The Censor's Hand: Book One of the Thrice~Crossed Swords Trilogy

by A. M. Steiner

  “Firstly, take that tone with me again, you miserable dungheap, and I will cut your fucking face. Right. Now that’s out of the way, let’s look at this objectively. I am trying to help you out. I am known as a helpful man. People respect me. People bring me things. All you are bringing me today is your attitude. If you’ve got nothing for me then I’ve got nothing for you.”

  “Matthew, I’m on the edge. I’m this close to going under. Please.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Your brother is about to become a censor,” Matthew said.

  “Nobody lets me forget it.”

  “Is it his ambition to police Turbulence?”

  “He hasn’t said as much. Actually, I suppose he has.”

  “He listens to you, does he?”

  “Of course – he’s family.”

  “That could be useful for a man like me.”

  “I suppose it might.” It was wrong to say it; Daniel wouldn’t be drawn into Peacock’s schemes. So long as Peacock was repaid, it wouldn’t matter. Jon swallowed his shame and forced a conspiratorial grin, his neck tight with anger and no choices.

  Peacock ruminated, this time in earnest. “You understand what a debt to me is worth,” he said, gesturing absentmindedly at his heavies.

  Jon nodded.

  “I just wanted to make sure. Right then. There’s this character I know, his appetites run to a little odd. Sometimes I help him get some odd, so he owes me. His name is Stanizlav. He didn’t make it at the Verge, not the right kind of personality, but he got far enough to make connections. He understands how the cunning works.”

  “Can he summon me a wind?”

  “No, he’s not practising; he deals in artefacts – hear me out – not lost trinkets, proper stuff. He might have something for you. If he does I’ll let him know to lend it over.” Matthew whipped a pencil from the pocket of his jerkin and ostentatiously scrawled some numbers onto a scrap of cloth. “This is more than you deserve, Jon. I’m being unorthodox on your behalf. You and your family will owe me considerable.”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred pounds a year, to be paid over twenty years, secured upon all of your possessions. Two thousand in all. No negotiation, but you can pay me back early if you like.” That wasn’t a loan, Jon thought, more like indentured labour.

  “Visit Stanizlav tomorrow after nightfall, speak what’s on this cloth when he asks for a code.”

  “Where?”

  “He lives in the cemetery on top of Spook Hill.” Matthew waited for a reaction.

  “Funny man.”

  “The problem with you, Jon, is all those morals and no fucking sense of humour. Go to the bonded warehouse on Canal Street; he’s dealing out of the top floor. The bit about after dark wasn’t a joke.”

  “We should make an agreement. Sign and seal.”

  “No need,” Matthew said, “I have witnesses.”

  Jon finished his drink, left without making pleasantries. He had what he came for – taken a risk and won. That was good, he supposed. So why did he want to punch someone in the face?

  When he got home, Anna was waiting for him, stoking a small fire.

  “How did it go?” she asked, taking his coat and hanging it by the door.

  “I don’t know, love.”

  He kissed her on the forehead and went upstairs, pulled up a chair in front of his baby’s cot and watched her sleeping.

  The Path of the Righteous

  Daniel sprinted the length of the dormitory in a small loincloth, his slippers slapping loudly on the floor. His practice swords were bundled under one arm, his fighting robes under the other. He barely noticed the amazed stares of the cooks, clerks and aspirants as he skipped past, dodging from left to right.

  He raged as he ran. To have spent the night, first practising meditation and then nervously staring at the ceiling of his billet was stupid enough. To have been woken by a gentle chorus of swearing from the cloister as the young aspirants performed their morning exercises – that was something else. Five years of training and on the final day of his grading, he had overslept. Sometimes it seemed the only enemy he could not best was himself.

  At the end of the bustling passageway awaited Titus. The particularly large aspirant had seen Dan coming and taken a broad stance blocking the exit to the refectory. The idiot was grinning from ear to ear, arms outstretched, knees bent, ready to tackle Dan as if they were playing ball.

