Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  “Am I boring you?” Bairith inquired, voice terse. Blue tinged his lips and shadows hollowed his cheeks.

  He waved a hand in front of his face as if he could get rid of something not even there. “No, sir.” The feathers did help him maintain the illusion that he accepted Bairith, but now they had begun to appear out of nowhere for no reason.

  “Then what, pray tell, are you doing?”

  “I’m listening to you. You were telling me your idea to get me into the castle in Kelamara so I can kill the king. You’ve arranged a situation that will have Ilaroya sending for you with all haste, but I’m to go in your stead. I’ll be recognized. There’s the small matter of being wanted for murder and treason.”

  “I’d like to see them try to take you.” Did his eyes glow a little too brightly? His voice come a little too forcefully?

  “I would make you proud and bathe the streets in blood, but if my presence is known there, the country will turn against you.” Everyone would know Sherakai was the assassin. All of Alshan knew Sherakai was Bairith’s pawn. Would the jansu put on a show, lacing it with magic? Would he claim Sherakai had slipped his leash?

  “You’re refusing the task I have set you.”

  “I am not.”

  “Then trust someone who is actually familiar with intrigue and strategy.” He took a drink and set his goblet down with a thud. “And cease with the bloody feathers.”

  “I don't deliberately conjure them.” It was rather funny that the mage picked up on those, but missed other, more significant things. The link was faulty. “They’re just… there.”

  Bairith dipped a slender spoon into the remains of his drink, then touched the ice pepper to his tongue. “Did the last fight damage you? Perhaps the rakeshi gained an advantage we do not yet understand.”

  “If it did, would an unscrupulous demon concern itself with feathers?” Rising from his chair, he picked up the jansu’s goblet and went to the sideboard to refill it. An unscrupulous man would add poison to his gaoler’s diet with no misgivings. He stirred a pinch of the bleakstone grounds into the drink and set it within Bairith’s easy reach.

  Bairith’s hand trembled when he picked it up. “Doubtful. I must say, though, that your accomplishment is worthy of note. It far exceeded anything you’ve achieved before.”

  “We have never given the demon izaku before.” He washed the bleakstone dust from his fingers in the dainty bowl of water provided with every meal at the jansu’s table. Later, he would thoroughly wash his hands, but for now he dipped into the bowl several times while they dined, making it an absent, thoughtless gesture.

  “The liqueur increases your abilities, which is a fine tactical advantage if it does not ruin you.”

  He made a noncommittal noise in his throat and resumed his meal. It was possible Bairith loved him after all; he had a thick slab of beef with gravy while the jansu picked at something that wiggled in its sauce. Appreciation for his food aside, he couldn’t help thinking this had been the worst reaction he’d ever had after the rakeshi’s mayhem. He still could not remember the fight. The entire day had disappeared from his memory, and it wasn’t the first. Would the rakeshi grow stronger with continued occupancy and eventually overpower him? Would anything of Sherakai dan Tameko remain? His body, yes. He would be dead inside himself. Trapped. How utterly intolerable…

  The spoon rattled against Bairith’s crystal goblet. The mage held it out and focused until his hand stopped shaking.

  Sherakai spread a thick layer of butter on another chunk of bread, pretending not to notice. Contemplating what the bleakstone might be doing to Bairith brought a remarkable sense of calm.

  “You’re quite enjoying your meal.”

  “I am.” His cheek bulged with food, a rudeness the jansu found disgusting. No doubt he would also object to the small knife Sherakai now wore up his sleeve. He’d acquired the harness from one of the endless, bloody battlefields. His use of it now held a certain sense of poetic justice. “I love fresh-baked bread and a good roast. And you, sir?”

  Bairith set his spoon down and, after a moment, pushed his plate away. “I have little appetite tonight.” His smile was wan. “Don’t let me stop you from finishing. You need your strength for the upcoming journey. I am pleased your recovery from your wounds has been so swift. Are you aware now of the beast’s healing abilities?”

  Sherakai shook his head, swallowed, and picked up his cup. Milk again. Had his reaction to alcohol made Bairith cautious? “No. Sorry, sir.”

