A Warrior's Knowledge

by Davis Ashura

  Her appearance set the scouts chattering in amazement as their hostility dissipated.

  “Jessira Viola Grey?” the lead scout said, sounding hesitant.

  “Hello, Hart Drape.”

  Her words were a signal, and the scouts moved to converge around her and offer joyful greeting.

  “Halt! Maintain positions!” Hart Drape shouted. “I know you, Jessira, but him I do not. Who is he?” He pointed to Rukh.

  “A close friend,” Jessira answered.

  “A close friend?” Hart said, shades of meaning in his words. “I had understood you were engaged to my cousin, Disbar Merdant.”

  “Priya,” she heard Rukh mutter with a suppressed chuckle, his voice loud enough only for her to hear. She bit back an oath. How could she have been so stupid as to have said such a thing to him? She’d have to deal with her thoughtlessness some other time, though. Hart Drape was waiting for an answer.

  “And I mean to keep my promise,” Jessira said. “This man is a close friend because he saved my life countless times and returned me to health. And it was his nanna who provided me with supplies enough to return home.”

  “Then we should honor him,” said another scout — a woman — grinning widely. The warrior disregarded Hart’s insistent command to maintain ranks and rushed forward.

  It took Jessira a moment to recognize her. She only had time to make out long, dark hair, dark eyes and a winsome crooked smile before she was drawn into the scout’s embrace. “Welcome home, sister,” the scout said. It was Sign Deep, Jessira’s cousin. Sign and her brother Court had been adopted into the Grey household after the death of their parents when the two siblings had been but children. Growing up, Sign had often been a self-centered pain, but she was still family — and Jessira loved her like a sister.

  Jessira hugged her cousin hard, overwhelmed by the feeling of belonging. Tears tracked down her cheeks. She was home. She was never leaving again…or at least not for a long, damn time.

  “So who’s the Pureblood?” Sign asked. She gave Rukh a measuring glance, boldly eyeing him up and down before smiling sardonically. “I figured they’d be taller.”

  Jessira smiled. There was the Sign she knew and loved: all bravado and affected haughtiness. “His name is Rukh Shektan.”

  “And he travels with you for what reason?” Hart Drape asked.

  “Because he is like our ancestors: a man without a home.”

  The scouts frowned and gave Rukh measuring stares. But Hart’s gaze locked on Jessira. “Tell me you haven’t compromised yourself with him.”

  Sign hissed in outrage.

  “No,” Rukh answered, speaking up for himself as he also dismounted. “Jessira’s honor and my own are intact. I was judged Unworthy because I learned Talents not of my own Caste.” He glanced behind him, staring at empty space. “Will those four warriors behind us remain Blended until we reach Stronghold?”

  How had he … Jessira hadn’t been paying attention, but she sensed the Blends now. She looked at Hart, who wore a pinched expression of displeasure. He barked a command, and four more scouts appeared behind them.

  “Talents not of your own Caste?” a young scout mused. “You wouldn’t happen to be the legendary Rukh Shektan?”

  For the first time since their encounter with Hart and the Shadowcats, Rukh looked surprised. “How did you know?”

  The scout smiled. Jessira remembered him now. Tire Cloud. He was young, only having finished his training when she had shipped out with the Silversuns all those many months ago. “Cedar Grey and Court Deep made it home along with another Kumma, who has a Talent not of his own Caste.”

  “Cedar!” Jessira shouted in elation. “He’s alive?”

  Hart nodded.

  “And Farn?” Rukh asked in budding joy. “Is he still here?”

  “He is,” Hart answered. “Although he’s not right in the head. I’m told he has dizzy spells and starts throwing up if you look at him funny. Our physicians have been helping him, but until a few weeks ago, nothing they did seemed to be work. I understand he’s finally improving.” He gave Rukh a quizzical look. “Cedar says you took down two Shylows. Is that true?”

  Rukh shook his head. “No. I’ve never killed a Shylow.” A fleeting expression of sorrow flashed across his face.

