Way of Shadows nat-1

by Brent Weeks

  “The king’s tourney,” Master Blint said.

  Kylar grabbed a rag and mopped his face. This safe house was small and it got stiflingly hot. King Aleine Gunder IX had convinced the Blademasters to certify a tourney in Cenaria. Of course, they might watch and decide that not even the winner was good enough to be a Blademaster, but on the other hand, they might decide that three or four contestants were. Even a first echelon Blademaster could find great work at any royal court in Midcyru. But, typically, Blint had sneered about the whole affair. Kylar said, “You said the king’s tourney was for the desperate, the rich, and the foolish.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Blint said.

  “But you want me to fight anyway,” Kylar said. He guessed that made him “desperate.” Most children’s Talent quickened by their early teens. His still hadn’t, and Blint was losing his patience.

  “The king’s holding the tourney so he can hire the winners to be bodyguards. He wants to make sure he isn’t hiring any wetboys, so this tourney has a special rule: no one Talented allowed. There will be a maja at the tourney to check all the contestants, a Chantry-trained healer. She’s also there to ward the swords so the contestants don’t kill each other and to heal anyone who gets hurt. The Nine have decided to flex their muscle. They want one of their own to win, to remind everyone who’s who in this city. So it’s a situation that fits you like a peg leg fits a cripple. Not that that’s a coincidence. This tourney wouldn’t even be happening if they hadn’t suggested it. The Nine knows all about you and your little problem.”

  “What?” Kylar was incredulous. He hadn’t even known they knew who he was. What if he lost?

  “Hu Gibbet showed off his apprentice Viridiana to the Nine this week. A girl, Kylar. I watched her fight. She’s Talented, of course. She’d take you, no problem.”

  Kylar felt a wave of shame. Hu Gibbet was a murderer of the vilest sort. Hu loved murder, loved cruelty for its own sake. Hu never failed, but he also always killed more than just the target. Blint despised him. Kylar was making his master look second-best to a butcher.

  “Wait,” Kylar said. “Isn’t the tourney today?”

  It was noon when Kylar arrived at the stadium on the north side of the Warrens. It had only been used for horse races for the last twelve years. Before that, it had been the home of the Death Games. As Kylar approached, he could hear the crowds within. The stadium could hold fifteen thousand people, and it sounded full.

  He walked in a cocky glide. It was meant not only to suggest an arrogant young swordsman, but also to disguise his own natural stride. Count Drake wouldn’t attend an event that he saw as reminiscent of the Death Games, but Logan Gyre might, as would any number of the young nobles Kylar had to interact with on a fairly regular basis. Usually, Kylar felt no anxiety when he was disguised. First, he was good enough with disguises now that he didn’t feel much danger. Second, anxiety drew attention like a lodestone. But now his stomach was in an uproar because his disguise was no disguise at all.

  Master Blint had given him the clothes without comment. They were wetboy grays as fine as anything Master Blint owned himself. These were the mottled gray and black that made a better camouflage in darkness than pure black did, the mottling breaking up the human shape. They were fitted perfectly, thin and tight on his limbs, but not impeding his movement. He suspected that the slender cut had another purpose: the Nine wanted him to look as young as possible. We sent an un-Talented child as our champion. He thrashed you. What happens when we send a wetboy?

  His clothes were completed with a black silk—silk!—cloak, a black silk mask that left only holes for his eyes, a slit for his mouth, and a shock of his dark hair uncovered. He’d rubbed a paste into his hair to make it look utterly black and pulled it into short, disheveled points. In place of his black weapons harness, Blint had given him one of gold, with gold sheaths for each of his daggers, throwing knives, and sword. They stood out starkly against the drab wetboy grays. Blint had rolled his eyes as he gave it to Kylar. “If you’ve got to go for melodrama, you might as well do it right,” he said.

  Like this is my fault?

  Few people lingered on the streets, but when Kylar strode to the side entrance of stadium, spectators and vendors gawked at him. He walked inside and found the fighters’ chamber. There were over two hundred men and a couple dozen women inside. They ranged from huge bashers Kylar recognized to mercenaries and soldiers to indolent young noblemen to peasants from the Warrens who had no business holding a sword. The desperate, the rich, and the foolish indeed.

