Sworn in Steel

by Douglas Hulick

  “Vendetta,” I said.

  “If that’s the same as a blood price, then yes. He’s put a price on your head. A high one. And even I can’t countermand that: It has roots too deep in tribal honor for me to touch.”

  “What if I lie low?” I didn’t care for the idea, but I didn’t have the time or resources to go after this cove. “Stay out of his way?”

  “He won’t let you.”

  “And if I dust him instead?”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t. Fool or no, he’s still family. If he’s to die, I’d rather it be from a Zakur blade.”

  “What if it can’t be helped?”

  “He has many cousins. Not many like him, but there are enough honorable ones that I expect you wouldn’t make it out of Djan alive.”

  “So I’m dead if I try to defend myself, and likely just as dead if I don’t.” I turned my head and spit out more blood. “How the hell do you people do business, anyhow? I’m surprised you’re not all lying in the gutter from one another’s knives.”

  Mama smiled. It was a grim thing, but I couldn’t help noticing a hint of longing at the edges, too. “There have been times . . . ,” she said. She sighed. “But there are rules and precedence, not to mention hierarchy, at play among the Zakur. We have our twisting ways of avoiding slaughter. None of which apply to you.” She met my eyes. “Is it really so different among your Kin?”

  I opened my mouth to say it was, then stopped myself. The excuses and lines of loyalty might be different, but we had our share of butchery. Maybe even more, since we tended to rely on ties woven from fear and money rather than blood and family. Oh, there were traces of honor and obligation mixed in as well, but it was a rare man among the Kin who could inspire people that didn’t even like him to take up the blade in his memory.

  None of which mattered just now since, except for Fowler, I was alone in a foreign land.

  “So what do you propose?” I said.

  She gave a lopsided shrug. “Disgrace him. Make him look the fool. Take part of the Imperial Quarter away from him.” She picked up her goblet and drained it. “In short, do whatever you were planning to do when you arrived in el-Qaddice, before all this happened. Only do it quicker.”

  “Do whatever . . . ?” I said. “What I was planning to do was find someone and get out.”

  Her eyes didn’t leave the bar. “Yes, of course you were.”

  “Dammit, woman, I’m telling you—”

  Her hand came up. Ubayd tensed. I froze. She spoke.

  “Don’t take me for a fool. You don’t do what you did back in your Empire and then just happen to come to el-Qaddice. The story about the mercenary may play on the street, but I know too much about how things work to fall for that.” She lowered her hand. “If you want to try to take over the Imperial end of the route, I won’t get in your way. In fact, I might even be able to help. I can smooth things over with the clan on this end, get the price off your head, and present you as the best alternative to Crook Eye. I may even be able to make sure the shipments keep coming without interruption.” Her eyes came back to me. “Assuming, of course, you deal with my nephew for me.”

  I started to open my mouth to say . . . I don’t know what. I knew I needed to answer her somehow: to agree or make a counteroffer or negotiate terms—anything to cover over my surprise over what she’d just said, over the implications she’d just made. To respond to the idea that I’d dusted Crook Eye back in Barrab so I could take over his connections in el-Qaddice. To make it seem as if I’d known about the dead Gray Prince’s arrangement with the Zakur and Fat Chair. To hide the fact that, yes, it had just been dumb luck that brought me down here and landed my ass in her clan’s business, as opposed to some kind of princely power play on my part. Because if I didn’t, my value, not to mention my credibility, with the woman before me would drop into the “expendable” range almost immediately.

  Damn me for being too much the Nose and not enough the prince, anyhow.

  “Well?” said the Zakur matron.

  I drew the pouch out from around my neck and spilled two seeds into my palm. When I offered the bag to Mama, she declined.

  “I’m not excited about the idea of getting involved in clan politics,” I said as I rolled the seeds between my palms. “But I get the feeling I don’t seem to have much of a choice in the matter.”