  Jessira realized he was probably thinking about Keemo. She saw the Shadowcats sharing knowing smirks. No doubt they thought the legend of Kumma fighting prowess was as exaggerated as she had once believed. She looked forward to witnessing their expressions when Rukh practiced against them. “It was one of the Kummas under his command, Keemo Chalwin, who killed the Shylows,” she said, temporarily halting the self-satisfied chuckles.

  “Well, I don’t know anything about that. All I know is this Farn Arnicep won’t spar with us,” another scout said into the temporary silence. It was Just Joint, the oldest of the Joint brothers, all three of whom were enlisted in the Home Army. In fact, his youngest brother, Divit, stood next to him. A fellow Shadowcat.

  Jessira turned to Just with a questioning look. “I thought Hart said he’s injured.”

  “He is. Or at least he was,” Divit Joint piped in. The scout was a few years younger than Jessira, but just then, she felt infinitely older. In the past half-year, she’d gone through so much. “But how are we supposed to know how good he really is?” Divit continued.

  “Cedar says he’s like nothing we’ve ever seen, like he’s the wind and fire made flesh,” Sign said with a roll of her eyes.

  Tire Cloud, a scout who had been a nugget during the same time as Jessira, snorted in disbelief. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said. “They can’t be as great as Cedar says. Certainly not better than Wheel.”

  Jessira wasn’t surprised by Tire’s words. Wheel Cloud, Tire’s older brother, was the current Champion of the Trials of Hume.

  “I’ve seen Farn fight. He’s everything my brother said,” Jessira replied. “Once Healed, he would wipe the floor with the best of our warriors and probably not break a sweat. And Rukh is even better. I saw four of them take down thirty Tigons and suffer no casualties.”

  The scouts stared at Rukh in mingled uncertainty and doubt, as if he’d suddenly sprouted a Bael’s horns. But just as clearly, they didn’t believe or want to believe that Rukh and his kind were so much better with the sword than they.

  “Perhaps the great Kumma can demonstrate his amazing skill with a blade before we lead him into our home,” said Yalla Dark, the only other woman in the Shadowcats. Her suggestion was offered in a voice filled with loathing.

  Jessira’s hackles rose at the other woman’s demeanor. Who was she to think so poorly of someone she’d only met a few minutes earlier?

  “The great Kumma would be happy to oblige, except his leg is still healing,” Rukh said, sounding rueful and ignoring Yalla’s ugly tone. “Broke it a few weeks back.” His voice suddenly turned hard and just as cold as Yalla’s had been a moment earlier. “Give me a week, though, and I’ll be happy to test you.”

  *****

  Rukh rode within a cocoon of the Shadowcats. All the Stronghold warriors appeared edgy, with hands straying to their swords whenever Rukh shifted in his saddle. Most eyed him with curiosity while some were merely professional, going about their duties as a proper warrior should: alert and ready. Others, though, glared at him, the hostility evident in their expressions.

  It was annoying, and he did his best to ignore their dislike. Rukh was a warrior. He knew nothing else, and these were the people he’d have to impress if he wanted to make a new life for himself here. However, he also knew he couldn’t be a mouse and let them get away with staring at him with such contempt. Give a bully an inch, and he’d take the mile. Another aphorism from his nanna. It had been right back when Rukh was a child, and it was right now.

  Finally, one of the scouts glared a little too hard and a little too obviously.

  “You’ll want to move your eyes, or you’ll be finding out just how ugly a Pureblood can be,�
�� Rukh said to the man, who gave him a look of loathing in return. Anger roared to the surface. Without a further thought, Rukh dismounted and got straight in the scout’s face, standing toe-to-toe with him. “You want to say something to me, say it,” he challenged in a voice full of menace.

  Hart Drape was there in an instant. “What the fragging hells is going on!” he demanded.

  The scout stepped away from Rukh and came to attention. “Nothing, sir!” he replied.

  “Then make sure it stays that way,” Drape said in a growl. “Stop eyeing the Kumma like he’s given your sister a disease and get your ass to the front of the line. Send Bild to take your place.”

  “Yes, sir!” the scout said, moving off.

  Drape turned to Rukh. “And you. Don’t pick fights with my warriors.”

