World Gate: A Kethem Novel

by Dave Dickie

  Stegar handed the empty bottle back to Benzal. “I’ll be back,” said Stegar. Benzal didn’t say anything. Stegar went out into the street. It was a short, painful walk to Rangor’s, farther back from the walls around the dockyard, in an alley that was not particularly clean and not particularly safe. No one accosted him. Someone with an artificer’s weapon, something with offensive magic spells that could kill at a distance, would not bother with someone as obviously down on his or her luck as Stegar. Anyone else would recognize the well-worn leather on the handle of his sword and find easier pickings.

  Rangor’s was a simple wooden door with a symbol of crossed swords over it. A fightmeet, a place where you could train in weapons, spar with practice weapons, or fight with real ones. The last was illegal and usually included crowds betting on a winner. At one time, Stegar would have been responsible for catching one of Rangor’s blood matches and shutting it down. That had been a long time ago.

  He tapped on the door. A small slot opened. “Lower,” said a voice. The slot was about a foot lower than Stegar’s chin. Rangor was short. Stegar ducked until his face was level with the slot. “Stegar. Good timing,” said Rangor’s voice. There was a click and the door swung open. Rangor was a little short of five feet tall, overweight, and had a constant expression of wary greed that marked small operators on the fringe of legal in Bythe. “Got something for you. Silver dandy, looking for someone challenging.” Rangor meant a Silver Ring, a Holder. Dandy, in Rangor’s vernacular, meant young and foolish. Stegar frowned. Messing with the nobility usually lead to trouble. He knew that from painful experience. “A thousand rimii. Practice weapons, sparring. Whadaya say?”

  Messing with nobility could lead to trouble, but one thousand rimii was a lot of money.

  Stegar nodded and said, “yes.” Rangor lead him through a drape-lined door into the back, which was a large open space with practice pits, circular, foot deep areas about ten yards across with padded edges and floors. If you stepped or fell outside the circle, you lost the match. Each one had a weapons rack with wooden swords, maces, and polearms. There were open spaces for training as well. There were a few people hanging around, but at this time of the morning, no one was in the pits. Metax and Pollic, Rangor’s bouncers, were hanging around as well, although they typically had nothing to do unless there was a blood fight. Then collecting the losing bets could become problematic. Rangor was not much of a fighter himself, and he liked having the muscle around during the day as well.

  There were two young men looking bored and out of place near one of the pits. Stegar glanced at their hands. One Silver Ring, one Copper Ring. Rangor walked up to the Silver Ring and bowed. “Lord Tallon, this is Stegar. He’s exactly what you’re looking for.”

  Stegar bowed as well. “My lord,” he said, although you typically only ‘my lorded’ a Gold Ring.

  Tallon glanced at Stegar and turned back to Rangor. “Really? What flop house did you drag this one out of?” Stegar felt a little flash of irritation, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. It didn’t matter.

  Rangor gave Tallon an ingratiating smile. “Oh, my lord, what a sharp wit you have. He may not look it, but Stegar is good. I promise you, you will not be disappointed.”

  Tallon gave Rangor a thin smile in return. “We shall see. If he is not, I will be disappointed. With you, specifically.” Rangor’s smile slipped a bit. Nobles could cause all kinds of trouble for any commoner. Tallon could outright kill someone like Rangor and the repercussions would be minimal. Tallon went over and picked out a bamboo practice sword. Medium length and slightly curved, it looked familiar in his hands. He stepped into the ring, did one of the practice forms, starting with a stance with one foot forward, the other back, the sword extended, and ending with his feet parallel and the sword parallel to his body. It was smooth and practiced. He knew what he was doing. It was also showy and foolish to let an opponent see your skill before a match. Stegar knew Tallon’s type. Probably the son of a Gold Ring, promoted to Silver Ring without earning it, trained with the sword from when he was young. Showing off to the Copper Ring, more than likely.

