by Scott Rhine
“In the name of Bablios.”
“Thank you for your civic cooperation; you may return to your quarters and rest from this traumatic brush with death.”
“You’re just letting that man go with nothing more?” the smith asked in disbelief.
The noble thought for a moment and then said, “Of course not. Sergeant, be sure to send a scribe by in the morning for his formal statement. We want these charges to be as thorough as possible.” The assassin waved to his former captor as he disappeared down the stairway. After the man was gone, the smith had to use all of his self-control not to rail at the idiot with the heavy symbol of office around his neck that had to be cutting off much-needed blood to the head.
“Your name, sir?” demanded the noble Warder of the Lower Hall.
Avoiding the subject, the smith said, “I wasn’t finished with my defense.”
The noble smirked. “You build an effective case, sir. I’ll let you continue if you wish. You’d mentioned a mysterious friend to whom you loaned your dagger. Might we question him about this, or is he conveniently out of town?”
The guards all chuckled at this.
“No. My friend is no doubt fast asleep in our chambers on the second floor of Scholar’s Hall.”
The term scholar drew some snickers as well. The Warder of the Lower Hall silenced the jeering. “In the interests of thoroughness, we shall investigate this friend. You two may accompany me, and the rest of you return to your posts.” He picked two of the largest dullards in the company to assist him. The noble walked to the smith’s left while the muscle trailed behind, weapons drawn.
When they reached the dimly lit residential hall, the hour lurked in those little-seen, vague spaces between midnight and dawn that seemed to stretch the senses and elude the mind. As they approached the door with the heavy, brass, flare militant overhead, they found a bundle of colorful clothes on the threshold with a large note pinned on the top reading, “the costumes you wanted rushed.”
The guards looked at the smith. “I suppose this is exhibit… I’ve lost count.”
“Nine,” replied the precise warder.
“But I’ve got an important message for the Heir of Lugwort. That livery is just to let me get close enough to deliver it.”
“Ten,” added the self-important bureaucrat.
The warder directed one man to either side of the opening. “No one escapes.”
“I thought you wanted evidence,” the smith complained.
The nobleman seemed amused. “I wanted you to turn over any accomplices. For which I thank you.” The midnight warder drew his own sword and ordered, “Place your blade of Miracles on the floor, if you’ll be so kind.”
One of the guards raised an eyebrow at the request.
The smith complied slowly, but didn’t move from its side. Disjointed facts were assembling for him on the wall like a mosaic. He had to overcome the hurdle of years of respect for authority to do so, but the warder had made a fatal mistake: the smith had told no one this was a blade of Miracles. Only someone who’d seen it before would have known. The assassin had been running toward his local contact for help.
“Now open the door if you please,” ordered the noble with the heavy chain.
“My friend isn’t quite dressed,” the smith explained, knocking.
Almost all the men present gawked open-mouthed when the attractive baker woman from the kitchen came to the door dressed only in his spare kalura, which exhibited her shapely legs quite well.
But the smith wasn’t watching the door. Instead, he used the distraction to grab the brass holy symbol by its base as he would have wielded a hammer.
“This is your friend?” asked the noble when he could speak again. Before the threat could register in any of his opponents’ minds, the smith decided to even the odds. He swung his makeshift weapon with all his might at the exact spot where the other assassins had carried their venomous daggers. With luck, the poison would take out the spy and open more options in this desperate situation.
Time slowed. Something rather sterner than glass broke inside the sheath. The force of the blow knocked the noble onto his side, and fragments of a delicate instrument composed of flint and steel skittered out onto the polished floor. Everyone stared at the odd artifact in bewilderment until Baran recognized it from ones he’d seen beside the forge of a very wealthy man. “A fire starter!”
