The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  “Goddamn it,” groaned Biagio. He went to the chair that Nicabar had vacated and fell into it, exhausted and angry. All his efforts had been for nothing. Nicabar was obsessed with Liss and would never forsake that struggle. Nicabar didn’t care if Tassis Gayle and his henchman Leth were plotting against the throne, and he didn’t care if tyrants like Angoris murdered people by the thousands. He just wanted Liss. Biagio laughed. Once he himself had bargained away his humanity for power. It was what the drug did to men.

  “Malthrak!” shouted Biagio suddenly. “Get in here!”

  Within a moment the parlor door opened and Malthrak stuck his swarthy head inside. “My lord?” he queried. “Are you all right?”

  “Find me Captain Kasrin, Malthrak. Find out where he is and bring him.”

  Malthrak looked puzzled. “Kasrin?”

  “Of the ship Dread Sovereign. He’s in a harbor somewhere north of the city. I want to see him. And I don’t want anyone finding out about it, understand? Secret things, Malthrak.”

  Malthrak grinned. Secret things were what he was best at. “I understand, my lord. I’ll find him.”

  “Go quickly,” said Biagio. “And shut the door.”

  The little Roshann agent sealed his emperor into the parlor. Outside, Biagio could hear him murmuring to his brother. Malthrak would find Kasrin quickly and bring him to the Black City. And Donhedris had an errand of his own. According to Dakel, Elrad Leth’s ship had been sighted nearing the city.

  The emperor took a deep breath. He thought of Nicabar and all the good times they had enjoyed together. But that was the past. A year ago, when Biagio was still addicted to the drug, killing had been easy for him. He never felt anxious or afraid, and he never felt remorse over any of his orders, no matter how bloody. Withdrawing from the narcotic had changed all that, and sometimes he yearned for the old harshness again.

  “Forgive me, my friend,” he whispered. “I will miss you.”

  TWO

  Alazrian looked out over Nar City. He was higher up than he had ever been in his life, seemingly higher than birds fly, and he was mesmerized. This was his own balcony, part of his private room, and the Tower of Truth was a dazzling structure. Alazrian had seen it from the hills around the city, twinkling bronze and orange in the sunlight. It had one twisting spire and countless balconies, and it pointed heavenward like a needle, skewering the smoky clouds. To Alazrian, who had never seen a city, it was like something from a dream.

  “My God,” he whispered, smiling to himself. “It’s beautiful.”

  The slave who had escorted Alazrian to his room seemed pleased. “It is to your liking then, my lord?”

  “My liking? Oh, yes.” Alazrian turned from the stunning view to face the servant. He was a middle-aged man with tired eyes and taut skin who looked as though he had been bringing people up and down the tower’s stairs for decades. “It’s incredible,” Alazrian said. “And it’s all mine?”

  “Yes, my lord,” replied the slave. “For as long as you stay in the tower. The minister made it very clear. You and your father are to be his guests.”

  Alazrian knew that the “minister” was Dakel himself. Popularly known as the Inquisitor, his real title was Nar’s Minister of Truth. Dakel was master of the tower, one of the city’s highest ranking lords, and the extravagance of his home bespoke his station.

  “It’s not what I expected,” Alazrian confessed. “When we were summoned here I thought, well …”

  The slave smiled. “A lot of people don’t expect the minister’s hospitality. Please be at ease. I am at your command. My name is Rian.”

  “And you’ve been assigned to me?”

  “You and your father, yes.”

  Alazrian was less pleased to hear that. He didn’t like the idea of sharing the servant with his father, who would no doubt run poor Rian ragged. And his father already had his bodyguard Shinn for company. Shinn went everywhere with Leth. They were like twins, attached at the shoulders and equally hateful.

  “Well,” remarked Alazrian. “Thank you very much. I’m overwhelmed.” He went back to looking out over the city. It was marvelous. He could see the palace across the river Kiel and a hundred little boats navigating the waterway. Far below in the dark streets, beggars moved in shambling mounds mixing with the pretty painted ladies who cruised the avenues to shop and gossip. He had heard a dozen different languages the moment he’d stepped off the ship and onto Nar’s docks and his head was still ringing with the throbbing of the distant incinerators. Alazrian took a deep breath of the metallically charged air.

