Sworn in Steel

by Douglas Hulick

  Fowler nodded. “I’ve got my street drapes and Degan’s sword stashed near here. Once it’s done, I’ll gather them up and wait for you at the Black Ken.”

  “Good.” I didn’t like the idea of leaving Degan’s sword behind, but I liked the idea of trying to crack the padishah’s ken with it on my back even less. Added bulk aside, the thought of it ending up in some guard’s hands if things went wrong and never having the chance to make it back to Degan didn’t sit right with me. Better Fowler keep it for now.

  “Be careful on your way out,” I said.

  “You, too. And keep an eye on Wolf. He may have agreed to help with this, but I don’t trust that bastard any farther than I can kick him.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  I turned away and headed toward the tiring room and the small door beyond that to the main theater.

  “Hey,” said Fowler.

  I stopped, looked back. “What?”

  “You realize that when I told you to start acting like a Gray Prince, I didn’t mean for you to try to emulate the dead ones, right?”

  “Sure, now you tell me.”

  I smiled. Fowler smiled back, neither of us quite believing the faces we were putting on. Then I left.

  “Please explain to me,” said Fat Chair as he looked up, “why I shouldn’t have you killed right now.”

  We were in a balcony roughly halfway up the left side of the theater. Screens carved to look like interwoven grape vines separated us from the boxes to either side, and a low wall with a spiral-turned railing kept us from accidentally strolling off into space. Fat Chair was seated before me on a long low couch that had clearly been brought in just for him, taking up what had once been enough space for five chairs. Now it was a challenge to fit him and me and the two coves he’d brought with into the balcony and not have someone fall out.

  Not that I wasn’t starting to think that might be the idea. . . .

  “Aside from the fact that we both agreed there’d be no bloodshed,” I said, “there’s always them.” I pointed past the crime lord and out into the theater, to the large, canopy-draped box that sat two-thirds of the way up the gallery, center theater. It was within easy shouting distance. “I don’t think the padishah’s guards would appreciate a murder happening this close to their charge, even if it was just us. They seem to be picky that way.”

  Fat Chair glanced over his shoulder at the box and the two-deep array of green-jacketed guardsmen surrounding it on three sides. Within, several more soldiers stood to hand, as did a small host of functionaries, servants, and councilors. In the center, resting on a deep cushion, sat a thin-faced man with uneven cheeks and pursed lips, studying the play. He was dressed in silks that shone even from here, and wore a turban so elaborate that it looked as if it might require structural support on a bad day. Rings and jewels clung to him like rainwater after a storm, and I couldn’t help thinking that a deft filcher with quick hands could lift a lifetime’s worth of profit in just a few moments up there. But then again, given how the padishah’s eyes seemed to take in everything—not just the play, but the pit, the audience in the seats, the movement and shift of both the light and the shadows cast by the breeze-blown fabrics around him—I couldn’t imagine many thieves making it out of that box alive, no matter how good they were.

  And that was ignoring everyone else who was standing around him—including, I was pleased to see, both Heron and the wazir.

  Fat Chair let out a small snort and turned back to me. The effort had caused a sheen of moisture to appear on his upper lip. He wiped at the sweat mustache and said, “You think my man can’t kill you silently?”

  “You think I can’t make a lot of noise if he tries?”

  The crime lord’s gaze flicked past my shoulder. I resisted the urge to turn around, to shift my eyes, to tense my back. The man was the closer of the two behind me and had had cold eyes. The woman, at least, had nodded when I came in, but she was also the one who had taken the sole dagger I had on me—I’d been relieved of the rest of my steel even before I’d been allowed to climb the stairs to the gallery. Two on one, both behind me. Bad odds.

  “Very well,” said Fat Chair. “Never let it be said that I don’t keep my word.” He leaned back on his couch and picked up a small square of paper from the table beside it and held it up. “Any requests?”

  “How about a letter of patronage?”

  He made a crease and chuckled. “Or maybe just a token instead? No, I don’t think so. Not that I’m not that good . . . I am . . . but no.”

