The Sword Saint

by C. F. Iggulden

  ‘Very well. I had no part in any treachery, I assure you.’

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ Tellius said, giving him the honour of his title as his response.

  Bosin untangled the belly-strap Hondo had worn under his coat and Tellius pulled everything out of it, spilling an array of slender blades and pieces of parchment to the ground. Three small resin tubes were held flat in the thing. They resembled the ones carried by pigeons and contained only a scrap of dust. Each was a different colour, but of course Tellius could not know which was which.

  Hondo stopped breathing and began to make a clicking sound deep in his throat. The muscle relaxant had been used to kill enemies for a thousand years, rendering them completely helpless. It was cruel, but brutally effective, as it stole strength, then breath and, at the end, the beating of the heart. After that, there was no way back. The antidote was not exactly a chemical opposite, but a stimulant of such ferocity it could burst veins in a healthy man. Tellius had carried tubes like the ones he held then forty years before. He had memorised their use, but it was all a lifetime ago. In his panic, with Hondo dying, he struggled to remember the other two. One was surely for snake venom, the other … He gave up and emptied all three into Hondo’s gaping mouth, rubbing the powders onto the man’s gums and tongue with his finger.

  ‘Hand me that wine glass,’ Tellius ordered, reaching for whoever held it. He poured the liquid into Hondo’s mouth and prayed he was not drowning him.

  They all waited. The sword saint of Shiang looked too much like a corpse in his stillness, made pale by the lack of blood moving in his muscles. When he breathed again, it was answered by a gasp across the faces of the crowd. Many of them had been holding their breaths unconsciously, staring.

  The swinging lights were made still, so that the blurring shadows settled and normality returned. Tellius wondered if the prince had thought it might be an advantage to his man, or if it had just been a gesture to add to the drama of the moment. It did not matter then. The body of Emil Cartagne, champion of Féal, had been carried away from the courtyard, leaving a great stain of blood on the flagstones. Everything he had been had been taken from him.

  Once he was sure Hondo would not stop breathing again, Tellius rose to his feet and faced the prince. The young man had recovered his dignity, but there was a glitter in his eyes: uncertainty, or a trace of fear.

  ‘I must apologise for the actions of my man,’ the prince said. ‘I assure you it does not reflect the honour of Féal. If he had survived, I would have had him executed.’

  Tellius felt old and tired. He was not in the mood for small barbs, not when the main battle of the evening was his victory.

  ‘I believe you, Your Majesty. Now, I’ll need to take my man to the royal physician. Can I prevail on you for a couple of servants to help carry him? My coach will be outside.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The prince snapped his fingers and two of his men stepped forward. One of them reached for Hondo’s sword, where it had fallen. Tellius moved sharply at that.

  ‘Not the sword. Allow me.’ He stooped and picked it up.

  ‘Should I examine that blade as well?’ Prince Louis asked.

  It was a mistake, said in bitter jest, but Tellius was not in the mood to let it pass. He grew very still and it was the prince’s turn to wonder if he had gone too far, with a man who held a sword within striking range.

  Tellius reached out with the blade, making the gesture slow enough not to be seen as a threat. He had no idea how many assassins mingled in that crowd. He did not want to startle one of them into rash action.

  ‘Reassure yourself, if you wish. Be careful though, Your Majesty. It is sharper than you know.’

  As if mesmerised, the prince wet his finger and touched it to the cold metal, rubbing a strip that made Tellius cringe internally. The prince tasted his own skin and seemed disappointed there was nothing more than a trace of oil. Tellius wrapped the sword in Hondo’s jacket then, without sheathing it. That single touch would leave a permanent mark if it wasn’t polished clean.

  Some of the prince’s confidence returned, perhaps with the unconscious awareness that both men had fallen. Hondo lay limp and the victory was less clear than it might have been. As Tellius readied himself to leave, some of the other nobles came to make their goodbyes, as if they were leaving a party like any other. Tellius could see it did not seem like the humiliation and failure it actually was. He felt a whisper of anger uncoil.

