The Righteous Blade

by Stan Nicholls

  ‘Even myself? I should better him, at least. Annihilate him, for preference. After the hurt and humiliation he subjected me to, not to mention the affront to the honour of the clans–’

  ‘I know, I know. And I share your hunger for revenge. When he came out best from his engagement with you–’

  ‘I think you’ll find, uncle,’ Devlor replied frostily, ‘that it was the wagon crashing that prevented me from finishing him. Besides, he caught me on the raw.’

  ‘Of course, and he’ll pay for it. Dearly. But you’re aware that certain rules apply to our dealings with the man.’

  ‘Not that you’ve ever explained them to me, or why we should adhere to them.’

  ‘All you need to know at this stage is that they’re rules we can’t change, and that breaking them could be very detrimental to clan influence. I wouldn’t like to think you’d imperil our standing with higher authority because of an obsession with the Qalochian.’

  ‘You can put your mind to rest on that.’ He spied the buffalo and pulled taut his bow. The arrow he discharged took the beast in an eye, felling it instantly.

  ‘I have your word?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I promise I won’t do anything to harm Caldason, uncle.’

  10

  ‘How long do you think you’re going to be in there?’

  Kutch smiled. ‘You really don’t have to come, you know, Reeth. I’m quite capable of doing this by myself.’

  ‘I’m mindful of what happened the last time you were out alone.’

  ‘You’re not going to let me forget that, are you?’

  ‘The streets aren’t safe. Best we stick together.’ He glanced towards a pair of militia standing on the other side of the road, watching the crowds.

  ‘You’re the wanted man,’ Kutch reminded him. ‘I would have thought you were more at risk.’

  The look Caldason gave him dispelled any doubt about his attitude to danger. But he had made concessions to his status as an outlaw; he was wearing a grey, hooded jerkin with the cowl pulled up, and he’d temporarily dispensed with his trademark second sword.

  For his part, Kutch had refrained from wearing his blinkers, though he had them ready in his pocket.

  They were making their way through the press of people in central Valdarr, with several blocks to go before they reached their destination. Watchmen were out in force, along with militia and regular soldiers. There was no shortage of distinctive red-garbed clansmen either.

  ‘I’ve never seen so many paladins,’ Kutch remarked.

  ‘The word means heroes,’ Caldason informed him rancorously. ‘Did you know that? It says something about their arrogance that they should have chosen it.’

  ‘Perhaps this isn’t the best time to be out and about after all,’ Kutch suggested, gauging the Qalochian’s mood.

  ‘We’re nearly there. No point in turning back now.’ He mellowed a little and added, ‘Don’t worry, there won’t be any trouble.’

  They pushed on silently for a moment, Kutch gathering mettle to raise a subject.

  ‘Reeth.’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘About what you told me.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘That you think you were responsible for…’

  ‘My mother’s death?’

  ‘Yes.’ He was treading softly, nervous of how Caldason might react.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It was a vision, Reeth. Can you be sure it was true?’

  ‘I can’t swear that what I see in the visions is truth. But I’d swear to them feeling like it.’ He turned his gaze to the boy. ‘You’ve had some experience yourself now. Do they seem real to you?’

  ‘Real? Yes. Remember the first time we met, at my master’s house? You said something I didn’t understand. As you were going into your fit you spoke about it being a dose of reality.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes, and I didn’t understand it at the time.’

  ‘I meant that this other place I glimpse sometimes seems as real as reality. Sometimes it seems…more real.’

  ‘I know, it’s the same with me. I realise how genuine it seems. But…suppose it’s some kind of really convincing glamour or–’

  ‘You’re clutching at straws. The way I used to.’

  ‘What are you saying? That it’s actual? If that’s the case, why were you seeking out my master, and all those other sorcerers you’ve consulted? You must have thought it was some kind of hex.’

  ‘I don’t know what I was thinking, Kutch. Like I said, clutching at straws.’

  ‘Phoenix says we shouldn’t close our minds to any possibility until we have proof that what we believe is true. You’ve no evidence that the visions show the truth.’

