On the Razor's Edge

by Michael Flynn

  “He can’t back down,” Méarana said. “This isn’t one of your duels. He has bet everything on this one throw. If he backs down, there is no second chance.”

  “Wait one. Padaborn!” Five spoke urgently into the comm. “Gidula has hung back from the fighting and has peeled off with two of his comets. Ravn, Eglay, and, uh, Greystroke, you are facing Aynia, five lions, and one comet. But Pyati is falling back from the west wing, followed by Phoythaw and four double-crows. No, I don’t track Matilda Hound. She doesn’t show anywhere on my screens. But there were five double-crows two minutes ago, so I assume she is…” He paused and listened. “Gidula is going up the three-four corridor toward the rear of the building. Yes, he is knocking out as many eyes as he and his two wingmen identify. So are the others. They know we’re watching now.”

  * * *

  There was only one way into the control center from the front side of the building and it was likely booby-trapped, so Gidula did as he often did and created another way. Explosive packs blew holes in the walls on either side of the entrance Graceful Bintsaif guarded, one on the west wall, one on the south. The eyes had been blinded across that whole row of offices and Five had no indication beforehand.

  Both he and Graceful Bintsaif had fine reflexes, and it was just bad luck that they both turned to the same breach. That was bad luck for the comet who leapt through the west wall, as he was thus slain twice; but it gave the comet coming through the south wall a clear shot. She cut down Five where he stood behind the console, and Graceful Bintsaif spun about in time to see Méarana’s thrown dagger embed itself in the comet’s throat. Graceful Bintsaif’s grace shot was superfluous and put her back to the west wall, and it was through this crumpled breach that Gidula stepped to stab her in the back.

  Graceful Bintsaif collapsed and Méarana hurled her second knife straight toward Gidula, but the Old One merely grabbed it from the air by the handle and would have flung it back on the instant had he not seen that it was Méarana who had thrown it.

  “You!” he cried. “How…?” Then his eyes dropped once more to the body at his feet. In the flick of that eye, the harper fled down the back hallway. Gidula pursed his lips, but before pursuing he leaned over Graceful Bintsaif. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

  “No,” said the junior Hound through clenched teeth.

  Gidula reached down and adjusted the knife. “How about now?”

  Satisfied, Gidula set off in a brisk but unhurried pursuit of the harper.

  * * *

  The fane was a wide oval room encircled by seven statues of women in various poses: one in a grand jeté, another holding a caduceus on high, still others holding a sheaf of wheat, wearing stars over her naked body, and so forth. Green and white drapes dressed the walls, and a red-stained altar squatted in the center. The absence of benches or knee pads meant the initiates stood during their ceremonies. There seemed no separate adytum, though an iconostasis inlaid with emeralds and pearls stood folded against the wall. Below the altar was a drain hole for the blood and offal of the sacrifices. Bridget ban decided it was too narrow and too obvious to be the hidden entrance to the floor below. The walls and doors were not blast proof, and there were no firing ports.

  Ravn Olafsdottr laughed. “And why should there be, Red Hound? This is a temple, a place of ritual. Who among the builders expected that one day it must be defended?”

  Bridget ban snorted. “Have they even the slightest inkling of what they worship?”

  “Of course not, Hound. More inkling, less worship.”

  “One set of doors,” Gwillgi said. “They open on the mezzanine. That means we cannot see from inside what the Gidulans are about on the other three sides.”

  “Other five sides, Bristly Hound,” Ravn told him.

  “Four,” said Donovan. “To attack the fane from below, they must enter the Cache, and if they can do that, they need not capture the fane. We can’t defend from the inside. Limited field of fire through the doors, and a death trap if they lob explosives inside.”

  “So we interdict the corridors leading here. Spread mighty thin, Donovan.”

  “Defenders have an advantage.”

  Gwillgi barked. “Not that much an advantage.”

  “The others will converge here; and if they can’t, they’ll be a worry up our attackers’ butts.”

  We can do this, said the girl in the chiton.

  I was thinking, said the Pedant, raising groans from half of Donovan’s mind. The best defense of a good offense.

