Chosen of the Changeling

by Greg Keyes

  Ghan took Tsem’s massive elbow. “Tsem, this is the time. You go back into the palace and get her. Dress her in those worker’s clothes you told me about; cut her hair. Bring her down to the boat here, and Zeq’ will do the rest.”

  “And me?” Perkar asked.

  “I don’t know why she brought you here,” Ghan said, “if it was indeed she. It may be that the River did send you, at the behest of the priesthood or the emperor. I doubt that; it isn’t their way to act in such a circuitous manner. Your presence here is so bizarre, so unlikely, that I trust it. As to what you are supposed to do, I rather think that will become obvious in the moments and days ahead. In the meantime, should anyone try to hinder your escape, kill them.”

  Ghan and Tsem turned and walked back into the city, Tsem with a smoldering backward glance.

  “Well,” Perkar told Harka. “Kill. That’s something we can do, isn’t it?”

  “Just so long as you don’t forget,” Harka said. “Some things even we cannot kill.”

  Just inside the gate, Tsem and Ghan parted ways. It was late enough in the day that Hezhi was probably back in her apartments, so Tsem steered himself toward that wing of the palace.

  When he heard Qey weeping, he knew something was wrong. Suddenly frantic, he burst into the courtyard; Qey was there, and two of the priests.

  “What?” Tsem demanded, despite the fact that they were priests, despite what they could have done to him for impertinence.

  “Your charge ran away,” one of the two informed him—darkly, though his voice was sweet. “Where were you?”

  “Ran? Where?” But he knew, knew with a terrible sinking feeling in his gut.

  “I don’t know,” the priest snapped impatiently. “Two priests followed her, but she has not returned.”

  Tsem nodded, blood pounding in his ears. The first priest never had the opportunity to cry out; Tsem’s fist slammed into his temple with the force and effect of a sledgehammer. The second had time for a terrified squeal before Tsem lifted him up with both hands and snapped his neck like a chicken’s. Then, ignoring Qey’s sudden, rejuvenated hysteria, he ran as fast as his huge feet could carry him.

  X

  A Gift of Slaughter

  Swaying at the edge, Hezhi heard her name shouted. Not in the high, clear voice of a priest, but in Tsem’s bass roar. She gasped, stepped back from her doom, and turned to see where the call came from.

  Tsem was loping across the rooftop. As she watched, he caught the struggling priest by the hair. The priest yelped, and then Tsem broke his neck. The second priest, also looking back, screamed shrilly and continued screaming until Tsem caught him. Hezhi closed her eyes, unwilling to watch. When she opened them, the hapless priest had fetched up motionless against the parapet of an adjoining roof.

  “Hezhi,” Tsem bellowed again.

  Trembling, she watched him approach, and without a backward glance at the long fall, she climbed back onto the slope and, sitting on her behind, began a controlled slide back to the roofbeam. Tsem caught her at the bottom, folded her into his huge arms.

  “Did they hurt you, Princess?” he cooed.

  “No, Tsem. No, they never touched me. I was ahead of them.”

  She tried not to look at the dead men and their bulging, surprised expressions when she and Tsem retraced their steps. Instead, she gave her attention to what Tsem was telling her, though it was difficult, with the relief and confusion that swam about in her skull.

  “Ghan has arranged passage out of the city,” he informed her. “It is all planned, you have no need to worry.”

  “There are probably more priests in the apartment …”

  “Not anymore,” Tsem growled. “Their ghosts, perhaps.”

  “Oh. Tsem, you shouldn’t have done it. If they catch you now …”

  “They won’t and if they do, they’ll be very sorry. Now come.”

  They dropped back down into the courtyard with its familiar cottonwood, and there Hezhi’s swirling head spilled weakness down into her knees and she nearly collapsed. Tsem scooped her up and started down the stairs.

  The apartments were a nightmare. Qey was bawling and there were two more dead priests, one leaking blood from his mouth and the other with his face crushed unrecognizably. The thick scent of incense still hung in the air.

  “Qey! Qey,” Tsem roared, shaking her. “Cut her hair! Cut it off!”

