Traitor Savant (Second Seal of the Duelists)

by Giacomo, Jasmine

  A tall, slender man with gray hair stepped into the foyer through a curtain made of numerous strands strung with circular discs carved from shells. The Akrestoi singer followed him. In contrast to her white robes, his were brown. Her smile was gone, and both her gestures and her tone of voice were curt as she directed his attention to Tala. Tala gulped. Had she done something wrong already?

  The woman returned to her stool behind the counter, ignoring the man, but he approached Tala with a smile. His robes rustled softly in the quiet foyer. He was about a hand taller than she was, and his eyes were a bright Waarden blue, but they crinkled with genuine happiness. “You must be Tala.”

  “I am. You’re my mentor?”

  “I have that privilege. My name’s Theo Willemsen, but you can call me Doc Theo, or Doc. It’s what all the students at the Duelist Academy call me, and I tell ya, I’ve grown fond of the name.”

  Doc Theo seemed nicer than she’d expected her mentor to be. Somehow, Tala assumed that old chanters must be bitter people. She knew if she had to live in the heart of the Temple and never sing again, she’d go insane with jealousy. Smoothing away her internal turmoil, she smiled up at Doc Theo. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m ready whenever you are.”

  “Right this way, then.” He led her into the back of the Chantery, behind the curtain of white shell discs. The Akrestoi woman didn’t even look up. A few people in brown robes busied themselves with a complex chanting pattern in a spacious room at the end of the long white hall. To Tala’s left and right lay numerous small rooms, all empty at the moment. Each doorway bore dangling strands of shell discs.

  Doc Theo indicated one with an open hand. “Here we have the patient rooms. Whenever someone comes in, we escort them to their own room right away, so they have some privacy. Once we’re inside, we can get a little more detail about what’s wrong, unless it’s something obvious, because their arm got carried in by someone else.”

  Tala flinched in surprise.

  Doc Theo grimaced in chagrin. “Sorry. That happened occasionally at the Academy, but I guess it won’t be much of a problem here. From what I’ve healed so far, it seems the Temple Chanter deals with a lot of strained vocal cords and dehydration. Pretty standard fare for people who sing a lot and don’t drink enough water. Don’t think they don’t whine just as much as the duelists whose bones are showing, though. Pain is pain, and whether you think your patient is actin’ like a baby or the most stoic hero you’ve ever seen, your job is to do the healing and treat them with professional courtesy.”

  Tala nodded, but her gaze slid back toward the outer curtain.

  “What is it?” Doc Theo prompted.

  Tala stepped further down the hallway. “Um, chanters… I’ve heard the other students speak poorly of them. Is that… I mean… The singer out there, she didn’t seem to… If I end up being a chanter too… ”

  Doc Theo’s frown cleared. Apparently he’d inferred her concern. “All a matter of perspective. Here in the Temple, everyone assumes everyone else can sing. If you cain’t do that, you’re seen as less important. But. And this is a big but. The rest of the empire couldn’t tell a singer from a fishwife—and that’s the Temple’s own fault, and another issue entirely—so when they learn you can chant their hurts away, they’re happier to see you than their own best friend. Things have a way of working out: singers stay here with their own, and chanters get to travel the empire and be useful and feel appreciated. You’ll find your place.”

  Tala nodded, feeling some of the weight lift from her mind.

  “Now, you’ll need a crystal to do your healing. I’m guessing, since you’re here to train with me, that you’ve never worked with one before.”

  Tala shook her head, feeling her cheeks flush.

  Doc Theo didn’t seem to notice. “Then this is your lucky day! The students who’re doing well in your classes won’t get to touch a crystal for a long time. Now, since we have no patients for me to demonstrate on, we’ll have to get a volunteer. Don’t worry, that’ll be me. But we also need to head back out to the foyer and pick us a crystal.”

  Tala followed Doc Theo back to the foyer. The Akrestoi looked up sharply, but said nothing. Her seeming surprise left Tala wondering if Doc Theo were changing the standard training procedures. She hoped he didn’t get himself—or her—in trouble. She stared at the walls laden with crystal segments in various lengths, from the width of her palm to the length of her forearm. Most were clear, but some bore colors, either bright or subtle. How to choose? Feeling underqualified to choose the best crystal out of hundreds, Tala hung back, but Doc Theo gave her a gentle nudge toward the wall.