“Kill them both,” hissed the warder over his pain. Baran stood on the sheath to the Defender and blocked the opening swing of the right swordsman while the warder on the floor tried to steal the god-forged blade. The flare was nicked but held death at bay, locking the sword in its embrace. Meanwhile, the nearly naked woman whisked off her thin, red belt. As the left swordsman moved to finish off the smith, the ersatz kitchen worker surprised them all by garroting the man from behind.
“Officer Sajika of the Upper Vineyard—Library Police. Drop your weapons and surrender,” she commanded as her victim fell to his knees, clawing at his throat.
The right thug responded by letting go of his trapped blade and performing a devastating spin-kick on the woman’s midsection. Breathless, she dropped to the floor, but not before pulling her strangling cord through the victim’s neck the rest of the way. Blood poured out of the dying man’s mouth.
Baran had a choice in that moment. Sajika looked at him with a silent plea. He could aid his helpless ally or get his sword. To the smith, this magic sword was worth a hundred lives. The moment was gone as the unarmed thug kicked Sajika in the face out of spite. Now two combatants were out of the melee, and three remained.
When the noble let go of his blade to draw another weapon, the smith threw the enmeshed weapons he held at the warder’s head with a fierce yell. The noble rolled out of the way and back onto his feet a short distance away. However, the retreat gave Baran enough time to grab the Defender’s hilt. Adrenaline surged through him as both standing men regarded him and his still-sheathed blade.
The unarmed thug leaned over to grab the Honor from his downed companion. The noble advanced, his sword-point leveled at the smith’s heart. Again, Baran had a choice. If he fled, he could evade the limping noble. Yet, the woman had saved his life, as had Pinetto, who might still be in the suite. Furthermore, the Library was of incalculable worth. He begged silent forgiveness from the gods as he shouted with all his might, “Fire! Fire!” He took a wild swing at the leaning guard, trying to bludgeon him with the Defender’s hammer-shaped hilt. The shouts startled the corrupt warder a little, but not as much as the sound of the guard’s head cracking as he collapsed into the growing heap of bodies.
This left the smith wide open to the warder’s lunge, which missed by inches, ripping off a large section of Baran’s shirt. The noble cursed and their duel began in earnest. With every parry, more of the Defender’s sheath chipped away, revealing its angry, silver shine. All the time, the smith kept bellowing, “Fire starters loose in the Lower Halls! To arms, to arms!” People rose from slumber all around. The more time passed, the more the noble cursed.
At last, enough blade shone through that Baran could try an attack maneuver instead of just blocking. Bloody, and with one eye swelling shut, the policewoman untangled her garrote. This was enough for the noble, and he retreated down the hall, with the smith on his tail.
Just as the duelers reached the entry door to the Hall of Scholars, they heard a whistling sound from the heap as the woman flung her end-weighted garrote through the air. Baran jumped out of the way while the assassin turned his back to open the exit door. Though the deadly cord wrapped around the target’s throat as intended, the victim neither choked nor fell over. The garrote had been blocked by the thick, spiked chain protecting the warder’s neck. In retrospect, the device had been designed to stop the main weapon used by the Library’s secret police. The final assassin waved his thanks to the woman as he shut the door behind him to escape.
When Darius emerged into the hall, Baran shouted a quick explanation and then
charged in futile pursuit of the devious mastermind who knew the terrain and people far better than he.
****
Just before dawn, covered with soot and sweat, the smith stood once again before the Minister of Statistics. The first thing the official said was, “We had the net ready to close on that warder until you bulled your way through.”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t risk the Defender of the Realm. The warder was about to steal it.”
“Yes, that does tend to change the equation, as does your rescue of the Library from burning,” mumbled the bureaucrat, looking at a list of damages. “We’ll send you the Order of Hephastia when it comes through.”
“Send?” asked the sleepy smith.
“An abused, young woman tells me you have an important mission that you were kind enough to share with the head of the enemy spy ring before you told us,” said the Minister in a scathing tone.
“I thought she was one of the nine, which is why I sent Cedric to dig into her past a little,” explained the smith.
