Demon in White

by Christopher Ruocchio

  “Mother!” Selene protested, trying to pass the Martians that flanked me in their formal combat armor.

  “Enough, girl.”

  “Philip was being most disgusting about Sir Hadrian’s paramour,” Selene exclaimed.

  Maria Agrippina’s eyes narrowed. “So it was about that woman? And here I thought it could get no worse. Striking the Blood Imperial over that Tavrosi animal he breeds with? Disgraceful.”

  Rage blinded me for a moment, and in that moment I could have torn the whole Eternal City from the sky with my bare hands. But I was in the grasp of the Martian Guard, and clenched my teeth so hard I feared they might shatter.

  “He didn’t strike him!” Vivienne objected.

  The Empress ignored her daughter as if she were a species of flea. “What is to be done with you, Lord Marlowe?”

  “He should be whipped!” Ricard said, speaking on behalf of his drunker brother.

  “But he didn’t do anything!” Selene protested. “Philip should be whipped! He’s the one acting the fool.”

  Prince Philip cleared his throat, a piece of him still I think surprised to find his hands absent a wine cup. In a voice surprisingly steady and slow—like a child reciting lines off a playbill—he said, “Sir Hadrian was a gladiator.” He glanced out over the field, where as we spoke the Car-Tannites fought with net and spears against black-clad fighters with more traditional swords and shields. “Make him fight.”

  The Empress’s eyes lit up, and though I could never prove it I knew, knew that she had put them up to it.

  CHAPTER 47

  ONCE A MYRMIDON

  I WAS PERMITTED TO return to my landing shuttle on the royal strand overlooking the Grand Colosseum, guarded as I had been guarded when I traveled to the coliseum dormitories to ask Switch to stand with me against Gilliam Vas. Almost I imagined the mutant priest and my traitor friend walked with me, bumping shoulders with the dozen Martians to where my guards waited with the pilot officer at the end of the dock.

  The landing strip was one of several that ran out like fingers from the edge of the floating city platform, stretching out into the clouds. The wind snatched my cape and pulled it to one side as it gathered my hair in its fingers.

  “I know that look,” Siran said, coming down the ramp. “What happened?”

  I told her.

  “Do you have to make enemies everywhere you go?”

  In lieu of an answer, I tore the white cape from my shoulders and threw it at the bulkhead, where its magnetic clasp caught on the steel. It hung there like a flag. “Fetch me one of the spare kits, will you?”

  The centurion nodded her shaved head and turned to move deeper into the shuttle. My personal armor was back aboard the Tamerlane and well outside my reach, but all our shuttles carried a few spare sets of combat equipment: armor and shield-belts, even weapons. Those weapons would not be cleared to leave the shuttle, not on Forum, but I had been permitted to retrieve my own armor from the shuttle—and so permitted an opportunity to speak to Siran, should whatever words I might say be my last.

  Did the Empress want me dead? No. No, she could not. The Emperor wanted me alive. She only wanted to chastise me, to humiliate the Halfmortal on the most public stage in the galaxy, to destroy my name and the way men whispered it on the practice field and in dive bars across the Empire.

  “Not one of the white ones!” I said, calling after Siran. “One of the Red Company combat kits. I’ll be damned if I go out wearing their colors.”

  She emerged a moment later with a kit about the size of a large briefcase. Conscious of the Martians standing on the ramp behind me, I skinned out of my tunic and undershirt, wadding the clothing on the seat beside me. A moment later I was naked and pulling on the suit underlayment from inside the kit.

  “Are you all right?” Siran asked.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Your hands are shaking.”

  I clenched them into fists. “I said I’m fine, Siran.” An oath escaped me, fierce and furious. “Stupid! Stupid, stupid!” I tugged the underlayment over my hands and arms and closed the seals. It snugged around me, and I reached for the red tunic and pulled it over my head. I had survived an assassination attempt, survived the Inquisition, and I was going to be brought down by drunk, stupid Prince Philip? Not assassinated, but character-assassinated live in the Grand Colosseum?