  ‘That’s what I was hoping the Source could do. Disentangle truth from lies for me, and free me.’

  ‘So why are you throwing the chance away?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To find the Source you have to find the Clepsydra’s hiding place. To get there you need the help of the Resistance. Refusing to deliver the gold to Darrok isn’t going to make them happy to help, is it?’

  There was a flash of anger in Caldason’s eyes, hot and deep. ‘Did Karr put you up to this? Or Disgleirio?’

  ‘You know me better than that, Reeth. Don’t you?’

  After a pause, he replied, ‘Yes. Sorry.’ There was a hardening then. ‘I’m thinking of saying to hell with the Resistance and getting there by myself.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Find the money to charter a ship, maybe. Work as crew if it comes to that.’

  Kutch’s objections came out in a flood. ‘And where exactly would you be going? Has Phoenix given you precise directions? Where would you get a captain prepared to search through a thousand and more islets? And if you found the right one, what if it was guarded by something even you couldn’t handle? Would a hired crew fight for you? You’re used to doing things alone, Reeth, the way I’m having to learn to. But you can’t do everything alone.’

  At least there was no acid rebuke. Caldason seemed to contemplate the boy’s words. But all he said, almost under his breath, was, ‘You’re not alone.’

  They lapsed back into silence after that, and soon got to the district they sought.

  It was one of Valdarr’s more prosperous quarters, a mix of fine residences and fancy stores. Affluent enough for the tradesmen to afford glamoured signs for their shops. Above a butcher’s, a corpulent, illuminated pig incessantly foraged. For the boot maker it was a pair of shoes, endlessly plodding some invisible highway. A purveyor of musical instruments sported a jaunty pipe and drum; the baker had his steaming loaf; an armourer displayed two crimson blades, engaged in an animated duel.

  Caldason hoped Kutch wouldn’t notice the sign over a bordello further along the street.

  The boy touched his arm. ‘It’s down here.’ He led them into a side turning, a less well-heeled thoroughfare than the one they left. There were shops here too, but slightly meaner, many needing a lick of paint and their stock dusting.

  Halfway along, they came to a particularly dilapidated storefront. It didn’t have a spruce exterior like its main-street neighbours, just peeling grey boards where a window might have been. There was a glamoured sign above its frontage, showing an open book with its pages turning, but it flickered and spluttered fit to expire. The faded letters over its door read The Wordsmiths’ Repository.

  Caldason raised an eyebrow. Kutch said, ‘All right, it sounds a bit pretentious, but it should have what I need,’ and reached for the door handle.

  An old lady shuffled their way. She was warty and little and bent-backed, and her silver hair was trying to escape an ancient, battered bonnet. A tattered shawl of indeterminate colour draped her shoulders. Her ankle-length dress was shapeless, and she wore scuffed, buttoned boots. She, too, was heading for the bookshop.

  Kutch opened the door, setting off a tinkling bell that almost masked its creaking, and held it for h
er. Arthritically edging past, she croaked, ‘Thank you, young man.’

  He smiled, and made to follow. But didn’t.

  ‘You all right?’ Caldason asked.

  Kutch came out of his reverie. ‘Eh? Oh. Yes, I’m fine.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Don’t know. A little…You know when people say somebody’s just walked over their grave? Like that. It’s gone now.’

  ‘Sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Yes. Come on.’ He walked into the shop. Caldason pulled back his hood and went in after him.

  They were confronted, not unnaturally, by a great many books. Shelves ran floor to ceiling on every wall, and there were enough large tables to restrict the floor space to narrow aisles. Every surface was laden with books. Fat books with rusty iron hinges, slim books, multi-volume sets, dog-eared pamphlets. Though other colours could be seen, the majority had brown bindings. Some were shiny new, others were practically falling apart. Tomes with gold-embossed spines stood next to fellows whose lettering had worn to anonymity. The smell was glorious, though it was hard to say why, given it consisted of rotting paper, mould and crumbling bindings. It was the odour of antiquity.

  The sole break in the shelving was to allow for a door-sized opening into a further room, also stuffed with books. Next to it, a rickety staircase rose to another floor.

