As Kevral continued, the focus of the contract changed from the details she and the king had discussed to matters she had never considered. Soon she no longer needed the intentional restructuring of thought in order to maintain her interest. As the strangeness of the wording became familiar, the intention behind each paragraph became more swiftly clear. At length, one stopped her cold. The first reading suggested that she had to make up missed days of work with two days at the end of her year. The king’s and minister’s early attempts to force her to wait until she felt better to teach gained a new and sinister meaning. Subsequent readings confirmed her original impression. Anger sparked anew, and she resolved to confront Minister Daizar about the problem in the morning.
Other points came to light, the minor details the minister had assured her held no importance. The contract decreed that every day she directly taught fewer than fifty students, she owed the kingdom another day and a half. Yet, the king had said nothing about her morning class containing twenty-four students. She daily taught forty-nine instead of forty-eight only because the general had added himself to the afternoon session. Kevral calculated quickly. By this gross reckoning, after four months of intensively training the guards, she now owed fourteen months of a one year commitment.
Kevral seized the sword beneath her pillow and added it to the scabbard and sword at her waist. The urge to slice her way through the help to Minister Daizar’s bedroom became an obsession. She turned the mental techniques toward control. Slaughtering innocents would only compound the problem. She would not discount violence, only add some finesse and direction. First, however, she needed to complete her arsenal. Carefully, she lay on her stomach, contract pinned beneath her hands, devouring every paragraph. Most of the rest outlined the test the guardsmen would have to take to prove her training had gained them skill. Despite intensive discussion, the terms seemed reasonably vague, allowing loopholes for the king to trap and hold her. If the guardsmen failed the testing, she owed the king another two years. If, after that, they still did not pass, she owed four more. Ultimately, her time in Pudar could spiral into infinity.
An animal growl of outrage slipped from Kevral’s throat, and she found herself halfway to the door before she realized she had moved. Nothing could stay her now. Bunching the contract into her belt, she stormed from her quarters. A night maid shied from the fuming Renshai, cringing as the door banged shut loud enough to awaken her neighbors. Kevral did not care. The whole of Pudar could plummet into a swamp, and she would consider it a just punishment for supporting such a vile creature as king. She tramped down the hallway, ignoring tapestries, trinkets, and the jeweled lanterns that lit her way.
A male servant scampered toward her from ahead. “Swordmistress, may I . . .” His voice disappeared as Kevral swept past without pausing. The chill funneling through the corridor did not bother her; the fires of anger warmed her well enough.
Kevral passed a patrolling guardsman and recognized him as one of her afternoon students. Without acknowledging his presence, she continued toward the stairs. The clomp of his boots and rattle of mail chased her down the hallway, then he drew up and paced her. “Armsman, what’s the problem?”
Kevral kept her eyes ahead and did not slacken her stride. “Octaro, you’re a good student; and I’d hate to lose you. Stay out of this one.”
“But . . . ,” he started. “Can you just explain. . . ?”
Kevral turned him a searing glare as she reached the base of the staircase.
Without another word, Octaro stopped, and Kevral hurried up two flights without him. The paper rattled with every movement, and the left-side sword banged painfully against her thigh. Only as she topped the landing did it occur to her she should probably have put on daytime clothing and some shoes. She chose not to correct the mistake. Her power never stemmed from appearances; and if she returned to her room, some of the rage that drove her might slip away unvented. She found Minister Daizar’s bedroom easily and the pair of guards crouched in conversation in front of it.
Before either could move, Kevral drew her sword and pounded the pommel against the door. The hollow thunk of her striking echoed through the corridor.
Both guards leaped to their feet at once. “What in Hel are you doing?” one demanded. He grabbed for her arm.
Kevral whirled, slamming the flat of the blade against his head. The guardsman plummeted. The tip came to rest at the other’s throat. “Get your hand off your hilt. I’m not in the mood.”
