The Righteous Blade

by Stan Nicholls

  ‘Good shot,’ Tanalvah whispered, plainly fearful.

  ‘A good knife lost,’ Serrah complained.

  They took to running again.

  Their flight was more artful this time. They used alleys and back ways, narrow lanes and covered passages. When they caught sight of the main thoroughfares they saw mounted militia heading in the direction they’d come from.

  ‘Slow down,’ Serrah panted. ‘Running attracts attention.’

  ‘And killing people doesn’t?’ Tanalvah retorted.

  Serrah shrugged.

  ‘Are you trying to get yourself caught?’

  ‘No.’ Serrah regarded her with hard eyes. ‘That’s never going to happen again. I’d rather die.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You have to ask? You’re too volatile, Serrah. What you did back there was…insane.’

  ‘I won’t be treated like shit.’

  ‘It was all unnecessary. You should have just shown them your identity documents. The forgeries are good enough to pass.’

  ‘You’re missing the point, Tan. They disrespected me. I’m not a piece of meat to be abused.’

  ‘What price respect if they’d killed you? Or captured us both? And who knows what would’ve happened to us then.’

  It wasn’t only Tanalvah’s agitation that had passersby staring. Her jet hair, light tan complexion and slightly angular features attracted glances too. She had enough experience of casual prejudice towards Qalochians to ignore them.

  ‘As I said,’ Serrah replied coldly, ‘I won’t be taken.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘I wouldn’t let it happen to you either.’

  ‘Really? How?’

  ‘If there was a chance of you being captured I’d cut your throat.’

  ‘That’s a comfort,’ Tanalvah returned sarcastically. ‘Your actions have consequences, Serrah, and not just for yourself.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that?’

  ‘You act as though you don’t.’

  ‘I do what I have to do.’

  ‘And relish it, if that fight you just started was anything to go by.’

  ‘In a way, yes. There’s nothing like being near death to give life some kind of meaning.’

  ‘I suppose that’s an improvement. Not that long ago it was only death you wanted.’

  ‘Keep moving,’ Serrah urged, blanking her.

  As they hurried on, Tanalvah muttered, ‘Gods, you frighten me sometimes.’

  They were nearing the city centre, where the streets were much more crowded. It was a crisp morning, and weak, autumnal sunshine burnt off the last of the night’s haze.

  The fog had cleared but the magic was thick.

  Wherever people congregated in numbers, the magic naturally tended to be more abundant. In the plazas, markets and boulevards of Valdarr’s hub, it was already dense, despite the hour. And its variety was as diverse as the populace.

  For the rich, magic was the agency for parading their wealth. They strolled in the company of glamoured escorts, exquisitely beautiful and uncommonly repulsive. They summoned flocks of living doves made of ice, which melted as they flew or shattered into a thousand fragments on touching the ground. They conjured herds of pink fawns, and fireflies the size of pigeons that throbbed with blinding light. They caused talking bears to roam abroad, and produced cockerels that sang rather than crowed the hour.

  For the poor, magic was the balm that soothed their misery. In side streets and dingy turnings, unwashed children made do with cheap clown glamours that flickered and slurred through their performances. Or tumbling acrobats in washed-out colours that faded in and out of focus. The youngsters’ gaunt elders, dressed in rags, wrung subsistence out of begging. They used rudimentary spells, counterfeit or stolen, to materialise basic musical instruments. Glamoured pipes and fiddles, suspended in empty air, tooted and scraped simple melodies. Passersby flung the odd coin into the paupers’ upturned caps.

  There were glamour beggars too, collecting for benevolent leagues that eased poverty, or affected to. These glamours, in clean rags and with scrubbed, smiling faces, were idealised versions of their human counterparts. Consequently their caps overflowed while the real poor were ignored.

  Everywhere there were glittering illusions and cunning phantasms to deceive the senses. New glamours were constantly appearing, while others, expired or dismissed, were snuffed out.