  The old woman, shaken almost out of her senses, looked vaguely at the two of them. “Her hair …” she repeated.

  “Arr!” Tsem rushed into her room. “Where did you hide your work clothes? The ones I got for you?”

  “Under the mattress,” Hezhi called, still watching the quaking Qey.

  “Qey,” she whispered.

  Qey’s eyes sharpened a bit then, and she held out her arms. Hezhi rushed into them, ground her head against the woman’s breast.

  “Cut her hair,” Qey suddenly muttered. She gently disengaged Hezhi and went to her sewing kit, returned with scissors.

  “Turn around, little one,” she whispered. Hezhi did so, felt the peculiar little grinding of her hair being all but sheared off, just at the nape of the neck.

  Tsem burst back into the room with her clothes; she had rinsed them of the mud and slime of the underpalace, but they were still deeply stained.

  “Put them on.”

  “Where are you taking her?” Qey wailed. “Where are you taking my little Hezhi?”

  “Somewhere safe, Qey,” Tsem told her hurriedly. “But you must know nothing, nothing, or they will hurt you to find out. Do you understand?”

  “Come with us, Qey,” Hezhi pleaded. “She can come with us, can’t she, Tsem?”

  “She may,” Tsem said a little doubtfully.

  Qey stared at them both, then gently shook her head. “No, little one, I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t. I would be in the way, I wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “Take care of me, like you always have,” she insisted.

  “No.” Qey stepped back, still shaking her head. “No, please, Hezhi, don’t ask me to.”

  She meant to keep insisting until the old woman agreed, but the finality of Qey’s tone convinced her. So, instead, she hurriedly doffed her skirt, pulled on the loose pants and smock.

  “That’s it,” Tsem muttered nervously. “That’s it, come on.” “Qey …Hezhi began, but the old woman shushed her, grasped her head, and planted a little kiss on her cheek.

  “I love you, child,” she said. “I love you very much. Go with Tsem and take care. Live, little one.” Her tears had ceased, and now she seemed calm, in control.

  “Come,” Tsem insisted.

  “Wait,” Hezhi said. She searched back through her dress, found the little statue Yen had given her.

  “All right, Tsem,” she said, feeling stronger. “Let’s go.”

  Tsem nodded and gestured. Together they set off down the hall, walking briskly, but not running for fear of attracting attention.

  “We’ll take the Ember Gate,” Tsem explained. “You are Duwe, a boy from the docks. I paid you a soldier to help me carry four baskets of fish.”

  “Where is Ghan? Will he be at the boat?”

  “Ghan has returned to his apartments. We will not see him. He has arranged everything.”

  “I have to say good-bye to Ghan.”

  “You can’t, Princess, there is no time. Soon someone will notice the dead priests. Ghan left a letter for you.”

  “Ghan …” She sighed. She might never know what happened to him—or Qey.

  They came to the Ember Gate, Hezhi walking with her head down, trying to seem humble, respectful. Two guards met them there.

  “Who is this?” they asked, eyeing Hezhi suspiciously.

  “Just a boy,” Tsem replied. “I had too many fish to carry, so I gave him a soldier to help me.”

  “A boy, eh?”

  Something was wrong; she already knew that. The guards seemed too al
ert, too suspicious, as if they had been warned to watch for her.

  “You should know better than this, Tsem,” one of them grunted.

  Tsem grinned good-naturedly. “Well, you can’t blame me for trying, can you? A man has to have a little something, doesn’t he?” He ended his question with a wink and a bit of a leer.

  The soldier shook his head. “We were warned about this,” the guard said, drawing out his sword. The other followed suit.

  “Princess,” one of the guards commanded, “tell your servant to back away from us. Do it.”

  She hesitated, and she saw Tsem tense for a spring.

  “Princess, he might kill one of us, but we have swords. Tell him.”

  You fool, Hezhi thought. I can no longer tell Tsem anything.

  Tsem confirmed that by taking that moment to lunge. The guard saw it coming, backpedaled away from the Giant, his sword slashing down. Tsem caught the blow on his left arm, and blood started instantly. The other guard stepped around and behind Tsem, sword raising up.

