In Legend Born

by Laura Resnick

  Zimran grinned as he hid a hastily-knotted jashar under the usual rock near the spring. Why not let the lady keep believing that their affair was a secret and that half the village hadn't already guessed where he'd be sleeping tonight? A few whispered lies in the dark to ease her anxiety cost him nothing, after all.

  And be strong when you come... Ah, yes, his was a good life.

  If only Josarian hadn't had the misfortune to get caught smuggling, and then compounded the error by killing two Outlookers. But what was done was done. Dar had turned Her face from them for a moment; they must be men and make the best of the situation.

  Of course, with all the trouble Josarian had caused since then, there was now no chance of the Outlookers forgiving and forgetting, or even of their accepting a generous bribe. Zimran would never understand why, having gotten into this mess, Josarian now insisted on making it worse—looting and burning Outlooker outposts, harassing Valdani priests, murdering more Outlookers, and urging other shallaheen to do the same. These were not the acts of a rational man! Where had Zimran's happy, placid, fun-loving cousin gone? Everyone knew that Calidar had taken Josarian's heart to the Otherworld with her, but Zimran now suspected she'd taken all of his sense, too.

  Arguing about it with Josarian made no difference, either.

  "So what if Valdani can be killed as easily as shallaheen?" Zimran had said in exasperation one night not so long ago. "Let the Society do it! It's what they do best, anyhow."

  "The Society doesn't kill them to defend us, they kill them to maintain their power over us!"

  "It has always been this way," Zim argued. "Why do you think it should be different now, just because you've killed half a dozen Valdani?"

  "Don't you see? If every one of us killed half a dozen Valdani—"

  "Then the Emperor would just send twice as many to Sileria. What's the point?"

  "Do you really want to spend the rest of your life watching the food we harvest, the livestock we raise, and the minerals we mine go to enrich the Valdani and pay for their wars of conquest against more people like us?"

  "I want to spend the rest of my life getting rich from smuggling, and sleeping with grateful women who don't expect me to marry them," Zimran said with conviction.

  And Josarian... Well, Josarian never stayed angry for long. He had merely smiled at that. "And so you shall, Zim. But I stumbled from the path one night, and I can never go back."

  "But you don't have to make war on—"

  "Yes, I do." Josarian nodded. "The scenery is different when you leave the path. You see things that you never dreamed of before..." He sighed and met the gaze of his cousin, who was growing increasingly convinced he'd lost his mind. "Even if I could go back, I wouldn't want to. I have a new destiny now."

  "A short one, I'd say."

  Incredibly, Josarian had laughed. "I'd say so, too. But even a short life is a worthy one if it counts for something." He paused and added more soberly, "And after Calidar died, I thought mine would never count for anything again."

  That was when Zimran had realized that Josarian no longer feared death. And as a smuggler, Zim knew that such a man was the most dangerous kind of all.

  However, he did agree with Josarian about one thing: They had to kill Tansen. Zimran had been worried about the scheme at first. A mercenary with two swords wasn't someone he felt sanguine about attacking. However, having seen the boasting, self-important oaf in Emeldar today, with his cuts from the assassin's shir still angry and sore, Zimran had no more doubts. In fact, now he longed to taste Tansen's blood, after what that sriliah had said about Josarian.

  He descended the mountain, sure-footed even in the dark, and made his way to an old goat path that would eventually take him to a pasture above Emeldar. From there he would slip through the back streets to the widow's house, where he would feast luxuriantly all night on some of the sweetest flesh he'd ever known. She'd be a little annoyed, of course, when he told her he had to leave tomorrow and would be gone for a night or two. But he would be back before Abayara rose in the east, which was when their titillating cycle of abstinence would begin again. Well, her cycle of abstinence—he, of course, kept busy between dark-moons. Anyhow, he had to go away tomorrow; he had promised to help Josarian kill Tansen, and now he wouldn't miss it for all the diamonds in Alizar.

