Saber and Shadow

by S. M. Stirling

  They gripped the eaves, backflipped onto the sloping surface of the ventboards that opened in a half-V to the outer air, and paused, surveying what lay within. The place might have been a tenement or mansion four centuries ago when the New City had been first enclosed. Now it had been converted to a manufactory for making the cheap hard candy Illizbuah’s lower classes loved. A huge circular vat filled one end of the floor, four stories below; others of smaller size were grouped down the walls, two sets of three separated by a raised plankwalk. The interior had been gutted, save for structural timbers bracing the concrete-block walls and a few for cranes and hoists.

  At their feet lay a sparse network of such rafters. A ladder led down to the second floor, where there was a skeletal tracing around the central opening, and a decked timber floor along one wall where a hoist door stood open beside a swing-out crane. The three Adderfangs turned from the platform.

  “I’ll take the ladder,” Shkai’ra said. Her quiver was empty, and that was her only distance weapon. Megan nodded, and headed purposefully toward a dangling pulley and hook arrangement that swung out over the center of the building’s interior.

  The ladder was simply an upright timber that had had crosspieces pegged on, leading down to a foot-wide horizontal beam. Shkai’ra took the inside, putting the wood between her and the Adderfangs, and made speed by dropping straight down with an occasional grab to slow herself. It was only twice man-height, and she wanted to have sound footing on that beam before the blackcoat was within striking distance. After that, she did not await much trouble; the assassin would be more at home fighting here where one step to the side would end fifteen meters down on flagstones, but long knife against a Kommanz cavalry saber was no contest.

  The assassin had the same thought. As he ran cat-certain along the narrow beams toward the ladder, he unlimbered a weapon quite unlike a knife. It was a chain, two meters in length; the last half of the links had outer edges honed to a razor edge, and the tip ended in a ball of spikes. A fighting-iron, and deadly if well used.

  The end curled around the ladder and came within a hairbreadth of taking the Kommanza’s face with it when it withdrew. Shkai’ra saved herself with an astonishing sideways leap onto the horizontal beam; she landed off balance, and beat a shuffling retreat to keep the whistling length of metal out of reach. The figure in black handled the strange killing-tool like a master, keeping it whirling in a great fan of figure eights that put moving metal between every inch of his body and Shkai’ra’s long curved sword.

  She backed, feet groping for balance, right foot forward, poised to lunge. This was like the standard foot-fighting without shield stance, using the menace of the point to substitute for a defensive weapon, but the need to remember the gap on both sides of her was a continual nagging distraction, and the chain was the natural enemy of the sword; it could be thrown hard against the edge and used to drag the blade wielder off balance. Once balance was gone half the fight was lost; and this thing could curve right around a parry and cripple you. On flat ground, or in armor, or with a shield, she would have felt confident enough. As it was ...

  No shadow of doubt showed in face or stance or poise. Her mouth was slightly open, breath even, eyes slitted and wary. The blade poised, then flashed out at the vulnerable spot where the hands whirled the chain. He jerked back, but used the same motion to pivot the swing of the fighting-iron down toward her feet. It would slice them open above the boots, or wrap around her ankles and throw her off. She leaped straight up and cut, but there was no force behind it when a good landing was so crucial, nor time to draw the slash. A line of red opened on his upper arm; the eyes behind the hood widened slightly. She gave ground, feet still moving in a fast light shuffle. He followed and raised the chain at an angle; the death-circle of his swing now centered at eye level, angling out toward her.

  Megan had run along the beam to the spot opposite the loading doors. Her position was too exposed and vulnerable for wisdom, but she hoped that the sheer outrageousness of that would throw them off. Apparently it did. She dodged a shuriken as if it were a thrown knife in a cniffta game and reached the center of the beam. The sheave pulley was locked at the top by a friction block, rope coiled on the wood and dangling down. She seized the coil and looked to see one assassin heading for another ladder. The other watched them all coolly, and directed. Megan’s hands had gathered the right amount of rope ... she hoped. She leaped straight back, allowing the beam itself to pull her into the correct arc to knock the one straight out the doors, or crush her against the crane. Neither worked.