  ‘So, Your Majesty. Will you send the four thousand in gold tomorrow morning? If Aeris staked you, perhaps you could have him drop it in to me.’

  Tellius spoke casually and the prince’s sick expression was its own reward. Prince Louis had indeed forgotten the bet in the presence of death.

  ‘Y-yes … yes, of course,’ the prince replied, biting one half of his lower lip.

  ‘It will help with the doctor’s bill, I imagine,’ Tellius said, enjoying the discomfort. ‘I hope you will tell your king that his champion died with dishonour. Such things are important. I’m sure he can find another as … skilled.’

  The prince waved away the suggestion, his anger flaring in bright colour. For an instant, it was as if he and Tellius stood alone.

  ‘Oh, we have ten thousand swordsmen, Master Speaker. In the royal guard alone. Do not concern yourself on that score.’

  It was a threat, delivered by a foreign prince in the heart of Darien. Tellius knew he should just leave. He should incline his head and take Hondo out to his coach. Instead, he looked at the crowd around them, searching for a man he’d noticed in the first moment of arrival, who had edged away rather than crane to see, like all the others – and so made himself obvious.

  ‘You, sir,’ Tellius called across them. The man in question tried to disappear behind a row of guests and Tellius sighed. ‘Vic Deeds, I believe. Come here.’

  Not for nothing had Tellius trained and deployed spies across the city, in every noble and trading house. He knew the names, habits and vices of all those watching in Vine Street that night. He knew Deeds had called himself Israel Jenkins, as well. The idea that Lord Woodville could hire a new personal guard without a few questions being asked was laughable.

  Deeds came forward with some real bravado and at least the same amount feigned.

  ‘Stand there, son,’ Tellius said. He pointed to the long pistols of black iron that hung in holsters on both hips. At his side, he felt Bosin lean forward, frowning and present in a way he had not quite been before. Deeds glanced only once at the big man, then kept his gaze firmly lowered.

  The prince still stared in confusion. Tellius turned to him to answer.

  ‘Your Majesty, swords were my life once, in Shiang. But I am a man of Darien now. And we have guns.’

  The threat was clear, though he smiled. Tellius bowed then, judging the depth to a nicety wasted on the young prince, then spun on his heel and departed.

  Outside, Tellius oversaw Hondo being put into his coach. The evening had been satisfying, in its way. He’d learned a great deal more about the prince. Yet he thought the cost had been too high. Bosin climbed up on the outside with the coachman, making the springs creak and lean. The whip snapped and they rode away into the darkness, to wake the king’s physician before dawn.

  6

  Ambassador

  Hondo came awake in his own room in the Sallet estate, under clean white sheets. Bosin sat in a chair at the foot of his bed, staring at nothing. Hondo watched him for a time, content just to lie there and recover his thoughts. He remembered killing the champion of Féal. That was beyond dispute. The blow had been mortal and he’d registered the satisfaction of a victory as he’d struck.

  Hondo felt heat and swelling in his side, but none of the sense of wrongness that accompanied more serious wounds. He knew instinctively that he’d had worse and survived. He put that pain aside. His memories of the party ended at the moment of striking. He did recall Tellius’ order – ‘I want to win; I want him also to lose.’
It was a line from the legends of Shiang, a demand from a master to his guards not only to bring victory, but to humiliate his enemy to such a degree that suicide was his only possible response.

  Hondo felt heat begin to rise in his cheeks as he considered the choices he had made. He could not say he had fulfilled the spirit of the order. He might have taken the Féal champion apart a strip at a time, for example, until he was a bloody mess, begging Hondo to end his torment. That would have been a spectacle worthy of the ancient command.

  Instead, Hondo had sought an ending so fast it would be in itself a humiliation. He had skirted his duty, trying to obey, but retaining subtlety and nuance. He shook his head slightly, as if refusing to answer a question. Two years in Darien had changed him, he realised. Not like Bosin, but still, something. The people of the city knew nothing of Mazer swordsmen, or unthinking fealty. They preferred to bargain and trade favours, to insult and take revenge. Life in Darien was crude and clumsy and occasionally obscene, but Hondo saw the value in it. There were times when he missed Shiang with the power of a homesick child – and other times when he understood completely what Tellius saw in all the noise and dirt and sheer chaos. Order was agreeably restful, but disorder could be stimulating.

