Lady of Blades

by Saje Williams

  This brought her full circle to another thought she didn't like. How did she know she could trust the Stewards? Well, the fact that her would-be abductors didn't like the idea of exposing themselves to telepathic inquiry gave her just that much more reason to consider the Stewards trustworthy.

  She almost laughed. And they were worried that I might want to take Hecate's place? How little they know me. I hate this kind of shit. Second guessing myself constantly isn't something I particular enjoy, and this sort of political bullshit has me doing it every time the wind changes direction.

  She glanced up in time to see Sam and Billy emerge from the gathering crowd. The cowboy took one look at the prisoners and laughed aloud. “I see you've captured some dangerous criminals here,” he snickered.

  She scowled. “What do you mean?"

  "These are our resident low-life thugs. What happened?"

  "They busted in on us and tried to take us prisoner,” she replied.

  This prompted the raising of Sam's eyebrows, but he remained silent.

  "What?” she asked, exasperated.

  "That doesn't make any sense,” Billy said. “No one with any brains at all would hire these no-account assholes. The only reason they're still around is that they're pretty good manual laborers when they ain't drunk or high."

  "Or nursing a hangover,” Sam grunted. “He's right. These shmucks couldn't tie their shoes without specific instructions.” He leaned over and scooped up one of the rifles. “I'll be damned. It's a fake."

  "A fake?” She snatched it from his hands and hissed angrily. “What the fuck?” She tossed the weapon to Raven, who turned it over in his hands for a second before grinding the plastic weapon into so much powder.

  "It's a kid's toy,” he remarked, looking as puzzled as she felt. He dropped the remnants in front of the kneeling prisoners. “Pathetic."

  Jaz regarded the six men as she felt herself grinding her teeth in impotent anger. Not at them, specifically. In fact, at this point she felt little more than pity for them. They were being used. But used for what? she wondered. It seemed terribly pointless. Which meant that there was a point, but she just couldn't see it at this exact moment.

  She hoped the revelation didn't prove to be too much to handle when it came. Then she chided herself for the uncharacteristic self-doubt. She had yet to run into anything that was beyond her capacity to adapt. She'd survived her uncle's abuse, several years on the street, then fallen in with one of the most adaptable creatures in the history of the human race ... Deryk Shea, the ultimate survivor.

  If she couldn't take whatever came next, no one could.

  "Hey, boss?” Quickfingers tugged at her belt loop.

  "What?” For a moment, she'd actually forgotten he was there. Now that was a first. He rarely remained quiet for long enough for someone to forget his presence.

  "I smell powerful magic, boss. Have you looked these guys over carefully?"

  Feeling a bit stupid, Jaz switched to magesight and scanned the prisoners. All but one of them appeared perfectly normal. Their leader, on the other hand, had an extremely complex sigil burned into what looked to be an amulet or talisman hidden beneath his shirt. It glowed so brightly it seemed to burn through the man's shirt and jacket. What is that?

  She reached out and tore his clothing open, revealing the talisman hanging against his bare chest. She almost reached out and tore it off, but restrained herself at the last moment. Instead, she studied the sigil, counting the number of threads that had gone into it.

  Seventeen threads. An impressive bit of weaving, she mused. As Raven reached out to take it, she slapped his hand away. “Don't touch it. It's probably some sort of trap."

  He gave her a cold look, but withdrew his hand. “Fine. You take care of it."

  "I intend to,” she growled. She focused a moment and grabbed a nearby mana strand. “Quick—I need someplace isolated to jump to,” she told Billy. “Where can I go?"

  He scratched his chin. “There's an abandoned warehouse about half a mile that-a-way,” he told her.

  She threw one end of the strand in the direction he'd indicated, grabbed the prisoner, and jumped through. It took her a few minutes of looking to locate the warehouse, but she finally spotted it and rushed through the door. I hope this is isolated enough, she thought, thankful that she hadn't noticed too many people standing around outside.

