The Bard's Blade

by Brian D. Anderson

  “I don’t understand,” said Mariyah. “She buys the freedom of prisoners for the sake of propriety?”

  “It’s more than that,” said Gertrude. “Well … it is that. But more too. I’ve known the Lady since she was a young girl. I’ve watched as she outsmarted every noble who tried to bring her down. I don’t pretend to understand the ins and outs of politics, but I know that here in Ubania, a single mistake can be disastrous.”

  Mariyah was still unsure if she understood. But then, there was very little about this world that made sense to her.

  “Where are you from?” asked Kylanda.

  “She’s from Vylari,” said Gertrude, before Mariyah could speak.

  Kylanda fell back in her chair, mouth agape. “Vylari? But that’s … that’s not a real place.”

  Mariyah shot Gertrude an irritated look. She had not intended to make it known where she was from. Gertrude’s eyes widened, realizing her mistake.

  “I’m sorry,” said Gertrude.

  “It’s all right.” She turned back to Kylanda. “Yes. It’s a real place.”

  “But how … I mean why…” She leaned forward as if trying to see if there was a lie in her eyes. “Vylari? Are you having fun with me?”

  Mariyah thought for a second to say yes, that it was just a joke. “No. It’s true.”

  “Why would you ever leave?”

  Mariyah sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  “One you don’t have time to tell,” added Gertrude. “Lady Camdon doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Mariyah could see that Kylanda was bursting with questions. “Don’t worry. There’s plenty of time for me to tell you all about it.”

  “Please,” said Kylanda, grabbing Mariyah’s arm as she stood. “Come see me the moment you’re done.”

  “I’m tired,” said Mariyah. “But I promise to come see you tomorrow.”

  Gertrude cleared her throat when Kylanda did not release her hold, eventually reaching over to pry her hand loose. “Now then, shall we?”

  They exited the room, leaving Kylanda sitting in the chair, staring after them.

  “She’ll never leave you alone now,” remarked Gertrude. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Really, it’s all right,” said Mariyah. “It would have come out sooner or later.”

  “There is something else,” said Gertrude. “Lady Camdon insists upon good table manners. I think it’s why she doesn’t allow us to dine with her. Nobles are a prudish lot, prim and proper from head to toe. Low-borns are too coarse for their taste.”

  She led Mariyah to a parlor similar to the one in which she had initially met Lady Camdon, though this one had a round table placed beneath a window overlooking a courtyard. The Lady was sitting in a chair, tapping her foot.

  “I thought I told you right away,” she said.

  “Forgive me, my lady,” Gertrude responded.

  Lady Camdon sighed with a displeased expression. “I don’t need apologies. I’m hungry and I need to eat.”

  With a formal bow, Gertrude exited. Mariyah was unsure if she should speak or sit. Was this woman ever polite?

  “Don’t just stand there looking lost,” Lady Camdon remarked, rising to her feet. “I said I’m hungry.”

  She sat at the table where two plates and glasses of wine awaited them. Mariyah sat across from her with hands folded in her lap. The food was unfamiliar—six long green vegetables placed neatly side by side and a fist-sized chunk of what she thought to be bread, the top of which was split into a star-like pattern. Two strips of meat, from the look of it almost raw, completed the offering.

  “I’m sure you have been told that you typically dine with the rest of the staff.”

  Mariyah nodded.

  “This will no longer be the case. You will dine with me each night.”

  Mariyah felt a pang of disappointment, but tried not to let it show. “As you wish, my lady.”

  “Don’t you want to know why?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you are a timid little mouse. Unfortunately, you are also a very expensive little mouse, and I have no desire to spend more time and gold on another. So you will dine each evening with me. Does that please you?”

  Mariyah considered her words carefully. “If it brings me closer to my freedom, then yes.”

  “You are free now. I’ve already explained this. Perhaps you are simple-minded.”

  “I am not simple-minded. Nor am I timid.”