  The jashar he'd left on the hillside had been detailed, assuring Josarian that Tansen could be killed without much risk, and suggesting they do it tomorrow night. If Tansen was heading east, as was rumored, they could follow him as he left the village of Islanar tomorrow and kill him on the far side of Mount Orlenar—where, according to this morning's gossip, there happened to be very few Outlookers at the moment, since Josarian was erroneously believed to be heading south.

  Yes, Zimran would be back from there in time for another dark and furtive meeting with his favorite widow before he had to leave for the coast on a smuggling expedition; but she would nonetheless be angry when he broke the news tonight. Slipping through the back streets of Emeldar, Zimran smiled as he pictured her reaction, because she was always particularly bold in bed when she was angry or trying to get her own way. He certainly would have been a great fool to waste half the night in the hills just to have a little conversation with his cousin.

  He was still congratulating himself on his good judgment when he arrived at the widow's door and started to ease it open. As expected, she had left it unlatched, and the hinges were as well-oiled as ever. His expectations suffered a severe shock, however, when he found four Outlookers waiting inside for him.

  Instinct made him try to escape even before he saw the widow weeping in the corner. Panic made him fight back as two Outlookers seized and arrested him. Fear made him struggle wildly as they searched him at swordpoint, and he didn't subside until they beat him unconscious while the widow screamed and begged for mercy.

  Chapter Six

  The news that reached Islanar the following afternoon was so disheartening that Tansen was tempted to go straight back to Cavasar and kill Koroll just to relieve his ire.

  A young wife of Islanar had been visiting her mother in Emeldar yesterday, where she had spent the night before returning home today. During the night, the Outlookers had descended in force upon the village, flooding the main square and choking the streets with their vile horses and clattering swords. They broke down doors and dragged innocent people out into the streets, half-dressed and terrified. They seized twenty men and hauled them off to the Outlooker fortress north of Britar.

  "They'll all be set free if Josarian turns himself in before Abayara rises," the young wife's father-in-law informed all the men in Islanar's tavern. "But if he doesn't..."

  "Yes? Then what?" prodded an angry young man.

  "They will kill one man a day until Josarian finally does turn himself in."

  This announcement was met with shocked silence. Tansen looked around the courtyard, then asked, "These men that were seized—who are they? Josarian's friends and family?"

  "Every man in that village is a friend or relative of Josarian's."

  "Was his cousin taken?" Tansen persisted. "The one who lives in his house?"

  "Yes," the father-in-law said. "They especially wanted Zimran, because everyone knows how fond of him Josarian is." The old man went on to explain that Zimran—the same man, Tansen realized, who had nearly challenged him in Emeldar yesterday—wasn't at home when the Outlookers came for him. "So they seized a child, a boy of no more than seven or eight, and held a sword to his throat. They told the child's mother that they would kill him on the spot if she didn't tell them where Zimran was."

  "And did she?" Tansen asked, too familiar with Valdani ways to be shocked by such tactics.

  The old man sighed. "Yes. She did."

  The men around them reacted to this, some nodding in sympathy, most hissing in disapproval. Silence was the traditional way here. You suffered tragedy and injustice, no matter how terrible it was, and then you sought vengeance—or asked the Honored Soc
iety to seek it for you, in exchange for your eternal debt to them. But you never, never told anything to roshaheen. Such was lirtahar, the law of silence, and to break it always brought terrible shame—and sometimes terrible vengeance, too, usually from the Society, but occasionally from other shallaheen. Tansen guessed the mother's fate even before the old man finished his story.

  "Of course, the villagers... They all turn their faces from her now." The father-in-law sighed. "But at least the Outlookers released the child. At least they did that."

  The Outlookers had ambushed Zimran in the home of some widow with whom he had an assignation—meaning that she, too, was now disgraced before her village.

  What an absolute mess the Outlookers had made of things, Tansen reflected as he left Islanar that afternoon and headed east along the road that hugged the side of Mount Orlenar. Why had this happened? Had Koroll already lost faith in him and ordered this mass capture to force Josarian out of hiding? Or had some local officer decided to exercise a little initiative? Had Josarian heard about it yet? Although it seemed likely that Zimran had been his main source of information, Tansen didn't suppose for a moment that Josarian had been relying solely on his pretty-faced cousin.