  “Not even for some other pieces of folded paper in exchange?”

  He paused. “What kind of papers?”

  “The kind that you aren’t going to want to turn into birds and apes and Angels know what else to leave lying around for the despot’s people to find.”

  He looked up at me. “So I was right, you are here to smuggle magic.”

  “I’m here to do a lot of things, but crossing the Zakur isn’t one of them.” I reached into my doublet—slowly, so as not to startle the coves and their knives behind me—and pulled out the paper animal I’d bought on the way over. I set the figure on the edge of the couch, its bared teeth toward him, its bushy paper tail pointed at me. “I should have known better than to challenge the wolf in his own den. That was a mistake, and I apologize for it.”

  He picked up the folded wolf and turned it in his hands. It was made of crisp, bone-white paper, the creases knife-sharp. Pigments had been carefully applied and then gently washed away in spots, making it look as if the creature were ready to breathe, ready to leap, ready to howl, if only the right words were spoken.

  Fat Chair held it to the light shining up from the stage. “Exquisite.”

  It damn well should be, I thought—I paid enough for it.

  He turned it some more. “But you still lied to me.”

  “After getting nipped by a couple of Cutters and escorted to your chair? Damn straight I lied.” I stepped forward, leaned in. I could see the stage beyond him, Tobin upon it, the hired yazani controlling the magical effects from a roped-off area just below. “But I wasn’t lying when I said I was here looking for someone, and that I have other reasons for wanting to stick around.”

  “You mean Crook Eye?”

  “I mean his routes,” I lied. “I didn’t stab him in the eye on accident, and I didn’t come to el-Qaddice on a whim. I’m still pulling the pieces of his organization together and bringing his people in line, but it’s only a matter of time until I do. And when that happens, I want to be ready to start moving glimmer. That’s why I’m here, and that’s why I initially told you to go to hell: I thought I could put things in place on my own with the Kin in the Imperial Quarter.”

  “But now you know differently.”

  “Now I know differently,” I agreed.

  Fat Chair glanced down at the stage and the players upon it. “And them?”

  “They got me into the city,” I said. “But no matter how well they do tonight, they’re going to be escorted out tomorrow morning. The fix is in.”

  “The padishah?”

  “His wazir.”

  Fat Chair nodded as if that made perfect sense. “And you don’t want to leave when they go.”

  “Like I said, I have other things to do.”

  “Such as try to strike a deal with me.”

  “That, too.”

  The crime lord set the wolf aside and laced his fingers together across the expanse that was his waist. “I assume you have an offer in mind?”

  I smiled. “Business as usual.”

  Fat Chair blinked. “Which means?”

  “Just what it sounds like: You keep sending magic north, I keep sending money south.”

  Fat Chair ran his fingers along his knuckles once, twice. “And?” he said at last.

  “And what?”

  “And what about the Imperial Quarter?”

  “What about it?” I said. “Crook Eye didn’t have anyone in the Quarter.” At least
as far as I’d been able to find out.

  “Exactly,” said Fat Chair. “He never extended his fingers beyond the border provinces. But you? You come to Djan with magic in your pocket; come all the way to el-Qaddice posing as the patron of an acting troupe, just to avoid suspicion. Why is that?”

  I ran a nervous tongue across my lips. “I just—”

  “I’ll tell you why,” said Fat Chair. He shifted on the couch, pushing himself into a sitting position so he could swing his mastlike legs over the side. “You don’t just want to bring our magic north, you want to send yours south. To your people. To your organization in el-Qaddice.” He placed his hands on his knees. “You want to put yourself in a position to challenge the Zakur in the Imperial Quarter. And the first step is to show that you can get magic to your Kin in there.”

  “What?” I said. “Do you know how far we are from the Empire? Why the hell would I want to do that? There’s no way I could win.”

  “I agree,” said Fat Chair. He took a slow breath, then levered himself to his feet. I took an involuntary step back to give him room . . .

  And walked right into the arms of one of his Cutters.