  “What are you, then?”

  “Alone. Alone and afraid.”

  Mariyah thought she saw the hint of a smile, but couldn’t be sure.

  “Fear serves nothing. The strong feed on fear. They use it to keep the weak servile. Is that what you are? Weak and helpless?”

  Mariyah could feel her anger boiling up, threatening to surface. “No, my lady. I’m not.”

  “I’m not so sure. I think maybe you are.” Lady Camdon paused, regarding her closely. “You didn’t like that, did you? Being looked upon as weak.”

  “No,” came a tight-jawed reply. “I didn’t.”

  “I can tell. Look at you. Flushed and trembling. Ready to lash out.” She gave a derisive laugh. “You think my words are harsh? Let me teach you a lesson, child, one that could save your life.”

  Mariyah met her eyes firmly.

  “Words are powerful,” Lady Camdon continued. “There is no denying that. The wise and the strong use them both to heal and to cause great harm. Their meaning and their intent can be mightier than the keenest blade or the straightest arrow. Just look at what they’ve done to you in the short time you’ve been sitting at this table. A few seconds longer and you’d have thrown away your life for the fleeting pleasure of telling me to go to the depths. Why? Because of an insult? So answer me this: Are you weak and helpless?”

  “No.”

  “Then why care if I say you are? What changes? Do I have the power to make it true, when it is not?” She didn’t wait for Mariyah to respond. “You may find me cold, even cruel at times. You may even come to hate me. Just know that I do not care. The weight of responsibility I bear would crush you. And yet it’s my hope you will prove capable of helping me bear it. Trysilia did this quite well. Do you think you will be able to take her place?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Lady Camdon locked unblinking eyes with Mariyah. “We shall see. Let us begin. It took Trysilia a full week to learn proper dining etiquette. You have two days.” She picked up her cutlery, the fork in her left hand with prongs facing downward, the knife held in the right between her thumb, index, and middle fingers.

  Mariyah watched as she carved off a tiny slice of meat with the tip of her knife, then slid it to the right side of the plate. She followed this by doing the same to one of the vegetable spears, only this time sliding the severed portion to the left.

  Mariyah mirrored her movements precisely, repeating this procedure three times before eventually taking a bite—meat first and then vegetable. A sip of wine was then deemed permissible. The bread was for last, the fork pressed to the center as the edges were carefully cut into thin slices. When all else was done, these were picked up with the fork and dipped into the wine. It took nearly an hour to finish the meal.

  “What is your opinion of the food?” asked Lady Camdon.

  Mariyah had been so involved with imitating her movements that she hadn’t paid much attention to the taste. Though upon reflection, it was bland. “It was fine,” she said.

  Her caution drew a frown. “No. It was tasteless and plain. When we are alone, you will speak honestly, and I will return the courtesy. I will begin by saying that you fumble around with utensils like a drunken beggar. Naturally, that is to be expected, as I assume you have never used utensils before.”

  “I’ve used them.”

  “Then you should have done better.” She paused for a moment. “How do you think you did?”

  “I think I did well,” she replied. “In fact, I feel the dexterity in my hands was far b
etter. You nearly dropped your fork twice. I did not.”

  This time Lady Camdon’s smile was unmistakable, though it only lasted for a brief second. “Very good. That you noticed is a step in the right direction. Perhaps there’s hope for you after all.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Now, leave me. In the morning you will report to the library. You have much to learn before you’re ready to be seen.”

  Mariyah exited the parlor unsure of her feelings. Lady Camdon was as she herself described: cold. Though not exactly cruel. Mariyah had never felt as intimidated as she did in her presence. For some reason the memory of Tamion and the nervous way he’d looked at her after dropping the crate of wine entered her thoughts. The fear in his expression that she would tell her father. Mariyah resolved never to seem timid or clumsy like this in Lady Camdon’s eyes again. She would learn all that she could about this place and the Lady’s needs as quickly as possible.

