The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  The cabin door burst open with a drunken laugh. Alazrian fumbled to close his journal. Elrad Leth paused in the threshold, spying his son. He smirked as he noticed the journal.

  “More writing nonsense?” he said. He hoisted the bottle in his hand, gesturing at the journal. “You waste more time with poetry. Like your bloody mother.” He turned to Shinn. “That’s where he gets it from. Always wasting goddamn time.”

  Leth wobbled closer. It was just past noon and he was already drunk; Alazrian could tell from his slurring that this wasn’t his first bottle. Shinn followed him into the cabin and closed the door. The bodyguard said nothing. He was always quiet, laughing only when Leth laughed, talking only when asked a question. His sharp eyes and nose gave him the look of a raptor.

  “It’s raining,” said Leth, pushing past Alazrian. “We need the table for our game. Clear your trash away.”

  “Wait,” said Alazrian, reaching for the journal and inkwell before they tumbled to the floor. The instant he’d retrieved them, Leth pulled the table out into the center of the cabin, scraping it loudly against the floor. There was only one chair, which had been Alazrian’s, and Leth commandeered that too, pushing the table up against a bunk so Shinn could sit down. The Dorian pulled a pack of playing cards from his pocket and started shuffling. He plied the deck like a professional gambler.

  “Let’s go,” Leth said. “Give me a chance to win some of my money back.” He dug into his own pocket and slapped down a collection of coins. Shinn’s eyes gleamed hungrily.

  Alazrian glanced out the window hoping the rain had stopped. Instead, it had deepened, meaning that he was stuck inside with the two drunks. Sighing loudly, he sat down on his bunk and slipped his journal beneath the mattress. Elrad Leth heard his sigh and shot an angry glare over his shoulder.

  “Shut up. I’m trying to play.”

  Trying to lose, more likely, thought Alazrian bitterly. He dangled his feet over the bunk and watched as Shinn dealt the cards, shooting them from his long fingers. Alazrian liked watching Shinn. As much as he feared the bodyguard, he was fascinated by his mannerisms. Everything he did had a certain smoothness, a catlike grace that sometimes looked inhuman. His reputation with weapons had earned him a place close to Leth who had hired Shinn as his exclusive bodyguard for a monthly sum that many claimed was exorbitant. He was the best archer anywhere in Talistan, the recipient of numerous tournament awards. Leth liked to say that Shinn could shoot the eyes out of a striking cobra, and Alazrian, who had seen Shinn work a bow, didn’t doubt it. Even on board the Rising Sun, where there were only merchant seamen to threaten them, Shinn carried a rapier. It dangled from his belt in a plain brown scabbard and rested beside his bunk at night.

  Leth cursed as he lost another hand. The whole voyage to Nar City had been the same, and Alazrian was surprised that his father had any money left to wager. Shinn smiled thinly as he raked the coins toward him. Like his bow and rapier, cards were weapons to him.

  Then, as happened so often these days, Alazrian thought about Biagio, and about the emperor’s plans. Lately, the sight of his father made him wonder. He had touched Biagio and learned the depths of his heart. He knew that Biagio truly believed what he was saying, but that still didn’t make it true.

  Do I betray my people because of his suspicions? Alazrian wondered. He looked at the back of Leth’s head, at the oily hair matted with rain, perfectly cut and militant. Believing the worst of his so-called father was easy. But he didn’t hate Tassis Gayle. His grandfather had been good to him, and to his mother. Maybe Biagio was wrong about the king after all.

  Maybe …

  Alazrian rose from his bunk quietly and began hovering over the card table. Leth cocked an eyebrow at him, surprised by his interest. It was partly a warning, but Alazrian ignored it.

  “Who’s winning?” he asked, as if he didn’t know.

  “Who do you think?” snorted Leth. He slapped down his hand and pulled another face card. Then, disgusted with his choice, he took up his bottle and swigged from it. Shinn remained as placid as a mirror; guessing at his sobriety was always difficult. He was the perfect card player, his face a mask.

  But such wasn’t the case with Elrad Leth, who wore every emotion like a sign. Especially when he was drinking.

  Alazrian nodded, examining his father’s cards. Leth pulled them back.

