The Twilight Empire

by Alec Hutson

  Her servant clears his throat hastily and steps forward, unrolling a scroll. This close I can see a tracery of gold veins beneath his skin. “Let it be known that the life debt of the mucker Talin has, by the authority of the Esteemed Exarch Velius, been transferred to Auxilia Orthonos, matriarch of the Orthonos family.”

  An intake of breath from Shalloch.

  “So I’m yours now?” I ask, unable to keep the edge of anger from my voice.

  “Until the end of your life debt,” she replies, ignoring my tone. “But I think you will find my service a bit more comfortable. You will be joining my Swords.”

  A louder gasp from Cassus, which he tries to hide with a sudden coughing fit. From the corner of my eye I see Shalloch jerk his head up.

  “Swords?” I repeat dumbly.

  “I will leave it to my servant to explain,” she says. “I have other obligations today.”

  She turns to address the small blue man. “Irix. Grant Talin one boon that is within the power of the Orthonos for what he has done. Then return with him to the villa and have him settled there.”

  The little man bobs his head. “Yes, Mistress. It shall be done as you command.”

  Her slight smile has returned, and she gives a last, lingering look at me before turning in a sweep of flashing feathers. Her coterie of handmaidens giggle and steal little glances in my direction as they follow her.

  The blue man remains behind as the matriarch exits the barracks with her servants and guards. Carefully, he rolls up the scroll and beckons for Cassus to come take it. The old sergeant stumbles over to accept the parchment, his surprise at what just transpired evident.

  Then the man looks at me, much more confident than when the matriarch was standing beside him. “I am Irix, the seneschal of our mistress’s household. All the servants and slaves answer to me, though as a new-forged Sword, you are not one I can command. May I approach you?”

  I nod, unnerved by the formality.

  “Excellent,” the blue man says, withdrawing a jar from one of his tunic’s pockets. “This is salve, very rare and very effective. It will help with your wounds.”

  He seems to be waiting for permission, so I nod again.

  “Very good, Sword Talin. Take off your clothes.”

  With Shalloch’s help, I struggle out of my shift. Irix makes a tutting sound as he approaches, as if disappointed by the mess of bruises darkening my chest. With practiced efficiency he begins to slather my skin with the goo he has extracted from the jar, and I shiver at the tingling coolness.

  “What is that stuff?”

  Irix remains intent on what he’s doing, not looking at me as he replies. “Salve is a botanical marvel, created from plants that can only be harvested deep in the Tangle. Our mistress must be feeling generous to use so much on you. But of course,” he pauses to look me meaningfully in the eyes, “you did save her favorite nephew.”

  “And now I’m her Sword?”

  “Yes, one of them.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Irix draws back, examining my glistening chest and arms for any wounds he has missed. “You are now one of her champions, and you will protect and serve her and the Orthonos family.” He notices my puzzlement. “You truly are ignorant of the ways of Zim. You see, every one of the great families is headed by either a patriarch or a matriarch.” His speech has slowed, as if he’s explaining things to a simpleton. “For many centuries, the empire was torn by great conflicts between the houses. Assassinations and even open conflict between mercenary armies were common.” He screws the lid back on the jar and returns it to his pocket. “Then the realization was made that a better way to settle grievances was controlled conflict between representatives. Thus the great heads of the households began to collect the fiercest warriors. But times have changed again, and now the Swords and Shields are largely ceremonial.” He gives me a sly smile. “Kept around as housecats, lapping cream and lounging on pillows when they should be tigers stalking through the jungle. But I’ve heard few of them complain. It is a life of luxury and ease, mostly, and even if you are called upon to represent the matriarch in battle, it is rarely to the death.”

  “The Swords and Shields are famous in Zim,” Shalloch adds, helping me to slip again into my shift. “Some are better known than the patriarchs or matriarchs they protect. I doubt there’s a fighter in Zim who doesn’t dream of being offered what you’ve just been given.”

  Irix nods at Shalloch’s words. “Indeed. Your new life will have many . . . advantages over your current condition.” He gaze drifts around our barracks.

