2014 Campbellian Anthology

by Various

  Nazarafine touched the man on the shoulder, who rose to his feet. His eyes never strayed from the box in his hands.

  Nazarafine looked at Mari. “I understand you lost something at the battle for the Tyr-Jahavān,” she said, smiling, cheeks once more ruddy with her usual good humour.

  Many things, Mari was tempted to reply, yet overcame the petty impulse. “Yes, I did. My armour was destroyed beyond any ability to repair. As were my weapons.”

  “You had an amenesqa from the Petal Empire? Your personal weapon, rather than your Feyassin’s blade?”

  “It once belonged to Sayf-Mariamejeh of the Tyran-Amir,” Mari nodded. “It was lost when Ekko rescued me on the stairs. No doubt somebody saw it for what it was and decided, given my chances of survival were slim, to keep a memento.”

  Nazarafine stood. With a gesture she invited Mari closer, then rested her hand on the box. Mari felt lightheaded. Had they found her weapon? There were few Petal or Awakened Empire weapons left unclaimed. Of the original thousand Awakened Empire amenesqa given the Feyassin, Mari knew there were less than six hundred accounted for. Each death had sometimes been a loss of history, as well as life.

  “Though we couldn’t find your old weapon, it was within my power to arrange a replacement for you. Though it is not the same, I sincerely hope you’ll use it with pride and honour.” Nazarafine took Mari’s hands and gently placed her fingers on the clasps. When she spoke again her voice was a whisper. “This is the weapon of a hero of her people. One to be used in the defence of her Asrahn.”

  With cautious hands Mari thumbed open the cold metal clasps. In the moment between heartbeats—the moment the Poet Masters of The Lament had told her to release herself to the certainty of death and purity of action—she opened the box.

  And almost forgot to breath.

  Nuances struck her in the moment. The way the light wavered. The length of Nazarafine’s eyelashes, a sooty brushstroke across the moist umber of her irises. The distant thrum of traffic on the street below as it merged with the roaring of her blood. The weight of her sword belt across her hips. The slight breeze that ran through the hair at the nape of her neck. The scent of sandalwood and the gathering storm.

  Then came twin thuds in her chest, so heavy she thought her body had rocked with them. Heartbeats of exquisite strength. A singular moment. At rest on a bed of crushed silk was an amenesqa, styled after the longer blades of the Petal Empire. It was almost a hand span longer than the blades of the Awakened Empire, which were in turn longer than the single curved modern shamshir—what those with no romance in their hearts simply called swords. As if such a word could ever give meaning to something so elegant, so fit for its purpose. Her fingertips traced the delicate arabesqued designs on the kirion scabbard. Light coaxed near-invisible moire patterns of red and blue from the depths of the black metal. A golden sun was etched into the scabbard, as well as into the sharkskin binding the hilt and in the amber of the pommel. A seahorse was etched there as well, ruby red on silver blue. The colours of her mother’s Family Dahrain. As Mari drew a mere hand span of the weapon she marvelled at the flare of brilliant golden jade light that burned there. Mari looked up at Nazarafine in wonder.

  “A Sûnblade!” she gasped in awe.

  “We make few of these now,” Nazarafine said gently, “and they’re only ever given as gifts to those who’ve risked all for the greater good. Was a time during the Awakened Empire when hundreds of warrior-poets, each an Exalted Name sworn to the Mahj, carried these. Yet sadly, those days of honour and glory are behind us. This sword will never dull, never tarnish, and never break. It will serve you for so long as you need, then go back to the ash when you do. A Sûnblade is literally a weapon for life.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Mari felt the heat of unshed tears. “How can I repay your faith in me?”

  “Say yes, Mari. Stay in Avānweh to help us rebuild. Help me. Keep me alive. Become the Knight-Colonel of my Feyassin.”

  • • •

  Mari sat in silence, her Sûnblade cradled in the curve of her arm like a child. The box felt warm, as if the blade were indeed made from a sliver of sunlight.