He glanced at his grounded companion, then carefully held up both hands. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going in,” Kevral informed him.
“I can’t let you do that!”
“Then stop me.” Removing the threat, Kevral grabbed the knob and twisted.
The sound of rasping steel at her back sent her spinning to a crouch. Her eyes found the target as she moved, sword flat crashing against his fist. He dropped his hilt with a howl of pain. Kevral bore in, slapping him across the cheek with her free hand. “I’m your teacher, damn you. Learn some respect.” She jabbed the sword back into its sheath, leaving a fuming, red-faced guardsman at her back. This time, he did not attack, only shouted a warning as she kicked the door open.
The two sentries inside came to attention more quickly, surely cued by the noise outside. They blocked the entry, swords springing into Kevral’s path. At least, she noted with satisfaction, they’re all using swords now. Beyond them, she could see a room half again as large as hers with assorted pieces of furniture carved from fine teak. A bed against the far wall held the minister’s seated form. Like Kevral, he wore a sleeping gown, the blankets clutched to his chest.
Kevral studied the two men in front of her. “Move,” she commanded.
Both tried to conceal nervousness, though Kevral read fear in one’s white-knuckled grip. The other chewed his upper lip. Daizar looked around them without leaving the bed. “What are your intentions, Swordmistress?”
“My intentions,” Kevral said carefully, “are to have these two gentlemen move. If I have to move them, piece by piece, I’ll be that much hotter by the time I get to you!”
Daizar looked from Kevral to his sentries, and back. By now, they had her surrounded, two in front and one behind. Kevral could hear the awkward scuffle of the fourth man scrambling to his feet, and it pleased her. Any head wound hard enough to drive a man to unconsciousness could also kill him. The quicker he awakened, the less likely she had inflicted permanent damage. The guard had done nothing worse than his duty.
Despite odds that appeared in his favor, Daizar read the truth in the situation. It would take more than four Pudarian guards to control an infuriated Renshai. “Stand aside,” he commanded his men without taking his gaze from Kevral. “Lady Kevral, can’t this wait until morning?”
Kevral moved at the same time as the sentries, and they scarcely stepped aside swiftly enough to avoid a collision. Ignoring Daizar’s question, Kevral strode to the bed, dug the parchment from her belt, and slapped it down on the blankets covering the minister’s lap. “What in coldest Hel is this?”
Daizar’s head dropped. Dark hair fell onto his cheek, crusted with old oil and smelling of sweat as much as perfume. He glanced at the papers only a moment before returning his attention to the Renshai. “Why, it looks like the contract you signed and agreed to about four months ago.” The minister sounded matter-of-fact, but the need to remind Kevral of details she already knew suggested he anticipated her argument.
Kevral flipped to the offending page. “Look at this!” She jabbed a finger at the first paragraph of four that added time to her stay.
Daizar did as she bid, saying nothing.
“And this.” She poked at the second with enough force to bend the paper and jam the tip of her finger into Daizar’s leg.
Daizar stated the obvious. “Are you displeased with certain aspects of your contract?”
Kevral resisted the urge to slap him. “Yes.” Her tone conveyed irritation mor
e fully than her answer, laced with threat.
“Then,” Daizar said with careful calm. “You should not have signed it.”
Kevral closed her eyes, dredging forth composure through savage, boiling rage. Daizar’s quiet fearlessness undermined her authority and gave him the upper hand. If she did not change her tactics, she would become forced to kill him just to maintain dignity. “As you know, I signed it in a state of exhaustion. And illness.”
Daizar gave her a respectful nod. “Which, by Pudar’s law, gave you three days to retract your signature. It’s been four months, Swordmistress.” Only a slight movement of the covers gave away his nervously twisting hands. He worried for his life as well, but he would let his guards see nothing but cool-headed determination.