  She grabbed at another thread and used it to probe the sigil embedded in the amulet. When he started to object, she gave him open-handed swat to the side of the head. He went down and stayed there.

  Concentration narrowing to pin-point, she began to disassemble the spell.

  * * * *

  Raven hated waiting almost as much as he hated being the center of attention. Despite having been the most recent arrival, it seemed the others were looking to him as Jaz's second in command. How that came about—whether she herself had suggested it—he couldn't say.

  He also wasn't particularly comfortable about being surrounded by allies he himself didn't know. He gave the cowboy and the film noir refugee a quick scan, pleasantly surprised by their professional demeanor. Whoever these men were, they knew how to handle themselves, and how to handle a crowd. It didn't take long for them to form a retaining wall of flesh to keep the spectators at bay. The big were-orca was particularly suited for this job, Raven noted.

  The crowd parted once again as Cecil returned, a tall, lanky white-haired woman on his heels. She stepped up to Raven and bowed slightly. “Gwenevier Pas-Aym,” she said, by way of introduction. She hesitantly held out a hand as if it were an alien custom. Then again, for a Steward—particularly a telepath—perhaps it was. Physical contact probably wasn't absolutely necessary for mind-reading, but it probably made it a lot easier.

  "Raven,” he replied, filling her hand with his own. Even if she could read his mind—unlikely, he thought—she wasn't likely to discover anything he'd prefer to keep hidden. Even the fact he found her quite attractive in some exotic fashion.

  Her flesh was soft and warm, her grasp strong and confident.

  She met his gaze, pale blue eyes gleaming with a fierce inner light. Her full lips were drawn in a thin line as she scraped her eyes over the prisoners. “Interesting. I would've sworn these wankers wouldn't have the nards to try something like this."

  "Like what? We haven't figured out what they were up to."

  "Well, it's about time we did, isn't it?"

  Their captives tried to squirm away from her heavy, unrelenting gaze. “It's a waste of time,” she said, after a moment of silence. “These blokes don't know anything."

  Blokes? Why is she using British idioms? He was certain that the woman wasn't British, after all. Her accent was slightly British, he thought. Maybe she'd been exposed to British television and film. It was certainly possible. He doubted this place had much of its own entertainment industry. Simple stuff, perhaps—plays, maybe—but so far he'd had the impression it was a stagnant culture, doing very little in the way of evolving on its own.

  It was most likely that they imported entertainment from other worlds, his own Earth almost certainly one of them. How the Free Traders managed to slip in and out without attracting attention was something of a curiosity. It seemed impossible, but Raven, as much as anyone, knew how ridiculous the word ‘impossible’ could be.

  He lived in a world and in a time when the word impossible had lost all meaning. As it should have. “Nothing?"

  "Indeed. They are merely dupes. Maybe the leader would know more.” She glanced around. “Where is he?"

  Raven told her what had happened, about the spell sigil bound into the amulet the man was wearing.

  She nodded, digging her teeth into her lower lip in an expression of worry as her gaze followed the jab of his thumb. “I hope she's careful,” she said.

  "So do I,” Raven murmured soberly. “So do I."

  * * * *

  Thirteen down, four to go. The threads grew more rebellious with each strand she releas
ed from the knotted sigil. She could feel her teeth grinding as she took each one and tied it into a new configuration in her own spell-web. She couldn't risk letting any of them go, since she had no idea of their original purpose. Each thread represented a single effect and, until she re-designated them, any slip-up on her part could have catastrophic results.

  Sweat poured down from her hairline and her breath came in short shallow gasps as she fought to weave the latest thread into the new spell. She blinked away droplets and took a deep breath as it snapped into place.

  The last three came far easier than she expected, snapping into place as if meant to be there. She wasn't nearly as mollified by this as she might have been, considering their sudden cooperation on being placed in a heavy-duty offensive spell suggested that the new configuration wasn't all that different from their original intent.