  From time to time Mari looked across at Nazarafine as she spoke with Siamak and Ziaire, Ajo, and Neva, who had returned. They made no secret of their plan to replace Vahineh with Martūm, though Ziaire questioned the man as an appropriate choice. They talked of other options on the Ascension Role, ways of ensuring it was a Federationist who replaced Vahineh and ways to save Vahineh from the Awakening, which was killing her. These last heavily depended on Femensetri and Indris, though it sounded like Indris was unaware.

  The portly older woman was no fool. By making Mari aware of such plans she was including her by implication. Though Mari had not accepted the offered post, Nazarafine knew the obligation she had placed on Mari in giving her the gift and sharing such knowledge.

  Under sende nothing was for nothing. Every gift or favour was a move of obligation, one to another. For the first time in her life Mari had the chance to be free of another’s demands on her. True, she could accept the blade at face value and walk away even though she knew the intent behind it. Ziaire had said as much. Nazarafine had plans for Mari that had nothing to do with Indris. It was as if the Federationists were conspiring to create lives for them in completely different circles.

  What to do? To swap one saddle and bridle for another because they chafed less, or to dispense with harness and run free to face the unknown? What was it Indris had said about destroying the lich? Lots of things should be easier than they are. But wishing doesn’t make them so. There was simplicity in service. In doing what she had been trained to do. Modesty aside, Mari thought there were probably no more than a score of people in the world who were her match in combat. Yet her encounter with the assassins had caused her to re-evaluate her position. There were probably no more than a score of people in the world she knew about who were her match. This then left a problem. What about all the warriors she knew nothing about? The ones who had trained their whole lives, who had left not a single living witness to their prowess. If such people existed, then was it not her obligation to protect the Families and the Great Houses who served the public trust—sayfs, pahs, rahns, and the Asrahn—from knives in the dark? By extension, it was also her responsibility to understand the techniques of such people. To adopt them. Adapt them. Evolve them into newer, deadlier, techniques. To draw a line across which the enemies of the State and Crown would do well not to cross.

  To do such things required her to commit once more to something larger than herself. And once done there was no easy road back.

  A clock chimed elsewhere in the qadir. Mari swore to herself when she realised she was two hours past when she was meant to meet the others at the Iron Dog. With a mumbled apology she took the swordcase by the handle and exited as gracefully as she could.

  It was as she turned towards the Iron Dog that she saw Indris. She called out to him, then again. He stopped, eyes narrowed against the glare of the overcast. He looked like any other wanderer in his threadbare blacks and browns, the wind tugging at his unruly hair. Indris watched her as she approached, relief in his eyes.

  And then, from the corner of her eye she saw Nadir, his sister Ravi, and the man Nix striding beside them. Their faces were painted with amiable veneers. She lost sight of them when a crowd passed between. Once the throng passed they where nowhere to be seen.

  She looked about nervously. How long had they followed her? Tempted as she was to search for them, Indris was soon at her side. His left eye was slightly discoloured with orange and yellow flecks like sparks from a brazier, while his other had the gleam of dark amber. Mari reached out to touch him. Changeling purred softly.

  “Shar said she lost you as they escaped,” he said as he took her hand. Kissed her fingers. “Where’ve you been?”

  “We separated and they lost me,” Mari murmured into his mouth as she kissed him. He smelled of sea salt and coconut. “But now I
’m found. Let’s get away from here.”

  “Where to?” His eyes dropped to the swordcase in her hand. When they rose again, they were wide with wonder.

  “Congratulations!” He grinned as he drew her into his arms. She felt the hard planes of muscle in his chest as she pressed against him. “A Sûnblade is a weapon to be proud of. Have you named her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I take it Nazarafine’s given it to you as an incentive to—”

  “I’ve not accepted,” she blurted out, though the words denied the lie that had taken root in her heart. “Walk me to Nanjidasé?”

  Indris pulled her by the hand along a quiet street, away from the clamour of wagon wheels and pedestrians. The street was narrow, its paving stones forming hexagonal lines of shadow underfoot, bordered with lush ferns and golden wattles. Eucalyptus trees waved in the strengthening breeze, their scent strong.

