by D. P. Prior
“Bear with me a jiffy.” Cadman waddled into his study and snatched up the list Master Frayn had made for him—in the unlikely event that any of his cutthroats should require discreet medical attention. Unlikely, my foot. If Cadman had done what any other self-respecting doctor would have, and charged them through the nose for his services, he’d have been a rich man by now. But he’d never been one for the pursuit of money. It always brought too much attention and risk.
He ambled back to the door and peered through the gap. His visitor was surprisingly small for a hit-man. Exceedingly small. Couldn’t have been an inch over three feet. He was dressed like all the others in dark leather, a billowing black cloak trailing over his shoulders. His face was as white as his hand—and it wasn’t just from loss of blood. He was clutching at his chest, a misty look passing across the most unnerving eyes: pink irises and pin-prick pupils. Eyes that flitted this way and that as if expecting danger from every direction. Something we may well have in common. Even his stubbly hair and neat box-beard were white.
“You’re not on the list.”
“Frayn gave you a list?” When he spoke there was a flash of pearly teeth. Quite the perfectionist, aren’t we? “Course I ain’t on it. I’m Shadrak … the Unseen.”
But not any longer, I fear. “That hardly makes me want to let you in. If your reputation depends on invisibility and anonymity, what will you do once I’ve sewn you up?” He started to close the door, gently enough to let the fellow get his fingers out of the way, but the albino wedged a boot into the opening instead.
“Open the shogging door or I’ll put a hole in your fat head.” The hand returned clutching a pistol.
Now there’s a surprise. I’ve not seen anything like that for a while. Not since the Reckoning, and that was a very long time ago. Nine hundred and eight years, four months, and sixteen days, to be precise.
“You sure you know what that thing is?” Cadman stepped back from the door.
“Know what it does.”
Yes, quite. I’m sure you do.
“Don’t worry, Doc.” A pink eye pressed into the crack, took everything in. “I won’t do you; you’re far too useful to Master Frayn, and I reckon I can trust you with my little secret, don’t you?”
Cadman didn’t miss the threat. He never missed a threat—even when he was told he’d got it wrong. Oh, there were some fine actors out there, but Cadman could always smell a rat. He had a knack for it.
He slid back the chain and opened the door. Shadrak stumbled into the hallway, pitched to his knees and moaned, a trickle of blood dripping through the fingers covering his chest wound and spattering the tiles.
“Follow me.” If you can. Hopefully, the little runt will drop dead before he can bleed all over the carpet as well.
He led Shadrak along the corridor and opened the surgery door for him. All beautifully white and clinical. Pristine. Sturdy shutters locked against prying eyes; shelves of gleaming instruments, all perfectly stowed in their alphabetized trays. Not a speck of dust to be seen. Immaculate. The midget might as well have been in a sewer for all the appreciation he showed.
Cadman beckoned him to sit on the edge of the treatment table then flicked the switch on the angle-lamp, one of his few surviving Old World artifacts. Shadrak cocked his head but said nothing as the lamp hummed and flickered to life, casting its stark glow over the table.
“Don’t make ’em like they used to, eh?” Never hurt to talk in the patient’s vernacular. Always paid to put them at ease. “Regenerating plasma cells. Keep it powered till doomsday. Seems you have some knowledge of the Ancients’ technology yourself.” Cadman nodded at the gun. “Might I ask where you came by such a relic?”
Shadrak winced as he holstered it then fell back on the table. “No.”
Thought as much. “I’m something of a collector, but alas, technology’s not all it’s cracked up to be. It’s fine one minute,”—He grabbed some latex gloves from the vacuum store and snapped them on—“and the next it’s useless junk. Now tell me,”—He lifted Shadrak’s hand away from the chest wound—“what seems to be the problem? Ah…” He pressed down on the edges of the puncture, causing Shadrak to whimper and bright blood to gush over the gloves. “Bullet wound. You really shouldn’t play with such dangerous toys.”
“Weren’t … playing,” Shadrak croaked. “On a job. Bastard made me just afore I had him. Struggled. Thunder-shot went off.”
“Nasty.” Cadman shoved a gauze square over the hole. “Press on this, would you.” He scurried around the table and rolled Shadrak groaning onto his side. “No exit wound, which means a spot of digging in the dark.” At least it had missed the lung, otherwise Shadrak would most likely be spewing blood. As long as there’s no cavitation or fragmentation he should be all right. Assuming the shock doesn’t kill him, which would be a crying shame.
