2
After what seemed like years, a different class was called.
The strangeness began immediately. Samira woke and went to the wardrobe where a gray robe had waited for her every morning for months. But there was no gray robe there today. In its place was a black blouse, black stockings, black breeches, and a pair of soft black boots that extended just above her knees.
Beside them hung a belt. On the belt was a sword of the type favored by the priests and priestesses of the eastern mountain of Faith: a slightly curved blade called a katana. She knew from her studies that the best of them were made by forging and folding the metal up to thousands of times, which created a steel free of impurities and of incredible strength.
She removed this one from its scabbard. There was, as always, the electric hum that came whenever she held a weapon. But there was something else beyond that. This weapon was exquisite on its face: perfectly balanced, edge polished to a sheen that would make any razor ashamed.
It was the finest thing she had ever touched.
The belt also held a wakizashi: a shorter version of the katana, but of the same amazing workmanship, the same perfect hone and balance.
She knew most of Asborn's army preferred to use sabers and rapiers, daggers and dirks; but she had fallen in love with the katana and wakizash. They were harder to master, subtler in nuance, but she held them with her Gift and felt them sing in her hands.
The song they sang was Death. And whoever had put them here knew of her love for them.
She strapped the belt to her waist. The priests and priestesses who practiced with this weapon used a sash called an obi to tie the swords to their bodies. She preferred the belt.
Like the clothing, the belt had been tailored for her.
She dressed quickly, her body humming not merely because of the proximity with the beautiful weapons, but because of the very newness of this moment.
She remembered a time – not long ago – when she feared the new. When the new meant death.
Now she hungered.
Dressed, she opened the door to her room. The hall was empty. This was usual. But she sensed something different about this emptiness. Always before the hall had simply seemed unused. Now it seemed….
Expectant. Waiting.
She moved into the hall and realized her hand was on the suka – the handle – of her katana. Her thumb pushed on the seppa, freeing the blade from its scabbard about a half-inch: the classical position of a warrior ready to give or receive attack.
She went to the classroom. Because that was what she always did, and she did not know what else to do.
The Poppet and Riada sat in their usual places in the classroom: on chairs near the fireplace – which was dim and dark as though it had never been used. Both girls wore the same black clothes as Samira, though neither was armed. Riada wore her usual flower, its colors a glaring contrast to her dark clothes. The Poppet stared at the empty fireplace, her red eyes somehow reflecting the nothing that was there and casting it back twice as empty and dead as before.
Armor and Devar stood near them. More serious than Samira had ever seen them.
"Today is your Naming Day," said Devar. "Today is the day we see if you are fit to be Blessed Ones."
He nodded at Armor. "When you walk out that door," said Armor, "all will have changed. You will be in a strange place, and you will be fully in service of the Empire."
He held up a sketch. It was of a man with a bulbous nose that Samira guessed had been broken more than once, sleepy eyes, and a pair of moles on his cheek.
"This is Creed," said Armor. "The Chancellor has identified him as the man behind the recent assassination attempt on the Emperor, as well as several other major crimes against the crown. For political reasons, he cannot be brought to trial."
He looked at each of the girls in turn. Samira felt like he was waiting for something, but she didn't know what.
"When are we to kill him?" said The Poppet. She didn't look away from the firepit, and her voice sounded dreamy and faraway.
Armor sighed. "As soon as you leave. He is well-guarded, and is himself dangerous. The well-guarded part is why you cannot be taken into his home directly: normally we would have a Wanderer transport you there, but Creed has Screens whose Gifts prevent any magic entry. You must physically cross into his domain." He nodded at Devar, who handed him a rolled-up scroll. Armor unrolled it on the desk that they used for lessons, and the girls gathered around it. It was a map of a large villa. Armor pointed at a room in the center. "This is his bed-chamber. You will find him there, if you can make it in unseen. If you can't…." He sighed. "Then Gods be with you."
He opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a large hourglass. Turned it over. It began passing what looked like a single grain of sand at a time through the slim neck of the timer.
"Do not leave this room before this empties," said Armor. "If you do, the test will be over."
Something in the way he said it made Samira's blood run cold. She remembered speaking to him the first day in the palace; remembered telling him that death was always on the line.
And knew this was the case here. Perhaps in more ways than one.
Devar and Armor left without another word.
Samira and Riada went over the map of the villa, over and over until they could recite the locations of the various rooms by heart. They asked The Poppet over to join them. She ignored them until the fifth or sixth time they asked. Then she swiveled around in her seat. Her red eyes bored through them.
"Will you kill anyone in the villa?" she asked.
"Hopefully just Creed," said Riada.
The Poppet settled back in her chair. "Then I shan't be needed."
Samira felt the small hairs on the back of her neck raise. Not in fear, but in anger. Who was this girl? After their months together it seemed she knew nothing more of her than she had on their first meeting. Not where she came from, not why she carried her dolls – all of them ruined and maimed.
And nothing of her Gift.
"What if we do kill someone else?" she demanded.