  As she swung, the younger assassin spun around and brought up a blowgun, while the other leaped out of her way. She was just too close to change direction and arched past. As she missed, she felt the jar as a dart sprouted in the rope by her arm; her other hand swept around with the trailing end of the rope. The hook on the end of it took the young Adderfang under the chin. Her weight dragged him across the floor to fall toward the vats below, but the snapping of his neck prevented the jawbone from tearing out entirely. The body hung somewhere between the second and third floors, twitching spasmodically as nerves died in the already-dead body.

  Megan landed in a roll on the loading bay platform and came to her feet, knife in hand, to confront the leader of this group. She stared into eyes gone black with hate and thought, Of course, I’ve killed her guildkin ... as I will kill her. Her boots grated on the dust and grit that had collected; it smelled of rag-weed and dust, drowning in burned sugar. It was furnace-hot up under the roof, and she could feet the sweat prickling on her lip and running down her face as she watched the assassin before her. Let her think it’s fear-sweat. Above the mask, dark eyes glinted. To the side, she heard the struggle between Shkai’ra and her opponent, harsh gusts or breath and the scuff of leather on wood, but she couldn’t shift attention from the death that threatened. Here, with feet of space echoing below, the speed and quickness that could compensate for the other’s reach would be nearly useless.

  An outsider would have seen nothing fearful in the figures of the two women facing one another save the knives gleaming in their hands. The only moves they made, at first, were slight shiftings of the feet and hands. Eyes locked on her opponent’s, Megan raised her dagger a fraction of an inch, playing through the possible sequence that would end with the knife buried in the Adder’s guts, and found it instantly countered. Play and counterplay ... every move, even to the constriction of eyes, vital to the death of the other. Not showy, but the one who failed first would die.

  Testing, Megan twitched the hand farthest away from the other, another knife suddenly appearing in it to spin toward her opponent. The Adder leaned aside and countered, her blade tearing the cloth over Megan’s thigh as she retreated. All of ten seconds had passed, feint and counter; both were breathing hard. The hollow sound of the thin floor warned Megan that she couldn’t retreat much more; the edge was too near, just a few feet behind her.

  The Adderfang allowed herself to be distracted for a fraction of a second by the clang of steel on steel on the beams across the building. That was enough. As her eyes flickered back to Megan, the Zak feinted again. The Adder lunged to counter and committed herself. A flurry of movement and the assassin sprang back out of range. A tearing sound had marked contact, and the cloth of the assassin’s hood gaped open at throat height, though Megan’s blade still showed clean.

  Dogsucker! Megan thought. That one should have done it. This one is as fast as I am. A trick is what I need ... and a good one. Again the game had begun, the Fehinnan determined not to be taken in a second time.

  The edge was a body-length behind Megan, and she could hear the thick plopping sounds below as the sugar boiled. Her idea was dangerous. She began to drop her guard as though tiring. She allowed her eyes to shift and made her breathing harsh. She licked her lips and began to edge back, snowing classic signs of fear and tiredness. Her counters to the other’s moves slowed, and she let fear show on her features. Behind the mask of her face,
she watched the assassin accept the messages she was sending. When the Adder was sure enough to begin forcing her toward the edge, she backed and flung the dagger at the assassin as if her nerve had broken.

  As her hand shifted to the throwing position, the other lunged and came in for the kill. Megan fell back, trying to avoid the knife, but taking it in the shoulder rather than the throat; she locked crossed hands around the assassin’s arm, then rolled. The Adderfang was moving forward already, couldn’t stop, and she flew over Megan’s head, assisted by a boot in the belly. Shock just had time to dawn in her eyes, changing to panic, as she realized that she was not going to land on this level.

  Megan followed through, feeling the edge of the floor hit her at chest height. She threw herself forward and hung, held by the leverage of her outstretched arms and her claws dug into the wood, the grating shock of the knife in the bones of her shoulder greying the room out. The assassin fell, spiraling down, reaching to catch something, anything. She landed in the main vat, the force of her fall driving her under. She flailed to the surface, screaming horribly as the boiling sugar pulled her down again. She thrashed as if to climb the air, flesh already loosening from the heat. A last clenching of a grey-cooked hand and she was gone. Megan swung one leg up onto the edge and lay there a moment on her belly, panting. She watched a drop of her blood follow the Aaderfang, then her head snapped up to Shkai’ra’s fight.

