Quicksilver Rising

by Stan Nicholls

  Kutch and the stranger eyed their circling foes and tensed for the onslaught. It came suddenly when one of the thugs lunged, targeting the old man. Showing unexpected agility, the stranger side-stepped the charge, and managed a curving slash of his knives in answer. That sent the brigand into retreat. But his crony, a scabrous, gangling individual, slid in to menace Kutch. The boy recoiled, all the while trying not to garble an incantation he was murmuring under his breath.

  The stranger grasped Kutch’s sleeve and pulled him closer. As one, they backed off, the stranger brandishing his daggers at the advancing bandits as though they really were a remedy against swords.

  They took three paces before their backs met a rough brick wall. Pressed against it, the stranger held out his knives in an imperfect display of boldness. Next to him, Kutch continued his muttered chant, and began to make small movements with shaking hands. The bandits gloated.

  Abruptly, a swarm of minute lights materialised, like luminous grains of sand. They swirled about Kutch and the stranger, then as quickly vanished, replaced by a misty luminescence that girdled man and boy. The bandits’ murderous leers turned to frowns. Wary, they held back.

  On the principle of downing the biggest adversary first, Caldason fended off the leaner of his two opponents and concentrated on defeating the burly axe-man, showering him with weighty blows.

  Several were blocked, glancing off the axe’s cutter or its sturdy wooden haft. Others whistled close to the thug’s bobbing head. Then Caldason saw his chance.

  The blow he got through was savage. It shattered the axeman’s skull, immediately felling him.

  Even as the assassin went down, his companion darted in, bent on reprisal. Caldason swung round to meet him. There was a swift, frenetic exchange. It was broken by Caldason deftly catching the bandit’s sword between his pair of blades. The assassin struggled to free it, teeth bared with effort, muscles knotted. Reeth’s hold was like a clamp. Sharply, he twisted the hilts of his swords, turning the man’s wrists painfully. Another jerk wrenched the blade from his grip. It flipped, pirouetted, went clattering on cobblestones.

  The ambusher stood with empty hands, confounded, mouth slack. It was a transient state. Reeth’s swords blurred. Two strokes, right then left, carved his foe’s chest. For a breath the man stood, perplexed, a scarlet cross growing on his grubby shirt front. As he went down, Caldason was turning from him.

  Reeth saw Kutch and the elderly stranger wrapped in a glittery mantle that flickered and faltered. The two remaining bandits were crowding them, weapons levelled. But now their attention was divided between their prey and Caldason, and what he’d just done to their comrades.

  He quickly cleared the separating distance. The bandits turned to meet him, their intended victims forgotten. Blades clashed, pealing, as Caldason braved the scything steel and matched them blow for blow, repaying in kind. For infinite seconds the flurry of swordplay saw neither side gaining. Then Caldason realised a flaw in one of their defences. Every time the man attacking from the right delivered a stroke, he let down his guard. Just for a heartbeat.

  Swerving to avoid a pass, Reeth struck out at the man to his left, warding him off. A swift turn brought him back to the right and he rammed home his blade. It ploughed through ribs and viscera.

  The sword point erupted from the thug’s back. Blood flecked Kutch and the stranger huddled behind him, proving their protective shield useless. The old man ran the ball of a fist across his eyes to wipe away the gore. Shaken, Kutch felt embarrassment mingling with the fear; shame that his magical skill had turned out to be so ineffective. Concentration shot, he let his mental hold slip. The shield melted into filmy wisps and dissolved.

  Caldason wrenched his blade free, letting the corpse drop. The last brigand charged at the Qalochian, bellowing, his sword carving a path. Reeth side-stepped, dodging the full force of the swing. But he didn’t avoid it entirely. The rapier’s tip gouged his left arm from wrist to crook. Reeth’s sword was dashed from his hand. His tattered sleeve welled red.

  Kutch’s intake of breath was audible.

  The wound didn’t hinder Reeth. He barged the man side-on, striking his shoulder with enough force to knock his next blow off course. Then he set to with his remaining sword, battering unmercifully. The bandit’s resistance grew shambolic. Reeth upset it terminally with a boot to the groin, and what was left of the assassin’s guard crumbled.

