Blackguards

by J. M. Martin

  There were six men down there, and they moved together, but not for much longer she suspected. A few of them were armed, dressed in clothes that spoke of function, not wealth. Two, however, were dressed in finery, and of those two neither looked capable of fighting. One was old and heavy and walked with a pronounced limp, supporting a good deal of his weight in a walking staff. Her lip curled at the sight of him in an involuntary sign of disgust. Weakness was repugnant to her. Not the physical frailty of the man’s form, but that he leaned on the staff as heavily as he did and that, likely, the four men dressed for fighting were there to defend him from any assault.

  The Sa’ba Taalor learned to walk by the time they were six months of age. They were offered shelter and food and learned to speak at a young age. Not much later the training began on how to make war. There were seven gods in their land and all of those gods believed in war in its myriad incarnations.

  Physical weakness was not something that could be avoided. In time all flesh fails. But mental weakness and emotional frailty were flaws that were either cut away or costs beaten out of the flesh as flaws are pounded from forged metal. The Sa’ba Taalor did not abide the weaknesses of the spirit.

  “Do not make enemies you cannot defend yourself against.” She whispered the words. Now was not the time to attack.

  Swech ran her tongue over the back and then the front of her teeth, feeling the differences in the terrain of her mouth. These teeth were fine, she supposed, but they felt wrong. They were in just off from where she expected them to be. Her body was either resting in the heart of Wrommish or it had been incinerated when she threw herself deep into the volcano at the request of her god. She had been reborn into the new body, and it was sufficient, of course, but still not quite right. There were few scars on her body to tell tales of her previous combats. The Sa’ba Taalor were warriors, and each scar told a tale. The gods made demands and she listened, but the skin she wore now was almost unmarked. There were few scars and none that spoke of combat so much as they spoke of clumsiness. A scar on the hand where a knife has cut is not the same as a scar where a sword had kissed the flesh.

  Her first name meant “soot hair,” and it was a name that had always suited her appearance. Her tresses had been dark gray more than black for her entire life and she never much gave them any thought. Now her hair was a different color. She liked it well enough, she supposed but, like her teeth, the hair felt wrong.

  Her hands were strong, lean and well muscled, with good joints and properly callused, but they looked wrong just the same, and her skin was unsettling pink in comparison to the light gray she had long since grown accustomed to.

  The winds blew hard from the north and promised cold weather. Swech glanced in that direction but it did her little good. There were clouds gathering, a promise of storms to come. To the south Tyrne was gone, taken in a massive eruption of fire and molten rock only days earlier. Between the two towns a stream of refugees was makings its way to Canhoon by land and river alike, most carrying whatever they could and praying it would be enough. Swech had left a week before the destruction, warned away by her gods.

  A great mountain rose where the city had been, birthed from the very fires that bled from it even now. She looked at it and smiled. Durhallem rose from those ashes. One of the gods of her people was now in place. She knew what would come next, what Durhallem would offer to the world around them, and she was pleased by that knowledge.

  The world was changing and, as the Daxar Taalor demanded, she aided in that transformation.

  The heat of the volcano mingled with the cold of the encroaching winter and gave birth to clouds.

  The rains were already there, and as she blinked against the breeze she felt the first light droplets falling from above. The rooftop she stood on was at an angle. She made it a point to adjust her stance as the rains started in earnest.

  Below her, in the streets and narrow alleys, people either ran for shelter or pulled up their hoods as they prepared for the rains.

  “Which one?” she asked. Her eyes looked down on the crowds and Swech prayed for an answer from her gods.

  What does distance mean to gods?

  She closed her eyes and listened.

  Wrommish and Paedle answered her together.

  Sometimes the gods are kind.

  #

  “Of course the world is changing, you old fool.” The words were spoken without any enmity. “We’ve lost the new capitol and now the refugees from Tyrne overwhelm our town and fill the streets with their filth. If that isn’t a sign of bad times ahead I don’t know what is.”

  Lirrin Merath was an opinionated jackass, but he was also a powerful man. He had wealth and he had influence. He also had no intention of surrendering either, simply because the new empress was coming to live in Canhoon.

  The man prattled on, waving his fat hands about and trusting that his hired guards would be enough to keep the beggars away. The gold on his fingers would have purchased a small house, but that hardly mattered. The important thing, as far as the old man was concerned was that he kept what was his.

  Walking next to him, Arlo Lancey would have gleefully slapped the man senseless if he could have, but he was wise enough to know not to press his luck. Lirrin was an ass, but he was also the minister of land in Canhoon and as such he was a very powerful figure, even without his money and his guards.

  Just of late land had become the most valuable commodity known to anyone.

  “Lirrin, my friend, the refugees have only started.” Arlo was not a minister. He had his own sources of power, but an appointment by the Council was not one of them. “We have a few of the Roathians, but only the start of them. When the people who escaped from Tyrne show up, the city will change, whether we want it or not.”

  “You don’t need to tell me.” Lirrin snorted the words as if trying not to laugh at a particularly fine quip. “I’ve already seen the desperation in some people’s eyes. Tyrne is gone, but hardly forgotten.” He scowled. “Her refuse is coming in like a tide of backed up sewage.”

