“I wonder if you’d mind just backing up a little here,” he said. “My master there will be standing here.”
Xemion and Saheli obligingly backed away, as did those immediately behind them, but the two Nains stayed where they were. The one in front expelled a fierce snort of smoke, barely missing Gnasher’s face.
“I think you’ll agree,” Gnasher said, unperturbed by this, “that it would be a lot more fitting if someone of my friend’s esteem and appearance was to stand here at the front of the line.”
“Here I stand. Here I remain,” the Nain growled, his eyes like blue flint, his voice even grittier than before. The other Nain remained silent.
“No. You see, my friend Brothlem Montither over there has paid good money for this position,” said Gnasher. He pronounced the name Montither with an extra emphasis as though it possessed some special, persuasive power. The bigger Nain’s jaw moved forward a little and his eyes narrowed to slits.
“Well my name is Tomtenisse Doombeard,” he growled with barely contained menace. “This is where I stand.”
“I beseech you not to trouble him,” the other Nain said, almost sympathetically. “He is given at times to considerable violence.”
“Belphegor,” Tomtenisse Doombeard growled, turning on him. “If you’re not going to fight, you stay out of this. Now go and stand over there.”
Belphegor bowed his head and stepped back against the wall closer to Saheli and Xemion. But he couldn’t resist one last comment. “For your own sake, good sir, for the sake of your face, your fine face, I beseech you.” Another of the retinue, a massive bald-headed man known as Ring’o’pins due to the numerous rings and pins that punctured and hung from his cheeks, lips, and eyebrows, stepped forward and hissed, “Be off, dwarf, or I will slit your throat!”
In answer, Tomtenisse Doombeard let out a big billow of greenish smoke, right in the speaker’s face. Angrily, Ring’o’pins lunged forward with both hands and shoved the Nain with all his might. But Tomtenisse Doombeard had his legs spread wide and knew where his centre of gravity was, so it hardly moved him. The lineup had now become a circle as people backed away and gathered round. The noble Montither, however, had become so engrossed in the minutia of a fresco upon the opposite wall he was apparently unaware of what was going on.
Though Doombeard’s assailants were scrawny, they were strong fellows. But Doombeard was stronger and had huge fists that sent the first of them reeling back, holding his nose. In the melee that followed, Ring’o’pins’ already ragged face had two of its prettiest piercings torn out while a third was punched so forcefully into his cheekbone it looked like it might be forever embedded there. He fell back screaming and bleeding and holding his face and then all five lunged at Doombeard at once. But he was a slippery, agile, vicious fighter, and even when they managed to hold on to him, his continued bucking, kicking, and spinning assured the onlookers that the fight was far from over. The other Nain still leaned against the wall, obeying his doctrine not to fight. But he was grinning broadly.
All this time, Brothlem Montither had been so lost in his scrutiny of the frescoes he had not been distracted, even by the shrieks and yells of his associates not five yards away. Now, as though just becoming aware of the fracas, he turned around. “No no! Stop it immediately!” he shouted. There was something authoritative and perfectly enunciated in his manner of speaking that Xemion, who had been about to intervene himself, found most fitting and impressive. So did Ring’o’pins and the others, apparently, for they did indeed cease in their efforts to move the fierce Doombeard.
Montither strolled over to the Nain named Belphegor. “There has obviously been some mistake here. Maybe you and I can work this out peacefully,” he offered. His face betrayed no hint of feeling, but Xemion noticed for the first time that his eyes were rather unbecomingly deep-set. Tomtenisse Doombeard remained standing firmly at the front of the line as Montither grinned affably. “Allow me first to apologize for these ruffians here,” Montither said to Belphegor in that beautifully enunciated voice. “My name is Brothlem Montither.” With the most affable equal-to-equal smile he proffered his goodly sized hand.
The Nain eyed it for at least three stunning seconds without making any move at all. Then with a smile of either ineffable modesty or very deep irony he intoned, “I, too, am sorry, but by my vows I am forbidden to touch … an unclean hand.”
