Guilds & Glaives

by David Farland

  “Bazan …?”

  The question hung in the air. Everything hung on his answer. If he answered as the age-old laws of usurpation dictated, then she would rule them. If he showed his true colors and refused, there would be anarchy. Some would side with him. Others with tradition. There would be blood and the Asps would be as good as destroyed from within.

  Just how brave was he?

  “Bazan … Grand Master.”

  Not so brave that he was a fool. Katja flashed him a viper’s smile.

  “Very good. If that is my rank now, Bazan … why are you not kneeling?”

  Bazan stared at her for what seemed like an age. His gaze met hers, held it for a long moment, then flinched away and quivered over the sight of her bloodied knives and the opulently-robed corpse at her feet. Slowly, he knelt.

  The rest of the chamber followed his example. Grand Master Katja Blade-Weaver of the Black Asps knew then that they were hers.

  * * *

  “It has to be you, Katja,” said Zavine.

  Katja raised an impassive eyebrow. “Why?”

  Zavine grinned ruefully. “Because every Grand Master falls eventually. I want to choose the time and place.”

  Katja shook her head. “But why die? You’re a master of disguise—why not just … slip away?”

  Zavine’s eyes flashed. “Do you take me for a coward, Kat? What would your mother say? We raised you better than that.”

  Katja looked away. They had, it was true. That was why she was still here, in this city, when she could have gone anywhere to ply her skills. To run was cowardice and a denial of herself. This city was home. Where else would she go?

  Zavine sighed. “More to the point, slipping away isn’t an option.” She tugged the neck of her cloak down, revealing a bluish tint around her throat that made Katja’s blood run cold. It was barely discernible against her dark skin, but once one knew what to look for it was unmistakable. “There’s no point running from a knife that’s already in you.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments and Zavine re-covered her throat. It was Katja who broke the silence.

  “When?”

  Zavine shrugged. “When did I notice? Well, Bazan doesn’t think I know about his little invention, but I have my ways. I did a little digging myself after my favorite niece was disgraced.”

  “Only niece.”

  “Nevertheless. But if you mean ‘when’ as in my meeting with Mother Dark, then I’m almost certain I have a little under a day. Bazan, bless him, has a flair for the dramatic. How better to usurp me than to step in when I’m taken ill at our own Pledging Night? No mess, no fuss, no risk of a knife in him.”

  “A coward’s way.”

  Zavine smirked. “Quite. It goes against all our codes of succession, but who would know but him? If, however, a certain renegade assassin was to make an unscheduled appearance, then …”

  “… then his plan is ruined.”

  “And he has to concede to the challenger or risk exposure as a poisoner.” Zavine leaned back contentedly and observed Katja through half-closed lids. “Will you take the contract? On me? For me?”

  Katja nodded. “Yes. I will.”

  Zavine practically cackled. “That’s my girl! I knew I could count on you. I just wish I could see his face. Make sure you make the bastard squirm for me.”

  Katja smiled thinly. “At the very least.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Zavine rose from her seat. “Revenge aside, Katja, I have to face facts. I’m not getting any younger. It’s time to bow out gracefully. At least this way I get to set my own terms.” She tossed a coin-purse on the table. Its weight echoed against the wooden surface in a way only gold did. Katja shook her head.

  “No charge. Not for a … personal job like this.”

  Grand Master Zavine shrugged. “It’s not as if I’ll need it where I’m going.” She walked to the door, redonning her hood. She looked back over her shoulder as she left the room and nodded.

  “See you tonight. Don’t be late.”

  The Sword and the Djinn

  Howard Andrew Jones

  In the days of the first Uthman caliphs there lived a brave youth named Bakri, talented in all ways with horses. Not only was he an exceptional rider, he was a gifted trainer, one of those to whom horses instinctively respond. Those who saw him working the animals swore that he understood their language. Even graybeards deferred to him in matters of horseflesh, and so it was that he was master of the stables.

