A Plague of Swords

by Miles Cameron

  “But you have ingested this?”

  “Of course. And so does every ivory worker! It is harmless.” He wrinkled his nose. “It stinks, I confess. And the smell lingers,” he spat. “As does the taste.”

  “Why?” Kronmir asked.

  “The man who lived,” Petrarcha said. “One man. He never even reached the fighting, if I understand him. But nor was he seized in what seemed to have been some hermetical panic, some blind terror that seized the whole host and destroyed it. He alone...ran. While the others...he says they began to fight among themselves, or became demons. Or,” he said, “simply fell dead. Or stopped moving, and stood perfectly still.”

  Kronmir nodded. “But?”

  The magister shook his head. “No but. I tested him, I pricked him and drew his blood. I have had a month, messire. I have run every test my arts could imagine, and nothing would explain why this simple, mad craftsman in the militia survived where men—men I knew, wearing amulets I crafted myself—died instantly or perhaps turned against their brothers, their fathers, their allies and friends. This Darkness is only perhaps three days’ ride away. And we have one survivor.”

  Kronmir nodded, examining the mage’s slight emphasis on the word craftsman.

  “He was an ivory worker,” Kronmir said.

  Petrarcha nodded. “Very good.”

  “Something about the bones of the not-dead confers some immunity,” Kronmir said.

  “Now that I have this missive from Harmodius,” Petrarcha said, “I am even more confident.”

  Kronmir felt his heart rate accelerate, even though he was safe in a palace surrounded by men-at-arms. “Master, if the enemy is this powerful, why have they not taken all Etrusca?” He looked at the rough map that the magister had appended to his written notes. “If your estimate is correct, the Darkness hovers a few miles from the richest, most populated portion of...of the world. Or at least, of the world we know.”

  Petrarcha sighed. “I had no idea,” he said. “But Ser Tomaso is a widely read young man with a masterful grasp on the story we all call history, and he has a theory that, I am sad to say, stands every test so far.”

  Kronmir nodded. “Yes?” He waited. “Why is the enemy not coming?”

  “Because they do not want Etrusca,” Petrarcha said. “Or they do not need it yet.”

  Kronmir winced.

  * * *

  The next morning, they took the road a little after dawn and moved north and east, into low hills and long ridges. They rode around a magnificent lake set in wooded hills, and then took the broad road east to Mitla.

  “Mitla is not an ally,” Giselle said. “Let me be clear, friends. If the Duke of Mitla knew who I was, he would make me prisoner. At least.”

  Kronmir thought for a moment, striving to be politic. “But perhaps you then put us all at risk?” he asked.

  They rode along for a hundred paces, their horses and the tinker’s cart ahead the only noise.

  “Master Kronmir, I am no more eager to show you my loaded dice than you are to show me yours,” Giselle said. “But I know the ground north and east of Mitla well, and so does Ser Tomaso here.”

  Kronmir looked at them both.

  Tomaso Lupi looked away, into the distant mountains of Sellasia.

  “Because you have planned to make war on Mitla?” Kronmir asked.

  “If you are so very intelligent,” the duchess said, “perhaps you could simply keep your brilliance to yourself?”

  * * *

  Mitla was as quiet as a city of the dead. They came to the great gates—magnificent gates, fifty feet high, set in walls that appeared to Kronmir to be virtually impregnable. The traffic was very light; only a scatter of farmers’ carts headed in. Ser Tomaso rode ahead and spoke to a tinker. Kronmir watched him with a critical eye. The knight was good; he bought a small item and paid the top price, a sort of easy bribe. He shook the man’s hand as if they were equals, and rode back.

  Kronmir disliked the lack of bustle intensely. It made the hair stand up on his neck. The tinker hadn’t liked it either, and stopped his cart well short of the gates to set up his little shop.

  Kronmir shook his head, fifty paces out from the gates, which were open like mouths set to swallow them, three gates all together.

  “I say we go around,” he said.

  Ser Tomaso and the duchess exchanged a glance.

  “It will look odd,” the duchess said.