Cadman pulled over his trolley and ripped open some packets. Supplies were getting low. Soon he’d be reduced to the same barbaric butchery as his competitors, unless a miracle happened and the Templum opened its archives. All that knowledge shut up for the supposed good of the world, to prevent a return to the evils of the past. It hadn’t been that bad, Cadman mused. It all depended whose side you were on.
Pinching a wad of gauze with some forceps, he dunked it in saline and swabbed the wound. Shadrak gave a pathetic cry, tears welling from his pink eyes.
“Stings a bit, I’m afraid. Would you like something for the pain?”
“Just get on with it,” the assassin growled through clenched teeth.
“As you wish.” Cadman angled the light so that it shone directly on the wound. He pushed his pince-nez further down his nose and squinted over the top. “A touch of laudanum? A tincture of lignocaine? No? Very well.” Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
He picked up some shiny tweezers and stabbed them into the hole. Shadrak screamed and thrashed about on the table. Cadman forced him down with a meaty hand and continued to push and twist with the tweezers until he touched something hard. Shadrak had gone still, his jaw slack, a snail’s trail of dribble oozing down one side of his chin.
“Nighty night.” Cadman patted his cheek and then reached behind to grab his magnifying glass from the trolley. Peering through the lens, he could see nothing but blood washing over the tweezers. Sometimes he wished he had a third hand so that he could rinse away the gore and see what he was doing. The aperture widened as he forced the tweezers against soft flesh. For an instant he glimpsed the dark shell of the bullet before the blood rushed back in. With one last push he had it, whipped it out clean as a whistle and dropped it clattering onto the trolley. He swabbed around the wound with iodine, leaving yellow stains on the skin, and then took up a curved needle and began to stitch it up. Shadrak shuddered, his chest rising and falling erratically. Breaking off the thread, Cadman bent to inspect his work, dabbing at the seepage with a cotton wool ball and allowing himself a satisfied nod. Splendid job, Cadman. Splendid.
He took down an antibiotic solution from its box on the shelf, drew it up with a syringe, and injected it into Shadrak’s vein.
That was all he could do for now. Either he’d live or he’d die. It was all the same to Cadman.
THE SWORD OF THE ARCHON
The whole world was reduced to a point between the eyes of his opponent. The roaring of the crowd keeping beat with the pounding of blood in his veins. His sword dancing the tune of the flesh without the buffer of thought. Shader reveled in the ecstasy of combat but couldn’t wait to see the back of it.
Galen’s eyes flicked to the right as he feigned a thrust, turned his wrist and struck at Shader’s unprotected left—just as he was meant to. Shader parried and touched the tip of his blade to Galen’s chin. The big man fell back, wiping the blood from his dimple and muttering beneath his mustache. First nick he’d had, Shader reckoned. Had to hurt his pride. Shouldn’t have boasted, then he wouldn’t have so far to fall.
He waited, sword loose at his side, as Galen tugged his
uniform straight and puffed out his chest. The red jacket of the Templum Dragoons could get a whole lot redder yet if the bluff old sod didn’t yield. Galen frowned, raised his saber and eyed Shader like he meant to hack the head from his shoulders. Some people never learn.
The attack was sudden—a flurry of jabs, an eviscerating slash, a butcher’s hack, all deftly blocked or slicing air.
“Stay still, you ruddy blackguard!”
The crowd laughed. Galen scowled. Shader lifted his blade in salute.
Scratching his whiskers, Galen began to circle him, thin strands of hair standing to attention over his great pink head. Shader had to give him credit: he was no coward and no mean fighter too. He’d watched him come up through the rounds, bashing aside the competition with a combination of skill and brute force. Good qualities for a swordsman; the kind that led to fame. Shame he was horribly outclassed.
Galen bellowed and charged. Shader swayed aside and scratched the back of his thighs as he passed. Could have hamstringed the idiot, but that would have been taking the contest a little too seriously. Galen spun and swiped, kicking, stabbing, spitting his frustration. Shader gave ground, rode out the storm and then broke off, resuming the en garde stance. Galen sucked in air, mopped sweat from his brow, and advanced. Shader stamped his lead foot, half-stepped, and then jump-lunged, jabbing him below an epaulet. Galen roared. His saber arced down and Shader ducked, coming up straight into the path of a fist. His sword thrust on instinct and exited through the back of Galen’s hand. The big man yelped and then squealed as the blade tore free.