  Stegar put his broadsword in a storage slot and picked out his own practice sword from the rack. It was longer and heavier than Tallon’s, but Stegar was larger and the practice swords were lighter than real weapons anyway. He walked out onto the mat and bowed to Tallon, then took a defensive stance called ‘Egret in the Reeds.’ Tallon bowed back with a great, mocking flourish, then took his own stance, ‘man advancing,’ which was basic and meant he was going to go directly on the attack. That was also foolish, although to give Tallon some credit, he had probably never faced a master swordsman in a place like Rangor’s before. Stegar knew the outcome before Tallon’s first step, could see in the man’s motion, the way his muscles tensed on the left side, the grip on the handle. Tallon did the attack called ‘parting the rain,’ Stegar blocked with ‘standing stone,’ a common defense to ‘parting the rain.’ Tallon seemed surprised, but flowed reasonable well into ‘farmer’s pitchfork,’ a thrust past Stegar’s sword, exactly as Stegar expected. Stegar pushed Tallon’s sword wide, a variation on standing stone that Tallon didn’t know, and tapped Tallon on the chest with the point of his own sword. “Point,” said Rangor, sounding a little nervous about it. Stegar could see anger in Tallon’s eyes.

  They moved back and started the next bout. Tallon’s anger made the second point easier, and outright fury cemented the first round in Stegar’s favor, three points to zero.

  “Again,” said Tallon.

  Stegar nodded. Rangor gave Stegar a panicky look when Tallon wasn’t watching and widened his eyes. Stegar sighed. Rangor was right. This wasn’t someone looking for a lesson in sword fighting, this was a young buck trying to show off his prowess to his friend. It was time to lose.

  Stegar returned to his position. Tallon walked over and put his practice sword back on the rack. He reached over and took a sword in a sheath that had been left in the storage slots next to Stegar’s broadsword. Tallon buckled it on. He pointed to Stegar’s broadsword. “Take it.”

  Rangor gave a half-strangled laugh. “My lord, surely you jest. This would be highly irregular.”

  Tallon said “Four thousand rimii.”

  A look of greed flashed across Rangor’s face, but he wasn’t that stupid. If Tallon was seriously injured in a fight with Stegar, Rangor’s club, and possibly his life, would be forfeit. “I think…”

  Tallon interrupted him. “You think? This is a surprise.” He walked over to stare directly in Rangor’s eyes. “Do not test me.” He turned to Stegar and gestured again to the broadsword. “Take it.”

  Stegar pondered for a moment. Tallon appeared confident he would win, odd given three fast loses in a row. Either he was betting that Stegar wouldn’t dare injure him, or he had an ace up his sleeve. The sword might be magicked up. A Silver Ring could afford something like that. Tallon didn’t need the ace. Stegar wasn’t going to chance injuring a Holder. He nodded politely. “My lord. I concede the match.”

  Tallon stepped into the ring and drew his sword. He smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile. “That is not an option, commoner. Take your sword.” Stegar considered his options, didn’t find any he liked. Finally, he took his stance with the wooden practice sword. Tallon laughed and said, “so be it.” Tallon drew his sword, a saber, slightly curved like the practice sword but steel with a fine edge. There was a fuzziness to it that Stegar didn’t like. It was magicked up. Stegar didn’t believe it was an artificer’s weapon. There was no point in making that look like a sword, and he felt confident that Tallon wanted to beat him in a sword fight. It was most likely charged with something that would hurt anyone it touched, or it had some kind of illusion or other masking spell to make it hard to track. The fuzziness implied the later. That was good. Stegar didn’t need to see the sword, he could read Tallon’s body, could anticipate where it was going from watching Tallon’s eyes.

  Tallon moved in slowly, then did a cut from
the right. The sword vanished as he swung it. Stegar blocked it easily although it took a notch of wood out of his practice sword. Tallon grunted in frustration, and Stegar saw murder in his eyes. Stegar watched, saw the tells, lowered his sword a touch to draw Tallon in. Tallon lunged forward, doing the move called ‘hummingbird sips nectar,’ a direct thrust to the face, a killing blow. But Stegar ducked to the side, the sword whistling past his head, and Tallon half stepped forward, off balance. Stegar dropped his sword and punched Tallon in the face. Tallon’s eyes rolled up in his head and he went down, blood pouring from his nose.

  There was a second of silence. Then Rangor started going, “Oh, crap. Oh, crap. Oh, crap. Stegar, you idiot, he’s going to kill both of us.” Stegar looked at the nameless Copper Ring, who looked down at Tallon, up at Stegar, down at Tallon, then turned and ran out of the room.

  Stegar put his wooden practice sword on the rack and faced Rangor. “One thousand rimii,” he said.

  Rangor looked at him like he was crazy. “What? I haven’t even collected yet!” Rangor looked at Tallon. “Not going to, either.”