  But the Beronese knight nodded. “Not so odd. That fellow says there’s an Ifriquy’an horse trader working the north wall.” He raised an expressive eyebrow. “Perhaps we can buy a couple of remounts at the horse market on the north walls.”

  Giselle smiled at Kronmir for the first time. “It cannot be happenstance that there is an Ifriquy’an selling horses at Mitla,” she said.

  They turned their horses and followed the circuit walls, and the city remained quiet on the other side. There did not appear to be anyone looking over the walls, which itself was odd.

  The horse market was virtually empty. There were only two sellers; an Ifriquy’an in a burnoose with the superb horses of his country, and a local seller with warhorses from the plains. The two men were standing together, complaining about the lack of customers, when the duchess approached them. Kronmir studied the horse sellers and remained silent. Giselle negotiated rapidly for four Ifriquy’an geldings and a mare, a large purchase, and M’bub Ali, the horse seller, praised Allah and gave her many deep bows. When she had made her purchases, she went to talk to the local breeder, and Kronmir bowed to the Ifriquy’an.

  “It must be a difficult journey with horses, across the sea from Dar?” he asked.

  The dark-skinned man bowed. But his smile was genuine and seemed to lighten the creases in his face. “Bah,” he said. “I have made it sixty times. I know more about crossing water with horses than any man alive.” He grinned more widely. “And I am modest,” he added.

  Kronmir smiled. The trader snapped his fingers at a boy, and the boy ran off.

  “I would have bought the lady coffee, but she was in too great a hurry to have a little conversatione,” the horse trader said.

  “Hmmm,” Kronmir said. The horse trader was trying to draw him. “Was the most recent trip any harder than the others?” he asked.

  The man’s eyes seemed to double their intensity. “That is a very interesting question,” he said.

  Kronmir shrugged. “I have just come on a voyage myself,” he said.

  “Ah, I did not think you were from this place,” M’bub Ali said. “Although your tongue is very easy.”

  “I am from the empire across the sea,” Kronmir said with perfect honesty.

  The boy came back with a brass tray, a pot, and tiny brass cups. Ser Tomaso stopped ogling the warhorses like an adolescent boy in his first brothel and joined them.

  Kronmir leaned back against an offered cushion and drank his coffee. “I saw two sea monsters fight,” he said. “It made me think that shipping horses...” He let his words go, hoping they would hook the man.

  M’bub Ali frowned, shrugged, and drank coffee. “It is a strange time,” he agreed.

  Jules Kronmir was almost certain that he was dealing with another of his own kind. “Strange how?” he asked. “Strange enough that the Kalif can lose money on fine horses just to gather a little information?”

  M’bub Ali paused, his coffee cup on the way to his mouth. His eyes narrowed.

  Kronmir closed both eyes and opened them. “We are not from here,” he said carefully.

  Giselle came back, her business done, and knelt on the horse trader’s carpet and took a cup of coffee. She raised it. “My thanks. I love coffee.”

  M’bub Ali scratched his beard. “Hmm,” he said. “Let me just allow you to imagine that this might be true, this thing that you suppose.” He shrugged. “Whatever you suppose, it cannot harm me, I think.”

  Kronmir nodded.

  He smiled at Giselle and tried to pass with his eyes that he was engaged in
delicate negotiations.

  She looked down, he thought in amusement.

  “I think we might exchange more than money for horses,” Kronmir said. It was too bald. But he was in a hurry, and something about Mitla made him want to leave as quickly as he could.

  The horse dealer’s eyes didn’t flicker.

  “Do you know a man named Pavalo Payam?” Kronmir tried. It was a little like a drowning man grasping after a straw.

  But in this case, the right straw.

  The man’s face changed. “That is a very interesting name,” he said. “A...friend. A compatriot.” He paused. Sipped coffee. And sighed. “And one of my master’s most powerful servants. The veritable drawn sword of the faith. The terror of the not-dead.”

  “I met him in Harndon,” Kronmir said.

  “In far-off, mythical Alba?” the horse dealer asked with a flash of his teeth. “I begin to think that either you are a snare set for me, in which case I must tell you that my horse boys are very well armed, or that Allah has ordained this meeting.”