  While passing through the halls and chambers, she noticed that the lights had dimmed. It was only then she realized that there was not a single lamp or brazier anywhere. It was as if light shone from nowhere in particular and yet everywhere at once. She hugged her arms to her chest at the thought that magic was in the very air she was breathing, touching every inch of her body.

  Back in her room, she quickly removed her formal attire and put on the nightgown still draped over the chair. This time sleep did not come right away. Her mind continued to dwell on the way Lady Camdon held her fork and knife, how she sliced the bread, and even how much wine she took with each sip. She could not keep herself from going over it again and again. She was positive that there had been no difference between their carefully calculated movements. Or had there? Gradually, uncertainty wormed its way in. Even knowing it was a silly thing to think about, she could not prevent it.

  It was almost dawn before Mariyah was able to keep her eyes shut and finally drift off to sleep. By then, her head was aching badly, plagued with thoughts of the days to come, stoking her anxiety to near madness.

  No. Six years was too long, she decided. Far too long.

  18

  DECEPTION AND SALVATION

  Beware those who choose the shadows as their home.

  Book of Kylor, Chapter Three, Verse Fifty-Nine

  Lem crept along the inner edge of the courtyard, avoiding the dim, flickering light from the braziers placed in each corner. This time the guards would be ready for him; the target had been alerted in advance of his arrival, a careless mistake by the client. But then, here in Ur Minosa, the incompetence was staggering.

  Moreover, with very little in the way of natural resources to trade and farmland that could barely feed their own small population, it was amazing it had ever become a kingdom in the first place. Even here in the capital, the only city of any significant size, most of the buildings were in desperately poor condition and the streets riddled with holes.

  The archway at the north end was being watched by three bowmen just above where he was now standing. But these mercenaries were of low quality. With none of the trio barely bothering to glance down, getting past them would be easy.

  His soft leather shoes, custom made to fit perfectly, didn’t make a sound as he waited for the right moment. Expensive, but worth it. The tingle of shadow walk that he had once felt keenly was now only just noticeable. Sometimes it felt as if he spent all of his waking hours in this state. How many had it been? Twenty-three? No. Twenty-four. Sir Marrish Pollack, protector of Lake Folstoy, personal aide and brother-in-law to King Brilian, would make twenty-five.

  He walked through the archway at a brisk pace, then ducked behind the corner. Never run until you were forced to; this was a lesson well learned. No one could see him unless they were looking straight in his direction, but they could hear him. Even with his special footwear, there was always the danger that a slight scraping of leather on stone might give him away.

  The long hallway was tiled with polished marble. This tended to make things go faster. Less noise, so he could increase his pace. He needed to finish this quickly; Shemi was waiting and would worry if he didn’t make it back before the first play ended. Not to mention that Clovis would have to fill in for him during the interlude, and that was sure to irritate Farley.

  “What is it you do when you go off on your own like that?”

  Shemi had asked him that question yet again only the night before. Lem had no answer. At least, not a believable one. But on the positive side, his uncle was a lot easier to distract since leaving Ralmarstad. He was now free to explore the cities and towns without fear. When Farley had reluctantly removed the anklet, he’d practically danced with joy. From Shemi’s perspective, they had gold, a secure place to live—even if it did move constantly—and, in the larger cities, libraries within which he could lose himself.

  Lem focused his eyes on the third room along on the left. Two men clad in leather armor and carrying short spears were guarding the door, one on either side. Unlike those on the roof, they were vigilant in their duties. Not that it would stop him.

  Reaching into the small pouch hanging on his belt, Lem retrieved a silver needle. After removing the protective cap, he crept up to the first guard, and with a well-practiced flick of his wrist, sank the tip into the man’s left leg. It was perfectly placed, allowing the needle to effortlessly penetrate the unprotected cloth of his pants. Objective accomplished, Lem stepped quickly back.