“That ruined her cover identity, which caused her to investigate you as a potential threat. Lucky for us, or we might have all died in our sleep. According to her report, we must use every means at our disposal to assist your quest. If for no other reason than to get you out of my jurisdiction, I have stamped my approval. You’ll be taken via our fastest, military courier boat to the captured enemy port of Cardinado, where we have a large, Mandibonian rearguard. From there, you’ll proceed without delay to the front to complete your mission.”
“Thank you, sir,” the smith said with relief.
“All of our coalition members have representative units at the vanguard, including Lugwort and the Queen of Semenos,” confided the Minister of Statistics. When the smith raised his eyebrows, the bureaucrat explained. “Initially there wasn’t much resistance to our offensive due to recent population and troop redistribution. After a few minor skirmishes, we discovered that we’d invaded during the outbreak of an insurrection. In a stroke of political genius, the Prefect has made the invasion into the crusade to install the rightful rulers into both Semenos and Kiateros. The new Queen fights with us against her younger brother, the puppet of the ambitious High Gardener. The fighting has been constant and brutal, but we’re making progress toward the capital, Semenea.”
The dry, academic lecture turned rather more personal as the statistician looked the smith in the eye. “You’ve committed several grievous errors in the past day. You broke your sword oath…”
“Not technically,” whispered the smith.
“Knocked out several loyal guards…”
“It was taking too long to explain and they wouldn’t listen.”
“And you’re charged with the assassination of a senior archivist.” The Minister of Statistics held up a hand to silence the smith’s complaints. “Any one of these charges could carry an immediate death sentence. But sending you to the front lines amounts to the same thing. I don’t expect you to survive that meat grinder. Nevertheless, I impose three conditions on my intervention,” insisted the Minister. Holding up his fingers one at a time, he listed the rules under which the quest would operate. “One, your astronomer friend goes with you. Two, you mention nothing of the nature of this mission to anyone else. Three, you’ll go as an officer of the Babliosian Intelligence Corps.”
The smith, still grateful, looked puzzled. “Agreed. But why Pinetto, sir? He’s a student.”
The old mathematician grinned. “That was the one condition of your superior officer. Sajika insisted. I think she rather fancies the fellow. She doesn’t meet many people like him in her line of work.”
“Pinetto?” the smith repeated in disbelief.
The older man sighed. “I’ve given up trying to figure out these things.”
“Does Pinetto know?”
The Minister of Statistics looked flummoxed. “Not anymore, not after the Wine. And I wouldn’t tell him,ither. You’re already on her short list.”
“What else did I do?” the weary smith asked.
The Minister of Statistics consulted another list from another stack of paper. “Hmph. Other than letting her quarry escape and spoiling her perfect record, she says you let an enemy pound her senseless to save a sword.”
“It was the Defender of the Realm,” Baran stressed.
“If you mention that name again, you’ll be court-martialed. Think about it from her point of view. The blow to her face broke a cheekbone and her nose. Those rarely heal right. She’ll be recognizable from a distance, ruining any chance to pass unnoticed. Her career is over. Normally, if they live long enough to retire, members of the Library Secret Police use their wiles and skills to marry rich, influential, merchants or nobles. You’ve taken that option from her, too,” the Minister of Statistics scolded. Baran stared at the floor, offering no defense.
The old man saw his remorse and tried to lighten the mood a bit. “Anyway, that’s just the official reason. I think it’s because she threw herself at you twice and you never even noticed. I was able to smooth things over a little when Cedric explained your situation. Just the same, I’d be careful around that one; she’ll take off your head in a heartbeat.”
Immediately after the audience ended, the smith was hustled down to the docks where a waiting courier spirited him, a disgruntled Sajika, and a sleeping Pinetto north.