  The winds picked up and Arlo raised his hood just before the faint drizzle became a proper downpour. They could have sought shelter, but nether of them much wanted to be where they could be easily heard, and so they continued on in the rains, preferring the added sounds to confound any who would listen in on their private conversations.

  It was best not to discuss murder when others could hear the words spoken. The rain hammered down on their shoulders in a thousand tiny drumbeats. Arlo squinted against a rude droplet as it tried for his eye.

  “I am for secrecy, Arlo, but we have reached a limit.” Lirrin very nearly had to yell to be heard over the rains. He pointed toward the door to a tavern and Arlo nodded his agreement. There could be no discussion if they could not hear themselves speaking.

  Within moments they were inside and grateful to be free of the deluge.

  The Broken Oak sported a painted sign of a vast oak tree split in half, with four shields around the base and seven swords rammed though the tree itself. There was a legend about those very things, but Arlo couldn’t remember it and didn’t have time for childish tales in any event. The tavern was a larger place than they’d expected, reaching deep into the building and sliding far enough back that the back wall was lost in shadows and smoke. Between that shadowy depth and the front entrance squatted a collection of well-used tables and, at most of them, a few people sat locked in their own conversations.

  Lirrin moved into the place as if he owned it, and headed for a table that sat hidden well in the murk of the large room.

  The owner nodded in their direction and otherwise ignored them for the moment. There would be time for serving them after they’d made themselves comfortable.

  Lirrin sat and gestured for his four bodyguards to stand close by but not too close. The four men managed to look suitably intimidating as they surrounded the table.

  “Are they truly a necessity?”

  “The lads? Of cour
se they are. There are plenty hereabouts that would see me dead. I am not a popular man, Arlo. I am well hated by those with whom I do not do business. And right now that list is very long indeed.”

  Arlo already understood that, of course. The minister did not control the cost of land, but he did handle the paperwork involved in the sales. There were normally fees involved and he dictated what those fees might be. While he could not forbid a person from selling land, he could make the notion a very expensive one.

  Currently, Lirrin was living a life of luxury and doing so gladly, but he also knew it might not last long now that there was a new empress and especially now that she was coming to Canhoon to live.

  A flash of a coin and the barkeep came and took their order personally and then brought them their ales. When he was gone, Lirrin continued as if there had been no delays. He spoke and jabbed his fat fingers into the polished wood of the table to emphasize his words. “I have families coming here—entire families, mind you—that have nowhere to go. The messengers from those families have been coming to me and nearly demanding that they be allowed to purchase the houses they’ll need, as if I have control over how quickly buildings rise.”

  “Well, they’re desperate.”

  Lirrin shook his head and his jowls wobbled sympathetically. “No, they are scared and angry. And they think that coins alone will cover the cost of finding them new homes. The fact is that there simply aren’t a thousand buildings waiting to be filled.”

  Arlo managed not to say anything that would have caused tension. There were ways around the problem, of course. Though there were few buildings waiting around empty, a few could have been found without too much trouble. Not enough, true, but for some of the wealthier families exceptions could be made.

  Almost as if he could read minds Lirrin made a comment, “Not even a fortnight ago there were several lots that I could have used, but they were all purchased.” He waved a hand. “Had I known then what was happening I could have charged a levy large enough to make the price impossible to handle, but the woman came through and made the deals before there was any reason to wonder about the future.”

  Arlo shook his head and made a face. There were reasons he was dealing with the old man across the table from him and mostly those reasons revolved around gold.

  “Do you have a name for this woman? With a little persuasion, perhaps she could be convinced to sell the lands again. I have stonemasons waiting to start building as soon as the word is given. I have carpenters and a workforce that could be building even as we speak.”

  “Of course she has a name.” The man’s fat face twisted into an ugly mask of annoyance. “I don’t recall it at the moment, but of course she has a name.” Sometimes Lirrin played at being absentminded and sometimes he was sincere. For a few coins he would remember in the former. Arlo knew Lirrin’s expressions well enough to know he sincerely could not recall.

  A stray breeze caught the candle and lamp flames throughout the room and brought in a wave of fresh, cold air. Arlo looked toward the doors but saw no one cross the threshold.

  He looked around the vast tavern again as he gathered his thoughts. There were four large men around them and he was grateful for that. The shapes around them were shadows, mostly, hulking shapes that loomed and fed themselves on mutton stew, or chunks of roasted meat. They were only people, and Arlo knew that, but as they spoke of dark things and deeds best not considered, those forms seemed more sinister than they should have.

  Dark thoughts bred dark fears.

  “Could the papers be lost?”

  “Certain copies could be misplaced. Hers, however, are in her possession.” Lirrin stared at Arlo as if he might be daft.

  “A name, Lirrin. But give me a name and I can make this all better. You can have your higher levies and the families that pay the best can have their homes within a few months at the most.”

  Lirrin chuckled, his face taking on a particularly gourd-like symmetry as he did so. “Unless things change and drastically, we might not have to worry about that. These gray people everyone is talking about will see to it.”

