The Rose Sea

by S. M. Stirling

  Steel flickered in the gloom. Karah came up to guard position, right foot and blade forward, dagger in her left held back. She could see well enough now, enough to see that the scarred face opposite her was half again her age, that the weapon was a plain rapier with a solid steel bell guard, and that this was someone who would kill her if he could. A feeling like a bad dinner of heavy dumplings settled in under her ribcage. Freeze and you'll die. The voice in her head was a mixture of her parents' and Uncle Jawain, but she listened anyway.

  The point came at her, long lunge. She parried with hilt low—pretend it's practice—and let the steel skirl up and over her left shoulder, cutting backhanded. The other caught that on a dagger and thrust again. Karah shouted with anger at the cold sting in her shoulder, and stop thrust to drive her opponent backward. Everything seemed clear and slow as the razor-edged metal moved in its intricate dance, no time to stop and think what it could do to her body. They advanced and retreated across the brick pavement, kicking cushions and low tables out of their way; now and then a cut grape leaf would fall in their wake, as the swords clipped a dangling section of vine. The clash of steel echoed back from the walls of the courtyard, sixfold Karah found herself next to another fighting pair—next to Bren Morkaarin.

  The hilt jarred in her hand as the edge sliced meat. Her opponent yelled and leapt back, dagger dropping from the limp fingers of her left hand, the point of her rapier still drawing small circles of menace to keep Karah off.

  "'T the One with this shit," the wounded mercenary shouted "C'mon, we wasn't paid enough ter fight the army."

  The bravos broke away from the fight, and the XIXth troopers let them go—two of the mercenaries were dragging a third whose arm and shoulder were a mass of rips and bloody tears, and all of them were limping or clutching wounds. The stout priest took a stance as they fled and threw his tomahawk. It whirred into the doorpost with an emphatic thunk sound.

  That left the tall man in black facing the captain. He stepped back uncertainly, looking at the circle of soldiers around him. Karah's sword was bloody, and so was Sergeant Ddrad's and Amourgin's, although both had small cuts. Eowlie was licking her lips with a disturbingly long and mobile tongue; she had a bruise and cut over one eye that might have resulted from frantic blows with a sword hilt, but it didn't seem to be bothering her. They all stared at the stranger, then took a step forward as if in unison.

  "No." First Captain Bren's voice was sharp. He shook his head. "My thanks, comrades, but this one's mine."

  He brought up his sword in formal salute. "As you said, this isn't a duel—but still, let's dance."

  Chevays did not escape into the lower city again until the sun was crawling down the sky with lizardlike torpor, and all Derkin baked in its own sweat-stinking heat. Rage gnawed at him, and humiliation, and despair. He could remember only fragments of what had happened to him, and was uncertain of what he was supposed to do. She'd said he would remember what he needed, when he needed.

  But he wanted to remember her. Already she was foggy in his memory—and he wanted to hold her clearly there. He hated her, and he loved her, and he would do anything for her—and she, who was used to being loved and hated, took his attentions as her just dues, and used him.

  "You'll do what I want you to do—you'll know what you need, when you need it. Do what Willek wants—find her people. What I want will come to you at the right time."

  He could recall that clearly—her words, the sweet sound of her voice as she did… did… as she did something to him. He didn't remember what she had done, but his stomach twisted when he tried to think of it.

  Then her name was in his head. Szoae.

  He held those short syllables tightly to him. Her name was something he was not supposed to know—had never, he was certain, known before. But there it was.

  Szoae.

  And with the name, he could piece together something of her face, something of the way the light played on her gold hair, a picture of the soft glow of her skin. He could recall, suddenly, the angle of her jaw, and the fullness of her lips, and the swell of her small breasts—and he felt surging triumph.

  He remembered, and knew he was not supposed to remember. She was a creature of secrets, and he held some of them in his mind. He had served her most of his life, and would serve her until she tired of him and killed him… or until he died in her service. Such was the bond between them—a bond linked by pain and adoration.

  She had put him in the service of Willek…

  More memories! Willek was her half-sister—and Szoae despised the Grand Admiral of the Fleet.

