The Sword Chronicles: Child of the Empire

by Collings, Michaelbrent

Smoke was born.

  And through everything that came after, through all the missions, all the deceits, he had never again had to face death. Always he had his Gift to protect him. Always he knew he could hide, he could run without being seen.

  It had never again been like it was in the Netherworlds, in the mines. Never again directly facing men who hungered for his blood, who knew his face.

  Not like now.

  The master sergeant was still screaming, still shouting, "He's here! I found the spy!"

  Spy? Gods' blood, I've been found.

  The thought flitted in and out of Smoke's mind in an instant, borne on wings of panic.

  Stop. Think. Act.

  But he wasn't sure what to do. For a split-second he froze. He had relied on his Gift so long and so often that, now that someone had pierced it, he was lost.

  Then the moment passed. If he couldn't be Smoke, then he would just have to be Nkrumo for a moment.

  A knife appeared in his hand, and buried itself in a spot just to the left of and below the master sergeant's ribcage. He angled it up, and the soldier's voice died as his lung was punctured and deflated instantly. A killing blow, yes, but more importantly: one that would silence him.

  Smoke caught the man as he tumbled forward. The nearest hard drinkers and harder revelers had scrambled to get away when the officer started screaming, and now one of the tables – about three rods long, with a single bench on each side – was empty. Smoke rolled the dying man under the table, and when he straightened he had taken the place of the man. Complete with tattoos of a master sergeant, grizzled whiskers, and a stare that brooked no foolishness.

  Smoke spun on his heel and headed for the nearest exit: the alley. He saw the lieutenant colonel there, sword drawn and scanning the crowd.

  How is that possible? With that many drinks he must –

  A Patch.

  Obvious. There must have been a healer nearby, watching the lieutenant colonel, healing his body of the poisons that caused drunkenness.

  But that meant… it was all an act. Everything.

  This was just one big trap.

  They know.

  The lieutenant colonel was staring at him now, which meant that Smoke had no choice but to continue walking toward the man. To turn aside would have been suspicious, and though his Gift afforded him a measure of anonymity, suspicious behavior was suspicious behavior no matter who did it.

  And how much do they know? Do they know what I can do?

  He approached the officer, who nodded curtly. "Anything?" he said.

  Smoke put a knuckle to his head. "No –"

  "Don't salute, you idiot. You're supposed to be in disguise." Then the lieutenant colonel gestured to someone in the crowd. A woman approached. She was dressed like someone from the University: black suit and tie, white shirt buttoned to a high collar at the neck.

  The woman nodded at the lieutenant colonel. "Seen him?" he asked.

  "Not yet," answered the woman.

  The officer nodded at Smoke. "What about him?"

  Smoke barely had an instant. Just a single fraction of a second in which he guessed what was about to happen.

  She's a Reader.

  Then the woman's eyes took on a dazzling hue. He felt himself falling into them, felt suddenly exposed and his soul laid bare.

  "This is him," she said in a whisper. She fell back a step. "And he's dangerous."

  "Aye," said Smoke. "That I am."

  But before he could do more, soldiers were streaming toward him. Whether they had heard what the Reader said, or the lieutenant colonel signaled them somehow, Smoke didn't know. It didn't matter, either. What mattered was that two dozen soldiers had materialized out of the revelers and were now rushing toward him.

  And that meant his Gift was nullified. Even without the Reader staring at him, changing his appearance wouldn't gain him anything if others were watching the shift.

  He couldn't hide.

  For a moment he contemplated trying to use his Second Gift.

  But that… that was a point of no return.

  No. Not now. Not ever.

  He reached into his vest. Even though the master sergeant had been dressed in tunic and pants, Smoke – the real Smoke, the substance below the illusion – was wearing a leather vest with pockets that held a number of useful items. He didn't know exactly how it worked – his Gift was, in some ways, a mystery even to him – but though his clothing seemed to disappear, it was all still there. Observers would see him interacting with the outfit of the master sergeant – reaching into a pocket, perhaps, or digging into the man's tunic. But Smoke was really grabbing for –

  A sword touched the back of his neck. Smoke froze.