  Bakri was nephew to a fierce warrior named Ghaffar, who called himself general and was honored by the caliphs because he so zealously protected the border. In truth Ghaffar was little more than a bandit whose conversion to Islam was borne out of convenience. He had been raised a pagan, and it was said he pledged the copious blood he spilled to demons worshiped by his family in former times. These rumors were widely spread, but the caliphs looked the other way, for it was better so deadly a warrior fought for them than against them.

  Ghaffar never took a wife, nor lay with women, and he suffered no women to serve him, even to the preparing of his food. Only grudgingly did he allow his lieutenants and servants to keep wives or women in their rooms, and none were allowed within fifty paces of Ghaffar himself, on pain of death.

  All of Ghaffar’s male blood relatives had perished in battle save Bakri. Ghaffar looked with some favor upon the young man, both for his skill with horses and because he closely resembled his uncle. Both were tall and fair to look upon, though where Ghaffar’s mouth bent sourly, Bakri could sometimes be seen to smile in true joy, especially when he was in the saddle. Ghaffar made noises about the youth becoming his successor, but Bakri had no love for the man, though he honored him and held his skill with weapons in great esteem. He had less regard for Ghaffar’s treatment of women, and animals, and even the men who served under him, for Ghaffar was harsh and ill-tempered, and when he drank of evenings he grew very cruel. Yet Bakri served him, for he knew no other way of life.

  And then, quite suddenly one day, Bakri fell in love.

  It happened in this way. Ghaffar’s chief lieutenant was a scarred and pockmarked Syrian named Habab and he returned from a raid one night with a herd of horses and a beautiful girl. Bakri was roused to look over the animals. He came from his cot in time to see the woman being bundled away under guard, not toward Habab’s rooms, as was usual, but toward the central keep. The moon was bright and swollen and the stars hung like frost, and so when the girl twisted against her captors there was light for Bakri to see her slim figure. Her veil had been torn from her and so he briefly glimpsed a clear-featured face of astonishing beauty.

  When she was cuffed across the cheek so that her struggling would cease, Bakri himself winced and started forward.

  Scarred Habab laughed. “Best keep your hands off, boy. She’s a beauty, but your uncle wants her unharmed.”

  “Why?” Bakri asked. His uncle had never before barred the same from any of his men.

  “He’s holding her for ransom and means to return her in the condition he found her.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Adilah, of the clan Njed.”

  Ghaffar had been warring with the clan for almost half a year, and while he had captured women before, he had never before tried to ransom them.

  “What is so important about her?” Bakri asked.

  “She’s the sheikh’s favorite daughter. Some say he loves her more even than his sons. She’s not,” Habab said again, “for you.”

  Bakri then pretended interest in the captured horses. Even though three of them were very fine animals indeed, long-limbed and sleek, he was thinking of entirely different features, and after he led them to the stables and returned to bed he was tormented by memory of that beautiful face. He lay awake for a long while, thinking of her, wondering if she could possibly be as lovely as that glimpse had shown him. He deceived himself into thinking that she could not possibly have been, that a simple look would cure him of his infatuation. Surely the
re would be blemishes or flaws that the darkness had obscured. Excusing his fascination thus, he rose, dressed, and crept down the worn stone stairs to the fortress dungeons, convincing himself he went only to confirm his conclusions.

  Below the storeroom were four dank stone cells, closed with thick bars. Bakri advanced into that darkness with a lantern. There was naught in the first two cells but empty pallets, but in the third the light caught the wide eyes of Adilah, huddled modestly under a coarse wool blanket. She was even more lovely than he had imagined, with light brown eyes almost the color of amber, smooth clear skin, and a wide rose-lipped mouth. Her hair was long, dark, and straight. Clearly, he had startled her, but as he stood there, dumbstruck, she drew herself together and stared boldly at him.

  “Who are you?” she asked. Her voice was high and clear.