  “Shift, you fat fuck,” Daniel shouted, waving the oaf aside with his head. Titus was unmoved. At the last minute, with expert timing, Dan slid between the aspirant’s rooted legs. A passing punch to the balls would have taught the boy a lesson, but Daniel had no hands free. He used his momentum to return to his feet, shouting over his shoulder, “Too slow, loiter-sack.”

  Daniel had a long way to run. In the days when the censors had been the soldiers of the godsworn, the seminary had been a city within a city, brimming with pedants and clerics. Now it was a sparse maze of long corridors and empty rooms. Daniel pelted through the refectory where godsworn and censors had once dined side by side, then past the counting rooms where tithes of gold or grain had been hoarded. The walls were pockmarked with old bullet holes and the clawing of shrapnel. You couldn’t blame the barons for having risen, chafing under the cost of faith and seeing no benefit. The godsworn had become corrupted by wealth. You could see that everywhere you looked. No wonder then, that they had been cast out of their homes. As far as Daniel was concerned, that was all ancient history. As he passed vestries left empty, or worse still converted into classrooms, his chief thought was that he was happy to be done with studying it.

  He skidded into the rear axis of the building that was still called a temple. Thirty or so aspirants, those who had progressed to the final day of the grading, knelt on its marble floor, palms on thighs. Lay Brother Hernandez instructed them from behind a box pulpit. Behind them all, a square of reed mats had been pushed together to form a makeshift arena. A burly assistant stood at each corner wearing full practice armour. Daniel smiled. He had been beaten by them when he was green, but had returned the favour many times since. He ducked behind a pillar and pulled his fighting trousers to his navel, tried to tie his belt cord with the same hand. He imagined the grotesques in the capstones laughing at his efforts.

  Hernandez’s gravelly voice rumbled out, “Got lost in our meditations, did we, Miller?”

  The aspirants laughed.

  He can’t exclude me. I’m the best.

  Hernandez allowed the pause to hang long enough to let Daniel know he’d cut it fine. “Be so good as to join us.” Half-dressed and shamefaced, Daniel took his place, kneeling in the back row. “Now that I have completed my instruction, it is my privilege to introduce Magistrate Campbell Lang.”

  A murmur arose from the aspirants. “What in the belly of the Snake did we do to deserve him?” whispered one. Daniel cursed and wrestled on his singlet.

  A pale man with slicked back hair, dressed in a simple midnight-blue robe, imposing far beyond his diminutive stature, emerged regally from the inner sanctum. Dan knew that some of the older censors believed Lang would become the next chief constable. He walked as if he agreed with them.

  The magistrate took his place at the podium and saluted, bringing his hand sharply level with his neck.

  “Justice Advances.”

  “Justice Advances,” the aspirants chanted, and saluted in unison. Their keen obedience was accepted with the slightest of nods. Lang’s gaze drifted over the assembly.

  “It is only a week since the Mournful Bell sounded at Tiburn, declaring to all that another brother had climbed the ladder to the stars. The Path of the Righteous remains beset with dangers – yet here you are, every one of you willing to risk their lives for justice. You cannot all be chosen. I seek only the best: men with discipline of mind and body, men willing t
o honour the mission of our Brotherhood with absolute loyalty, men with the strength to bring order to the Unity.”

  Dan carried a Turbulence boy’s natural contempt for politicians, but he felt his spine straighten as Lang spoke.

  “You are here today because you have already prevailed in trials of strength, speed and study. Climbing, riding, swimming and running are the skills of the outrider and the scout. History and law are the provinces of academics and scribes. You hope to become censors, to wear the Thrice~Crossed Swords. It is the highest of all callings.”

  Daniel knuckled his thighs, punched his muscles into readiness.

  “Today you must prove your fighting spirit and your mastery of the sight.” Combat and confession, the test Daniel craved and the one that he feared most, held on the same day precisely because the temperament required for one was exactly the opposite of that required for the other. He had known what was coming and still thought them bastards for it.

  “Brother Hernandez will administer the tests of arms this morning. I shall examine those who remain capable this afternoon. The gods will be watching.”

