Sworn in Steel

by Douglas Hulick

  “Must be nice to have your life so simply defined.”

  “Don’t confuse simple goals for a simple man.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I brushed off my pants, then poked cautiously at the severed scarf on the floor. My body stayed my own, so I picked it up and used it to wipe the back of my head. There wasn’t as much of the Cutter’s blood there as I thought. I wiped at my nose as well. “Besides, it’s like I told you: What happens here tonight isn’t just about the Zakur. If things play out like I hope, I may have some good news for you come morning.”

  I retrieved my rapier and knives from where the Cutter had set them and started walking. Wolf joined me. “I’d rather I come with and find out tonight,” he said.

  I shook my head. “I go alone. That, or you get to find your leads on your own.”

  We’d been over this as well. He hadn’t liked the idea of me heading off alone, but I liked the idea of him knowing about Heron, let alone the sword hanging on his wall, even less. No matter how many times I played the scene of he and I walking into the library together, it never ended well.

  Wolf scowled. “Very well. But I want to hear from you first thing if you find anything.”

  “Not to worry,” I said.

  He grunted, but otherwise didn’t respond. When we reached the bottom of the next set of stairs, we turned and followed an archway that led out to the pit. I stopped just short of the three steps leading down into the mob and looked across at the stage.

  They were deep into the second act. Tobin was offstage just now. Instead, Ezak, in his role as the Caliph Hesad, was striding about, making excuses for Tobin/Abu Ahzred to his councilors. Surely, he argued, the rumors about such a trusted and valued adviser had to be false? He would not honor them with the gift of belief! And so on and so forth. . . .

  I knew this part well. Within the next few minutes, Abu Ahzred would finalize his deal with the djinn and move to throw down the Caliphate. Bodies would fall onstage, magical mock fire would burn, and the origins of the Despotate would be portrayed in the darkest light that had been seen in a generation. We were, in essence, on the cusp of banishment.

  I turned to the audience. To a person, they were held rapt. I could see their eyes devouring every detail, their ears soaking up every word and nuance. Smiles and frowns, laughter and disgust: The reactions were scattered across the audience like shells on a beach. There was no telling which way the crowd would go when it happened, no way of knowing how they would react when the padishah’s men began to move. And move, I knew, they would.

  I dabbed at my nose again and looked up at the padishah’s box. From here, I could only make out the top of his turban, but the men around and behind him were readily visible. There were keen eyes up there studying the play, I knew, along with practiced lips smoothly translating the lines. No one on the balcony could have any doubt about where this performance was going, what it was saying about the origins and nature of the Despotate.

  And yet there was no serious stirring among the guards and attendants, no angry dip to the royal turban, no hasty gesture of command or dismay. It seemed, in fact, quiet.

  What the hell was he thinking up there?

  No, never mind. If he didn’t want to shut things down, we were prepared for that as well. It wouldn’t be quite as chaotic as I’d planned, but there’d still be enough distractions to go around. Starting now.

  I turned back to the stage but didn’t lift my eyes to it. Instead, I focused on the small knot of sweating, murmuring, gesticulating men and women standing in front of it. There were five of them there, all Mouths, all brought in at Tobin’s request to light the stage and see to the pyrotechnics that the palace and sea battles would require. All of the yazani had been paid for by the padishah, but two of them, for tonight, belonged to me.

  I waited until the shorter of the two—the one missing most of his right hand—looked over and met my eye. And I nodded.

  Then I turned to go.

  Wolf blinked. He’d been staring up at the padishah’s box, but now he turned his eyes to me. “That was it?” he said.

  “It will be,” I said.

  “But wha—?”

  Wolf was interrupted by a bright pulse of red-tinted light, followed by what sounded like the report of muted thunder. Only, I knew, the thunder came from a balcony two floors up, where a crime lord and his pet Mouth now sat in stunned silence as magic that had been triggered from the pit below writhed and sparked from the paper I’d left in their possession. Magic that, even from half a theater away or more, any competent magus would be able to identify as Imperial in nature. Magic that, for all visible intents and purposes, seemed to be summoning a djinni, or something damn near like it, disturbingly close to the padishah’s person.

