The Book of Swords

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  At length they disengaged and the emperor stepped back to indicate the bout had ended.

  “You disappoint me with your conventional thinking.”

  “That you are a rejected lover anxious to avenge yourself on an arrogant woman by stealing from her a personal item that is precious to her?”

  A smile fluttered and faded. “That women cannot foment revolution. Indeed, they are the more dangerous, once roused. I had thought one such as you, who makes a living outside of the law, would not indulge in too much of convention.”

  “One such as me? What sort of one is that?”

  “Among other things, a person who makes a living outside of the law.” The emperor shook his head. “But I am finished dueling with you. Perhaps I can find a better person for the work.”

  “You cannot. If you have come to me, it means you have failed in your previous attempts to obtain the sketchbook.”

  “True enough,” agreed the emperor with a gracious nod.

  At a gesture from the ruler, an official walked forward and handed a substantial pouch of coins to Apollo Crow.

  The man weighed them without opening the pouch.

  “I know what you are lying about,” added the emperor.

  “Do you, indeed?”

  “So we shall discover.” With a decisive nod, the emperor indicated the doors, which were promptly opened by waiting attendants.

  Apollo Crow smiled. He had a winning smile, a seductive smile, a handsome smile, and he knew it. With a flourish made into a mocking bob of a bow, he took his leave of the imperial palace.

  —

  Nikaia was a port town, seething with travelers, sailors, and merchants: a volatile and lucrative brew spiced with rumor, poverty, and discontented plebeians whose ears itched the more fiercely as more promises of suffrage were whispered into them. The haunts where radical sentiments pooled like wraiths awaiting release on Hallow’s Eve were many, and Apollo Crow only one man, with one pair of legs. Yet he had other means of gathering intelligence.

  A week after he arrived a crow fluttered to land on the open windowsill of the room at the inn where he was staying. Since he hated being alone he always found a way to have company.

  The woman in his bed raised herself up on an elbow, her beautiful eyes opening wide as the crow bobbed a greeting. “What dreadful omen is this?” she gasped.

  “You think like a Celt,” he said as he slipped from under the covers. He grabbed a bit of bread off a platter on the sideboard and went to the window to offer it to the bird. “The crow is sacred to my namesake, the Hellene god.”

  The bird snapped up the bread, then cawed for so long a stretch that the woman laughed.

  “Is it thanking you for the meal? Or boring you with a complaint?”

  “Not at all. Just giving me a welcome scrap of information in exchange.”

  “What an amusing tale-teller you are! Crows would make magnificent conspirators and agents if only they could talk and spy.” Her voice turned coaxing. “You standing there naked has quite obliterated all thoughts of omens, battlefields, and carrion crows from my mind. I would take another welcome scrap, if you have a mind to come back to bed, for I certainly have no complaints.”

  “I am compliant in all things that harmonize with my wishes,” he assured her truthfully, turning away from the window. “Are you acquainted with a tavern called The Four Abreast?”

  “By rumor only, not from setting foot in it myself. You wouldn’t want to go there.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s in a very poor part of town, frequented by sailors, washerwomen, and cutthroats.” She beckoned him closer with a pretty frown. “But I see from your expression you are determined to get yourself killed in that dreadful district. So be it. Come over here so I don’t waste this chance while you are still among the living.”

  —

  Later he made his way amid the dregs of twilight down a dismal avenue lined with shuttered shops, on the trail of The Four Abreast. Dark, empty streets made him melancholy, pining for the open land he had once called home. Ahead, a man pushed a cart of refuse while whistling a cheerful melody that lightened the lonely night. He quickened his pace to catch up, and just as he was about to make a friendly remark the carter halted next to a dank alley. A pair of ragged children crept out of the darkness.

  “Go ahead but be quick,” murmured the carter.

  The children pawed through the stench-ridden garbage for anything they might use, eat, or sell.

  “There’s a coin in it for each of you if you can lead me to The Four Abreast,” Apollo Crow said to the children.

