“He’s dead,” Konrad said, seeming surprised. “You killed him? Brave lad.”
Kipri’s wide eyed gaze shifted from the body to the blade in Bayan’s hand.
Bayan couldn’t remember if he’d killed the man, yet there he was, dead at his feet. And the darkness that fought back from inside him still thrummed in his head. Run! his mind screamed. Escape to Pangusay! It was too late, though; the chaos that might have covered his escape was gone, and he stood within arm’s reach of the surveyor’s guards.
The sky above was nearly black, and hundreds of stars winked overhead. Somehow, Bayan felt as if part of the night’s darkness had slithered inside him. It had been within him since he’d left home, if not longer. He dropped the dagger and climbed back into the carriage, which still bore the acrid smell of the gas ball. Carefully, he tried to ease the darkness back down, but it wouldn’t let him go. Impatient, he tried to pry himself loose from its grip, but the darkness swelled, permeating his every fiber. His bones vibrated to a rhythm he couldn’t hear. Surely, staying much longer at this level of tension would exhaust the power inside him, and cause it to retreat.
He startled when the carriage door opened. Philo climbed in, wig askew, then sat on the bench and sighed. “The boys have taken care of the remaining vagaries. We’re safe now.”
Bayan waited a moment to see if his darkness would retreat at that news. It didn’t. “What about Lotte? Where’s her wagon?”
“Konrad said she’s just at the top of the hill, where they heard our clash. He offered to bring her down, but she refused to leave her poxy pots behind. Told him she’d use them to beat people over the head if she had to.”
“You and Kipri were all right after you got out of the carriage?”
“Oh, we were fine. My fellow cricket found a pair of hefty stones and guarded me while I wept like the coward I am.”
Bayan blinked at the vivid image his mind conjured to match the eunuch’s words, wondering if the pun had been intentional.
“Bayan. You fought both bravely and decisively tonight. Whatever happens at the Duelist Academy, don’t forget you bear the soul of a warrior.”
Bayan nodded, but unease curled deep within him, touching but not mixing with the throbbing darkness. I’ve got the soul of something, but I’m not sure it’s a warrior. I don’t think I killed that man. But if I didn’t, could he really have slit his own throat on the dagger? Why would he do that? Nothing makes sense tonight.
Kipri climbed back into the carriage, bearing a small lantern. “The men are all right, for the most part. No injuries that will slow us down. Frits said these vagaries were very well armed and organized. If we’d all been together, they wouldn’t have attacked at all. If we hadn’t had Konrad, Lemmert, Joord, and Bayan come late to the battle, they’d probably have killed us.”
Philo put a beringed hand to his chest. “Sints have mercy. It seems I may owe Lotte an apology—her squeaky wagon not only saved our lives, but rid the empire of a strong band of vagaries. I won’t live this one down anytime soon.”
Fabian knocked on the carriage door, and Philo leaned out the window. “All set, Surveyor,” the guard said. “The bodies are out of the way and their weapons have been confiscated. I also took the liberty of searching them for other trinkets. Thought you might want to have a look.” Fabian held out his hands, which cupped a mound of jewelry and other accessories.
Philo grinned, wiggling his fingers in joyous anticipation. “Fabian, you’re a dear.” He picked through the collection of cheap brass rings, braided leather necklaces, and pewter ear cuffs. Here and there, he found a gold or silver item, and at the bottom of the pile, he found what appeared to be a gold signet ring.
“Nicked it, just there on the side, with my sword,” Fabian said. “Don’t worry. I washed off all the blood.”
Examining it by lantern light, Philo harrumphed. “Something’s not right about this ring. Pretty, though. I don’t recognize this symbol. Do you?”
Fabian shook his head.
“Ah well, that just makes it more interesting. You lads do what you like with the rest.” He slipped the ring onto a pinky.
“Bayan should get something,” Fabian replied.
“Oh, of course. How crass of me. Bayan, you see anything you’d like to claim?”
Bayan shook his head, uncomfortable with their casual looting. “I don’t want to wear anything that’s touched them.”
