Saber and Shadow

by S. M. Stirling

  “I’m sure it must have been a very little accident,” she said, slyly thickening her accent and dropping into the superior-to-inferior inflection as if by accident.

  He turned to her with an eyebrow lifted in aristocratic disdain, which turned to a stare of frank interest; he suppressed a jest about cradle-robbing that sprang to mind. Shkai’ra would take it in good part, but the little one ... Snakes didn’t have to be big.

  “Sammibo Haadfayurs-kin,” he said curtly. For a moment he struggled to keep the pose, then sank down laughing on the bed between the two women, dumping the cat onto his lap. After a moment, they joined him.

  “Ahi-a, the gods make jesters of us all,” Shkai’ra gasped at last. Still running errands for that tight-arse Smyna, or are you full-time Intelligence Staff now, Sammibo?” She lifted a hand as he began to speak. “Bid high, you’re not the first, and I—she glanced at Megan “—we intend to squeeze this melon dry.”

  He looked down, ruffling Ten-Knife-Foot’s ears. The animal bore this with a pretense of aloof dignity, sniffed at his hands to prompt memory, then began to rumble.

  “Shkai’ra,” he began, and looked across at Megan. She touched a finger to her hair.

  “Megan, called Whitlock,” she said.

  “—and Gaaimun Whitelock’s-kin,” he continued. “Seriously, you’ve wandered into deep waters this time. This goes all the way up to the Iron House, on the military side, and you’ve seen the flame-ringers are in it up to their shining pates. I’m authorized to offer seven thousand silvers, an estate near Shaarlosvayl, and reserve commissions in the irregulars—”

  “Sheepshit, Sammibo,” Shkai’ra said easily. “I know the border country; the ‘estate’ has probably been bare since the tribes broke over the border in the Five Nations War, about the time my mother was born. Seven thousand would put it back in operation—and we could then spend the rest of our days fighting hill folk raiding parties, saving the regulars the expense.

  “You’d not be this stupid. Iron House? Anus of a diseased packmule, you say: this has Smyna’s grubby pawprints on it. I don’t mind that she’s greedy as a fish, or treacherous as a crocodile, but she’s cheap to boot; she’s trying to get the High Command with the methods of a New City joyhouse grifter. Now, tell me something serious.”

  “Something portable,” Megan said. She spread the fingers of one hand before her. For a moment, out of the corner of his eyes, Sammibo thought he saw a reddish glow outlining them; when startled eyes swiveled around, it was gone. “I prefer travel and clean fingernails; growing cabbages was never my ambition. And to be sure, we are not ignorant of the complexities of this situation, good Zav’mibo ... Sammibo? Talk to us as among the ... wise.” She laid a slight, significant emphasis on the last word.

  Sammibo ran his hands through his hair, a spontaneous gesture that left the fashionable coiffure disarranged not one whit. “You’ll regret this,” he sighed. “Always did think you could raise to a three-quarter-five hand, Shkai’ra.”

  She nodded. “And you always thought you could bluff your way out of a wolftrap, Sammibo,” she replied affably. “Go back and use your golden tongue on Smyna—get authorization to raise the offer.” She smiled lazily, leaning back with fingers laced about a knee. “Use it to talk. Some things I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemies.”

  He looked from one woman to the other. Shkai’ra relaxed, friendly and lynx-ruthless; she would probably wade into a tavern fight to save him for acquaintance’s sake, and just as easily leave him holding a double handful of intestine if it suited her, then make some heathen offering for his ghost: He had never pretended to understand her. The other—he struggled to pronounce the foreign name in his mind—Megan. She was sitting cross-legged, black hair fountaining to the sheets, one strand startling foam-white against its darkness. Her nails tapped on an expensive metal belt buckle. He frowned inwardly: why were her fingernails making that clinking sound.

  The Fehinnan officer rose to his feet, shaking his head. “Well, if you think better of it, you know where to reach me,” he said. “If not ...” He shrugged. “I’ll pour a horde of brandy at the cremation.”