  She found the thought chilling. A seventeen strand offensive spell? Then she had to laugh at herself. And what did I just construct? The same thing.

  The difference, of course, was that it had originally been designed as a trap—a ward—that anyone might have set off. The spell she created from the remnants was something she would have to consciously target against someone. Not the same thing at all.

  So why did it make her feel slightly guilty?

  She heard the door open behind her and craned her neck to look over her shoulder. A silhouette stood framed against the exterior light for a moment before entering. She tensed and started to rise, hand reaching for her dimension pocket and the sword hidden within. “Who's there?” she asked. She switched back to magesight and grasped the sword's hilt as the figure moved closer. The image coalesced amidst a smattering of unfamiliar spell sigils orbiting its head, obscuring its features.

  "It's me—Diamond. Is everything okay?"

  "It is now. What are you doing here?"

  "Heard you had a little problem and thought I might be able to help."

  She released the sword and banished magesight. “I'm done now. I got a question for you, though—who do you think has the skill to put together a seventeen strand spell?"

  She sensed his shrug. “None of Hecate's people,” he replied. “Of that I'm certain."

  She explained what she'd discovered about the spell.

  "That's not good,” was all he said. He walked over and levered the prisoner to his feet. “C'mon, fella—time we took you to see someone who can figure out what's going on in that rusty little noggin of yours."

  He opened a transit tube and shoved the man through. “Coming?” he asked her.

  She nodded. “Yeah. Right behind you."

  He flashed her a barely visible smile and stepped through himself. She took a deep breath, glanced up at her new spell, and shuddered. Had someone told her she'd be able to pick apart a seventeen strand spell, she would have laughed at them, despite having spent a year learning from Bast and her reclusive magi. Picked up more than I ever guessed. Weird how that works. Once you get the hang of it, magic is pretty instinctual.

  At least, it was for her. She wasn't sure she could say the same of everyone.

  That thought ringing in her head, she stepped through the portal.

  Seventeen

  Power was the only drug that could make her forget her fears. The more she exercised it, the more it exorcised the demons of her past. Her little section of the universe was good for now, but eventually she would gain enough strength to destroy those blasted bugs once and for all. She would allow nothing to stand in her way.

  She sat back on her throne-like chair, nestled within the enveloping folds of the crimson velvet cushions, her nearly black eyes burning with a fierce inner light as she gazed out over her gathered minions and their surprise guest.

  The huge, bearded warrior strode through the crowd with apparent disdain, his swagger amplified by the weight of the massive sword strapped across his back. He stopped at the base of the dais, one booted foot resting on the lowest step as he regarded her with a vaguely amused twist of his lips. “Some kingdom you've got here, Hecate. I particularly like your brutish lackeys. Neanderthals, I presume."

  "You show your ignorance, as usual, Ares. Neanderthals are peaceful creatures that would never be willing to do what I need them to do. No—these are my human/gorilla hybrids ... my perfect soldiers."

  "Perfect?” Ares drawled, clearly amused. “Hardly that."

  A dark murmur ran through the assembled hybrids. A couple tensed and took a step forward, lifting clenched fists as if wanting to try their luck against the huge immortal. Disgusted, Hecate raised a hand and slammed it down on the arm of her throne. The impact echoed through the chamber and all eyes jerked her direction. “Don't be stupid,” she told her more aggressive hybrids. “I can't afford to lose any of you in a pointless battle.

  "And you—” She turned a baleful gaze on Ares. “Stop antagonizing them."

  Ares chuckled. “You always were a pushy bitch, Hecate."

  "And you were always an arrogant ass. What do you want?"

  "The same thing you want, I think. You want that woman—Jasmine Tashae—dead. And I want to kill her. It's a match made—"

  "Don't say it, Ares. I loathe clichés. What if I don't want her dead? Maybe I still have plans for her."

  "Then you're insane. You can't tame her. If you try she'll destroy everything you worked to build."