  Bosin sensed the gaze on him. The big man turned his head slowly, as if returning from far away. When he saw Hondo was awake, Bosin nodded once.

  ‘Muscle-weakener,’ he said.

  Hondo nodded, though he felt his cheeks grow hotter in response. He was the sword saint of Shiang! Twenty years before, it would not have mattered if an opponent had coated his sword with some poison. Hondo would not have been cut. There had been a time … Hondo sighed and closed his eyes. He felt rested. If he had learned anything over two years in Darien, it was not to dwell too long on the past. That was a major difference between the cultures. In Shiang, there were a thousand tales of men or women whose lives had been ruined by a single error, often in their youth. In Darien, they seemed to accept their younger versions were mostly idiots. It was not so much forgiveness, as a mature response to something that could not be changed. The past was dead.

  ‘I polished your blade,’ Bosin said. ‘The prince touched it.’

  Hondo cursed under his breath as he threw back the cover and put his legs down to the floor. His ribs were bound, but there was little pain. He patted the square of bandage.

  ‘Good work,’ he said. It was unusual to have any kind of conversation with Bosin and he searched for something else to add.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he heard himself say.

  Bosin turned a blank expression on him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a shrug. Bosin rose from the chair. ‘The ambassador from Shiang is coming.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Hondo said faintly. He watched as the cold mask settled on Bosin once again. The big man did not look round as he crossed to the door and went out, closing it behind him. Bosin would not have hesitated to carry out Tellius’ humiliation order, whether it was justified or not. Nor would he have wasted time thinking about it afterwards. Hondo imagined it was a peaceful existence, though it was still a kind of death. He shuddered as he reached under the bed for a porcelain pot to empty his bladder.

  Tellius found he was sweating again. The early-evening sun had turned a harder gold, lighting the highest walls and towers in bands of brass. The prince of Féal had left Darien that morning, though the house on Vine Street remained open. Tellius had expected reports of it being shuttered, but instead, more worrying news had come of offices and clerks being installed. It felt just a little like an infection, allowed into the city and then given free rein. Worse was the arrival of another message from the eastern road. There was hardly time to congratulate himself on the success of the warning system he had created. The ambassador from Shiang was moving faster than Tellius had expected. Perhaps the sight of a good road had spurred him on, but the last birds had come from a tavern just forty miles from the city. It meant they could be at the gates of the city the following morning, if they chose to push on. Tellius had no one closer on the road, though he had twice thought of sending gallopers a few miles out to give him a final warning. They would be seen, however. If the ambassador was the competitive type, it could turn into a race for the walls.

  Tellius had informed the court, of course, passing the tiny thread of paper on to the king’s advisers. There were matters of etiquette involved that were appallingly complex. If Tellius was king of Shiang by right of inheritance, he could not go himself to greet the ambassador. The man and his retinue had to be escorted to the royal palace of Darien as a diplomatic party, there to be given rooms to rest and recuperate after the long journey.

  Tellius wiped beads from his forehead as he bustled down a corridor of the Sallet estate, the captain of the guard at his side. Captain Galen was a good man, proven in loyalty. He seemed amused by Tellius’ state of nerves, for reasons Tellius could not understand or stop to ask.

  ‘This is no good,’ Tellius said. ‘I must know where he is on the road. I need a warning. Can we have someone sent up a high tower? That would win me a few minutes, wouldn’t it?’

  Galen nodded to one of the young serving lads trailing in their wake.

  ‘You can run, Peter, I’ve seen you, when there’s work to be done. So – east wall guard tower. When you see any sort of group on the road, come back here to me. Understood?’