  Those final words were delivered with the cadence of a judge’s gavel. The excitement of the aspirants was palpable as Hernandez returned to the podium.

  “I have trained with you for years. I know your strengths and weaknesses as well as you do. In some cases, better.” Aspirants laughed nervously. “To be made a censor is an admirable thing, but remember that you cannot all be chosen. There is always another year.”

  The aspirant kneeling besides Dan wondered aloud, “Blood duels?”

  “The first combat will be a free-for-all. You may choose from any of the weapons in the south transept. The swords and maces are wooden. The arm-claws and fist-hooks are blunted. The crooks, staves and singlesticks are street fashion. Nets are permitted. You may strike to the soft and hard parts of the body, but not gouge eyes or nethers. If you are rendered incapable you will be retired, and should not be considered fair game. You may withdraw by surrender. The melee ends when the field is reduced to eight. You have a quarter hour to prepare.”

  The aspirants around Daniel went pale with a fear that he shared. What the master-at-arms had described was an organised riot. Melee was random. It had taken Daniel a week to recover from the last one. He did not fear any aspirant – though some had been in training since the day they could walk – but in a frenzied mob even the most skilful warrior could be caught out by a wild blow. He imagined a singlestick caving in the back of his skull.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” a nervous aspirant said.

  “Maybe they wish to test our luck.” Dan’s bravado was fake. He would never say so in front of his rivals, but the youngster was right. Censors were supposed to be justice-keepers, not soldiers to be sent into battle. He looked at the sullen and nervous faces around him. A few aspirants were already racing to the transept, trying to ensure they had the best of the weaponry. Selfish, Daniel thought, and resolved to hit them especially hard.

  Then it came to him. The melee wasn’t a test of skill at arms, but of something far rarer. If eight can win, they can win together. He quickly gathered men, not the strongest but those he knew would accept him as their commander, at least for an hour. None refused. By the time the more observant had worked out what he was planning his team was complete.

  Daniel assigned his men weapons; hooks and claws for the front four, crooks and staves for the three at the back. He armed himself with a singlestick, a toughened ash cudgel with a leather hand guard for punching with, and on his left arm a claw, a thick leather vambrace armoured with metal splints and mounted with raking blunted talons. Other teams had started to form, but compared to his they were pitiful. Most were still arguing over who would lead. Daniel glanced at Brother Hernandez. The instructor did a good job of keeping his grizzled face straight.

  Daniel’s heart beat hard as straggling aspirants were ordered into the arena. Hernandez blew a whistle and the melee began.

  Daniel could sense that his crew were itching to fight but he held them in the corner, watching and waiting. He didn’t want to win. He wanted a rout.

  The first to be eliminated were those who stood alone. Wise or terrified, they fled the arena with hands raised in the air. One, obstinate enough to stand his ground, was set upon by a team of five and lasted only seconds. What the master-at-arm’s assistants dragged from the arena looked like a trampled sack of beetroot. Seeing his fate, a team of three young friends retreated off the matting, and out of contention.

  Three teams remained.

  Daniel expected the others to unite against him because it was their only chance of winning. To his amusement, they launched against each other. He waited until they were entangled before sounding the charge. His men swept upon them like a tsunami. His back row used staves and crooks to jab faces, beat arms and hook necks. His front row punched, dragged and clawed the opposition to the ground. When the work was done, Daniel’s men formed a ring around the opposing captains.

  “Submit,” he ordered calmly.

  “Never.”

  It was a shame; Lucas was a nice lad. A terrible cut across his forehead was pouring blood into his eyes and he could barely see. Daniel leapt to his blind side, landed in a crouch and unfurled, lifting the boy from his feet with an explosive uppercut that didn’t feel entirely fair.

  “Submit,” Daniel repeated. The remaining captain dropped his axe and raised his hands.

  Hernandez’s whistle blew sharply. Daniel and his crew roared in triumph. They exchanged smiles and boisterous hugs, wiped the blood and vomit from their fighting robes. The worst of their injuries was a twisted ankle.

