by A. W. Exley
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To the 185 men, women, and children who lost their lives in the Canterbury earthquake, February 2011.
In a handful of heart beats we lost so much.
Monday, 18th July 1836
he sword sliced through invisible treacle. The deep green tassel hanging from the hilt swayed back and forth with the blade’s measured progress. The girl’s bare feet were silent on the dark wood floor. With eyes closed and breathing controlled, she appeared to slow time. A second stretched into twenty as she lost herself in the rhythm and balance of the ancient Chinese movements.
Above her head on the mezzanine floor, two men watched through the slated office window: Jared McLaren, student at St Matthews, and Weapons Master Marshall.
The younger man’s gaze followed the intricate dance. His help had been requested to unravel a puzzle. A puzzle who wielded a sword so expertly on the floor below.
“Who is she?” He voiced his question without taking his eyes off the girl. He stood at ease, arms clasped behind his back. Even at seventeen years old, military training oozed from every pore. With an affinity for any weapon and a keen mind, he earned his place as top student in weapons training.
The older man ran a hand through short salt and pepper hair. He flicked his gaze from the girl to his favourite pupil. “Alessandra Donovan, although she prefers Allie. She will be in your classes this year. Her grandfather is the new history master and librarian. He came here from Egypt, six weeks ago, and brought his granddaughter with him.”
Jared frowned. “She’s a commoner?”
His tongue tripped over the word, watching the graceful young woman going through the moves of the Tai Chi form. ‘Common’ was the last word he would pick to describe her. A lithe form showed she was no stranger to weapon play, yet her body curved in places that made his throat constrict. Gathered at her nape by a thong, black hair the texture and sheen of silk hung to the middle of her back. A faint olive tone dusted her skin, speaking of a heritage far more exotic than an ordinary English rose. Her oval face bore high cheekbones and deep red lips. He wished she would open her eyes, so he could see their colour. He wagered with himself they would be darkest chocolate; rich and intoxicating.
“Yes.” Marshall’s answer broke through Jared’s silent inspection.
Remembering his almost forgotten question, his mind spun to understand how a commoner gained admittance to the exclusive school. Only the wealthiest peers could afford to send their teenagers to be educated at the Academy. Even girls were a recent addition in the last decade, after the school board succumbed to the pressure, and pocket books, of a few high-powered nobles.
“St Matthews wouldn’t take a commoner just because her grandfather is staff. No matter how much they wanted him.”
“Exactly,” Marshall agreed. “But money talks, especially large quantities of it. Despite the school’s official stance that her placement is a concession to her grandfather, someone paid for her to attend. And she has an extensive and lethal collection of toys.”
“She’s guild?” He drew his gaze from the girl below, back to Marshall. There were two levels to society: the world most people knew and lived in, controlled by the nobility… and the underworld, governed by the four guilds. The implication of her presence sent a whispered shudder down his rigid spine. Assassin.
“I’d bet my right arm on it.”
The left sleeve of Marshall’s shirt was neatly rolled and knotted above the elbow. Wagering his only arm meant he thought the comment a sure bet. He gave long years of military service as an intelligence officer. Only the loss of his arm forced his retirement to St Matthews. His position teaching the young nobles to thrust and parry was an ideal cover. He recruited for the military when the right candidate appeared in his classes, like Jared. Marshall knew as much about the guild underworld as any outsider could.
Jared went back to watching the girl, her familiarity with a blade now wreathed in a black shadow. He sucked in an uneasy breath. “An assassin, at the school?”
“That was my first thought too, but it doesn’t fit. I’ve dealt with assassins, the Skin Dancers, before, and there’s a coldness about them. They are detached from the world and what they do. Dealing in death infects their souls. But this one? Well, you’ll see.” A smile crunched among the deep lines at the corners of his eyes.
Jared passed a puzzled look to his master. If the Skin Dancers had placed an assassin at school, it meant someone was in imminent danger; but the tactic could shatter a delicate peace if her target was a student. For five hundred years there existed a covenant between the underworld guilds and the lords who ruled above: children are to be left untouched by the dealings of their fathers.
“Come on down and grab a sword. That’s the other reason I asked you here early, other than the obvious puzzle. She’s quick and I want you to test her.” They took the wooden stairway curving down to the floor of the cavernous training gymnasium, Marshall’s domain.
St Matthews Academy held a formidable reputation among the English aristocracy for the breadth of its academic curriculum. Scottish nobles, since the Warrior King Act of 1570, sent their heirs to learn tactics and to wield a variety of weapons under the expert eye of Weapons Master Marshall.
One wall held mullioned windows set high, almost touching the ceiling. Sunlight streamed in and, wherever it could touch, warmed the rich wooden floor. Glow lamps cast a soft yellow light wherever the summer sun failed to penetrate.
