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This is a work of fiction.
All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ON THE RAZOR’S EDGE
Copyright © 2013 by Michael Flynn
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Sparth
Maps by Jon Lansberg
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Flynn, Michael (Michael F.)
On the razor’s edge / Michael Flynn.—First edition
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN 978-0-7653-3480-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-1553-7 (e-book)
I. Title.
PS3556.L89O5 2013
813'.54—dc23
2013006328
e-ISBN 9781466815537
First Edition: July 2013
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Copyright
Main Characters
Map of the Borderlands and the Old Home Worlds
Map of the Triangles
Map of Gidula’s Stronghold
Epigraph
AN RÉAMHRÁ
I. DOGGEDNESS
II. AND DID SHE TEACH YOU THREE THINGS?
III. UNLEASHED
IV. THE SYNTHESIS
V. THE PASDARM AT THE IRON BRIDGE
VI. ONE OF THE PLEASANTEST THINGS IN LIFE
VII. MANY ARROWS LOOSÈD SEVERAL WAYS
VIII. ONE MAN WITH A DREAM, AT PLEASURE
IX. NEVER DO WHAT YOU SAID YOU’D DO
X. AT THE CAPITAL OF ALL THE WORLDS
XI. THE PLAY OF THE CORAL SNAKE
XII. HANGING TOUGH
XIII. THE RAZOR’S EDGE
XIV. THREE, WITH A NEW SONG’S MEASURE
AN CRÍOCH
NOTES FOR THE CURIOUS
Also by Michael Flynn
About the Author
MAIN CHARACTERS
Francine Thompson
d.b.a. Bridget ban, a Hound of the Ardry
Graceful Bintsaif
a junior Hound, deputy to Bridget ban
Lucia D. Thompson
d.b.a. Méarana, a harper, daughter of Bridget ban
Ravn Olafsdottr
a Shadow of the Confederation of Central Worlds
Donovan (the scarred man)
d.b.a. the Fudir, sometime agent of the CCW
Gidula
Counselor to the rebellion (black, a white comet)
Swoswai Mashdasan
Commander, 423rd Fleet (Qien-tuq Borderers)
Hounds of the Ardry
Greystroke
longtime companion to Donovan and Bridget ban
Little Hugh O Carroll
Pup to Greystroke, d.b.a. Rinty
Gwillgi
League observer in the Confederation
Black Shuck, Cŵn Annwn, Grimpen, Matilda of the Night, Obligado, et al.
Rebel Shadows
Khembold Darling
Gidula’s ship-captain (yellow, a daffodil; comet canton)
Eglay Portion
Gidula’s seneschal (tan, a rose; comet canton)
Domino Tight
a young Shadow (tawny, a lyre proper)
Oschous Dee Karnatika
“the Fox,” field marshal of the rebellion (scarlet, a black horse)
Dawshoo Yishohrann
leader of the rebellion (black, white diagonals)
Big Jacques Delamond (white, a blue trident), Little Jacques (swallowtail, red), Manlius Metataxis (sky blue, a white dove), et al.
Loyal Shadows
Shadow Prime
Father of the Abattoir (black)
Ekadrina Sèanmazy
field marshal of the loyal Shadows (black, a taiji)
Aynia Farer (lime, a lion), Phoythaw Bhatvik (yellow, two black crows), Epri Gunjinshow (forest-green, a lily), et al.
Those of Name
Tina Zhi
the Technical Name, the Gayshot Bo
Paul Feeley
the Radiant Name, the Nangling Bo
Hayzoos Peter
the Powerful Name, the Sing Song Bo
Ari Zin
the Militant Name, the Woqfun Bo
xxxxxxxx
the Secret Name, the Bo’an Ghincat
Magpies, boots, sheep, foo-doctors, archivists, villagers, Terrans, Names, Protectors, et al.
MAP OF THE BORDERLANDS AND THE OLD HOME WORLDS
Planar projection of the Confederal Borderlands and the Triangles. View is from Galactic North. Not all worlds or roads are shown. Worlds are not all on the same plane.
MAP OF THE TRIANGLES
Oblique projection of the Triangle District. The view is outward from the Core and slightly north of Sol. The Rift and the Periphery lie far to the left. Roads are not shown. Stars connected are roughly equidistant. “A dozen lights from star to star.”
Data from a marvelous site: http://astronexus.com/node/34.
To see what the sky looks like from other stars, see here:
http://astronexus.com/node/69.
MAP OF GIDULA’S STRONGHOLD
Thus the peoples of the world foresee a time when their land with its rivers and mountains still lies under heaven as it does today, but other people dwell there; when their language is entombed in books, and their laws and customs have lost their living power.