  Bakri advanced to the bars. He had to clear his throat before he could properly answer her. “Bakri,” he said. And he decided that he would not mention his lineage, adding only, “The stablemaster.”

  “Don’t you mean the stable boy?”

  “No,” he said, but was still struck too dumb to take offense.

  “And what does the stablemaster want with me?”

  He set down the lantern and stared at her. He had no proper answer. “Are you being well cared for?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said sharply. “I have this fine bed, and this luxurious blanket, which hardly smells at all. I am quite well.”

  The youth felt foolish then, though the young woman’s wit and mettle impressed him. “Have they given you food, water?”

  Adilah peered at him, uncertain what to think. “I have had none,” she admitted.

  “I will find some for you,” Bakri promised.

  “That would be very kind.”

  She rose from the pallet and stepped nearer the bars, though she stayed out of his reach.She moved with such grace, and her form was so lovely beneath her soiled and rumpled garments that Bakri imagined a woman decked in the costliest jewels would seem a crone by comparison.

  “Why does my …” Bakri hesitated, for he had almost asked her what his uncle wanted with her. He fumbled for the waterskin he kept at his belt and passed it over to her.

  She accepted it cautiously, peering at the stopper, then back at him.

  “There is nothing wrong with it,” he said, “though I would that it were cool and fresh. I have not filled it since this afternoon.”

  She drank and he spoke on. “Indeed, had I the means, I would give you far more than this water. I would give to you precious jewels, and splendid horses, and all fine things a woman might desire.”

  Adilah was no stranger to the flattery of men, though she was not one of those shallow maids who encouraged and thrived upon it, for her elders had taught her better, and she had natural sense besides. Still, she had been lying awake without hope wondering how she might find the courage to hang herself in the cell. Standing on her cot in that dark place, feeling the cold wall, she had discovered a hook, probably used for hanging lanterns. And then the boy had come and hope had crept slowly out from the darkness of her heart. It was not that she felt the stirrings of love—how could she, in such a place, in such a state?—but she understood something of it in his eyes, and for the first time in hours she thought that she might yet live to ride her gray mare in the lands of her father and feel the hand of her baby brothers in her own as she led them, singing, outside to chores. She stepped closer to the bars, and her voice was a whisper. “Why have you come?”

  He wondered at his words as he answered, for never before had he thought to say such things. “Once I had seen your beauty,” he confessed, “I could do naught but follow so that I might witness it again. I am like a man lost in the desert who has witnessed a flowing pool of water.”

  She handed the waterskin back. He took it, fearful that she had misunderstood him. He was not, after all, thirsty for water.

  “Do you mean to let me go?” she asked.

  He had not thought that far. Indeed, he had hardly thought at all, but now his mind raced onwards. He knew that the girl might come to a bad end in his uncle’s dungeon. If her family could not pay the ransom, she would as like be killed. If she was to be safe, she needed to be removed, but if he took her from here, he would be abandoning clan, home, and everything he knew.

  He spoke gently. “I know Ghaffar is ransoming you. How much does he want for your life?” He had a mad thought that he might trade for her, for he had some coins of his own, then felt foolish, for the girl was worth more than his small trove.

  “You do want to help me, don’t you?” she asked.

  “I do. What does Ghaffar want for you?”

  She hesitated only a moment before answering him. “It is not money. It is a sword. And Ghaffar will never have it, for my family will not give it to him, lest it be blade first.”

  “Ghaffar fears no weapon,” Bakri said. “He cannot be killed. Don’t you know? I have seen him ride unscathed through a storm of arrows that slew or skewered every man to his left or right.”

  “He wants this sword,” Adilah insisted. “One of the finest ever made, said to have been forged in the dim past for the hand of a dead and mighty king. No man who wields it will face death by the sword, and it is keenly sharp and perfectly balanced.”

  Bakri felt the stirrings of interest then, for something other than the young woman.

  “Ghaffar is a scourge already,” Adilah went on. “If he were to obtain the Gray Maid he would be truly unstoppable.”