  Dammit.

  “But,” said Fat Chair, as his man tightened his grip on my arms, “if you had the backing of a tal, perhaps? One that has fallen far enough from favor that it would be willing to help the Kin in exchange for an agreement to supply you with magical baubles once we cut you off? If you could gather enough money and men, not to mention magic, it’s possible you could make it too costly for the Zakur to dislodge you. You could force us to have to deal with you—at least for a time.” He bent over and picked up the paper wolf, held it before my face. “Your own tiny den in the center of our hunting grounds. It’s an audacious plan, and quite exquisite.” He admired the figure a moment longer, then let it drop to the floor. “Too bad it will never happen.”

  I jerked forward against the Cutter’s grasp, trying to loosen his grip, to push myself past, or at least beside, Fat Chair. To get a view of the stage, so that I might be seen—so that I could give the signal.

  No luck. The Cutter didn’t budge.

  I looked up at Fat Chair. He had a bright line across his upper lip again. It nearly matched the gleam in his eye. “Listen,” I said, “I dusted Crook Eye, sure, but—”

  Fat Chair looked past me and nodded. I was taking a deep breath to scream my head off—for the stage, for the padishah’s men, hell even for Wolf—when I heard a low voice mutter something behind me. A soft weight settled across the back of my neck, and suddenly my muscles decided to stop paying attention to me. My deep breath leaked out in a wheeze.

  “Thank you, Nazin,” said Fat Chair. He looked back at me and smiled. “Oh, that’s right—as an Imperial, you’re probably not used to having magicians at your beck and call, are you? It’s a shame, really—they come in so handy.” To the man behind me: “Since he came to negotiate, he probably has the package on him. Check.”

  The hands let go of my wrists and began to go over me, patting sleeves, undoing buttons, checking inside and out. When they came across the long, triangular assassin’s needle I’d threaded up along the seam of my doublet’s sleeve, their owner whistled in appreciation.

  “Clever bastard,” he said as he drew out the eight inches of tapered steel and set it atop his boss’s papers. He resumed his search more carefully after that.

  For her part, the yazani stepped around to my side and adjusted the glimmered scarf she’d laid across my neck, tying it off and tucking it in, all the while making sure it never stopped touching my skin. She smelled of tobacco and mint and hummed as she worked.

  And all the while, I stood there, breathing (just) and blinking (rarely), staring at Fat Chair because I didn’t have any other choice. He stared back.

  “If it were simply business,” he said to me, “I might have let you leave the city, less a finger or four. It was a brilliant plan, after all, and I have no desire to stir up your people in the Quarter. But you killed S’ad, and I can’t let that pass. He was a distant cousin, but he was still blood, and he was close to me.” He shook his head, almost sadly. “I don’t look forward to what my fellows will say after I’ve killed you, but clan comes first.”

  It was a good thing I was unable to react; otherwise, I might have laughed in his face. He was doing exactly what Mama Left Hand had wanted him to do in the first place, and didn’t even realize it was the wrong choice. She was right: He was a fool.

  Still, I would have given anything just then to be able to talk, to be able to tell him that I didn’t have people in el-Qaddice, that I wasn’t half as clever as he was giving me credit for, that I really had come down here just to find one man and do a yazani a favor. But instead, all I did was stand there, listening to my heart hammer in my ears and wondering whether or not I’d choke on my own vomit if I threw up like this.

  The Cutter found Jelem’s package shortly after that—I’d been planning to hand it over anyhow, so it wasn’t as if I’d hidden it well—and handed the small bundle off to the yazani. After she chanted a few words and rubbed a silvery brown powder over them, the wax seals let off a small puff of smoke and dropped away from the paper.

  “Well?” said Fat Chair as the woman unfolded the papers and looked them over.

  I saw her eyes widen out of the corner of my own, watched as she whispered into Fat Chair’s ear, causing much the same reaction. He snatched the pages from her, stared at them, and then turned his eyes to me.

  More than just his upper lip was sweating now.