  Hezhi shrieked and lashed out, though her fists were clenched at her side. In her mind, her shriek was a spear, hurtling through one guard and then the other.

  The effect was instantaneous. The guard stepping behind Tsem dropped his sword and curled around his belly, gagging. The other, dancing away from Tsem, doubled over and disgorged, first his breakfast and then a stream of blood.

  Whatever it was she had done struck Tsem, as well, though a lesser blow; he staggered and crumpled to his knees, eyes glazing. Blood was pouring from his arm.

  “Tsem!” she gasped.

  “I’m all right,” he muttered, rising back onto his feet. “Come on, we have to hurry.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you, too.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said, looking dully at his slashed arm, “Come on.”

  “Wrap your arm,” Hezhi said.

  “Later.”

  “No! Someone will see!”

  Comprehension flickered in the half Giant’s eyes, and he tore one of the guard’s surcoats off. Both of the men still seemed to be alive, though in terrible pain. She felt a stab of remorse, and then remembered that they had meant to kill Tsem, had been doing it, and the guilt died, stillborn.

  The scale on her arm ached as if burning. Tsem wrapped his arm, took her by the shoulder with his free hand. Together they passed through the now-unguarded gate, and for the first time in her life, Hezhi entered the city of Nhol.

  Ghe stared down at the dead priests in disgust and dismay. They never even understood they were dying; he could see that on their frozen, stupid faces. It was his own fault, as well. He had spent too much time with Hezhi instead of following the old man and the Giant; by the time he had found them, understood what they were up to and had taken measures to have the boat seized and the gates guarded, he had lost touch with Tsem. Yes, he had allowed himself to be distracted by a silly boyhood whim, and now priests were dead. And yet, he had done the impossible, kissed a princess, the daughter of the Chakunge himself. What gutter rat in Southtown wouldn’t give his knife arm for that? Not that he could tell anyone, but he would know.

  Ghe caught the motion easily; it was the old woman, of course, the one he had found just staring down at the dead bodies. Why hadn’t he noticed the scissors? He was distracted.

  He disarmed the old woman as she stabbed—overhand, of course—and watched her crumple as the blade of his hand struck the base of her skull. She would live, to pay for her idiocy on a torture rack. He had things to do.

  He hoped the guards at the gate would stop them, but if not, the boat should have been seized by now. There were only two men guarding it, its owner and a barbarian sell-sword.

  Ghe checked his weapons to make sure they were all accounted for, and without sparing the -nata priests a second glance, he loped hurriedly down the corridor. He still had much to prove, to the other Jik and to the priesthood. He should have taken Hezhi just after their lips met, while she was happy, before the palace was littered with bodies, but sentimentality and uncertainty had stopped him. No, hope. Hope that the stupid girl wouldn’t go through with it, but stay in the palace and accept whatever destiny the River granted her. Now he had much to explain.

  Perkar was sitting on the edge of the dock, watching the water ebb and flow against the pilings when Zeq’ gave a sort of strangled yelp. He looked back to see what the matter was. Whatever it was wasn’t back there; Zeq’s distended eyes were staring out at the street. He followed the boatman’s terrified gaze.

  Eight men were marching down the street. They were dressed in identical kilts striped black and dark blue, blue tunics stiff over steel breastplates. Their dark hair was shoved up under plain steel caps.

  “Who are they?” he called back to Zeq’.

  “Nunewag,” Zeq’ replied stiffly. “The emperor’s elite guard.”

  The men showed no sign of halting or explaining themselves. The situation seemed clear enough to Perkar; these troops had been sent by the emperor to find his daughter. Serving the emperor, they served the River. They, at least, were unambiguously his enemies. Still, they were Human Beings, and so it was with some small reluctance that he walked over to the gangplank connecting the ship with the dock. He drew Harka.

  The apparent leader of the men—the one in front, at least—looked up at him and said dryly, “Barbarian, I give you one chance to escape being a ghost. We are the Nunewag, the emperor’s personal guard, on his business.”

  “What business is that?”

