The Skies Discrowned

by Tim Powers

  He saw Kathrin reenter the room, so he dropped his now half-empty bottle into a potted plant and waved at her. She saw him, smiled warmly, and weaved through the crowd toward him. Well, that’s better, thought Frank. I guess old Matthews was just a momentary fascination.

  “Hi, Frank,” said Kathrin gaily. “What have you been up to?”

  “Getting into arguments with surly poetesses. How about you?”

  “I’ve been getting to know Matthews. It’s all right with you if he takes me home, isn’t it? Do you know, under his sophisticated exterior I think he’s very … vulnerable.”

  “I’ll bet even his exterior is vulnerable,” said Frank, covering his confusion and disappointment with a wolfish grin. “Does he wear a sword? Matthews, there you are! Come over here a minute.”

  “Frank, please!” hissed Kathrin. “I think he’s my animus!”

  “Your animus, is he? I had no idea it had gone this far. Matthews! Borrow a sword from someone and you and I will decide in the street which of us is to take Kathrin home.”

  Frank was talking loudly, and many of the guests were watching him with wary curiosity. Matthews turned pale. “A sword?” he repeated. “A woman’s heart was never swayed by swords.”

  “I’ll puncture your heart with one, weasel,” growled Frank, unsheathing his rapier. A woman screamed and Matthews looked imploringly at Kathrin.

  “Frank!” Kathrin shrilled. “Put away your stupid sword! Matthews isn’t so cowardly as to accept your challenge.”

  “What?” Frank hadn’t followed that.

  “It takes much more courage not to fight. Matthews was explaining it to me earlier. And if you think I’d let a … thief and murderer like you take me home, you’re very much mistaken.”

  Everyone in the room had stopped talking now and stared at Frank. He slapped his sword back into its scabbard and strode out of the room, leaving the front door open behind him.

  That night after he’d rowed back to the boat, he took a long, very chilly swim in the sea by moonlight, out to the rocks of the jetty. He climbed up onto the highest of them, ignoring the icy wind that twitched his wet hair. Shivering like a drenched cat, he calmly watched the moon peeping at intervals from behind a tattered, back-lit sheet of clouds. Finally he swam slowly back to the boat, where he had a quick glass of brandy and then went to bed.

  “Hey, Rovzar!”

  Frank opened his eyes. He felt terrible, but it was mainly mental distress; apparently the alcohol and the icy swim had cancelled each other out.

  “Dammit, Rovzar, where are you?”

  Who the hell is that yelling? Frank wondered. It didn’t sound like police, but it might well bring some if it didn’t stop. Frank rolled out of bed, slid into his pants, grabbed his rapier and stumbled bleary-eyed onto the dazzlingly-sunlit deck. A snub-nosed, insolent-looking young man stood by the stern, dressed in close-fitting tan leather.

  “Who the hell are you?” Frank croaked.

  “I’m a courier. You’re Rovzar, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, here,” the courier said, handing Frank a wax-sealed envelope. “Get some coffee into you, pal,” he advised. “You look terrible.” The young man hopped over the side into his own boat and began rowing away, whistling cheerfully.

  Frank sat down on the deck and broke the seal. The letter, when unfolded, read: “Vital meeting of SC Tuesday at 9:00. Important announcement. Mandatory attendance unless specifically exempt by a reigning lord.—BLANCHARD.”

  Frank read it over several times and then stuffed it into his pants pocket. Coffee, he thought. That’s not a bad idea. He picked up his sword, stood up, and made his unsteady way down the stairs to the galley.

  “What I heard was true I tell you, this is it.”

  Lord Tolley Christensen bit his lip, frowning thoughtfully. “That isn’t certain, Emsley. Don’t jump to conclusions.” He stared again at the paper that lay on the table in front of him—it was a duplicate of the one Frank had received that morning. “Blanchard has got an ‘important announcement’ to make tomorrow. It might be anything—the Transport, the Goriot fugitives, the depression—it isn’t necessarily the naming of his successor.”

  Emsley lit a cigar. “Yeah, Tolley, but what if it is? And the successor he names isn’t you, but Rovzar?”