  “We’ll throw the defense forward. Along the mezzanine there and there. The crows are likely to come from the west side; the lions from the east. But some might come along the hallway behind the fane. And they may as easily travel through the ducts or even straight through the offices. If they have enough poppers they can open doors where there are no doors. Go forward, find likely spots for improvised devices, then plant the devices a little past them. Gwillgi, take the west mezzanine; Ravn, the east. Bridget, the back hallway, east. I’ll prepare the back hall, west.”

  Ravn hissed—stealthy footfalls from the east—and the four of them folded to the floor, blending in with the décor, weapons pulled and aimed. A moment of quiet descended during which Donovan could wonder how badly he had miscalculated.

  A voice whispered the password: kuwatnim, which meant “liberty” in the old Taņţamiž lingua franca. But passwords could be learned and voices imitated. And so the voice added, “When the banner snaps, the fight begins.”

  “It’s Eglay,” Donovan told the others, and he told the Shadow to come forth.

  Eglay Portion had brought Greystroke and Three Padaborn. “That Technical Name,” said Three, “she wouldn’t leave Domino Tight.”

  Shortly, Pyati came in from the other direction with One and Two. “Where is Matilda?” asked Bridget ban.

  “Didn’t see her,” Pyati answered.

  “That is what you may expect to see in my case,” said Matilda of the Night. “Your man, Pyati, took out Big Jacques. But the crows were nipping hard at his heels.”

  “Rinty should have reached my position, coming up behind Big Jacques,” said Three. “But Jacques twigged to the trap and they reversed direction. I think they caught your Pup coming up behind them.”

  Greystroke, if it was possible, became a little grayer. And the Fudir remembered old days in Amir Naith’s Gulli. On to the Hadramoo! Och, Hugh! he thought, and the rest of him left him momentarily in peace. But there was little time for peace in a time of war, and the Silky Voice embraced the sorrow and sequestered it.

  The Sleuth calculated from the intelligence the Pedant had tabulated from Five that they faced fourteen magpies, three Shadows—one wounded—and a Name. Seven bogies were approaching along the mezzanine from each direction, but Gidula, the Secret Name, and two of Gidula’s comets were missing. Uncounted casualties?

  No, Donovan decided. Gidula would not perish as anonymously as that. A flanking movement was more probable. Around the back of the fane or … above it.

  That would bring him too close to the Security Center for the comfort of Donovan’s minds. He redispositioned everyone, placing himself and Bridget ban behind the fane, since that was where he expected the flank attack. Everyone vanished into offices, into ceilings, or—in Matilda’s case—simply vanishing.

  I have a theory about Matilda of the Night, said the Sleuth.

  You gotta theory about everything. Shaddap an’ get outta my way here.

  Inner Child set himself to watch and listen to the approaches. The scarred man’s eyes took on that peculiar wandering characteristic that meant each eye was watching independently. Each ear was listening independently. It was not a state that he had ever tried to describe to others, but it seemed to him that he stood in four different places that were somehow the same place. Donovan and the Fudir peered out through the eyes; Sleuth and the Pedant listened. The Silky Voice fell back to the hypothalamus and began regulating the flow of adrenaline and other enzymes, heightening hi
s senses, broadening his time-sense.

  Five burst in on his attention. “Security Center. Attack imminent!” This was followed by two low-intensity thumps and the snap of weapons fired. Then the comm. went silent.

  Donovan did not wait but was already on the run. “Gwillgi,” he said over the link. “Take my post!” He heard Bridget ban say, “Ravn, take mine,” then he shot a tzan-wire to the ceiling and climbed up it.

  The shortest distance to Méarana was straight up.

  * * *

  Méarana found her carefully laid plan foiled and barely escaped the escape route. While Gidula had come in the front, the Secret Name had been circling around the rear. She saw the man in the golden masque hesitate at a distant intersection, and she sidestepped quickly down another hall. Behind her, she heard Gidula call to the Name in a language her earwig did not recognize.