  Another day of infinitely malleable reality, and it wasn’t mid-morning yet.

  Serrah and Tanalvah took it all for granted. They were much more concerned with the level of security on the streets. Watch patrols and militia mingled with the crowds, as was to be expected, but in recent days their numbers had greatly increased. And now there were army regulars at every corner too, and the distinctive scarlet tunics of the paladin clans could be seen on all sides.

  Tanalvah did everything she could to avoid attracting attention. She prayed Serrah would do the same.

  ‘There’s a rumour they’re going to ban weapons in private hands next,’ Tanalvah confided.

  ‘How could they do that? You listen to too much gossip, Tan.’

  ‘Kinsel overheard something about it at the concert hall. From a couple of high-ranking administrators.’

  ‘People wouldn’t put up with it. They’d resist. If anybody tried to take my blade off me–’

  ‘You’re doing it again. Seeing everything as solvable by violence.’

  ‘How else would you stop them? Honeyed words and garlands?’

  ‘What I mean is–’ Tanalvah looked around and lowered her voice. ‘What I mean is that this isn’t the time to be taking any kind of risk. Not with the move so near.’

  A wraith-like entity flew past, travelling at speed. Looking vaguely female, it seemed to be clothed in something gauzy that flowed behind it like a tangle of spider webs. It showed no interest in them. Tanalvah guessed it was a messenger glamour.

  ‘As I’ve been allowed no part, I can’t really do anything to endanger it, can I?’

  ‘But I’m sure they will. Involve you in the move, that is. With your talents–’

  ‘Yes,’ Serrah replied cynically, ‘of course they will.’

  ‘Oh, Serrah…We need you. Whether you have a role in the exodus or not.’

  They reached a crossing of two main thoroughfares. Grand carriages swept by, drawn by zebra, stags, panthers, grotesquely large swans and lizards; any of a hundred different exotic beasts the horses had been charmed to resemble.

  ‘I’m going back to Karr’s place,’ Serrah decided.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’m worried about you.’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘Well, I am supposed to be at Kinsel’s. Sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘I can manage.’

  ‘If you come across any more roadblocks…’

  ‘I promise I’ll restrain myself.’ She flashed a fleeting but genuine smile, turned and moved into the throng.

  Tanalvah watched her for a moment, then set off in the opposite direction.

  It was a short walk to her destination. But Tanalvah took a convoluted route, just in case.

  The neighbourhood where she now lived was affluent. It had wide, clean streets and substantial, well-maintained buildings. The magic on display was tasteful and costly, and there were no beggars. Everything about the place seemed designed to make her feel guilty.

  When she entered the villa, Tanalvah’s lover was waiting for her.

  They embraced, and he said, ‘What’s the matter, Tan? You look troubled.’

  ‘I’ve been with Serrah.’

  ‘Ah.’ It was all Kinsel Rukanis really needed to know. He’d been there when Serrah gave way to despair, and he’d seen how she was since. Nevertheless he asked, ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing she hasn’t done a dozen times before. Not that that makes it any less
frightening.’

  ‘No. But we mustn’t forget that if it wasn’t for Serrah–’

  ‘We wouldn’t be here. I know. If it hadn’t been for that, I’d say to hell with her.’

  ‘She needs her friends more than ever now. Attempting suicide wasn’t the end of her troubles. Far from it.’

  ‘At least she hasn’t tried it again.’

  ‘Really? Don’t you see her reckless behaviour as just another way of achieving her death wish?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s that simple. Well, maybe it’s partly that. Mostly I reckon she’s…pushing boundaries. It’s like she has to have control, even if it means creating situations where she’s most likely to lose it.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We don’t need a problem like this at the moment, Tan. Not with the move imminent.’

  ‘I told her that. She might have taken it in, I couldn’t be sure.’

  Kinsel sighed. ‘The Council has enough complications to deal with, seeing as our destination’s causing so much controversy.’