  Mari leaned in to him as they walked. His hand was warm, muscles hard as bands of steel under the skin. The line at the gondola station was long, so Mari tugged on Indris’s arm until he followed her towards the weathered bronze of the stairway arch with its clinging ivy. There were fewer people there and none seemed terribly interested in them. She looked southward over the rolling patchwork of the Lake of the Sky. The mountains on the other side were a dull smudge, wreathed in tendrils of grey like ropes of cloud joining the earth with the sky. Rain. Summer was coming to a close.

  Together they exited the stairs on the Caleph-Sayf. Mari led them through the streets and lanes, past the high walls of the Habron-sûk, until they came to the polished red marble and alabaster of Nanjidasé. The Feyassin’s headquarters was quiet, the long white banners with their white lotus blossoms snapping in the wind. Mari looked askance at Indris as he pulled to a stop.

  “There are other things than service, Mari.” His voice was low, almost a buzz, which tickled her ear. His breath was warm against her neck. His arm around her waist strong. “You’ve never left Shrīan. There are so many things you could see and do once the new Federationist government is in place. Amazing, wonderful things.”

  “There are amazing, wonderful things I can do here, too.” She looked him in the eye as their brows met. “You could help me make the Feyassin something new. I know our techniques were first taught us by the Sēq, but I’ve watched you fight. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.” Not even the assassins who tried to end me. “Indris, I want to be remembered as something other than what history expects an Erebus to be.”

  “You will be!” he said, expression sincere. “I think you already are. But there’s a world beyond Shrīan I’d dearly love to show you. Places I’ve never seen we could explore together for the first time.”

  “What would we do?” she demanded. “For the first time in my life I’m starting to do things for myself. Knight Colonel of the Feyassin is something I’ve dreamed of, yet never thought I’d achieve. You say there’s more to life than service, yet service to others is the life I wanted. Convince me that whatever we do out there will be as important as what we do here.”

  “There’re no certainties. I can say there’s more evil in the world than we see in Shrīan. What lurks in the Rōmarq isn’t unique. There’re other places where worlds collide and where a few good people need to take a stand against those who’d dominate those weaker than themselves. People need help everywhere, Mari.”

  “What happened to you that you’re always looking outward for what’s inside—” The words were out of her mouth before she thought about what she was saying. There was no way of taking them back. Indris’s face went still. His eyes narrowed. He looked away.

  Mari took Indris in her arms. Rested her head on his chest. When he spoke, his voice was a deep hum in her ear.

  “There’s a place, a little tower near Memnon, overlooking the Marble Sea. As the sun goes down, the light shudders, as if the sea doesn’t want to let it go. Bet then as the darkness pools out from between the waves, thousands of ilhen lamps shine beneath the water, still working, still lighting the old ruins after all this time. It’s like watching a second sky, dusted with clouds and sparks and secrets in a darkness we may never know. And then, when the Nomads take shape in the moonlight and start to sing… And that’s just one place, Mari. I’d like to see more, find more, and share more with you.

  “If I’m going to lose myself anywhere, I want you with me. Will you think about it, Mari? Promise me you’ll consider coming away when this is over?”

  She felt the tears at the corners of her eyes. What he offered sounded so beautiful. “Only if you promise to consider staying.”

  “And if your father is elected Asrahn, Mari? What then?”

  “It won’t bode well for anybody, least of all the two of us.” She rested her palm on his chest, and looked him in the eye. “The clock is ticking for us, one way or another. But I have to believe that while I’m here, I can make a difference. Otherwise, what point is there to any of it?”

  Kelsey Ann Barrett became eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer with the publication of “My Teacher, My Enemy” in Lightspeed (Jun. 2012), edited by John Joseph Adams.

  Visit her online at www.facebook.com/kelsey.a.hicks.