  He needed to find Josarian right away. Time was running out. Outlookers and shallaheen would now all be eager to make sure that Josarian heard about the prisoners being held near Britar. The Valdani, Tansen knew, believed Josarian was heading south, so they'd concentrate their efforts there. Word of the mass arrest would spread quickly among the shallaheen, radiating outwards in all directions from Emeldar. Josarian would soon find out what had happened; and when he did, Tansen would become no more than a minor annoyance, one that no longer commanded his attention.

  If Tansen had guessed wrong and the Valdani had guessed right, if Josarian was heading south, then Tan had already lost him. Josarian would either give himself up or get himself killed before the new moon rose in the east.

  If Tansen had guessed right, though... Then Josarian was closing in on him now, his attention fixed, his target chosen, his resources committed.

  If Tansen was right, then all he had to do was wait for Josarian to come kill him.

  He'd waited for his cousin as long as he could, but Zimran hadn't shown up. That only surprised him because the knots in the jashar indicated that Zimran had taken a particular dislike to the stranger and wanted to help Josarian take him. However, it seemed that Zim's innate sense of self-preservation had overcome his bravado at the last moment; swords were awfully intimidating against a yahr, after all. Or perhaps some woman had stimulated Zimran's ever-ready libido, making him lose track of time. Then again, maybe some lady's husband had come home at a most inopportune moment, altering Zim's plans for the day. Or perhaps there were so many Outlookers swarming around Emeldar today that it just wasn't possible to leave the village discreetly until after dark, by which time it would be much too late to get to the far side of Mount Orlenar in time.

  Whatever the reason, Zimran hadn't shown up as promised. Josarian wasn't particularly worried about it. This wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. Moreover, he didn't think anyone was as easy to kill as Zim now claimed Tansen was, and he could concentrate better on the task at hand without his impatient cousin breathing down his neck. Besides, although he hadn't refused Zimran's offer to help, the truth was, he wanted to do this alone. Unlike the Outlookers, who came after Josarian in groups of two, four, eight, and twenty, this stranger had the courage to search for him alone. The man might be a braggart, a fool, and a clumsy fighter, but Josarian felt that his courage, at least, should be honored in a way that precluded outnumbering him.

  Outsmarting him, though—that was something else.

  Hidden in the hills outside of Islanar, he had watched the stranger walk out of town, then stayed where he was and waited for Zimran until it was nearly dark. Realizing that his cousin wasn't going to arrive in time, he then began tracking Tansen—a task which the roshah had made laughably easy. Well, why not? He thought he was the hunter instead of the hunted.

  When he realized where the stranger planned to spend the night, he felt sure it had to be a good omen. Tansen was bedding down in the abandoned Kintish shrine where Josarian's uncle sometimes stabled sheep for the night. Josarian couldn't have chosen more familiar territory himself.

  Since there didn't seem to be much sense in attacking a hired killer who was fully armed and wide awake, Josarian settled into the shadows and watched his quarry. Now that it was dark-moon, the only light on the hillside came from the tiny fire the stranger built. Having never before seen this man about whom he had heard so much, Josarian studied him with interest.

  He didn't look like a swaggering fool now. His movements were smooth, fluid, and economical. His face as he stared into the firelight was serious and rather grim. It was a shallah face, no doubt about that. There may have been some Kintish blood far back in his line, as there was with many shallaheen born in the east, but he was no Kint who had stolen the jashar of a true shallah and who happened to speak the mountain tongue. No, he was Silerian. The firelight left no doubt about that as it shifted across his sharp cheekbones and soaked into his wavy black hair.

  The single, shiny, long braid he wore looked as strange as his foreign clothes—Moorlander clothes, Zim had said. Why would a shallah clothe himself so? But then, why would a shallah carry those swords? Here was a man of many parts—the biggest part of which spoke of nothing but killing Josarian. The stranger held a palm over the fire, then turned it to study the scars in the firelight.