The hand remained there for a second longer, and with it the fixed affable expression. In the next moment that expression shattered so quickly it might have been a reflection in a pool dashed by a rock. And through that departed demeanour a more lizard-like face gnashed forth. With one quick movement, Montither reached around and grabbed Belphegor’s hat from behind, yanked it so the leather chinstrap dug into his neck, and lifted him up in the air at arm’s length, kicking and choking.
“I’m sorry I don’t have time to play with you. But midday is upon us and I have duly paid,” Montither bellowed, a glint of cruel, confident mirth in his eyes. Instantly, Doombeard’s enraged contortions became so extreme he nearly toppled the five thugs who now had to hang on to him for dear life. Belphegor’s eyes bulged and his face reddened, but in accordance with his beliefs he just hung there without resisting.
Then, from behind him, Xemion heard a mighty voice shriek, “Put him down right now!”
It was Saheli. She was full of power and strength and certainty and her eyes shone so brightly her whole face seemed somehow radiant. Montither stared at her for a moment and then hurled Belphegor away from him and onto the ground and turned on her with a look of extreme offence.
“Are you addressing me, you dog?” Montither asked, but before she could reply Xemion saw him draw something from within his cloak in a clenched fist — a thin, curved blade, very lethal looking. Montither’s cronies had seen it too. There was a thirsty look in their eyes at what was to come. Time seemed to slow down as Xemion saw one of them reaching toward him to restrain him while another reached for Saheli. Somewhere in the flash of calculation that preceded Xemion’s next action, Vallaine’s words of warning about using the painted sword flickered through his awareness. But this was the only way he could think of to stop all of them at once. In one quick motion he drew his painted sword and swept its point neatly up and accurately into the hollow of Montither’s enraged neck, forcing him back against the black door.
“Do you want to die?” he bellowed in his most magnificent voice. If Montither had seen the sword properly he would have noticed that the silver paint was flaking off and that the hilt had come loose. But all he had seen was a silver flash and that, unlike most of the underfed city boys whom he was used to pushing around, his assailant was almost as big and almost as angry as he was. On a good day, on a brave day, he would have knocked the point aside and gone in low with his hinge blade, but today, off-balance, sprawled back against the black door, he suffered one of his rare moments of doubt. Worst of all, a rapid tide of pastiness swept across his stunned features for all to see.
A moment later, he did finally notice that fleck of paint lifting up from Xemion’s blade, but just as he pushed back against the door to right himself, it opened inward behind him and he fell back into the arms of the hero of the Battle of Phaer Bay, Tiri Lighthammer.
Lighthammer wore the red uniform of a Phaer field marshal, complete with golden epaulets, white gloves, and a tri-pointed hat. He was stout and firm but his face was old and his eyes were hard and iron grey. Fifty years ago he had stood with a blade not so far from this very spot. He alone, of all his family, had made his own blade in the manner of his ancestors with the “low magic” of work. His comrades with their spellcrafted weapons laughed at him, but when the Kagans came and the Great Kone failed and their magical armaments and spellcrafted cavalry crumbled away beneath them and they were slaughtered naked on the beaches below it was only he with his crude self-made sword who drew Kagan blood that day. And in so doing, though he lost one of his three arms and one of his three legs, he had bough
t the city one extra day. For this, and for the small resistance he had headed ever since, his legend had been whispered forward from brother to sister from friend to friend all over the isle.
Ignorant of who had saved him, Montither lunged, hinge blade in hand, toward Xemion, whose painted sword now slanted down from his fist. But Lighthammer grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back.
“What’s this?” he yelled, his voice full of a lifetime of authority. Montither came round swinging, but seeing Tiri Lighthammer’s military uniform his arm fell instantly to his side. “This coward ambushed me,” he claimed, enraged.
Saheli tried to say something, but Lighthammer cut her short with a quick “Hut!” Limping forward, he took a closer look at Xemion’s sword and a grim sneer twitched at the corners of his mouth.
