The Book of Deacon Anthology

by Joseph R. Lallo

  “No, no. Already I see three mistakes,” his teacher said. The man approached. “It is not a club. It matters how you swing it. Align the blade with the line of the attack. Be exact, otherwise you waste the swing. You are left-handed, so this hand should be here, and this one here, for more power. And you grip too tightly, I can see from here. If you connect with something solid you will sting your hand. Now, again.” Shadow tried another swing. “No, no. Still wrong.” Shadow looked to Sama with skepticism. “You do not believe me? Go, try that swing on the dummy.”

  The student stepped forward and executed what he believed to be a proper swing. The blade struck the wood and glanced off, taking an odd twist that wrenched one of his wrists and sending a sharp pain across both palms. The wood was barely splintered.

  “There, you see? Maybe now you listen to your teacher. Now, swing again.”

  It was remarkable how much time and energy could be spent on a simple thing like swinging a blade. Sama drilled him on it continuously for most of the day. He was either a very patient, very precise teacher, or else he was reveling in the fact that in this area he was clearly and vastly the malthrope's superior. Regardless of the motivation behind his teachings, there was no doubt as to the truth behind them. Each time he was run through the sequence of diagonal, horizontal, and vertical slashes, he could feel both where he was wrong and where he was improving.

  The unfamiliar motions quickly fatigued Shadow, but he pushed through until Sama abruptly decided he was through.

  “That is all. We will learn more tomorrow. Now you must tell me, what is it that I did wrong?”

  “I heard you. Your footsteps.”

  Sama rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know this, because of your cheating ears. But there were many people around. What about my footsteps told you that there was a man tracking you?”

  “A man steps differently when he is trying not to be heard.”

  “Interesting,” Sama said. He paused to consider the words. “I will see you tomorrow, when my training is done. Perhaps, though, you will not see me.”

  Shadow made his way to his hut to recover a bit. The unfamiliar and precise motion, simple though it was, had left his arms and back well beyond sore. It wasn't until the shadow of the mountain had shrouded the entire village that he could raise his arms again without difficulty. Not long after, the subdued buzzing of gossamer wings could be heard outside the door.

  “Mr. Malthrope, sir?” came the tinkling voice, with a bit less enthusiasm than in prior instances. He opened the door to find Fiora fluttering at eye-level. Her posture had sagged a bit, fatigue apparent in expression. “Are you ready for your first lesson? The library is this way.” She pivoted and led the way with a slow, bobbing flutter. “I apologize if I am not my usual self. It was a particularly taxing day of training. We fairies are really very adept at the little magic, but when it comes to stamina, it takes a lot of work to build it up. It is worth it, though. Magic is a big part of what we are. Working on our magic keeps us young. It's good for the soul.”

  She continued to chat in a one-sided manner about what exactly she'd been up to with Solomon and Duncan. Twice along the way, Shadow had been forced to irritably expose one of his fellow assassins in training as they endeavored with varying degrees of success to follow without being seen. After the second time, Fiora felt the need to comment.

  “What is that all about?”

  “They are using me to test their stealth.”

  “What fun! You warriors have such wonderful little games,” she said. “Ah, here we are.”

  The library, perhaps tellingly, occupied the same central location in Wizard's Side that the smith's shops occupied in Warrior's Side. It was large, nearly a match for the dining cabin, but far less open. It was made from thick planks of wood that seemed older than most of the huts surrounding it. The roof was sloped and comparatively steep. Along the edges of the roof were eaves carved into a complex pattern of curves and points, and metal plates with etched runes were affixed to the outer walls at regular intervals. Between the plates were narrow, shuttered windows, except for along the eastern wall, where a series of long windows opened out to the seaward side of the village. Though no sun poured through the windows now, a few points of light within marked the seats of students eagerly studying from thick tomes. The overall effect was a combination of grandness and solemnity, as one might normally find in a place of worship.