  The leader made a disgusted face. “Barbarian, if that is any concern of yours, then I will have to arrest you. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand that this man has not given you permission to board his boat,” Perkar said as easily as he could. He knew that if he appeared calm, that would most likely rattle them. In point of fact, he was calm, and Perkar wondered—not for the first time—if Harka had some hand in that, too.

  The leader of the soldiers waved his hand and the others began to spread out quickly so they could flank Perkar, though they would have to leap to the boat to do so.

  “Take them the fight,” Harka advised. “Don’t let them pin us on the boat. Despite the advantage we have at the moment, we will lose it if any of them manage to get behind us on the boat. Better to have them behind us out on the street, where we have room to move.”

  He saw no reason to argue with Harka. He waited until the men were actually in position to jump before he made his own move.

  Skirling the fierce war whoop of his father, he charged down the plank.

  The leader faced him first and was consequently the first to die. Harka met the oncoming blade, slid down to its guard, sheared through that, arm, and breastplate. The man’s dying face was more incredulous than shocked, as if the great opening in his chest were less an issue than the wholly unfair way it had been achieved. Perkar’s charge did not slow; he whirled away from the crumpling man and continued it, crushing physically into two warriors who did not have their swordpoints up yet. One actually fell and the other stumbled away as Perkar beheaded a third. Then something cold and hard slid into his kidney. Snarling, he spun, felt the blade in his back tear a gash, swung backhanded and decapitated that assailant, too.

  If they had all rushed him then, it might well have been the end. But he bellowed and whirled, yanked the offending sword from his body, and though he staggered and his knees nearly buckled, the men seemed to take note not of that but of the fact that he was still on his feet, while three of them lay dead. In a few heartbeats, their eight had become five, and those five looked nervous.

  Perkar felt the agony ebb then, and strength returning. By the time they chose to renew their attack—circling him now—he had cleared his head of the pain and felt ready to deal with them again.

  As soon as the circle closed on him, he let Harka pick the most dangerous point, hurled himself at it, sword cutting brightly. He broke another sword and cut off its wielder’s arm, sliced deeply into the thig
h of another, though he took a hard slash into his own ribs, felt a flood of warmth wash down his side. He wished he had his hauberk; that would have deflected the last cut.

  Now, effectively, they were three. They were stubborn men, and one of them managed to wound him again—this time rather high in the chest—before he finished them and sagged back against the dock, coughing up blood. He turned to ask Zeq’ if he might get a drink of water, when he realized that the boat was already leaving the quay, Zeq’ madly working the sail.

  “Wait!” Perkar called after him.

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” Zeq’ yelled back. “There is nothing I can do for you. You’re already dead, you just don’t know it yet!”

  “I won’t die,” Perkar insisted. “Come back!”

  “I didn’t bargain for this,” Zeq’ yelled. “They probably already caught the Giant and the girl. It’s over, barbarian! I’ll tell people of your battle.”

  “I don’t care about that!” he howled. “Just come back!”

  Zeq’ didn’t answer. His sail caught a breeze blowing out from the shore, and his little boat began to pick up speed.

  He made to shriek one last time but blew out a clot of blood instead.

  “Careful,” Harka cautioned. “That last one got your lung.”

  “How quickly will I heal?”

  “Quickly enough. We have five heartstrings left between us. If you can wait a little while before getting run through again, you’ll have six.”

  “How long?”

  “Half a day.”

  “I’m waiting here,” he said stubbornly. “For as long as I can. If I have to fight more soldiers, I’ll fight them.”

  Back to a piling, Harka on his knees and eyes alert, Perkar waited. A crowd of thirty or more people stood, staring at him and the corpses of the king’s guard. Two of the latter lay moaning, and two passersby were helping them staunch the blood flowing from their arm and thighs, respectively. He doubted if either would live. Belatedly, he felt a stab of remorse, then wondered why the possibility of regret never occurred to him before a fight anymore. He had heard that killing grew easier as one became accustomed to it. It was certainly easier when your enemies attacked you in such a dishonorable fashion, eight against one. Of course, he had Harka, but they hadn’t known that. They had believed him a lone barbarian with a normal weapon. Such was their misfortune, to be both without Piraku and wrong at the same moment.