  He was taking steps to destroy Willek—for Szoae.

  He felt secretly pleased. He was not disturbed that Szoae used him—he used people, and did not find that disturbing, either. He was satisfied to know that he served, and that what he did for her was important.

  The other things between them… he felt a sort of blanket beginning to envelop his thoughts, and he backed away from probing for those memories.

  A handcart passed him, with a Tykissian priest pacing it, rattle in one hand and small bronze bell in the other—a death-cart. That didn't surprise him, but the face of the man in it did. Valwer Tornsaarin. The Grand Admiral's cousin in the fourth degree, and one of her many hatchet carriers. There was a look of terrible surprise on the corpse's face, and the front of his black jacket was covered in drying blood, already attracting a swarm of flies. They settled on the blood, and on his open eyes and mouth, and on the long curled hair. The hole in the leather jacket was a neat slit, which Chevays had no trouble recognizing. Sword thrust, and very skillful, straight through the heart. That was a stroke more often spoken of than seen, quite difficult to administer. The nobleman's own sword was laid naked beside him.

  Valwer had quite a reputation as a duelist, something Chevays despised, priding himself on an approach to killing at once more practical and more artistic. Still, whoever administered that death stroke knew which end was sharp, no doubt about that.

  It was growing dark; a lamplighter went by with a slowmatch on the end of a long pole, touching it to the glass-globed oil lanterns the street associations of merchants put up in Derkin. They cast a pale yellow glow on the narrow crooked street and the ancient patched stonework of the buildings, scarcely brighter than the two moons above. Most of the stores on ground level were closed, but candlelight showed from the windows overhead, families sitting out on their balconies in the warm night, calling back and forth to each other in Derkinoi street

  argot.

  Chevays pursed his lips in thought and turned back along the trail of the death-cart. One had to trust ones hunches.

  He wandered into an open-courted tavern with tables that looked to the market across the street. A cart loaded with armor and arms was in front of it, the mule resting and munching oats, its tail flipping and swishing lazily. A mountain-sized sergeant leaned against a tree next to the cart, eating a long loaf of blacktwist and a huge sausage roll and washing them down with ale. The huge man watched Chevays with apparent lack of interest. Chevays was initially furious that the man did not salute a superior—and then recalled he was disguised.

  Right, he thought. I'm still addle-witted. Sun to the brain. Some food and a cold drink, and I'll feel better.

  He noted the tables were full, and that the customers' chattering had an edge to it. Something has happened. That would make it easier to keep his cover, if he acted the part of a rich outlander, with more money than manners—a congenial role anyway. He settled himself into a cushioned chair at an unoccupied table. A kitchen wench sauntered out—a round-hipped girl with dark eyes and big tits.

  He grinned at her. "Iced wine," he said, "and blacktwist and beer-pickled pork." He winked "And what price the house special?"

  The girl eyed him coldly. "Market Tavern dasn't have a house special," she snapped "Y've mistook us fer t' Merry Lass, on t' next corner. Girls there have house specials, dey say."

  She stalked off, her skirts swin
ging. Chevays grinned, undiscouraged. She was the sort of girl he especially liked—one with a temper and some fire. The ones who weren't afraid to fight were a hell of a lot more fun than the ones who just lay there screaming.

  She came back, carrying his meal and his drink, and while she was setting it on the table, he pinched her ass through her skirt. The next instant, she had his hand in hers and was forcing the palm flat and twisting the wrist—and the pain was so terrible it almost blinded him. He slid off the chair, eyes watering.

  "Well now," she said, "y' shouldna' drink sa much of dat hard stuff." She pulled him to his feet, and in the pretense of helping him to stand and brushing dust off his clothes, managed to give his wrist a final, especially vicious twist "Ah, but y'll be more careful next time, hey?" she asked, and grinned at him.

  He sank back into his seat and rubbed his aching wrist. He had no idea where the little Derkinoi bitch had learned that trick, but he wished he had her in his quarters, where he could show her a few tricks of his own. She'd lose that grin… fast.