  The sword traced its way around his throat, coming to rest on his Adam's apple as the man holding the weapon – a rapier – walked around to face him.

  It was a young man. Dark hair, a square jaw, and some of the bluest eyes Smoke had ever seen. He was tall, too, but even if he had been short the young man would have been imposing.

  This is someone who has power.

  The young man wore the black disc of a Blessed One.

  "Take your hand out of your pocket, Master Sergeant… or whoever you are," said the young man.

  "And who are you?" said Smoke. He didn't move, didn't take his hand out of his pocket.

  The man in front of him disappeared, and then a blinding pain overtook Smoke. A dagger had somehow buried itself several inches in his shoulder. Not as though the other man had stabbed him, but as though the weapon had simply appeared in his shoulder.

  He had to concentrate on keeping the hand that was still inside his vest from spasming open.

  That wouldn't do. Not at all.

  "You're in no position to ask questions," said the swordsman. He grabbed the dagger and twisted it. Smoke cried out. "I'm interested in you. In who you are, in who you work for, in what you're doing. But not too interested. If you resist me you'll find a sword very suddenly in your throat and our conversation will be over. Now…." He twisted the dagger again. "Take your hand out of your pocket."

  "Okay," said Smoke. "But remember that you asked for it."

  He took out his hand, and finally let it fall open.

  The man holding the sword saw what was inside Smoke's hand. Saw it fall.

  "Down!" he screamed. He dove to the side.

  The small glass ball wasn't big at all – barely the size of a marble. But it was fragile. It bounced off the floor. Bounced again.

  On the third bounce it broke.

  Smoke was ready for it, and he had already jumped – dagger buried in his shoulder – when the swordsman was still trying to figure out what was falling.

  It was a Shell.

  The things were rarer than feathers on a fur-cat, and even in this extreme Smoke already felt the loss of the weapon. Getting a Shock to put electricity in a glo-globe was common enough, but getting one to put an entire lightning bolt inside a marble, while a Push simultaneously enchanted the electricity itself so that it wouldn't shatter the glass, while at the same time reinforcing the glass to withstand the enormous pressures churning inside it – that almost never happened. Most of the Pushes and Shocks who tried it ended up fried themselves.

  But when it worked out, the Shells were a powerful – and nearly priceless – weapon.

  Smoke had never seen one of the things go off, but he had heard what they did. So before it hit the floor for its first bounce, he had already leaped behind his target:

  The Reader.

  When the Shell exploded, Smoke had the Reader by the shoulders. Even so, even sheltered from the main blast by the thick armor of a human body, he felt the hair singe off his head, felt his eyebrows burning.

  The Reader had no chance. She didn't even make a sound as the entire front of her body charred away. She just went from a struggling woman to a limp corpse in the space of an instant.

  Smoke grinned through his pain as the explosion set fire to most of the tables in
The Dancing Darks. The entire place dissolved into confusion, and as the lightning burst crackled and died he stood – already taking a new shape as the fat prostitute from the House of Sixes he had seen earlier. It was a bit of a risk since he was doubling someone in the vicinity, but it was all that came to mind. Besides, the reason he had hid behind – and so killed – the Reader was so that no one would be able to pierce his disguise again.

  "Where is he? WHERE IS HE?"

  Smoke turned in shock. The swordsman – the young man who had nearly killed him – was screaming in rage, standing in a circle of charred flooring and a ceiling that was crumbling above him.

  How did he survive the blast?

  Smoke had seen the Shell drop. Had seen it bouncing toward the young man. There was no way he could have escaped.

  His Gift? Did that save him?

  It didn't matter. Not now.

  What mattered was survival.

  And Smoke was good at survival.

  He threaded his way between panicked patrons, picking his way carefully so as not to jostle the dagger – no good being in disguise if he started screaming.