  Dark One take the knife! She pulled herself up and dragged the thing in her shoulder loose, stuffing cloth into the wound to stanch it. The knife was bent where it had turned on the bone; useless. She pushed the pain to the back of her mind and ran through the maze of beams to help her friend.

  Shkai’ra had been backing steadily before the whirring menace of the chain. They had edged around the corner and were on one of the slanting diagonals that angled back toward the long walls of the factory; soon the concrete blocks would be at her back.

  Zaik eat him, Shkai’ra thought. That thing has too much reach, and he’s too good. Stalemate, but only as lone as I can retreat.

  She hawked a thick glob of phlegm from her dust-dry mouth—and cut backhand for his throat. He struck: the chain wrapped itself around the blade in a shrinking circle of blur. With a wrench, he hauled forward to throw her off the beam.

  Shkai’ra had been waiting for that; she spat into his face, used the pull to leap forward into the corps-a-corps, and the sudden slack on her sword gave space to strike savagely inward with the eaglehead pommel.

  Blinded, on balance, the Adderfang then showed he was a combat master, not merely skilled. There was only one possible move that would restore the tension-grip of his weapon on her sword; he took it, and leaped backward and down for the next level and the longitudinal beam that ran nearly beneath them. The chain sprang taut as his weight plummeted downward, and he used the inertia of Shkai’ra’s body to swing himself to a secure landing.

  The Kommanza did not even have the option of dropping her blade; it was secured to her wrist by a hide loop. She fell from the beam, twisting in midair as her rail once more brought slack into the chain. The long steel slid free with a slithering rasp, but there was no time to bring her feet back beneath her. With a monstrous, flesh-straining effort she caught the first-story beam as she fell, the sword dangling loose from its strap, her body hanging beneath the timber balks.

  Her opponent’s face was hidden behind the mask, but she could detect his grin from the set of the narrow strip across his eyes. Her mind still functioned, smoothly turning over alternatives; would keep doing so until the heart ceased. From below came waves of sticky, unbearably sweet fumes, stifling hot. Ahead of her, behind the Adderfang pacing forward under cover of whirling iron, a black shape hurtled downward to the great vat at the head of the factory; there was a single hideous scream.

  She ignored it. Maybe I can bring my legs up and kick at his ankle, she thought. It would mean enduring at least one bone-shattering strike from the knife-edged chain, but if she could override the pain ...

  Splinters drove into face and arms as she hugged the wood, jackknifed, poised a boot. There was little chance she could hold on with a broken arm, still less with her skull laid open, but the alternative was to let go. Below, the smaller overflow vat bubbled.

  Megan took in the scene even as she began to sprint for the ladder, realizing there would be no time for that. The assassin’s chain clinked as he shook it to assure free play; Shkai’ra tensed for the ultimate move.

  There seemed to be a great deal of thought as Megan’s body moved. A memory of the Adder leaders scream as she struck the boiling sugar. A knife laid hilt first in her hand. Her own voice: Celik Kizkardaz, there is Steel between us.

  There was only one possible move; half a dozen steps along the central beam gave her momentum, and she leaped out and down. An extra story’s height gave her arc the distance needed across the open space; the assassin took the full force of her body in the moment before his upflung metal whip could slash down on Shkai’ra’s hands. Her bootsoles shocked into bone, halting her in midair as the energy of her falling body was transferred to the man’s heavier frame. The assassin fell sideways; the flailing chain wrapped itself around his neck as he plunged. A crack of breaking bone sounded as he landed on his back across the edge of the vat.

  Megan fell, straight down. Her hands reached out for the beam under which Shkai’ra hung; claws scraping wood in passing as her eyes locked with the Kommanza’s.

  Oh, shit, Shkai’ra thought. She twisted her head to see Megan land in the soft, syrupy goo of the smaller holding vat, and lie for a second before sinking.