  ‘Not to you, captain,’ Tellius interrupted. ‘To the palace. I’ll be there, I think. Lady Sallet thought that would be best …’

  ‘Very well, sir. Peter, did you hear that? Don’t nod at me, boy. Say, “Yes, captain.” Very good. The palace, then. When you see them, come like the wind, all right? Well? Are you waiting for a little push to get you started? Go!’

  The boy peeled off from the group and Tellius nodded sharply, over and over.

  ‘Who do we have on the greeting group – at the gate?’

  ‘Royal stewards in full livery, three of those,’ Galen counted off on his fingers. ‘Lord Hart will join them. He has agreed to guide the ambassador to the palace. Lord Hart has promised six of his guards in their best ceremonial blues. There’ll be more men along the route – and the ones you wanted in the crowd in case there’s trouble.’

  ‘You have sawhorses out ready to block the junctions? The detour signs?’ Tellius asked. He had asked the same questions twice before and Galen raised his eyes briefly to the ceiling of the cloister as they reached the end of it.

  ‘All ready. Whenever he arrives, the ambassador will be guided straight through the city gate with Lord Hart, then escorted to the palace. The royal estate will open before him and he’ll be taken to the Bee rooms to rest and refresh himself. You and the king will meet him in the early evening. The meal will be duck.’

  Tellius stopped and glanced at Galen.

  ‘Really?’

  Galen chuckled, a little embarrassed.

  ‘Actually, yes. I heard the cook discussing the menu when you sent me out there this afternoon. He has a number of soups ready as well, though I forget the names. Leek was involved in one of them.’

  Tellius waved a hand, feeling the tightness in his chest ease.

  ‘Thank you, Galen. I can see it’s all in hand. I just …’ He trailed off, unable to explain.

  Galen smiled.

  ‘I understand, sir. I have a mother-in-law.’ Tellius blinked at him and Galen went on. ‘It’s a little bit like that – someone you need to impress, coming into your house. You’ve been in Darien a long time, sir. You just want to make a good impression on someone from the old country. We’ll do our bit, don’t worry. This city owes you a good show.’

  ‘Galen has that right,’ Lady Sallet said, appearing in the doorway. She reached out and let Tellius kiss her cheek. ‘Now. There is a bath filled and I have laid out your clothes for the morning. Simple, dark colours as you said.’

  ‘My blue jacket?’

  ‘With the white shirt. It’s too warm for a coat, so I’ve kept it simple. Just the s
word, on a black leather belt.’

  Tellius kissed her again and swept past, shrugging out of his tunic as he went.

  Ambassador Anson Xi-Hue maintained the cold face as he started up the royal hall, his retinue like rustling geese behind him. He prided himself on his ability to hide all emotion, an asset in foreign courts – and sometimes his own. So he gave no sign of the astonishment he felt, though he reeled from it. He had not expected huge walls and fortifications. Just a glance back as he passed through the gate confirmed intricate mechanisms, walkways, guardhouses and steps down to the street. He had certainly not expected crowds staring in hostile fashion from behind enormous sawhorses stretched across the road. The fact that his presence prevented them going about their lives had somehow been abundantly clear in their expressions and the way their eyes had followed him. In friendly company, with a little wine, Xi-Hue might have claimed a kinship with such common men. His mother had been high-born, it was true, but his father had been a simple mathematics tutor. Xi-Hue had avoided the airs and sneering of some of his generation. It was true he disliked crudity in all forms, but perhaps he saw a nobility in the honest carpenter or the layer of bricks that others in the diplomatic corps never could. He prided himself on that common touch.

  It had been disconcerting to have the crowds in Darien call out insults as he passed. He still did not know if it was the fact that he rode a beautiful grey gelding, or his tunic of blue silk, or that his retinue wore matching coats. He had been called a ‘peacock’ as he’d arrived that morning and although he had halted his horse and pointed out the offender, the guard he addressed had only looked blankly at him. Xi-Hue shuddered at the memory of the wet clot from the road that had arced overhead, missing by inches. It made him wonder if his hosts even understood their own honour was bound up in his protection. The slightest attack on his dignity would be tenfold upon theirs.