  Fiora fluttered apprehensively in front of the door, chewing her lip for a moment before turning to Shadow. “Do you mind if I ride on your shoulder? I'm attuned to flame magic, and they suppress flames inside the library to protect the books. It makes it very difficult to stay airborne, and I just don't think I have it in me right now.”

  Shadow nodded reluctantly.

  “Many thanks!” She drifted over and alighted on his left shoulder. “Go right on inside and we'll try to find something for you to start reading.”

  He pushed open the door to find the inside quite dim, though there was light enough for his keen eyes to navigate. Ahead of him there were shelves upon shelves of books forming orderly rows. Each shelf reached easily twice his height toward the lofted ceiling, and stools and ladders were scattered about to help reach the less-accessible volumes. Apprentices paced the aisles, reading the hand-lettered spines of the books or flipping through the pages with reverence and care. To light their way, they held smooth crystals that cast a gentle glow of moonlight white. Beside the door was an older gentleman with a white beard and a black tunic seated at a podium. An ancient, leather-bound volume was open on the podium, and a coarse crystal was hanging in the air above it, glowing with a warmer yellow color than the others. When Shadow made ready to stride inside, Fiora stopped him.

  “Not so quickly. First, this is Master Nozim. He's one of our black magic masters, and chief librarian. Master Nozim, sir, this is the newcomer.”

  The black wizard nodded.

  “Next, maybe you can see in here, Mr. Malthrope, sir, but for me I'll need a light. Take one of those and hold it in your hand.”

  She indicated a netted bag of gems identical to those held by the others. He reached inside the bag to select one. Each gem that his fingers brushed against briefly took on a glow, tingling lightly where it touched him.

  “I don't like magic,” he reminded her.

  The comment drew a glance from the librarian.

  “It is just simple light, silly,” she said. “Nothing at all to worry about.”

  Grudgingly, he pulled a small one from the bag. The glow within it steadily intensified, until it was more than enough to light their way.

  Fiora raised her eyebrows. “That's pretty bright for a warrior. This way.” She directed him along one side, toward the western wall. “These books were mostly written by the villagers. The rest were brought in from the outside. As they were brought by wizards and warriors expecting a battle, what we mostly have are grimoires—those would be spell books—and manuals of fighting techniques. There are a few histories and memoirs, too, but not much in the way of light reading, which is where you really ought to start. Those simply aren't the sort of things people carry with them into a cave. What we do have is over here.” The pair reached a single bookcase with only two shelves filled. “Put your hand on the shelf, please.”

  Shadow obliged, and she trotted down his arm and onto the shelf. Once there, she paced along looking up and down at the spines of books that were taller than she was.

  “We're looking for something thin. You speak some Varden, right?”

  “Some.”

  “I think we'll have to try that language first. It is an easier alphabet, and we have more books in that language. Here . . . try this one.”

  He pulled the indicated book, which was a slim volume, little more than a stack of pages bound together with thread. Rather than request to be picked up, Fiora snagged the edge and hitched a ride, climbing up the spine and looking over the top as he flipped it open. She smiled and made a fluttering ho
p from the book to his shoulder to whisper in his ear.

  “You're holding it upside-down.” She patted him on the back of the neck. “Come, we'll take it back to your hut. Just make sure you replace the crystal and let Nozim know you are taking the book. We don't care much when someone takes one of these.”

  Fiora rode on his shoulder all the way back to his hut, where he placed the book down on his table. She fluttered down to it, hefted the cover open, and paced out onto the page.

  “Now, let's start with the title. This says One Final March: A Play in Three Parts . . .”

  #

  Over the next few days, his sessions with each of his tutors became a normal part of his routine . . . or, at least, as normal as a set of lessons can be when one teacher is standing on the page as she instructs and the other begins by attempting to creep undetected until he is within stabbing range.

  The sword drills were swift to fall into place. He quickly understood what needed to be done, and with practice he found himself a bit closer each day. Learning to read was another thing entirely. It was unlike anything he'd had to do before. There was so much to remember, so many rules, and none of them truly made sense to him. It was raw knowledge, and very slow to take root, but Fiora was patient and calm, and with time the words on the page began to link themselves to the words in his head. He'd yet to assemble even the first sentence, though, when his first week was through, and the true training under Master Weste began.