  The carter slapped away their reaching hands. “Don’t go walking with strange men.”

  “I meant no harm. Can you tell me, Maester? I know I’m bound for the streets below Castle Hill but by what means may I recognize the tavern?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’ve served a cruel master and escaped. It seems right to see what I can do to help others who may wish for a different way of life.”

  The carter grunted, not entirely convinced.

  “For your trouble, then.” Apollo Crow tossed a coin to each child, pressed a third into the man’s hand, and walked away.

  “Juniper wards the entrance,” the carter called after him. “That’s all I’ll say.”

  The neighborhood crowded up against the flanks of Castle Hill, straight streets collapsing into a confusing web of cramped lanes. The night lamps that illuminated the harbor walk and main avenues were absent. Gloom spilled like an incoming tide, turning every doorway and alley into a pool of shadows. A figure detached itself from a wall, swinging a club. Apollo Crow made a great drama of drawing his sword, and the shape thought better of attacking him and slid away into the night.

  The harsh laughter of women drew him to a dilapidated gate framed by wreaths of strong-smelling juniper beneath candle lanterns, two on each side. Because it was set ajar he pushed on it, then realized it was stuck. Anyone going in would have to squeeze through, making them easy prey to an ambush.

  He cocked his head to one side, listening, and identified two heartbeats waiting beyond. Sheathing the sword, he stepped sideways, back to the wall, and found himself in a hazy courtyard redolent of fish being smoked. A pair of burly guards shined a light on him. They hadn’t even gotten out their swords.

  “You’re a looker and that’s for sure,” said one. He looked at his companion as if they were both about to burst out laughing. “But there isn’t no one hereabouts who can afford the likes of you, if it’s yourself that you’re selling. No fancy personages up to your scratch of the type you must be accustomed to.”

  He tossed them each a coin. “I’ve a fancy to try the brew, that’s all. I hear that late at night the tap flows with speeches and songs of a sort that interest me.”

  “At your own risk.” They waved him on.

  Beyond the reek of the smokehouses lay the more pleasant aroma of a stable and, beyond it, another courtyard overlooked by a portico in the Roman style, supported by old stone pillars. The building that rose up against the ancient columns was modern, built of wood. Lamps shone within to illuminate people seated in a spacious common room, their figures distorted by thick window glass. A pair of fiddles unfurled a dancing tune into the air, two voices weaving around each other as people stamped along to the rhythm.

  He made a cautious entrance to find himself in the cheerful clamor of a tavern common room, divided in the Kena’ani fashion with a rope fence down the middle so men and women sat separately. He took a step toward the right, corrected himself, and went to sit on the men’s side.

  A blond lad of Celtic fairness and stern Roman disposition brought him a mug of the house beer so golden it might have been brewed from sunlight. He struck up a conversation with a group of local men whose callused hands and sun-weathered faces proclaimed them dockhands.

  “Where do you hail from?” they asked him. “What ship did you come in on? Perhaps you came overland fr
om the east, for you have a bit of that eastern look about you.”

  He entertained them with fanciful tales, all of which were true but sounded false to their ears: that he was born in a place where every fresh tide altered the contours of the land; that a dragon ate his father; that his mother was a crow. All the while he surreptitiously studied the women crowded at their ease on the other side of the fence as at a cheerful roost. They were all females of the laboring class: washerwomen with lye-scarred hands; street sellers whose baskets of walnuts and onions sat at their feet; street sweepers dozing against their brooms. It had long been his observation that women labored from before sunrise to long after sunset. Sitting in a tavern late at night to hear the pronouncements of a radical who wielded words like the deadliest of swords might well be the most restful patch of their year.

  His gaze caught on a young woman with a lively face who seemed unable to sit still. She had brought a bit of mending to do as women were wont, there always being some tear or fray that needs repair as a bird must endlessly tend to its feathers. Sewing kept her hands busy. But it was her long, thick braid of hair, as glossy a black as his own, that made him twitch, as if he’d been pricked by a needle wielded by an invisible hand.