  “Can I go with you, boss?” Siran’s voice cut across my seething and brought the boil down. I looked up, fingers mutely clicking through the latches and seals on the black and scarlet breastplate. My friend was watching me with narrowed eyes, brows furrowed and concerned. We had been myrmidons together. Soldiers together. I was a myrmidon again that day. Time cycles. Moments return. We cannot escape our patterns. The same choices—the same sins—return us to the same places. I was not bound for the Grand Colosseum, but a bone grass meadow in Borosevo to fight again, to pay in blood for the same sin: rage.

  Was it rage?

  Or pride?

  I shook my head. “Single combat. But I don’t know what they’re throwing at me,” I told her, though I should have guessed.

  She accepted this with the barest hint of a nod. “Well, you give ’em hell from us, Had.”

  I delayed in answering just long enough to check my greaves and gauntlets were in place. Satisfied, I said, “I will.”

  Siran offered her hand. I took it and pulled her close, embraced her. “Don’t you let us down,” she said. “You get your ass kicked, I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

  “The whole galaxy won’t let me hear the end of it,” I said to her, and let her go, and turning, I went out from shuttle and back to my guards, and passed with them out from under the clouds and the flying towers . . . and into legend.

  CHAPTER 48

  HALFMORTAL

  THE GATE STANDS BEFORE me when I close my eyes, chains rattling, doors rising to admit the light. The noise of the gong boomed like distant thunder, swelling as the gate rose.

  “You know the rules?” the coliseum guild had asked me while I chose my weapons. “Battle to submission. No point suits. No body shields. No projectiles. You fight until you or your opponent—or opponents—yield, get knocked out, or bleed out.” The rat-like man spoke fast, chewing his verrox stimulant all the while. I ignored him, selected the weapons I meant to use.

  It had been a long time since I’d held a hoplon, an antique round shield. The sword was near a match to my own, long and straight, but two-edged where the highmatter needed only one. It was common zircon, white as the shell of my necklace, light and sharper than steel. Highmatter was not permitted in Colosso, not because it was too dangerous, but because it wasn’t sporting. Because any contest fought with highmatter might be ended too quickly.

  “Do you know what I’m up against?”

  The little man glanced up at the cameras on the wall, and his chewing slowed. “No, lordship. They hadn’t said.”

  Liar.

  The sword bounced in its scabbard at my hip opposite a long parrying dagger, and I carried a spear in my hands. I am no great lancer, but absent any information on who I was fighting—or what—prudence was most called for. The spear might save my life if it was some great beast I went to battle: an azhdarch or megathere, bull or lion.

  Bluish light fell through the open gate, and for a minute my mind rebelled against what I saw.

  Twin walls of water rose to either side of the gate, a narrow channel parted in the false sea that flooded the coliseum. Ahead a steep ramp rose to the floating platform, rising past the water to the air above. I stepped out, the concrete between my feet still wet where the waters had been parted. Pausing a moment, I tested the walls with my spear point. The tip passed through, splashing where it struck.

  Static fields held the water back, fields as powerful as those that held the air in starships when their bay doors were opened. It was a s
taggeringly frivolous use of energy; to waste so much power on spectacle was a statement of power all its own. I advanced slowly, fearing those waters would close above my head.

  I could not really hear the shouting until I climbed the ramp.

  The noise of it! Even muffled by the barrier that hung like an invisible dome above the floor of the arena, the sound was deafening. A million faces clamored, flags waved, colors danced and swayed along with the mass of bodies in the seats. Straight ahead, the box from which I had watched the Car-Tannites fight with their nets loomed. Beneath its awning were seated several dozen figures in white, each with a crown of red fire. The lords of humanity in all their glory and splendor: terrible in the power, ancient in the majesty, petty in their outbursts as nigh-forgotten Jove.

  I had not heard the master of ceremonies down in the trench, but as I mounted the last length of ramp, I heard him cry, “. . . the Hero of Aptucca! The Son of the Devil! The Demon in White himself! Lord Hadrian Marlowe!” And the cheers that answered him I prayed would deafen Maria Agrippina on her throne, and that all who looked on would wonder to see their Demon in White dressed in black and scarlet.