  “You don’t. And don’t worry—you’re far from what I’d consider ‘involved.’ You’re a tool at best, an annoyance at worst.”

  “Well, as long as you put it nicely . . .”

  Mama Left Hand gestured, and Ubayd pulled her chair away from the table with barely a sound. When she rose, she did so slowly, but also without taking the Arm’s offered hand. It was clear it hurt for her to move; it was also clear she didn’t give a damn.

  “We’ll discuss specifics once you’ve delivered on your end of the deal,” she wheezed. “In the meantime, I’ll start priming the clan for Fat Chair’s downfall.”

  “About that.” I stood—slowly, to keep Ubayd happy—and put the seeds into my mouth. “I’m going to need more to go on than just ‘make him look like a fool.’ Some ideas or suggestions. Details.”

  Mama shook her head. “If my hand is seen in this, it could ruin any rewards I may otherwise reap. Having this meeting is risk enough; if I give you any hints, their origins might be traced back to the Zakur, and thus to me. The deed is on you alone, Imperial.”

  She turned away. Ubayd handed her a stout cane, which she used to begin hobbling toward the door. In this, she let the Arm help her.

  It was a setup—even I could see that. If I somehow succeeded, she’d come out ahead without having lifted a finger; and if I failed she wouldn’t have risked a thing. Either way, I’d be at her mercy when payment time came around. She could just as easily laugh in my face as honor her word, and there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do about it.

  I needed something more, not only to save face, but to feel that I wasn’t letting her walk all over me—even if I was. I needed to get something out of this as well.

  “That’s not good enough,” I said to her retreating back.

  “It will have to be.”

  “And if I were to go to your nephew instead?” I said. “To cut my own deal with him?”

  She stopped. Craned her head over her shoulder until she was regarding me with her drooping eye. “Even you’re not that stupid.”

  “I’m a marked Imperial in Djan: What have I got to lose?”

  “Besides the obvious?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Mama screwed up her face in a way that made me think of lemons. “What do you want?”

  “I need help on the street.”

  “I told you, my hand can’t be seen—”

  “Not with Fat Chair,” I said. “With something else—something that’s my business alone. Something that won’t make a bit of difference to you or Fat Chair or the rest of the Zakur.”

  “What?”

  I put on what I hoped was a winning smile. “I need help finding some old books,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The sun was smearing orange and purple across the clouds on the eastern horizon when I left the Angel’s Shadow the next evening and headed out of the Imperial Quarter.

  My step wasn’t as light as I might have hoped, nor as quick. I’d spent most of the previous night and much of this morning working the streets in the company of one of Mama Left Hand’s men: a cove named Dirar who had a penchant for rashari leaf and a nose for artifacts. We’d haunted scribal shops and secondhand booksellers, talking our way into private libraries and out of tense encounters with rare document smugglers. We spoke with mercenaries in taverns, priests in temples, historians in gardens, and thieves in back alleys. Everywhere, people knew Dirar, and everywhere they had the same answer: no word, no idea, no hints—but they’d watch and listen and look, to be sure.

  I’d finally left him close to midday, with assurances on his part that we’d made
a good beginning. I’d had a hard time sharing his enthusiasm, but had nodded and smiled and crawled up to my bed with instruction not to be disturbed. Less than six hours later, I’d woken up to Fowler kicking my bed, telling me it was time to get my ass up and go meet Heron.

  I’d thought about arguing, about telling her to go to hell, but we needed the stipend he held, not to mention however many days he’d managed to bargain out of the wazir on our behalf. Part of me wanted to tell her to go in my stead, but I decided I’d rather drink the mug of coffee she’d brought me than wear it.

  I made a quick stop in the stables before leaving to check on Degan’s sword. It was still there, and after a slight hesitation, I slipped it over my shoulder. It was probably just as safe sitting in the rafters as riding my back—hell, safer, given the last several days I’d been having—but after finding Wolf in my room, not to mention Mama Left Hand in the inn, I didn’t like the idea of it being out of my sight anymore. Too many people were taking too close of an interest in me, and Degan’s sword would make a handy bit of leverage if they found it. Better I know where it was than be surprised again, as I had been with Crook Eye.