  “What are you doing?” he barked.

  “Nothing,” said Alazrian. “Just curious about the game. I’d like to learn. Maybe you can show me some time.”

  “You?” laughed Leth. “Playing cards? I don’t think you’d like it. There’s no knitting involved.”

  “Why not show me? Until I get better, you might be able to beat me. That would be a nice change, wouldn’t it?”

  Leth purpled. “I’ll beat you with a cane if you keep mouthing off, boy,” he snarled. “And I won’t have time for games, not once we get back to Aramoor.”

  Alazrian hid his grin. Careful now, he told himself. Leth took another pull from his bottle, studying the cards.

  “What will you do when we get back to Aramoor?” he asked. “With Mother gone you’ll have more time now. Will you go after Jahl Rob?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” snapped Leth. He continued playing, studying his cards.

  “I don’t know. I just thought that you might stop hunting down the Saints after everything that’s happened. With the Protectorate, I mean.”

  Leth laughed, looking at Shinn. “The Protectorate,” he echoed. “Oh, yes, I’m quite afraid of that lot, eh, Shinn? Dakel had so much evidence against me he had to let me go!”

  “I was there,” said Alazrian. “I heard what he said to you. All those charges—”

  “Are none of your concern.” Leth was quickly growing annoyed with the questions, and waved his hand in the air as though a fly was circling. Alazrian bit his lip, afraid to pursue but unwilling to stop.

  “I was afraid,” he said quietly, donning a sincere expression. “I didn’t know what would happen to you. I thought Dakel might execute you.”

  Leth set the cards down on the table, surrendering to Alazrian’s constant nattering. “Look,” he said. “If you want to watch the game, go ahead. You might even learn something. But don’t keep talking, all right? You don’t know a damn thing about what you’re saying, and it’s irksome.”

  “I was busy caring for Mother,” said Alazrian. “I didn’t know what you were doing in Aramoor. But maybe I can help you now … if you tell me.”

  Elrad Leth didn’t retrieve his cards. He stared at Alazrian for a long moment, stroking his beard, and Alazrian was certain he’d gone too far. Then, remarkably, Leth smiled.

  “If you weren’t such a weakling I might be able to use you, boy. There’s big things happening, things my son should be a part of. I wish I had a son.” His eyes narrowed. “But I don’t. I have you. My favorite little girl.”

  Alazrian’s skin chilled. In that moment, he would have given anything for Shinn’s talent with a blade. Summoning his courage, he kept his ruse alive, trying to look hurt by the insult but not enough to back down. If he were really to do Biagio’s bidding, he needed answers.

  “I can do anything other boys can,” he said. “I just need a chance to prove myself. If you let me try, you won’t be disappointed, Father.”

  He rarely called Leth “Father,” and the use of the term surprised him.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” said Leth. “You have air in your head, like your mother. Always out in the garden, picking flowers; always sticking your nose in some blasted book. I wanted a son like Blackwood Gayle. A strong son I could be proud of. Instead your mother delivered you.” He pushed his cards away bitterly. “How the hell am I supposed to give you a chance? You’d muck up anything I asked of you. The first time one of Rob’s Saints came after you, you’d cry like a baby.”

  “I wouldn’t,” flared Alazrian. He found himself caught up in his own lie, defending himself as though he really wanted to join his father
’s bloody crusade. “I can fight. And I’m smart. I know more than you think I do.”

  “Sure you do,” drawled Leth. “Now go paint a pretty picture.”

  “I do!” Alazrian insisted. “I know that you’re afraid of Redburn in the Highlands, and that’s why you’re risking our lives on this ship.”

  “What?” Leth rumbled, rising from his chair. “You think I’m afraid?”

  Alazrian didn’t back down. Too much anger had built up in him, too much resentment. He looked at Leth defiantly.

  “You are afraid,” declared Alazrian. “Why else would we be on this ship instead of riding through the Highlands like we usually do?”

  “The Highlands are dangerous,” said Leth. “Like I told the Protectorate.”

  “That’s a lie. Redburn and his people have never been a threat to anyone. If they’re your enemy now, it’s because you made them enemies.”

  Elrad Leth’s hand shot out, striking Alazrian across the face. Alazrian stumbled back, but before Leth could go after him Shinn was on his feet pulling Leth back.