  He became aware of people watching him, and looked defiantly at the table next to him—and his eyes met the yellow eyes of the girl Willek hunted. He looked away instantly, feigning drunkenness, and gulped down a swig of his iced wine, spilling some in the process. The girl turned away, disgusted, and resumed her conversation with the other people around her table. His hunch had led him where he wanted to go. The dark Tykissian girl was as he'd remembered, except that she was stripped to her halter above the waist. A man with spectacles was putting a bandage on her shoulder, working with a surgeon's precision—although he wore the green jacket of an Imperial footsoldier, with corporal's stripes. And Captain Morkaarin, right enough, standing by the table with one boot up on a chair, throwing back his head and laughing.

  The three at the table laughed with him, saluting as he turned to go.

  Chevays shivered, and caressed the memory of dagger teeth and yellow eyes. His heart raced and his mouth went dry. He did not think there was another girl like that in Derkin. He would follow her back to wherever she lived, and find out everything he could about her. Willek will be pleased, he thought. Once I have information to give her, she'll be pleased.

  For an instant, it seemed to him there was another reason why he sought the fanged girl… another person involved somehow. He stared into the reddish depths of his iced wine and tried to figure out where that nagging feeling came from, but the harder he thought about it, the further it slipped from his memory.

  Finally he shook his head and sighed. If it's important, it will come back to me, he decided. Sooner or later.

  Zeemos collapsed onto his bedroll and whimpered. It seemed infinitely longer than four days since that accursed accident at the inn. Everything had been going so well, the take was up, he was thinking of settling down, buying a house and some more wenches and then—

  He whimpered again. Every muscle in his body ached, and he'd already had to take his belt in two notches. Fat was a sign of respectability to a Toboran. A fat man was a wealthy man, a man who didn't have to labor in the hot sun, a man of refinement and leisure and intelligence. Back when he'd been young and hungry and slender and fast, he'd dreamed of the day when he could take his ease in the shade while others worked. Now he was back where he'd started—worse, actually. A hired knife didn't have to work like a peasant or a soldier.

  A silvery chuckle interrupted his next groan. He rolled upright, looking around and clutching at the dagger on his belt. A woman sat cross-legged at the other side of the little tent—how could he have missed her? He glanced around the tent; none of his gear was missing. The woman chuckled again.

  Young, slender, dark—a tenth-crown piece, he estimated, with a professional's reflex.

  "Get out," he snarled. "H'I've no lust fer camp followers t'night."

  "Oh, no. I'm not one of the camp followers," the woman said, and smiled "I'm an admirer of yours. And I have friends who would like to be your friends."

  She sat cross-legged on the waxed canvas floor of the tent, and rested her dainty chin in delicate cupped hands. "That awful Captain Morkaarin mistreated you," the woman said. "Took advantage of you because he could. That's so unfair."

  "H'it's that, all right" Zeemos dropped onto his bedroll and lay back, looking at the woman. He could feel the anger, beaten down by exhaustion, coming back to life. "Took every crown I had… every last due. I'm a poor man again, and not even m' whores left t' me so I can get t' money back."

  "I know," the woman said gently. "I know. But you're smart, Zeemos. Smarter than the First Captain, smarter than your whores. You can still come out of this ahead."

  He sucked on his bottom lip and studied her. He was smart—smart enough to know that whatever she was in his tent for, she was up to no good. Pimps know people, he thought. And we know "friends". "Friends" are what you buy when you have lots of money—and I haven't a stinking copper due. So the question was, then, what sort of "no good" did she have in mind? And what was in it for him?

  "How?" he asked.

  She smiled, pressed the palms of her hands together, and lay her fingertips to her chin. "I, and my friends who would like to be your friends, would like you to do a favor for us. We want you to spread a few rumors about First Captain Morkaarin, and perhaps stir up some trouble. Nothing major, you know. Nothing that would make trouble for you if you were caught. But enough that, perhaps, Morkaarin could lose his commission…"

  Zeemos smiled in spite of himself. "Something I'd love t' see."

  "My friends and I as well."

