The Mark of Ran

by Paul Kearney

Psellos snarled audibly. “You simpleminded—I see Ardisan’s absurd romanticism has rubbed off. Better for you to do as you’re told.” A black snake of a tongue snapped out from between his teeth and disappeared again. His eyes glowed.

  “No. You want something more than my blood from me, else I would be dead already. Sticking my head in a jar will not get you it, I think. So that is my price. Leave her alone. Don’t send her out again.”

  Psellos straightened. His face grew calm. “Very well—by all means. Have your absurd chivalry. A piece of advice, though. You cannot bargain effectively when you do not know the value of that which you are selling.”

  He retreated, becoming a shadow limned by the light from the windows once more.

  “I have told you a little of your history—”

  “Who were my parents?”

  “All in good time. We must save something for later.”

  “Killing those men down at the waterfront—was I able to do that because of—of what I am?”

  “Had you been any ordinary stripling they’d have had your throat out before you made one step toward them. But do not think yourself some kind of champion. There was luck involved also. You are fortunate to be alive. As it is, your debt to me is increased.”

  “Why?” Rol asked angrily.

  “Because, you young fool, I must find some other means of payment now that our dear Rowen is off the menu. And should they suspect that I had a connection with the killings—which they will in time—I will have to stump up weregilds to avoid having the King of Thieves at my door.”

  “What did they have that was worth so much anyway?” Rol did not mention the scroll that had so delighted Psellos two nights before.

  “That is not your business.” Psellos stared at Rol thoughtfully, sipping his wine. Finally he sighed, and said: “Rowen.”

  She stepped noiselessly from a curtained alcove behind Rol. He twisted round to stare at her in astonishment and dismay. She was dressed in a close-fitting suit of sable leather, long knives strapped to her thighs, her hair tied up behind her head. Her face was still bruised, and there were smudges the color of plums under her eyes. She did not look at Rol.

  “Your shining knight has seen fit to preserve the rags of your chastity from the minions of the Thief-King. He is your responsibility now. Teach him well.”

  “What shall I teach him?” Her voice was as low as the beat of a swan’s wing in flight.

  “Everything, Rowen. Teach him everything.”

  Seven

  SCIMITARS AND

  SEAMSTRESSES

  SWEATING, THEIR BODIES SLAPPED TOGETHER BRUISINGLY. His bare toes dug for purchase in the earth floor, gouging furrows. They strained breast to breast, each trying to overthrow the other by sheer force for half a second; realizing it would not work, they immediately began writhing for advantage, arms locked together, hot breath mingled, trying to hook their feet around the other’s ankles.

  She slipped fractionally, her grip slithering on his sweat-slick bicep. At once he shifted, committed his weight. She gave way smoothly, deliberately, and his balance tilted out of kilter. Somehow she spun in his grasp. Her thigh pushed between his legs, knocking one foot clear of the ground for a moment. Her tensed arm came round and the tricep impacted against the side of his neck. He went down face-first in the dirt and felt the weight of her foot set on his nape.

  He slumped in defeat, and felt the pressure of her sole ease. As it did, he flipped onto his back, knocking her leg aside with his left elbow. His right fist came up in one smooth blur with all his remaining strength behind it. It connected with her abdomen in a sickening slap of meat, and the breath was concussed out of her lungs as her diaphragm buckled into her rib cage. She staggered backwards, and he rose unhurriedly. Her eyes remained fixed on his as she fought for breath, color rising red from her collarbones up. She fell to her knees, whooping, and he watched her dispassionately.

  “Yield,” he said.

  She shook her head and began to rise to her feet, still struggling for air.

  He hesitated only a second, and then the butt of his palm slammed into her forehead. She flipped over onto her back. Her body arced once, fists furrowing handfuls of earth. Then it flattened out, and she was still.

  Rol stood breathing evenly. “Rowen?” And then more urgently: “Rowen?”

  He darted forward, and her left heel snapped up with the speed of a hawk’s strike with all his weight and all her force behind it, and smashed into his breastbone. He flailed backwards, red darkness pummeling his sight, lungs a sucking vacuum, and he never felt the kiss of the earth as he fell full-length upon it.