  “Stop it,” Shinn urged, taking hold of Leth’s arm. “You’re drunk. You don’t have to hit the boy for opening his mouth.”

  “You’re a little beast!” Leth snapped, waving a finger at Alazrian. “I’m warning you, don’t task me. Your mother isn’t here to protect you anymore!”

  “I don’t need her protection,” Alazrian spat back. “I’m not afraid of you. I know what—”

  He stopped himself, pulling back from the brink. What was he saying? He had to keep his mouth shut, to keep everything Biagio told him a secret. He tested a tooth with his tongue and found that it was loose.

  “Weakling,” hissed Leth. He shrugged off Shinn’s grip, regaining composure, then slowly sank into his chair. Keeping a steely gaze on Alazrian, he said, “Look at you, all teary from a little slap. And you want to ride against the Saints? You’d wet yourself before the first sword was drawn.”

  Yes, thought Alazrian bitterly. Go ahead and think that. I’ll come back with an army of Triin lions and cut your rotten heart out.

  “I’m going above,” he said.

  “Yes, run away,” taunted Leth. “That’s what little girls do, isn’t it? Go up and sulk in the rain while the real men stay warm playing cards.”

  “You’re a drunken bastard,” said Alazrian, and closed the door behind him. He heard Leth shout something after him but it didn’t matter. By tonight his father would have forgotten all about it. Once the drink wore off he would be his old lousy self again. Alazrian stood outside the cabin door shaking from the confrontation. He had never stood up to Leth like that. His hands trembled and his heart was racing as if he’d run a mile.

  At least he’d learned something valuable. Now he knew that Leth was hiding something about the Highlands. And he knew that he still hated Elrad Leth, and that he really could betray him to the Triin. He would ride at the forefront of a Triin army and Leth would see him, sitting tall and unafraid, and he would cringe after the boy he’d so often called a weakling and rue the times he had struck him.

  “That’s right,” Alazrian vowed, staring at the closed door. “Mark my words, Father.”

  Noticing that he was alone in the corridor, Alazrian considered where to go. Above deck it was still raining, so he made his way instead to the tiny galley at the back of the ship. There was always a cauldron of soup available, and the rain put Alazrian in the mood for something hot. The ship swayed beneath him as he walked, and in a moment he arrived at the galley, a tiny room with a single bench and an enormous pot hanging over a brick hearth. Inside the hearth burned glowing embers, keeping the cauldron perpetually warm and making the little galley unbearably hot. Usually the galley was empty except for the cook, a seaman named Ral. Today, however, Ral was nowhere to be found. Instead, Alazrian discovered a wrinkled man with a grizzled beard and a mop in his hands cleaning the galley floor as he whistled through broken teeth. He was dressed like the rest of the crew in dirty trousers and a shirt that had once been white but had long since turned grey. Alazrian hesitated. The man was oblivious, whistling happily until he turned and saw the boy in the doorway. Then he straightened, propping himself up on his mop.

  “Greetings, young master. I’m just cleaning up a bit. The men are like pigs.” He looked at the floor distastefully. “They act like the ship is some kind of swill trough. I’ll be out of your way directly.”

  “You’re not in my way,” said Alazrian. “I’m in yours. I’ll come back later.”

  “No, no.” The man stepped aside and waved Alazrian in. “Come and eat. Don’t pay Kello no mind.” He smiled, displaying diseased gums and yellow teeth.

  Alazrian hesitated. “All right,” he said uneasily, stepping into the galley. The man seemed harmless enough, so Alazrian took a metal mug from a peg on the wall and went to the cauldron. Peering inside, he saw a surprisingly appetizing soup of potatoes and vegetables steaming in broth.

  “It’s good,” the man remarked. “Ral knows what he’s doing. Take some. You’ll like it.”

  There was a dipper beside the pot. Alazrian drew out a hearty portion of the soup, pouring it into his mug. The porter found a spoon and held it out for Alazrian.

  “Thank you,” said Alazrian. He looked around the empty room. Unfortunately, there were plenty of places to sit. “Well, I guess I’ll get out of your way now,” he said.