  The swordsman kept shrieking. "Find him! Find him! FIND HIM!"

  Smoke made his way out. Found his way to an alley where he yanked the dagger free at last, then disguised himself as an urchin – the kind of child no one spared a second glance for, especially in this neighborhood – and fled.

  He heard the swordsman's screams all the way.

  Remembered the look on the man's face as the Shell fell.

  And felt fear.

  18

  The moment stretched out forever. Sword wasn't sure whether it was shock, fear… or a strange happiness.

  Armor was here.

  The closest thing to a father she could ever remember.

  "What are you doing here?" she said.

  "The same thing you are, I suspect," he said. He looked surprised, as well. But under the surprise was a layer of something else. Sadness, perhaps. Regret. But she didn't think it was regret the way most people experienced it: a grief for something past. No, this was a heartache for something yet to come.

  He's going to try to take me back.

  Or kill me.

  Armor hadn't moved yet. He seemed to be waiting. Perhaps hoping that she would simply return to his side, and all would be as it once had been.

  But that was impossible. Sword knew it, and knew that he knew it.

  "Why?" he said.

  The word carried so much meaning it almost staggered her. Why leave? Why betray the Empire? Why turn your back on us?

  Why turn your back on me?

  "Armor," she said, "things aren't what you think they are. The Empire… it's rotten. The work we've done is… is…." She searched for a word that would do more than convey her feelings. For something that would prove she was right. That would bring her friend over to her side. "It's wrong," she finally managed. The word wasn't a good one. Weak, vague. It meant nothing, but it was the only thing she could think to say.

  Still, Armor nodded as though it meant something to him. "Who are these people?" he asked.

  "My friends."

  "Please tell them to put away their weapons."

  Sword looked back. Saw that Rune had a dagger in each hand, and Brother Scieran held whip and sickle firmly, ready to attack.

  Sword held up a hand. "Don't," she said to them. Then looked at her friend. "Armor, you can't do this. You can't fight for the Emperor anymore."

  "I can," he said. He held up the scroll he had been looking at. "And I will."

  Sword stared at the scroll. "What's that?" She was on edge. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. Any of it. Not just finding the scroll, but Armor… she realized that in the back of her mind she had harbored a secret wish that she would one day find him. That she would convince him to come with her, to be her friend and –

  (father)

  – teacher again.

  "It's what you were looking for," he said. "At least, I assume so. There's little other reason I can contemplate for you being here. It's your record. The listing of your auction date."

  She reached for it. He pulled it back.

  "I can't let you take this," said Armor. "It's property of the Empire and belongs in the Imperial Archives. Besides," he said, the sadness in his face intensifying, "there is nothing in this scroll that will bring you any happiness."

  "Armor," she said. "Please –"

  "Why are we talking?" Rune broke in. "Let's kill this guy and get out of here."

  "No!" Sword turned on the girl. "Don't!"

  "You can't kill me, girl. Not even with a Shell or an auto-gun, and certainly not with that sewing needle you have." Armor sounded tired. He looked back at Sword. "If you come quietly, I'll let your friends live."

  "Let us live?" snarled Rune. "The way I count, it's three against one."

  And then someone came around the far corner of the stacks.

  "I'm extremely reticent to admit my failure to locate any pertinent files on our friend," said Scholar, "but it seems… I…." His voice fell away to nothing, swallowed by the vast piles of paper that represented lives bought and sold, humans treated as property.

  Teeth was right behind him. "Lord Smarts here couldn't find nothin'," he said, before he, too, saw Sword and the others. "Sword!" he shouted, unabashed glee on his face. Then it fled, a stern look taking its place. "We're supposed to kill ya, ya know."

  Siren stood behind them. She said nothing, but the second she saw Sword her eyes shimmered.

  "Four to three, now," said Armor softly. To Sword he said, "If you come with us I can guarantee you will all see trial. And I will personally make sure that none of your friends is questioned by an Inquisitor."

  "And me?" she said softly.