“Forgive me.” Shader put up his sword and took a step towards him.
Galen screamed and hacked with all his might. Shader deflected the blow but numbness shot through his arm. He switched the sword to his left hand, the blade twirling and glittering, sliding between Galen’s basket-hilt and fingers to send his saber clattering to the floor. Shader pressed the point of his sword into Galen’s nostril.
“I think you’re beaten.”
Galen went rigid, scarcely daring to breathe. His eyes flicked from Shader’s blade to his own.
“You fought well, Galen, but it’s over.”
The big man’s chest heaved, threatening to pop the polished buttons from his jacket and rip the brocading. His head pulled carefully away from the tip of Shader’s sword, a finger probing inside his nostril to gauge the damage. Blood pooled from his pierced hand, dripping down his fingers and spattering his boots.
“Do you yield?”
The crowd had gone deathly quiet. Galen scanned the Colosseum, face flushing as he acknowledged his supporters.
“Yes, I bloody yield!” He snatched up his saber and stormed from the arena.
Shader spotted a dash of purple hurrying through the crowd and smiled. Adeptus Ludo scurried down the concourse, one hand flapping, the other holding his spectacles on his nose as he chased after Galen. Shaking his head with a mixture of amusement and affection, Shader bowed to the crowd, only now becoming aware of their sheer numbers. They filled tier upon tier of bleachers set between fluted columns and gaping arches. The applause fuddled his thoughts, burying them like an avalanche. He swayed as the sky lurched, stumbled, and would have fallen had strong hands not steadied him.
“A disorienting feeling—giving up the focus of combat for the baying of the mob.” A clipped voice, measured and familiar. Ignatius Grymm.
The grand master led him by the shoulder towards the clerical enclosure, ramrod straight, one hand resting on the pommel of his dress-sword. Ignatius was everything the Elect were created to be: immaculate, efficient, and utterly obedient to the Ipsissimus. The old knight genuflected, bald patch an island amidst iron-gray hair as clipped as his voice. He lifted one arm to receive the benediction, sunlight glinting from mailed sleeves, the Monas symbol bleeding from his surcoat like a mortal wound.
“Who do you present to the First of the Servants of Ain?” asked Exemptus Cane, trembling with infirmity, clutching tight to the handle of his stick, a thin line of spittle glistening in the crease of his chin.
“I present,” Ignatius declaimed for the entire crowd to hear, “Deacon Shader, former Captain of the Seventh Horse, leader of the charge that broke the Verusian line at Trajinot, and now Keeper—” He turned to take in the Colosseum. “—of the Sword of the Archon.”
Give a blade a legendary name, Shader thought, and men would do anything to win it. Men like Galen. Men like all the others he’d beaten on his way to the final. If the Archon wasn’t just a myth, the last thing he’d need was a sword, and it wasn’t very likely he’d approve of such a brutal display in order to claim it. The Templum was many things to many people, but for Shader it was consistent only in one: the paradox of a brotherhood of love, born from the ashes of the Old World and enforced by the legions.
Exemptus Cane nodded, licking his lips, wet and rheumy eyes sliding to appraise Shader.
“Are you consecrated?”
“I am, Your Eminence.” Had the senile old fool forgotten that he’d been the one doing the anointing? That was the sad truth about the Templum, Shader thought: all that talk about the uniqueness of each and every Nousian, but in reality they were just numbers drifting down the stream of obscurity.
“Good, good.” The exemptus seemed to have run out of things to say, his tongue clicking as he looked over his shoulder towards the supreme ruler of the Nousian Theocracy.
Ipsissimus Theodore was seated like a god, white robes perfectly contiguous with the gleaming throne, a huge leather bound Liber open on his lap, giving the impression he continually meditated upon the scriptures, that he was in fact their human embodiment. He was a small man, gaunt and deathly pale, the white biretta perched perilously too far to one side of his head. Bright eyes stabbed at Shader from within sunken sockets. Eyes full of vitality and the rumor of a quick mind.
