"Scholar?" said Siren. "You're up."
Siren looked at Sword over the top of his glasses. And at her katana. "I gather from from your appellative that you have some skills in the use of your blade."
Sword nodded. She was pretty sure he'd just said, "You're good at your sword, right?"
He stood back a few paces. Faced her. Raised a hand and curled in the fingers. "Come at me," he said.
Sword looked at Devar. "Wait a moment," he said. Then, looking at Scholar, he said, "I will let her take one strike at a time. You should be able to handle that."
Scholar bristled a bit. "I assure you that my Gift affords sufficient immunity for me to sustain my offer."
Devar wouldn't be moved. "Maybe. But let's not test it."
Scholar sighed. "Very well." He looked back at Sword. "Please make your attack. As the rude would say," he said, looking pointedly at Teeth, "'take your best shot.'"
Sword smiled. She drew and flew, covering the short space between them in a single lunge, sending her katana at his right arm. She didn't want to hurt him, but she had no problem slicing up his outfit a bit.
The katana flashed. Sliced through…
… nothing.
She blinked. The flat of the katana lay against Scholar's sleeve, as though he had moved the infinitesimal amount necessary to make her miss her attack, but no more.
"Excellent," he said. "You have obvious aptitude. Nevertheless, I indicated that you should attack more vigorously. You did not. And this was the inevitable result."
He looked down. She followed his gaze, and saw a shaving razor against her inner thigh. "This blade has just severed your femoral artery," he said. "You will exsanguinate in a matter of seconds." He folded the razor and replaced it in a pocket inside his jacket. "Care to make a second attempt?"
This time Sword went for a strike that would blood her opponent. She didn't move out of her position with the katana by his arm, just reversed and cut so quickly she knew the motion would hardly be visible. The katana sliced through the meat of his side, scraping along his ribs.
Or that's what should have happened.
Instead, the flat of her sword ended up against his chest: again, as though he had somehow transported himself a quarter-inch, just out of danger. And this time his razor lay against her inner arm.
"Brachial artery," he said. "Again, fatal, I'm afraid."
She attacked again. Again. Waiting for a few moments between each attack. And each time Scholar had just moved out of range; each time he had put his own blade in place for a killing stroke.
"How are you doing this?" she asked. His razor was at her neck.
"I am Scholar," he said, as though that were answer enough. The knife disappeared. "You are very fast." He looked at Devar. "Can she fight? Not simple attacks, but prolongued, strategized offensives?"
"Yes," said Devar. "That's why I didn't want her just tearing into you. I honestly don't know which one would have come out on top, but I suspect you both would have ended up hurt."
"How –" Sword didn't repeat the question. It hung there between them.
Scholar took off his glasses. There was a white handkerchief in the pocket of his black suit coat, and he used it to polish the lenses. "When given enough data in any situation, I analyze and am able to react instantly to achieve a desired result. I saw the tightening of your muscles, the movement of your trunk, the direction of your sightlines, and a thousand other minutiae that would, quite frankly, bore us both to detail. My Gift allowed me to decipher these so as to determine what you would attempt, how to avoid the strikes, and how to counterstrike appropriately."
"But…." Sword turned all that he had said over in her mind. "If you can figure out what to do in any situation, why do you even bother fighting? Why not figure out how to beat enemies before they start?" She looked at Devar. "How come we don't use him to figure out a way to stop people without killing them?"
Scholar sighed. He readjusted his fedora as though nervous. "I will make this as simple as possible, though it pains me to do so – or to admit the bane of my Gift. I can determine outcomes and react accordingly, and I can do so faster than any other soul. But – and this is a critical caveat – I can only do so when in possession of hard and fast data. In a fight, the data are matters of physics – you start moving a certain way, and you must then end up in thus-and-such place. But in larger battles, there are so many different possibilities that I am never fully in possession of all the pertinent data, so can never come up with the right plan. Indeed," he said, and looked exceptionally embarrassed, "when I attempt to strategize on a macro scale I am about as wrong as Teeth. And that is saying something."
Teeth burped.
"This goes for interpersonal relationships, as well, interestingly enough," said Scholar. "Matters of the heart rely on so many shifting options, such a great cloud of data, that all becomes chaos. It is likely for this reason that Siren –"
"Yes, that's enough," said Siren hurriedly. "The point is that in a fight you know what the other guy is going to do basically before he does, and you can generally kill him."
"Though if what I infer of Sword is correct, she might eventually break through my Gift by virtue of a neverending barrage of hyperfast attacks. Correct?" Scholar said this last to Devar, who nodded. "Interesting." Scholar bowed to Sword. "This has been most educational, and for that I am in your debt."
Sword realized she was smiling.
Teeth: a spinning blade contained in a childlike mind, a guileless man who knew only the moment.
Siren: a call that could not be resisted, and a mother-figure to whom it was obviously important that peace be always kept.
Scholar: an ability to predict enemies' moves, to counter their strikes with deadly precision, and a man so wise he admitted he was sometimes a fool.
Somehow they seemed perfect. Just as Armor seemed perfect, as Devar seemed perfect.