Philo shrugged. “To each his own. If everyone’s ready, let’s fetch Lotte and find that lovely little town on the Marghebellen side of the wall. As much as I am fond of fine Bantayan cuisine, I like stopping on my return journeys for a bit of taste of home.”
“A bit?” Lotte’s voice came out of the night. “You stuffed yourself so badly with sweetmeats last year that you were constipated for three days, you fat old bitch.”
“You fat old bitch!” Philo’s voice shrilled as he aimed a pudgy digit in the direction of his cook.
“Oh listen, an echo,” Kipri said, hanging his lantern in a window.
Lotte’s pleasant laughter rang down the hillside.
The carriage resumed its northward journey, soon passing between the gateless pillars of the ancient imperial border wall. As they entered Marghebellen, Bayan had a sudden, disorienting thought.
Despite his terror at the prospect of death and the rage with which he had combated the armed vagary, his magic hadn’t escaped him. Not once. Not even for a moment.
Marked by Fire
“I don’t follow.” Qisuk thumped a burlap of freshly-harvested okra onto the scale that sat on the field table beside Savitu. “We’ve been smuggling these weapons in from Karkhedon for two years now; our arsenal is more than sufficient. Why are we risking our success by including him?”
Savitu jotted down the tare weight in a ledger and glared at his cousin. They were alone for the moment in the okra field’s mobile weighing hut, but the vegetable commune bustled with hundreds of other workers, and he, as the former heir of the Aklaa throne, was never far from someone’s notice, not even his own loyal Aklaa rebels. “Voice down, Qisuk. It’s nearly time for the manager’s rounds.” In a whisper, he added, “Marco is a fine fighter.”
“We need warriors. All Marco knows is that delicate Karkhedonian dance-fighting.” Qisuk tossed the okra sack to one of the loyalists who worked on the commune, then hefted another onto the scale.
“Then he can train with Hahliq and his men.”
“You like the Waarden rat?” Mitlik joined them and offered a snack of apricots and warm goat milk from the back room. Qisuk picked up two apricots.
“If we succeed, he will be in a position to aid us.” Savitu snatched an apricot from the plate and took a savage bite. He gazed out from his weighing shed at the vast commune’s fields and its bent-backed harvesters. “It’s not so much loyalty as practicality.”
“Did Marco demand this training?” Mitlik asked.
Savitu gave him a cool glance. “I do not accept instruction from rats.”
His cousins grinned.
Savitu finished the apricot, spat out the stone, and gulped the goat’s milk. In two days’ time, when the commune took a rest day, he and his cousins could slip back out to the Huku Hills, where the rain fell aplenty and the horizon was never flat. He had played in those hills as a child, but all his childhood friends were dead, castrated, or shamed into menial work for their conquerors. He and his cousins had each other to rely upon. But his sister’s fate? At the complex where the Waarden eunuchs had tried to train the Aklaa out of him, he’d been punished regularly for demanding her release. Eventually, he fell silent and kept his guilt tucked close to his rage.
Now, the Waarden would pay. Pay for his father’s death. Pay for his own castration, and pay most dearly for making his sister’s life a cold and miserable hell.
~~~
Bayan and Kipri waited in the carriage outside the walls of the Marghebellen town of Renallen while Philo had a short conversation in the guard hous
e at the Pinamuyoc Gate. Lotte had taken another road earlier in the morning, heading directly back to the Kheerzaal now that Philo was safely back among his favorite foods. Already, Bayan missed Lotte and her secret stash of Bantayan spices. He looked out the carriage window at the orange stone of the city walls, which bore intimidating black streaks, as if they had long ago repelled a rain of fiery missiles. “Frits?”
The rider eased his mount closer to the carriage.
“Do all the cities in the old empire have walls like this?”
Frits grinned. “All the older cities do. Your people must be very peaceful not to need walls around your cities.”
Bayan lifted the corner of his mouth. “We use swamps instead.”
“Renallen was originally a Waarden fishing village. When the Tuathi began raiding, the walls went up, but eventually Renallen, and all of Marghebellen, fell to them. They settled here, expanded the city, and eventually joined the empire. You’ll see once we’re inside: the city’s sectioned like an orange, each with its own walls.”