  Magic that Raaz and his master had cast upon the papers, just so they could set it off. Because, as much as they had wanted Jelem’s notes, they’d wanted Fat Chair even more after I’d told them he was responsible for the neyajin who’d come after them in the cellar.

  Thankfully, revenge isn’t limited to criminals and the court.

  I cast one final glance over my shoulder just before the audience realized the magic battle that looked to be brewing over them wasn’t part of the show and began to panic. In that instant, I met the magi’s eye. He was grinning like a fool.

  The crowd surged between us, and he was gone. A moment later, so was I.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Tempting as it was to use the main thoroughfares to save time, I stuck to the back streets on my way to the padishah’s estate. Part of that was habit, but much more came from the simple fact that I had no idea how big or bad things would get at the theater. The magic had been designed more for show than anything—to get the attention of the padishah and his magi, and maybe give Raaz and his master a chance to swoop in and save the day by capturing the Zakur crime lord who’d been foolish enough to try and smuggle magic from the Empire into the city, let alone use it so close to the despot’s son. Clearly, such a combination could not have been meant for anything other than the darkest treachery?

  I didn’t know if Fat Chair would walk out of there alive or not, but that wasn’t my problem. Mama Left hand had only stipulated that she wanted him embarrassed, and that I wasn’t supposed to dust him. Done and done as far as I was concerned, and good riddance. All I knew is that, no matter what else happened, the padishah and his people—including Heron—would have their hands full for the next several hours or more dealing with the threat and the confusion and the chaos. Maybe even all night, if I was lucky.

  And, from what I’d seen of what lay ahead of me, luck was something I was going to need.

  While Tobin and his people had been practicing for the performance, I’d spent my time casing the padishah’s estate. What I’d found hadn’t made me happy: tall, smooth walls with a broad swath of open ground at their outer base. Neither building nor tree was allowed near the wall, meaning that the idea of covering the gap with a leap from a similar height was out. Likewise, while the idea of a hemp stroll was a possibility, I wasn’t a good enough rope walker to risk running from a roof to the distant wall without risking either a spill or a sighting. As for climbing over: Well, aside from the iron spikes that graced the top of the barrier, I’d also been informed about a glass-lined channel that ran around the top of the wall—a channel that reportedly contained a string of quicksilver beads. It was said that each bead bore a small symbol on its surface, inscribed by a magi with a ruby stylus. How a person could make a lasting mark in a dot of quicksilver was beyond me, but I’d heard enough accounts on the streets of the Old City about would-be thieves bursting into flame atop the wall to decide that going over the top wasn’t an option.

  As for under, well, let’s just say that the tales of the gates and guards and sewer spirits had made the wall seem a charming diversion by comparison.

  Which left only one viable route into the grounds. Fortunately for me, it was one I’d become familiar with during
my short time in el-Qaddice.

  The hounds roaming the plaza outside the Dog Gate snarled and snapped and raised their hackles as I passed, but nevertheless kept their distance. Beat a dog enough—even a feral one—and they’ll shrink from any man with a bit of iron in his step. I don’t know who’d been taking a rod to the poor beasts in the courtyard, but I could make some guesses about the one behind the gate. The only question was whether the dog I was coming to see had had enough of his own master’s rod for my purposes.

  “Open up,” I said crisply as I came up to the iron-barred archway that was the Dog Gate. I kept my eyes off to one side, both to seem unconcerned as well as to save them from the lamplight shining out from his post house. The dogs inside, I noticed, were quiet.

  “Fuck off,” said a voice from the other side. There was much more relish in the guard’s tone than I’d heard in my previous visits.