Kevral glared. She did not know Pudarian law, but the minister did have a point. The sheer volume of work heaped upon her, servants’ interruptions, and her own need for prayers, sleep, and practice had stolen time; and the tedium of the contract itself had made reading all but impossible. She had trusted the king and his scribes. “Your contract, and your methods, were deceptive.”
“Not deceptive,” Daizar corrected. “Clever.”
Kevral did not argue semantics. “We destroy this agreement and start again.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.” Daizar shrank ever so slightly away from Kevral.
“Then I destroy you and the contract.”
The guards shifted toward them with resigned boldness, awaiting a command Daizar did not give. “I can’t stop you from killing me or from ruining this copy of the contract. But murdering me would not release you from it. My death would only guarantee your execution.”
Kevral clamped a hand to her hilt. “Execution might be worth the satisfaction.”
Daizar shied but still did not call for help. He spoke swiftly, words slurring together in his haste. “Numbers and arrows can kill even Renshai. If you escaped Pudar, and the assassins on the roads, no kingdom would shelter you. They’re all allies.”
The blathering suited Kevral well enough. Regaining the guards’ respect required breaking his irritating composure, not necessarily killing him. As the wild, uncontrollable phase of anger ebbed, a plan slipped to the fore. “Very well, I’ll stick to the terms of the contract. Tomorrow morning, dismiss my current students. Gather every one-to five-year-old in the city on the choosing field.”
“One to five . . .” Daizar’s features screwed into a confused knot. “You mean children?”
Kevral shrugged. “Renshai don’t differentiate children by age. Call them what you will. One-to five-year-olds. I’ll need fifty, at least.”
The minister no longer tried to hide his discomfort. “What are you up to, Kevral?” The titles of respect disappeared from his side of the conversation as well.
“Just following the contract. Here.” Kevral paged to the front. “Paragraph seven.” She read aloud, “Whereverfore not restricted by the legalities and lawful limitations placed upon her by Renshai injunction, the party of part one . . .” Kevral looked up, clarifying, “That’s me.”
Daizar made a crisp, waving gesture to indicate he did not need her to define terms for him.
Kevral cleared her throat and continued, “. . . shall henceforth implement techniques of education that embody the methodology of Renshai.” She smiled, only now realizing the king, scribe, and ministers had probably assumed her illiterate. Most subscribed to the common belief that warrior skill and intelligence rarely meshed. In peaceful cultures, that often proved the case, as brainy men chose occupations that did not place their lives in danger. Those who could not rely on their mind skill developed their bodies and reflexes instead. However, all Renshai learned warfare, and Kevral had always striven for perfection in every aspect of her life. Her need to learn the Western tongue with proper accent had led her to visit Erythane. Without that trip, she might never have met Ra-khir.
“Your point?” Daizar prodded.
Kevral smiled. Now she truly held the edge. “Renshai technique involves beginning training as soon as a toddler’s hand can grip a sword. In order to ‘implement the methodology’ of Renshai, I have to teach only younglings. I allowed up to age five because I’m also bound to fifty students, and the dullest Renshai could, theoretically, take that long to really begin learning sword.” She deliberately chose complicated words to drive home the point that she was not only literate, but smart as well.
Daizar drew his hands from beneath the blankets, knotting them. “How do you get around the terms ‘guards’ and ‘men’?” The question seemed pointless to Kevral. “In the Renshai culture, age has no bearing on terminology. If I train them to guard your city, then they are guards.”
Daizar sat in miserable silence, hands clinging to the covers and eyes to the writings on the page. No words could counter Kevral’s argument. Without violence, she had bested the minister at his own game. “You’re a sneaky woman, Renshai.”
Kevral smiled at the insult. “I prefer to think of myself as clever.”
CHAPTER 27
Honors Challenged
So long as a Renshai dies giving his all to the battle, the name and face of the enemy bears no significance.
