Yaan Maat? Jazen thought, even as he leaped away. They had only thought to show Immatus he was wrong, show him the fruit of Adri’s spell and Jazen’s work. No one had said anything about Yaan Maat!
The demon snarled again and picked up the oak refectory table, swinging it up over his head. Jazen dodged, shoving Vettazen out of the way. Meleas ducked back. Firaloy, on the floor, was caught directly in the table’s path and collapsed without a cry.
Without knowing exactly what he was doing, Jazen yanked the knife free from his belt.
You who come from fire and seed
Be this now as I shall need
He had no idea what he needed. He was no trained fighter, certainly not with the sword he found in his hand. He cast a despairing glance to Adri, who shook his head—Adri, who could use a sword, but if he took this one up, it wouldn’t be a sword any more. The magic of the fire people had shaped it only to his hand.
So he slashed, and as the blade came down it changed again, from long narrow light blade to something else, wider at the point, chopping at the demon. Immatus glared and stepped back.
“The mataal, Jazen! Break the mataal!”
But the little velvet bag with the pieces of mataal, the inscribed ivory in which Yaan Maat lived when they weren’t possessing humans, was safely tucked under Immatus’s tunic. The demon laughed and raised his hands again. Smoke began to pour from them.
More than anything, he wanted to run away, but Jazen’s knife—or sword—or whatever it was—appeared to have other ideas. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Adri and Vettazen scrambling through the debris for something, anything, to throw at Immatus. Meleas was muttering to Firaloy, who was on the floor, under the oak table.
Jazen lunged, since the knife seemed to think that was a good idea, and Immatus whipped his smoking hands out of the way. The smoke eddied over the prostrate Firaloy, who gagged and coughed, desperately waving it away. Vettazen threw a soup bowl, which smacked against Immatus’s head and distracted him long enough to let Jazen get a stride closer. Obligingly, the knife lengthened and sliced.
But there were limits, it seemed. There had only been so much metal in the iyiza, and as sharp as his weapon was, at that length it had no heft and was impossible to control. The tip ripped at the demon’s sleeve and drew blood, but it was only a scratch. Immatus cursed and reached for his own eating knife and threw it at Jazen. It buried itself in his upper arm and he almost dropped his weapon.
But he had hammered the iyiza knife with both hands, and he took it from the suddenly nerveless fingers of his right into his left and swung it again. Immatus swung his hands and a wind came up, creating a whirlwind of rushes and debris and broken crockery. Meleas shouted. Immatus laughed.
And then his laughter changed, suddenly, as a brown shadow appeared from the debris on the floor and launched itself at him. The demon screamed and beat at himself, but the rat ran up Immatus’s leg and around his back. Jazen lunged from the floor and his knife, now back into its home shape, sank deep into Immatus’s leg.
The demon screamed and Jazen felt a crushing blow out of nowhere, pinning him to the floor. Immatus had fallen, too, on his back, trying to crush the rat. Somehow Jazen found the strength to strike at the demon’s chest, but it had no power behind it and the blade merely sliced through the Court finery, exposing a pudgy hairless chest—and a red velvet bag. Immatus staggered up, the wound in his leg healing itself as Jazen watched, but the rat—Meleas’s rat—squealed and snapped, as Adri used Immatus’s own eating knife and his own to deliver a double blow to the demon’s back. The cord around the demon’s neck parted. The bag fell to the floor. Before Immatus could raise his lethal hands, the iyiza blade transformed into a hammer and smashed into it.
With a shriek, Immatus swung his hands and more smoke poured out. But this time his wounds did not heal. The hammer in Jazen’s hand descended again and again, in the rhythm he knew better than his own pulse, smashing the mataals, as Adri, Meleas, and Vettazen struck once more.
This time, the demon did not rise.
* * *
“Well,” Lord Lasvennat said, surveying the hall. They had done the best they could to clean it up, but it would take days, and none of them were untouched. Firaloy had a broken leg and a concussion. Jazen’s arm was bandaged. Meleas, Adri, and Vettazen all still had trouble breathing from the demon’s smoke, and Meleas’s eyes were red and swollen—although Jazen thought that might be because of the rat, which had also died.