  “Is it always like this, Rian?” he asked.

  “Like what, my lord?”

  Alazrian shrugged. “I don’t know. So … smelly?”

  The servant laughed. “You’ll get used to it, my lord. I can close the balcony doors if you like. If you’ll just step off for a moment …”

  “Oh, no,” said Alazrian. “No, I want to stay out here. I want to see everything.”

  It was like he was afloat on the wind, and Alazrian suppressed a giddy laugh. It had been a terrible voyage from Talistan with Leth, aboard a merchant ship his father had chartered for the trip. Alazrian had vomited almost daily. But now, in the face of this spellbinding city, it all seemed worth it.

  “Rian,” he asked. “Where was the cathedral? Can you show me?”

  Rian hesitated. “Master Leth, the cathedral is gone.”

  “Yes, I know. I know that your lord Biagio destroyed the cathedral. I just want to know where it stood. My mother loved the cathedral, you see. She’s dead now, and, well … Tell me where it was, won’t you?”

  Rian stepped onto the balcony, looked around for a moment, then pointed a finger toward a wide avenue off in the distance.

  “There, near High Street,” he said. “The cathedral was by the riverbank.”

  Alazrian nodded, squinting to see. He studied the winding river, but he was far away from the site and could see very little, only an empty space where something colossal should have been.

  “Was it very beautiful?” he asked.

  “Young master, it’s not proper for me to discuss these things with you, or to discuss the cathedral. The minister doesn’t care for talk about those days.”

  The days when Herrith ruled Nar, thought Alazrian. Before Biagio stole it from him.

  “There’s so much I’d like to know about this place. I have many questions. Perhaps you can help me.”

  “I’m here to serve you, my lord. But questions really aren’t my purview.” The slave smiled, then quickly changed subjects. “You must be tired, yes?”

  Now that he thought about it, Alazrian realized he was exhausted. It had been a month since he’d left Aramoor, and the sea journey had soured his stomach and turned his brain to porridge.

  “Yes, very tired,” he admitted.

  “I’ve moved your things into the bedchamber,” said Rian. He pointed toward a white-painted door on the other side of the room. It had a half-moon curve to its top and alabaster carvings along its length. It was beautiful, like everything in Alazrian’s chamber. “You can get some rest now if you like. Or I can bring you some food, perhaps?”

  “No, nothing yet,” replied Alazrian. “I’ll sleep a bit. But first …” He leaned out over the railing. “Let me look at the city.”

  “As you say, my lord,” said Rian, then left the balcony, retreating from the apartment and closing the door behind him. A blast from a faroff smokestack sent up a shuddering flame. The sky glowed a ghostly bronze, and Alazrian watched it in awe as though it were a shooting star to wish upon.

  “God in heaven,” he whispered. “What is this place?”

  The Tower of Truth might be a cage for him, but it was gilded with gold and barred with silver, and Alazrian didn’t feel like a prisoner at all. He felt like a prince. More, he loved that he had a room of his own again. He loved being away from his father and feeling like a man. For a moment he forgot his fears of Dakel and the Protectorate. Tomorrow he might
face the Inquisitor with his father, but today he was free.

  Tonight, if he could escape his father, he would investigate the city. He didn’t know how long he would be in Nar or when he would have another opportunity to look around, and he had, after all, come here with a mission. He craned his neck over the railing, looking for something, anything, that might be a library or a house of scholars. The Black City had schools, surely. His mother had said so. As his mother had advised, he had even brought money with him.

  “Oh, Mother,” sighed Alazrian. He closed his eyes and summoned a picture of her. She had been beautiful. He supposed it was why Elrad Leth had agreed to marry her—that and her proximity to the king. Now she was gone. Alazrian flexed his hand, remembering his last, astonishing moments with her, and hating himself for letting her die.

  But she had wanted that. She had wanted to die and leave behind her brutal life. It had been a month now and the pain of her death was as ripe as ever, ripe as the bruises Leth gifted them both with. Alazrian rubbed his cheek. How many times had Leth struck him on the voyage here? A dozen? More? Alazrian had lost count. Hatred swam in him. Tomorrow Elrad Leth would face Dakel, and Alazrian would see his father squirm at last.