  Reeth took the gap and forced home his blade. Its trajectory saw it through flesh and into his mark’s heart. Lifeless, the bandit fell.

  Caldason turned from the carnage, looking to Kutch and the stranger. They were ashen.

  Half a moment of numb silence held sway. It was Kutch who shattered it.

  ‘Reeth!’ he exclaimed, pointing in the direction of the stables.

  They had forgotten the final ambusher, the one they assumed was a sorcerer. He stood further along the lane, in semi-shadow, but near enough for them to see his anxious expression. One end of the wand in his hand spewed a thick stream of tawny-coloured smoke. Instead of dispersing, the smoke was being drawn to the wand-bearer and wrapping itself about his body. Dense tendrils enfolded him from feet to waist and were rapidly spreading up his chest.

  Caldason snatched one of the stranger’s daggers. He spun and lobbed it the sorcerer’s way. Even as it flew the yellow smoke had all but enveloped the knife’s target. As the last wisp covered the crown of the sorcerer’s head, the cloak of fog immediately solidified and turned translucent. The soaring blade struck the magical buffer and bounced off impotently.

  At once the sorcerer turned and started to run. The stolen shield made it seem as though a thin layer of lustrous, flexible ice encased him. Just as it had when its original owner wore it.

  ‘Let him go,’ the stranger urged.

  For all the interest Caldason showed in giving chase, he needn’t have bothered; and Kutch had still to conquer his trembling. They watched the survivor flee, arms pumping, cape billowing. Fifty paces on he rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.

  The trio regarded each other.

  ‘Your arm …’ Kutch said.

  Caldason glanced at his dripping limb. He pressed a wad of torn shirt over the wound, apparently unconcerned. ‘It’s nothing.’

  The stranger spoke, his voice hoarse. ‘Thank you. Thank you both.’

  Kutch was dispirited. ‘I did little enough,’ he sighed. ‘So much for my skill with the Craft.’

  ‘You tried,’ Caldason told him. ‘That does you credit.’

  The boy nodded, unconvinced, and addressed the stranger. ‘Who are you? What were you doing at my master’s funeral? Who were those –’

  ‘There’s no time for that now,’ Caldason interrupted. ‘If we loiter here we’ll have the Watch to contend with.’ He fixed his sights on the stranger. ‘Which I imagine is something you’d rather avoid.’

  ‘Your friend’s right,’ the old man confirmed softly, directing himself to Kutch. ‘I’ll explain everything. But it’d be best not to be found in these circumstances.’

  Caldason bent to the nearest body and wiped his soiled blades on the man’s jerkin. Then he rose and re-sheathed the weapons.

  ‘Move,’ he ordered, grasping the stranger’s arm.

  They hurried from the lane and its litter of corpses.

  8

  As far as they could tell, no one saw them arrive at Domex’s run-down house.

  Kutch fished a large iron key from the folds of his shirt and fumbled with it. Once the rusty lock was turned, Caldason unceremoniously kicked the door open. Bundling Kutch and the stranger inside, he shot the bolts.

  ‘Windows!’ he snapped.

  Kutch went to draw the blinds. He was pale and unsteady. The stranger seemed calmer. He studied Reeth closely, tight-lipped, his gaze shrewd. But he held his peace. Caldason shoved him, not too gently, in the direction of the main room.

  With daylight barred, save for tiny chinks in the tattered drapes, the chamber was gloomy and
oppressive. Kutch lit a lamp. Cupping the taper with a trembling hand, he moved to the fireplace and applied the flame to the candles in a pair of bulky lead holders on the mantelpiece. Shadows played on the tattered spines of the books lining the walls.

  ‘Now sit,’ Caldason said.

  ‘You’re still treating me like a dog,’ Kutch complained, but did as he was told.

  The Qalochian looked to the old man. ‘You, too.’ He pushed against the small of his back again, driving him towards an overstuffed chair. The stranger plumped into it, sighing. Dust motes swirled in the candlelight.