“That is not even a real sword,” he announced contemptuously. “It’s a painted stick. This is a detail anyone with training would not have missed.” At this, the Nain brothers, who had picked themselves up from the ground and seemed to be completely recovered from their ordeal, laughed full out, big, sandy-sounding Nainish “ha-has,” pointing at Montither. Their raspy laughter was so infectious most of the others in the crowd couldn’t help but join in.
“Silence!” Lighthammer’s shout was quick and effective. Everyone, even Montither’s assortment of thugs, obeyed.
“Now!” He turned to Xemion with a bemused but approving glance and said, “Congratulations, young man, on the perfect execution of a ruse. But now your ruse is ruined. And this fellow — he is large and nasty and murderously displeased with you.”
With that Lighthammer pointed to the black-bronze door. “Inside,” he ordered quietly. Belphegor and Tomtenisse Doombeard, who had hurriedly shouldered their way forward, made sure they were first and second to enter. Montither, his face livid, followed them, his bleeding and bruised entourage not far behind.
23
Separation
The gate opened onto a walkway that led to one end of what had once been an oval-shaped track where in times gone by the gorehorses had run. The excavated portion of the stadium they were entering was little more than an eighth the size of the whole structure. Most of the rest of it still lay buried under tons of rubble. Still, the little that could be seen of its marble walls, everywhere engraved with bas-relief figures from Elphaerean history, gave testament to the greatness that once had been.
Xemion and Saheli stood just beyond the aisle, unable to penetrate the mass of people crowded in front of them. Xemion kept scanning the faces of the late arrivals who continued to pour into the stadium behind them. He was half-expecting to see Tharfen and Torgee, but there was no sign of them. Soon there were so many people that some had to stand in the walkway jammed together all the way back to the black gates.
Xemion was tall, but there were numerous Thralls who were even taller, making it hard to get a good view of the dais that had been set up at the end of the track. He did, however, catch Montither glaring at him from about fifty yards away. Xemion instantly turned away, but he felt Montither’s eyes on him for a long time and he was surprised to have found something in them that slightly frightened him. He’d seen a version of it before in young Tharfen, but this was a hundred times greater and far more pure: Hate. He shivered and clenched his jaw and did his best not too look back at him, but when he did, Montither was still glaring.
“I think he must be in love with you,” joked a gangly Thrall who stood beside them. He wore a flat, square cap at an angle atop a longish oval head whose upper portion was almost entirely dominated by the large round eyes typical of his people. These factors, combined with the slightly crooked set of his jaw, gave him a comic air. “Rich boy,” he sneered. He mimed a rigid parody of Montither’s scared face at the end of Xemion’s sword. Xemion couldn’t help but laugh. The Thrall reverted to his former appearance and made a little bow. “Lirodello,” he announced. Xemion and Saheli bowed and told him their own names.
“I am the quarter master’s assistant,” he informed them, and then he winked. “But I’m just here for the Thralleens.” His eyebrows moved up and down suggestively as he jerked his head in the direction of three enormous Muscle-Thralls who were standing nearby. They were all at least seven feet tall and clad mostly in a mixture of black leather and feathers. The leather was so tightly fitted it revealed even the imprint of their abdominal muscles. It proceeded upward from there, covering their bosoms and reaching to their shoulders where the leather had been cut into a fringe of thin decorative strips that dangled and shifted as the Thralls moved, making visible their massive biceps as thick as oak branches. These were pleasingly decorated with hieroglyphic tattoos and orange chevrons. Noticing Lirodello’s eyes upon her, the youngest-looking one glanced back at him, but quickly brought her massive hand up shyly over her lips, a movement that swelled that particular bicep to twice its size.
Saheli returned Lirodello’s rapidly moving eyebrows with a friendly smile. He winked and pointed to the stage. “That’s some of the ones that got took down to Pathar,” he advised solemnly.