“Well,” the lord said again. He shook his head. “I didn’t actually think there were any more Yaan Maat among us. It seems I was wrong.” The red bag swung from its cord. He had taken possession of it, but was obviously not eager to touch it. In fact, he seemed relieved to hold it out to Vettazen. “I think this would be better in the hands of someone who studies such things professionally, Guildlady.” He looked around. “And where is this famous knife of which I have heard so much?”
“It’s Jazen’s, my lord,” Vettazen said.
“Ah, yes. The knifemaker. So, young man.” Lasvennat raised an eyebrow. “Apprenticed in two Guilds? Unheard of.”
Jazen swallowed, aware that all eyes were on him—this lord from the Emperor’s own Court, Vettazen and Firaloy, who had brought him away from bondage, even Meleas and Adri-nes, who had befriended him. Fought with him. Lasvennat—summoned from the Court when someone, somehow, had to explain the death of Immatus—hefted the “famous knife” in his hand. It remained itself, one-edged, slightly curved. Nothing unusual about it at all.
It felt wrong, seeing someone else hold that knife. It called to him, as if it needed him. As if the fire people deep in the blade needed him.
“I … I have much to learn,” he mumbled at last.
Lasvennat smiled and held the knife out to him, hilt first. “It is a terrible thing to kill a man,” he said quietly. “But it is an honorable thing to protect your own. These folk, I think, claim you for their own.”
Nodding, Jazen took the knife, stuffing it into his belt, and faded back into the little crowd and then out the door and away from all the stares. He could still hear them talking.
“I think he’ll be coming back to us,” Firaloy said, complacent.
Lasvennat smiled. “I’m certain the Exorcists and the Ironworkers can come to some accommodation.”
“I hope so,” Vettazen said. “We need his magic. As we need all the magic in this room.”
“In this city,” Lasvennat corrected. “Indeed, in the Empire. We had magic before the demons came. We never lost it. We need to bring it back. Smashing a mataal is not all it takes to kill a demon. It takes magic, too—human magic.
“Build us a Guild, Sers. Recall our magic. And—” he looked past them, out the door where Jazen had disappeared “—make sure that young man is one of you. I want one of those knives.”
Vettazen laughed. “So do we, my lord. All of us.”
Guild of the Ancients
D.B. Jackson
They gather on a promontory, in a glade of windswept cedars, far from the eyes and ears of humans. A sea breeze breathes in the branches above them. Surf pounds like a heartbeat below.
It is a moonless night, as always when they meet. Stars dot the sky, vanishing and reappearing as clouds scud past. They burn no torches among the trees. None of the Ancients require flame or moon glow to see in the dark.
The various septs cluster together, disinclined to mingle and thus suggest a lack of unity among their own kind. The Belvora have arrived first, as is their custom. Droë counts twelve of them, more than usual. That doesn’t bode well.
The rest of the septs array themselves upwind of the winged ones, where they won’t have to endure the stench of rot that clings to them. Perhaps a half dozen Shonla gather in the shadows of the wood, their mists coalescing into a single cloud of vapor. Droë discerns no bodies, but their eyes gleam dully from within the haze, echoes of the stars above. Hanev and Grajkim have come as well, though only a few of each. Ni
ne Arrokad, the last to arrive, stand with their backs to the edge of the cliff. Brine still pools around their feet. Tall, sculpted, beautiful, despite their serpentine eyes. Their cold, bone-pale skin appears luminous even in the inky gloom.
Droë’s own kind, the Tirribin, lounge on the forest floor, some picking at twigs and leaves, others speaking in low voices. Most cast occasional glances in her direction. Droë keeps herself apart. For this one night, she belongs to no sept. At least not until the others decide the question of guilt or innocence.