  “Damned bugs,” cursed the guard, swatting at the point of impact. Seconds later he stumbled back, the spear falling from his hand as he collapsed to the floor.

  “What’s wrong?” asked his startled comrade, moving closer.

  Lem waited until the second guard was crouched low and completely focused on the now-unconscious man before darting in, this time striking at the back of the neck. Like the first guard, he slapped at an imagined biting insect, and like the first man was unconscious in seconds, sprawled facedown across his fellow guard’s lap. It was a comical scene to be sure, drawing a tiny smile from Lem. Just for a second he imagined that it would not have looked out of place in one of Farley’s more humorous plays.

  Stepping over the bodies, he pressed an ear to the door. The voices inside erased his smile in a flash. There were two. One was unquestionably his target. A chill ran through him, knowing good and well to whom the second voice belonged.

  Taking a breath, he pushed the door open. The small antechamber was far enough away from the rest of the room for him to pass through without attracting attention. Though by now, it really didn’t matter if Sir Marrish saw him or not. Still, he at least wanted to try being decent about this.

  He could see Sir Marrish relaxing in an armchair beside a lit hearth. He had a book in one hand and a young girl of around six years old with raven curls and a bright smile sitting on his lap, giggling with delight as her father read her a story. He hadn’t noticed the door open. Why would he? Who would be fool enough to try and get in here? Not even the finest assassin could pass through without detection. As for anyone fighting their way in, well, if the arrows didn’t get you, the spearmen surely would.

  Lem crossed the room and pressed his back to the corner. This appeared to be a study or an office, though a bed had been brought in and shoved awkwardly between the desk and a bookcase. His target had obviously decided to barricade himself in. A wise move under normal circumstances. Much easier to protect one room than an entire house; less expensive too. Sir Marrish was not a wealthy man. Not exactly poor, either, but to hire the dozen or more mercenaries necessary to protect his house properly would have stretched his purse to its limits. He had no more than five hundred gold in his personal account at the King’s Treasury, and the rents on the two homes he owned did not earn all that much. He had a few other assets scattered about Ur Minosa as well, but nothing substantial. Some fields and orchards, none of which were very fertile.

  As Lem watched the man read to his daughter, he recounted the information he had gathered. It was astonishing how simple it was to learn ever
y aspect of a person’s life with a few coppers and a little patience. It was the number one rule for assassins: Know everything you can about your target. No one had taught him this lesson; he’d had to work it out for himself. Assassins did not advertise. You could know one all your life and be completely oblivious as to their occupation. Most stayed in one place, taking contracts near their home as they became available. Not many made an actual living from it. But there were a few like Lem, according to Farley—men and women who wandered from kingdom to kingdom, ever in the shadows and never stopping anywhere long enough to put down roots. They were the real professionals. And now, Lem was among those counted few.

  The story was a comedy about a bear and a wolf arguing over who would eat a cornered rabbit. The clever rabbit goaded each of them in turn, whispering that the other one was plotting against them, and that if he was going to be eaten by anyone, he preferred them. In the end, driven by suspicion and greed, the bear and the wolf resorted to fighting each other while the rabbit hopped merrily away.

  Sir Marrish closed the book. “I think it’s time for bed now.”

  The girl put on her best sad face. “But I’m not tired,” she protested. “One more. Please? Then I promise I’ll go right to sleep.”

  Lem drew his vysix dagger. He would make it swift and painless. The girl would see the unconscious guards on her way out of the room, and her cries were sure to quickly alert the bowmen. This was not a problem. By the time they descended the roof, Sir Marrish would be dead and he would be well away.

  “I’ve already read three,” the target said. “Now off with you.” Placing the book on the table, he lifted his daughter to the floor and gave her a playful swat on the backside to hurry her along.

  “But Father,” she complained through pouting lips. “It’s so dark in the rest of the house. Can’t I stay here with you?”

  He tilted his head and rubbed his chin. “Well … I suppose. If you promise not to snore this time.”