  His bow was elegant, a slight incline of the back that managed to take in both of them. At the door, he paused for a parting shot: “Wizards and priests—Smyna backstabs for advantage, but they do it for the treachery’s own sake.”

  The door shut behind him with a sough of air. Megan turned to her companion; her lips had opened when they heard laughter behind them. Reflex brought them to their feet, the Zak blinking incredulously as she realized it was coming from the second room, the one protected by her wards.

  Standing just past the locked door between the rooms was a girl-child, no more than seven years by her height and face. She gathered long silver-white hair in her hands and danced a few steps, holding the silky curtain about her like a veil. She laughed again.

  “He was pretty, wasn’t he?” she said in a singsong voice, skipping past Shkai’ra.

  “You don’t care right now, but you—” she said, flitting past Megan, touching one finger to the tip of her nose. “You noticed how pretty he was.”

  Ten-Knife-Foot ignored her until, with a light, butterfly motion of one hand, she stroked across his ears; there was a momentary expression of startlement, a hiss, and the cat disappeared beneath the bed. The child began to hum as she moved, her audience locked in staring silence as she darted about the room.

  “The other man I didn’t like at all. No, he looked nasty. Don’t give it to him; they’ll just kill you anyway. Oh, before I forget, you will sell it, but still give it back to us, too. I know, Yeva knows, I know.”

  Megan shook off some part of the feeling of strangeness and leaned forward with her questions. Some part of her noticed a coolness and the scent of jasmine.

  “Little one ... child ...” she began.

  “Child? Not child, I think. Look. This is the ‘not-me’ that goes out. You have seeing enough to know that.” For a moment, she ceased the darting grace of her movements, standing before Megan. “Look and see who I am.”

  Her eyes were dark from corner to corner, as black as her hair was impossibly white; they seemed to drink light as the mane threw it back in blinding fragments. Yet there was a familiarity.

  She began to whirl around them, faster and faster, her silver hair swirling out in lines of brightness. “Learn from the mistakes you will make,” she said. And pirouetted, spun between them, laughter fading into distance. Silence.

  Shkai’ra scanned the room with slow care, as if to make sure that the child was truly gone, licked fear-sweat off her lips, spat.

  “I. Don’t. Like. Spook pushers,” she said. And jumped at the hand on her arm, half drawing her saber before she realized it was Megan. The Zak looked up at her.

  “I did know her. That was Yeva.” Her voice was utterly without levity. She turned and looked around the room as if seeing a strange place. “The astounding amount of power that woman has.” Her eyes followed something unseen about the room a moment as the cat cautiously emerged from under the bed. His eyes also followed the movement of nothing to the corner of the wall; then he fell to washing himself.

  Shkai’ra snorted. “Nomad shit. Yeva’s adult, black-haired, white-eyed, blind, and can’t walk.” She paused. “Oh, the ‘not-me that goes out.’” She shivered. “Oh, I don’t like spook pushers.”

  She propped her head on the heels of her hands an eye at the window, where the light of the westering sun was reddening. She tossed the pouch in her hand.

  “Whoever we decide to sell this to,” she said, “we ought to get it out of our hands,. I can live without more visitors of the sort we had last night; in fact, we’d be much more likely to ... Best we drop it off, then let it be known that it’s not here.”

  Megan looked dubiously at the leather sack with its cryptic contents. “Yes ... but somehow I can’t imagine asking the innkeepers to put it in their fastbox for us.”

  “Harriso.” The Kommanza repl
ied.

  “Harriso?” Megan echoed in surprise. “But ... anyone can kill a blind beggar.”

  “Yes, but no one has, and Harriso’s been working the alleys for many a year. Most beggars don’t live long; but somehow when it comes Harriso’s time, he doesn’t go. Anyway, who would suspect a blind beggar of having the treasure that’s set all Illizbuah on its ear? If you want to hide something, put it where folk won’t look. Best we go after dark, to keep it discreet.”