The Poppet smiled. "Then I shall be needed. And that will be more than enough."
She closed her eyes and quickly looked as though she had fallen asleep.
Riada looked at Samira. She rolled her eyes in an expression that clearly conveyed, "She's insane." Samira nodded.
They went back to the plans. To the picture of Creed. Memorizing both, then rememorizing them as the sands ticked one at a time through the glass.
They realized – after a few hours had passed – that there was writing on the back of the plans. It listed the number of guards who patrolled the villa at night – ten – and the number bivouacked there at all times – fifty-two.
Fifty-two. Fifty-two. How can we defeat that many?
Riada still refused to tell her what her Gift was. And both knew that The Poppet would say no more.
"I'm going to see it," said Samira. "Why not tell me?"
"I know you will," said Riada. "But we each have different tests." She said the last almost ferociously. And suddenly Samira understood: she had been told never to reveal the nature of her Gift – at least, not aloud. And here Samira had constantly nagged her about it. Had asked her over and over to reveal it.
Some friend.
"Sorry," she said.
"It's all right," Riada said.
Samira realized her friend had made that strange gesture again: her finger beside her nose, pointing at the flower.
"I can tell you this, though," said Riada. "I'm going to be better on the outside of the villa."
"Okay," said Samira. "Let's go with that."
They planned – as much as could be planned with one person bound to silence and one refusing speech – almost the entirety of the sands' passage.
Almost.
At the end, Samira and Riada half-lay across the desk, chins rested on crossed arms, staring at each grain of sand as it fell. One hundred left. Then fifty.<
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She and Riada stood up. They stretched and limbered their limbs. Samira checked her weapons, though she knew both were attached and ready. Riada adjusted the flower in her hair.
Strange time for vanity.
Twenty.
Ten.
Five.
One.
"Ready?" said The Poppet.
Both girls started. The little girl was already waiting by the door. Her red eyes fully open and dancing with a strange inner light that made Samira uneasy.
Then The Poppet opened the door.
3
The Poppet gestured for them to go first. A strange, sweeping bow with a hint of a curtsy to it. Samira wondered if she had learned the courtly gesture from Armor, since it seemed completely out of place for the child.
But she found herself responding to it, nonetheless: moving automatically to the door with Riada and stepping through to the hallway beyond, then to the forest –
Forest?!
She spun around in time to see The Poppet step out of the classroom door and shut it. The door disappeared, and with it the last traces of the hall that had existed in a sort of overlapping state with the forest in which the three now found themselves. Not as though someone had built a hall and door in the middle of the woods, but rather as though someone had painted the hall and door on glass, and now the glass itself was fading and disappearing, turning to nothing in the darkness of the night.
So this is what a Wanderer does.
She had read of this, of course. Read of the men and women who could transport people across rods, miles, leagues. But this had to be the work of an exceptionally strong Wanderer.
Devar? Is that his Gift?
Doesn't matter. Do what must be done.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. Riada, turning her gently. They were in the middle of the woods, but when her friend turned her she saw a glimmer between two trees.
"The villa," whispered Riada.
Samira nodded. Looked at the moon. Saw Riada doing the same, and knew her friend would be calculating based on its location: They would be approaching from the east. The rear of the villa. Good because there should be fewer guards stationed there, bad because the wall was fifteen feet high.
"We'll have to circle around and take the guards at the front," said Samira.
Riada shook her head. "No, we won't."
"You have a ladder in your pocket?"
Riada grinned. "Something like that."
Samira shook her head. "Still not going to tell me?"
"No."
"Can you?"
"Now? Probably."
"Then why won't you?"
"Because it's fun watching you go mad."
Samira considered cutting her friend's head off. She settled for sighing. "Come on," she said.
They started toward the villa, moving silently as they had learned to do during their classes. A low wind masked their occasional noises; made their approach all the more stealthy.
They hadn't gone more than ten steps, though, before Samira stopped Riada with a gentle touch. They looked back. The Poppet was still standing where she had when she came out of the door. Looking at the moon.
"Are you coming?" hissed Samira.
The Poppet spoke in a normal voice, as though heedless of the danger all around them, of the need for stealth. "I think I'll stay here a while. You might not even need me."
"That's not the point of this."
The Poppet turned to her. "The point is to kill Creed, Samira. Not who does it." The girl returned her gaze to the moon. "I wonder if the man on the moon is alive, and smiling, or long-dead and wondering why the Gods have never cared?"
Samira turned to Riada. Her friend shook her head. "Mad," whispered the other girl.
Samira couldn't agree more.
Maybe it's best we do go on without her.
They went through the forest, moving from tree to tree. Slow, slow. Stopping every few feet to listen for any noises that were not born of the woods. For feet on twigs, for whispered words or the sound of a guard making water in the privacy of the trees.
Nothing.
Soon they saw why: there was a two-hundred-foot-wide area beyond the wall where the woods had been cut back to nothing. A bare space where there was nowhere to hide, no way to creep in without being seen. The only things there were ankle-high grasses and shrubs, perhaps a few rocks hiding among them.
