Way of Shadows nat-1

by Brent Weeks

  “We haven’t found anything yet, sire. None of the guards outside your rooms, your wife’s, your daughters’, or your son’s reported seeing anything unusual.”

  “It isn’t fair,” the king said, stomping over to his throne. “What have I done to deserve this?” he threw himself down in his throne—and squealed.

  He practically flew out of the throne. He clutched Lord General Agon. “Oh gods! I’m feeling faint. I’m dying! Damn you all! I’m dying! Guards! Help! Guards!” The king’s voice pitched higher and higher and he started crying as the guards blew whistles and rang bells and the throne room roared to life.

  General Agon plucked the king’s hands free and put the weak-kneed man in the arms of his sycophant, Fergund Sa’fasti, who didn’t know enough to hold on. The king collapsed to the ground and wept like a child. General Agon ignored him and strode to the throne.

  In a moment, he saw what he was looking for: a fat, long needle, pointing up from a well-worn cushion on the throne. He tried to pull it out with his fingers, but the needle stuck. It was supported so that it wouldn’t just fold over if the king sat on it wrong.

  General Agon drew his knife and slit the cushion open. He pulled out the needle, ignoring the bells, ignoring the guards pouring into the room, surrounding the king and herding everyone else into a side room where they could be held and questioned.

  Lord General Agon pulled out the needle. A note tied to it said, “I could have been poisoned.”

  “Move aside!” a little man from the back was calling out, pushing soldiers out of his way. It was the king’s physician.

  “Let him through,” the lord general ordered. The soldiers moved back from the king, who was whimpering on the floor.

  Brant motioned to the physician, showed him the note, and whispered, “The king will need some poppy wine, maybe a lot. But he isn’t poisoned.”

  “Thank you,” the man said. Behind him, the king had pulled down his pants and was arching his neck trying to see the wound on his buttock. “But believe me, I know how to deal with him.”

  The general suppressed a smile. “Escort the king to his apartments,” he told the guards. “Set a watch on the door, with two captains inside the room. The rest of you return to your duties.”

  “Brant!” the king yelled as the guards picked him up. “Brant! I want him dead! Dammit, I want him dead!”

  Brant Agon didn’t move until the throne room was empty once more. The king wanted to wage war against a shadow, a shadow with no corporeal parts except the steel of its blades. That was what it would be to assassinate a wetboy. Or worse. How many men would die before the king’s pride was salved?

  “Milord?” a woman asked tentatively. It was one of the housekeepers. She had a wrapped bundle in her hands. “I was …chosen to report for the housekeepers, sir. But with the king gone and all …Could I …?”

  The general looked at her closely. She was an old woman, obviously afraid for her life. He bet she was “chosen” by having pulled a short straw. “What is it?”

  “Us housekeepers found these. Someone left them in each of the royal bedchambers, sir.”

  The housekeeper handed him the bundle. Six black daggers were inside it.

  “Where?” Brant asked, choking the word out.

  “Under—under the royal family’s pillows, sir.”

  22

  Little feet pattered into Azoth’s consciousness. It was a strange sound to hear when you were dead, but Azoth couldn’t sort it out any other way. Bare little feet on stone. He must be outside, because the sound didn’t reverberate against any walls. He tried to open his eyes and failed. Maybe this is what it was to be dead. Maybe you never left your body. Maybe you laid inside your corpse and had to just feel as you slowly decomposed. He hoped dogs didn’t get to him. Or wolves. He’d had terrifying dreams of a wolf grinning at him, yellow eyes ablaze. If he were stuck in his dead body, what would happen if they started tearing pieces of him off? Would he find oblivion like he’d finally fallen asleep or would he just split into pieces of consciousness, and slowly dissipate into the soil after passing through the bellies of a dozen beasts?

  Something touched his face and his eyes leapt open. He heard the startled gasp before his eyes could focus on who had made it. It was a little girl, maybe five years old, her eyes so wide they covered half of her face.

  “Never seen a corpse?” he asked.

  “Father! Father!” she shrieked with all the surprising volume small children can muster.