Philo returned to the carriage, his weight pulling it off-center as he stepped onto the runner. “Nic, it seems we have another passenger to pick up. Drive to the North Keenaght duel den.”
The carriage pulled forward through the city gates and turned onto a broad street crowded with horses, people, and wagons. Not all the odors that wafted through the window were pleasant, but Bayan did discern warm bread and fresh-cut flowers from among the less-savory aromas.
“You’re going to have company at the Academy, Bayan,” Philo said. “There’s another young man here whose magic revealed itself recently. When the gate guards learned where we were bound, they asked if I could take him.”
“Why hasn’t he gone already? It’s much closer from here than from Pangusay.”
“Apparently he was badly injured, and the chanters have only recently restored him to health.”
“Chanters?”
“Yes, they chant their healing magic.”
“Oh, them. We call them tagawiti.”
“Their enclave is far to the north, but one is assigned to every duel den. I believe there is a small collection of them at the Academy, too. Don’t want our duelists killing each other off before they can perform their duties, now, do we?”
Bayan grimaced at the idea of being hurt and then healed in an endless cycle.
Soon, Nic pulled the carriage to a stop under a pale green awning next to a broad, curving wall. A young boy of perhaps twelve jogged over, eyes on the official seal on the carriage door, and opened Philo’s door for him.
“Good morrow, Surveyor,” he said. “Have you need of the duelists’ services this day?”
Philo stepped down beside him. “No, son. We’ve come to take your young trainee up to the Academy along with Bayan here.”
The boy’s dark eyes widened, and he looked more closely at Bayan, who stared back. The boy turned his attention back to Philo. “The boy you’re looking for isn’t from Renallen, Surveyor. He’s come from the Firedust Guild up north.”
Bayan heard a faint judgment in the boy’s voice, though he didn’t know whether the boy disapproved of the northern area or the guild.
“Well, come along, Bayan,” Philo said. “You’ll want to see the den, since you’ll be working in one eventually.”
I don’t want to work in a duel den, Bayan thought, leaving the carriage. He felt the darkness rise up his throat and swallowed it back as he followed Philo and the boy.
They entered a broad tunnel. At its far end, Bayan saw an expanse of what looked like pale sand, with a narrow band of tiered seating on the far side. The boy turned down a side tunnel and into a large common room illuminated by sun through grated skylights. Several men and women sat in relaxed poses and chatted or played at games. An older man with gray hair rolled to his feet from a cushioned bench and padded over. Bayan was struck by how the man seemed to flow like water.
“Head Duelist Cavan,” the boy greeted him, “this surveyor is traveling to the Academy. He’s come for the fireduster.”
Cavan showed no reaction, but merely said, “This way.” He flowed past them without another glance.
Bayan looked at Philo, but the man sported his public face, which showed little more emotion than Cavan’s. Bayan turned to follow the men, but the young boy caught his sleeve.
“How does it feel to have dry feet?” he asked curiously.
Bayan stared, baffled. “Do you keep water in your shoes?”
“Of course not, but—”
“Then you know as well as I do what it feels like to have dry feet. You imperials are a strange lot.” He headed after Philo, leaving the boy behind.
He caught up with Cavan and Philo at the doorway to a spacious sleeping room. A pale, light-haired boy about Bayan’s age sat on a high, imperial-style bed. As Cavan explained Philo’s errand, the boy studied the floor. His right cheek bore a pink, raised swirl of scar tissue that resembled a broad tongue of flame.
While the boy packed a few things into a bag, Cavan returned to the doorway. “His name is Calder Micarron. He’s afraid of fire, even a simple candle. I’ve spent some time teaching him to distance himself from his fears, so his magic doesn’t escape his control, but he’ll need extensive retraining at the Academy. Otherwise, he’ll wash out and get potioneered quicker’n you can spit.”
Bayan listened with increasing worry. Cavan’s sudden flood of words made sense, of a sort, but the tone in which he delivered them was perfectly emotionless. He might have been discussing rice bushels at market, though Bayan’s father expressed more interest in those than Cavan did in Calder.
