Saber and Shadow

by S. M. Stirling

  Shkai’ra’s answer was feather-light kisses as she lay Megan back on the divan, red-blond hair mingling with black. “Ah, Shkai’ra. I—l-love you.”

  “I need you, Megan. I love you, too.” Shkai’ra’s answer was a low whisper, as if ashamed of her admission, but the words were there, with her hands and her lips; almost new, a seed planted long ago by a woman long dead, this idea of love. That much Shkai’ra had changed; her family would have said softened, gone weak. The Kommanza taught themselves that they were strong, that they didn’t need, however false that was.

  As the afternoon sun slid down the sky, Megan and Shkai’ra made love in the shifting shadows of the plants.

  When she woke the second time, Megan looked up into the rustling green above them. Shkai’ra’s arm was across her middle and they were crowded onto the one divan.

  The Zak smiled and slid out from under, stretching. She padded over to the table and poured herself another cup of water before settling on the cushion there. It was twilight outside, a cool breeze blowing off the garden.

  Now. Someone must have seen to putting us to bed and cleaning us up, she thought wryly. The last one I remember is Shkai’ra, but she was in no shape to help herself, much less me. That leaves the sorceress, which means this is the merchant’s guest house. Not really a good place to stay long. So. Yeva is the one to speak with.

  Megan got up, swayed, and sat down just as rapidly. Later.

  “A good thought, young-kin. A healing depletes all the reserves,” Yeva said quietly. At the now familiar chuckle so close by her, Megan flinched reflexively, then sheepishly put her knife back in its place.

  “Your pardon, Teik—Lady. I’m sure you understand my unease.”

  The sorceress nodded. “My name is Yeva—please use it. Formality ill becomes kin-in-power.” She sat on one of the cushions, the second goblet already by her hand, but empty. She smiled at Megan and continued, “And if we are of alike power then would you drink with me?”

  “Gladly—but alike power? As an eating knife compares to a longsword!” Megan’s caution was already falling before her curiosity, but she continued using the formal tone. Her training as a merchant demanded she be very polite with an acquaintance, especially if the person had earned respect. “If I might ask, how do you do the appearing-out-of-nowhere trick?”

  “Trick indeed. It’s much like your warding. A ‘turning away of the mind,’ a ‘don’t look here’ message—very simple, really. Has no one taught you these things?”

  “Simple.” Megan looked down at her hands, turning them over as if she had never seen them before. “Often, simple things are the hardest to do.” She gripped the edge of the table and was up on one knee, raising her hands to shield her eyes. “Knowing that there is no Blood or Steel between us, the thing that yet binds is Power. So do I, called Whitlock, answer the debt I owe you and freely give ...”

  “No.” Yeva’s voice rang sharp, all the warmth gone out of it as she rejected Megan’s oath. “I do not accept this debt, for it does not exist in my eyes. I own no one, by no intent. The binding of friendship is all that I take from you.”

  Megan had rocked back on her heels at Yeva’s abrupt interruption. “In honor I can’t do anything else! I owe you my life!”

  “No, you healed yourself. I merely assisted you. I cannot teach you.” Yeva held her hands to the smaller woman, palm up. “Come. Freely. And ‘see’ with me. Leave the anger and try to understand.”

  Bluish-white light played gently around the hands she held out to Megan. For a moment there was silence as the Zak looked down into the light flowing in the long-fingered hands. Slowly she reached out to cover Yeva’s hands with her own. As they came into contact, the scarlet light flared in Megan’s hands, brightening minute by minute to an orange glow. They sat, surrounded by a soap-bubble swirl of light, blue and red, as they warily shared what they knew, colors deepening as trust grew.

  Megan could not or would not remember what passed between them. Her mind, still reeling from the close brush with death, felt, for an instant, the inquiring murmur of the others in the guild as they became aware of the rapport, but the alienness of the way they thought and felt and believed rang through her mind. The pool of power that Megan was familiar with—her people’s life—jangled against the power here, slowly at first, like a file on metal or biting through rust; shrieking on brain and bone, faster and faster, a harp-string pulled tighter and tighter sawed through bone—

  Megan wrenched her hands free, snatching them close to her chest, trembling, white showing around her eyes, as Yeva sat back slowly. “You see?” the magician asked. “Your power and ours does not mesh easily.”