  He was just about to retire to the bedchamber when a knock came at the door. Alazrian paused, sure that it was Leth.

  “Come in,” he called.

  But Elrad Leth didn’t appear. Instead, there was a tall man with shining black hair like the mane of a stallion and long dark robes hanging loosely about his body. Even from across the room Alazrian could see the dazzling brilliance of his eyes. The man peeked over the threshold and smiled when he sighted Alazrian.

  “Young Alazrian?” he said musically.

  “Yes?”

  “Greetings, young master.” The man stepped inside and closed the door, and the rings on his fingers sparkled when he stretched out his hands. “I’m pleased to meet you. Welcome to my home.”

  Not the emperor, Alazrian realized suddenly. Dakel.

  “Minister Dakel,” he stammered, bowing. “This is an honor. I didn’t expect you.”

  “Forgive the intrusion, please,” said Dakel, gliding closer. “Most likely my sudden appearance is surprising to you. But I didn’t come to alarm you.” He gave the boy a disarming grin.

  “I’m not alarmed,” said Alazrian. “As I said, it’s an honor.”

  “You’re very kind, young Leth,” said Dakel. “And I did so want to meet you before the tribunal tomorrow. The theater isn’t the best place to meet my guests, you understand.”

  Dakel laughed as if he’d made a joke. Alazrian joined in, chuckling nervously.

  “You’ve met my father, then?” Alazrian asked.

  The Inquisitor’s face immediately darkened. “Your father? No. That would be improper, I think. And I doubt your father cares to meet me. To be honest, I thought you would be more agreeable to a visit than him. But I hope you will extend my good graces to your father when you see him later. He is my guest. I want you both to feel welcome.”

  “Oh, we will,” said Alazrian. “Lord Minister, this apartment is beautiful. Really, I hadn’t expected this kind of treatment. To be honest, it relieves me.”

  “Does it?” Dakel seemed wounded. “I’m sorry to hear that. My Protectorate has a very bad reputation. All that we seek is the truth, for the good of the Empire. You have nothing to fear.” Then he nodded, adding, “But you fear for your father, of course.”

  Not really, thought Alazrian. But he said, “Of course.”

  “It’s an investigation, young Leth, nothing more. Oh, but I talk too much, and you’re tired.” Dakel reached out and touched Alazrian’s shoulder. Alazrian could feel the chill even through his cloak. The Inquisitor stared at him curiously.

  “Minister?” probed Alazrian. “Is something wrong?”

  “Forgive me,” said Dakel. “I was lost in thought for a moment. You don’t look very much like your father, do you? I saw him from the tower when you arrived. He’s much darker than you, isn’t he?”

  Alazrian ran his hand through his platinum hair. “I’m more like my mother, actually.”

  “Oh? I had heard the Lady Calida had hair like a raven.”

  “Well, yes.” Alazrian cleared his throat. “I suppose.”

  “You’re not big like your father, either. He’s like a tree, that one. But you—” He shrugged. “You must be still growing.”

  All the old anxieties came flooding back. What was Dakel doing? Alazrian hurried to change the subject.

  “Thank you so much for coming to see me, Lord Minister. Perhaps you can tell me of some interesting things to see while I’m in the city. I had hoped to do some exploring. Maybe this evening.”

  “Certainly,” said Dakel. “I can have a carriage take you anywhere you wish. You can tour the city.”

  “I’m fond of books. Are there any libraries here? It’s such a grand city. I imagine you must have scholar halls.”

  This made the Inquisitor’s eyes narrow. “Of course we have books. What type of books are you looking for?”

  Alazrian played the little boy. “Oh, anything! We don’t have many books back home, and I do so love to read. History books on the Black City would be wonderful. Or fictions. Yes, I like those very much. Maybe your driver can take me?”

  “Whatever you wish, young Leth.” Dakel still had suspicion in his eyes, but Alazrian pretended not to notice. “Call for Rian whenever you want to go. He will arrange the carriage for you. But I do advise you to get some rest. The tribunal starts early.”