“Let us come to order, cousins,” says one of the Arrokad, a black-haired male with golden eyes and a voice as deep and gentle as the ocean at dawn. “This gathering of the Guild of the Ancients, North Sea, is now convened. I am Lir of the Arrokad, and I shall preside over tonight’s proceedings. Let all who have business before this body speak truth, hold peace, and keep faith with its collected judgment and wisdom.”
Some of the Tirribin look Droë’s way again. She knows all the Belvora do as well, but she does not allow her gaze to leave Lir.
“We will begin, as always, with matters of Commerce. All who would be heard, step forward and present yourselves.”
One of the Shonla floats into the center of the space defined by the different septs. She remains shrouded in her mist, eyes aglow, her form barely visible. Droë’s skin pebbles at the touch of the Shonla’s cloud. She eases back, trying not to be too obvious. Others do the same.
“I am Flisze of the Shonla,” the mist creature says, her words slow and thick. “I bring a question of Commerce before the Guild.”
Lir opens a hand, motioning for her to continue.
“Long has there been … understanding, that human ships on the route between the Sisters and the isle they call Oaqamar are to be left unmolested, save at the discretion of the Arrokad. But with traffic along that route increasing, my kind petition the Most Ancient Ones to consider a new arrangement.”
Lir’s brow knits.
But it is another Arrokad, a female, also dark-haired, who says, “Terms?”
Flisze raises a blunt hand. “A moment, please.”
She glides back to the edge of the wood and speaks in a low voice with the others of her sept. Among themselves, the Shonla do not speak the common tongue, but rather communicate with a series of clicks and guttural noises that Droë cannot understand.
Not that she cares. This promises to be a long night. Discussion of Commerce will consume much time, as will questions of Jurisdiction, Predation, and Legalities. The ancient septs do not convene often. The gentility of Lir’s welcome notwithstanding, most of the septs dislike one another. Even within each of the bloodlines, suspicion, if not outright hostility, is the rule. Creatures of prey tend to see in every other predator a rival. It seems to Droë a small miracle that the Guild has survived for so many millennia.
Flisze drifts back to the center of the promontory and halts before the second Arrokad. “Six ships per fortnight,” she says. “And in return we shall, each of us, for a year and a day, be subject to give one boon to the Most Ancient Ones.”
“A boon of our choosing?”
“Of course. But only one from each Shonla.”
The female Arrokad peers back at her sept for a tencount. “Four ships,” she says. “And two boons, over two years and two days.”
The Shonla shakes her head. “Four ships is acceptable, but one boon, over one year and one day.”
“You ask much and offer little.”
Flisze shrugs. “We take little from ships. Some screams, a song or two if the humans can be persuaded. Never lives. You know this. The ships will still be available to you for your … your pleasures.”
The female Arrokad answers with a wicked grin, exposing needlelike teeth, similar to Droë’s and those of the other Tirribin. An instant later she turns serious again.
“Five then. But two boons over two years and two days. That is as far as we will bend. Accept or refuse.”
Flisze looks back at her kind. One of them nods.
“Accept.”
“Then we have an agreement, your kind and mine, freely entered and fairly sworn before the Guild?”
“We have an agreement, freely entered and fairly sworn.”
The female Arrokad dips her chin and turns to Lir.
“So be it,” he says.
Flisze and the other Arrokad withdraw. Next a Grajkim approaches Lir to speak on behalf of his kind, who wish to enter into a new arrangement, also with the Arrokad.
And so it goes. One by one, Ancients take their turns petitioning the Guild, forging arrangements, or requesting accommodation, or disputing the rights of their rivals. Tirribin engage in their share of negotiations, but even then Droë pays little heed to what is said. She does watch Rissla, though. She wants to know where she is at all times. And she notices that Taibid bears a livid scar on his cheek. She can guess why.
At last, deep into the night, Lir says, in that same rich, ringing voice, “Finally, we come to Grievances.”
A shiver charges through Droë, as if she has been enveloped in a Shonla mist.