  “Pain is not a trigger,” he ruminated. He had his spoon again, tapping it against his empty goblet. “Neither is the combination of pain and danger, nor pain and safety. What am I missing?”

  Sherakai didn’t have the answer, so he didn’t offer an opinion. He had a tasty and filling meal, the jansu’s waxy pallor seemed to be taking on a lovely green tinge. Moreover, the man was increasingly not himself.

  “We should consult Mage Tylond. I’ve looked for a magical path or barrier, but he may discover a physical one.”

  How obliging of him to offer proof on the heels of Sherakai’s thought.

  A forkful of meat paused on its journey. “Tylond?” he echoed. “Sir, I’m not sure that is a—I suggest we wait until after the trip to Kelamara, or our plans will be compromised.”

  “Nonsense. Why do you think that?”

  “Because a spirit summoning is exhausting, and we should both be in top form.”

  A chilly, unnatural quiet descended. Confusion was an unfamiliar expression on the jansu. Sherakai found it both unsettling and intriguing.

  A servant slipped in, then hesitated like a wary little mouse. After an instant, he crept about collecting empty dishes before stealing away again.

  Bairith polished off his drink, then studied the bottom of the goblet.

  “Are you unwell, lord?” Sherakai couched the words softly so they would not fall afoul of a sudden temper.

  “I believe I’ll have a bit more izaku, then retire for the evening.” He held the glass out to the side, the gesture imperious.

  Obediently, Sherakai rose to go fill it again. Two pinches of the crushed bleakstone this time. “Will you be on hand when the king dies?”

  “Should I not be?”

  “I imagine you should. It would make ascending the throne less complicated.” He stirred the drink as he returned to the table, setting it down at Bairith’s place.

  “Is that what you think I want?”

  He adopted his most serious expression. “My opinion is not important. Your welfare is.”

  The jansu caught hold of Sherakai’s wrist, fingers biting deep. “I know what you are doing, boy.”

  Sherakai crooked a brow. “Of course you do, sir.” The hilt of the knife slipped into his palm. He’d faced numberless foes in the arena; why could Bairith set his heart to pounding so?

  “You think that since you are broken, the link is broken as well. On your knees.” He twisted his hold to compel Sherakai to comply. “I am your creator and your master.”

  One small shift eased the painful grip. “Sir, let me help you up to your room.”

  “You will not patronize me! Kneel!” he shouted.

  Sherakai wavered under the force of Bairith’s command. It was bitterly familiar, shamefully intimate, yet without its usual potency. Now—now was his moment.

  The door to the hall opened and the nameless woman stepped in. “My lord, do you—Oh.” She stopped with her hand on the panel.

  If he moved against Bairith now, she would set the guard on him—and all the mages—in a heartbeat.

  If she lived…

  Bairith staggered upright, and his chair crashed over. “He does not kneel.” Another unfamiliar expression filled his features: shock.

  She rushed to his side and Bairith caught her. An arm around her shoulders put the woman between himself and Sherakai. “What have you done, Sherakai?” she asked, eyes accusing.

  Not fully comprehending the powers of a Seer, he dared not lie
to her. Perhaps one of her visions had brought her here at this critical moment. He swore at himself for not figuring her into his plans despite her apparent absence. “He asked me to fill his glass. I did, and now he is angry.” Could he kill them both? Yes, but there would be yelling or screaming, or both. The knife disappeared up his sleeve. “He is not feeling well.”

  “That is impossible.”

  One hand lifted in a helpless gesture. Even the non-gifted could see the jansu looked ill.

  “I am fine,” Bairith snapped. “I have had enough of this ingrate for one day; he exhausts me. Come, love.”

  She gave Sherakai a reproachful frown.

  As he propelled her around, Bairith struck the table hard. Tableware clattered. The goblet tipped over, wine spilling like blood across the snowy tablecloth. “See what he does to me?”

  Sherakai wanted to throw dishes at him in frustration. Think fast, beetle-brain. He lowered his head. “Shall I go to the cells, lord?”

