for their colorful robes, the men would have blended into the darkness. Bald heads drank in the moonlight and bare feet stood in the classic fighting stance. Their family resemblance was unmistakable. Janco guessed the six of them were from the same Sitian clan. And since they favored the scimitar, they were probably from the Sandseed clan. Which, if Janco had the choice, wouldn’t be who he wanted to ambush him.

“We are searching for the same thing,” Stripey said.

“How do you know?” Janco asked.

“I read his mind.” The Sitian pointed to Ari. “Yours was too…chaotic. Too many useless thoughts to wade through.”

A compliment or an insult? Janco guessed compliment and preened.

“Why are you after Rye?” Ari asked.

“His weapon is not a normal blade,” Stripey said.

“I knew it! I told you the sword had a mind of its own. Wait till Maren—”

“Quiet!” Stripey slashed his hand through the air, rendering Janco literally speechless. He struggled to talk, but no sound escaped Janco’s throat.

Ari huffed in amusement. “Wish I could learn that trick,” he muttered.

Janco gave him a pained look.

“Rye’s scimitar is called Pemba and she is very dangerous. Forged with blood magic long ago, Pemba seeks to control the one who holds her hilt. Rye has woken her, and, every time he draws blood with Pemba, she grows stronger.”

“What happens when she gains control of Rye?” Ari asked.

“She will use him to slaughter as many people as possible, drawing even more strength from their blood.”

Janco knew he hated magic for a reason. He struggled to make a sarcastic comment, but couldn’t produce a sound.

“Sword bad. Got it. So why attack us and not Rye?” Ari asked.

“Pemba has gained enough power to counter our magic. We tried to reclaim her last night in the soldier’s barracks, but could not.”

The lack of substance, Janco thought, was magic. He hadn’t dreamed it. And he couldn’t even gloat about it—what a horrible time to lose his voice.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Ari said.

“We need your help in reclaiming the scimitar.”

Janco’s scar burned. Something didn’t jive. Six well-armed men with at least one magician should be able to acquire one scimitar.

As if reading his thoughts—chaotic my ass—Stripey said, “We do not blend in, while you should be able to get close to your colleague and steal her.”

How did Stripey know this weapon was female? Janco studied the Sitians, trying to deduce their motives.

Ari shook his head. “No can do. Valek deals with anything involving magic. When he returns—”

“It will be too late. Pemba will be unstoppable.” Stripey’s grip tightened on his weapon.

Janco noticed the other five men copied their leader’s gesture. Interesting how they all held their scimitars at hip level and their fighting stances were mirror images of Stripey’s. His scar pulsed with pain,

reminding him of his mother poking him with her long fingernails, telling him to use his brain.

An illusion! If Janco could talk, he would have groaned aloud. Stripey was alone. The other five were a magical illusion. He had paid attention when Yelena told him about illusions. But how could he tell Ari?

“The answer’s still no,” Ari said.

“I was not asking.” Stripey stepped close to Janco. The sharp edge of his scimitar touched Janco’s throat. “You will recover Pemba, or your partner will lose his head.”