  There was no sign of the old woman. The only person they could see was the proprietor, hunched like a vulture on a stool behind his littered counter. He was a needle-faced individual of indeterminate age, bony thin. His wire-wool black hair ended in a widow’s peak, and he had tiny, dark, acquisitive eyes. Though he was unlikely to demonstrate it by smiling, his teeth were probably bad.

  Kutch took a folded sheet of parchment from his pocket and approached him.

  ‘I wonder if you have any of these?’ he said, offering the list.

  The bookseller didn’t look at it, let alone take it. ‘What are they?’

  ‘Books.’

  ‘What kind of books?’ His half sarcastic, half disgusted tone spoke of the long-suffering patience of a man forced to deal on a daily basis with people he regarded as morons.

  ‘Oh. Yes, sorry. Books on the Craft.’

  ‘Down there.’ He waved vaguely towards the far end of the shop.

  Kutch caught a whiff of bad breath and took a backwards step. ‘Er, thanks.’

  ‘And be careful how you handle the merchandise, some of it’s expensive.’ Curt dismissal issued, he went back to reading a book he had open on the counter.

  Caldason was standing by the staircase. Kutch joined him. ‘Seems what I want is down there.’ He jabbed a thumb.

  ‘I heard. While you’re doing that, I think I’ll take a look upstairs.’ He indicated a chalk board on the wall. An upward pointing arrow had been drawn on it. Underneath was written:

  AGRICULTURE

  CARPENTRY

  HERBALISM

  HISTORY

  MARTIAL ARTS

  WEAPONRY

  * * *

  NO MORE THAN TWO CUSTOMERS AT A TIME

  Kutch could guess which subjects Caldason would be perusing. ‘All right. See you when you’ve finished.’

  ‘Don’t forget Serrah’s meeting us here.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye out for her.’ He moved off.

  As Caldason put his foot on the first stair, the bookseller quickly raised his head. He wore an expression reminiscent of a hawk spying prey. ‘Tread with care up there,’ he snapped, but offered no explanation as to why that might be necessary.

  When Caldason got to the top of the shaky staircase he understood the warning, and the two-customer restriction. The sizeable room he came to had an uneven floor, and the boards groaned with every step. Unlike downstairs, here there were just a couple of tables, stacked high. But the walls were equally crowded with books. The only difference being that they were jammed into a series of massive wooden bookcases, the enormous weight bowing the shelves in places. As he crossed the room the floorboards felt springy underfoot. The whole place seemed to creak and wobble.

  One part of the room consisted of a shelved alcove, and as he drew level with it he saw the old woman there. She was stooping to look at a herbal laid out on the seat of a chair. Caldason nodded. She gave him an apple-cheeked smile.

  He found the combat section, ran his eye along the titles and tugged out a hefty volume. The book was glamoured, and as he flipped the pages its illustrations sparked into life. Painted characters fought with swords, axes and quarterstaffs. Lances raised, warriors rode chargers into battle. He paused at a picture showing a siege, with a battering ram hammering at a castle’s doors while defenders rained down arrows from the ramparts.

  There was a faint noise. Of movement, rustling and soft commotion. Then the hint of a fragrance mingling with the smell of decaying books. Something sickly-sweet with a sulphurous tinge to it.

  He looked up.

  Downstairs, Kutch had located several of the books he needed. Their cost was higher than he’d expected, and he doubted whether the money Phoenix had given him would be enough for everything. So he’d started sorting them into vital and not-so-necessary piles.

  He froze, letting a book slip from his fingers, and slowly straightened. He was aware of a cognisance, not dissimilar to the feeling he got before a vision, and feared he was about to have one. Several seconds of stilled breath later, he knew that wasn’t it. Something else was happening.

  He looked up.

  Caldason realised the sounds were coming from the alcove. Stealthily, he moved towards it.

  Before he got there, a figure stepped out to face him. It wasn’t the old woman. But it took no great leap of logic on his part to guess that it had been.