  He groaned as the sound jammed knives in his head and he fell back on the pillows. Pillows? So he wasn’t dead. That was probably supposed to be a good thing.

  When he woke again, time must have passed, because the room was light and airy. Wide windows had been thrown open, and cherrywood furnishings and marble flooring gleamed in the sunlight. Azoth recognized the molded ceiling; he’d stared at it before. He was in Count Drake’s guest room.

  “Back from the dead, are you?” Count Drake asked. He was smiling. Seeing the look on Azoth’s face, he added, “Here, now, sorry. Don’t think about that. Don’t think at all. Eat.”

  He set a plate full of steaming eggs and ham in front of Azoth, along with a glass of well-watered wine. The food spoke directly with Azoth’s stomach, completely bypassing higher cognitive functions. It was several minutes later when he realized the plate and the glass were both empty.

  “Better,” the count said. He sat on the edge of the bed and absently polished his pince nez. “Do you know who I am and where you are? Good. Do you remember who you are?”

  Azoth nodded slowly. Kylar.

  “I’ve been given some messages for you, but if you’re not feeling well enough …”

  “No, please,” Kylar said.

  “Master Tulii says that your work now is to get ready for your new life, and to get well. To wit, ‘Keep your arse in bed. I expect you to be ready when I come get you.’”

  Kylar laughed. That was Master Blint all right. “When is he coming, then?”

  A troubled look passed over the count’s face. “Not for a while. But you don’t need to worry about that. You’ll be living here now. Permanently. You’ll continue your lessons with your master, of course, but we’ll be doing all we can to get the look of the street off of you. Your master said to tell you that you aren’t going to be well as soon as you expect. There’s something else I want to tell you, though. About your little friend.”

  “You mean …?”

  “She’s doing well, Kylar.”

  “She is?”

  “Her new family has named her Elene. She has good clothes, three meals a day. They’re good people. They’ll love her. She’ll have a real life now. But if you’re to be of any use to her, you need to get well.”

  Kylar felt as if he were floating. The sunlight streaming through the windows seemed brighter, sharper. An arrangement of orange roses and lavender glowed on the sill. He felt good in a way he hadn’t since before Rat had become Black Dragon’s Fist.

  “They even took her to a mage and she said she’ll be fine, but she couldn’t do anything for the scars.”

  Someone had just outlined all his happiness with tar.

  “I’m sorry, son,” Count Drake said. “But you’ve done the best you can, and I promise you, she’ll have a better life than she ever could have on the street.”

  Kylar barely heard him. He stared out the window, away from the count. “I can’t pay you yet. Not until I start getting my wages again from Master …my master.”

  “There’s no rush. Pay me when you can. Oh, and one last thing your master asked me to pass along. He said, ‘Learn from these people those things that will make you strong, forget the rest. Listen much, speak little, get well, and enjoy this. It may be the only happy time of your life.’”

  Kylar was bedridden for weeks. He tried to sleep as much as the Drakes told him to, but he had far too much time. He’d never had time before; he didn’t like it. When he’d been on the street, every moment
had been spent worrying about his next meal, or worrying about Rat or any of the older boys or girls terrorizing him. With Master Blint, he’d been kept so busy training that he didn’t have time to think.

  Sitting in bed all day and all night, he had nothing but time. Training was impossible. Reading was possible, but still excruciating. For a while, Azoth spent his time becoming Kylar. With the guidelines Master Blint had given him, and the facts that anyone checking would find, he had made up more stories about his family, the area he was from, and the adventures he’d had, keeping them harmless, the way people liked to think eleven-year-olds’ lives were.

  He soon mastered that, though, and most of the time thought of himself as Kylar. He was getting to know Count Drake’s daughters, too. Ilena was the pretty five-year-old he’d scared half to death when he first woke; Mags was a gangly eight, and Serah an alternately awkward and aloof twelve. They provided some diversion, but the countess kept them from “bothering” Kylar so he could “get his rest.”