The Ipsissimus lifted his hand, and Shader knelt to kiss his ring. A glint of gold caught his eye: a Monas hanging from a heavy chain. An amber stone sparkled within the head—a single all-seeing eye.
“You accept the Sword of the Archon?” The Ipsissimus’s voice was thin and rasping. He gave a delicate cough, the merest hint of a wince.
“If that is your will, Divinity.”
The Ipsissimus nodded to Exemptus Cane who wagged his stick at the two exempti standing to the right of the throne. They held a velvet cushion between them, upon which was a covering of white silk. They bowed and held out the cushion to the Ipsissimus, who whisked away the cloth to reveal a dull blade: a double-edged shortsword with a tapered tip for thrusting, a knobbed hilt and ridges for the grip. The Ipsissimus passed the sword to Shader, etchings on the blade shimmering in the sun’s rays. Hands shaking, Shader mouthed the words as he read them: “Vade in pace?” He glanced at the Ipsissimus.
“Go in peace. Beautiful irony, don’t you think?” He gave a little wave of his hand and Shader backed away. “Vade in pace!” Shader could almost hear Adeptus Ludo’s voice drilling the point home: Imperative sense. A command not a noun. Some things you never forget, no matter how dull and pointless. Maybe it had all been in preparation for understanding the Ipsissimus’s jokes.
“Show the crowd,” Ignatius whispered in his ear.
Walking back to the center of the arena, Shader held the sword aloft, the cheers deafening like cascading water. The sword seemed to like it, odd as it sounded. He shifted his grip on the handle, momentarily shocked. He was certain the thing had trembled. No, more than that: the sword was purring.
***
“Gladius,” Ignatius said, filling Shader’s glass. “A weapon of the finest pedigree, old before even the time of the Ancients.”
Shader spun the sword on the tabletop, light from the oil lamps dancing along the blade and picking out the inscription. It read like an invitation to return to Sahul, to put away the trappings of the Elect and enter the contemplative life of Pardes. He wondered what the Ipsissimus would think of that. Leaving the consecrated knighthood was not exactl
y encouraged, and the Keeper of the Archon’s Sword setting foot outside the city of Aeterna—that didn’t bear thinking about.
“Our illustrious founders used them.” Ignatius waved a hand around. “Aeterna was built on the strength of weapons like this. Quick, efficient stabs between a wall of advancing shields. Whole empires swept aside. Brutal men. Clever men. Ruthless.”
The grand master was obviously quite taken with them, which wasn’t exactly a surprise.
“It’s yours, if you want it.”
Ignatius spluttered into his wine and nearly choked. “You can’t give it away. You swore to serve.”
“I did?”
“You accepted, remember. Just as Erlstein did, and Baladin before him.”
An unbroken line of champions serving unto death; bound to the heart of the Templum, the last guardians against an imaginary threat. If the Archon’s brother, the Demiurgos, was such a menace, what was keeping him?
“You know I didn’t come back for this.”
Ignatius frowned and set down his glass. “Then why? Surely you knew no one could beat you, least of all that oaf Galen.”
Shader laughed. “He was pretty good. He’d have given you a run for your money.”
“If I had no arms, perhaps—” Ignatius picked up his wine. “—and was blind, and sitting on a field chair.” His expression became suddenly serious. “Still torn?”
Shader let out a long sigh. Ignatius couldn’t possibly know about the conflict that had sent him running for cover back to the abbey: the disarming feelings that he’d felt for Rhiannon ever since he’d found her mauled by mawgs on the edge of Oakendale. He’d been under no illusions about her. She was your typical Sahulian lass—coarse and feisty and more than a match for the men; but her appearance had never quite fitted her manner. She was wan and willowy, the sheen of her long black hair off-setting her milky skin. Not at all the bronzed look you’d expect of a rancher’s daughter from Western Sahul. Her eyes were a little too deep-set, her lips slightly curled, sneering at the absurdity of things. Shader had been fascinated by her; reckoned he knew her better than she knew herself. Thought she was one step through the veil between the world and the eternal paradise of Araboth. He had to laugh now, though. Distance put a different hue on things. The otherworldly appearance could just as easily have been consumption, and the sneering was most likely aimed at him. He suspected, not for the first time, that Rhiannon Kwane was an enigma of his own making.