  “No, fool.” He walked stiff-legged toward the door, manipulating the woman to shield him. “You are too fond of it. I will have to devise something less appealing and more… educational.”

  “The arena in the Twixt?” he suggested.

  Bairith hesitated and glanced back at him. “No,” he glared. “You test my patience sorely, but you still have a challenge to meet. You will prove yourself on that field, one way or another.”

  “Yes, lord.” He bowed low as he’d been taught.

  Bairith left, but the woman lingered.

  “What do you see?” he asked softly.

  She gave a minute shake of her head.

  He could kill her. Break her with his two hands. It had been she, after all, who told him that some may have to die to preserve many. “This?”

  Again, she shook her head. “I must go to him.”

  “Of course. I would like to help him.” He glanced around and saw the goblet laying on its side. “I’ll wait a moment, then bring him a glass of izaku. If I may?”

  Puzzlement bent her fine brows. “Not tonight, Sherakai.”

  He nodded and put both hands in his pockets in apparent chagrin. Smoothly, he tipped open the lid of the little box of powder and took a hefty pinch between his fingers. “May I at least look in on him?” He moved to the cabinet to pick up the decanter, giving it a little slosh. It spilled. Minor theatrics, an apology for his clumsiness, and a self-conscious smile, and the bleakstone powder disappeared into the liqueur’s murky depths.

  The woman eyed him warily.

  “I should be immune to his rebukes by now.” He set the izaku and a fresh goblet on a tray and brought it to her.

  “I wish I could see you when you wake.” Her hands brushed his, cool and steady as she accepted the tray. “I wish it did not have to be so hard, but I don’t know what to do about the shadows. There are so many shadows…”

  “What do you mean?”

  She gave him a sad smile. “You will see. They cannot last forever.” Ducking her head, she hurried away.

  Chapter 69

  Now was not the time to be dumbfounded. One hand on his hip, the other rubbed his forehead as if that might wake up the right choice. He didn’t have a dead Bairith, but he had a badly handicapped one. Would he drink more of the poisoned izaku? Or would the woman sense something wrong with it and keep Bairith away from it?

  They would send for a healer. They couldn’t cure bleakstone, but they would set off an entire avalanche of obstacles to his escape.

  No sooner had the thought come to him than Sherakai was out the door, jogging toward the mages’ wing. There were two healers, a man and a woman, though he didn’t think he knew their names. “Where are the healers?” he asked, catching one of the ubiquitous white-clad servants.

  Terror widened the woman’s eyes. “Th-the lady is in the kitchens, and he’s just gone to his rooms.”

  “Where? Show me.”

  No one wanted to spend more time with him than they must. She led the way, struggling not to break into a run. In the appropriate corridor, she pointed and scurried away. She would carry rumor. He would have to work fast.

  “Healer?” he queried, knocking gently as he set his shoulder to the wood.

  When the door opened, he shoved. With a yelp of surprise, the man quick-stepped backward. It wasn’t quick enough to evade Sherakai’s grasp, or the fist pushing his nose to the backside of his head. He listened a moment, closed the door, made a quick tour of the healer’s quarters, then put the body in the wardrobe.

  Another quick look around verified there were no weapons. It didn’t matter. He peered into the hall, waited for a pair of servants to pass, then crossed to the second room. “Healer?” he asked, knocking again.

  “Across the way,” said the man who answered. “What are you—”

  The flat of Sherakai’s hand punching his throat cut off the question. It didn’t kill him, but a sharp twist of his neck did. The insignia dangling from his collar of office proclaimed him an Air mage.

  Sherakai bent down to glare at the wide open eyes. “Why didn’t you have a defensive spell in place? Are you all this complacent, or just arrogant enough to suppose no one can touch you?”

  Surprise could get past the guard of some mages, but Bairith—Well, Bairith didn’t merely believe himself untouchable, he made it so. With a snort of disgust, he dragged the dead mage into the bedchamber and stuffed him under the bed.

  He found five more mages in the wing, two of them together, which complicated things but did not stop him. Violent light limned their figures, and pain drilled into Sherakai’s temples. The last one, the Fire mage, proved much more difficult to dispose of than the others. She did have protective spells, and she fought back.