  My eyes snapped up, meeting his. “Don’t push me,” I said, taking a step closer to the bars. “You know where this can go.” He didn’t move back; instead, he came a pace closer. That wasn’t a good sign.

  “You’re not to be admitted,” he said, his hand shifting along the haft of his short spear. “In fact, you’re to be turned away.” His other hand gripped lower on the wood, and the steel tip began to dip down in my direction. “Even by force, if necessary. And I think that’s necessary.”

  Heron. He must have put the order in the other day, after I’d left him feeling less than warm toward me. I should have guessed.

  Theoretically, it’s possible for a man with a rapier to take a man with a short spear. Degan had done it in the past, and even discussed the premise behind the practice one night. But there’s a long walk between talking about something and doing it in a fight, and I knew better than to even set foot on that path. There was no way I was going to challenge a man holding a spear, especially when he was on the other side of a locked gate, and especially when I’d used his sash to wipe dog shit off my boots.

  I took a step back and held up my hands to show him I respected the threat. He didn’t seem impressed.

  Think fast, Drothe.

  “When did those orders come down?” I said.

  “What does it matter?” he said, bringing the tip of the spear in line with me. “The point is, you’re not getting in. And if you try . . . well, it’s my word against a corpse’s, now, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “Yes, but then you’d be in the awkward position of having to explain why you just killed one of the padishah’s newest dependents.”

  That got a blink. “What?”

  I jerked a thumb back over my shoulder. “Play. Tonight. He liked us, offered us patronage. I’m his now.”

  “Ha!” He spit, just in case I missed the disdain in his laugh. “My master take you on? I don’t think so.”

  “Think whatever you want, just open up so I can deliver my message.”

  “What message?”

  I sighed and lowered my hands. “The one the secretary gave me, of course.”

  The spear tip wavered for a moment, but then became firm again. “There’s no message,” he said, sounding more certain than I liked. “And you’re not a dependent. If you were, you’d have one of my master’s tokens on, instead of the wazir’s.”

  I looked down as if I’d forgotten the small bronze lozenge that hung against my chest. “Like I told you, he just took us as . . . oh, never mind. Here. . . .” I reached into my doublet. The guard tensed and jerked his spear forward. I froze.

  “Don’t!” he cried.

  Well, I’d certainly done a number on this one, hadn’t I? I didn’t know whether to be pleased or irritated with myself on the matter.

  “Easy,” I said. “Easy. I just wanted to show you the message.” I slowly drew a pale, nonstained corner of the Mouth’s scarf I’d stuck in my doublet on the way over, hoping it could pass for paper in the gloom. I stepped forward. “Here, take a look.” Another step.

  The guard came forward. So did his spear. “Far enough,” he said. “Put it on the blade and I’ll draw it to me.”

  Crap. I’d been wanting to get him into knife range, or closer. Even if I did have something that could pass for paper, sticking it on the tip of his spear wouldn’t get me there.

  I pushed the “message” back into my doublet, took half a step closer. “And let you read it?” I said. Could I grab the haft of the spear, maybe use it to pull him into the bars? “Or destroy it and say I never showed it to you?” Would that give me time to close before he scrambled away? I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  His scowl deepened. I was losing him with my story. Hell, I was losing me, it was so bad.

  “I don’t—” he began, but then stopped as a surprised look came over his face. That seemed reasonable, considering the tufted end of a dart that had just appeared above his collar, the thin steel of the needle lodged into his neck.

  He raised his hand, fingers brushing at the fine hairs on the end of the weapon, and gasped out the first half syllable of something. Then he fell over.

  I was already spinning and crouching when a voice behind me said, “What kind of fool tries to talk his way into the padishah’s estate?” It came from a piece of night that was walking toward me, complete with sultry eyes and a mocking voice; a piece of night that also happened to be tucking a short blow tube back up her sleeve.

  “One who’s already done it twice before,” I said, straightening as Aribah joined me. “What are you doing here?”