  “They’re all good. Chanter-made. Find the section for your blood type, and take the one you like best.”

  Tala approached the Waarden-labeled section of the glittering wall and examined the row of crystals at eye height. She decided to choose one with a faint pink hue. She slid it out of its wooden holder and showed it to Doc Theo.

  He took it and examined it closely. “Good choice. Contrary to popular belief, the best crystals aren’t fat; they’re long and slender. This is a good, long one. Plenty of resonance. Why don’t you escort me back to a room, and we’ll see how this goes?”

  Tala gulped. “Well, then, Doc Theo, please come with me, and we’ll get you all taken care of,” she said, in her first attempt at being a solicitous chanter. She led the way through two sets of shell-disc curtains and drew him into the first patient room on the left. He draped a lanky leg over a corner of the tall cot and handed her the pink crystal.

  “Everyone here at the Temple knows their blood type, but out in the empire, there are lots of people just living their lives who’ve never been to a chanter. They might not even know about differences between one blood and another. If one of your patients doesn’t know their type, you’ll need to use a crystal from each blood category to figure out which one will heal them. Can you guess which one we always use first?”

  “Waarden.”

  “Good. The Waarden blood type is a dominant trait, passed down from parent to child. If just one parent has Waarden blood, all their children will, too.”

  Tala nodded. Her absent father had been Waarden. Back in Balanganam, it had made her stand out. She was taller, her skin and hair lighter. Some children in town had wanted to befriend her, others had distanced themselves. Such mixed popularity, just because of her mixed blood.

  “If their blood ain’t Waarden, then the two Commons come next. First the Northern, then the Southern. I allus remember it alphabetically: N before S. Test your patients this way every time. Can you remember that?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her parents’ blood types made her come first and last at the same time. That sounded about right.

  “All right, then. I need to give myself a nick so we have something to heal.” He drew a short utility knife from his belt and tugged its blade across the palm of his left hand, cutting a red line that welled with blood. He tucked his knife away and took Tala’s pink crystal. “The key is constant pitch. Every chanter has his or her own neutral pitch. It’s the same one you speak with when you’re not thinkin’ about speaking. Kinda like mumbling to yourself. You’ll want to practice finding that neutral pitch and chanting in it, even without a crystal. And then you just need to memorize the rhythm. It doesn’t matter what sound your mouth makes when you chant, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the rhythm and doesn’t raise or lower your pitch. Listen to mine, and you’ll see what I mean.”

  He held the crystal with a bent arm, so his voice would resonate directly into its glittering matrix, and began to chant. The pattern was easy to pick out; a simple repetition of four short beats, then two long beats. The skin on Doc Theo’s hand closed, leaving only a thin red smear across the center of his palm.

  Tala gave an impressed smile and brushed her finger against his palm. No wound remained. “That was very nice. May I try?”

  His gray eyebrows rose. “If you think you have the pattern. You sure yo
u don’t want me to do it a second time?”

  She shook her head. He drew the knife again and put it against his palm, but she stopped him before he could draw blood.

  “Let me try it on myself. I’ll be more motivated to get it right.”

  He lifted the corner of his mouth and nodded at her, then passed the knife. She bit her lip and hesitated as the blade rested against her skin. How hard it was to purposely damage her own skin! With a frown of concentration, she dragged the blade across her flesh with a quick jerk.

  “Ay!” she hissed, unable to stop herself. She looked at her wound and was embarrassed to see it was barely more than a scratch. It felt like she’d cut her hand in half.

  “It’ll do.” Doc Theo traded the knife in her hand for the crystal. “Hold it up so nothing’s between its long side and your mouth, and try to block out everything except the rhythm. Sints forbid you ever have to chant in the middle of a battlefield, but trust me, you’ll want to know how to focus.”