  Stegar shrugged. “Not my problem. One thousand rimii, now.”

  Rangor looked at Stegar and his eyes were hard. “Don’t think so, Stegar. My only play here is to let the young lordling cut you into ribbons. Sorry about that.” And then he paused. “Not really. Metax. Pollic. Come make Stegar comfortable while I get a healer for Lord Tallon.”

  Metax and Pollic walked over. They were both big, as big as Stegar, with biceps the thickness of a good sized tree. No one else moved. The kind of people that frequented a place like Rangor’s were not the kind that got involved in this kind of thing. Stegar stood still until the two were three yards away, then raised his hands and stepped toward Metax. While Metax focused on Stegar’s raised arms, Stegar lashed out with his foot. There was an audible crunch as his foot made contact with Metax’s knee, and Metax, with a grunt of pain, fell over.

  Stegar took three steps back and picked up his broadsword. It was still in the sheath. He held it casually and looked at Pollic. Pollic stopped moving, stood for a second, then turned to Rangor. “Sorry, man, you ain’t paying enough for this.” He stepped back carefully, arms up. Stegar turned back to Rangor. “One thousand rimii. I know about your artificer’s weapon. If you reach for it, I will kill you.”

  Rangor’s hands were twitching, and Stegar could see the lump in one of Rangor’s pockets that was undoubtedly charged with some kind of offensive magic. Rangor looked into Stegar’s eyes and decided his hands needed to be up over his head. “Fine. Fine. Left pocket.” Stegar walked over and reached in Rangor’s left pocket. There was several thousand rimii, some in Kethem script, some in various Hold’s notes, which was just as good. Stegar counted out a thousand and stuffed the rest back in Rangor’s pocket. Then he hesitated, looking at Metax, who was on the floor, holding his shattered knee, and staying quiet. Metax wasn’t his problem. He repeated that to himself more firmly. Definitely. Not. His. Problem. Finally, Stegar sighed. “A physicker for Metax. How much?”

  Rangor glanced at Metax, then back at Stegar. “Seven hundred.”

  “Five hundred,” said Metax from the ground.

  Stegar counted out five hundred rimii and stuffed them back in Rangor’s pocket. “If I find you did not spend it on Metax, I will be upset.”

  Rangor nodded. “Physicker, no problem, he’ll be good as new.” That wasn’t completely true. Five hundred wasn’t enough for a good physicker, and even the best magical healing left some residual damage that needed to get better naturally. But it was the best Stegar could do.

  “Thanks, man,” said Metax.

  Stegar nodded and put the rest of the money in his own pocket. He reached into Rangor’s pocket with the artificer’s weapon and pulled it out. It was a round, flat stone. “That cost twenty thousand rimii,” screeched Rangor.

  “I’ll leave it at the counter. Just don’t want a fire bolt in the back. See you around, Rangor.” Then Stegar looked at the unconscious Tallon. “Maybe.” He left the building, leaving the artificer’s weapon on the counter in the front room as he’d promised. As he walked back to Benzal’s stayhouse, he was thinking. Tallon could kill a man like Rangor with minimal consequences. He could kill someone like Stegar with none. It was time to leave Bythe, preferably for somewhere far away. Somewhere outside of Kethem. Pranan or Tawhiem, probably.

  When he reached Benzal’s, Benzal was still in the main room and welcomed him back. Stegar handed him the five hundred rimii. Benzal’s eyebrows raised. “Looks like Rangor’s was good to you.”

  “Not really,” answered Stegar. “I need to get out of Bythe. Know anything that might be available along those lines?”

  Benzal looked sideways at Stegar. “How bad is it?”

  “Bad,” said Stegar.

  Benzal sighed. “Stegar, under that stoic, the world can go to hell exterior lies a whole lotta desire to poke fire-spider nests. Oddly enough, there is something, a little strange but it might be a fit. Hasamelis temple is outfitting an expedition for Tawhiem. Short notice, good pay, not being too picky about who goes.”

  Stegar frowned. “Hasamelis, god of travelers?”

  Benzal nodded. “One and the same.”

  Stegar said, “When did they start hiring escorts?”

  Benzal replied, “told you it was a little strange. The Hasamelis clergy normally go it alone, or go in a small group of believers.”

  Stegar continued to frown. “What’s the mission?”

  Benzal shook his head. “Don’t know. They ain’t saying.”