  She mulled this over and found herself forced to admit the truth of it as much as it pained her to do so. She shrugged. “And you want to kill her?"

  "In the worst way."

  "Then maybe we can help one another.” The enemy of my enemy is my ... tool ... she thought wryly. And his genetic material wouldn't be a bad thing to have either. She hadn't quite perfected her immortal cloning procedure, but she was getting close. Ares would make a very good test subject.

  "Perfect. What's your plan?” Her eyes narrowed. “You do have a plan, don't you?"

  His answering glare was pointed. “Of course I have a plan. I've already sent a few thugs in to shake things up a little. Easily defeated, of course, but that will just make them complacent."

  This earned a raised eyebrow. “Complacent? You really think so? That damn woman is planning on attacking me—I'm not sure she's foolish enough to get complacent. If only she were,” she muttered under her breath, thinking of the woman-child she'd kept captive and blinded in a vain attempt to subdue her.

  If she were to be honest with herself—not something she was particularly good at—she'd have admitted that Jasmine Tashae frightened her. No one should have undergone what she had and still been able to stand and fight her way out, regardless of what special talents she might have had. And growing back her eyes? That was inexplicable, unless the appearance of the blue creature that had stolen Hecate's immortality serum at roughly the same time had been related.

  She hadn't considered that before, she realized with a sudden chill. Had the creature been working with the girl?

  Hecate hated unanswered questions. That was one of the reasons she avoided asking herself any—even of the rhetorical variety.

  Ares snorted. “She's a twit. I could break her in two with one hand."

  "Assuming she didn't tear you apart with magic before you got the chance."

  "Huh ... there is that."

  If nothing else, the big bearded idiot would keep her busy for a while, giving Hecate the opportunity to come up with an escape plan, if nothing else. She hated the idea of running, but she had a nasty creeping sensation that her days here on Strihava were numbered.

  That didn't sit well with her at all. She'd put a lot of time and energy into making herself a place here, even though the occupants of some of the other zones would just as soon she found someplace else to be. Which was probably why they'd agreed to support that woman's campaign against her.

  It wasn't even as though she'd put any real effort into undermining their pathetic little democracy. In her opinion, democracies were an exercise in stupidity. The blind leading the stupid. She des
pised the notion, despite having grown up in a democratic society.

  She thought it was stupid even back then. She actually blamed the democratic process, and the bureaucracy it spawned, for the time it took her homeworld to respond to the incipient Centian invasion. Had there been a dictator in charge, things might have turned out differently.

  If she had been in charge, they would have. “Do what you have to do,” she said. “I take it you have a way to get to the bazaar?” She didn't add that she did not. If he didn't already know it, she was content to leave it that way.

  He gave her a curt nod, turned on his heel, and left the room without another word, his boots ringing off the marble floor. “Arrogant ass,” she muttered to herself. “He's probably going to get himself killed."

  Not that it would be a bad thing, she decided. Assuming, of course, he managed to take that damned woman with him.

  * * * *

  "A vampire? You're shitting me.” Johnny gaped a moment, then extended a hand. Raven glanced over at Jaz, seemed to shrug, and took the cowboy's hand. “Nice duds,” he said slowly, eying Raven's duster, faux alligator-skin boots, and matching hat.

  "Thanks,” Raven replied. He sliced the room with a laser-like gaze, taking in those assembled in the small room with a critical eye. “I take it we're ready."

  The little Italian shapeshifter, Cecil, currently in human form, grinned, while his hulking black and white companion shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, the huge battleaxe thrown over one massive shoulder looking completely out of place.

  Cecil and Orcus—as he called himself—had been friends before they'd been bitten by two different lycanthropic-infected animals. Both were wearing loose-fitting fake leather clothing, mottled in a strange pattern that somehow allowed them to blend with the surrounding Strihava walls. Jaz had never seen anything like it and suspected it was somehow magically induced, even though they revealed no arcane energy when viewed using magesight.