  The frozen instant seemed to last forever. The Zak had not sunk at once, the sugar could not be fully liquid. Bubbles broke the surface, and even as a hand groped through into the air, Shkai’ra heaved herself to the beam and knotting a dangling rope around her waist. With an almost physical effort, she thrust away the thought of scalding, treacly liquid candy forcing its sluggish way past nose and mouth.

  Not time to sing her deathsong yet, she thought desperately. But if she can’t remember to keep her mouth closed, I’m going to kick her next incarnation’s arse.

  She pushed herself off the beam, swooping down to halt with a jerk that left her heart in her mouth; or it might not have been solely that. Heat lay on her skin like liquid; she gritted teeth and thrust her arms into the vat of hardening caramel.

  “Ai!” she gasped, groping. Not hot enough to scald the skin off, out ...

  She thrust the sensation away, along with the thought of what it might do to her hands.

  The hot candy burned, flowing thickly into Megan’s eyes and nose and ears, weighing every limb with pain, heat that clung and seeped. Megan pushed the blackness aside and wondered why she was not dead; reflex blew air past her teeth and then clamped lips shut. She struggled and thrashed to reach the surface as the candy forced its way into the corners of her mouth. Burning, burning. Instinct turned her face down into the cooler lower strata. Air exploded from stressed lungs, and for a moment her mouth and nose were clear. She remembered hearing that drowning was a gentle death—who told them so? Her hand broke the surface for a moment, then it was lost, and the knife wound weakened her. Nausea overwhelmed her; the hands in her hair seemed like the first dream of death.

  Shkai’ra filled her lungs, gripped; her whole body arched in a steady, controlled convulsion as she pulled Megan from the syrup’s embrace. Eyes stared blindly, rims white. The air came out in a long hugggggn of effort, as the muscle stood out on arms and shoulders and back, hard as tile under the skin. The Zak’s shoulders broke the surface, and Shkai’ra transferred her grip to the belt, hands scrabbling for purchase in the soft slickness of hardening candy. The legs came free; the larger woman twisted against the rope around her waist, turned the other over her arm, and jerked her under the diaphragm to force any blockage clear of the breathing passages. The pulse under her hand beat quick but strong.

  Shkai’ra looked up once she was sure that t
he limp weight in her arms was not dying. Suddenly, she realized that she was hanging straight as a plumbline over the center of the vat, all sides equally out of reach.

  This, she mused, is going to take some thought.

  Megan’s eyes lost their glaze as full consciousness returned. Shkai’ra knelt beside her, sponging the gummy contents of the vat away from her face with a dampened cloth; the expression on the hawk features was amused and almost tender.

  “You’re undersized,” she said with a slow smile, laying a hand on the other’s cheek. “Maybe I should throw you back?” Then, more seriously, “If you do something like that to me again, I might get really angry.”

  Megan grasped the hand, and felt some of the small hairs behind her ears pull out by the roots as they stuck. Irritation, relief, and a crazed amusement at living roused her more than the blessed feeling of cool air on her skin.

  “Do to you? As if it wasn’t bad enough to nearly get me drowned in sewage water ...”

  Slowly she sat up in the circle of Shkai’ra’s arm and realized that they were leaning against the overseer’s walkway. She turned to her companion and made mock threatening hitting motions.

  “And if you ever make me risk my skin like that again, I’ll refuse to cry your name to the wind for your funeral.” The sweet stench had a strange undertone now, and the body of the young Adderfang overhead jerked slightly lower as tissue slowly tore. Megan began to pry hard caramel from her fingers. “Versht za? Do you understand?” She caught her lip between her teeth as the burns under the candy became painfully obvious. “I’d better not try to pull this off ... my skin would come with it.” She began to laugh, leaning into the circle of Shkai’ra’s arm. “In ... in ... candy! What a gruesome joke.”

  Shkai’ra grinned in response. “You can’t be too bad, then.” She looked around at the scattered bodies. “Gods and demons, the candy is going to taste odd this month—and we both look like we’ve been through the tiger once already. Let’s get going; but from now on we walk to see your tame spook pusher. On solid ground, and leave the rooftops to the pigeons.”