by John Meaney
‘Show me.’
Horush led the way to the armoury.
The piazza had been scrubbed and polished for the public meeting, and extra glowclusters (with casings of gleaming brass) floated below the ceiling. In the adjoining piazzetta, glowflitters sparking reflected highlights from the filigreed floating cages, still bearing their grim reminders of the Viscount’s actions.
There were troopers everywhere: in the markets, in the residential tunnels, taking over alcoves for their own use.
And, in the piazza, a noble representative was entering—a fleshy alpha-servitor robed in purple—surrounded by a platoon of smartly dressed soldiers. They wore formal half-capes in white and blue, narrow halberds held vertically, and when they wheeled and stamped to attention, the butts of their halberds struck the flagstones with a synchronized crash.
‘I give announcement,’ cried the servitor, ‘in the name of our ruler, Duke Yvyel the Great, and his esteemed cousin, Viscount Lord Trevalkin.’
There was a shift of random movement in the crowd, a murmur among the gathered smalltraders and freedmen.
‘For our protection, the Ducal Halberdiers, along with the Viscount’s personal guard, will be locating their barracks among us.’
‘Not where you sleep, I’ll bet,’ muttered someone near Tom.
But, as Tom began to insinuate his way through the crowd, he realized that though there were unhappy faces and a few whispers, no-one wanted to be first to show open dissent. Perhaps the scorched, ruined corpses floating in the piazzetta were an indication of noble policy in that regard.
‘... to take special precautions, show goodwill to the troops protecting us, until the current circumstances...’
Tom was near the front rows now, squeezing harder to force his way through the onlookers.
‘... that Viscount Trevalkin has declared will not last long. To expedite troop movement during the emergency, all floor hatches will…’
The servitor’s voice trailed off.
Tom stepped into the open space before him. From his belt he drew a pair of new gauntlets; the movement of his cape revealed the absence of his left arm.
“The Codes of Governance’—Tom projected his voice: low-toned, but carrying—‘may be ignored.’ He nodded towards the piazzetta, the hanging bodies. ‘But les Accords d’Honneur are another matter.’
There were gasps from behind him, and the servitor’s fleshy face grew pale.
‘You ... can’t...’ He turned to the soldiers for help.
But their officer shook his head, very slightly, his expression tightening. Then he stared at Tom.
‘My name,’ called Tom, and his voice rang now throughout the piazza, ‘is Lord Corcorigan, of Demesne Corcorigan, Gelmethri Syektor.’
Shock rippled through the crowd as he flung his gauntlets down. They slapped against the flagstones at the alpha-servitor’s feet.
‘And for honour’s sake’—completing the legal formula -’I require the blood of Viscount Lord Trevalkin.’
But no-one came.
Tom had counted on that, to some extent. It gave him time, to buy a copy of les Accords d’Honneur from a literary-crystal shop he frequented—with his noble status revealed, Tom now had access to the restricted portion of the inventory, including les Accords—and to seek out the advice of Swordmaster Firlekan, a senior weapons instructor among the housecarls.
But instead of delivering verbal wisdom, the swordmaster had invited Tom onto the practice floor.
In a whirl of blades, they stamped and spun across the chamber: to cut and stab, bind and thrust. Attack, parry -Firlekan delivered curt advice between onslaughts, as his weapon wove blistering patterns in the air.
And finally, he called a halt.
‘My Fate.’ After the salute, Tom put his blade down, pulled the protective mask from his head—like Firlekan, his hair was plastered against his head—and loosened the padded tunic around his torso. “That was hard work.’
Mask under one arm, Firlekan nodded. ‘You use space,’ he said, ‘magnificently, my Lord. I’ve never seen a weapons novice perform so well.’
‘Call me Tom.’
‘In five SY, with discipline, you could be a top-class swordsman.’
‘Thank you.’
The qualified praise told Tom everything he needed to know about his chances of surviving an encounter with Viscount Trevalkin when there was no protective clothing and the blades were sharp, the intent behind them deadly.
‘The thing is,’ said Firlekan, ‘you have to find your own—’
A carl appeared in the square entranceway at that moment. It was Harald, his lean face masked with concern.
‘Young Horush…’ He looked from Firlekan to Tom, as though disbelieving the words he was about to utter. ‘He’s dead.’
Small glowglimmers circled in the dark chapel. Pungent purple incense smoke lay heavy as grief upon the air. And Horush, in repose: his dark skin turned grey in death, despite the preserving membrane which turned his body into a glistening statue.
Watching over him, cross-legged on low meditation stools, three big housecarls loomed like graven statues, shadow-wrapped and still.
Tom bowed his head, and genuflected.
Horush laughing, eyes bright with confidence, humour—
Tom shook away the vision.