Xemion’s gaze was drawn to a row of seats at the side of the dais in which sat four youths, all of whom wore black patches over one eye. There was a sickly pallor to their flesh that reminded him of Rotan Smedenage, the examiner. “Those ones up there,” Lirodello said to Saheli, making sure she saw them too. “The ones with faces like small rotting moons,” he added. “Do you see them?”
“Why do they wear the black patches?” Saheli asked. She took out her glass to observe them more closely.
Lirodello drew in close to her and murmured in an even more solemn voice, “Pathans did a little science on them — removed one eye. Attempt please not to imagine that.” He put his thumb into one side of his mouth and pulled it out with a popping sound.
Xemion frowned at him.
“And a bit of their brains, too,” Lirodello added to Saheli, obviously enjoying the effect his words were having on his listeners. Saheli clicked her telescope shut and tucked it away in her pocket.
“They were trying to do something with a ‘living’ kone,” Lirodello went on.
“What do you mean a living kone?” Xemion asked.
Lirodello tilted his hat forward on his long, oval head and became almost serious for a moment. He drew in close and out of the corner of his mouth said, “Well, you know how the old spell kones worked, lowering a crystal eye with a crank to read the spell?”
“Yes,” Xemion answered just as seriously.
“And you know how the kones didn’t work for the Pathans, but worked very well for the rest of us?”
“Yes.”
Lirodello leaned in so close now they both became aware at once of the faint, sweet lavender smell he exuded. “Well, the Pathan scientists thought that if they could remove the living eye of a spellbinder and keep it alive and separate from him it could replace the crystal in a spell kone and then it would work for them too. As long as the original spellbinder was kept alive, they thought it could act as reader to the turning of the kone.” He took in their horrified astonishment triumphantly. “That’s why they took any children they thought might have spellbinding talent down to Pathar ten years ago.” Lirodello lifted his eyebrows up and down about ten times rapidly. “Then the religious Pathans came into power under their new king and ended it all and Veneetha Azucena managed to get some of the spellbinders back.” And then he added, as though it were a humorous aside, “Except for their eyes, of course.”
Any more of Lirodello’s tales were forestalled by two trumpeters who marched out from either side of the stage and let loose with a fanfare. A stout elderly man wearing an ink-blue robe with sleeves so long they completely covered his hands walked to the centre of the stage and bellowed, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome our founder, funder, and chief commanding officer, Veneetha Azucena!” As he raised his arm in a gesture of welcome, one of his long sleeves drew back to reveal a bronze hook on the end of his arm where his hand should have be
en. Immediately, a very tall woman strode forward to a joyous roar from the crowd.
Veneetha Azucena was attired in the splendid regalia of an old Elphaerean commander — a jade-green ankle-length cloak, knee-high leather boots, burnished copper chain mail, a peaked bronze helmet, and, high atop it, a waving purple plume. Against the dark bluish-black of her skin and the rolling blackness of her hair, which spilled out of her helmet in a great profusion of rings and curls, the effect was stunning. For a long time she just stood, holding a piece of paper in one hand, as she gazed slowly back and forth at the crowd, almost as though she were taking the time to look each one of them individually in the eye. Eventually she nodded her head at the hushed group and smiled.
“Well, aren’t we blessed to be here today?” Her voice was full and rich and feminine, with just a touch of sandiness in its tone to give it a sparkle. Her sense of joy was immediately infectious.
“Yes! Yes!” numerous members of the crowd called out. Xemion had never seen such a large group of people, let alone heard such happy shouting. The resonance of it thrilled him. He looked at Saheli and he could see that she, too, was swept up in it.
“Now, I wonder what could have brought such a large group of Phaerlanders to our old home in Ulde?”
There was laughter and waves of cheers, Xemion’s and Saheli’s among them.
“I knew that some of you would come, but there must be more than three times the number we expected,” she continued. “Most of you, I see, are young, some of you are still children, and I understand why it is you who have come instead of your mothers and fathers. This is the way of your generation. You feel the new wind that is arising off the northern seas. You have a longing in your heart that cannot be quenched anywhere but here in our old Phaer home.”
The Paper Sword Page 15