  He was noticed immediately and a silence spread through the men joking too loudly, soldiers stretching, and women checking and double-checking their blades.

  “Is that everyone?” a bookish woman asked, coming in from a side room. She almost bumped into the huge man who was walking in with her as he stopped abruptly. Kylar’s breath caught. It was Logan. Logan wasn’t going to watch—he was going to compete. Then the maja saw Kylar. She covered her surprise better than most. “I—I see. Well, young man, come with me.”

  Acutely aware of maintaining his cocky glide, Kylar walked right past Logan and the others. It was oddly satisfying to hear whispers erupt behind him.

  The examination room had once been used to treat injured slave fighters. It had the feel of a room that had seen a lot of death. There were even gutters around at the base of each wall so blood could be washed away easily. “I’m Sister Drissa Nile,” the woman said. “And though Blademasters learn to use all edged weapons, for this tourney you can only use your sword. I’m going to have to ask you to remove your other weapons.”

  Kylar gave her his best Durzo Blint stare.

  She cleared her throat. “I suppose I could bind them magically to their sheaths. You won’t be able to draw them for perhaps six hours, when the weaves dissipate.”

  Kylar nodded acquiescence. As she muttered under her breath, wrapping weaves around each of his sheaths, he studied the brackets that had been posted on the wall. He found Logan quickly, then actually looked for a few moments for his own name. Like the Nine entered me under my real name. “What am I listed as?” Kylar asked.

  She paused and pointed. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that’s you.” The name was listed as “Kage.” Drissa muttered, and an accent appeared out of nowhere over the E. “Kagé, the Shadow. If the Sa’kagé didn’t send you, young man, you’d better find yourself a fast horse.”

  No pressure. Kylar was just glad to see that he was in the opposite bracket from Logan. His friend had grown into his height. Logan Gyre was no longer clumsy; he had a huge reach, and he was strong, but training for an hour every other day wasn’t the same as training for hours every day under Master Blint’s tutelage. Logan was a good fighter, but there was no way he’d make it to the top of his own bracket, which meant Kylar wouldn’t have to face him.

  Kylar drew his sword and Sister Nile warded it. He tested the edge and it was not just flat but blunted in a small circle around each edge, which showed she knew what she was doing. Even a practice sword could cut if you sliced someone hard enough. At the same time, the weaves didn’t appear to add any weight to the blade, or to change how it traveled through the air. “Nice,” Kylar said. He was trying to be as laconic as Durzo so he didn’t give away his voice. Most of Kylar’s voice disguises still made him sound like a child trying to sound like a man. It was more embarrassing than effective.

  “The rules of the tourney are the first swordsman to touch his opponent three times wins. I’ve bonded a ward to each fighter’s body that makes opponents’ swords react. The first time you touch your opponent, your sword will glow yellow. Second, orange. Third, red. Now, the last thing,” she said. “Making sure you have no Talent. I’ll have to touch you for this.”

  “I thought you could See.”

  “I can, but I’ve heard rumors of people being able to disguise their Talent, and I won’t break my oath to make sure this fight is fair, not even here, not even for the Sa’kagé.” Drissa
put her hand on his hand. She mumbled to herself the whole time. As Blint had explained it, women needed to speak to use their Talent, but apparently it didn’t need to be comprehensible.

  She stopped abruptly and looked him in the eye. She chewed her lip and then put her hand back on his. “That’s no disguise,” she said. “I’ve never seen …Do they know? They must, I suppose, or they wouldn’t have sent him, but …”

  “What are you talking about?” Kylar asked.

  Sister Nile stepped back reluctantly, as if she didn’t appreciate having to deal with a human being when she had something far more interesting on her hands. “You’re broken,” she said.

  “Go to hell.”