  #

  His first lesson was to begin at dawn, and he arrived just as the sun was turning the sky golden. It is a unique and unnerving experience to be present when a class of stealth apprentices comes to session. First the training ground was empty, and then, gradually, it was not. There was little sound, little evidence of arrival at all, yet one by one new individuals appeared. Much to their chagrin, however, each was greeted by a purposeful glance from Shadow long before they would have chosen to reveal themselves.

  “Almost got you! Almost!” said Deena, the last apprentice to arrive.

  “Not nearly,” Leo said in reply. “He was looking at you before you even entered the grove.”

  “As far as I'm concerned, I only need to get close enough to kill him,” she countered. “I could have killed him from the edge of the grove if I needed to. I'm getting better with the blow gun.”

  “That's enough,” came Weste's voice. Again, all eyes turned to the north side of the clearing to find their teacher having arrived without being observed by even the malthrope. “We will all get our opportunities to test ourselves against our newest apprentice in due time. Since he is new here, I will take a moment to explain how things will progress. I pair you together based on your strengths. Every few days, I will assign enrichment tasks to develop your mind and dexterity. The rest of the time, I will have you do drills and advise.

  “Though your tasks all contribute in some way or another to the task of hunting another, I want to make it clear that both in Entwell and in the rest of the world, we are not simply killers. Life is precious, and it is valuable. We will not endanger the lives of our fellow students, and we will never take a life that does not need to be taken. Now, Deena, since you are so impressed with your blow gun progress, we shall start with you. The rest of you, pair up.”

  As the students began to align themselves beside their designated partners, Weste began pointing to them and uttering seemingly random phrases. Some, like “infiltration,” at least made sense. Others were nonsensical. Sama and his partner were assigned “tandem fishing.” As for Leo and Shadow, “courier.”

  “Excellent,” Leo said, rubbing his hands together as the others went off to their tasks. “I enjoy courier.”

  “What is it?” Shadow asked.

  “It is great fun,” Leo said, making his way to a small wooden chest beside one of the weapon racks. From within, he selected two stones. They were smooth, like river rock, and were identical save for a unique symbol carved into one side. He gave one to Shadow. “We each have a stone. Now, we will head back to the center of Warrior's Side. We'll pick a courier. Your goal is to be sure that he is carrying your stone, and that you are carrying my stone. My goal is the same, but reversed. If the courier notices, the person responsible gets a mark against and we find a new courier. The game ends at sundown. It tests a host of different skills. You need to watch your target and your opponent. You need to track for long durations without being detected. You need to defend and strike, also without being detected. Picking pockets, planting things. Think of the sequence of it. If you plant your stone first, I have to steal it and plant mine. Then, to plant yours again you have to steal it back from me. It is truly challenging.”

  Shadow looked long and hard at the stone, memorizing the shape, then followed as Leo led the way to a crowded section of Warrior's Side. He pointed out a young man suited in heavy armor.

  “That's Tavis. He is trying to build stamina, so he will be spending most of the day marching about in that armor. He's a good starting courier. The game starts now. Enjoy!”

  With a deft and precise tap of his finger, Leo managed to dislodge the stone from Shadow's hand. He snapped his head down and tried to catch it, but found that Leo had managed to snatch it out of the air and was already just a few paces away from Tavis. With a smooth motion of his hand he flipped the edge of a thick leather messenger bag at Tavis's side up, lowered the stone in, and withdrew his hand. The armored student never noticed Leo's presence.

  And so the game began.

  Tracking was second nature to Shadow now. Finding either the courier or Leo was of little difficulty, and lingering near either without being noticed was almost an afterthought. Taking the stone, however, was exceedingly difficult. His first three attempts were devoted to taking his own stone back from Leo, as the other apprentice was typically out of sight, and thus failing to take the stone without being noticed wouldn't cost him anything but time. Leo, however, was measurably more alert than the courier, and he was expecting to have to protect his prize, so getting the stone away was no simple task.

