“I have a visitor. Can you show him up for me, please.”
“Certainly.” Rose walked over to him, hips swaying, gave him a peck on the cheek, and left.
Keedar waited, listening for the footsteps on the stairs, and then as they approached the door. Seeing his father outside had brought a flood of emotions and longing. He was glad to see Delisar alive to say the least. Knuckles rapped on the wood.
“Enter.”
Father strode in. He had a satchel slung over one shoulder, and he was wearing a fine cotton shirt and trousers in his favorite blue. Delisar stopped, forehead furrowed as he eyed Keedar’s bare chest. Then he glanced over to the unmade bed and its covers and back toward the door. His eyebrows climbed his forehead before he smiled. “I see you have made yourself quite comfortable.”
Keedar’s face flushed. For the first time, he realized the room stank of sex. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again.
“No explanation needed,” Delisar said. “I would have done the same myself. In truth, I was beginning to worry. Since the time I brought you to the Quarter, I have yet to see you pursue anything but your training.”
More heat rose in Keedar’s face. To say his first encounter with a woman had been embarrassing as well as enlightening was an understatement.
“Come, give your old man a hug.” Delisar laughed, eyes twinkling.
Still speechless, Keedar managed a smile as he strode over to his father, and they embraced. The moment seemed to last forever, the scent of sweat and horse rising from Delisar. They released each other, and Father gave him a nod of approval.
“You look well,” Father said. “How are you feeling?”
Keedar raised his arm and turned a bit to expose his side. “As good as new.”
Father inspected his ribs and chest. “You’ll wear a few scars for the rest of your life.” He slid his fingers across the rough patches and the furrows along Keedar’s side. “But then there’s something about scars that makes women want you even more.”
“And here I was thinking she liked me for me.”
Father chuckled.
“How are things at home?” Keedar strode over to the bed, picked up his shirt, and began to pull it on.
“Fine for now. Sorinya got his due. A few more died than I would have liked, but sometimes that’s the price you pay.”
“The Snakes had it coming anyway. They were becoming too bold and careless.”
“Yes but they’re still our own.” Delisar sat in the chair Keedar had vacated. “At least this should sate the count’s appetite for a bit.”
“Who fell to Sorinya?”
“Several you don’t know, but he also got the ones that followed the counts’ sons.”
“All four?”
“No, three. Monroe, Handal, and Mileen.”
“And Killian?”
“He went into hiding. No one’s seen him since.”
Although they were from the Smear, Keedar felt little for those particular Snakes. They were the ones who had killed Raishaar so long ago. He regretted that Sorinya hadn’t gotten his hands on Killian. As the leader of that little group he was the worst of the lot.
Keedar got the distinct impression that his father was waiting to tell him more. “What is it?”
“I see you’re enjoying it here. I haven’t seen you look this content since Raishaar died.”
“And you dislike being the one to tell me it’s time to come home.” Keedar expected as much. He would be lying to himself if he said he had missed the Smear a great deal lately. Rose’s affections made it easy to forget the place. But home was where he belonged. For now. The time spent away from the Smear had got him thinking of the world outside Kasandar again.
“Well, yes,” Delisar said. “Except you won’t be going home just yet.”
Keedar’s eyebrows shot up his forehead.
“Word is that Winslow took issue with what happened to you. It’s an opening for us. A good time for you to work yourself into his trust.”
“How do I accomplish that?” There was no way he was venturing into the Ten Hills for a chance meeting with the noble. Not if he wanted to keep his skin intact.
“I’ll see to it that an opportunity presents itself.”
“Here in the Quarter?”
“No. I’ll have someone get you into Walker’s Row,” Father said. “The boys have a taste for the ladies there. Keep an eye on them and make sure they stay out of trouble. With what happened to Count Cardiff, someone will think Mandrigal Hill is at its weakest, ready for the taking. I would expect one of the other Hills to see this as a perfect time to be rid of Ainslen’s heir while the count is still recovering.”