  “What do you think of our fine harbor, and the countryside hereabout?” they asked, for he had fallen inexplicably silent.

  “The provinces of Rome I call a fair and lovely land, for all that its skies and earth are so very different from my homeland,” he answered. “Yet this is the first time here in Roman territory I’ve seen women seated in a tavern as if they are accustomed to take their ease where men usually perch. Usually Roman women stay home.”

  “We’re a port town, not a staid Roman oppidum. Anyway, women as much as men flock to any meeting where there’s a chance the Honeyed Voice will speak. Men for her beauty, and women for her exhortations and her knife.”

  “The Honeyed Voice?” He sat up straighter. “What knife does she wield?”

  “The knife of persuasion.”

  The fiddles ran down a cadence and ceased. One man elbowed another as a table was cleared at the far end of the room.

  “Here she comes,” cried one of his interlocutors with an eager smile.

  The crowd made way for three figures: a short, curvaceous woman flanked on either side by a tall individual of the people known as the feathered ones. These two had narrow jaws, vicious claws, and the slightly bobbing walk of a people who seemed a blend of human, bird, and lizard. Although soberly dressed as respectable lawyers, the feathered ones betrayed their true nature in having the toothy grins of dangerous beasts. In a chamber so filled with the strong scent of humanity their dry, summer-burnt smell faded away almost to nothing, but he took in a deep breath to make his chest bigger and himself thus more threatening, lest they look his way and think they must attack. Then, recalling prudence, he hunched instead so neither would mark him with its roving gaze. Not that the feathered ones had any reason to recognize him for what he was. Like humans, they were creatures of this world. He was truly alone, the only murder of his kind he had ever found in all the long and lonely years living in exile.

  A shout arose from the company all around as the feathered ones helped the petite woman up to stand on the tabletop.

  Taken utterly by surprise by her exquisite features and magnificent poise, Apollo Crow jumped to his feet to get a better look. With delighted remonstrations his companions tugged him back down to the bench.

  “Did we not say she would astound you?” They laughed as the vision raised her arms with a gesture that invited the chattering audience to be quiet. “Listen, and you will hear.”

  “My comrades. My friends. My sisters.”

  The women in the room ululated, then hushed expectantly.

  “I am come into a hostile land bearing a message for those of you who seek freedom. The yoke of tyranny harnesses you, yet it can be thrown off here as it has been elsewhere in Europa.”

  She spoke in a compelling tone that without apparent effort filled the large room so no listener need strain to hear. With effortless eloquence she lectured on the means by which the rich and powerful arrogate wealth and favor for themselves and exploit those who toil under their lash. She described in convincing detail the creation of a governing Assembly in the city of Havery, presided over by the prince of that territory but subject to no master except itself. Half the room leaned forward as she detailed how the elections for representatives to this Assembly included women, while the other half exchanged troubled looks. Yet all listened, for she had the gift of speech that made every word bloom from her mouth into a flower and so that every sentence became a fragrant bouquet.

  “It is true that by ancient Roman law women are forbidden from holding magistracies, priesthoods, triumphs, badges of office, or spoils of war. But what is law if not words written by hands?” she went on, as if the men’s surly glances and hot murmurs impelled her to harden her phrases. “What the hand works can be made or unmade, as times change and philosophies take new paths. This is our new path, if we wish to walk it.”

  “Is she an actress?” Apollo Crow demanded of his new friends.

  The men hushed him with slaps on the arm, for however appalled they might be by her rhetoric they were also entranced by her person and her voice.

  “No actress! She has roused the hearts of people all across Europa. They say the emperor would imprison her if only he could catch her.”

  A dangerous woman, indeed, if you were emperor over all the Romans and feared the discontent that simmered beneath the surface of the normally silent plebeians. She was the fire coaxing the water to boil, and a fine fierce blaze she was, but whatever else he might think he had a job to do and a curse that bound him.