  A moment later, all was forgotten, for I caught sight of the figure standing opposite me.

  Alone.

  One warrior, lonely as I, but as different from myself as any man could be. Where I was dark and muted—black clad, black-haired, and quiet—the figure opposite me was an explosion of color, dressed in striped yellow and blue belled pantaloons, green wraps tight about his calves, pointed green slippers trimmed with gold on his feet. He wore a matching green jacket over a white shirt. Gilt vambraces sheathed his arms. His pointed, olive face was smiling beneath an oiled beard and curling mustache, his goat-like hair carefree and tousled as he raised two gold-ringed hands in greeting.

  The only thing muted about his entire appearance was the half-robe tied slip-fashion about his waist and left shoulder, the loose-square sleeve flapping in the wind like a cape. The garment was black as mine, a shadow, a symbol of his rank and training.

  A mandyas.

  And I felt my blood run cold as memory came rushing in.

  Irshan.

  Prince Philip’s personal gladiator. A Maeskolos of Jadd. A Swordmaster of the Fifth Circle, the prince had said. The former sulshawar protector of Prince Constans du Olante. Memories of Sir Olorin Milta flashed in my mind, images thrown against the margins of my skull like lightning reflected off the underbelly of the clouds.

  Beneath the shouting and the clamor, I heard him speak from across the round barge we stood upon. “Hadrian Marlowe!” he said, “It is an honor to meet you.” He bowed deeply, hands still extended to either side. It was a deeply respectful gesture, and for a moment I forgot the Empress and the useless princes. For a moment, there was only the respect of two warriors for one another, warriors who must be enemies, but warriors all the same. “I am a great fan.”

  “The honor is mine, messer!” I said, returning the bow. “I have always admired your order.”

  “My prince has asked that I chastise you,” he said simply, undoing the knot of his mandyas. “I must do so.”

  “You will try!” I answered him.

  Irshan smiled, teeth flashing. “Very good!” He tossed the garment aside. The wind caught it, and it moved like a sail through the air and puddled upon the water. “It is business, what we do.”

  “I thought it was art?” I asked.

  The smile widened. “That too.”

  Trumpets sounded, the pennons about the inner wall of the arena dipped low.

  Irshan circled the perimeter of the floating platform like a panther prowling its cage. Behind him I saw—and heard behind me—the rush of water as the trenches by which we’d arrived were closed. Water rushed in, and the mighty barge beneath us rocked at anchor.

  The spear would do me little good against such a man as this. Had I faced some great predator, perhaps its superior reach would aid me, but against a Maeskolos, whose speed and skill were superhuman? It would be a hindrance. I would need all my skill, and my skill was with the blade, not the lance. The Maeskoloi were all of the eali al’aqran, the Jaddian palatines, and in Jadd the genetic regulation that keeps our palatines within the Chantry’s accepted realm of human norms was relaxed. He would be faster than me, stronger, more resilient.

  I hurled my spear at Irshan. The Swordmaster did not leap aside, did not duck, did not even try to draw his sword—nor had he any shield to raise.

  He caught it.

  The Maeskolos caught the lance, stopped the spear tip mere inches from his chest. “Let us not be toying with trifles,” he said, the crowd gasping. “This is no weapon for such as we!” And he broke the wooden haft over his knee before tossing the pieces into the water behind him. “Come!”

  If the Empress had wished for me to look the fool, she had succeeded.

  I drew my sword, held the round shield up and ready, keeping my left toe pointed at the enemy. Sir Irshan reversed his pacing, arcing closer and back across the way in front of me. Off in the highest levels of the Colosseum, a massive drum began to sound. The noise of it shook the air. As he drew closer, Irshan drew his sword, a curving scimitar of the kind loved best by the Jaddians.

  “Let us see what you can do!” He laughed, and close now whirled, blade whistling on the wind. I caught it on my shield, but did not strike—keeping my own blade tucked against my right shoulder. The swords were both ceramic and razor sharp, would tear skin and flesh and notch bone with ease. Irshan drew back, lips shrugging, as if he’d confirmed some private theory. He thrust, and tucking my elbow, I took the blow on the edge of the shield. Irshan was moving slowly. Testing me. Toying with me?