  "What sort of rumors? Did y' have anything particular, h'or just as h'I can think 'em up?"

  The woman laughed lightly. "Oh, we won't make you work so hard as to come up with your own rumors. To begin with, just say that the First Captain is a secret worshiper of the One of a Thousand Faces. And that he bears a grudge against Grand Admiral Willek, and is secretly in the pay of the Yentror of Tarin Tseld, and would betray the whole of the Tykissian Empire to get even with her."

  Zeemos nodded. "Any truth to any of that?"

  "Only that he hates Willek. He has his reasons—but his reasons for hating her will make the lies seem more possible."

  Zeemos was beginning to feel a bit livelier. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at the tiny woman across from him. "H'and if h'I do this, what will my 'friends' do for me?"

  "We will make you rich. Very, very rich, Zeemos. The five hundred crowns Morkaarin stole from you today will be as nothing."

  Zeemos laughed. "As nothing, hey? Now h'I've heard everything."

  The woman shook her head gently. "It's true. Morkaarin's downfall is important to us. We will see you get back what you most desire—if you can make that happen. And we're willing to prove our good faith, Zeemos. We'll prove we're your friends, before you even start to help us."

  Zeemos grinned "So prove h'it."

  The woman shifted position until she knelt on the floor of his tent, fumbling with the clasp of the heavy leather pouch strapped to her girdle. "I've brought you a gift," she said, not looking up. Her slender fingers darted over the clasp, and Zeemos had the impression for an instant that she was weaving patterns in the air with them, and not truly working the lock. But when he rubbed his eyes, his vision cleared, and he could see that, after all, the locking mechanism on the pouch was merely balky. It sprang open as he watched, and she pulled something out.

  Her fingers completely covered the object. She held it out for him, her hand closed, her palm down. He had no idea what she might be holding. "Our gift," she said.

  Zeemos reached toward her, and she pressed a smooth, cool object into his palm. He held it up—thought at first it was nothing but a black stone mounted and fitted with a sturdy chain. But a bit of wayward light from one of the moons touched the stone and filled it with a gleaming ruby glow.

  He gasped, and cautiously lit a candle from his supplies. He held the stone in front of the flame, and marveled at its brilliance and fire and cl
arity. "Looks to be of fine gem quality," he said after a moment.

  "The finest. It's heartstone ruby, from a mine at the far ends of the earth—one of the biggest perfect stones ever found there."

  "If that's so, this stone could be worth every duc I lost today."

  "After the war, when there is a market again for gems, it will be worth more than that," she remarked. "In the meantime, it is simply a very nice gift, and a token of our appreciation for your future help."

  "Why is he worth so much to you?"

  The woman pressed her hands to her thighs, and leaned forward "You are not the only rich man he has made angry, or that he has hurt First Captain Morkaarin has not been careful."

  Zeemos nodded. "It didn't surprise him at all that Morkaarin had made other enemies besides himself. He ran the ruby's chain through his fingers and dangled the gem in front of the flame again. Then he put the pendant on and tucked it inside his shirt "Tell your friends h'I said, "A man can't have too many friends."

  The woman smiled and rose. "I'll tell them."

  "Will I see you again?" He found her attractive and was vaguely curious about her price. If he was to be a rich man again, perhaps she would find him attractive. Perhaps…

  "You may." She shrugged "It is, after all, a world where amazing things happen."

  He felt the weight of the pendant against his skin—the ruby warmed to his touch and almost seemed to pulse as it nestled at the base of his throat. "They do," he agreed. "They do indeed."

  Lord Colonel Gonstad was waiting in the tiny field hut when Bren entered. He sat in Bren's only chair, with his boots propped on the table at which Bren ate.

  "First Captain Morkaarin," the Lord Colonel said, and smiled.

  "Sir?" Bren was startled. He'd never known the Lord Colonel to stoop to entering a subordinate's hut.

  "Willek met with the senior command staff early this morning. Our schedules have changed."

  Not for the better, either, or Gonstad wouldn't be smiling, Bren thought. It was uncharitable of him, but the Lord Colonel was the sort of officer who delighted in the problems of others.