  She blinked. “I’m sorry, I meant …People colloquially speak about ‘having the Talent’ as if it’s simple. But it’s not simple. There are three things that must all work together for a man or woman to become a mage. First, there’s your glore vyrden, roughly your life-magic. It’s magic gleaned perhaps from your living processes, like we get energy from food, or maybe it’s from your soul—we don’t know, but it’s internal. Half of all people have a glore vyrden. Maybe everyone, just in most it’s too small to detect. Second, some people have a conduit or a process that translates that power into magic or into action. It’s usually very thin. Sometimes it’s blocked. But say a man’s brother has a loaded hay wagon fall on him—in that extremity, the man might tap his glore vyrden for the only time in his life and be able to lift the wagon. On the other hand, men who have a glore vyrden and a wide-open conduit tend to be athletes or soldiers. They sometimes perform far better than the men around them, but then, like all others, it takes them time to recuperate. The amount of magic they can use is small and quickly exhausted. If you told them they were using magic, they wouldn’t believe you. For a man to be a mage, he needs a third component as well: he must be able to absorb magic from sunlight or fire so that he can refill his glore vyrden again and again. Most of us absorb light through the eyes, but some do it through the skin. That is why, we think, Friaku’s gorathi go into battle naked, not to intimidate their foes, but to give themselves access to as much magic as possible.”

  “So what’s that got to do with me?” Kylar asked.

  “Young man, you can absorb magic, either through your eyes like a magus, or through your skin. Your skin is practically glowing with it. I’d guess you would have a natural bent toward body magics. And your glore vyrden? I’ve never seen one like it. You could use magic for half the night and not empty it. It’s perfect for a wetboy. But…” She grimaced. “I’m sorry. Your conduit.”

  “What, it’s blocked? Is it bad?” He already knew it was blocked. Blint had been trying to break the block for years. That also made sense of why Blint had made him lie out in the sun, or sit uncomfortably close to forge fires—he’d been trying to force an overflow of magic, so that Kylar couldn’t help but use it.

  “You have no conduit.”

  “Will you fix it? Money’s no object,” Kylar said, his chest tight.

  “It’s not a matter of drilling a hole. It’s more like making new lungs. This is not something any healer in the Chantry has even seen, much less tried to fix, and with a Talent of your Talent’s magnitude, my guess is that the attempt would be lethal to you and the healer both. Do you know any magi who would risk their life for you?”

  Kylar shook his head.

  “Then I’m sorry.”

  “Could the Gandians help me? They have the best healers, don’t they?”

  “I’m going to choose not to take offense at that, though most Sisters would. I’ve heard wild stories from the men’s green school. Not that I believe it, but I heard of a magus who saved a dying woman’s unborn child by putting it in her sister’s womb. Even if that’s true, that’s dealing with pregnancy, and we healers work with difficult pregnancies all the time. What you’ve got we never see. People come to us because they’re sick. They bring their children to the Chantry or one of the men’s schools because they’ve set a barn on fire, or healed a playmate, or thrown a chair at someone’s head using only their minds. People like you don’t come to us; they just feel frustrated by life, like they’re supposed to be something more than they are, but they can never break through.”

  “Thanks,” Kylar said.

  “Sorry.”

  “So that’s it. There’s nothing for me?”

  “I’m sure the ancients could have helped you. Maybe there’s some forgotten old manuscript in a Gandian library that could help. Or maybe there’s someone at the Chantry who is studying Talent disorders and I simply don’t know about it. I don’t know. You could try. But if I were you, I wouldn’t throw my life away looking for something you’re never going to find. Make your peace with it.”

  This time, Kylar didn’t have to try. The Durzo Blint glare came to his eyes no problem.

  26

  Kylar walked onto the sands of the stadium ready to hurt someone. The stands were full to overflowing. Kylar had never seen so many people. Vendors walked the aisles hawking rice, fish, and skins of ale. Noblemen and women had servants fanning them in the rising heat, and the king sat in a throne, drinking and laughing with his retinue. Kylar thought he even spied a sour-faced Lord General Agon to one side. The crowd buzzed at the sight of Kagé.

  Then the gate opened opposite him and a big peasant stepped in. There was a smattering of disinterested cheering. No one really cared who won, they were just happy that another fight was about to start. A horn blew and the big peasant drew a big rusty bastard sword. Kylar drew his own blade and waited. The peasant charged Kylar and lifted his blade for an overhead chop.