  Seeing those scars sent a surge of anger through Josarian. One shallah should not take money from the Valdani to kill another. It was worse than violating lirtahar, filthier than breaking a bloodpact, more despicable than stealing a man's wife. Shallaheen killed each other all the time, true; but they should never do so at the behest of the Valdani.

  Josarian had regarded this night's work as a job, a necessity, nothing more. But now a dark fury filled him. As he stared at this sriliah in the firelight, he knew that tonight, for the first time, he would enjoy killing. When he was done, he would fling the body off the cliffs above Islanar, right into the heart of the village, and he would make sure that everyone knew why he had done it: So die all who betray their own kind. So die all who betray Josarian.

  Ever since coming home, Tansen had found that old thoughts were reluctant to be put away where they belonged. So he was still awake when Josarian finally made his move. Not that it mattered. The trap he had set was noisy enough to have awakened him the moment Josarian sprang it. It wasn't even really a trap; he'd just left his swords so precariously balanced that the slightest movement would bring them clattering down on the hard tiles of the ruined shrine. Judging by the gasp and curse that accompanied the noise, Josarian had just been cut by the falling swords, too.

  The dark-moon had proved convenient tonight. After dousing the fire, Tansen had set up the swords—a crude trick, but an effective one—where he'd been pretending to bed down. Then he'd curled up in a corner with his back braced against the shrine's only remaining wall. While he would normally never give an opponent such an opportunity to seize his swords, he knew that Josarian didn't know how to use them and wouldn't try. The outlaw hadn't taken swords from the bodies of any of the Outlookers he'd killed, and none of his victims had been killed with a blade. Josarian didn't yet think of a sword as a weapon that a shallah could use.

  Considering how many days and nights Tansen made every move with the expectation of Josarian's imminent attack, he was relieved that it had finally come. Although obviously taken by surprise, Josarian realized it was a trap and regrouped quickly. Tansen heard the yahr making deadly sweeps through the air as Josarian moved in a continual circle, seeking his opponent on every side in the obsidian darkness. The sound, however, also let Tansen know exactly where his quarry stood.

  Having kept one of the shrine's broken tiles at hand for this very purpose, he tossed it to the other side of the shrin
e. Josarian whirled in that direction, and Tansen jumped him from behind, pressing the shir against his throat; hard enough to hurt, as even the briefest touch of a shir would do, but not enough to kill him. For the past ten days, Tansen had kept the shir tucked inside his clothing, close against his skin, day and night. Although he would have preferred sleeping with a venomous snake, the shir had proved convenient; the deadly-sharp, double-edged, enchanted blade of a shir could not harm the flesh of the killer who possessed it—which, after all, could not be said of a venomous snake.

  Despite the pain and the sudden fall to the broken tiles on the floor, Josarian fought back. So, with a sharp and well-placed blow, Tansen set the nerves of Josarian's arm on fire. When he was certain the arm was momentarily useless, Tansen groped for Josarian's yahr, now lying near a limp hand, and flung it away. Then he shifted and dug his elbow into those same nerves to keep the arm disabled. Josarian's harsh grunt of pain was followed by heavy breaths. Tansen waited, keeping the blade against his victim's throat.

  "It was a trap," Josarian rasped. "It was always a trap."

  "Always," Tansen confirmed.

  To his astonishment, Josarian laughed. "You fooled everyone. You were very good. Only..."

  "Only what?"

  "It's not that I mind dying..."

  Tansen had never known anyone, not even a shatai, who didn't really mind dying—but, strangely enough, this man sounded like he meant it.

  "It's just that..."

  "What?" Tansen prodded.

  "It's just that I wish you weren't doing this for the Valdani." Then he sighed. "But I don't suppose you understand that. Zim doesn't. I don't know if anyone does."

  "Oh?"

  "But if only you hadn't done this for them, for the Valdani, well, then..."

  "What?"

  "I would honor you with my death."