  Rukh stared the lieutenant in the eye, not willing to back down. “I won’t break your scouts,” he said. “But I also won’t just sit there and take it when someone insults my honor.”

  “What honor?” Drape asked. “I thought you were found Unworthy.”

  Rukh held back a grimace of anger, grinding his teeth in the process. “I’m still a Kumma,” he growled, “and we fight and defend what’s ours.”

  “Do what you want. Just shut up about it. And know that attacking even one of us will result in your ass getting a beating,” the lieutenant barked back. “If we have to, we’ll haul you to Stronghold tied up across your ugly horse’s back like a sack of potatoes. I don’t care. Your choice.” With that, the lieutenant turned on his heel and walked away.

  As the lieutenant departed, Rukh called out to him. “So is this how you treat all visitors to your city?” he asked. The lieutenant’s shoulders stiffened but he didn’t turn around to respond to Rukh’s accusation. Other nearby scouts muttered in anger and threw scornful looks at Rukh.

  “What are you doing?” Jessira hissed, grabbing hold of his arm. “This is not how you make a good first impression.”

  Following on her heels was her cousin, Sign Deep. The two women shared a similar build, although Jessira was taller by several inches. Sign looked as offended as the rest of the Shadowcats.

  With Jessira’s presence, an opportunity arose, and Rukh took it. What he was about to do wasn’t something the two of them had discussed, but it was necessary.

  Rukh shrugged his arm free. “I’m only telling what’s the truth,” he said. “I remember how you used to think of me. I was the dreaded and evil Pureblood. You hated me on general principle.” He glared about at the others, daring them to tell him they didn’t think the same thing. “And I’m guessing the rest of your kind probably feel the same way.”

  “Like your people were any different,” Jessira said. “Farn wanted to kill me out of hand when we first met, remember?”

  Sign glared daggers at him. “Is this true?”

  “She’s alive, isn’t she?” Rukh answered. “I saved her life more times than I can count. And my reward for all this was exile from my home.” He glanced around at the Shadowcats. “I’m a Pureblood, but I’ll be damned to the unholy hells before I bend knee to any of you or bear guilt for something I’ve never done.”

  “Don’t play the victim here,” Sign said, her voice filled with scorn. “You Purebloods are powerful in the world. Privileged. And your kind kills our kind.”

  “But I’ve never killed an OutCaste, and I’ve never done anything to harm one your kind. In fact, two of my own, close to me as brothers, died defending Jessira’s brothers, and I almost died saving Jessira. As for privilege, it only exists in the cities, not here.”

  Sign looked like she wanted to argue the point, but she never had a chance. Just then, Lieutenant Drape shouted back at them. “Everyone just shut your traps,” he said. “We’re moving on.”

  Jessira gave Rukh a disappointed look as Sign drew her away.

  Rukh watched them walk away, maintaining his angry appearance even as his heart sank. His way would be better. He just wished it didn’t make him feel so awful.

  Chapter 8: Decisions

  As deceitful as a vulture and as faithless as a harlot. A sure sword in willful hands ends all such charges.

  -The Warrior and the Servant (author unknown)

  The Shektan House Council sat in stony silence as Bree and Jaresh relayed their findings about the Withering Knife murders. It had been two days since Van Jinnu’s murder, and everyone was on edge. All listened with polite interest, but they were all frustrated by the most recent murder. Dar’El, surprisingly enough, was the one most affected. He had taken Van’s murder the hardest, treating it like it was his fault.

  Mira, who had already heard most of the contents of Bree and Jaresh’s report, studied the other councilors as they listened. Satha Shektan shared the sofa with her son and daughter, and while her expression appeared bland and relaxed, the tightness to her eyes and her fisted hands revealed her anger. Satha was furious. It was an unexpected finding. She was generally so serene, with a warmth and generosity of spirit as beautiful as her features. In fact, Mira was quietly jealous of Jaresh and Bree for having such a loving Amma.

  Her own Amma, Sophy Terrell, was a very different person. She wasn’t gentle like Satha Shektan. She was stern. Amma’s sobriquet, the Hound, was well deserved. She was as unyielding as the walls of Ashoka, and devotion to duty was her highest calling. And she expected no less from those who answered to her. Too often, Mira ended up disappointing her mother. She simply didn’t measure up to Amma’s standards.