  Kylar jumped in, jabbed his blade hard into the man’s stomach, then as the peasant tripped past, Kylar slashed his kidney and hamstring. His sword glowed yellow-orange-red.

  Everyone seemed taken off guard except for the Blademasters, sitting in a special section in their red and iron-gray cloaks. They pealed a bell immediately.

  There were a few cheers and a few boos, but most of the audience seemed more startled than anything. Kylar sheathed his sword and walked back into the fighters’ chamber as the peasant dusted himself off, cursing.

  He waited alone, sitting still, not talking to anyone. Just before his next turn, a huge basher with a tattoo of a lightning bolt on his forehead sat next to him. Kylar thought his name was Bernerd. Maybe it was Lefty—no, Lefty was the twin with the broken nose.

  “You’ve got Nine fans out there who’d love it if you’d make a bit of a show next time,” the big basher said, then he moved on.

  Kylar’s second opponent was Ymmuri. The horse lords didn’t often come to the city, so the audience was excited. He was a small man, covered with layers of brown horsehide, even his face masked behind leather. He too had kept the knives at his belt, big forward-curving gurkas. His blade was a scimitar, excellent for slashing from horseback, but not as good for a swordfight. Further, the Ymmuri was drunk.

  As ordered, Kylar played with him, dodging heavy slashes at the last moment, mixing in spin kicks and acrobatics, basically violating everything Durzo had taught him. Against a competent opponent, Durzo said, you never aim a kick higher than your opponent’s knee. It’s simply too slow. And you don’t leave your feet. Jumping commits you to a trajectory you can’t change. The only time to use a flying kick was what the Ceurans had developed it for: to unseat cavalry when you yourself were on foot and had no other option. This time when Kylar won, the crowd roared.

  As Kylar came in from his fight, he saw Logan going out. Logan’s opponent was either Bernerd or Lefty. Kylar hoped the twin wouldn’t be too hard on him. A few minutes later, though, Logan came in, flushed and triumphant. Bernerd (or Lefty) must have gotten overconfident.

  Kylar’s third fight was against a local sword master who made his living tutoring young noblemen. The man looked at Kylar as if he were the vilest snake in Midcyru, but he was overeager on his ripostes. After scoring a single touch on Kylar, he lost and stormed off.


  It was only when Logan won his third fight against another sword master that Kylar smelled a rat. Then Kylar won his fourth fight against a veteran soldier—oddly enough, a low-ranking one and not from a good family, but against whom Kylar should have had a tough match. The soldier wasn’t a good pretender. Kylar almost didn’t attack the openings the man left; they were so blatant that Kylar was sure they were traps.

  Then he understood. The peasant had been real. The Ymmuri had been drugged. The sword master had been intimidated. The soldier had been bought. It was a single-elimination tourney, so now there were only sixteen men left. Kylar recognized four of them as Sa’kagé, which meant there were probably another four Sa’kagé he didn’t recognize. The Nine had stacked the brackets. It infuriated him. But he sailed through his last fights as if they mattered, doing jumping spin kicks, arm bars, leg sweeps, elaborate disarming combos, and everything else ridiculous he could think of.

  He’d thought that the Nine believed in him, that they were giving a real chance, do or die. But this was just another scam. There were great fighters here, but they’d been bought off. No doubt the bookies were making money hand over fist as Kylar rose through one bracket and none other than Logan Gyre rose through the other. Logan, tall, handsome Logan, the scion of a leading family, was hugely popular. So Logan’s first fights had been staged to be very close so the Sa’kagé could depress the odds against him. Then Logan had sailed through the more recent rounds. Great fighters took their dives at unlikely times, padding the Sa’kagé coffers further.

  In most cases, it was done convincingly. When a semi-competent swordsman was trying to stab you, it didn’t take much pretence to miss a block. But Kylar could tell, and he could tell that the Blademasters could tell. They looked furious, and Kylar imagined it would be a long time before they could be convinced to hold a tourney in Cenaria again. The process must be so obviously corrupt to them that Kylar doubted they would grant him Blademaster status even if he earned it twice over.