Weapons dominated the adjacent wall. A workbench ran along half the wall, the surface containing grinders, machines, rags, and oil, all necessary to maintain razor edges. Blades and staves of every description and size formed a glinting façade of death and mayhem, each held in place by custom-made brackets. A wooden cabinet hugged the available space next to the bench. Wide doors swung open to reveal smaller weapons: throwing stars, pocket knives, and slender stilettoes.
Climbing ropes hung in another corner, knots at regular intervals to give some relief to young muscles as they clambered to the bars just below the high ceiling. Black and white concentric rings at varying heights decorated another wall, targets used for knife throwing.
The faint tang of citrus hung in the air from the cleaning fluid used to mop sweat from the floors each night, along with a dollop of melted bees’ wax to add shine to the gleaming timber.
The two men walked to the middle of the room.
“Allie?” Marshall interrupted the girl’s meditation.
She froze and flicked open eyes of the darkest brown, bordering on black.
“This is Jared McLaren, my best student.”
She cast her steady gaze to Jared and inclined her head in acknowledgement. He stared; he could drown in her eyes. Meeting her gaze was like peering into the depths of night. It concealed unfathomable secrets within inky darkness. Breaking eye contact, he gave a formal half bow as he unslung t
he long katana from his back and passed it to Marshall.
“I thought you might like a challenge now you have warmed up. Jared regularly puts me through my paces.” Marshall strode to the bench and deposited the katana. From the wall of weapons he selected two swords of medium length, holding both blades in his one remaining hand. Returning to the youths, he let each take a sword before removing the jian from Allie’s elegant fingers.
“As you wish.” She directed her comment to Marshall, but her eyes remained fixed on Jared.
Her tone brushed over his skin like a caress. He mentally smacked himself in the side of the head. Pull it together. She’s just a girl, he berated himself. But what a girl, part of him answered.
Laughter danced behind her eyes as she watched him, as though she could read his soul and found his internal dialogue amusing. She arched a dark eyebrow at him.
“When you’re ready?” she murmured.
The sound of steel on steel echoed in the high-ceilinged room as their swords met and slid off one another. Sparring became more dance than fight. Silence of intense concentration hung as they tested one another, seeking any weakness to exploit. In terms of speed they were equally matched. Jared had the advantage of strength and reach, but Allie was more agile.
Jared’s light strokes became harder and fiercer as he took the measure of his opponent and found her worthy. He stretched his arm farther and threw more of his weight behind each blow. The match spun into long minutes, each thrust and slide met and repelled. They both drew shorter breaths with the exertion but neither of them made headway. Jared saw minute hesitations in Allie’s moves, a tiny waver in the hand holding her sword. He only had to wait for her to weary enough to make a mistake, although that option ran the risk of her being hurt. Tired fighters made fatal errors. I should end this, before she is injured.
He took a risk. As she spun past and under his thrust, he shot out one arm and caught her around the waist and then tossed his weapon to one side. She gave a cry of surprise as his arms wrapped around and pulled her against him, her spine pressing into his chest. He placed one hand around her throat to hold her immobile. His other hand moved to pinch the small bones in her wrist, forcing her fingers open on the sword hilt. It dropped to the ground with a clatter.
“Yes,” he whispered as though she were a skittish horse to be brought under control. He moved her trapped arm up and held it tight against her chest. With her warmth pressed to him he realised how tall she was, yet slender enough he could wrap himself around her. Her head rested on his shoulder, the curve of her spine pushed into his chest.
As though we were crafted to fit together, he realised with a jolt and suppressed a groan.
Leaning forward, he brushed her ear with his lips. “Yield.”
She gave a quiet snort of suppressed laughter and turned her head, throwing him a look of pure defiance from eyes turned black as ink. “No.”
Though she appeared composed in his grip, under his fingers he could feel the rapid beat of her pulse, betraying her inner turmoil. No cold assassin.
Marshall coughed. “Jared? You two have to go get ready for classes, and Allie probably needs to change.”
He loosened his grip and she spun away from him. Picking up her fallen sword, she walked to the wall of blades and returned hers to its place. She cast one backward look over her shoulder before slipping through the door into the hallway beyond. Jared watched the swing door shudder back and forth.
“Are you interested in helping me dig to the bottom of this puzzle?” Marshall’s words interrupted his train of thought. “We need to know which guild she is bound to and what they want at St Matthews. I have probed and asked, with no success.” Marshall rubbed his jaw. “You have an opportunity to get closer and learn the truth.”
Jared swung his gaze from the closed door back to Marshall, a large wolfish grin on his face. “Oh, I am most definitely interested.”
llie’s heart pounded; an echo of her footsteps on the hard slate floor of the hallway. As a guild child, she learned to wield a knife like noble girls learned needlepoint. Swords and throwing stars were her pianoforte and deportment classes. Her sparring partners were often boys, so why did this particular one make her pulse run faster than a bolting horse?
He had circled her with the easy grace of a dancer. His hair draped over his forehead, so black it bordered on blue, cut short on the nape but rangy in front, almost obscuring that pale grey gaze. Eyes so mesmerising she thought a wolf watched her. Pure predator looked out, assessing her weaknesses. Her skin burned under her tunic where his arms held her. The memory of his lips at her neck made a shiver pass down her body.