  Giselle leaned forward. “It is the latter, M’bub Ali. We are going to look at what we call the Darkness. Your people face the not-dead. Are they the same?”

  M’bub Ali set himself on one elbow and drank more coffee. “I think,” he said, “that we should travel a ways together.”

  * * *

  They left before dawn, riding east into the red stain of the rising sun. The rain had stopped, and the mountains to the north stood like a stark barrier, capped in white. They rode along the richest agricultural plain that Kronmir had ever seen, past field after field of ripening wheat.

  The fields were empty. There were people in the villages, but their doors were locked. There was a steady stream of people passing away south: some dressed as pilgrims, but some obviously fleeing with their animals and their possessions.

  The four of them rode into a village with a small inn at noon. The bell rang, and they saw a small market in progress in the square...a dozen peddlers with their packs open, and women buying vegetables from farmers. M’bub Ali and his two horseboys dismounted.

  “We are not always well liked,” he said.

  Giselle nodded. “I understand, but I am quite sure that I can arrange a good reception for you at the inn.”

  The Ifriquy’an bowed gracefully. “I will await your word, demoiselle,” he said.

  They dismounted by the inn and took tables under one of the spreading trees.

  “I don’t believe he’s a horse trader,” Giselle muttered.

  Kronmir nodded. “His hands are strong, but very clean,” he said. “He has worn more rings than he does now. And the hilt of his sword...”

  Ser Tomaso nodded. “I may lack all your assassin’s skills,” he said, “but I saw the sword. That’s a rich man’s sword.”

  “A rich swordsman’s sword,” Giselle corrected him.

  “Amen,” Ser Tomaso said, as the wine arrived. Giselle turned to the servant and spoke in rapid patois. The young man nodded twice.

  “Of course we will serve your infidels,” he said in good Etruscan.

  Kronmir sent Brown to fetch M’bub Ali and his men. As he watched, Brown approached a child and gave the little thing a sweet. The child smiled and Brown slipped away. Kronmir took his hand off his sword hilt.

  “I am too much on edge,” he admitted.

  Giselle nodded. “As am I,” she said. “Everything seems wrong. I have no benchmark for this sort of thing.”

  “I found Mitla...very difficult.” Kronmir rubbed his beard.

  Giselle tasted her wine. “Why are they not clearing these villages?” she asked.

  Tomaso shook his head. “If Mitla won’t, perhaps we should,” he said. It was clear that the “we” he intended was Berona, not the four of them.

  Kronmir was looking at a man who had to be the landlord, headed for them across the tables in the square. “I’m going to ask. It will save time.”

  Giselle gave a small nod.

  Innkeepers specialize in gathering and dispensing information, and Kronmir was in a hurry and prepared to pay.

  The man came up and bowed low. “My son says you have infidels travelling with you. I have never served such before, and it is possible the priest will make trouble.” He was apologetic.

  He spoke to Kronmir as if the other two did not exist. Kronmir decided to play the situation as he found it. “May I convince you?” he asked, laying a gold coin on the table. It was a round rose noble of Alba, one of the largest gold coins in the world. It was worth twenty-five Venikan ducats; probably a week of profit for the inn.

  The man took a deep breath. “You should speak to my wife,” he said finally. “She is the last word.”

  Kronmir nodded at his companions and went to the serving counter inside, where a heavy woman was pouring wine into pitchers.

  “Donna?” he asked.

  “Who wants to know?” she said. She looked up. “Ah, messire.”

  “Your husband,” he began.

  “A useless drunk,” she spat. “He sleeps all day and eats and drinks free. What lies has he told you?”

  “We are travelling with infidels from Ifriquy’a. I wish you would serve them.” He laid the yellow gold coin on the counter.

  She took it and bit it. “Of course we will serve messire’s friends,” she said. “The priests tell nothing but lies anyway.” She looked over her shoulder. “And more lies of late,” she said, looking east.

  “Can you tell me what is east of here?” he asked her. Even as he asked, Giselle came into the big room behind him. He tracked her by her footsteps.