  “You’re right,” Tolley admitted. “We can’t risk it. Rovzar’s got to be killed.”

  “Do it carefully, though,” Emsley said. “You’ll be a prime suspect, and if Blanchard thinks you did it he sure won’t make you his successor.”

  “Blanchard won’t have time even to hear about it, I think,” said Tolley with a cold smile. “Have you heard of the ius gladii?”

  “The what?”

  “Never mind. Get out of here, now, and let me think.”

  Tuesday night was racked with thunder and rain. Frank stood on the deck under the overhanging roof of the cabin and stared out into the thrashing gray rain-curtains for some sign of the bow-light of Orcrist’s rowboat. The deep-voiced harbor bells and foghorns played a sad, moronic dirge across the water, and Frank’s shivering wasn’t entirely due to the cold, wet wind that whipped at his long sealskin coat. He waved his flickering lantern, hoping it would be seen by Orcrist.

  Finally he heard “Ho, Frank!” from the darkness, and a moment later saw the weak glint of orange light wavering toward him through the rain. Frank swung his lantern from side to side. “This way, Sam!” he called.

  A few minutes later Orcrist’s boat was bumping against the bow. Frank climbed in, holding his oiled and wrapped sword clear of the splashing, three-inch-deep pool of water in the scuppers. He thrust it inside his coat and then took the oars and began pulling for the Leethee. The rain was whipping them too fiercely for speech to seem like a good idea, so the two men simply listened to the occasional thunderclaps and watched the rain stream off their hat-brims.

  The boat lurched its laborious way around the ship basin and then turned in. After some searching, they found the arch of the Leethee mouth. When they’d rowed a hundred feet or so up its length they took their hats off and Orcrist began bailing the water out of their boat with a couple of coffee cans. The Leethee was deeper and faster than usual, and Frank was soon sweating with the effort of making headway.

  “How well do you know Blanchard, Frank?” It was the first thing either of them had said since Frank had entered the boat.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I drink and play chess with him. Mostly he tells me stories about his younger days. Why do you ask?”

  “Your acquaintance with him seems to have caused some jealousy in high circles.”

  “Oh?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard, anyway. Take that side-channel there, it’ll avoid most of this current.”

  Eventually they pulled up to an ancient stone dock and moored their boat in its shadow. “Nobody’s likely to see it here,” Orcrist whispered. “Come on—up these stairs.” Frank buckled his sword to his belt and followed the older man up the cracked granite stairs, slipping occasionally on the wet stone surfaces.

  The steps led up to a long, entirely unlit corridor, down which they had to feel their way as slowly as disoriented blind men. At last they reached another stairway and found at the top a high-roofed hall lit by frequent torches, and they were able to move more quickly.

  “Say, Sam, I’ve been meaning to ask you: was the Subterranean Companions’ meeting hall ever a church? It sure looks like it was.”

  “Didn’t you ever hear the story about that, Frank? There was a—”

  A sharp twang sounded up ahead and an arrow buried half its length in Orcrist’s chest. Frank leaped to the wall and whipped out his sword, and two more arrows hissed through the space he’d occupied a moment before. Orcrist fell to his knees and then slumped sideways onto the wet pavement. Six men burst out of an alcove ahead and ran at Frank, waving wicked-looking double-edged sabres. Fired to an irrational fury by Orcrist’s death, Frank ran almost joyfully to meet the
m.

  He collided with the first of them so hard that their bell guards clacked against each other, numbing the other man’s arm; Frank drove a backhand thrust through the man’s kidney. Two more blades were jabbing at his stomach, and he parried both of them low, then leaped backward and snatched up the fallen man’s sword. Two of the thugs were trying to circle around him, so Frank quickly leaped toward the other three with an intimidating stamp, his two swords held crossed in front of him. All three men extended stop-thrusts that Frank swept up with his right-hand blade, clearing the way for a lightning-quick stab into the throat of the man on the far left; whirling with the move, Frank drove his blade to the hilt into a would-be back-stabber’s belly. The other man’s blade-edge cut a notch in Frank’s chin, but Frank’s right-hand sword pierced him through the eye.