  ‘That’s not your concern, dear. Let others take the decisions. Don’t fret about it.’

  ‘I do rather, don’t I?’ He smiled, almost shyly. ‘But it’s only because I care passionately for the enterprise. I wouldn’t want anything to endanger it.’

  She smiled back. ‘I know that. Even if we don’t see entirely eye to eye on the place the Council’s chosen.’

  ‘I think it’s an inspired choice.’

  ‘In some ways it is. But it has bad associations for many in my former profession. It’s never been that popular with whores.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t–’

  ‘We can’t change what I was, Kin. I thought we’d agreed to be honest about it.’

  ‘We did. I just don’t like you referring to yourself that way.’

  ‘It’s only a word. A description of something I did, not what I am.’

  ‘Of course it is, my love. And as far as the haven’s concerned we can expunge its history and build something better there. But it doesn’t matter where the refuge is. The important thing–’ he leaned forward and kissed her ‘–is that we share the same dream.’

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  ‘I only wish I could do something more constructive to help bring it about.’

  ‘This is your day for worrying, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, there’s not much call for a pacifist in a resistance movement.’

  ‘Idiot,’ she teased. ‘You’ve done invaluable work for the cause, and risked your life in the process.’

  ‘I think you’re pitching it a bit high, Tan. Anyway, since Karr pulled me from intelligence gathering I feel like a fifth wheel on a wagon.’

  ‘I’m glad he did. It was getting far too dangerous. Now you can concentrate on your real talent.’

  ‘The singing? It seems frivolous at times like these.’

  ‘It brings people respite. Don’t underestimate the value of that, my dear.’

  ‘If anybody’s getting respite, Tan, it’s the wrong people; the rich, the influential, the occupiers and their followers. What I do never seemed more irrelevant.’

  ‘So make it relevant.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You have a gift from the gods. It’s a sin not to use it. Take your voice to those who wouldn’t normally hear it. Let the poor have the benefit for once.’

  ‘I’ve always tried to perform for as wide an audience as possible.’

  ‘Yes, but what does that amount to? A few seats for charity cases. That’s not your fault, Kin; it’s the system you’re part of. What I’m thinking of is something big, and cheap enough for people to afford. No, forget that. Free. Free and open to everyone.’

  ‘In one of the city’s open spaces. A park, perhaps.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘It’s a good idea, Tan. But…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re in a state of emergency, remember. Martial law. The authorities aren’t keen on large gatherings.’

  ‘You have connections. Use them. Pull strings.’

  He brightened. ‘I could try, I suppose.’

  ‘Sell it as a mollifying event. You know, a way to turn people’s minds from the troubles.’

  ‘Bread and circuses.’

  ‘If you’re not taking this seriously, Kin–’

  ‘No, no.’ He laughed and hugged her. ‘I said, it’s a good idea. Thank you, Tan.’

  She could see he was taken with the notion. It was good to set his mind on something other than brooding about the move.

  There was a clattering on the stairs, and shrill, excited voices.

  Kinsel grinned. ‘Here comes trouble.’

  Two minor hurricanes burst through the door. Teg, nearly six, had a shock of ginger hair and freckled cheeks. His sister, Lirrin, going on nine, sported a long blonde mane nearly as pale as her milky complexion.

  The children rushed to enfold themselves in outstretched arms. Amid a flurry of caresses and laughter, Kinsel ushered the youngsters into the parlour. Tanalvah hung back, watching them. Lirrin, wearing her habitual, slightly serious expression, even when she should be free of cares. Teg, mercifully still too young to comprehend the full horror of their mother’s murder.

  And Kinsel. A little on the short side, well built, with a classical singer’s drum chest, cropped black hair and a close beard. On his hands and knees, blissfully happy in horseplay with the children. Like a child himself. Trying, perhaps, to bind the unexplained wound that blighted his own childhood.

  Tanalvah’s family. The only one she’d ever known. Miraculously arriving in her life ready-made: another gift from the gods.