  Megan shrugged. “Well, you know this city better than I. But its still two hours to sunset, and we’ve slept, bathed, and eaten. What shall we do until it’s time to leave?”

  I’ve learned a few things among strangers, and one of them is that sometimes the best thing to do is wait, rather than take, the Kommanza thought, and gave Megan a slow smile, reclining back on the round bed, running a finger down from chin to hip. Megan flushed, quite unlike her usual pale merchant’s mask.

  “I think I’ll have another long bath.” She left abruptly, leaving Shkai’ra lying on the bed looking at the closed door thinking thoughts alien to her training. I’d like to get her in bed, but that would be ... empty, somehow. I could kill our friendship with the wrong word right now. She dropped her head on her crossed arms and smiled ruefully at Ten-Knife, then stopped with alarm.

  “Do you think this is what outlanders call falling in love, cat?”

  Ten-Knife stuck his rear leg in the air and groomed.

  Chapter XIII

  The Alley of the Long-Dead Dog glistened slimily in the dim light of the fading sun. It was never bright here, where the decaying buildings slumped toward each other above the uneven pavement of broken brick. One end of the alley was blocked by the blackened hulk of a burned-out tenement, and in the exposed, rubble-choked pit a hut had been built of timber scraps, old paving, and shattered marble facing. The little structure leaned tiredly into the rubble, always seeming on the point of losing its frail identity in the chaos of decay around it.

  Megan and Shkai’ra slid down one wall of the alley, cautiously. Not that the sort of blade who could find no better territory than this was anything to fear, but predators who do not learn wariness seldom live to any great age.

  The Zak looked down at the hovel with distaste; it was the perfect setting for the King of the Rats to hold court in filth and squalor; she could feel the soles of her soft boots slipping greasily in the moisture beneath.

  Shkai’ra looked sidelong, reading the other’s face and keeping her own carefully mask-like.

  “Odd,” she said, tapping the roof below them. “He should be in; in this part of Illizbuah a beggar walks soft at night. The meat on their bones is valuable, if nothing else.” She leaped softly down to the overlapping stone shards of the roof, crouching. Her face turned up, dark in the shadow save for eyes and fire-coal-bright hair. “Come down, see if you can get this door open.”

  “Hmmm? Ah, I see.” Megan landed, ran fingers featherlight over the surface, and began to probe delicately with a small tool that had been part of her belt buckle a second before. “This lock is beautiful work ... there I” There was a click, and a meter-square section of the roof lifted fractionally.

  She turned to look at Shkai’ra, one hand still on the door. “Now why does he have a lock that would do justice to a Gaaimun’s home? And on the roof?”

  The Kommanza lifted the square. “You should see his alternate door,” she said, dropping through the opening like a long-limbed shadow. Megan followed; head and shoulders first, then a backflip that landed her on her feet. A knife disappeared back into its sheath.

  The interior of the hut had a spare, scrubbed cleanliness that made bare stone and wood elegant. A hearth was built into one wall; beside it in a niche was a vase that held a branch and two half-open buds. Three closed cupboards were built into the walls; a woven mat of creamy wool served as hearthrug and sleeping pallet, with a small carved chest for storage and pillow.

  “How does he do this?” Megan asked, settling herself where she could see the tabana and admiring the clean curve of the branch. “And why ...”

  “... does he trouble himself with the creation of beauty that he cannot see?” The dry voice came from the street door. Harriso strode in with a confident step, leaned his staff against the door frame, and slid a bar across the plank barrier. The ruined eyesockets turned to Megan, the lecturing voice so much like her teachers’ that she had to smile.

  “Observe, young one,” he said. “Observe, and all the worlds and Otherworlds are open, even if your eyes are blind. A blind beggar is what the world sees; this does not mean that I must live or think to match my role. Surface appearance is seen; the assumptions follow. Blindness increases one’s perceptions in other regards, not least by revealing how much of what the sighted think they see is the reflection of their expectations.”

  Harriso stirred the fire and used a splint to light a lamp of courtesy; the tea service moved through his hands with the familiarity of many years.