  Shalloch lightly touches my shoulder. “You’re not a mucker anymore.”

  I hold out my arm. He grasps it, then helps me stand. The salve seems to have worked incredibly quickly, as my pain has already dwindled. When Shalloch moves to let go of me I grip him in turn and squeeze.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  The swashbuckler gives me a wide smile, gold teeth flashing. “Usually if a mucker in Manticore squad vanishes after a few weeks it means something nasty ate him. It feels good to be able to say goodbye. And you never know, we may see each other again. I’ve got less than a month on my life debt, and if Vesivia agrees, maybe I’ll try and find my way into being a Sword of some matriarch.”

  “I doubt she’ll say yes to that,” grumbles Cassus.

  “Why’s that?” I ask, and the sergeant throws a cautious glance in the direction of Irix before answering.

  “Swords . . . ain’t just for fighting,” he says slowly.

  “What do they do?”

  Cassus gives me a meaningful glance. Irix pretends not to see it.

  “Oh. Oh.”

  “So,” the small blue servant says, clapping his hands together briskly, as if to change the subject, “Mistress Auxilia said she will give you a boon. Is there something you wish? Perhaps it is in my powers.”

  “Take this off?” I quickly suggest, pointing at the gleaming metal encircling my ankle.

  Irix shakes his head, looking mournful. “Alas, I cannot. As my mistress said, only the emperor may end a life debt early. Is there another boon you crave?”

  “Actually, there is . . .”

  13

  “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  From the tone of Irix’s voice it sounds like the very idea of what I’m about to do pains him. I smile out the window of the carriage at the unraveling city as we rush down the wide avenues of Zim. The sky is gray and overcast, and everything glistens from a recent rain, but this does little to dampen the colors of the soaring towers or the garb of the locals as they slosh through puddles.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Perhaps I could tempt you with a night in one of the Silk Houses? Usually only the nobility can afford such pleasures, but our mistress’s name will open doors anywhere. Or a trip to the Street of Swords. Finest weapons in all of Zim! We could find a blade suitable for your new position, something of impeccable balance and encrusted with jewels. A boon from a matriarch should be given very careful consideration!”

  I don’t bother to reply, and the blue servant slumps deeper into his cushioned seat.

  “It’s just that this will ruffle some feathers, and I will have to smooth them down. The merchants and the nobles enjoy a somewhat fraught relationship.”

  I don’t plan on ruffling any feathers, I think to myself. I’d rather pluck them out.

  Despite the recent rain, the streets are still bustling. Mostly black-skinned Zimani wrapped in their brilliant robes, but also men and women of every other color. Here and there stranger races speckle the crowds, scaled or furred or covered in chitin. They seem so unworried, haggling and laughing, and yet under their feet tunnels seethe with dangers, and brave warriors risk their lives so that the horrors below do not infringe upon the city above. That strand of thought makes me think of Bright Eyes, and sadness rises again. Well, if she’s watching me now from beyond the veil then she’ll soon be smiling.

  Our carriage sl
ows to a stop, and Irix lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Last chance to enjoy the Silk Houses?” he pleads.

  I shake my head as I push open the door and leap down onto the cobbles. A massive edifice of gray stone squats among the graceful, colorful towers, like a toad crouched in a flower garden. Stone gargoyles peer down at us from the eaves, gleaming from the earlier shower. The building radiates age and permanence – which, I suppose, is what merchant houses should do, if they are to be trusted.

  The bronze-armored warriors who rode alongside our carriage slide from their horses. One of them assists Irix in getting down from the carriage, lifting him like he’s a child and depositing the little blue servant beside me. He spends a moment smoothing his tunic, then marches up to the building’s great door. The doorman – a fresh-faced youth in overlapping plates of armor far too large for him – goggles at us as we approach. He opens his mouth to say something, but Irix pulls an amulet from under his shirt and flashes it at the lad.

  “Orthonos family business,” the servant says, and I can hear the guard’s teeth click together as he decides against challenging us. Instead, he pushes on the huge door and it swings open smoothly to reveal a gleaming expanse of marble.