  Let there be something better for them, she thought. For all of us. In our new home.

  She shivered as though a chill wind had blown in from the unrealised future.

  If we ever get there.

  4

  In common with every other land, there were locations in Bhealfa that people tended to avoid. Dangerous, unsettling places, such as the Great Chasm at Murcall, that legend said had opened up to swallow a warlord’s invading horde. Spots like the forest of Bohm, with its curious ruins that many believed dated from the time of the Founders, and from which few travellers returned. Or the Starkiss valley fracture, where at intervals a geyser spewed raw magic, despite a thirty-year effort to seal the breach.

  There were undesirable sites for urban dwellers, too. Lawless quarters, debtors’ prisons and the re-education camps figured high on the list. But one was shunned above all others. A place where people were more often taken than chose to visit.

  The headquarters of the paladin clans in Valdarr was a forbidding redoubt. Doubly so as an autumnal dusk fell. A large and imposing complex of grey stone structures, it existed behind high walls and heavily guarded gates. Black pennants flew at the tops of its many watchtowers.

  That the compound stood in such a prime position was testament to the clans’ overweening power. As soldiers of fortune, to use the polite term, they fought for both Gath Tampoor and Rintarah, and professed to see no conflict of loyalties. Their constitutional position was unique. They were deemed stateless, a legal nicety they’d wrung from grateful clients on opposite sides of the divide.

  If an ignorant person were to ask what the paladins did that regular forces didn’t, the answer would be everything and anything. Consequently their wealth and influence were considerable.

  As the light began to fail, a man walked the spotless paths bisecting the rows of neatly maintained buildings. An observer would have put his age at around twenty summers. He was blond and clean-shaven. The tunic he wore was black with triple lines of red piping at the wrists and a circular red patch on the left breast. Markings that indicated his function was administrative rather than combative, and that he served the clans without being fully of the clans. He had an oilskin document pouch tucked under one arm. Back straight, he moved smartly, free arm swinging military style. Watchful human eyes followed his pr
ogress, and eavesdropper glamours hovered above.

  His thoughts centred on the secrets harboured by his stern surroundings. Their secrets, and his own.

  He came to a long, low, single-storey building that was in fact a wing projecting from a much larger central edifice. This was the core fortress, its sloping walls dizzyingly tall and dressed with crenellated defences. The wing was an infirmary, reserved for the highest ranking.

  A pair of sentries guarded the door. Their tunics were crimson, indicating full clan blood. They didn’t salute him, but did stand aside to let him pass. He nodded and went in.

  The interior consisted of a central corridor with doors off to either side. The room he wanted was at the far end. Just before he reached it, the door flew open.

  An elderly man stumbled out. His robes marked him as a physician, and he was in a state of agitation. No sooner had he cleared the door than a china jug flew out, barely missing him, and shattered against the opposite wall. He pushed past, ashen faced, and fled.

  The young man took a breath, knocked, and stuck his head into the room.

  ‘I said stay out! Oh, it’s you, Meakin.’

  Devlor Bastorran, heir apparent to the clans leadership, lay in an oversized bed. One of his legs was plastered from thigh to ankle and suspended by a pulley. He was coverd in scars and abrasions and his closely trimmed black hair had a small shaven patch, revealing a laceration that was still healing.

  He put down the porcelain bowl he was about to throw. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, man. Come in!’

  Lahon Meakin entered. ‘If this isn’t a convenient time, sir…’

  ‘Time’s one thing I have plenty of at the moment.’ He nodded at a chair. ‘Sit.’

  The aide shut the door and did as he was told, placing the folder on his lap.

  Bastorran turned to look at him, and winced through clenched teeth. ‘Damn leg!’

  ‘Can I summon assistance, sir?’

  ‘Absolutely not. If that last healer’s anything to go by, I’m better off without their ministrations.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Now report.’

  Meakin started to leaf through the contents of his folder.