—Colbey Calistinsson
Perched upon a root in Westland forest, Tae Kahn watched his father settle into a position of aloof composure on the chair his bodyguards had carried and placed for him. At Weile’s side, Alsrusett held a crouched stance that defined threat, a crossbow balanced near his left hand. Daxan paced wary ovals around the meeting site. A ring of low bushes, laced with thorny vines, surrounded the clearing. Tae appreciated its privacy at the same time he cursed the obscuring of his own view. Soon, he would meet the elves who had convinced his father to serve on their side and observe the business Weile had rarely conducted in his childhood presence.
A breeze meandered through the clearing, bobbing branches. The supple leaves of early spring made scant sound as they swept against one another. The wind ruffled Weile’s curls straight backward, opening his dark eyes to a strange innocence that did not fit him. Tae looked away. Four months of reconciliation had brought him much peace but little progress. They had settled family matters. On many of the details of Weile’s business, however, they had only agreed to accept disagreement. Someday, Weile stated, Tae would understand. Bewildered by many of his father’s choices, Tae hoped the reverse would prove true.
Footfalls beyond the hedge seized Tae’s attention. He glanced toward Daxan to assure himself the guard had heard them also. The squat Easterner clearly had. His head jerked toward the sound, and he moved into a position to intercept. Tae could discern only one set of footsteps, surely Kinya’s. The elves’ light, delicate maneuvers would keep them silent in the familiarity of woodlands. A moment later, Kinya’s current whistle code blared above the songbirds, a three beat pattern: one long and medium-pitched, the second lower and shorter, and the third a high momentary shrill. Daxan met him at the opening, ushering Kinya and three elves through the shrubbery.
In the company of an aging human and a broad, muscular guard, the elves appeared every bit the slender, delicate fairies Tae’s Béarnian nursemaid had described in stories. A male with white hair stepped through first, canted green eyes sweeping the clearing. If he worried for the discrepancy in numbers, he showed none of his concern. In fact, he demonstrated no emotion Tae could read, the subtlety of his body language and face definingly elfin. The female who followed also sported white hair, the sun striking reddish highlights that made it look on fire. High cheekbones set nearly at the level of her eyes gave her an animal appearance that matched the narrow angles of her body. Tae knew from experience that the apparent fragility hid a constitution stronger than any man’s. The last was also male, with hair as dark as the others were pale. His heart-shaped lips seemed better suited to a woman, yet Tae had no more difficulty divining his gender than if he had worn a beard. Even after a capture and a battle, he could not comprehend the clues that distinguished elfin mal
es from females. This last carried a coffer.
Alsrusett gestured the elves to a long root in front of Weile. They obligingly moved into position but chose not to sit. Kinya exchanged a glance with Weile and made a gesture Tae could not read. The underworld leader gave back a movement of his fingers at his side that Tae almost missed. Kinya nodded. After so many years together, the two understood one another without need for words with an eerie accuracy that nearly matched elfin khohlar.
“Welcome,” Weile said, also rising. He did not attempt any of the usual signs of greeting that human populations exchanged, nor did he return to his seat. Tae attributed that to the emotional advantage of the higher position. Taller than the elves, he forced them to look up to read his eyes or expression. Though not large or particularly tall for a human, Tae’s father struck an imposing, powerful figure he had rarely noticed as a child. He had only feared Weile when red anger tinged his soft, dark eyes and pursed his lips into pale lines. It occurred to Tae now that it had made little sense to worry about his father’s intentions even then. Weile had never struck him or his mother. Tae supposed that working with the most frustrating, obnoxious, and irritating humans in the world probably had much to do with his impressive self-control. He had seen the way other Eastern men treated their women and children, sons as well as daughters.
Alsrusett drew nearer and just ahead of his charge. Daxan stepped back to his opposite side.
Tae envied Weile’s ability to intimidate without resorting to threat. Different in gesture and from a culture once devoid of violence, the elves would take little notice of Weile’s posturing. Still, Tae took careful note of stance and expression for his own future dealings with humans. Weile was right about having much to teach his son.
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