  Tala gulped again. Lines of pain shot up her arm from the slice in her skin. Blood finally welled up in the center of the cut. She positioned the pink crystal before her face, right over her palm, and recalled the pattern Doc Theo had chanted. Her first attempt faltered when she had to stop and clear her throat, and her second failed when she realized she was trying to force her neutral pitch up a step and a half. Frustrated, she flapped her lips and produced a few nonsense noises, seeking her true neutral pitch, then segued right into the four-and-two chant.

  The hole in her skin closed up with the tiniest of tingles. Tala let out a squeal of delight. “I did it! I did magic!” Jumping in place, she turned a full circle, whooping, then handed the crystal back to Doc Theo. “Did you see that? Finally, I—” She stopped, stunned.

  “You what?”

  Her wide eyes found his face. “I didn’t hiccup. Not even once.”

  Doc Theo smiled. “They told me you had performance anxiety issues, but I didn’t see any. And your grasp of rhythm is perfect. I don’t see any reason why you can’t beat those hiccups and become a great singer someday.”

  Tala bit her lip. “You really think I can be a singer, not just a chanter?”

  Doc Theo bent forward with an intent look. “I know it.”

  Her shoulders relaxed, releasing tension she hadn’t known she held. Doc Theo reminded her of her favorite uncle back home. If she did, Bhattara save her, end up becoming a chanter, she might not mind so much if she could train and work with Doc Theo.

  “I can tutor you a bit on the side, if you like,” he said, as if reading her mind.

  “Would you? I mean… can you? With singing magic?” She winced, hoping her words didn’t offend.

  He only smiled. “You know the songs. But I can help you sing them. A singer must believe she can sing anywhere and anytime, because when you’re a singer, you’ll have to be ready for all sorts of scenarios. You’ll need to know you can trust your voice, and that others can trust you. It’s not hard. I see a lot of talent in you. It’s just a matter of learning a different kind of spell.”

  “What kind is that?”

  That bright, easy grin returned. “A spell to chase away hiccups.”

  The Impossible Enemy Returns

  “I have a complaint.”

  Kipri looked up from his desk. Sivuma stood before him. Bayan had just left after giving another talk to the newniks—the last lecture, in fact, before the next batch of the emperor’s rush-scheduled trainees arrived. As usual, Tammo had scoffed during the speech, and Sivutma had stayed after with an issue. Kipri adopted his best Neutral Philo expression and asked, “What can I help you with, Sivutma?”

  She plopped a cloth bag onto his desk. “It’s not enough.”

  “What is it?” Kipri began to open the bag, but Sivutma pressed his hands away.

  “It’s sacred soil from a holy site in Nunaa. I brought it with me when I left my homeland, hoping that Tuq would still hear my prayers here, so far from home, if I prayed to him with it. But it’s not enough.”

  “Not enough dirt?” Kipri asked, confused. Perhaps she was referring to her allotted time for prayer.

  “Exactly. Not enough dirt. I need you to arrange for more dirt for all the Raqtaaq students. We need a private place to lay it down, where it won’t—can’t—be disturbed. And we need enough for three of us to pray at the same time.”

  Kipri envisioned the layout of her proposed prayer room: an enclosed space, free from rain and wind; a wooden frame rising a hand above the floor, broad enough to allow three people to kneel and prostrate themselves side by side; and enough holy dirt to ensure that fingers curled in prayer would never touch the underfloor. “That’s a lot of dirt.”

  “And she should get it,” said Bayan from the doorway.

  Kipri and Sivutma both turned. “Did you forget something?” Kipri asked.

  “No, just looking for a friend. We have a hex meeting soon.”

  At that, Kipri’s ears perked. Tarin had hinted that she’d inform her hexmates about their romantic visits, but it didn’t sound to Kipri as if she had.

  Bayan continued, “I think Sivutma has a good point. The Raqtaaq students won’t feel completely at home here—well, possibly ever—but allowing them to practice their religion freely and properly would be a big step toward showing them we want them to play a full role in the empire.”

  Sivutma’s eyebrows rose. Kipri’s did too, but not as far. “I’ll look into it.”

  Sivutma eyed Kipri. “You don’t pray to Tuq, do you?”