  Air, life being blown brutally into his mouth, his chest rising as it filled. He felt the bite of her teeth on his lips, and opened his eyes, then turned on his side, coughing, heaving. Her hand passed through his hair, down his cheek, and then receded. When he had caught his breath—her breath in him—he looked up at her as she stood composed as a caryatid before him, white skin shining, naked save for the breechclout. A few damp tendrils of hair framed the triangular perfection of her face, and there was a rising lump on her forehead. She essayed a small smile, teeth white as a cat’s. “Once again, eagerness is your downfall. Overconfidence will kill you yet, Fisheye.”

  He hated that name, and she knew it, which was why she never called him by anything else.

  “I thought I’d damn well killed you for a second.”

  “I take a lot of killing.” She offered him her hand and hauled him to his feet. Tall as she was, he towered over her now. Her small breasts, taut and glistening, brushed against him. They stood like that a moment, like two lovers sharing a whisper, and then she turned and left the earthen practice ring to fetch her towel.

  They stood in the clammy dimness of the chamber in the bowels of Psellos’s Tower, and stared silently at one another as they wiped the dirt from their bodies. Rol had a scratch above his left eye that oozed blood, and Rowen’s forehead was bulging purple.

  Fighting men, ordinary men, subjected to the force of the blows that had just been exchanged, would be dead by now, one with a broken skull, the other with a burst rib cage. For Rol and Rowen, however, there were only scratches and bruises. If anything had finally convinced Rol of his . . . inhumanity, it had been the last year in Psellos’s house. He was not cattle, as Psellos jauntily referred to the mass of everyday humanity. He was something else. Part of him reveled in the sense of superiority—Psellos encouraged this—and part of him mourned the fact that he was set apart from the everyday concourse of life as surely as a freak in a traveling circus.

  The main thing, though—he had finally accepted it.

  This secret complex near the Tower’s foundations was where the bulk of Rol’s combat training took place. He and Rowen left the practice circle without exchanging another word, and limped down a candlelit corridor to the plunge-pool. Discarding their stinking breechclouts, they dived in within seconds of each other, as once they had leaped from the wharves of Ascari. The water was freezing cold, fed by some subterranean spring whose origins were in the roots of the mountains. The cold stole Rol’s breath, but he was used to that now. It was good for his wrenched muscles and battered skull. He floated, staring up at the bare rock of the ceiling, and felt the kindly chill numb his aches and pains. He rubbed dirt from his limbs, emptying his mind as he had been taught, discarding whatever preoccupations floated there. Finally, at a nod from Rowen, he pulled himself heavily out of the water again. The pair padded naked across the bare stone toward the steam chamber. Within it, heated rocks had raised the temperature to the limits of endurance. They ladled water over the rocks and sat side by side in the scalding billow of steam that ensued. A single oil lamp guttered and fought for life, flashing out broiled shadows. The air was hot enough to sear the lungs, but Rol breathed in the steam deeply while fresh sweat popped out of every pore. Rowen scraped the running moisture from his body with a curved strigil, and her deft hands explored the places where she had hurt him, mu
ch as a farmer might feel over a horse he meant to buy at market. There was something soothing in the touch of her hands. Her business was killing, but her gift was in healing. She seemed to drain away the pain, leaving Rol limp and relaxed as seaweed abandoned by the ebbing tide.

  “You fought well today,” Rowen said quietly. “The impatience is that of youth, and will be remedied in time.” Her strong fingers kneaded the flesh of his shoulders and he leaned into her, closing his eyes. For him, the pain of the practice bouts was worth this, the almost-dark of the steam chamber, the intimacy of their two bodies close in the stifling warmth. Perhaps Rowen felt the same way, for she was always a little less reticent after their contests. She would talk to him not quite as an equal, but as a favored subordinate. A fellow-traveler perhaps.

  “I have broken more bones in the past year than I did in the fifteen that came before it,” Rol said dryly. “If time does not remedy it, a broken neck will, one of these days.” He twisted to meet her eye, and for a treasured instant she was smiling back at him. Then she eased his face away from her and began massaging the sore meat of his muscles again.