  If you hide, she told herself, they will find you. The problem with hidey-holes was a lack of exits. Safety, should any quality so elusive be had, lay in distance. She reached into her scrip and pressed the detonator, and the corridor she had intended to use blew in from shaped charges. She did not go back to see if her pursuers had been caught in the blast. If they had, she ran for no reason. If they hadn’t …

  The hallways formed a rectangular grid with nearly identical office spaces along each; but there were a few diagonal corridors, too—for shortcuts, she supposed—and foyers at the multi-way intersections. Panic fought the calm she needed. Her mother had trained her in a variety of arts, but she was by no means their master.

  “There’s no need to run,” she heard Gidula say. How far behind her? Did he see her, or was he talking to the night? “I only want to know how you got off Terra. I have no reason to do you harm.”

  Did he take her for a fool? Would she suppose he needed a reason?

  They were all sick, the Shadows were, even those like Ravn and Domino. There was something empty deep inside them. Like a shadow cast by the light, they were all form and no substance. Somewhere back along the pathways of their lives they had turned the wrong way and had become irretrievably lost, even to themselves.

  “Who are the others with you? Renegade Shadows? You can’t trust them, you know. Remember how my own dear Ravn betrayed you. Some are wearing coveralls instead of shenmats. Are they Protectors? They do not fight like mere boots.”

  Méarana saw a partly open door on her right and, without breaking stride, stooped as she passed and leaned her flashlight against it. Then, pirouetting up a side hallway, she threw her ground voice, “Am I a fool?” just as the tilted flashlight pushed the door slightly open. To Gidula, the visual and auditory cues would make it seem as if she had cracked the door to speak.

  “I think,” said Gidula, “that the question carries its own answer.” And he shot a gas canister into the barely cracked doorway. “Sleep awhile. Later, we will speak.”

  Méarana had not awaited the outcome, but, as the old stories ran, she “plied swift heels” down the side hall, then cut right again.

  Straight into the arms of the Secret Name.

  * * *

  The Secret Name had never been too certain of Gidula. The Old One was without doubt a useful tool. But a tool with a mind of its own could turn on its user. That the ancient Shadow and he had different plans once the Committee had been purged was a certainty, but the Secret Name had overseen the Bureau of Shadows for many years since his predecessor’s untimely demise and there was little in their thinking that he did not grasp.

  Yet Gidula’s plan to seize the Seven Widows had shocked even the Secret Name. The nature of the objects had never been too clear to him, save that they were sacred and ancient. But new technology was destabilizing. You never knew who might rise and who fall when something new appeared. Carefully controlled, allowed to a few, their secrets guarded by a sworn college, the dangerous servant could be kept in its place. The Gayshot Bo was among the least of the ministries, and the feckless Tina Zhi had been left in place largely because no one else wanted her post.

  The leaping tokens had allowed selected Names to oversee Confederal affairs directly. But this had not been an unalloyed gift. Some of the token-holders had aligned with the Committee. Now Gidula had begun to wonder about eternal youth, the one thing that might tempt the Old One off the pure path of tradition. He was so afraid of dying that he had let his fears become the master of his acts, and so a quiet coup had become a blazing city. But every blessing is a curse, and the Secret Name wondered if Tina Zhi had found eternal boredom instead.

  While one part of his mind was thus engaged, another part kept watch on the darkened hallways he traveled. That reminded him of another miscalculation. Gidula had not expected the building to be defended and they had walked into a well-laid trap. That seemed appropriate to the Secret Name. No prize so great should be won without a struggle.

  Circle around behind her, Gidula had told him. There would be a reckoning for that casual inversion of status. Shadows did not give orders to Names. Why this girl—obviously no magpie—was of such interest the Old One had not bothered to explain. That told the Secret Name everything he wanted to know about Gidula.

  The girl had seen him, the Ever-Vigilant part of his mind knew, and so would seek to evade. And so, the Planning part of his mind concluded, he must circle out farther still. His Vigilance heard soft footfalls, distant snaps and explosions, Gidula’s muttered curses.

  The Secret Name smiled. Apparently, the girl had managed to fool the Old One in some manner. The Secret Name dipped into the Memory Well and found the floor plan he needed. The Calculator examined all the possible routes the fleeing girl could have taken and computed her likely present positions on each route. He allowed his Body to light-foot to the maximum likelihood spot.