  Megan nodded mutely. All chance of learning from these witches had been shattered by the tide of information she could not seem to place in any framework in her head; facts with no meaning or context to keep or use them. All seemingly useless.

  A moment passed, enough for a ray of sunlight to shift and warm them both. Megan shook herself as if shaking off an idea, even a cherished one. “I’ve always depended on steel, anyway.”

  Yeva smiled, at once cool and compassionate. “I have found a weapon with an edge sharper than any steel. Yourselves.”

  Megan shrugged trying to be casual. “Only death has the sharpest edge, they say.”

  The sorceress’s voice became brisk. “You will need to turn it, then. After defending that scrap of paper you found by ... chance ... the factions will not believe you could surrender it. Each seeks the credit of using it to ruin their mutual enemies.” Her fingers tapped the base of her goblet. “Best awaken your lover, before we speak further of this. A night and a day and a night again of sleep should be sufficient.”

  A moment later Shkai’ra stretched and sat up, yawning. She smiled at Megan and winked.

  “If I may interrupt, Yeva’s voice broke in, dryly. “There is still a slight problem to be discussed.” One hand gestured gracefully to the cushions. “Sit. I have called for more water. As your ‘healer’ I suggest you eat something light. Fruit, perhaps.” Her voice brooked no thought of objection, and Shkai’ra moved slowly to the table to sink down next to Megan.

  She opened her mouth but was forestalled. “Since you owe me her life and yours, I suggest that you watch what you say to me.” Laugh lines crinkled around Yeva’s eyes. “Your feelings toward the, ah, spookers, as you put it, are known to us.”

  A servant padded in bearing a tray with another pitcher and a bowl of fruit. She set it down on the table, looked around, and clicked her tongue in disgust at the rumpled sheet on the floor. Yeva reached out to forestall Megan’s comment and spoke. “I thank you, but you may leave the bedding until later.” The woman started and stared around, obviously not seeing them. “Leave me,” Yeva continued.

  The servant bunched her tunic under nervous hands. “Lady, my master asks if all is to your liking and ...” She backed toward the door as she spoke, her eyes scanning the interior.

  Yeva’s voice was impatient. “Yes. I need nothing else. Now go!” With that the woman bowed and was gone.

  “He never learns. Never. He still tries to force his bondlings into spying on me. That should only be another strange tale to tell about me, and they are not aware of your presence, Only Bors knows, since he cleaned you up and put you to bed; him I trust.” She cocked her head and laid one finger to her cheek, “looking” at Shkai’ra. “You were about to say?”

  “Just that I never quarrel with someone I owe a debt to, at least not for the first day.” Shkai’ra reached to fill the goblets with the new pitcher, felt it, and snorted. “Phagh. Not only is it water but warm as well.” As she poured, the cups clouded as ice formed on them. Shkai’ra looked up to catch the glance passing between Megan and Yeva. “More tricks. For something that angers so many people, you two are pretty free with it.” She rinsed her mouth and swallowed. “So. A problem?” She leaned back and waited while Megan sipped and watched the other two.

  Yeva looked down at the goblet b
efore her, so casually filled, and at the women who would drink with one called an Abomination by the Sun priests. She smiled to herself. Bright souls these two had, outlanders though they were. That much she had seen in the scrying-ice a sennight ago.

  “We had decided that a message of some sort was necessary, to deliver to someone, for your safety.”

  Shkai’ra threw her head back, poured the contents of the goblet down her throat and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “True enough. Nobody believes that something they want that badly doesn’t exist anymore. Ever hear of a mercenary believing a farmer who swore there wasn’t silver buried under the hearth?” She glanced across at Megan. “You still have it?”

  For answer, the Zak produced the stained, sticky piece of parchment. “What does it say?”