Lowering himself to the flagstones, away from the mourning trio, he sat cross-legged, cleared his mind—and saw, hanging upon the wall, three knotted whips gleaming wetly beneath the glowglimmers.
He could not see the dark stains on the mourners’ tunics, across their backs, but the near-subliminal cupric tang of blood was upon the air, beneath the smoke. One of the trio was Kraiv: a massive black presence, who seemed carved from obsidian.
Don’t blame yourself, my friend.
Blame: for the undetected haematoma—the result of his sparring injury—which had burst open in Horush’s brain. On solo guard duty, the young carl had lain dying, alone for hours, while the blood which should have brought him life flooded through the delicate contents of his skull and extinguished every thought and memory which had once glimmered there.
Tom rose, made his genuflection once more, and quietly left, while the three chief mourners maintained their vigil, as solid and unmoving as statues mounted over a warrior’s tomb.
Salamander Hour. No-one there.
Tom waited in the deserted piazza for another two hours, practising a slow-moving meditation form, trying to slow his heart’s pounding. Then he took a small crystal—which he had spent hours preparing, getting the wording just right—to the Zhongguo Ren courier who was waiting for him.
Madam Bronlah had agreed to help, and made it clear -without ever being so crass as to say it—that there was a burden of debt upon him now, to be repaid should he survive. But Tom had learned—early on, in the Ragged School, from his friend Zhao-Ji—the concept of reciprocity, of guanxi.
The crystal contained a message which was brief by noble standards, incorporating two quotations from the Accords.
In the event that a challenge be not replied to within two Standard Days, or such period as the Aggrieved Party shall declare, then to the latter shall fall the duty nominating time and place.
And, from Article XVII:
... fail to meet, or to the Aggrieved Party’s satisfaction and without reasonable impediment provide alternative venues, so shall Communicado ex Domensis be called upon said defaulting Challengee.
Finally, it named the time and place of Tom’s choosing: exercising the right which had passed to him, since the challenged party had failed to reply with sufficient speed. And adding the threat of demotion, at the next noble Convocation, which no man as arrogant and self-assured as Viscount Trevalkin could possibly ignore.
Harald and Firlekan were on watch that night, near the Maze of Light and Dark.
‘... two more,’ Harald was saying. ‘Three nights of mourning, before the Axes and Flames.’
‘You were Horush’s friend,
Tom ...’ Firlekan began.
‘But non-carls can’t attend the ceremony. I know.’
‘And do you know of Todgeld?’
‘Well, what it sounds like is—’
Harald turned away, shaking his head, as Firlekan explained: ‘It’s not money, necessarily. But Kraiv will have to offer reparation to the family.’
‘I see.’
And, unspoken, the extent of the price he had to pay. But knowing the way carls lived—and died—the cost could become serious, maybe mortal.
Then, ‘I need to train,’ said Tom.
‘Do you—?’
‘By myself is fine.’
The two carls looked at the sword upon Tom’s hip. The weapon which Horush had allowed him to borrow from their armoury.
Firlekan raised a fist, clenched hard.
‘Trust blade and blood, my friend.’
He trained amid the shifting, blinding light and shadows, danced his warrior’s dance of life and death against imaginary opponents, laughing strangely to himself—
A matter of topos-logic. True/false, good/bad: background-dependent, never absolute.
— as it occurred to him that he would survive beyond tomorrow only if the Seer’s visions had not been subverted, his truecasts mere distorted pictures of an imagined future, constructed in simulation with techniques which he himself had devised.
Then he went back to his tiny alcove, scarcely noticing the deference which others paid him now that his rank was known, and prepared himself for another sleepless night.
And knew with absolute certainty, when he rose at dawn-shift before his neighbours, that Trevalkin would come this day.
Blackness.
A sudden shift: startling, eerie blue. Raw stone wall, looking ghostly instead of solid.
Again: blood red.
Suitable, for a place of death.
Caverns, tunnels—winking into existence, then obliterated from sight as though they had never been. And the chill smell: no woody fragrance, no scents of friendly fluorofungus. It would have been a dead zone, save for the thermal draughts which brought oxygenated air flowing through from the Bronlah Hong proper.
Shifted, again.
And off to one side, where the shadows were stable, a small group of people waited. At their vanguard, slightly apart, stood a tall, straight-backed figure. Then a shaft of yellow light fell across him, revealing the man’s high cheekbones and long dark hair, tied back with a platinum band: ascetic features marred by too-full lips.
Viscount Trevalkin was dressed in grey and black, lace ruffles at collar and cuffs as though he had come here on a social outing. He drew off his lined velvet cape, and handed it to one of the two Lords-Minor who were acting as his seconds.
‘So, Corcorigan. What do you call this place?’