  The count and countess were fascinating, but Count Drake was working most of the time and the countess had definite ideas about eleven-year-old boys—which didn’t coincide at all with what Kylar knew about eleven-year-old boys. He could never decide if she knew what he was and pretended not to so she could reform him, or if Count Drake had kept her in the dark.

  She was willowy, fair-skinned, and blue-eyed, an earthly vision of the heavenly beings the Drakes believed in. Like the count, she had beliefs about serving Kylar herself, as if to prove that she didn’t think herself above it. But it wasn’t a false humility: when Kylar had gotten terribly ill the first week and vomited all over the floor, she’d come in and held him until he was done shaking, and then she’d rolled up her sleeves and cleaned up the vomit herself. He’d been too sick to even be properly horrified until long afterward.

  He couldn’t count the times she came in to stuff him with food or check on how he was feeling or to read him stupid kid books. The books were full of valiant heroes who killed evil wytches. Children never had to dig through heaps of garbage and vomit outside an inn looking for scraps of edible food. Older boys never tried to bugger them. They never abandoned their friends. The princesses they saved never had their faces battered beyond recognition. No one was ever so badly scarred that a mage couldn’t fix it.

  Kylar hated the stories, but he knew the countess only wanted the best for him, so he nodded and smiled and cheered when the heroes won—as they did every time.

  No wonder all the little nobles want to lead armies. If it were like the books their mothers read, it would be fun. It would be fun if you felt satisfied when the bad guy died rather than wanting to puke because you saw raw cartilage and gushing blood where you cut off an ear. Blood wafting in a million beautiful swirls with water as he bled to death, held under the water by the rope you’d tied around his ankle.

  The countess always interpreted his shaking and nausea after she was done with the stories as a need for more rest, so after raising memories to haunt Kylar’s room, she’d leave him with their angry ghosts.

  Every night Kylar became Azoth. Every night Azoth turned from the repair bay and saw Rat walking toward him, naked, hairy, massive, eyes glowing with lust. Every night Azoth watched Rat splashing into the water, straining against the weight tied to his ankle. Every night he watched Rat carve Doll Girl’s face.

  The nightmares woke him, and he lay in bed fighting the memories. Azoth had been weak, but Azoth was no more. Kylar was strong. Kylar had acted. Kylar would be like Master Blint. He would never be afraid. It was better now. It was better to lie in a bed having nightmares than it was to listen to Jarl getting buggered, weeping.

  Sleeping again only moved him from one nightmare to another. Day brought little relief, and only slowly did the memories fade. Every morning, he told himself that he’d done what he had to, that he’d had to kill Rat, that he’d had to abandon Doll Girl, that he’d had to leave Jarl, that it was best that he never see them again, that he couldn’t have known what would happen to Doll Girl. He told himself that life was empty, that he wasn’t taking away anything of value when he took a life.

  He wouldn’t have made it without Logan Gyre’s visits. Every other day, Logan would come to see him, inevitably with Serah Drake. At first, Kylar thought he came because he still felt guilty, but that soon passed. They enjoyed each other’s company, and they became fast friends. Logan was strange: he was as smart as Jarl, and he’d read hundreds of books. Kylar didn’t think he would survive for a week in the Warrens, but at the same time, he spoke about court politics as if it were all so easy. He knew the names, histories, friends, and enemies of scores of courtiers, and knew the major life events and important motivations of every highly ranked noble in the kingdom. Half the time, Kylar didn’t know if he didn’t understand what Logan was talking about because it was all part of the courtly life he’d never known, or just because Logan liked to use big words. A sesquipedalian, he called himself. Whatever that meant.

  Nonetheless, the friendship worked, and Serah Drake helped it work by happening to stop by often so she could be with Logan. She filled in the gaps. Kylar couldn’t count the times he sat silent because he hadn’t understood some reference Logan had made. The silence would begin to stretch, but before Logan could ever ask him why he didn’t understand, Serah would get uncomfortable and launch into something else entirely. The chatter might have driven Kylar mad if he hadn’t been so thankful for it. Anyway, maybe this was how noble girls were.