Samira and Riada crept to a fallen log at the edge of the forest and watched. "What do you see?" said Riada.
"Nothing. Just – wait." She squinted. "One guard, coming around the north side." A moment later Riada grunted: she had seen him, too.
The guard moved slowly, at an even pace. Walking on the top of the wall until he turned the corner and disappeared onto the south side. A moment later another figure appeared. Too fast to be the same one.
"Two guards," whispered Riada.
Samira nodded.
They waited as he, too, continued across the wall and disappeared. Samira counted time until the first one appeared again.
"I measure two minutes."
"Me, too," said Riada.
"Not a lot of time to get across the grass and climb the wall."
"Plenty, actually." Samira sensed her friend's smile. She turned to face her. "Do we kill them," said Riada, "or do we try to get in and out and kill Creed without anyone noticing?"
Samira thought. Killing guards on the way in would be easier in a lot of ways. But leaving bodies behind and causing holes in normal patrol patterns also increased the likelihood of discovery.
On the other hand, if they crept in and were discovered while inside the villa, then they'd be attacked on all sides.
Still, she didn't want to kill anyone she didn't have to.
How different from your days as a Dog.
"We let them live," she said.
Riada nodded agreement.
"Okay, once we get over the wall, let's make for the storage building on the other side. Hide behind it. Hopefully there isn't a guard doing patrol there as well," said Riada.
"Um, small question, Miss Mastermind," said Samira. "You still haven't told me how we're getting over the wall."
Riada's smile widened. "Trust me. The minute the guard turns to the north side of the wall, run for it. And be ready."
Samira sighed in exasperation. But watched and waited for the next guard.
He appeared, seemingly faster this time, though she knew that was probably just her adrenaline-soaked imagination playing tricks on her.
Then he was gone.
Samira ran.
She was fleet of foot. She had had to be to survive in the arena, and she had grown more so as a steady diet of good, healthful food had increased her strength. Still, it seemed that every foot, every inch, of the space between forest and wall passed at a crawl.
Not going to make it. Not going to make it.
She waited for the call. For the alarm to be sounded. Neither happened. But she realized she had drawn her weapons, katana in her right hand, wakizashi in her left.
The wall was looming.
And she had no idea what came next.
"Keep going," came a voice. Riada.
I hope you know –
Then the thought cut off as the ground lurched below her.
She looked down and saw something moving. Her feet stumbled over each other; she nearly fell but managed to right herself. And when she did she realized she was higher than she had been. And climbing.
She didn't understand. The ground had been flat. And now….
She tried to look as she ran, but could only catch glimpses. The impression of movement, of something writhing beneath her.
And it came together.
The hints – Riada constantly pointing at her flower. Saying she would be better outside the villa than inside.
Her friend could control the plants. The grass below her feet was knitting itself into a ramp, a series of steps that led higher and higher until it nearly
touched the lip of the wall. Or perhaps it wasn't the strands of grass plaiting themselves into thick ropes of green, but a single piece that was growing to immense proportions – Samira couldn't tell in her headlong rush forward and upward.
She could only run. And wonder.
What else can she do? What are the limits of Riada's Gift?
Then she was on the wall. A quick look to make sure no one had spotted her, to make sure there was no one below, then she sheathed her swords in a dual motion that would have been impossible for anyone else to replicate. She lowered herself over the side of the wall and dropped.
She prepared herself for a jarring fall – it was far enough that if she landed wrong a broken bone was a real possibility. But she only dropped a few feet, and then something cradled her. She saw vines circling her legs, holding her tightly but not painfully. Ivy crawled up the inside of the wall – lovely, but not nearly sturdy enough to allow someone to climb up or down. At least, not usually. However, under the influence of Riada's Gift the vines had grown to the thickness of a man's wrist, and felt like they had enough power to lift an auto-car.
The vines dropped her to the ground on the inside of the wall, and a moment later she heard Riada touch down as well. They both ran to the side of a nearby building that they knew held supplies for the villa. It was about twenty feet to a side and if they crouched in the shadows they should be fairly sheltered from the eyes of the two wall guards.
But eight more guards would be patrolling inside the walls. At least some of them should be watching Creed himself.
How many, though? How many with him, and how many wandering the grounds of the villa?
Samira had her weapons out again, and she pointed with the katana. The center of the villa was a massive structure that held the kitchens, the ballroom, some servants quarters, the guest rooms, and the rooms where Creed slept.
"Direct approach?" she asked.
Riada shrugged. "Not much choice."
They slunk from place to place. Moving in the shadows as much as possible. But Samira knew that this was a risky course, and one that must sooner or later lead to discovery.
The front door to the main building was guarded by two men in blue and white – Creed's personal livery, she guessed. She wondered if that was part of what he was being killed for – was he raising a private army to stand against the Emperor?
The Sword Chronicles: Child of the Empire Page 7