  Psellos was not entertaining that evening, so they joined him for dinner on the balcony level of the Tower. Rol had counted eleven levels aboveground and seven below, but he knew there were yet more beneath those seven—seldom-visited caverns he would probably never see. Psellos had a laboratory somewhere below the training circles to which he would sometimes disappear for days at a time, and among the Tower servants there were rumors of secret strong-rooms stuffed with jewels, imprisoned demons festering in stone cells, forgotten prisoners eking out a starvation existence in the subterranean darkness. Sheer fancy, most of it, but if half the rumors and demi-legends could be proved true, Rol would not have been surprised. He had seen and done enough in his year within the Tower to know that anything was possible.

  Psellos was in an expansive mood. He had bidden Rol and Rowen don their finest, and the long table was cluttered with crystal and silver, the centerpiece an exquisite rendition of a carrack in full sail crafted of thinnest gold plate. The model’s main-hatch was full of salt, and silver barrels that lined the little deck were full of other condiments and sauces. It was a long way from dried fish and brackish water upon the Gannet.

  Silent servants danced attendance on the trio, their comings and goings regulated by curt gestures, nods, and waves from Quare. They drank Armidian apple wine with fillets of Bank’s Monk stuffed with anchovies and capers, hooked snail-shrimp from their long whorled shells with silver picks, and sliced into cutlets of lamb rare and bloody and mouth-melting with wild garlic and thyme. Finally they pushed back their chairs, dismissed the servants, and sat while Psellos broke open a bottle of Cavaillic brandy, the glass encrusted with age. Gibble had surpassed himself. It was a meal a king could not have found fault with. Psellos was austere in many ways, but not when it came to his belly.

  “A year and a day you have been under my roof,” Psellos said to Rol. “Doubtless, in your youth, it seems a long time. And yet your training has barely begun. Rol, your tutor tells me that you are close to besting her in combat, and you have no idea what praise that is.” He paused awhile and looked both Rol and Rowen up and down. He seemed to be savoring some secret knowledge as a miser will gloat over his hoarded gold.

  “But fighting is not everything. There are other disciplines which are not so easily mastered. I want you to learn them all. I want to see what you can do.”

  He was perhaps a little drunk, but not solely on wine. Psellos often slipped into moods like this. He would sit and plan their lives in vague terms which seemed nonetheless to please him inordinately, and sculpt visions of glorious futures. Sometimes Rol thought there were two natures warring within Psellos, one which was proud to teach, and another which was closed and ugly, hoarding its knowledge. One never knew which was strongest. Until one won out.

  “My, what a handsome pair you are. What beauty sits at my table. Rol, you have the brow of a prince. Rowen, you are stainless, perfect. You shall remain with me. I wish to enjoy you tonight.”

  Rowen inclined her head, expressionless. Rol knew her well now, and he could see the tiny flicker in her eye. For a long time now, Psellos had not called her to his bed, or sent her out to lie in others’. It had been a tacit hope of Rol’s that Psellos would hold to his word, and not do so again. He bowed his head. What was he to say, if Rowen said nothing?

  Psellos had not missed the look in Rowen’s eye either. It seemed to heighten his good humor.

  “Rol, doubtless you have a comely kitchen maid awaiting you downstairs, but before you leave us, there is something I wish to present you with.” Pushing back his chair, Psellos rose and from a nearby sideboard fetched a long, slim wooden case. He unlatched the lid and raised it. Whatever it contained flashed the reflected light of the candles across his face.

  A sword. It came up in his hand like a sliver of blue water. With a twist of his wrist he sent it spinning end over end toward Rol’s face. Rol twisted aside and plucked it out of the air as though he were catching a paper bird. Psellos laughed. “Good, good! Rowen’s time has not been wasted, I see. Its name is—well, it does not matter what its name is. You must give it a new one now. It is yours to wield, for a while at least.”

  The surface of the blade was luminous as the shallows of a calm sea at evening. It was wickedly light, a snicker of cold laughter in Rol’s fist. Almost he felt it had a voice, a whisper which crooned of carnage. The voice was avid as a famished rat—but there was a delight in the perfect balance of the steel. It seemed somehow to connect with the very sinews of his arm, its curved brightness an extension of his limb. A light scimitar, its trappings were unadorned and workmanlike, but the bright, marvelous blade was exquisite as a faceted jewel.