  Besides, it felt good to have it on my back again.

  This time around, I avoided the main entrance to the padishah’s palace and made directly for the Dog Gate instead. The same guard was there, keeping counsel with the yapping of the hounds in the falling night.

  I smiled at him through the iron bars of the gate as I came up. His eyes grew wide, then narrowed quickly. I noticed that he’d invested in a new sash. Smart. I didn’t want to think about what it would have taken to clean the old one after I’d finished with it.

  “He’s expecting me,” I said. “Again.”

  The guard’s fingers shifted on his spear. I saw his eyes flick back and forth, looking to see if anyone else was near, if anyone else would see or hear what came next. His jaw clenched in anticipation.

  I sighed. He wasn’t really considering trying to kill me, was he?

  “If you thought it was going to be hard to explain why you had my money and ahrami in your pocket last time,” I said, slipping my last seed into my mouth, “what do you think will happen when someone finds my body lying out here, stabbed by a spear and mauled by dogs?”

  His fingers fidgeted some more. He licked his lips.

  “Or are you hoping you can leave your post long enough to dispose of my body and not be missed?” I said. “Because, let me tell you, it’s a lot harder than you think to drag this much deadweight someplace people won’t find it. Especially if there are dogs barking and yapping and getting in the way.”

  I watched as he looked into the square behind me, considering the shadows and the hounds and where he might be able to dump me.

  Fucking amateur. If you want to kill someone, kill him; thinking about it only gives you time to second-guess yourself.

  I rattled the iron. “Just open the damn gate.”

  He paused a moment longer, then transferred his spear to his left hand and pulled out a set of keys with his right. The gate opened with a mild squeal. I stepped inside, pretending not to see the sheepish look on his face as he refused to meet my eye.

  I considered telling Heron about this gap in the padishah’s defenses, then thought better of it. You never know when a weak link will come in handy.

  The guard stepped back over to his post house and rang a hand bell. After a short delay, a boy dressed in enough silk and silver to make a courtesan spit with envy came running up, torch in hand. He bowed to me and looked at the guard.

  “For His Excellency, the Secretary to the Wazir of the Gardens of the Muse,” muttered the guard. He didn’t look at me as I left.

  On the day we’d been escorted off the padishah’s estate, the troupe and I had followed a wide, paved road from the artist’s enclave to the main gate. Between the guards and the trees lining the road, I’d only managed glimpses of the grounds: a serene pool here, a carefully cultivated glade there, a stone-walled pavilion roofed in silk, complete with the sound of giggling maidens inside, up on a hill. It had been impressive, but hard to appreciate.

  Now, though, I found myself walking through the midst of the garden’s glory. Manicured lawns rolled away on either side in the torchlight and polished marble stepping stones marked out the path beneath our feet. We passed through a stand of trees planted to resemble what I could only guess were supposed to be the jungles of Bakshar to the south, and then, farther along, another grove that reminded me of the tall pine forests of the empire’s Western Client Kingdoms. A stream crossed our path, thick with lazy fish, spanned by an arched bridge done in cedar and copper. The flowing water fed into a small pond, its edges staked with weeds and willows. I watched as small ripples appeared and vanished on its surface, the fat fish growing fatter off the night bugs that skated there.

  The torch was spoiling my night vision, but its light allowed me to just make out buildings set off from the path. Some were large enough to be residences or stables, others smaller, their shapes and locations suggesting more private purposes: tea pavilions and artists’ workshops and quiet rooms perfect for assignations . . . or assassinations. Most were dark, but a few showed faint flickers of light. Soft music wafted from one, while low, fast moans came from another. Occasionally, our path crossed other people’s—court functionaries, servants, men and women walking the grounds—but never any guards or patrols.

  I asked my guide about this.