  Brother Hernandez appeared at Daniel’s side.

  “Congratulations,” he grunted obliquely as he helped one of the fallen aspirants back to his feet.

  Daniel grinned inwardly as he returned his weapons to the racks and fell back into rank.

  The smell of fresh sweat filled Daniel’s battle-flared nostrils. A few of his rivals were gone, taken to the infirmary. The thinned rows nursed swollen joints, delicately prodded the swollen parts of their faces and grimaced from the pain of broken ribs. Hernandez announced that the second test of arms was to be a round robin. The remaining aspirants would all fight each other once, for three minutes, with weapons of their choice. The fighting was to resume immediately.

  ***

  It was nearly done.

  “On your guard,” Hernandez said. The old war dog had been watching Daniel throughout, noting and judging like he always did. He could not hide his satisfaction – his protégé was unbeaten so far and they both knew that the final fight was unlikely to prove a challenge.

  Daniel saluted his final opponent and dropped into a wide stance. He loved fighting. More precisely, he loved moments of perfect action: the crushing blow slipped; the net plucked from the air and sent flying back to envelop its caster; the spiralling parry that sent a weapon pirouetting from his attacker’s grasp. Such moments stayed forever, in perfect clarity.

  Daniel leapt sideways, narrowly avoiding his opponent’s swing and cursed himself for the loss of concentration. It was complacent. Underestimating an opponent was the easiest way to lose. Back in the moment, he circled the lad warily. Keep distance… wait for the mistake. A deftly executed shuffle provoked a clumsy step from his sword-wielding opponent. Daniel beat the aspirant’s blade aside and kicked him between the legs, bending him double. Daniel scissored his adversary’s neck with his singlesticks and hammered him to the ground with a wicked headbutt. His forehead stung from the force of the blow.

  “No, Daniel, duck and lean forward. Use the crown of your head.” Hernandez slapped his balding pate in illustration, then flashed a craggy grin, like a benevolent mastiff, took the twin sticks from Daniel and ushered him across the transept. “I’m sorry, Daniel, I should not complain. You fought magnificently today.”


  Daniel began the long walk to the end of the axis with a victor’s pride. He imagined the vast hall to be a street in Turbulence, and that he was patrolling it, feared and respected by all. Then he looked ahead. The entrance to the inner sanctum had been obstructed with a tapestried screen. He thought of what awaited behind, and all at once felt his tiredness and the pain of his bruises catch up with him.

  The ritual of confession was not hard to perform once known and understood. The trick was clearing the mind, creating a space for the gods who lived outside of time and saw all things. Daniel reminded himself that he was capable. Only a few days earlier, in the rustic calm of the orchard, he had deduced from which tree his instructor had taken an apple, followed the rituals to the letter and watched in amazement as the ghostly form of his instructor plucked the fruit. There had been a price for that moment of godhood – there always was. Later that day, he had cried blood-stained tears.

  Daniel rounded the ornate screen, to find Magistrate Lang waiting at the deconsecrated altar. When the seminary had been a place of worship the altar would have been draped in rainbow silk, the statutes upon it presented with food and gifts; now its mantle was plain white linen and the statues were gone, replaced with thick wax candles. Lang’s face looked soft in the subdued light. He stared at Daniel with owlish eyes.

  “I am told you excelled at the trial of arms.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You can be violent without falling prey to anger or malice. That is a rare gift.”

  He lifted a cloth from the altar to reveal a feather, a juggler’s ball and a palm book, laid out in a neat row. Before those everyday objects, lay three open boxes and a stick of charcoal. Lang gestured at the array. To Daniel the arrangement looked like a trap, sprung and baited.

  “The task before you is easy by comparison. Please return each of the items to the place from which it was taken.” Daniel wasn’t paying much attention. He had already figured out what was required of him. He wondered how best to attune his mind, which meditation exercise would be most appropriate to the task? All that came to him was the soporific voice of his meditation instructor talking about his love of fishing, and behind that, the voice of Magistrate Lang.