  She was no match, though, for the rakeshi. When it was done, Sherakai leaned against the closest wall, breathing hard. Control was difficult to maintain. He clenched and unclenched his fists. The back of the left hand burned, red and blistered. He could barely feel it. Rakeshi magic or nerve damage? The mage had charred one shoulder of his tunic, but the skin beneath had escaped serious harm. The smell of scorched hair stung his nose.

  He thumped his head against the wall and tried to picture feathers, but the cursed things eluded him. The beast had too hard a grip on him already.

  “No,” he gritted out, shoving himself up and pacing back and forth. “I am Sherakai dan Tameko. Warrior. Captive. I will get out of this place. I will kill Bairith Mindar.”

  It became a mantra in the vein of all the meditations he had ever used to ground himself and find calm. Smoke scratched the back of his throat, reminding him of his plan. He hadn’t intended to light fires in the mage’s wing, but since the fire mage started it, he wouldn’t let the opportunity go to waste.

  Silk scarves and a good supply of perfume oils transformed the bed into a bonfire. The drapes took a little longer to set afire. He went back the way he’d come, detouring to set fires in the other apartments and in a storage room. The latter had bottles of lemon oil the maids used to polish wood. The plentiful smoke was fragrant.

  “Check them all!” a man shouted in the hall.

  “Bleedin’ Abyss, there’s smoke coming from all of them!”

  “Not those two. Go!”

  Sherakai took in his surroundings in one swift glance. He had too much to do to deal with the keep’s guards, and fighting them would surely bring out the rakeshi. The rakeshi didn’t think, it acted. If only it would act on his behalf…

  “I don’t want to face him up here.”

  “We don’t even know it is him. The jansu’s got him on a leash—unless he’s set him loose on the mages.”

  “Ofuru’s dead. Broken neck.”

  “Unosun, too. Head bashed in.”

  “It’s him! I told you it was him!”

  Sherakai left the sword he’d taken from one of the Earth mages on the floor. Clambering upward, fingers and toes found purchase in the ornamental woodwork and moldings. He slipped, but caught himself on the chai
n supporting the unlit lantern over the entry. The links bent under his grip. He half expected it to give way completely and send him crashing down. On the verge of shifting to a more practical position, the door opened. Two cautious soldiers entered, weapons drawn.

  Sherakai turned his face from the fierce light of the lamp the rearmost one clutched in his hand. A loud thump came from outside. Shrieks of pain and panic drew the pair right back out again.

  After a count of ten, he toed the door shut and dropped to the floor behind it. Going out into the hall would complicate his position. He dragged a chest in front of the door to block it, then went to a window and yanked it open. The commotion he’d created might be an advantage if it occupied guards and servants. He lifted a brow as he considered his options.

  Smoke tainted the autumn air.

  Leaves would burn…

  Across the yard, a dozen figures dashed to the keep’s great doors.

  Sherakai vaulted out the window and ran after them. When they darted inside, he veered away. One, two, three lanterns sailed into the dry vegetation of the jansu’s gardens. Two crashed and hissed. The last exploded with a lovely whump of color and flame.

  Someone cried out an alarm. He hollered back to bring shovels and pretended to stomp at the edges of the fire. The little knot of chaos gave him the opportunity to slip away.

  Inside the keep again, he made his way toward his tower rooms. The least occupied region of the entire castle, it wasn’t difficult to avoid being seen. Servants and a handful of soldiers unaware of the mayhem went about their duties. Sherakai slipped into an alcove, a doorway, the linen closet where he’d once concealed the bottle of thousandleaf he’d used on his friends. And then the path was clear. He sprinted up the stairs, only to run full tilt into a pair of guards coming down.

  They crashed backward with shouts of surprise.

  He stumbled to his knees and came right back up, the rakeshi’s vision leaping into place. It highlighted every move the men made. He caught one by the head and smashed him into the stair. The other kicked out at him. Sherakai—or the demon—grabbed his leg and pulled him closer.