  Yeva passed her hand over the shifting script as it lay on the rosewood of the table. There was a curious sensation, as of a click a finger’s breadth behind the eyes. Megan picked up the much-folded slip and read. Her face lost all expression; after a moment, her shoulders began to shake. Shkai’ra took it from her fingers and read the common Fehinnan lettering.

  “Yes?” she said. “For one word—‘Yes’—we’ve been chased, knifed, nearly eaten alive, tortured, soaked in shit, dropped in candy ...” Her voice trailed off, hesitating between fury and laughter.

  Yeva spread her hands and smiled with an impish glee. “Well, the Merchants’ Guild asked us if we would take a hand in matters; we decided to, so ... yes.”

  The Kommanza dropped her head into her hands and began to laugh; then she fell over on the pillows and beat hands and feet against the fabric, gasping as helpless tears ran down her face.

  “Ai, ai!” she wheezed. “I haven’t seen anything so good since the drunken nomad drowned in a mead vat at Solstice Fair, the year I left Stonefort. Heroes we were, leaping from roof to roof like eagles, slaying all in our path—for a treasure of great price: a parchment saying ‘Yes’! ‘Yes’”

  Megan sank back on the cushion, almost lying down, laughing so hard that she almost couldn’t breathe. “Would it ... have been any better ... if it had ... had been ‘No’?” And she wiped tears away from the corners of her eyes.

  Through gasps Shkai’ra managed to say, “Or even ‘Maybe’?” She fell over again at the idea, wheezing.

  Megan smoothed wisps of hair away from her face, straightening the cushions she sat on. “Ach, a story to tell children ... but not one that priests or army would believe.” She picked a slice of melon from the bowl and bit into it, catching a fragment at the corner of her mouth. “Now, what are we to do to pull them off our trail?”

  Shkai’ra rose, pulled out her saber, and began polishing the already bright steel carefully. “We’ve thought of leaving the city, but...” She put the sword down across her knees and began ticking off points on her fingers. “Eh, the ports are watched and we would have to travel by horse or foot, both slower than river or sea. Ka, if the army succeeds in starting this war of theirs, then the countryside will be mobilized and not very healthy for outlanders, even mercenaries. I, for one, do not care to be a conscript in their Glitch-taken holy war. Sh’ra, they’ve already tried to kill us; even if they catch us elsewhere, that wouldn’t stop them from doing it then.” She looked up. “Enough points?”

  “Too many,” Megan said. She looked up from where her nails tapped on the tabletop. “We can’t stay in hiding forever, and I cannot stay here. It’s too bad that we couldn’t just give them all the message. After all, what good would it do them?”

  “But none of them would believe that the message was just one word,” Yeva broke in. “It wouldn’t be convincing enough....” She thought a moment, sightless eyes looking off into the far distance. “I have an idea that might be your answer!” She looked over their heads, smiling. “If they all got what they expected, then they would be convinced, wouldn’t they?” Her gaze lowered to the other two. “Do you think you could see that all three factions got a glimpse of the message?”

  Megan suddenly felt as if her mind had started working properly again. The pieces of this plot fell into place, and she began a slow smile at the thought. “Give them a lie they will believe, rather than the truth they cannot.” She slapped the table. “I’m sick of being the quarry; let us turn the tables.”

  “Put a weasel in the henhouse, with the right message,” Shkai’ra said enthusiastically. “Hmmm, but each will need a different emphasis—what if they compare notes?”

  Yeva tapped a long finger on her chin. “Shoes from a leatherworker, steel from a blacksmith—and for the impossible, a magician.”

  Simple enough, she thought. The material is already sensitized. Now, what is it that the powerful of this city fear most of all? Ah, of course ...

  She arched her hands over the parchment and raised the patterns in her mind. They hung before her thought in an intricate knot of light strands. Now, this corresponded to the basic human mind—all the recipients would be human, of sorts: Here, the common character elements: a line of suspicion, a loop of treachery. She had known a gull-taker once, in her youth as a hedge-wizard, a man who made his living from fraud; he had told her that it was nearly impossible to run a successful scam on the honest, although such were fortunately rare. This would apply the same principle; she inserted the last of the subliminal clues, tapped energy from her environment, and sent her mind plunging through the matrix of the spell. Possibility warped, and might became is.