  Armor spread his hands. "You've committed high treason, Sword." He sighed. "I'll do what I can."

  "Your deal is no deal at all," said Brother Scieran.

  "It's the best you'll get."

  Rune snorted. "I say we take 'em."

  Sword spoke with only the barest thought: "Not here, Deathcast. Not with all these people."

  Rune looked surprised, but covered quickly. "Who cares about a bunch of Empire Archivists?" she said. Smart enough to play along. "I say I use my Gift to knock the whole building down."

  Sword turned back to Armor. "I know your Gift makes you nearly invincible. But I also know that if she," she said, indicating Rune, "attacks you, the fallout will kill everyone else. And you don't want that on your conscience."

  "I'll call down the thunder, kiddo," said Rune. "Make the earth swallow you all."

  Don't overdo it, Rune, Sword thought. Then, out loud: "I know you won't risk everyone in this place." She added, pleading, "Please, Armor, don't do this. You're fighting for the wrong cause."

  Armor shook his head. "I have sworn an oath," he said, in a tone of voice that seemed to indicate that was all there was to say, and the matter was settled forever.

  He took a small step toward her.

  "Don't," said Rune. "Not unless you want everyone killed. And I do mean everyone."

  "Please," added Brother Scieran. "You don't want the death of so many on your hands."

  "No," agreed Armor. And for a moment Sword's hopes rose. Perhaps he wasn't going to come with her, but maybe – just maybe – he would let them go. "I don't want all those deaths on my hands."

  Then he put down the scroll he held – the scroll that told where Sword had come from, who she really was – and squinted at them. "But I don't believe she's capable of that. What I do believe is that you are bluffing." He looked at the other three Blessed Ones. "Take them," he said.

  19

  Sword heard the words, and in the next moments things happened very, very fast.

  Armor might not have believed that Rune was capable of destroying the entire building, but he also wasn't taking any chances. He clapped his hands, and as always his skin bulged and took on the metallic tint of his Gift.


  He lunged at Rune.

  Sword found her katana and wakizashi in her hands, and slashed at Armor before he took two steps.

  Her katana shattered on his skin. Which she had been prepared for, but at least the impact knocked his arm aside. Just a few inches, but it slowed him a bit and gave Rune the instant she needed. She shimmered. Reappeared and dodged perfectly. Skipped to the side.

  And now she was running straight at the three Blessed Ones at the end of the stacks.

  Siren drew a breath. And Sword knew if the woman Sang her Song, the fight would be over.

  "Stop her! Don't let her speak!" she shrieked.

  Brother Scieran reacted without pause. His whip, already in his hand, snapped out and twined around Siren's throat. She gagged as he yanked her forward, toppling her. Another yank and the whip drew so tight around her throat that she couldn't even gag – every bit of air choked out of her lungs.

  "Siren!" screamed Scholar. He ran for her.

  Armor was facing Sword. "You have no chance," he said. "Not against me. Even if you were armed, you could not harm me. You are at a fatal disadvantage, Sword. Please don't make me kill you."

  He was right. Sword had a katana that ended six inches above the hilt, and a wakizashi that would surely meet the same fate against Armor's skin.

  She felt desperation clawing at her. "Armor, don't," she pleaded. "Don't do this!" She raised what was left of her weapons. She would not back down. She couldn't. Not now, not ever.

  "I gave my oath," he said. And charged her.

  She swung. The motion was perfect. A lightning-fast slash aimed not at Armor but at the scrolls near his face. They took flight like startled birds. He bellowed and slapped them to the ground.

  She had bought herself only a second or two.

  She glanced to the side. Brother Scieran was yanking Siren back and forth, trying to keep her tangled in the whip. Scholar had run to her side. Only steps ahead of Teeth. Was about to cut her loose.

  And then Rune came upon the Academic.

  Scholar turned to see the girl barreling down on him, her twin knives flashing. He grinned. Watched. His Gift asserting itself as he measured all her movements. She threw herself forward.