  * * *

  Short Story: “My Teacher, My Enemy”

  MY TEACHER, MY ENEMY

  by Kelsey Ann Barrett

  First published in Lightspeed (Jun. 2012), edited by John Joseph Adams

  • • • •

  MY ENEMY’S BODY is still warm when I take my knife to him. Stripped to his skin and lain upon his back, he looks much less frightening than he had when he was alive, armed, and desperate to kill me. But there is still power in the shape of his relaxing muscles and the size of his cooling frame, and, as he is a foot taller than I am, I feel a surge of pride in my accomplishment that is even greater than the hot pleasure of the kill.

  I stand in the middle of the forest, nothing about me but trees and birds and the still body beneath my knife. But I am not alone, and as I split his skin neatly apart, slightly awed at how easily it separates under the perfect sharpness of my blade, I remember what my teacher taught me. I can hear her voice in my ear. You must be careful not to let your knife slide in too deeply, she said. If you puncture the intestines you will have to deal with the smell.

  I do not want to be a sloppy student, so I am careful, and go very slowly, beginning just above the genitals and slicing upwards, through the skin and the thin membrane beneath that separates it from muscle and fat. If you rush, you will end up with holes in your coat. Power is not gained by sloppy haste. You must be patient.

  I do not rush, and move my knife upwards steadily until the blade comes to rest at the bottom of the sternum. A second pass to cut through the fat that keeps the intestines inside the body, and when I push my enemy onto his side, his guts spill easily from the opening and onto the grass. But then his arm is in my way, and it takes me a few tries to find a position for the long, hairy limb that keeps it from flopping forward and hampering my work. Eventually, I pin it behind him, and prop him up with his own discarded pack and tools. When I walk around his body to the front of him, to the pile of guts on the grass that smell of moisture and heat and the tang of iron, his blood looks darker than I could have ever imagined.

  Some cut through the bones of the ribs in order to access the organs of the upper thorax, I remember my teacher telling us, as her students sat in a circle around her and watched her indicate the areas she was describing by touching her own body. My enemy carried a saw, to cut through the ribcage of his kill, and I am glad that I was not burdened with such a heavy and awkward tool. Glad that my lighter pack and kit allowed me to be faster and more nimble than my opponent. This is clumsy work, and unnecessary. Once you have removed the lower intestines, cut the diaphragm away from the body and reach up inside the chest cavity, behind the ribs. Grasp high up on the esophagus with your free hand and use your knife to cut through, above your fist. It will then be easy to pu
ll out the heart and lungs, along with the rest of the intestines.

  I have been fortunate in the location of my very first battle; there are enough trees shading the area that the carrion birds have not yet found us. But the insects are beginning to gather, blood drinkers and flying, biting worms, and I know that I must drag my enemy’s body away from his guts on the ground, to a place where I can work more cleanly. The biting worms carry many diseases, and the blood drinkers keep buzzing in my ears.

  I estimate that my enemy’s body weighs at least sixty pounds more than I do, and he is even heavier with the loose weight of the dead. I move him into a nearby clearing and retrieve a length of heavy rope from my pack. It is preferable to hang your corpse upside down, my teacher’s voice echoes in the larger space. But you are still young and it may be difficult to hang your first few kills in such a manner. Casting a noose about your corpse’s neck will be far easier in the beginning.

  Hauling him up high enough that his feet don’t drag on the forest floor takes all my strength, and by the time I finish I am panting and sweating as much as I was when I killed him. I stop to rest and drink from my water-pouch as I watch his body slowly stop swaying. And then I start a fire.

  When my fire is brightly burning I return to my enemy, and use my knife to cut through the ligaments of his elbow, separating the forearm from the upper arm. Slicing along the inside of one arm and across the chest to the inside of the other arm connects a horizontal slit with my previous vertical one. The skin already looks as though it could peel away all on its own.

  Many young warriors are over-eager to take the cape of their early kills. But you must wait. A sloppy cape broadcasts a warrior’s inexperience, and more importantly, the more perfect your hide, the more powerful the strength it gives you. Take your first cape when you have perfected your skill, and take it from an opponent whose strength is unparalleled. Your first cape should be a step toward invincibility.