The idea of heading into the more affluent neighborhoods was less than appealing. The thought of taking on some assassin? Even more so. “I’ll stick out like rotten apples on feast day. And what if I can’t stop the one they send.”
Delisar’s lips curled into a devious smile. “This time, I’ll ensure help is nearby. As for your appearance, you’re going to have the proper attire to fit in. I have been grooming you for years. Your time here has proven you can play the part. Your speech will tell them you’re educated, and your color will say you might be some noble’s bastard. All you need to do afterward is keep an eye on your two friends. I have a sense they will need you.”
Although skeptical, Keedar nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
“I’m certain you will.” Delisar strode over and ruffled his hair. “You always do, and it makes me proud to call you son.”
The gesture eased Keedar’s fears somewhat. He smiled, happy to know that he pleased his father. Yet, deep in his gut another sense told him things might not go as well as Delisar was hoping.
“First, before you leave,” Delisar said, “we must discuss how you will approach Winslow.”
Keedar sat back and listened.
Shattered Dreams
“It’s nothing like I expected,” Winslow said as he thought of his training sessions the past few weeks. Tears almost welled up in his eyes, but he squeezed them back with grim determination. He could not bear to look at the citadel behind him. Instead he stared past the battlements toward the Whetstone Mountains, a white and green mantle upon their shoulders, their peaks shrouded by grey.
“Blades … glorified murderers. I tried to warn you.” Gaston stood beside him, cloak flapping in the wind.
When he needed time to think, Winslow liked to venture up onto Kasandar’s northern battlements, breathing in the fresh, cool, crisp air. The view beyond was a layer of grassy plains, copses, and undulating hills, all the way to the Whetstone’s rocky feet and snowy crags of their highest point. A contrast of soft and hard, fertile and barren, life’s warmth and death’s freezing grip. Reflections of Kasandar itself.
“No, they can’t be like that … all the stories …”
“Are just that, Wins. Stories. Songs, tales spun by those who are blinded by what good the Blades might do, or by those who wish to hide what they really are.”
Disheartened, Winslow shook his head in denial. “They are as much a reason we rule today as any other. The sacrifices they made for us, the blood they shed, the bravery they displayed … none of that is a lie.”
“With it all comes death.”
“But—”
“You’ve always chosen to ignore me whenever I say the Blades are nothing more than dregs, despite whatever education we give them.” Gaston turned and gestured toward Kasandar. “If you ever paid attention to the dealings of the houses like I have, you would know this, but you pretend the Day of Accolades doesn’t exist until it suits you. You act as if Far’an Senjin doesn’t surround you. Like when you wanted to take the trial. Despite what you might wish, you aren’t invisible, Wins. People see you for who you are: a count’s son. And not any count, one of the most prominent in Kasinia.”
Numb, Winslow took in the Ten Hills and the Golden Spires a few miles from where he stood. So distinctly defined were the
richer neighborhoods from his vantage that he wondered how he’d never considered it before. They were places of wide, brightly lit avenues, small castles, great manses, brick and polished stone, thriving gardens, and air that one might savor when you inhaled
In contrast, the poorer districts were like creepy threads of rot at the edges of their neighbors, each one fouler than the next. Crumbling buildings, broken façades, and leaking roofs populated them. The homes crowded together, hugging each other as if seeking shelter from the denizens that walked the cracked cobbles. Garbage choked their streets. And if he was there at this moment, he would retch on the filth of decay and clogged sewers.
With his dreams of glory, and what being a Blade meant now shattered, much of Kasandar’s beauty felt like a lie to him. One big illusion.
“It’s better if you would forget becoming a Blade and concentrate on learning the intricacies of politics instead. Succession Day may be closer than any of us think,” Gaston said.
“I care nothing for their plots.” Winslow returned his attention to the north. “Sometimes I feel as if Kasandar itself is holding me back. There’s a bigger world out there than what we have.”