This was the rest of her Pack. The rest of her team.
The rest of her family.
All of us Blessed Ones. All of us living only to serve. All of us together in a grand scheme that none other can fully understand.
So she smiled, and spent the rest of the day practicing with her new Pack, showing them her skills and being shown their skills in turn.
And, at the end of the day, Devar gave them a new assignment.
None of them murmured.
None of them worried.
They were Blessed Ones, and they would protect the Empire.
They were family, and they would protect each other.
10
The assignments didn't come every day. Indeed, most days she continued her studies and practices with her new friends. She learned the history of the Empire, as far as it was known. The books began their histories abruptly, a time a thousand years before when the first Emperor Eka ascended the mountain and conquered the place that was then called simply the Land Above the Clouds and that eventually became known as Ansborn.
She read of the development of the five States. Of the two hundred years of civil war when Fear and Strength banded together and attempted to break from the Empire. Of the Blessed Ones who were used by the Emperor to put down the rebellion and bring peace and unity to Ansborn once more.
There were holes in the histories. None mentioned where Eka had come from, really. Just that he came "up the mountain," but not where he had come up from. And she often wondered why, though Gifts were mentioned very early in the histories, Blessed Ones were first spoken of in conjunction with the ending of the civil wars. She searched for answers in the Imperial histories, the great scrolls that she could access using her black disc of office, but found nothing. She asked Devar and he shrugged and said he had no idea in a tone that indicated he didn't really care, either.
She learned how to pick a lock. How to survive on the side of a mountain, eating the wild sideroots that grew from crevices in the cliff faces, drinking melted snow for water, making shelters from materials that others would n
ot even look at as being of any use. She learned how to kill without her hands, and how to handle the gun and the sling and the bow – though she never really got the hang of any of them. It was as though her Gift would not permit her to kill without using her own power, as though it thought to do so was cheating.
A ridiculous thought, to ascribe sentience to her magic, but it kept springing into her mind at odd times.
She studied. She slept. She Dreamed.
And, occasionally, she served.
A man who was stealing from the hospitals kept by the priests and priestesses in the east was captured on the road at night. They killed him and left him in the slums in the largest city in the land of Fear with a sign that said, "Thus to thieves."
Another man who had begun a small band of men and women dedicated to the idea of overthrowing Ansborn was taken in a swift capture in the middle of the bazaar. Siren Sang a low Song, so quiet that only he could hear it, and he came straight to her and Sword slit his throat and left him to bleed in an alley.
A woman who was gouging the Imperial Army, using a vast network of contacts to drive prices up, and who was on the verge of single-handedly destabilizing Ansborn's economy was taken by Teeth. No one wanted to look at her body when he finished with her.
Often when a job was given only one or two of them would go: Devar would speak the assignment, and would say it wasn't necessary for all of them to expose the Blessed Ones to discovery or display. But just as often they did all go, even when he said it was an easy job. Because in the doing of the ugly work they took comfort not only in its necessity but in each other's closeness and support.
The only person who did not seem to care for the family they were growing into was Marionette. And that feeling was mutual. No one spoke ill of her – at least, not that Sword heard – but no one seemed overly sad when the little girl failed to go on missions with them, or went but did not participate.
One day Sword arrived early to the headquarters of the Blessed Ones – the place she had taken to simply calling the hall – as she usually did. The Emperor was waiting there. Malal looked tired and didn't notice when she came in. He was sitting on a chair, looking absently at the slate on the wall where they occasionally wrote plans or figures, but she could tell he wasn't really seeing it.
Sword stopped walking when she realized he was there. She wasn't really sure of the protocol when alone in a room with the ruler of the known world. She just stood a few rods' distance from him, waiting as quietly as she could, feeling awkward and wishing someone else would come along to rescue her.
No one else did, though.
Everyone's picking a wonderful time to be late.
Malal turned and looked at her. The move was so sudden it startled her. She bowed, hoping that was the right thing to do. Siren or Garden probably would have curtsied, but she wasn't a curtsying type; after a lifetime in the kennels and most of her life as a Dog, using such delicate motions just didn't seem right.
Malal smiled absently. His eyes were unfocused, as though he were looking at a point halfway between them – or at something so far beyond her that she could never hope to spy it herself.
"My Sword," he said. "I'm glad you're here." With obvious effort he drew his gaze fully to her. His eyes were tired, and she realized there were dark circles under them.
She felt a wave of pity for him. It was hard enough sometimes doing what she did, but Malal…. He was about her age, and he had to not only decide the killings, he was the brunt of the assassination attempts, it was his country at risk, it was his responsibility to run Ansborn. The Chancellor was there as regent, it was true, but every time Sword had seen them together the older man had made it clear he was phasing out of the rule of Ansborn as much as possible.
Did she think she could have ruled the country? Especially at her age?
Not likely.
"My Lord," she said. "Are you all right?"
"Please," he said. "We're not in court. Call me Malal."
He was playing absently with something around his neck. At first she thought it was the chain that held the black disc like hers. Then she saw it was something else: a silver chain with a simple ring around it.