  He decided to switch tactics, instead following the courier, but while he could easily bring himself to within inches without being noticed, he lacked the practiced finesse that Leo had. Three times, Tavis's head jerked toward his bag a fraction of a second too slowly to see Shadow, and finally he stopped and bellowed something in Varden.

  “Enough of this courier foolishness,” he grunted, rummaging through his bag until he found the stone. “Choose another target.”

  “Ha-ha!” Leo piped triumphantly as he revealed himself from nearby. “That's one for me!”

  Shadow gave Leo a hard look, then snatched both the stone in Tavis's hand and the one in a pouch on Leo's belt.

  “Hah,” Leo said, now with a bit less enthusiasm. “I must remember that speed of yours. Fine, then, you choose the next courier—but be careful. Now that we've been caught once, the herd will be spooked, so to speak.”

  The rest of the day played out much as it had begun. Picking pockets was a nuanced art, but one that Shadow had at least managed to begin to grasp by sundown. Planting the stone was another matter entirely. It could not simply be dropped into a sack or pocket, as doing so would alert the courier. Conversely, lowering it too slowly left one exposed for much longer. The trick was to let it slip smoothly from palm to fingers to pocket, a continuous motion that began as soon as the fingertips were in the pocket and ended with subtlety and speed. Despite dozens of attempts that day, he never once managed to do it successfully.

  “So much for the claim that your kind are natural thieves,” Leo said as walked beside Shadow toward his hut. The pair had filled some bowls in the dining hut and now it was nearly time for his reading lesson. “I'll tell you where you need to improve. You need to match their gait when picking the pockets or planting the stones. Same pace, same height, same sway, same rhythm. You've got to get that right, then you can go for the pocket. Also, strange as it sounds, once you've got the skill for it, you are le
ss likely to be noticed with your hands in their pockets if you do your picking while they are moving. They are already jostling about, so they are likely to dismiss your work as just another shift. Now, as for me, I noticed I caught a flip of your ear every time I changed direction. Where precisely is my misstep?”

  Shadow opened his mouth to answer, but paused for a moment. He had spent years learning the proper ways to avoid humans and the best ways to detect them, he was now telling them how to stalk him. He'd been helping Sama with such things, but compared to Leo, Sama was clumsy as an ox. The man with him now was as close to his own stealth as he'd ever encountered in a human. Nonetheless, Leo had been open and helpful with his own advice.

  “You pivot with your toe on the ground. I can hear the grind of the dust.”

  “The grind of the dust . . . sharp ears, my friend. Sharp ears indeed.”

  “Mr. Malthrope, sir!” piped Fiora's tiny voice in the distance.

  The fairy buzzed up, a good deal more chipper than usual for this time of day.

  “Oh, hello, Stealth Apprentice Leo, sir,” she said with a polite bob. “I was worried I was late. Master Solomon has adjusted my training. I will be doing my endurance training while I'm helping you. It will be a little bit of a blow to my dignity, but in the end it will help us both.”

  “I'll leave you to it, then,” Leo said, nodding a goodbye to them both.

  Fiora fluttered with excitement ahead of Shadow until they reached the hut. He opened the door and she pointed to the lamp that had provided their light each evening. It was a finely crafted piece, with a clear glass bulb to keep the flickering flame from throwing sparks onto the table. The bulb was shaped like a narrow flower vase, with a flared opening at the top, and attached to the polished brass fittings that secured it in place and held the reserve of lamp oil and the wick.

  “Pull the bulb from the oil please, and set the oil aside,” she said, a bit of unpleasant anticipation in her tone.

  He did so, setting the oil on the far side of the table and laying the bulb and its metal base on its side. She flitted into the air, grasped the top of the bulb and, with some effort, slid it to beside the open book and stood it upright. Then, with as deep a sigh as her little body could muster, she squeezed through the opening at the top and dropped inside.