  Frank backed off warily to catch his breath. Barely five seconds had passed, but four of his opponents were down, three dead and one slumped moaning against the wall. Drops of blood fell in a steady rain onto the front of Franks dress shirt. The two remaining ambushers approached Frank cautiously, about six feet apart. The man on Frank’s right was leaving his six-line open.

  Frank tensed; very quickly he leaned forward on his lead leg and then kicked off with his rear leg in a rushing fleche attack that drove his blade into the man’s chest and snapped it off a foot above the bell guard. He spun to meet the remaining man, whose point was rushing at Frank’s neck, and parried the thrust with his right-hand blade. Frank then drove his shortened left-hand sword dagger-style upward, with a sound of tearing cloth, into the man’s heart. After a few seconds Frank’s rigid arm released the grip and the body dropped to the pavement.

  Hodges stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. The hall was full tonight—more members had shown up than he had known there were. Shouts and whistles and a low roar of talking were amplified in the cathedral-like hall until people had to cup their hands and shout to be heard.

  Hodges glanced to his right into the sacristy and saw Blanchard, his hair and beard newly combed, give him a nod. Hodges banged on the speaker’s stand with a gavel, but to no avail. He gave it a stronger blow and the head flew off into the crowd. Somebody threw it back at him and he had to leap aside to avoid being hit. He could be seen to be mouthing words like “Shut up, dammit, you idiots!” but in the general roar his shouts couldn’t be heard.

  Blanchard strode out onto the platform carrying a ceremonial shotgun, and fired it at the ceiling, where a few other ripped-up areas provided reminders of times in the past when this had been necessary. The sharp roar of the gun silenced the crowd abruptly, and the bits of stone and shot whining around the hall were all that could be heard.

  “All right then,” Blanchard growled. “Let’s get down to business. The first thing we’ve got to get straight is—”

  “The question of your successor!” called Lord Tolley Christensen, who stood up now from his fourth-row seat.

  “What’s the problem, Tolley?” asked Blanchard quietly.

  “There’s no problem, sire. I’m just invoking a precedent—one you’re familiar with yourself.”

  “That precedent being … ?”

  “The ius gladii.”

  Hodges stared at Tolley in amazement, and there were shocked gasps from those thieves who knew what was being mentioned.

  “All right.” Blanchard raised his voice so that everyone in the hall could hear him. “Lord Tolley Christensen has invoked the ius gladii and challenged me to a duel. The winner will be your king. Here, two of you move this table out of here. Hodges, get my sword.”

  Lord Emsley stood sweating in the vestibule. He had posted six experienced, expensive killers in each of the three corridors Rovzar might have taken to get to the hall, and he had little doubt that Rovzar would be killed. Also, he had great confidence in Tolley’s swordsmanship—still, he’d be happier when this evening was over.

  Blanchard and Tolley now faced each other on the wide marble speaker’s stand. They drew their swords and saluted; then they took the on guard position and cautiously advanced at each other.

  Tolley tried a feint-and-lunge, Blanchard parried it and riposted, Tolley extended a stop-thrust that Blanchard got a bind on, Tolley released, and they both stepped back, panting a little. The assembled thieves growled and muttered among themselves.

  Tolley hopped forward, attacking fiercely now, and the clang and rasp of the thrust-parry-riposte-cut-parry filled the hall. Tolley had Blanchard retreating, thrusting savagely and constantly at the old king. Finally a quick over-the-top jab hit the king in the chest; Tolley redoubled the attack and drove the blade into Blanchard’s heart.

  Angry yells came from the crowd as the old king fell and rolled off the back of the platform, and several of the thieves leaped up, waving their swords. Hodges, looking grim, raised his hand.

  “There’s nothing you can do,” he said in a rasping, levelly controlled voice. “Tolley Christensen is the King of the Subterranean Companions. The only way to dispute that is to challenge him to a single combat. Are there … any members who want to do that?”

  There was silence. Lord Tolley’s swordsmanship was almost legendary.

  “I’ll challenge him,” came a voice from the vestibule. All heads turned to see who spoke, and Tolley’s eyes widened when he saw Frank Rovzar standing in the doorway. Damn that inefficient Emsley! Tolley thought furiously.