“Filled with heretics, thieves, the uncivilized, monsters, and madmen,” Gaston said. “You can have it. I rather my life here. You should too. There’s nothing out there for you.”
“And what’s here for me? Years stuck meddling in politics, wondering which house might be plotting to kill me? A life spent shackled to Elaina?” Count Cardiff had pressured him earlier concerning when he would ask for her hand. He feared his father’s reaction if he told him he had no intentions on marrying the girl. Particularly since Lestin had reported his inability to complete several requirements during his training. The count had actually snickered when he presented Lestin’s review. The expression on his face said he knew Winslow would fail long before the arrival of the actual test to become a Blade. Where will that leave me then?
“Elaina’s a prize that many wish they had. Think of our lives, the privileges, the riches, the women,” Gaston said. “You enjoy them as much as I. Always have. Sometimes I fear you won’t realize all you have until it’s been snatched from you.”
“My dreams and yours have always been different.”
“Not so much different as mine being more sensible, more attainable.”
“So the bloodshed on Succession Day, all the lives lost and the chaos that follows, would be worth it to you?”
“If it meant my father or yours ruled? Yes.”
Try as he might, Winslow could not picture Count Cardiff on the throne. A man might as well wish to touch a star. “And you scoff at my dream to become a Blade? The day the houses rise against King Jemare is the day every count meets the Creator.”
Gaston shrugged. “And we would rise to replace them. It’s not as if they didn’t kill to achieve their positions.”
Winslow snorted.
“If you can have your fantasies, I can have mine. Anyway, enough of this brooding. You’ve almost ruined my mood for the night. Time for you to make it up with drinks and women. Jarina’s Hands?”
“If that’s what you wish.”
Count Cardiff had advised him to use caution and not venture to their usual haunts, warning of the possibility assassins might be dispatched from the other houses. It was his father’s way of controlling him yet again. Tonight, he would do the opposite, if only to feel as if he had some freedom.
Stranger in Blue
Keedar was flashing the most charming grin possible. Well, maybe it bordered on insolent. But insolence was a nobleman’s middle name, especially here in Walker’s Row. With his hair washed, it fell past his shoulders like layers of honey-colored satin. No dirt hid beneath his nails. He hadn’t felt this clean in years. When he thought on it further, he’d never been this clean. Inhaling, he savored his scent. He would be an orchid’s envy.
Dressed in silk pants, a homespun, white linen tunic hanging to his knees with dark crimson satin along the edges, and derin leather spaulders dyed to match, he strode along the flagstoned streets. Damn, he looked good. If he doubted his appearance, and he most certainly did not, the way the women eyed, ogled, and giggled at him would have swept them away. He smiled to himself as they whispered to each other.
Well known for its revelry, the Row provided a wealth of establishments where one could cater to almost any vice. The women here were renowned for being exotic, spanning from bronze-skinned, tattooed Farish Islanders; milky complexioned Heleganese from the far north; big-boned Thelusians, skin obsidian and shiny; slant-eyed Marishwomen with their stilted accents; to voluptuous Kheridisians from the western forests, noses refined, skin like silk. He even spotted a few Darshanese among them, the dark-haired, hook-nosed people standing out in beauty even here. Few among the whores were Kasinian, and of those, most bore the tanned or yellowish pallor that marked them as middle class folk. Each attempted to outdo the other in their style of dress, some to the point where they strutted around with only a lace cloak to cover their bodies. He shivered with the thought of wearing so little.
Keedar couldn’t help but stare. Nobles, accustomed as they were to the activities, paid the women no heed, laughing amongst themselves while heading to one tavern or another from which music tinkled or blared. A nightwatch patrol passed nearby, shields held in front, spears tapping the cobbles as they marched to the cadence of their boots.
Although Father had reassured him he wouldn’t be questioned by the watch or regarded in any fashion other than being of noble birth himself, Keedar still found the reality surprising and exhilarating, if a bit strange. He was used to the odd expressions in the Smear when he mingled on the streets. Once in a while, a person might make space for him. That was until closer inspection. When they noticed his cheap and at times patchwork clothes, they dismissed him. Along Walker’s Row, no one paid him any undue attention. In their eyes, he belonged.