  The two adventurers felt a momentary clenching and a sudden chill. Megan felt the surge of energy spiraling into the focus and almost, almost saw what was happening. A glimmer of something not quite there, caught out of the corner of an eye. She wanted power so badly that she could taste it; then cast the idea away. Yeva cannot teach me, she thought. I am a red-witch and will remain one. Living on the edge of a knife is good enough, and I’ve done well enough without more power.

  “There,” Yeva said. “Take it and read, remembering the lie.” Shkai’ra scanned the now lengthy message, pursing her lips and raising a brow.

  Megan took it in turn. “Fascinating,” she said. “You, apparently, have been corresponding with Habiku—though you couldn’t know who he is—to sell me to slavers again. The man has no imagination.”

  “And you are taking the priests’ gold, for me,” Shkai’ra added, turning to the sorceress. “This is a fangaz’i whul pukkut,” she said. “A sheep-bitten wolf—unbelievable.”

  “For you,” Yeva replied, “not for those whose nourishment is treachery. We call them ‘mind-that-sees-lurkers’—paahnit. They will believe.”

  Shkai’ra’s teeth drew back from her teeth in an expression that bore no relation to a smile. “The Fehinnans like a circus,” she said. “Now they’ll have one.”

  Yeva turned her eyes to Megan’s smile, if it could be called that, and nodded. “Perhaps you could use some assistance? I believe that your rooms at the inn are still being watched by everyone, and I cannot shield you here much longer. It takes as much power to keep up your invisibility over a long period as it does reaching out over a distance ... or into the temple—I did that once, only with assistance. Take counsel between you—I will not really be here for a moment.” With that, it was as if she withdrew into her mind and was ... gone though her body still sat with them, one of its hands lightly clasped around the base of the cup.

  Megan turned a thoughtful eye on Shkai’ra. “I find myself with a strange appetite for more discussions of philosophy with a certain ex-priest....” She trailed off and raised a questioning eyebrow at the Kommanza.

  “Probably the safest place in this stone warren,” she mused. “When?”

  Megan poked a finger into her hair: it crackled. She mumbled under her breath, picking at patches of congealed sugar still sticking to her abraded skin.

  “Not until I’ve had a bath. Even after being cleaned up and you finding sugar in the damndest places, I’m not clean yet. Many baths.”

  “Just a littl
e candy, and nibbling it was fun; the sooner the ...” Shkai’ra sat up, stood, gripped her head in shaking hands, and sat down again. “On the other hand, perhaps we should rest a little,” she continued, gritting her teeth against the heaving of a rebellious stomach. The reserve against extremity was not tapped without a price. She sank back resentfully, closing her eves.

  “Although I’d like it better if the resting were a different place,” she said softly after a moment’s pause. The magician seemed ... otherwhere, at present, but she remained cautious. “Not that this one hasn’t dealt well with us, but I don’t—”

  “—like spook pushers,” Megan finished with weary humor. “And I don’t particularly like to swim, but well both do what we hate if we have to.” She rose, wincing, and stood beside the blond woman’s side. “Me to the hot water, if I can wake our hostess; you, back to sleep, akribhan.”

  Shkai’ra rolled onto her side and sighed, curling into the crisp cool surface of the linen sheets. Her breathing evened out, and she was asleep in moments. Sleep relaxed the hard, wary lines of her face; for a moment it was possible to see her as she might be at peace, unthreatened. Megan stood in silence, just looking, then put out a hand to hover just over Shkai’ra’s shoulder. She felt the heat radiating from her, and as a sound came from behind them, snatched the hand back.

  “You care much for this one.” Yeva’s comment was quietly spoken, and not a question. “A good person to have at your back.”

  “So I thought.”

  “Well, then. As a guest, as my mentor reminded me, I also can have guests.” She paused, color tingling her pale cheeks. “I should have realized it before. No matter. The servant can show you the way.” She clapped. “I don’t think I have to tell you to move slowly.”