  As soon as we cross the threshold a tonsured clerk comes around from behind a hardwood desk, his long robes flapping.

  “Gentlemen! Sirs! Welcome to the house of Lessanius! Do you have an appointment?”

  Irix draws himself up, and despite his stature he seems to be looking down on the alarmed clerk.

  “No appointment. We are here to see Ximachus, merchant of the second rank. His offices are above, I assume?”

  The clerk casts a worried glance at the wide set of marble stairs ascending to the second floor. A few other clerks are leaning over the balcony above, papers and books clutched to their chests, murmuring as they watch us. I suppose it’s not every day that a troop of heavily armed warriors barge in here brandishing the crest of a powerful noble.

  “Ximachus?” the clerk who greeted us splutters. “Yes, I mean, his offices are indeed upstairs, but I must insist on sending a message up so he has time to receive you in the manner you –”

  “No need,” I say, starting on the stairs. The clerk gives a squeak behind me, and the titters from the ones above me swell. I must be a very unusual sight, since I’m wearing a tattered mucker uniform.

  “I’m looking for Ximachus,” I say to the staring clerks when I reach the second floor. After sharing a few uncertain glances one of them points down a hallway.

  “Sixth door on the left,” says the young man, his eyes round.

  The clomp of heavy boots are on the stairs behind me, but I’d prefer a few moments alone with the slave trader. I hurry in the direction the clerk indicated.

  I push open the door with enough force that it bangs into the wall.

  “How dare you –” a familiar voice begins as I stroll into the office. The old merchant is rising from behind an imposing desk, his face twisted in anger.

  “Very nice,” I say, my thumbs hooked into my belt. And it is. Bookshelves are built into the walls, crammed with tomes bound in dark leather. A plush, colorfully patterned carpet covers the floor, and a few small tables and chairs are scattered about, all beautifully carved of red wood. Crystal statues and jade carvings are in abundance, as well as a few other items I recognize.

  Ximachus sneers when he sees me, though I do detect a hint of fear in his eyes.

  “How did you get in here, slave?” he snarls, his gaze flicking down to my leg, as if to make sure I’m still shackled.

  I ignore him and pace across the office, my sandals sinking into the carpet, intent on the display of treasures. Most prominent – its green-glass blade resting upon a pair of golden pegs driven into the wall – is my sword. I reach up, my hand closing around the leather-wrapped hilt.

  Ximachus makes a strangled sound behind me. “How dare you! I’ll have you flayed!”

  I turn back to him holding the sword. A tingling puissance is seeping from the warm metal into my hand, traveling up my arm. I shudder with pleasure as the residual pain that the salve hadn’t alleviated vanishes completely. I feel like I’m whole again for the first time in a long while.

  The slave trader is stomping towards me, his fists clenched. He’s carrying a lash of some kind, as if he’s going to start whipping me right here in his office.

  I bash him in the face with the hilt of my sword.

  He was in the process of opening his mouth to scream something else at me, and I catch him right in his spittle-flecked lips. A fair number of his teeth go flying as he staggers backwards, dropping his lash as he clutches at his bloodied mouth. I step after him, smiling, and strike him again, this time in the side of his head. Ximachus almost leaves his feet as he bounces off his desk and collapses on the carpet.

  “Oh, this is not good,” Irix says, stepping into the room with a sigh. “Not good at all.”

  Ximachus has struggled to his knees, blood drooling from his shattered mouth. Surprisingly, he still looks more angry than afraid.

  “You’re dead,” he hisses, then points a finger accusingly at Irix. “And you too, maggot.”

  Irix frowns, his gaze hardening. “Unlikely. When Charilia Lessanius hears what happened here today, she’ll most likely start groveling before my mistress.”

  Ximachus spits out another tooth, his brow crinkling in confusion. From the way he keeps looking at the door I think he must be wondering why the commotion hasn’t brought anyone running. “Your mistress?” he says, the new gaps in his mouth resulting in a bit of a lisp.