  Even up close his age was hard to guess. He was certainly of advanced years, but more autumn than winter. It was his careworn appearance that made him seem older. Worry lines crimped his beardless face. His silvered hair, grown perhaps a mite too long for his age, gave him a venerable appearance. He dressed affluently.

  When he spoke, his tone was easier, almost dulcet. ‘I owe my thanks to you both, and an explanation.’

  ‘You owe me nothing,’ Caldason replied brusquely. ‘I don’t much care who you are or what problems you might have.’

  ‘Yet you risked your life for me.’

  ‘I had no choice.’

  The stranger scrutinised him. ‘I think there was more to it than that,’ he said gently.

  ‘Think what you like. My thought is that you’ve involved me in your troubles, and likely there’s more on the way. It’d be best to get out of here and not linger over it.’

  ‘I agree leaving would be wise. But word of their failure will take a while to get back to their masters. I don’t believe they’ll send more against me at this point. In any event, it’s not how they work.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Our rulers.’

  ‘The government?’ Kutch piped up, wide-eyed.

  The stranger nodded.

  ‘Who are you?’ the boy asked.

  ‘My name is Dulian Karr.’

  Kutch straightened. ‘Patrician Karr?’

  ‘You’re well informed.’

  ‘Everyone’s heard of you.’

  ‘What’s an Elders Council member doing in a place like this?’ Caldason said. He was at a window, watching the path outside, curtain bunched in his fist. Now he let the drape fall back.

  Once more, Karr studied him. ‘You have the advantage of me. You know my name, but –’

  ‘He’s Reeth Caldason!’ Kutch butted in, adding knowingly, ‘The outlaw.’

  If the patrician was jarred, he didn’t show it.

  It was Caldason who reacted. ‘You’re privy to my business only by chance, boy. I’ll thank you to keep it to yourself.’

  The words were like a bolt to Kutch’s breast. Reddening under Caldason’s frigid gaze, he began an apology that faltered and trailed off. A brittle silence took hold.

  ‘And you must be Kutch Pirathon,’ Dulian Karr interjected, taking pity.

  They stared at him.

  Kutch stumbled through, ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Grentor Domex was one of my oldest friends. He often spoke of you. I had no idea when I came here that he was dead.’

  ‘All right.’ Caldason showed his palms like a man surrendering. ‘I can see we’re not going to escape your life story. Just keep it brief.’

  The suddenly lighter tone, typical of Reeth’s mercurial nature, Kutch was starting to think, made the apprentice feel a little better about the scolding. ‘So, why did you come to see my master?’

  ‘And why no bodyguards?’ Caldason added.

  ‘I had a phalanx of them when I set out. Good men, every one. My enemies thinned their ranks until I alone remained. That was why my would-be assassins were armed with no magic worse than a negating glamour.’

  ‘Yet still you came.’

  ‘As still you defended me. And for a similar reason, I suspect; I had to.’

  Caldason said nothing. He leaned against the dusty table’s edge, arms folded.

  ‘As to why I came here … Many years ago, a group of like-minded individuals, Grentor and myself included, joined in a common cause. Our passion was to see true sovereignty restored to Bhealfa. To have genuine freedom, not the pretence of it, by getting our tormentors off our backs.’

  ‘Fine words.’ It was impossible to tell if Caldason meant that cynically.

  Karr disregarded it. ‘We were young and idealistic I suppose, but that made the object of our anger no less real. In due course we each took the path we thought best to achieve our aim. I chose politics and talking us to liberation.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Others favoured the military, a mercantile life, even banditry, and some fell along the way. Your master carried on being what he always was, Kutch: a maverick. What is it they say? A square shaft in a round hole. But I’m damned if I know which of us has been the more effective.’ A fleeting reverie clouded his eyes. He gathered himself and went on, ‘I came here with news of the progress of … a scheme. A plan Domex helped conceive and steer over the years.’

  ‘You had to come personally?’ Caldason said.

  ‘Few others could be trusted with my report. And I wanted to see him; it had been too long.’

  ‘What is this plan?’

  ‘Forgive me. It’s a confidence I can’t share.’

  ‘So why mention it at all?’