One of the Belvora strides to the middle of their circle. She is taller than even the largest of the Arrokad; she towers over Droë and the other Tirribin. Her membranous wings remain folded against her back, but she holds her long, sinuous arms akimbo. Her skin is pale and leathery and her mane of golden hair dances in the wind. Amber eyes sweep over the glade, lingering on Droë for an instant. A snarl curls her lip.
“I am Jonji of the Belvora,” she says, her voice harsh, like the cry of a hawk. “And I stand before you all to say that we have Grievance. All the Belvora, but I most of all.”
Lir does not appear to be surprised by this. “What is your Grievance?” he asks, the words rote.
Jonji pivots with the grace of a creature born to hunt, and levels a taloned finger at Droë. “That Tirribin killed my brother.”
* * *
Droë decided to leave Safsi soon after the Goddess’s solstice. Life on the tiny isle had grown tiresome. She wanted change, an adventure. New years to taste. But how?
Tirribin traveled at speed over land, but unlike Shonla and Belvora, they could not fly, and unlike Arrokad, they disliked water. They were forced to depend on others for transport among the lands of Islevale. And since few humans trusted Tirribin, whom they called Time Demons, Droë had some trouble finding a way off Safsi.
In the end, she secured passage aboard a small boat whose captain welcomed her in exchange for a promise that she would forever spare him and his family. She had been happy to oblige. On the larger island she would find plenty of humans on whom to feed. The captain and his wife were old; sparing them would involve no sacrifice on her part. His children were full of sweet years, but she expected she would have no trouble preying on others.
Soon after arriving on the larger isle, she realized her mistake. She had thought she might find a circle of Tirribin she could join. Friends. Partners on the hunt.
Instead, on her first night, she found Rissla. Or rather, Rissla found her.
She had been alone, learning the pattern of the lanes.
“Look at how skinny she is.”
Droë turned at the sound of the voice to find herself facing seven of her kind, all dressed in rags, as she was. They resembled human children, three male and four female. They were slight, waiflike, with large, pale eyes. Some were as dark-skinned as humans of the northern isles. Others were as pallid as those from the Inner Ring. Several leered at her, needle teeth gleaming with light from nearby oil lamps.
“She’s not very pretty, either. Is she?”
The Tirribin who spoke had golden hair and skin the color of sail cloth. Nothing about her appearance established her as their leader, but Droë sensed her years. She was at least two centuries older than Droë herself, and a good deal older than her companions as well.
A few of the other Tirribin laughed, as if the old one had said something hilarious. One, a male, frowned.
“She’s young, Rissla,” this one said. “I can taste her years. You’re being rude.”
He had dark skin and bronze hair. His milky eyes showed a hint of green. Aside from the girl, he might have been the oldest.
“What’s she doing here?” Rissla asked, watching Droë. “Maybe she’s come to make trouble. Until we know …” She lifted a shoulder.
“Did you?” the boy asked Droë.
Droë shook her head.
Rissla’s glare scraped over her, face to foot. “Then why did you come?”
Droë didn’t know what she had done to offend the girl, but it was clear to her that the boy’s interest in her, his defense of her, would only make matters worse.
“I was in Safsi,” she said. “I was … bored there.” She had meant to say “lonely,” but she feared the ridicule this might provoke.
“So you’ve come to be entertained.”
“I came hoping to find friends,” she said. “A new leader to follow.”
Perhaps if she made it clear that she didn’t see herself as a rival …
“We’re not interested in scrawny, ugly girls who are too young to know how to hunt.”
“I know how to hunt!”
“Then why would you need a leader? Or was that just something you said to win my approval?”
Droë opened her mouth, then shut it again.
Rissla laughed and clapped her hands in delight. “I’ve silenced her. How splendid.”
“Rissla—”
She rounded on the boy. “Tell me again that I’m being rude and I’ll kill her now.”
He didn’t flinch, nor did he challenge her. He merely stared.
“She isn’t worth this trouble,” Rissla said, her gaze on Droë again. “I’m bored. Let’s find some years to take.” She started away. The others followed her, all except the boy. After a few paces, she halted and faced him.
“Are you coming?”
Guilds & Glaives Page 21