  Mira snipped the incipient self-pity and forced herself to focus on what was being said even as she flicked a glance around the room.

  Sitting in a matching high-backed chair on the other side of the coffee table from Amma was Garnet Bosde. He was an ancient warrior, well into his seventies, but his mind remained sharp. Or so everyone claimed, but lately, Mira had noticed he tended to repeat himself, in both his questions and his answers. It was a worrisome sign, and Mira knew the rest of the Council worried about Garnet, though, for now, no one wanted to confront him on the matter.

  “Seventy-six,” mused Durmer Volk upon the completion of Bree and Jaresh’s account. He stroked his luxurious mustache, which matched the color of his shoe-polish black hair, neither of which were in agreement with his seamed face. “More than I had hoped and less than I feared,” he added. Mira knew that Durmer liked to inculcate a stern reputation, but she also knew it was all just a sham. Even as he scowled and complained about seemingly everything, he held a twinkle in his eyes, as if he were secretly mocking himself.

  “Seventy-six members of three great Houses who might be our Withering Knife murderer,” Satha said, sounding disgusted.

  “We have to reduce that number even further,” Garnet said tartly. “For instance, we know the killer is wealthy — the fragment of clothing from the murder of Aqua Oilhue belonged to a person of means,” he continued. “Has that helped your investigation?”

  It was a question Jaresh had already answered, but no one took notice of Garnet’s repetition. Instead, Bree simply shook her head. “No. The suspects that we’ve identified are all wealthy. Any one of them could have afforded the clothing.”

  “We were planning on checking into the severity of the limp,” Bree said. “The murderer has an injured leg, but it’s not so bad that he’s unable to fight. Also, we can eliminate anyone who has a limp involving his right leg. The murderer limps on the left.”

  “Get back to us with the revised numbers,” Dar’El said.

  Jaresh and Bree nodded, but looked diffident, as if they had more to add.

  “What is it?” Dar’El asked.

  “Drin Port,” Jaresh replied.

  It was the name of a Duriah who had once worked in the Moon Quarter; a man whose name had been slipped into Dar’El’s pocket by a member of the Sil Lor Kum. Drin had gone missing in the spring and turned up dead a few days later, floating in Bar Try Bay. It was assumed that he had gotten drunk, slipped off a pier, and drowned.

  “No one cl
aimed his personal effects, but when I looked them over, there was nothing to them,” Bree explained. “But I haven’t been able to meet with the physician who pronounced Drin’s cause of death. He keeps rescheduling our appointment.”

  Dar’El’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Gren Vos owes me a favor.” He gave Jaresh and Bree a pointed look. “Do you have anything else?” They shook their heads, and Dar’El turned to Mira. “What about Rector?”

  “Other than learning about those the unaccounted henna and poppy seeds, he’s not made any more progress. Plus, he says the older records are inaccessible. They were apparently ruined in a flood.” She hesitated a moment. “Plus, he says the accountants are starting to wonder why he’s being so nosy. It might cause him trouble.”

  Garnet frowned. “Unless they have plumbing in those warehouses, I don’t see how those records were flood damaged. There hasn’t been a storm surge strong enough to crest our levees in decades.”

  Mira hadn’t known that. When she turned to Garnet, he merely smiled at her before leaning back into his chair and closing his eyes. “My time hasn’t yet passed,” he said, seeming to answer the unspoken worries about his state of mind that swirled about the room.

  Mira shook off her thoughts about Garnet and considered what he had just said. Was it possible that Rector had lied to her when he spoke of those damaged records? It was unlikely. Despite loosening up somewhat, the man remained as stiff and upright as a vertical plank of wood. He wasn’t one to tell lies or even half-truths. Which raised the possibility that he was the one being deceived. She’d find out soon enough at their next meeting. All she had to do was ask him. Rector was transparent as a clear, pane of glass.

  “Have Rector find out more about the timing of this flood. I want to know what really happened,” Dar’El ordered.