Chapter 42 – Courier
The small, fast courier boat was crowded. Built for a crew of two or three, the boat carried Officer Sajika, Pinetto, and the sword-bearer in addition to its normal pilot and runner. Everyone w
as on edge about the cramped arrangements and the reduction in ship speed caused by the added weight. The only saving grace was that Pinetto and the smith were able to work in shifts with the normal crew to keep the vessel moving day and night. Such travel practices were possible, but seldom attempted except under extreme, battle conditions.
Sajika did little work on the craft, but no one objected. Part of this was her high rank in a much-feared, secret-police organization, but the other part was her attitude. Her posture was so straight that the pilot joked that it must be the stick up her butt. Sajika wore a starched, red tunic of coarse fabric that rubbed on the exposed skin of her neck and wrists. She had her glossy, brown hair bound back in the same sort of knot that some soldiers of Mandibos and the traders wore. This made it easy to see the region around her eye, which seemed to swell and color more with each passing day. She spoke to no one during the journey, but glared at the smith every time his movement on the ship wracked her bruised ribs with pain.
Nobody bothered to explain the reason for this fear of Sajika to Pinetto. Once, when he complained about back pains, the officer moved up behind him and grabbed him by the neck. The others looked on in panic as she wrenched the discontent’s spine with a crunch. Far from falling limp into the sea, the astronomer responded with heart-felt thanks. From then on, Pinetto looked at her with half-lidded eyes and a sappy grin. The other men on the ship felt that the quick death might have been cleaner, but the smith kept silent on the matter.
Due to the extreme efforts of the crew and passengers, the courier made it to the shores of Cardinado just after dad lhe third day. In spite of flying the proper flag and following the rest of the protocol, arrows from the fortified city struck the bow and furled sail of the craft. The pilot swore a blue streak while Pinetto looked for signs that the town had been retaken by the High Gardener. He found no such evidence, but told the others about a mixture of emblems on the shoulders of those guarding the fire-damaged docks. “One group belongs to the Prefect but the other has a symbol I’ve never seen before: a white background with a holly bush.”
“The Queen’s troops. They might not know the drill yet,” guessed Sajika, pulling Pinetto’s head down as a second volley whizzed by. The angry intelligence officer wasted no time in shouting blistering orders to the shore to halt the assault.
One of the shore guards shouted, “Two of you aren’t in uniform, and on
e is carrying a sword. How do we know they’re not agents of Sandarac holding you hostage?”
“Moron,” muttered the smith. “How do they expect us to prove that?”
Sajika didn’t hesitate. She pushed the large smith off the side of the craft. This was followed by a splash and loud, outraged sputtering. She said, “Satisfied? The Imperial doesn’t even have an eating dagger.” When this didn’t get immediate results, the woman in stiff dress-reds said, “I’m the new Ambassador to Kiateros. You should have been expecting me.” The smith was surprised by this new title, but decided to play the role of a royal lackey. He grabbed the boat’s bow-line and slogged over to a serviceable piling to tie off.
The head of the watch struggled to explain his mistake. “Sir! I mean, ma’am. You aren’t supposed to be here till day after tomorrow, sir!” The Ambassador took vocal exception to a foot soldier dictating her schedule. The uproar of their arrival managed to wake half the garrison.
A quarter hour later, the Babliosian lieutenant in charge of the garrison stood in his nightclothes and boots apologizing profusely to the woman. After a rambling session of self-effacement, the man bowed and awaited his fate.
“You left out lax and incompetent,” Sajika said calmly. “At ease. This sort of thing can happen in war. The occupation of Semenosian towns with native troops is brilliant. It saves us from wasting a lot of our troops on rearguard and taking a lot of losses from guerrillas. My inconvenience is a small thing compared to the greater good.” Her words were pleasant, but a dripping-wet, muscular fellow with a foul disposition stood polishing a sword to her left. The lieutenant still expected her to nod and have the burly monster lop off his head. “If you’d be so kind as to inform the Prefect of our arrival and provide our escort, I can let you return to your sleep.”