  She shrugged. “As I said before: I’m supposed to keep you from killing yourself. Since you seemed intent on doing just that . . .”

  “I don’t need you on my blinders.” Not here. Not now.

  “You can wish the stars to fall from the sky and become diamonds at your feet for all I care. Until I decide otherwise, you’re going to have two shadows lingering at your heels tonight: your own and me.” She folded her arms and arched an elegant eyebrow. “Now, do you wish to stand here until someone comes to investigate, or are we going through the gate?”

  I took half a step back. “You’re not going to try to stop me?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You know . . .” I gestured over my shoulder at the estate. “Not getting myself killed?”

  “I’m here to keep you alive, not to prevent you from being stupid. Not that I think the latter’s even possible.”

  “Right,” I said. “Great.” I turned back to the gate. The guard had fallen close enough that it was only a moment’s work to grab his leg, drag him the rest of the way over, and search his clothing for the keys.

  I unlocked the gate. The sound of the rusty hinges swinging open caused the dogs in the kennels to start barking, which in turn got the ones in the piazza to join in as well.

  “Here,” I said. “Help me.” We dragged the guard out into the square and then off into one of the side alleys. While the guardhouse was a closer stash, the alley was a better choice, since a missing guard tends to generate less immediate fuss than a dead one.

  The dogs were already at work on the body before we made it back through the gate. I closed the iron behind us and we headed into the deeper darkness of the padishah’s grounds.

  It was closer to the middle of the night than the beginning by now, but that didn’t mean the grounds were deserted. The occasional servant or functionary still walked the paths, torch in hand, running errands, delivering missives, or lighting the way for lavishly dressed nobles or high officers of the court. Patrols of the padishah’s guards roamed the grounds, too, but they were few, and made enough noise that even I could hear them coming, let alone Aribah. And, of course, there were the pavilions and open sitting circles—both lit and dark—dotting the landscape, providing cover from, and distractions for, any eyes that might have otherwise spotted us.

  In a sense, it was an ideal situation for any kind of Prigger: open spaces, plenty of cover, with enough Lighters wandering about to make things like guard dogs and other night hazards
impractical. I couldn’t believe this place didn’t get rolled every week: Once you were past the walls, it was a thief’s delight. I mentioned as much to Aribah when we paused in the shadows of a small grove of pistachio trees I’d recognized from my last visit.

  “The grounds aren’t the palace,” said Aribah, her gaze sweeping the lawn before us, her head cocking back and forth like a songbird’s as she listened to the night. Even with the dye rubbed across her exposed skin, I found I could make out enough of her face to determine not only where she was, but what she was doing, but it took work. “There’s a difference,” she said, “between gaining access to those who serve the prince and reaching the prince himself.”

  “What kind of difference?”

  The smudge in the night regarded me. “Do all Imperials talk this much when they work?”

  “Only the good ones.”

  “Then I look forward to your impending silence.”

  It was my turn to snort. I looked out over the grounds. A small troop of guards were walking across the turf downslope from us, their cresset lantern sending up flame and smoke from the end of its chain. They were far enough out that the light only caused me to tear up. I blinked and rubbed at my eyes. The patrol was crossing between our trees and a rise that I remembered being near Heron’s lodge. We settled in to let them pass.

  “So, who watches over the padishah besides them?” I said, pointing at the moving light.

  “The Opal Guard, for one,” said Aribah.

  “And they’re not the Opal Guard?”

  “Hardly. If they were Opal, we’d be moving away, believe me.”

  “That good?”

  “That good.”

  I shifted on the ground, moving a fallen limb out from under my thigh. “You said ‘for one,’ ” I said. “Who else stands Oak around her?”

  “. . . stands Oak?”

  “Watches. Guards. Keeps a lookout.”

  Aribah muttered something under her breath about Imperials and insanity. Aloud, she said, “Sometimes the Lions of Arat. And djinn.”