  “Auxilia Orthonos,” Irix says lightly, picking up a panther intricately carved of black crystal. “Quite expensive,” he muses to himself. “This fellow has done well for himself.”

  The shock in Ximachus’s face at the name is priceless. “Expensive, eh?” I say, and casually knock the statue from Irix’s hand. It breaks into several pieces when it hits the floor and Ximachus makes a strangled sound. With an impressive effort, he manages to compose himself as he finds his feet, steadying himself with a bloodied hand on his desk.

  “Why does the Orthonos family care about this slave?” he hisses, glaring at me balefully.

  “This fellow is my mistress’s new Sword,” Irix says, lacing his fingers. “And he wanted his old sword.”

  “A Sword?” Ximachus says incredulously.

  “You stole something else from me,” I say, my voice hardening. “A chunk of stone laced with silver. Where is it?”

  For a moment I think Ximachus might refuse to answer, but then he stumbles around his desk and slides open a drawer.

  “Thank you,” I say as he lays the Gate key on the desk. “I’ll consider you punished for what you did to me.”

  Ximachus has also taken a square of white cloth from the drawer, and he’s holding it to his bloody mouth as he stares at me sullenly.

  Irix claps his hands. “Well, then, I suppose that’s settled. You have your property, so let us leave before we break anything else, yes?”

  “But you haven’t suffered yet for what you did to Bright Eyes,” I finish, my hand flashing out to grab hold of the slave trader’s shirt.

  “Oh, saints,” Irix sighs as I haul Ximachus over his desk and throw him against the wall. Several rows of shelves buckle and collapse as the merchant sags to the floor, books and various artifacts scattering.

  “Please don’t kill him,” Irix admonishes me. “That might actually cause our mistress some consternation. A slave killing a free man would almost certainly bring down the emperor’s justice.”

  My rage is thrumming hot, and I would like nothing better than to cut Ximachus’s head from his shoulders. Bright Eyes never said exactly how she came to be enslaved, but she told me several times that the ones who took her killed her family. And now she’s dead, and this creature still lives. I lift my sword, my chest heaving. Ximachus raises his arms weakly, his face a mask of blood.

  “Talin,” Irix says softly. “H
is life is not worth your own.”

  I turn and with a wordless scream bring my sword down on the desk. It shears through the wood, and the desk topples into two pieces. The key to the doorways between the worlds slides off as the desk collapses, and I leap forward to catch it before it hits the ground. Then I turn back to Irix, ignoring the moans of Ximachus.

  “I’m ready to go.”

  “Excellent,” says the blue servant, turning back to the door. “You know, I think you’ll get along quite well with the other Swords.”

  14

  As we pass through the gilded gates of House Orthonos, we leave behind the clamor of Zim and enter an unexpected paradise. Our carriage trundles down a road of gleaming red tiles, lush gardens unfurling around us. The colors are riotous: purple blossoms droop from vines climbing a copper trellis; flowers red as blood speckle a sweeping expanse of vibrant green grass; bushes studded with orange and yellow are sculpted into fantastical monsters frozen in the act of lunging. Birds with iridescent feathers pick carefully through the garden hunting for bugs, the eyes set in their fanned tails watching us as we pass. The only people I can see are a few old gardeners, tending to the plants or on their hands and knees digging up weeds. It is jarring, going from the crowded streets of Zim, with its towers of colorful brick soaring around us, to the serenity of these grounds.

  Our carriage halts outside of a great building of golden stone that exudes age and wealth. The gardens lap at the walls here like the ocean surging against a cliff-face, and emerald creepers vein the sides, disappearing over the edge of the roof many floors above us.

  “Welcome to the House of the Orthonos,” Irix says as one of the warriors helps him disembark from the carriage. From his tone I can tell he’s noticed my awed expression.

  “It’s beautiful,” I murmur as a flock of bright orange birds swoop down from the distant eaves and flutter around Irix. The blue man pulls a handful of seed from his pocket and tosses it casually behind him, which results in chaos and excited chirping as the birds descend.