  “I understand, Lord Minister. Thank you again for coming to greet me, and for the marvelous rooms.”

  “You are welcome,” said Dakel. “The emperor and I want your stay to be comfortable.”

  “The emperor?” asked Alazrian. “Will I be meeting him as well?”

  Dakel shrugged. “Perhaps, young Leth,” he said vaguely. “Perhaps.”

  And then he was gone as quickly as he’d come, disappearing like a wraith through the door, his long robes trailing behind him. Alazrian stood and stared at the door, puzzled by what had transpired. Despite Dakel’s claim of innocence, he didn’t trust the Inquisitor at all. And that mention of the emperor had unnerved Alazrian, reminding him that it was Biagio who had summoned him here to Nar City.

  “But why?” Alazrian wondered aloud.

  There was no reply from the opulent room.

  That night, after a painfully awkward dinner with his father, Alazrian escaped into the city. The sun had gone down behind the surrounding hills and Nar’s black wings enveloped him, swallowing him in its crowded streets. As Dakel had promised, there had been a carriage and driver for him, a luxurious vehicle fit for royalty with two twin geldings and gold-gilded rails shaped like sea serpents. Alazrian sat on the edge of the ruby cushions as he stared out the window, his nose pressed to the glass. He was on an avenue thick with people and horses and shadowed by tall towers with gargoyles and buttresses, a thousand candles blinking in their windows. The unmistakable, metallic stink of the city soured his tongue and made him clear his throat while overhead played an orchestra of fire, the dazzling blue-orange flares of the smokestacks. Beggars and prostitutes mingled on the streets shouldering up to Naren lords walking manicured dogs, and children cried and ran through the avenues, some as filthy as rats, others as pampered as their regal parents. Alazrian watched it all with dumb amazement. Suddenly, Aramoor and Talistan seemed very far away.

  Lady Calida had been right; surely there was no place on earth like the Black City. The Naren capital seemed taller than a mountain and wider than an ocean, and it had a dream-like quality that was almost more nightmare than lullaby.

  He was on his way to the Library of the Black Renaissance. According to Rian, it housed the largest collection of manuscripts in the city and had been commissioned by the late Emperor Arkus. Apparently, Arkus had a penchant for knowledge, and had named the library for his revolution. It was an odd name, but Alazrian liked it because it s
uited this mechanized city. If it was as grand as Rian claimed, then certainly it would have books about Lucel-Lor.

  And maybe magic.

  Alazrian lifted his hands and inspected them, turning them in the grey light. There was something inexplicable in his touch. This city, which had a magic of its own, might just have answers for him.

  The carriage stopped at a cross-street, letting a parade of people and horses pass. Alazrian glanced out the window and saw a woman approaching him, gesturing suggestively. She flashed him a smile. Alazrian looked her up and down, knowing in an instant that she was a prostitute.

  “My God.” He stared at her through the glass. She approached the carriage, ignoring the driver who threatened her with his crop, and tapped at the window. When she winked, Alazrian’s breath caught.

  “Oh, you’re beautiful,” he said, not sure if she could hear him. She was young and tight-skinned, not like the other harlots he had seen, and her eyes were bright and inviting. She seemed to sense his interest and tossed back her hair. Alazrian laughed, remembering the coins he had brought along. He doubted that this was what his mother had in mind.

  “I’m sorry,” he said loudly, shaking his head. “I can’t.”

  She heard him plain enough, gave a suggestive shrug, then turned and strode away. Alazrian stared at her as she departed, admiring her walk. And then a darker thought came to him. He looked down at his hands again and flexed his fingers. Could he be with a woman? he wondered. He was at an age now when such things mattered to him. The changes that had wrought manhood in him had also delivered his strange gift, and the correlation vexed him. Could he harm as well as heal?

  The carriage moved off, bearing him far from the pretty prostitute. He wanted to believe that his mother had been right about things, that his powers had a purpose beyond making him different.

  It wasn’t much longer before an ivory building greeted him, a broad structure with white columns and sculptured depictions of scholars across its roof. Alazrian read the chiseled greeting over its wide threshold, each letter as tall as a man. The words were in High Naren, but Alazrian had learned the language as part of his upbringing.