  When at length she finished her speech to thunderous applause, he winkled a gold chain from one of the many pockets secreted about his clothing where he kept the bits and bobs he collected on his travels. He caught the collar of a passing child young enough to be allowed to wander both sides of the fence.

  “There is a denarius in it for you if you take this gold chain to the Honeyed Voice and let her know what man sent it.”

  “What if I just steal the chain and run away and never come back?” the child asked, perplexed by such a naïve offer and also staring greedily at the glittering links.

  “Let me assure you I never forget a face.” Apollo Crow’s smile made the child shudder. “If you disoblige me, then I promise that one day you will find yourself set upon by crows and pecked to death, with no one the wiser.”

  The child pretended to laugh to save face but at the same time cast a frightened look to either side, seeking escape. Yet the possibility of earning a denarius was no trivial inducement. After less of a hesitation than Apollo Crow had expected, the child fished both chain and coin out of his hand and ducked under the rope.

  As he had known they would, the women pressing forward to speak to the Honeyed Voice allowed the child to slip through their ranks, for women always made room for hatchlings. She dipped to listen as the child spoke. Her shoulders tensed in surprise and she looked up to scan the chamber.

  Her gaze met his. The light was a little too dim and she a little too far away for him to read the subtleties of her reaction, but he could guess by her shifts in posture that she was displeased, and yet also tickled by an incurable swell of curiosity. Hard not to notice that she took in several bosom-heaving breaths. He lifted his mug to salute her. The men around him, captured by the gesture, applauded and laughed, praising him for his steely nerve. Everyone knew, they said, that the Honeyed Voice had no patience for men who tried to bribe her with gifts; she chose as she wished for interest, not for gain.

  She handed the gold chain to a woman who stood beside her and indicated that the other woman should return the rejected bauble to him. Then, with an empty hand pretending to hold a nonexistent cup, she saluted him back.

  He was abruptly head over tail in love with the challenge.

  Oddly e
nough, the woman entrusted with the necklace was the very same seamstress he had noticed before. He hadn’t noticed her leaving her bench and therefore studied her more closely as she approached. Her clothes were sturdy, not fancy, her boots worn by much walking.

  “Maester, I’ve been asked by the maestra to return this to you.”

  “No, no, I insist you keep it for your trouble.”

  “A generous offer.” She swung the chain between her fingers. “I’d best not, for that would put me in your debt in a way you might misinterpret.”

  “Not at all. It is a mere bauble, a token of appreciation for the fine speech by the Honeyed Voice that so entertained me. Since she rejects me so cruelly, my sole request is that you be so kind as to exchange a few words with me, a gentle balm to my aching heart. What is your name?”

  “Catherine, Maester. And yours?”

  “I am Apollo Crow, a traveler. Please sit.”

  The seamstress seated herself on an empty bench beside the rope and smiled. She was attractive, with the grace of a fighter about her long limbs and easy physical confidence. He might find a way to the other woman through this one: jealousy and competition sometimes fired women’s interest when a handsome man became involved.

  He called for a round of drinks and seated himself close enough to talk to the seamstress across the fence. He essayed teasing banter, but she wanted only to discuss the coming revolution.

  “Many speak against the radical proposal to allow women to vote. You must have a thought on this topic, Maester.”

  “What is your opinion, Maestra?” he parried.

  “Why, do you really wish to hear my opinion? I’m often told I talk too much. Many men say women are formed for bread and butter and not for philosophical debate. What do you think, Mr. Crow?”

  “I come from a people where everyone talks a great deal, women and men equal in their vociferousness. As for what I think, I am new to this town and thus prefer to discover what the locals may think. How else may I come to an understanding of how people get on here? Your compatriot speaks compellingly. I would wish nothing more than an evening of innocent conversation with such a persuasive voice. Perhaps in your company?”