  The man looked disappointed. “You’re not in my way. I told you. Here, sit down right there. It’s raining above, you know. That’s no place to eat.”

  “Right,” agreed Alazrian. He couldn’t go back to his cabin, not while Leth was still drunk. So he took his mug over to the table and sat down on the long bench. The porter’s eyes followed him curiously. Alazrian tried to ignore him. He sampled the soup and found it excellent, hot and perfectly salted. The potatoes were soft, just the way he liked them, but the gaze of the stranger kept him from enjoying it. Finally, he put down his spoon.

  “Are you waiting for me to finish?” he asked, trying to be polite.

  “Sorry,” said the man, collecting himself. “I’m staring. Beg your pardon.”

  Quickly he went back to work with his mop, dunking it into the bucket of scummy water and swabbing the floor. Then he started whistling again. Alazrian sat back, shaking his head and studying the man. He had the same rough brogue as all the Gorkneymen. But Alazrian liked the sound of it. There were often Gorkneymen in the northern harbors of Talistan. They traded up and down the northeast corridor sailing from Gorkney to Doria and Criisia, then finally bringing their wares to Talistan. But Alazrian had never sailed with them before. In fact, he was astonished that there were any Gorkney ships so far south. For a vessel from Gorkney to reach the southern coast of Talistan, it would have to sail clear around the Empire, or completely around Lucel-Lor, a dangerous voyage that might take a year to complete. Alazrian puzzled over this as he watched the porter work. He probably had circumnavigated the whole Empire.

  “Your name is Kello?” Alazrian asked suddenly. His curiosity had gotten the best of him, and he could tell the porter wanted to talk. “Mine is Alazrian.”

  The man stopped mopping at once, beaming at Alazrian. “I am Kello Glabalos,” he said proudly. “Of Widinfield, Gorkney. But you just call me Kello, young master. At your service.”

  “And you just call me Alazrian. Of Talistan. Well, Aramoor.”

  “Aye, I know who you are,” Kello said. “And your father. You’re important cargo for us.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. My father hired you out, after all.”

  “Oh, no sir,” said Kello. “Governor Leth didn’t hire this vessel. We’re in the employ of Duke Wallach. This is his ship. For as long as he pays us, anyhow.”

  Alazrian frowned. Duke Wallach was a name he was hearing often these days. He remembered Leth talking about the duke, a wealthy ruler in Gorkney, and there was chatter among the staff in Aramoor castle about him, too. Leth was working with Duke Wallach, that much was plain.
But why?

  “This is the duke’s ship?” said Alazrian innocently.

  Kello looked at him, and somewhere in his mind Alazrian could see suspicion dawn. Don’t be afraid, Alazrian urged the man mentally. Just keep talking.

  Deciding he should take a different tact, he said, “She’s a fine ship. You must be very proud of her.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Kello with some relief. “The Rising Sun is a good ship. I’ve been aboard her for ten years now. Captain Lok hired me himself. I was on the street in those days trying to make a living. He needed a cabin boy and there I was.”

  “A cabin boy?” asked Alazrian. “Pardon me, Kello, but you’re a bit older than that, aren’t you?”

  “But I can do the work of twenty youngsters. Don’t let the bad teeth fool you. I’m still fit.”

  Alazrian smiled. “No doubt. And ten years is a long time. I bet you know this ship as well as anyone. As well as the captain, even.”

  “I’d say so,” agreed Kello. “ ’Course the captain gives the orders. I’m not really anything but a cabin boy. I clean up, work the ropes, maybe help Ral in the kitchen. That’s about it.”

  “But you’ve probably seen a lot,” Alazrian continued. He paused, taking a sip of his soup. “You’ve probably been dozens of places, huh?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve spent time in Criisia, even met a woman there. Been to Doria countless times. And Talistan, too. That’s your home, but I bet I know its docks better than you do.”

  “Probably so,” agreed Alazrian. “But where else?” he asked curiously. “You must have seen a hundred better places than that. What about Dahaar. You ever been there?”

  “That wasteland? How could I have done that? That’s leagues away from Gorkney. It would take forever to get there.”

  Alazrian frowned in puzzlement. “But you must have had the time. I mean, how else could you have gotten into these waters?”