  “These are the padishah’s grounds,” he said. “You don’t come here unless you’re invited. It is known.”

  “But why?” I said.

  He looked at me, as if not quite understanding the question. “It is known,” he said simply.

  I let the subject drop. I was certain there were stories of guards and glimmer and the padishah and his father making gruesome examples of people who hopped the wall, but this clearly wasn’t the time to hear them. Not that I didn’t think this boy was overflowing with tales—what boys and servants aren’t?—but he’d clearly learned not to share servants’ gossip to visiting strangers, especially if those strangers were being taken to see someone who could have him beaten for talking out of turn.

  Smart kid.

  Two curving sweeps of the path later, we turned onto a wooden walkway and approached a low timber building set beside a hill. In a city that favored stone and brick and tile, this place stood out for its dark earthiness. Lights flickered in narrow glass windows, and I could smell, if not see, smoke coming from a chimney somewhere. The boy placed his torch in an iron holder a short distance from the building, then led me to the door and knocked.

  A large man with a shining pate and an oiled mustache and beard opened the door. After relieving me of my rapier and Degan’s sword, not to mention the dagger on my belt, he closed the door in the boy’s face and led me into the house.

  The inside was much like the out: simple, elegant, and mildly out of place. Thick rugs that would have made a desert sheikh wilt with envy ran over plain wooden floors. The walls were imperial in their feel—painted plaster, interspersed with the occasional mosaic done in cut stone and glass and marble, all depicting Angels and history (but not the emperor, I noticed)—while the ceilings were distinctly Djanese, their crossbeams made of heavy carved and painted timber. Silver lamps burned in holders on the wall, their smoke rising to brush over and around copper disks set above the flames: soot catchers, for making lampblack and ink. Heron, it seemed, was a clerk to the bone.

  We walked along one hallway, turned down another, and then passed through a set of double doors already standing open. I crossed the threshold and stopped, awestruck.

  Wall to wall, floor to ceiling, there were shelves. Shelves filled with books, with folios, with scrolls, with stone tablets, for Angels’ sake. Papers seemed to drip from them, hanging out here, where a binding had split; there, where a scroll draped a teasing, curling corner across its neighbor; and off to the side, where a sheaf of documents bulged out, restrained only
by the twine that held them together. The place smelled dry and dusty and full of secrets.

  I licked my lips. To hell with Baldezar—I wanted to work out an exchange with Heron, to browse and thumb and read my way through even a fraction of a single wall.

  “Ah,” said, Heron. “On time. How pleasant. Tea?”

  He was standing at a large, plain reading table near the far end of the room. The surface was immaculate, polished by years of leather covers and sheepskins rather than wax. A small iron tea service sat at one end, an elaborate candelabra at the other. Behind him, a blank section of wall—the only one in the entire room—held a single antique long sword, a jade vase full of dried flowers, and a large silk fan draped in black gauze. The fan, I knew, would be covered with intricately inked scenes—scenes that would start with a wedding and end with a funeral pyre or a corpse, depending on which sect Heron followed. Once, when it had been plainer, it had belonged to Heron’s wife; now it was his widower’s fan.

  Hints of figures and gold leaf taunted me through the gauze. I looked away before my eyes tried to make out too many details of their life together, done small.

  “Thanks, no,” I said, coming the rest of the way into the room. I took out an ahrami seed instead. Heron noted it and nodded.

  “I’ve not forgotten I owe you more,” he said, pouring himself a cup of pale green liquid.

  “Nor have I.”

  We both smiled thinly at that. I noticed that there was only one chair in the room. Heron took it, regarding me over his steaming cup.

  “And how is el-Qaddice agreeing with you?” he said, running his eyes over my battered countenance. I could only imagine how I appeared, since I’d specifically avoided the offer by Tobin to see “how wonderfully horrendous” I looked in his brass mirror. Ezak had stopped me on the way out to study my bruises for purposes of stage makeup.