The pudgy merchant who he’d rode with into this part of Kasandar was long gone, his coach trundling away as he headed off to sell wine and cloth. The same man, Denton, had turned out to be one of Father’s agents. Another eye opener. Denton informed Keedar where he might find Gaston and Winslow.
Jarina’s Hands, the sign out front declared, named after the Goddess of Revelry, Keeper of the Fourth Heaven. He stood before the tavern, the mélange of odors from within setting his stomach growling. The air in this district was such a far cry from the Smear, it smelled as if they were in two different cities. The perfumes wafting from the various streetwalkers were a constant reminder of the disparity.
Keedar expelled a breath. It was one thing to stroll along streets shrouded by darkness, quickly bypassing the illumination that torchlight and lamps provided, where he didn’t have to speak to anyone, but completely another to enter a tavern and not stand out. Worse would be if his mannerisms and language gave him away. Confidence is your ally, he reminded himself.
Acknowledging he would accomplish little outside, he straightened his back, strode to the door, and pushed it inward. What struck him as strange at first was noticing the souls from most within the room. They intermingled with each other, reacting according to that person’s purpose. He could tell where a woman didn’t appreciate being touched and the subsequent response of the man’s apology. Father had told him this might happen, the ability to sense other nimbuses beyond those of melders, but the abruptness of its appearance left him taken aback. Shrugging the thought off for the moment, he surveyed the serving hall.
Nobles crowded around tables, eating or chatting. Those in richer silks and satins had booths located to one side with softer lighting. A harp strummed in time to the low croon of a female’s voice that sang a tale of Emperor Ilsindin, the last Dracodarian monarch, as he tried to purge all Mareshna of the races he considered inferior or tainted. The conflicts had lasted several millennia, but people referred to it as the Thousand Year War. It painted Cortens Kasandar as the first great Mareshnan ruler after he defeated Ilsindin
.
“Can I be of service, m’lordship? M’lordship?”
Keedar caught himself. He folded his hands, drew his brows together as if the serving girl had annoyed him while he was deep in thought, and then said, “Yes. I’d like a table, preferably in that corner.” He pointed to a section a bit dimmer than the remainder of the inn’s hall.
The slant-eyed girl, most likely a Marishwoman, bowed. “As you wish, m’lordship” Her accent confirmed Keedar’s assumption.
“Bring me a flagon of your finest and your best dish,” he added as he strode toward his chosen table, not waiting for her to lead the way.
“Yes, m’lordship.”
When he reached his chair, he waited for her to pull it out, and he sat. He waved her away. Leaning back to appear relaxed, he let the shadow cast by the curtain behind him fall across his face. Chatter and laughter rolled across the room in varying amounts. The more raucous men slapped serving girls on the ass or pulled them close for a feel. A few streetwalkers swayed among the crowd, offering their services from table to table. One man had his hand on a Thelusian’s tit, his pale flesh standing out on her inky skin. Keedar found Winslow and Gaston toward the back in a private booth.
Surrounded by four women, he thought the young men would be all smiles. Gaston’s pleasure was evident. Expression glum, Winslow stared into a glass and its red contents. One of the women, a Farish Islander with bronze skin and half dozen piercings in her nipples, snaked a hand out to caress Winslow at the elbow of his black satin shirt. He stared at her; she bowed, and eased away.
“Your drink, m’lordship.” The serving girl placed the flagon and a glass on the table. “The food will be along shortly.” She gave a quick dip of her head and left.
The night dragged with Keedar keeping an eye on the two young men. On more than one occasion, Gaston had his pants at his hips with a woman’s head in his lap. Winslow still appeared disinterested, no matter how many times his friend tried to cheer him up or sent a girl his way. Whatever was troubling him, Winslow had no interest in revelry.
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