  “The Gray Maid?” Bakri repeated. He pressed himself to the bars. “The sword is named The Gray Maid?”

  “Yes, it …” Adilah fell silent, for the boy’s nostrils flared and his eyes brightened. She perceived something now in his features that she had not noticed in the past, a decisive, regal air.

  “Where is the sword?” he asked.

  She shied away, but he pressed closer to the bars. “Can you lead me to it?”

  “But you will give it to him!”

  Bakri laughed. “Aye, point first, as you said!”

  “But you just said no weapon can harm him!”

  “I think that this one can.” Bakri’s teeth gleamed in the dim light as he grinned. “He does not covet the weapon to wield, but because he fears it.”

  Adilah took a hesitant step closer.

  “Will you show it to me?” Bakri pressed.

  She was not sure what to think, but then he stepped around the corner, returned with a rusting ring of keys, and tried them on her lock. It seemed to her that they jangled very loudly in that small space, and that it took over long, but in a moment the door was open and she stepped forward into uncertain freedom. The youth was there, holding the door and the lantern. Might this be some kind of clever trick? A ruse to get her to reveal her family’s secret?

  But the boy did not seem to be acting; he appeared caught up in the moment. Quickly he closed the cell door behind her and started up the stairs. “Come,” he whispered, beckoning her on.

  Bakri’s heart raced as he reached the height of the stairs, but there was no one in the dark storeroom, nor in the central hall. He paused at the door to the courtyard, then slipped out of his cloak and set it over the girl’s shoulders.

  “Pull up the hood. Can you swagger, like a man?”

  “I shall try.”

  “No one will mistake you for one at close range,” he said, “but we will be in the shadows. Can you ride?”

  “As well as you,” she promised.

  “That shall be seen,” he said with a brash smile, then blew out the lantern.

  Bakri was sure that Allah watched over him, for clouds now obscured the moon. It was a chill night, and the wind fingered his hair as he and Adilah crept through the shadows toward the stables. Adilah burned with questions, but she knew better than to ask. She could see the outline of two sentries on the wall above the fortress gate and knew that at least two others walked the walls on the other sides, for she had seen them when she�
��d been led inside.

  Bakri threw on another cloak and worked swiftly and quietly, saddling his favorite horse, Kutb, a black stallion with a white blaze, and a swift, sure-footed white for the girl. He prayed that she was as fine a horsewoman as she claimed. He pointed the girl to meager supplies, a bow, some arrows, and these she gathered. There was no time for anything else; they would have to obtain more water at the village fountain below the hill.

  He was relieved to see that the girl climbed nimbly to her saddle and sat it like a queen. In a moment he was beside her with Kutb, trotting for the gate.

  The two guards frowned down on the youth and his companion as they rode up to the gate. They did not much care for the night watch and, like many in Ghaffar’s employ, were surly to begin with.

  Bakri pushed back his hood. “Open the gate,” he said. “The general demands more wine.”

  “So he sends you?” the guard called down.

  “What is it to you?” Bakri asked haughtily. “He will be ill-pleased with any who cause delay.”

  Grumbling, the guards raised the portcullis and Bakri and Adilah rode free, down the hill toward the darkened little village. Adilah could not help pushing to a gallop, and Bakri followed, catching her. After a moment she heard that he laughed, and when he grinned she could not help but grin back. Almost she kicked into a full gallop across the plain toward home, but something stayed her. She thought at first it was because she realized the need for water.

  They stopped at the stone pool in the village square and filled up their waterskins. Around them were only shuttered windows—it might have been the deep desert, so quiet were their surroundings.

  “What makes you think,” she whispered, “this sword will kill him?”

  He shook his head. “Not here.”

  Thus she rode with him quietly until they were beyond the village and out into the scrub lands that were not quite desert.

  “How will you explain to your family that you mean to give me the sword?” he asked. “It must be me. I can re-enter the fortress; I can challenge him.”