  The Sa’ba Taalor. The name made Arlo’s skin shiver. He’d not seen them, of course. No one had. But there are always rumors, aren’t there? Giants. Invaders who were indestructible in combat from all he’d heard. One traveler he’d spoken to briefly told him they’d destroyed the Guntha by themselves, a hundred of them taking on over a thousand and winning. Actually, the man had said ten had done the job, but both agreed that had to be a case of the man mishearing what was told to him originally. If one of the monsters could kill a hundred soldiers, the empire was already doomed.

  “That is a river I should rather worry about crossing when the time comes. Until I see these giants, I will continue with the daily business.”

  “Well then,” The shadows spoke, soft and feminine. “You should wait no longer.”

  #

  Swech watched and listened and waited. The Daxar Taalor had told her who she should eliminate, but she waited just the same. There was no hurry and she had a constant desire to know more.

  The two men were soft, both of them dressed in finery and perfumed. The older one she knew. She had dealt with him when Wrommish told her to buy the lands around the area. Four days ride into Canhoon, one afternoon spent counting coins, and four days back to the home she’d made in Tyrne before the gods decided it was time to destroy the city. Hardly an effort at all, but the Daxar Taalor wanted the land, and she claimed it silently in their names.

  What the gods demanded, Swech was glad to do.

  When she knew enough, Swech stepped from the shadows and made herself known. Her hair was pulled back, leaving her face free, but as had been the tradition when she first met the people of Fellein, she was wearing a veil that covered most of her face. In this work the shadows were her comrades and she intended to keep it that way.

  Her attire was all dark, mostly black, with loose sleeves and leather breeches. She’d slipped free of her cloak and stood before the men in attire they surely thought better suited for a man.

  “You are a Sa’ba Taalor?” The younger of the men was the one asking, but the four paid fighters immediately came to attention at the question.

  The man sounded skeptical.

  “I am.”

  The older man laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “I know you. I would know a northerner’s eyes anywhere and yours are lovely enough. You’re the very woman I was speaking of. You are the one who purchased so much land.”

  If he was trying to woo her with words his compliments were weak.

  The younger one immediately smiled. “Truly? Perhaps we can reach an accord.” Dogs ran for table scraps with less enthusiasm. He had a smile that showed many teeth, and too much of his gums. The Pra-Moresh smiled much the same way before they bit down and killed.

  “The land is not for sale. Nor will I be paying extra fees.”

  The young man grew annoyed with her words. His smile wilted and became a confused scowl. He was pretty enough and likely expected her to swoon when he gazed in her direction. That was a problem with many of the people she’d met since coming to Fellein. They thought pretty faces and perfume made them attractive.

  “There you have it, Arlo. The land is not for sale.” Lirrin was the older man’s name. He was old, and soft enough that he hired others to fight for him should the need ever arise. She resisted the urge to sneer again.

  The other, Arlo, shook his head. “What a pity.”

  She knew their kind. They spoke lies and dressed them in pretty deceptions. Perhaps there were some among the Sa’ba Taalor who would not know the difference, but the god Paedle taught the purpose of lies, and how best to see them. Sometimes the finest battles were won with words as the weapons.

  Other times….

  “I have told you the land is not for sale. Was there anything else you needed to know?”

  “Just your name.” The younger one, Arlo. “Just that, so I can try to
convince you again.”

  “You have no desire to convince me.” She studied him carefully. “You prefer to know where I am staying and what name I use, the better to send your hired killers to take what is mine in the night.”

  Arlo blinked, and for one moment his true face was revealed. He was stunned by her direct words. The man was used to a certain level of respect accorded to his station, and thought himself too pretty to be so easily read.

  “That’s simply not true.” He spoke softly and slid from his seat.

  Behind the veil, Swech allowed herself a very slight smile.

  “You would have me dead and take the deeds. The cost is less for you. Then you and your fat friend would make arrangements that profited both of you and left me a rotting corpse.”

  Lirrin made a disbelieving noise. She did not like him.

  “You cannot speak to Arlo that way.”

  She didn’t look in his direction, but kept her eyes on the pretty man. “I just did.”

  Lirrin spoke again and snapped his fingers. “I’ve a mind to teach you a lesson in proper behavior.” As his fingers moved, so too his guards, who moved in a loose circle around Swech and eyed her without expression. All save one. The man to her right was trying not to smile and failing. He liked the notion of beating on a woman and likely felt it would be his place to do whatever he wanted with her when he was done.

  “You would have your hirelings teach me a lesson? Or you would do it yourself, old man?”

  She finally looked his way and Lirrin’s face wobbled as he scowled. “I’ll have it both ways, perhaps.” His tongue licked across his lips. “I’ll have my lads handle you, and I’ll teach you a few lessons in civility when they’re done.”

  The younger one actually seemed surprised by the comments. He was, perhaps, a little less likely to have others do his work for him.

  Swech took a long stride to the left and brought her elbow around behind her, spinning her body to follow. The elbow struck the first of the bodyguards across his jaw and she felt the bones and teeth shatter under her assault. As the man was falling she grabbed the dagger he had at his side and pulled it from the sheath.