  He pointed his left shoulder at me and threw a cut at my head. Seeing my chance, I raised my shield and advanced, stepping in with a thrust aimed square at the man’s armpit. Irshan melted away, moving sideways as if he were made of water. Of smoke. The blade flashed, coming round. I managed the parry in time, caught it on flat of my blade, and stepped in, hoping to off-balance the Maeskolos with a shield pulse.

  But the Maeskolos was gone, dancing away on slippered feet. Several paces now between us, he jogged about the perimeter of the barge, sword held high for the watchers. The crowd cheered.

  He was fast, but more lightly armored. I felt confident the white shirt hid a nanocarbon vest that—like my suit’s underlayment—would turn all but the most precise thrust. And I had a shield. It wasn’t much, but it wasn’t nothing.

  In answer to the Jaddian’s prancing, I thrust my own sword skyward. The cheer that answered Irshan’s little display drowned the Colosseum a second time. The Swordmaster stopped and bowed to me.

  How he closed the gap between us I cannot say, and yet he did. It was all I could do to crouch behind my shield as the sword hit it. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession. I thrust over the shield, pressed the Maeskolos back. Irshan parried the blade effortlessly, but missed his riposte, which slid past me on the outside. I pushed the blade aside with my shield and slashed in across his torso, hoping to tear the green jacket and test my theory about the body armor beneath.

  But Irshan had seen the blow coming. He did not parry it. He did not even step away. He brought his free hand down and slapped the flat of the blade with his open palm, knocking the blade into me. I was so stunned I didn’t have time to react when the Jaddian stepped into me, dropping his weight to use my own shield to knock me off balance.

  I stumbled back, snarling, surprised when no follow-up came. Irshan simply stood there, tapping his scimitar against his knee.

  “Surely you have more for me!” he said, and rested the tip of his sword against his left wrist, holding the blade on a slant before him, point and left hand high.

  Grunting, I advanced, sword high. Irshan awaited me, patient as a spider. I feinted, and as Irshan twitched to reply, angled my shield and punched hi
m with its edge. Irshan slapped the jab down with his high left hand.

  “You are a cautious one!” he said. “I expected boldness.” I did not answer him. I punched again. Irshan slapped the attack down and thrust at my eyes. My sword was waiting, and as I advanced I swung overhead, pulling the elbow back so the point fell short of Irshan’s raised blade. I had a clear shot at his ribs and took it. The thrust found meat, but bounced off.

  Armored indeed, I thought. No matter. I could see silver through the hole I’d made in the white linen in his shirt.

  The Maeskolos laughed and pressed a hand to his ribs. “Jaja!” he exclaimed, “There he is!”

  I did not like this Maeskolos. He smiled too easily.

  He swept forward, blade rising from right hip to left shoulder. I turned the blow with my sword and stepped in with a thrust, but Irshan faded and stepped on my foot. The heel stomp might have fractured my arch, but my sabaton protected me. I tried again to repulse the fellow with my shield, but he faded back like flames tossed in the wind and lunged forward.

  I, too, am faster than any normal man, and stronger. We palatines were bred with sharper reflexes, greater connectivity between motor cortex and spine, and a greater number of nerve cells and connections in the spine itself. Though my conscious mind barely tracked Irshan’s blade, neural connections that mapped from my eyes directly to my spine answered the man’s attacks, and the old training flowed through parry after parry as I fended off the assault. If you have ever encountered a snake and leaped away from it only to learn after you leaped that it was a snake you avoided, you will know what I mean. Sometimes, the body can think faster than the brain—and a palatine’s body doubly so.

  Still I was driven back, retreating across the empty barge toward the edge. Vast as the platform was, it was nearly stable, but there at the edge I felt the ground beneath my feet wobble and sway. Still I held my own, tight parries and careful shield work fending off the Swordmaster’s flashing blade.