—Franz Rosenzweig
AN RÉAMHRÁ
In the beginning, there were three, because in these matters there are always three. One was a harper and one was a Hound and one was nine.
There were others, because in these matters there are always others. There were other Hounds. There was a Shadow, and other Shadows. There was a Name, and other Names. And had any of them done other than they had, matters would not have tumbled quite as they did.
But a man is the master of his acts, provided he acts with virtue; and the chief of these virtues is courage. Children lack courage because they see all fears as things to be removed by their parents. But a man may regard fearsome evil and see the outcome as dependent upon his own actions, and so he may become master of them. This is true even if he ultimately fails, perhaps especially if he fails.
There was a treasure, because in these matters there is always a treasure. And there was a far quest, and an ancient tyranny; and longing and greed and ambition and treachery. There was courage and cowardice, as one often finds when something very small stands against something very large. One man had let his fears become the master of his acts, and so men died and cities burned.
But at the heart of it there was a shining kernel, something hard and bright and unbreakable that had been hidden away and all but forgotten by its hiders. At the heart of every treasure, as always in these matters, there was another treasure beyond all price.
And so
in the beginning there were three; but in the end, there was only one.
I. DOGGEDNESS
First, the Hound.
Francine Thompson was a Hound of the Ardry, and this was no small thing to be. Hounds enforce the law when the law has failed. They lead when leadership has failed. They rescue when hope has failed, and will assassinate when all else has failed. It was a fearsome thing to have a Hound on one’s tail, and many a desperado has surrendered on no more than the rumor of such pursuit.
Among their number, Francine Thompson was accounted not the least. Breezy, and confident to the point of arrogance, she carried herself as if she were the Queen of High Tara. It was in her stride and in her voice, which crashed like the bursting sea; and when she tossed her head, her hair was a breaking crimson wave. Her skin was a deep gold, and her eyes the green of flint. She operated under the office-name of Bridget ban; and she was at this point in her life the one thing that a Hound never is, and that is dreadfully afraid.
Afraid enough, in any event, that she had issued a Call to Hounds. It was not often, and never for matters trivial, that more than one Hound was needed on a quest; but Bridget ban had such a need and the Call had gone out over the Ourobouros Circuit. An even score of her colleagues heard the summons and a dozen were close enough to reach Dangchao Waypoint in time for the facemeet on her estate.
That estate, Clanthompson Hall, stood lonely sentinel on the endless prairie called the Out-in-back. The Hounds foregathered in the arboretum of the Old Keep, a high-ceilinged room whose dark wood half paneling and heavy roof beams bespoke a ruder age. Ancient banners hung from the joists—some torn, some faded, one whose bloodstain must never be laundered. Oh, the day was long past when the Thompson levies had marched forth under them. Recovered technologies had made of such banners little more than convenient markers for standoff weapons. But they would do for pomp, and they complemented the ancestral portraits on the corbels beneath them: grim and gay, wild visaged and thoughtful, and all bearing that Thompson cast of eye that was something more than confidence and a pennyweight shy of arrogance.
The arboretum flourished in the sunlight piercing the clerestory windows, and lent the indoors an outdoor ambience. Her staff had laid out a table of impressive variety, with cheeses imported from Gehpari and pondi-cherries and other fruits and melons from New Chennai. The other foods were from local estates: marble-case from Kurland, bright-mix milled at Dalport, fish-rolls from Honig’s Beach, and—this being Dangchao—thin-sliced haunch of Nolan Beast. The wine had aged in Clanthompson cellars, and the spirits had dripped from the coils of the family distillery in Glennamor.
Of the Hounds, some had come from affection for Bridget ban, some because they expected an intriguing quest, some perhaps to gloat over whatever matter had impelled her cry for help. The men and women of the Kennel were a varied lot, and rivaly for status was not unknown among them.
The ancient Hound na Fir Li had sent his regrets and his senior Pup, a thin, hawk-faced young man of olive complexion who bore the name Obligado. The Pup moved with an economy of motion, and gave the impression that he skimmed a half thumb above the floorboards. He spoke little, but listened much; and Bridget ban marked that a point in his favor.
Grimpen arrived, too. He had just completed a small matter involving the pirates of the Hadramoo, having toppled the government of New Constancy on Abyalon, captured an agent of the People of Foreganger, and assassinated both the Molnar and his chief of auguries over the old business of the Merry v Starinu.
“A man in his cups,” Grimpen rumbled while the gathered Hounds enjoyed drinks and stories, “should take care which crimes he confesses, and to whom, for his boon companion may prove not merely judge, but executioner as well.” Grimpen had a laugh like an earthquake just before the rocks shear.