  “What . . . ?” he began, but his voice trailed off. He waved the paper at me as if I could answer him.

  I blinked.

  “I take it back,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “You’re not brilliant. You’re mad. Mad, and doomed.” He turned to the Cutter. “Take him down to the third ring and leave him in the first alley you find. Make sure no one can tell who he was when you’re finished.” He refolded Jelem’s papers and stuffed them into his sash. “I don’t want anyone to know he lost these for as long as possible.”

  The Cutter reached up and touched the back of the scarf along my neck. “Turn around,” he said, “and walk.”

  Much to my disappointment, I did so. Smoothly.

  He guided me out of the box and along the hall to the narrow steps that led down to the next level. I could hear shouts and applause through the walls, feel the stomping of the audience through the soles of my shoes. For good or ill, the play was clearly having an impact. I just wished I could enjoy the knowledge more.

  We went down the stairs. At the bottom, we found another one of Fat Chair’s men. I’d passed him coming up and left my weapons in his care. He didn’t bother to look up as we approached. Instead, he sat in his chair, feet crossed at the ankles, his head tilted forward in boredom or sleep.

  It wasn’t until we were almost even with him that the Cutter behind me realized his comrade was neither bored nor sleeping, but dead. But by then, it was too late.

  Wolf stepped out of the gallery entry we’d agreed he should linger in the day before and silenced the Cutter with a single, clean thrust over my shoulder. I heard the blade pierce skin, smelled its oiled steel, felt the breeze of its passing, followed by the spray of blood across my back. And still I kept walking.

  “Well, that was . . . here, now, where are you going?” said Wolf. He stepped in front of me. I walked into him. He took a step back and held me at bay with one hand.

  “What kind of game are you . . . Ah.” He frowned. “Just like the Djanese to use magic when a good gag and a bit of rope will do. Damn show-offs.” He shoved my shoulder, causing me to pivot to one side. Then he kicked my legs out from under me.

  I fell like a tree.

  It must hurt to be a tree.

  I heard Wolf wipe his blade clean and then slide it home in its scabbard. He knelt down before me. My legs were still moving.

  “Apologies for your nose,” he said. My nose? What about my
nose? “So, magic.” Wolf studied me. “I’m presuming the one I killed wasn’t the shaman, which means he’d need something to control you. And that means . . .” The degan cleared his knife, flashed it near my throat, and had it away again, all between one heartbeat and the next. A moment later, the scarf fell from my neck and my muscles returned to me.

  I gasped. I groaned. I curled up on my side. And yes, I reached up and touched my nose.

  Not broken, and it all seemed to be there. Just bloody. That was something.

  “All went well with the fat one?” said Wolf, standing. He grabbed the dead Cutter by his ankles and dragged him into a space behind the stairs.

  “He took the bait, if that’s what you mean,” I said as I sat up. “Although I wasn’t sure I was going to live long enough to see things through, to be honest.”

  “Which is why you should have simply killed him, as I suggested.”

  “I told you why that wasn’t an option.”

  “Then you should have killed the old woman as well.” Wolf gave the body one last shove and came back out. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but you’d have to look to see the Cutter in this light.

  “Mama Left Hand isn’t someone you just . . .” I stopped, shook my head. Who the hell was I to argue with Wolf about dusting a crime lord? We’d both done it, for Angels’ sake. Besides, we’d already gone over this when I’d pitched the plan to him and—reluctantly, but what could I do, I was shorthanded—asked for his help two days back. Despite his concerns about there not being enough bodies on the ground at the end of everything, he’d agreed. “The point is,” I said, “Fat Chair has the packet. Now all I need to do is give the signal.”

  “Then we’d best get to it. We’ve wasted enough time as it is dealing with your distractions.”

  “Distractions,” I said. “Right. Because anyone can simply ignore a price on his head, never mind half a criminal organization threatening to come down on him.”

  Wolf extended his hand and helped me up. “If it doesn’t involve finding Bronze and getting him back, it’s a distraction.”