  Kylar was sitting in bed one morning after having spent another night cowering under the covers. He’d dreamed that he had been the one beating Doll Girl, that it had been his feet kicking her, and exultation writhed in his eyes as her beauty melted in the heat of his fury.

  Count Drake came in. His fingers were ink-stained and he looked tired. He pulled a chair close to the bed.

  “We think the danger’s passed,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” Kylar said.

  “I’m sorry we’ve had to keep you in the dark, Kylar, but we had to make sure you didn’t do anything rash. In the past few weeks, there have been a number of attempts on your master’s life. And consequently, there are now four fewer wetboys in the city. After three attempts, your master let the king know that if there were any more attempts, the king would die next.”

  “Master Blint killed the king?” Kylar asked.

  “Shhh! Don’t say that name. Not even here,” Count Drake said. “One of the Nine, Dabin Vosha, the man in charge of the Sa’kagé’s smuggling, heard about your master’s threat to the king. He decided it would be a good time to make his own play for power and sent a wetboy after Durzo, thinking Durzo would either be killed or would kill the king in retaliation. Durzo found out and killed both the wetboy and Vosha.”

  “You mean all this has been happening while I’ve been lying in bed.”

  “There was no way you could help,” Count Drake said.

  “But what did Dabin Vosha have against Master—my master?” Kylar had never even heard the name.

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. That’s the way the Sa’kagé works, Kylar. There are plots within plots, and most of them go nowhere. Most of them take one step and then die, like this one. If you worry about what everyone is trying to do, you become a spectator and not a player.

  “Anyway, the king’s learned of the last attempt on your master’s life and has become very frightened. Usually, this would be good news, but he’s rather clumsily consolidating his power. Logan is going to have to spend a while out of the city.”

  “He was just starting to be my friend,” Kylar said.

  “Believe me, son, a man like Logan Gyre will be your friend for life.”

  23

  Someone slapped Kylar. Not gently.

  “Wake up, boy.”

  Kylar clawed his way out of a nightmare and saw the face of Master Blint, a foot away, about to slap him again. “Master—” he stopped. “Master Tulii?”

  “
Good to see you remember me, Kylar,” Master Blint said.

  Master Blint got up and shut the door. “I don’t have much time. Are you well yet? Don’t lie to please me.”

  “I’m still a little weak, sir, but I’m getting better.” Kylar’s heart was pounding. He’d been desperate to see Master Blint for weeks, but now that he was here, Kylar was inexplicably angry.

  “You’ll probably feel terrible for a few more weeks. Either the kinderperil and avorida paste interacted in a way I didn’t expect, or it might have something to do with your Talent.”

  “What’s that mean? The Talent?” Kylar asked. His words were sharper than he’d intended, but Blint didn’t seem to notice.

  “Well, if it was that.” Master Blint shrugged. “Sometimes a body doesn’t react well to magic at first.”

  “I mean, what does it mean? Will I be able to—”

  “Fly? Become invisible? Scale walls? Throw fire? Walk as a god among mortals?” Blint smirked. “Doubtful.”

  “I was going to ask if I’ll be able to move as fast as you do.” Again, that edge came into his voice.

  “I don’t know yet, Kylar. You’ll be able to move faster than most men without the Talent, but there aren’t many who are as gifted as I am.”

  “What will I be able to do, then?”

  “You’re weak, Kylar. We’ll talk about this later.”

  “I don’t have anything to do! I can’t even get out of bed. No one tells me anything.”

  “Fine. It means everything and nothing,” Master Blint said. “In Waeddryn or Alitaera, they’d call you a mage and six different schools would fight over where and what you should study and what color robes you should wear. In Lodricar or Khalidor, they’d call you a meister and you’d grow the vir on your arms like tattoos and worship your king as a god while you plotted how to stab his royal back. In Ymmur, you’d be a stalker, an honored and honorable hunter of animals and sometimes men. In Friaku, you’d be gorathi, a Furied warrior invincible in your clan and one day a king versed in the arts of subjugation and slavery. In the west, well, you’d be in the ocean.” He grinned.