  Stegar shook his head. “A secret expedition where they aren’t too picky about who they are hiring? Sounds like trouble.”

  Benzal said, “More than you got here?”

  Stegar thought about that for a moment. “No.”

  Benzal said, “And the pay is good. Tawhiem, the wilds. Could be combat pay.”

  Stegar snorted. “Combat with a bunch of randomly assembled fighters at my side? Why don’t they hire a merc unit, some swordsmen with enchanters to support them that have worked together before? This just doesn’t smell right.”

  Benzal shrugged. “Again, they ain’t saying. Heard that one of the smaller teams, Yellin’s Dire Wolves I think, they asked, got turned down.” Stegar knew that crew. They had tried to hire him, had heard about his skill with sword and crossbow. He had walked away without a word. There was a camaraderie, a have-your-back ethic in those crews. That wasn’t who he was any more. This Hasamelis thing sounded wrong. But good pay, a ticket out of Bythe for a while, and a group of strangers where the only expectation was that you would do your job were all things that worked for him. Sea travel, not so much, but you couldn’t get to Tawhiem except by ship or teleportal, and teleportals were expensive.

  “Any idea who’s signed on?” asked Stegar.

  Benzal shook his head. “No names. Heard they got a Stangri warrior.”

  Stegar’s head shot up. “A raider?”

  Benzal laughed. “No, dumbass. Stangri nation, from Kanday.” Stangri normally landed in boats, killed the men, raped the woman, took everything not nailed down, razed whatever structures were around, and left with their treasure. Two hundred years back, they had shown up in force on the shores east of Kethem. It had been good timing for humans in general, because where they had landed was swarming with the Ohulhug that had decimated the remains of the Old Empire in Pranan. Kethem and the Stangri invaders had driven the Ohulhug back to their mountain homes north of Pranan, and the Stangri had settled in the area they had first put to shore and named it Kanday. An uneasy peace between Kethem and Kanday had existed since, broken from time to time with skirmishes but never turning into a serious conflict. The original Stangri raiders still invaded from time to time, but they landed in Kanday as often as they hit the shores of Kethem.

  Stegar wondered who would hire a Stangri. They were known as fierce fighters. They were also known as mercurial, combative, and almost impossible to contro
l. “Going from not smelling right to outright stinks.”

  Benzal nodded. “Yep. You in?”

  Stegar finally nodded. “In. You keep my cash? Take a hundred, owe me a few days when I get back?”

  Benzal said, “Sure. Plus, shower for free. Heat rune for the water and everything, hot and soapy. Don’t want some Hasamelis priest in here claimin’ I killed their party with your stench.”

  Stegar grinned. “You are a prince among men, Benzal. How about I give you ten, I get the shower and a solid meal.”

  Benzal looked thoughtful, then said, “sure, guess that works for me.”

  A few hours later, Stegar was on board the Sea Baron, a light merchant, at one of the lower docks. The interview process had been a Hasamelis priest looking him up and down, asking about his skill with a sword, and waving him on board. Not even a pretense of verifying he was as capable as he claimed. If anything, Stegar thought the worn armor and the clothes that hadn’t been washed often enough were more of a criteria. The thing still seemed off, but it was still a ticket out of Bythe.

  The next morning, they cast off and started the five day journey to Tawhiem.

  Interlude - Kethem, a few days later

  The priest was old, but had done the ritual so many times that it was second nature, making him appear nimble despite his age. He had a warm face, his nose and ears a trifle large, his face lined with many years of experiences that seemed on the whole to be happy ones. Snowy hair stuck out in slightly unkempt tufts from the sides of his head, partially hidden by the stole draped across his neck, plain wool but fine, with almost invisible symbols in a barely darker shade of the same color. It marked him, for those that knew the signs, as sixth dan, one step away from the head of the order. He wore a simple shirt and trousers that looked out of place and could have been worn by a laborer, until you looked closely and realized they were custom fitted, made of a material that seemed like cotton straight on but had a shiny, polished look if you saw it at an angle. People who knew cloth would recognize it as durilia, and very good durilia, that only the temples of Hasamelis the Wanderer could produce. It breathed in the sun and kept in warmth in the cold; it fended off wind and rain with equal ease. It didn’t stain easily, and when it did, the stains washed out with little effort. He wore boots, and those had the look of magicked materials as well.