  The woman frowned. “Vilano is the next town, and then there are hills,” she said. “Travellers from Arles come over the pass in good years,” she said. “This year, no one since the...” She swallowed. “The battle.”

  “Has anyone come from Vilano?” he asked. “Today?”

  She looked at him, and her eyes were frightened. “I know about the Darkness,” she said.

  Giselle’s breath went in sharply.

  The woman’s eyes darted around the room. “The priest says we should stay,” she said.

  Kronmir’s eyes met Giselle’s.

  Giselle put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “The priest...never mind him. Lock your inn and go to Berona. Do not go to Mitla.”

  “Who are you?” the woman asked.

  Giselle smiled. “No one you ever want to meet,” she said.

  The woman crossed herself. “I will serve your infidels, take my money, and go. Shall I leave the husband?” she asked.

  Giselle laughed. It was a brutal, callous laugh, that seemed too old for her, too evil for her golden hair. “Only if you truly hate him,” she said.

  Outside, the infidels sat at their own table and drank a local grape juice with relish. They also ate six whole chickens.

  Giselle nodded and ordered more meat. “I am going to guess this is our last meal for many days.” She asked the serving boy to bring them whole sausages.

  Kronmir sat with the horse trader. “Will you come with us?” he said.

  The man shook his head. “More is not better, in this,” he said. “I will ride north from here, as I had planned, and see what I can see. But food is good. Not everyone will sell to a black man. I am lucky I met you.” He bowed to Giselle, who had a dozen beef sausages done in a bundle and handed them over.

  “You know our ways,” he said.

  She shrugged. “I serve Venike. We trade with all.”

  He nodded. Then he glanced at Kronmir.

  Kronmir had nothing to lose. “My principal believes that the Necromancer has crossed from Ifriquy’a to take Arles,” he said. He raised an eyebrow. “Bah. Precision counts, here. My principal suspects that this is a possibility.”

  M’bub Ali had a fine red beard, somewhat overdyed with henna. He ran his fingers through it thoughtfully. “This is what I think I see as well,” he said. He shrugged. “My master believes it too. We have fought four campaigns this
year against the not-dead, but Al Rashidi says this is merely a diversion.” He shrugged. “Who is your principal?” he asked.

  Kronmir smiled. “The Duke of Thrake. Soon, I think, to be emperor.”

  M’bub Ali smiled. “This is good. A year ago, I confess that news that the lords of the west might come here would have filled me with fear, and perhaps a desire for jihad.” He flashed both eyebrows up and down. “Now, it is good to have any ally at all. It is a strange time.”

  Kronmir nodded. He took a glass phial from his pouch.

  The Ifriquy’an took it, shook it, and smiled.

  He took an ivory tube from his own sash. “Each of us carries three or more. Have your reasoned this for yourself, or did Payam tell you?”

  “Umroth ivory?” Kronmir asked.

  “Mmm. I only use the stuff. I don’t make it.”

  Tomaso shook his head. “This Al Rashidi is a famous philosopher,” he said. “Magister Petrarcha knows of him. Perhaps they correspond?”

  Giselle raised an eyebrow too. “If they didn’t before, we must see to it they do now. Anyone have letters? The donna is closing. She will go to Berona.”

  All of them except Brown wrote notes—even the horse trader.

  The infidels were ready first. They packed two heavy skins of current juice and a stack of loaves and beef sausage on two handsome mules, and with a salute of riding whips, rode off north.

  * * *

  East of the town, the fields were empty. Brown met them as they rode past the small manor house of the town’s lord, which was empty.

  Vilano was less than two miles farther east, across a narrow stream that seemed still full of rage and snow from the mountains.

  They rode across the stone bridge and their hooves clattered, far too loud in the still air. No bells rang from the village, and nothing stirred. No chickens called, no birds sang, and no dogs barked. The only animal Kronmir saw moving was a cat, with a dead mouse in her mouth. He watched her until she disappeared with her prey.

  Sole survivor?

  There were no people.

  Kronmir handed his companions each a glass phial of pale dust, and all of them took it with wine. Almost immediately, all four began to cough. The stuff was disgusting, like eating powdered dog shit.