  “No. I don’t pray to anyone.” Kipri refrained from sharing that he blamed Tuq for what happened to his father, and to himself. It wouldn’t help.

  “What about you, Bayan?” Sivutma asked. “Do you pray? Do the imperials let you worship freely?”

  Bayan grinned. “They can’t stop me. Bhattara’s home is in the blue arch of the sky. It’s everywhere, and so is he.” Bayan left, and Sivutma, pacified, followed soon after, taking her precious dirt with her.

  Kipri jotted a quick note to Philo regarding the holy dirt issue. He knew the Minister of Information would know how to move the soil from a holy site to the campus without stepping on too many defensive Raqtaaq toes. He also added a few paragraphs on the state of the campus since the shift in leadership. Philo’s network seemed to be spreading quickly; several students—and not just his newniks—seemed to take his wig as a sign that they could confide in him. Kipri duly passed on the tidbits he’d heard. He frowned as he penned a rumor that the groundsmaster had been seen whispering with the demoted Langlaren down in Peace Village. He knew the man was a good friend of Bayan’s. But that too was a matter for Philo to handle.

  For once, Kipri found himself glad that all he had to deal with were a few displaced teenagers.

  ~~~

  Bayan tapped his toe against the cold house door, in the pattern Treinfhir had given him. The heavy stone swung open, and Bayan held out a plate laden with buttered yams, herbed fish, and a cold Akrestoi grain salad called kymolo. Treinfhir took it eagerly and nodded Bayan an invitation to enter.

  “Better eat that quickly if you want any of it to be warm,” Bayan advised. “It’s getting colder out, and the walk from the kitchens can’t get any shorter if I’m to avoid notice.”

  “Aye, I thank ye.” Treinfhir grunted. He sat at the small table in the corner and stuffed the first few bites of fish into his mouth without chewing.

  Bayan watched the man eat. He’d gained a lot of weight since Bayan had rescued him, and his movements were no longer those of an injured man. His healing had taken more than a score of days, since Bayan had to rely on conventional medicines he’d acquired by trading with Taban. Eward had trimmed Treinfhir’s hair several days ago, too. The outlander could have blended into any busy market, barring his accent. But he had yet to utter a word about his captor or the reason for his imprisonment.

  “This is verra good, with the honey.” Treinfhir indicated the yams on his plate. “Your cooks, they’re D
unfarroghan, aye?”

  “I think two of them are. Dervheil and Ruari.”

  “They marrit yet?”

  “Yes, they’re married. They cook too well not to be.”

  Treinfhir laughed, spewing a few oily grains onto the table. “Aye, for certain. My wife, she is a goddess in the kitchen. I worship at the table of her bounty.” It sounded to Bayan like Treinfhir intended to go on praising his wife’s culinary skills for some time, but the outlander’s voice died, leaving him staring mutely at the half-eaten feast before him.

  Bayan leaned against the wall next to the small table. “I know. Nothing in the world can compare to a home-cooked meal.”

  Treinfhir took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Aye, lad. Sure an’ they doona serve ennathing with bitter melon on this campus?”

  “Not yet. But things are changing.” Bayan thought of Sivutma’s request for prayer dirt. If she got it, maybe he could petition for a recipe or two from home to pass on to the campus kitchens.

  “Ach. Change.” The wiry man looked up at Bayan. “I’ll tell you what change has done for me, lad. It showed me the world, introduced me to many different peoples. I visited faraway hills, saw a deadly sea. I shared bread and ideas with princes and lords. I even saw the imperial family once. And none of it was worth a gods-damned thing, because my family’s life was at stake. If I could go back, I’d kill those men as their boat ground against the gravel on my shore. Kill them before they laid hands on my youngest. Before they threatened evil upon me woman. I’d pull them intae the sea and hold them there, and give their bodies tae my beasts as a reward for ridding the world of a little more evil.”

  Bayan heard the helpless anger in Treinfhir’s voice, the loss, the sense of being adrift in the world without anyone to anchor him. Between the emotions rose a series of facts about Treinfhir’s past. Facts that had no business seeming familiar to Bayan. An eerie tingle shot down Bayan’s spine and clawed its way across his scalp.