His glass was nearly lost in his massive fist, while that of Graceful Bintsaif seemed almost too large for hers. Tall, and lean as a whippet, the junior Hound seemed constantly to strain against an unseen leash. “Do you know what sort of killing machine the People sent?” she asked.
Grimpen’s head tolled. “No. I know only that it never arrived, so the Molnar had the pleasure to deal with me instead of the People. One day, the Ardry will need to take a fleet into the Cynthia Cluster and root them out, tooth-and-toenail. And maybe deal with Foreganger, too.”
Graceful Bintsaif glanced toward Bridget ban, who held the other end of her metaphorical leash, and gave a slight nod. Grimpen’s story confirmed part of a tale they had already heard.
“So what is such mysterious mission you propose us?” asked Anubis. His facial hair was very dark brown and his nose and mouth thrust prominently forward. The gene-wrights of the long ago, when knowledge had passed for wisdom, had engineered his ancestors for cleverness; but a tangling of genes had carried with it a distinctive, foxlike countenance, so that all men noted that here was a clever one and so responded with heightened wariness. His parents had come to the Periphery as refugees and he spoke still with a Confederal accent.
Bridget ban swirled and patted him on the cheek. “Oh, a grand quest, darling, but we are not all here yet.” The numbing fear had turned her heart to ice and her stomach to knots, but she would not show her colleagues any but blithe assurance.
Black Shuck scanned the room. “Grand enough,” he said, “to call so many.” His words came out flour fine: a sweet voice for so rough visaged a man. He was not so large as Grimpen, nor so clever as Anubis. Neither could he match Bridget ban for seduction. He was second-best at everything. But he was second-best at everything and even his most jealous rivals admitted that he was Top Dog.
“Gideon’s band, darlin’,” Cŵn Annŵn told him. She was a robust thing, even standing before the broad-shouldered Shuck as she did. There was Jugurthan in her genes, so that while she appeared wide and dumpy, it was muscle-firm down to the bone. “Gideon’s band,” she said again, this time herself looking about the room. “Our hostess rounded up a passel in hope of brandin’ a few. She don’t ’spect everyone here to join her.” Her voice drawled in the lazy accents of Great Wally on Megranome.
“Perhaps she expects only me,” declared a silvered throat from the doorway. Conversation ceased abruptly across the room, and one or two of the gathered Hounds visibly shivered. It was a sweet voice that chilled the heart. Even Black Shuck shifted from foot to foot before facing the newcomer.
The woman wore black diaphanous robes girt at a high waist with a silver cincture. A silver-and-turquoise scapular hung from her neck. Her black hair was clipped short and lacquered so that it formed a sort of helmet for her otherwise-uncrowned head. Her lips blossomed scarlet; her fingers rang with drizzle-jewels. Altogether, a striking presence, and not merely because of her cobralike poise. It was a look to die for, and many had.
Matilda of the Night.
When she stepped into the room, her robes billowed in her wake, as if she dragged that night behind her. Other Hounds drew back as she passed, lest she pass too close and (as they told themselves) spoil the effect.
Bridget ban was not immune to the impact that Matilda so often had, but she was the first to shake it off. She herself often made a striking entrance, though she more usually turned heads toward her than away. She crossed the room with arms stretched in embrace. “Tilly!” she cried. “How delightful to see you!”
An abrazzo, two quick pecks on the cheeks, and the spell was broken. Tilly? That was not quite so daunting. Conversations resumed, laughter rose, though both were more subdued than before.
“Delight, my dear,” said Matilda to Bridget ban in a low, throaty voice, “is not in it. And…” Turning. “… This must be Graceful Bintsaif!” She extended a hand to the junior Hound, who barely hesitated before taking it. “Na Fir Li has told me so much about you. How can such a limited man raise such fine Pups?”
“Perhaps,” murmured Graceful Bintsaif, “because my old master is not so limited as some suppose.”
Matilda stiffened fractionally, but a server
in household livery distracted her with a tray of drinks, and she fussed over them long enough that when she finally straightened with a colorfully layered beverage in a tall, thin glass the moment for taking offense had passed. Cleverly done, Bridget ban thought, and no one lost face. She did not very much care for Matilda of the Night, but Bridget ban counted such temperance a point in her favor.
“Are we all here, now?” Matilda asked. “Cafall, Yeth, Barghest … Kirkonväki? The Gytrash … My, my! A mixed bag, darling. Some top cuts, but also some ends. But … I suppose one takes what the net hauls in.”
“I expect one or two others,” Bridget ban said.
“Who? That young man sitting behind the juniper ferns?”
Bridget ban stepped back and peered through some of the foliage. “Ah. Come join us, Hugh,” she said.
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