Tom cast aside his own cloak.
‘Some say the Maze of Light and Dark.’ When he drew the copper blade, light slid like sweet boljicream along its length, and it left the scabbard with a soft metallic snick. ‘But I call it Trevalkin’s Grave.’
‘Perhaps.’ And, over his shoulder: ‘My Lord Sumneriv, dear chap. The sooner we begin this charade, the sooner it will end.’
Manoeuvring.
An eternity, manoeuvring.
Shadows. ..
Backing away, circling. Tom moved up the scree slope, slipping once but keeping the blade pointed at his adversary. Trevalkin advanced slowly, stalking, long silver sabre held before him.
Wait...
Among the watchers, Trevalkin’s aides and seconds standing in a tight group near one wall, muttering began to rise. Their initial amusement was fading, as long minutes went by in silence, with no attack from either man. One of them said, in a carrying voice: ‘Finish the scoundrel quickly, my Lord Viscount.’
Murmurs of agreement. But Trevalkin’s expression remained unmoved, as he followed Tom’s retreat.
Lord Sumneriv, who as a nominally disinterested referee had recited from the Codex Antagonist before signalling the duel’s start, now called out: ‘With your usual flair, of course, my Lord!’
Stony, the Viscount’s face. He knew Tom was no swordsman; but he was watchful and alert, predatory, aware—with a fighter’s instincts—that Tom had other abilities beyond the blade.
Circling ...
Trevalkin advanced —
Light shift.
The world changed as the Maze did its work once more.
— and stumbled on the loose footing, briefly opening his guard.
Now!
Tom threw his blade.
Ikken hisatsu. One chance, one kill.
The most ancient of strategies. Of the three possible timings, the one that takes sudden, decisive courage: sen no sen, to seize the initiative.
Tom threw the sword, knowing this was the moment to gamble everything. It lanced through the air but Trevalkin beat the blade aside by reflex, sabre clashing against copper sword, and sent it clattering to the stones.
But Tom was already moving.
Shadows slid, light bloomed and died again.
The Viscount was fast, adapting to the perspective shifts.
Target —
But Tom was faster.
— and strike.
Tom’s shoulder stump took Trevalkin in the sternum, knocked him back. Spinning with the momentum, Trevalkin brought his sabre hilt-first downwards. Hard metal struck Tom’s head but it was already too late: this was close quarters, as close as it could get, and no-one could defeat Tom now.
He used fingers into eyeballs, raking, then clasped Trevalkin’s sword arm, hard, and somersaulted forwards, taking Trevalkin with him, landing heavily on his back but with Trevalkin underneath.
‘Ah—’
Head-butt, smashing Trevalkin’s skull against the rocks.
‘No!’ Lord Sumneriv’s voice. ‘Stop, barbarian!’
Palm-heel, elbow. Tom knelt on Trevalkin’s chest with blood-rage filling his vision, the bloodied smoking corpses in the lev-cages and the black flames which killed the Seer and Elva falling dead—
‘What is the Dark Fire?’ He roared the question. In his primordial rage, his lust for bloody death, striking hard, smashing Trevalkin over and over—
’What power do you serve, Trevalkin?’
— and again, hard, until hands fell upon him, grabbing, dragging him away.
‘NO!’
Sumneriv, or another Lord, yelling in Tom’s ear.
I’ll kill you all.
He grabbed soft testicles, snarled at the animal yelp his victim gave, elbowed another man—
’He fights the Dark Fire, Corcorigan!’
— launched himself upwards, scattering the men apart, save for the one who clung still to Tom’s sleeve, yelling desperately:
‘It’s Trevalkin’s enemy! He fights the Dark Fire!’
Scarlet, fading through orange.
Tom stopped, then pushed Lord Sumneriv away.
Blood lust fading ...
As his vision cleared, he could see Trevalkin’s hunched and battered form, curled upon the broken scree like a child’s discarded toy, smeared with red.
Enemy?
Tom spat, tasting blood which was not his own.
‘This is over,’ he said.
~ * ~
25
TERRA AD 2142
<
[7]
I can’t lose something, Ro tried to tell herself, that I never had.
Digging her heels in: Quarrel leaped into a gallop, his great muscles bunching and releasing beneath her, hooves clattering across the sandstone mesa.
Not something: someone. Luís, leaving to become a Pilot. That was the meaning of the message he had received, the invitation to Flight School in Tehran.
By the time she reached the stables, both she and the horse were exhausted, lungs heaving. On her lips, the sweat-and-tears taste of salt. Alice Bridcombe, the owner, helped Ro dismount, then—frowning—checked out Quarrel.
‘He look
s all right,’ said Bridcombe. ‘No thanks to you.’
‘I’m sorry.’