  And was gratified when, turning a corner, he found his arms full of a beautiful woman.

  Beautiful, but not domesticated.

  * * *

  Méarana found her every mother-taught move blocked with contemptuous ease by the man in the maniacally smiling sun-mask. However she struggled, his grip on her tightened, squeezing her against him. “La, snortcha,” he said, his sweetened breath filling her with unreasoning fear. “Tell me why the Old One is so interested in you.” Sun-rays framed him like a lion’s mane, his lips moved behind the fatuous smile like something wet and slimy lurking in a cave.

  Méarana remembered her father’s advice. Never tell them what they want to know, in case, learning all they wish, they might then dispose of you.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I was just working in my office and all these people came rushing in and they started fighting.”

  Her captor studied her for a moment, and Méarana saw with horror the way his eyes wandered, and that under his graying hair a myriad of scars ran every which way.

  “No,” he said. “You struggled too long for a sheep. You are golden skinned. But not from Miniforster. You did not recognize my rank. You are Peripheral. A Hound? No, insufficiently skilled. Just what has old Gidula been up to?”

  “Are you the Sleuth?” the harper asked.

  The Secret Name cocked his head in puzzlement. “I ask the questions. You supply the answers. That is the order of nature.”

  Méarana threw her sky-voice—“I’m coming!”—but she was too close and the old man was not fooled. And so, arms pinned, legs pinned, hugged close to her captor, she employed her only remaining weapon.

  She kissed him, thrusting her tongue through the mouth-opening and between his lips.

  The golden man had not been kissed in a great many years, and possibly never at all. He did not transform into a Prince, but he did recoil in sheer surprise.

  And the floor gave way beneath him.

  He fell to waist-height among the piping and ducts that underlay the floor, and like truth rising from hell, Donovan buigh emerged from below. The Secret Name struggled against the imprisoning hardware, but one of his eyes looked on Donovan.

  “La, Tom,” he said.

 
; The scarred man pried the mask from the face, tossed it aside. “La, Gesh,” he replied. “Hold still, please.” He pointed a dazer at the man’s head. “I like you better pinned than loose.”

  “He didn’t hurt me, Father.”

  Donovan did not turn. “That would have come later.”

  “So, you’ve remembered,” said the Secret Name.

  “Some. Enough. I guess if you can’t beat them, join them.”

  “It was actually the Lord Protector’s idea. He wanted a spy among the Shadows. Tom, you don’t know what they would have done to me otherwise.”

  “Given you a worse haircut?”

  “But the operation worked! I’m completely integrated. I can perfect you, teach you to become fully yourself. You cannot imagine what it is like!”

  “Who else?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Who else!”

  “Lai Showan. She was the first. But … She couldn’t integrate, she … flew apart. We had to put her to sleep. Can I move my arms now? This pose grows discomforting. And I fear my ankle is twisted in these pipes.”

  Donovan did not answer such a transparent ruse. He remembered that he had been already tenfold in the Rising. Had all the chiefs been? Rajasekaran and O’Farrell, too? The Sleuth leapt from the ruse to the half-truth that underlay it. The Lion’s Mouth had created five of us … Five who might not be missed. And we rose up. Not for liberty, but for Geshler Padaborn’s ambitions. And afterward, he would not tolerate any other like himself.

  He could have killed us outright, the Silky Voice pointed out. He must have retained some feeling for our brotherhood.

  Yes, said the young man in the chlamys. He thought he could still use us, if only we were a little less than himself. But only two of us survived the Rising, and the operation failed. And Lai Showan went mad and we …

  “Spent a time on the edge of madness.” The scarred man’s finger nearly depressed the button on the dazer.

  The Secret Name started at the apparently random utterance and a moment later nodded, as if he had followed Donovan’s chain of reasoning. “And now, there are only the two of us. Imagine what we could achieve together! We have pulled down the Nomenklatura at last! We have wrecked the Lion’s Mouth! What we could not accomplish by direct assault we have accomplished by burrowing within. Now, we have the opportunity to build something new, something better, something worthy of our goals. Do you understand? We are the new men. We are something beyond the merely human.”