  He was looking at someone who appeared to be neither one sex nor the other, though their features inclined a little more to the feminine. She was wiry, hard-muscled and near flat-chested. Her fair hair was severely cropped, and she had a shockingly white complexion. The eyes were arresting; astonishingly big, unblinking, black as coal. Overall, the sight of her was dismaying, and his first thought was that she must be a glamour. Some instinct made him reject the idea. He reckoned her to be magically enhanced in some way, but human.

  Before he could speak, she jerked to one side, leaving a ghostly silhouette of herself in the place she’d just occupied. The wafting outline quickly filled with light. In short order it began to solidify, offering brief glimpses of bones, sinew, blood and finally flesh.

  A duplicate of the woman stood beside her, and initially seemed identical. They could have been unholy twins, and were even dressed the same way. But he saw that the new arrival did differ slightly, and certainly appeared more masculine.

  Then he noticed that they were connected. A gossamer film, shiny and moist to the eye, tender as moonlight, bound them from shoulder to ankle. But only for a heartbeat. It tensed and ripped apart, and each half was instantly sucked into one of the twins’ bodies.

  They regarded him as though he were a horse they were thinking of stealing. But when the female spoke, it wasn’t Caldason she addressed. ‘What do you think, Aphrim? One of us or both?’

  ‘Hmmm.’ He studied the Qalochian. ‘Both to be sure, I’d say.’ The creature’s voice was a giveaway to the sharp-eared; it had a jot of the inorganic that marked it as glamoured.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ Caldason told them, fury building.

  ‘We won’t,’ the one called Aphrim replied. ‘Let’s get this done, Aphri.’

  The woman nodded and they both drew blades.

  Caldason quickly unsheathed his own, cursing himself for having no second sword.

  The woman came at him, and fast. He reflexively dodged her swinging blade. She wasn’t fazed. Spinning swiftly, she struck out again. This time, steel met steel and they slipped into a frenzied exchange. She was a supple fencer, hard to pin down, and checked his passes unerringly. Caldason was just as adept at blocking her.

  For a full minute they traded b
lows, seeking a path to flesh. Ducking and weaving, blades clattering, each tried to tease an opening from the other.

  She took a savage overhand swing at him, fit to crack his skull. Caldason hurled himself clear. Unstoppable, her sword came down hard on a table, its edge cleaving into a book. When she whipped back the blade, the book was still attached. Deftly she flicked it clear and the book flew across the room.

  Caldason exploited the distraction. As she turned to him again he lunged forwards, grasped her arm and half pulled, half threw her at the wall. Crying out, she struck one of the bookcases heavily with her back. The case rocked alarmingly. A dozen volumes dislodged and fell, showering down on her. Hand over her head, she scurried clear, and shouted ‘Aphrim!’

  Her twin moved in. Caldason spun to face him. But he didn’t meet the blade he expected. Something gleaming and hot narrowly missed his bobbing head.

  On the lower floor, Kutch was staring at the ceiling. There were thumps and rumbles from above, and dust was filtering through the boards.

  ‘What the hell?’ the bookseller exclaimed, leaping to his feet and upsetting his stool. He glared at Kutch. ‘What are you two up to? What’s your game, eh?’

  All Kutch could do was gape at him.

  ‘We’ll see about this,’ the bookseller resolved, making for the stairs.

  The noises overhead grew louder, and he hesitated on the bottom step. Then he cautiously began to climb.

  Swinging a chain in a hissing circle above his head, the glamour twin was about to cast again. The iron ball at the chain’s end glowed cherry red and left a fiery trace in the air. It may have been glamour-generated heat, but it felt real enough.

  The chain was loosed; the flaming orb shot in Caldason’s direction. He threw himself aside, barely evading the blistering missile. It hit a shelf of books, scouring their spines as it passed. The acrid smell of scorched leather pricked his nostrils. Aphrim yanked back the chain and quickly had it circling again.

  An irate head popped out of the stairwell.

  ‘What in damnation is going on up here?’ the bookseller shrieked. He clambered to the top of the stairs and gawked at them, red faced with indignation. ‘Hooligans! You’re wrecking my shop, you philistines! Stop it! Stop it now, or I’ll call the watch!’