He saw her looking at it. "My father's," he said. "The men who killed him took his body. I don't remember it, I was too young. But I remember the Chancellor giving me this ring. I remember him telling me my father and mother and sister were gone." He sighed. "I get very tired sometimes. The Chancellor is always there to help, of course, always makes me feel better with just his presence. But still…."
Sword felt even more uncomfortable. Part of her wanted to help him, to help this person who in some ways she felt was younger than she. But much of her just wanted to get away, to flee a situation for which she was utterly unprepared. Battling an enemy of Ansborn was preferable to witnessing the ruler of the known world about to cry.
"Can I… can I do anything for you?"
"No, Sword. I know you already do all you can." He smiled. Still tired, but there was a trace of fire in the smile. A bit of mettle that she thought might hold him in good stead as ruler. "You do more than enough, and more than the Chancellor or I could ever have hoped."
The door opened behind her. "How many times do I have to tell you that the wrappings are not edible," came Scholar's voice.
"They were tasty," said Teeth.
"You have the constitution of a goat."
"I like goatmeat, too."
"By the Gods, Teeth –"
"Boys," Siren said. She and Garden had come with the bickering men, and now she pointed. The group saw Malal and bowed.
Malal got that tired look on his face again. He gestured them to come in.
They did, Siren turning to close the great brass door behind them, securing it by affixing her disc to a seal that was the twin of the one on the outside of the door.
Sword saw Malal change as the others approached. The sadness disappeared from his eyes, replaced by a subtle strength. He sat up straight in his chair and pushed one leg forward in a pose that seemed almost practiced; a position that said, "I am in charge, I will be as formal or informal as I choose."
"Come forward, my Blessed Ones."
They all approached. Teeth kept bowing every few paces until Scholar elbowed him in the ribs and whispered, "Cease, moron," loud enough for the words to be heard through the entire hall.
Malal smiled at that. Just a small tilt of his lips, but it seemed to melt away the last bits of whatever sadness had gripped him.
"I have come for two reasons," he said when they had drawn even with Sword. "One is to congratulate you on jobs well done. Siren, you have been with Us for close to fifteen Turns, what think you of this team?"
Sword started. Fifteen Turns? That meant that Siren would have started this work almost as young as Sword had.
Siren smiled at the group. "These are the finest people that I've ever worked with," she said proudly.
"Just so."
The door opened again. And this time Devar and Armor stepped through.
Marionette was with them.
Sword felt worry begin to gnaw at her. Marionette had only been in the hall a few times. And whenever there she had spoken little, just standing in the corner and observing what practice occurred, what plans were made. She invariably left before the others.
Siren had made a few attempts to speak to her, but the little girl just stared that far-off stare and that was the end of that. Scholar seemed to sense her strangeness and avoided her from the first, and when Teeth discovered that she carried no food he lost interest in her as well.
Armor closed the door behind them. Then he, Devar, and Marionette took up a position close to the rest of the group.
"Ah," said Malal. "My second reason for being here."
He looked at the assembled Blessed Ones. "Tonight will be a bit different for you." He switched his gaze to Armor.
The soldier harrumphed, somehow managing to draw himself a few inches taller when Malal spo
ke to him. "Yes, Lord." He looked at the group. "Tonight you will face a difficult challenge. Not because of your primary foe, but because of the secondary challenges."
Sword didn't know what that meant, but a chill swept through her. She looked at Devar, but the young man was staring intently at Armor, waiting for him to speak further.
Armor held out a sheaf of linen pages. Each had the picture of a woman. They weren't just ordinary pictures, either. They had been enchanted by an Eye, so the picture seemed to stand above the page, giving the viewers a clear picture of the person from all angles. Pictures like this were extraordinarily expensive and rare. Eyes could only use their Gift to show things they themselves had seen in detail, so to get a picture like this meant that the Emperor had either had a spy very close to the target –
(not a person not a woman just a target just an enemy of the Empire an enemy of peace)
– or the woman was a public figure of some kind. Sword had studied most of the nobles of Ansborn, and she didn't know this woman, so she suspected the former. The Emperor had investigated her closely, and at risk to the life and limb of at least one Eye, one good man.
"Who is she?" asked Siren.
"Her name is Eva," said Armor. "And our spies have confirmed that she is funneling vast amounts of wealth to a group that poses a serious threat to the Empire." He looked at Devar, an expression on his face like he wanted to say more. Devar shook his head.
"What is the problem?" said Garden. "Why is this one so different?"
"She guarded by an army or something?" said Teeth. Spines rippled up from his cheeks for a moment, as though he were already preparing himself for the coming battle. Then they disappeared and he pulled nearly an entire loaf of bread from a pocket inside the cloak he had draped over his bony frame. He devoured half of it in three enormous bites.
"Yes, in point of fact she is guarded by an army," said Armor. "But you can handle an army. That is not the nature of our concern."
"What is?" said Sword quietly. Something was curling inside her. The feeling she had gotten before every fight in the arena, the feeling that this moment was going to be a matter of life or death, a moment that could change everything for her, forever.
The Sword Chronicles: Child of the Empire Page 11