  ‘You saved my life. That warrants some measure of trust.’

  Caldason shrugged dismissively.

  Kutch had fallen quiet during their exchange. Caldason noticed his crestfallen expression. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m hearing about a side of my master I never suspected. I mean, I knew he had no love for the state. Now it turns out he was involved in something big. Something important. But … I didn’t know. He never told me about any of this.’

  ‘It was for your own protection,’ Karr replied, ‘on the principle that what you didn’t know couldn’t endanger you. Domex was engaged in a selfless purpose. That’s why they killed him, whatever pretext they may have used. Have no doubts about that. You’ve every reason to be proud of him, Kutch.’

  The boy swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. ‘Is it because of this plan of yours that the government wants you dead?’

  ‘Perhaps. I don’t fool myself that they’re entirely ignorant of it. There are informers and spies enough in the dissident ranks.’

  ‘That messenger glamour in the likeness of a bird. It was sent to warn you of the attack?’

  ‘Yes, by associates in Valdarr. I could have wished it had arrived earlier! There’s treachery in my circle, and lately near to hand. But I think it more probable this latest attempt on my life was because I’m a general thorn in the authorities’ side. My death at the hands of apparently common brigands would suit them well.’

  ‘They’ve tried before?’

  ‘Several times.’ Karr sounded as though he took pride in it.

  Caldason broke in with, ‘Why should they bother killing one of their own?’

  The patrician regarded him narrowly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The way I see it you are the government, or near as damn. You play their game.’

  Karr laughed, half cynically, half genuinely amused. ‘You have a properly jaundiced view of authority. Politics has been my way of challenging the state. I don’t claim to be very effectual, and at best my views are barely tolerated, but it’s what I do.’

  ‘How much bread does it put in hungry mouths? When does it ever favour the weak over the strong?’

  ‘You’re right, politics is a fraud. I know. I’ve been a practitioner of the black art all my life. It makes accommodations, turns a blind eye, appeases those who tyrannise us.’

  ‘That’s rare honesty from your kind. So why bother with it?’

  ‘Because I believed governance was about the best interests of the citizenry; that the system could curb the excesses of our colonial rulers, maybe even help break their hold. They’ve branded me for that belief.’

  ‘I’ve heard. They call you naive, militant,
insurrectionist, radical –’

  ‘And they call you pitiless.’

  ‘Depends on who’s doing the calling.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Kutch said, ‘If it means getting out from under those who grind people’s faces, isn’t radical a good thing to be?’

  Karr smiled. ‘Well put.’

  ‘It was something my master used to say,’ the boy admitted, a little shamefaced.

  ‘Then it’s to your credit that you honour him by repeating it.’

  Caldason shifted, looked down at Karr. ‘This great scheme of yours, it’s some kind of political manoeuvre?’

  ‘Politics … plays its part.’

  ‘What are the other parts?’

  ‘Protest takes more than one path.’

  ‘That sounds like another way of saying it’s something to do with the Resistance.’

  Karr held his gaze. ‘I’m with the Opposition. Others are the Resistance.’

  ‘They’ve been known to shade together.’

  ‘As I said, our rulers slander those who stand against them. They’d have people believe all their opponents are terrorists.’

  ‘Does that mean you think the Resistance are terrorists?’

  ‘Why, do you?’

  ‘No.’ He glanced Kutch’s way and added caustically, ‘But then I’m an outlaw, remember.’

  ‘What’s your point, Caldason?’

  ‘Any plan meant to really change things would have to involve the Resistance to stand a chance.’

  ‘I repeat: opposition takes many forms. There are peace-loving witnesses of conscience and priests who disagree with the regime, let alone revolutionaries, agitators, proto-democrats and the rest. Even the Fellowship of the Righteous Blade’s no longer dormant. Did you know they’d reformed?’

  ‘So it’s said.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Kutch asked.

  ‘They’re an ancient martial order,’ Karr told him, ‘founded on patriotism. Their ranks boast some of the finest swordsmen in the land, and they’ve helped keep alive a tradition of valour that was once universally respected. They’ve often appeared in times when this country’s independence was threatened.’