  “You think he is ready for it?” Rowen asked the Master, and there was an odd, contained urgency in her voice.

  “We will see. What think you of your gift, Rol?”

  “I think I could fillet the north wind with it. Thank you, sir.”

  Rowen spoke. “It is an old blade, and it contains many memories. It will enhance your sword arm, but there is something—”

  “Do not ruin the surprise, my dear,” Psellos said with sharp levity. “Let the boy have his trinket.” From the padded box he lifted a plain wood and leather scabbard chased with green bronze and tossed it to Rol. “You may go now.” And as Rol rose and bowed, he added: “Keep it with you at all times, and do not unsheathe it again unless you intend to shed blood.”

  “But I will have to get to know it, to practice—”

  “No. You will find that the blade adjusts to your style. There is no need to become accustomed to it. The sword will take care of that itself.”

  Rol felt a prickle of unease. “What kind of weapon is this?”

  “An ancient and unique one, which should be treated with respect. Now leave us.”

  Rol did as he was told. He met Rowen’s eyes for one flashing instant as he turned to go, and realized some light that had come into them of late had been quenched again. The realization darkened the simple, lustful joy of the scimitar’s bright quiver in his hand, and he made his way down the Tower’s endless stairs with heavy feet, some part of him still with her at Psellos’s table.

  He bedded Arexa that night, a tall, dark-haired girl from inland Gascar who worked in the middle regions of the Tower and had the neat hands of a seamstress. Her breath was quick and light under him as his pelvis slammed into her buttocks. He was staring at the sword as it hung on the wall before him, thinking of Rowen’s steel-spring strength straining against him. Somehow the two were connected in his mind. Absurd and hopeless though it might be, he knew he loved Rowen. He loved her rare smiles, her silence, the sense of wholeness and quietude her presence gave him.

  He spent himself viciously in the girl whose white back strained below him. Psellos had recently brought in a whole new crop of maidservants, and every one was tall and slim and dark.

 
; The Master knew of Rol’s infatuation, and it amused him.

  Rol rolled the girl aside, wiping his forehead on the back of his arm. Arexa began dressing composedly. She was a placid girl, with a quick smile that lit up her face. How had she come to end up here? But Rol knew the answer to that question even as he asked it. Payment. Her father or her uncle or her brother would owe Psellos money, or a favor, or would want a certain deed done discreetly, and Arexa would go to the Tower to be subject to the whims therein. Rol felt suddenly ashamed, part of the machinery of Psellos’s intrigues. He handed Arexa her skirt. It was plain and homespun, but she had embroidered interlocking leaves of ivy about the hem. Like her, it smelled of lavender.

  He sat on the bed with her slickness still upon him, while she dressed and tied up her hair. When she had finished she ran nimble fingers down his cheek.

  “Sad tonight. What goes on in that head of yours?”

  He sprang up, swung her into his arms as though she were a feather pillow, and kissed her soundly. “Apple wine and lavender and pretty girl’s thighs. Pay me no mind. And take something away with you so you may embroider more flowers about your ankles.” He set her down and fished in his bedside chest, came up with a silver minim. A week’s wages for a maid. Psellos tossed him a pouch of minims every month as a man will throw a bone to his dog, and he was told to spend it like a gentleman.

  Rol dropped the coin between Arexa’s creamy breasts where they rose in the V of her blouse. Then he slapped her taut rump and told her with a grin to be on her way.

  The grin winked out like a snuffed candle-match as the door closed behind her. Rol’s gaze was drawn inevitably to the sword on the wall. He crossed the small room in two strides and took it down. The curved blade was as long as his arm from fingertip to collarbone. He could not believe its lightness. It seemed to want to dance in his hand.

  “What will I call you, then?” he asked it. How does one name a sword?

  He thought of plunging the scimitar into Psellos’s sneering face, lopping off the aristocratic nose, putting out the eyes. The contemplation of killing dizzied him for a second. He tossed the sword onto the bed, frowning. And realizing that he was not going to make up a name for this sword, he was going to discover one.