  Frank shoved the gaping, pale-faced Lord Emsley aside and strode up the central aisle to the altar-like speaker’s platform. As he approached he saw Tolley smile—he’s noticing my bloody shirt, Frank thought. Good; I hope he overestimates the injury. He swung up onto the platform and nodded politely to both Tolley and Hodges.

  “Did you hope to become equal to him by killing him?” he asked Tolley with a wild, brittle cheerfulness. “It didn’t work—you’re still a Transport-loving slug whom I wouldn’t trust to clean privies.” Frank knew Tolley hated the Transport as much as anyone, but wanted to enrage him. He succeeded, especially when many of the thieves in the crowd snickered at Frank’s words.

  “Ordinarily, Rovzar,” Tolley said through clenched teeth, “I’d scorn to smear my sword with the watery blood of a kitchen boy. Since you’re such an offensive and conceited one, though, I’ll make an exception.”

  Hodges stood up and faced Frank. “Do you mean,” he asked wearily, “to invoke the ius gladii against his majesty here?”

  “Yes,” said Frank politely. Cheers sounded in various parts of the hall. “Nail the bastard, Frank!” someone shouted.

  Tolley, thoroughly angered, raised his sword and whistled it through the air in a curt salute. Frank unsheathed his own sword, the rapier Orcrist had been wearing, and saluted courteously.

  “Go to it, gentlemen,” said Hodges, sitting down. Frank relaxed into the on guard position, with his sword well extended to keep a comfortable distance. He met Tolleys gaze and smiled. “It was you who hired those six bravos to kill me, wasn’t it?” Frank asked softly, with a tentative tap at Tolley’s blade.

  “Emsley hired them,” replied Tolley in a likewise low voice. “I told him to. I guess the idiot hired inferior swordsmen.” Tolley tried a quick feint and jab to Frank’s wrist; Frank caught Tolley’s point and whirled a riposte that nearly punctured Tolley’s elbow. They both backed off then, measuring each other.

  “They weren’t inferior,” Frank said. “If they hadn’t killed Orcrist before turning to me, they’d have earned whatever Emsley paid them.”

  Tolley backed away a step. “They killed Orcrist?” he asked, beginning to look a little fearful. “That’s right,” said Frank.

  Tolley took another step back, lowering his point—and then leaped forward, jabbing at Frank like an enraged scorpion. His blade was everywhere: now flashing at Frank’s throat, now ducking for his stomach, now jabbing at his knee. Frank devoted all his energy to parrying, waiting to riposte until, inevitably, Tolley should tire. He retreated a step; then another; and then felt with his rear foot the
edge of the marble block. Desperately, he parried an eye-jab in prime and riposted awkwardly at Tolley’s throat, leaping forward as he did it. Tolley backed off two steps, deflected Frank’s thrust and flipped his blade back at Frank’s face. Frank felt the fine-whetted edge bite through his cheek and grate against his cheekbone.

  He struck Tolley’s blade away and forced himself to relax and stay alert, to resist the impulse to attack wildly.

  “You’re on your way out, Rovzar,” grinned Tolley fiercely. Frank drove a most convincing-looking thrust at Tolley’s throat—Tolley raised his sword to meet it—and Frank ducked low, still in his lunge, and punched his sword-point through Tolley’s thigh. He whipped it out and, grinning, threw aside the older man’s convulsive riposte.

  “Cut your throat, you bastard, and save me the trouble,” hissed Frank.

  Tolley stole a glance downward and paled visibly to see the widening red stain on his pants. Frank threw a quick thrust at him and cut him slightly in the arm. Blood was trickling down Frank’s cheek and neck, and when he licked his lips he caught its rusty taste.

  Tolley ran at Frank now in a fleché attack; the thrust missed, but Tolley collided heavily with Frank and they both pitched off the platform. As they rolled to their feet on the floor, Frank jabbed Tolley hard behind the kneecap, and the lord cried out with the pain.

  “Damn you!” the older man snarled, aiming a slash at Frank’s head. Frank ducked it and Tolley swung backhand at him again. Frank jarringly caught the sword with the forte of his own and half-lifted, half-threw Tolley away from him.