The boy approached Cavan. “I’m ready,” he said, slurring his ‘r’. Bayan’s eyes fell to the stiff, pink scarring on Calder’s cheek. He shivered, wondering whether the scar’s flame pattern was mere chance, or if Calder’s elemental magic had indeed marked him as its own.
Cavan stepped aside without a word, allowing Calder into Philo’s custody. Calder did not say goodbye or give a backward glance as the group returned to the carriage.
As Philo handed Calder’s bag up to Nic to secure on the roof, Bayan muttered, “Cavan wasn’t very interested in you, was he?”
Calder shrugged. “He helped me not be so afraid at first. I only slipped once, when I made a wall sprout leaves, and I’ve been here for six days.” The lilting rhythm of Calder’s accent was different from everyone in Philo’s traveling party, and Bayan enjoyed its light crispness.
“But he wasn’t happy, sad, anything. He just stood there and talked, like he was asleep.” Bayan climbed into the carriage and sat by Kipri, while Calder sat next to Philo. “I hope that’s not normal.”
“You want him to be off squint, throwing all his magic around and hurting people?” Calder asked, while shooting furtive looks at Philo’s wig.
“No, I mean I don’t want to end up that way, not caring about anything but doing a job.”
“I should think that doing one’s job might give sufficient pleasure to someone who truly embraced their position,” Philo said mildly.
Bayan looked down as Nic clucked to the horses and pulled the garish carriage out from under the duel den’s awning. It’s not fair. Why should we leave our entire lives behind and go fight for someone we don’t know? Especially someone who just took over my homeland! And now I have to do what he says, or he’ll… he’ll… I don’t even know what he’ll do. Probably kill me.
Philo reached out of the carriage window, knocked on its roof to get Nic’s attention, and gave orders to find a certain restaurant where they could all dine. Bayan crossed his arms and looked out the window as the carriage wound through the city. He wasn’t hungry. At least not for empire food, which was sour and salty and…brown.
He’d nursed the idea of escape since he’d first climbed into the purple carriage, but with seven guards, he had zero opportunity to slip away. Even if he had managed to slip off unnoticed, he’d be one lost young man against a vast empire. Between the strang
e food and the prospect of forced employment for what seemed to be a cruel tyrant, Bayan felt like a man condemned to a lifetime of imprisonment at the hands of his enemies. The weight of his helplessness pressed him into his seat, and once again he promised himself that when the right opportunity came to escape, he’d jump at it.
~~~
Calder snuggled under the warm blue blanket on his narrow inn bed and pretended to sleep while Bayan entered and sat on his own bed across the room. The ropes under the feather mattress creaked as the Bantayan reached over and picked up a small potted plant.
Calder reached down to scratch his leg where the spine of a feather had poked him through the mattress fabric. His mind played over the events of the last score of days, at the sudden turn his fortunes had taken. He had yet to decide whether he was happy or disappointed with the change.
On the positive side, he was free from the rest of his service to the Fireduster guild, and his mother’s debts had been paid when the emperor bought the remainder of his indenturement from the guild. He was also going to get to learn real magic, which was far more prestigious than simply making firedust explode.
On the negative side, the redemption price of his indenturement wouldn’t save his sisters from their own debts. They were older; they’d already chosen their paths by the time his mother indentured him, hoping to assure him a different fate. Calder had actually enjoyed learning how to make firedust before burning himself in a sudden explosion he hadn’t been able to control. He spent three days in drugged agony—one of which was spent detouring around a known vagary lair—as the guildmaster carted him to the closest chanter. The delay in healing meant that his cheek was scarred for life. Since then, any open flame made his heart race and his palms sweat. He had even shielded his eyes from the common room hearth fire downstairs earlier in the evening.
Even now, he feigned sleep so he wouldn’t have to talk to someone he barely knew. But that Balang was taking forever to lie down. When Calder cracked an eyelid open to see what the delay was, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Bayan had just jabbed his finger with a dagger, and he squeezed drops of blood onto—no, into—the potted plant he cradled between his knees.
Rebel Elements (Seals of the Duelists) Page 4