A foolish reaction or worse, a deadly mistake.
Her mind whirled as she traced her path to the girls’ dormitory. She flung open the door to the room she shared and pressed it shut behind her. With short, quick movements, she stripped off her loose cotton pants and kimono top and threw herself on the bed clad in just her chemise and knickers.
Lying back, she stared at the ceiling. Her roommate, Eloise, had painted an intricate sky scape during her long internment at the school. A dark blue night with constellations painted in swirls of gold and silver stared back at her. The walls were a forest of climbing vines fit to conceal Sleeping Beauty. Eloise was a genius with her hands whether painting, sewing, or dissecting wild life.
Allie gathered her thoughts and calmed her mind, before she dressed for class. The colours over her head reminded her of the harem, where the walls were decorated with tiles painted in azure blue, startling orange, deep green, and sunshine yellow. The brilliant mosaics were a hard contrast to the lush silken drapes and velvet floor cushions so large she used to curl up on one, like a kitten in a lap.
“I wish you would stop killing my frogs!” The genius in question had stirred and risen from her bed only to find the lifeless amphibian on her desk.
“Stop reanimating them and I wouldn’t have to,” Allie countered, rolling over on to her stomach. “And to be fair I don’t kill them, I just disconnect them. How can you sleep with their limbs twitching and jerking? It woke me up again this morning.”
Eloise’s hazel eyes peered from behind delicate gold-framed glasses. “Don’t tell me the warrior princess is scared of a little itty bitty frog?”
Allie smiled at the gentle teasing. As the only two girls in residence over the summer break, Allie had been dumped on Eloise. Friendship sprung up between the two, despite being polar opposites. One noble born and one common, one bookish and academic, one more at ease with a blade in her hand. Even in looks, they were light and dark. Allie thought her darker colouring, inherited from her Egyptian grandmother, marked her as common. Unlike Eloise, with her ethereal, porcelain skin and face surrounded by pale strawberry blonde curls. Her friend looked like a delicate and expensive doll.
“Don’t call me that. And it’s not the frog itself that scares me, rather the whole reanimation business. What’s next? Will I wake up to find a goat laying over your desk as though it were a high altar to biology?”
Eloise screwed up her nose in thought as she considered the possibility. “My desk isn’t big enough, neither are my electrodes. I’d need more electricity so you’d have to climb up to the roof for me and connect a larger cable.” Eloise tapped her finger on the copper wires running from her desk and disappearing out the window. They ran up the side of the building to a device of Eloise’s construction on the roof.
Allie snorted in laughter. “Not going to happen. Then I would wake up one morning with your wires attached to my forehead and chest.”
Eloise pondered the scenario. “Well you’d have to be dead first. So you’d probably be grateful to be waking up at all. Your gratitude would enslave you to me, for ever after.”
Allie stared at her friend. “Beneath that gentle exterior is the mind of an evil genius. One day the world will wake up and find itself under your dominion.”
“Well you have nothing to fret about. I’ll keep you on as my chie
f body guard.” Eloise laughed. “And we both need to get dressed. First class starts in twenty minutes, and I hate being late.” Eloise picked up the pillow and lobbed the feathery missile at her roommate.
Allie groaned and ducked. “For a science girl you have far too good an arm on you,” she muttered as she slid off the bed.
Surveying her wardrobe options, she donned a floor-length tweed skirt with a train over her simple chemise. On top, she added a brown corset with bright brass swing hooks. Although made of plain leather, she lovingly cleaned and replenished it, so the buttery hide moulded to her form. The tight lacing up the back emphasised her narrow waist. She twisted her long black hair up off her nape and secured the roll with two deadly silver pins. She laced soft boots over her shins. From beside her bed she picked up a dagger with an obsidian blade, given to her when she left Egypt. She ran a finger over the ornate hieroglyphics on the hilt, remembering the young man who bestowed the gift, before she slipped the knife down the side of her right boot.
Eloise gave her a strange look. “What was his name?”
She shook her skirts and a small smile tugged the corners of her lips. “Hakim.”
“You never talk about him. Did you love him? Does it hurt too much, to remember?” Eloise’s intelligent gaze bore straight through Allie, dissecting her heart like a biology experiment.
Allie frowned. Did I love him? She shrugged. “I miss him, like I miss numerous things about Egypt.”
“Ah, an interesting answer.” Eloise looped her arm through Allie’s and dragged her through the door.
Those around saw her as an orphan and ward of her grandfather. They thought her position at the school was awarded to secure Alfred Donovan, renowned historian instrumental in helping Champollion to decipher the Rosetta Stone. Allie saw beneath the surface lies to the truth. She was no orphan and she didn’t have to smell her father’s subtle French cologne to know his hand pulled the strings. He placed his puppet at St Matthews, she just had to figure out why.