  “As for this place, there are those who would hear the teachings of the elder days; better students than I had in the temple, many of them. If they have little trademetal, there is the skill of their hands....”

  Shkai’ra motioned with her eyes, drawing Megan’s attention to the location of the staff, within easy reach of the blind man. “I thought I would have heard your stick on the street,” she said admiringly. “I still can’t see where your bolt hole is, in here.”

  Harriso’s brows rose. “One is supposed to stay within, if hooves thunder on the root above? In the Alley of the Long-Dead Dog?” He reached over, and the dark wood of his staff prodded one wall. “Also, notice that if the roof moves, the walls do also.” The staff went back into its corner, and he turned back to the fire, lowering himself carefully onto the other end of the mat. “Hai, old bones are brittle.”

  Megan, noting the ease with which he still moved, snorted slightly. “Elder, at the smith’s you mentioned a book, words of someone called the Subtle? If you would indulge my interest, I’m sure that we can be persuaded to fetch your shawl and a nice warm brick for your old feet.”

  “Child, I began my study of the Precepts of Annitli when ... I had considerably fewer Sun-turnings than you do now. By all means, every journey begins with the first step, but ...” The unexpected smile flashed again, and there was a glimpse of the boy who had sat big-eyed beneath the weight of his scroll. “At that, you would be a better student than Shhhcaair’ here, who remains convinced that the best way to study eggs is to open them with a saber.”

  “Ah, one must make allowances for the savage, Harriso, if I can be so free with your name; but I am trying to train her to speak and wear somewhat besides goatskins.” She winked at Shkai’ra’s mimed outrage.

  He served the tea and sank back to the rug. “It does this ancient one good to sense the children at play; but what is it that you want of me?”

  “Ahi-a, the pleasure of your company and the sweetness of your smile, Harhzo,” Shkai’ra said.

  “True, just as all priests are naturally bald,” he said, throwing back his crisp grey mane. “For the pleasure of company you are well provided, since you returned to us, Red-Hand. Strong Happenings, of late: you escape the great killing in the square, strange events at the Weary Wayfarer, of which I have heard surpassing little.”

  “We thought you might hold something for us, Elder,” Megan said quietly.

  There was silence for a moment, save for the soft crackling of the fire. The little room smelled of lamp oil and incense and tea; the blind man’s nostrils expanded as if to catch a scent beyond.

  “I am not a banker,” he said at last. “Besides, the pawnbroker tells me that you have not quite enough to redeem your second-best suit of armor.” He held up a hand to forestall Shkai’ra’s response. “I know. It’s not that you have no money—”

  “It’s just that I never have money for long,” she finished. “Besides, I hate to waste good money on paying bills; when I need it badly, I’ll ste
al it back.” Her manner became serious. “There is some risk involved. The Adderfangs tried to take it from us; on temple commission, we think. Or military.”

  An old fury tightened the wrinkled face. For a moment, they could see what he had been like in the day of his power, a cold pale anger. “The Reflection should be as a shepherd to his flock; instead he is a ravening wolf.” The remains of eyes swung to Shkai’ra. “You are not of this land; you have no obligations here, and your nature is as it is. But his ...” Control clamped down. “Why the God Among Us permits this ...

  “Yes, I will hide your ... treasure. Nor seek to know what it is.”

  Megan laid the pouch before his knees where he sat easily on callused heels. His fingers touched it lightly and drew back for the merest instant. “Yes, I will hide this for you. But more is involved here than swords, or than the Right Hand of the God Incarnate dreams, I think.” He noticed the boiling water.

  “For now we will speak of other things. Maaigan, Annitli said: ‘Consider the serenity that may be found in the most commonplace of actions. For example, the brewing of tea, and its pouring.’”

  Chapter XIV

  “Your sword, O soldier,” the Adderfang said with patient courtesy. Jaahdnni Layee’s-kin, Squadron Commander in the Triumphant Steeds Silhouetted Against the Morning Sun, detached from her cavalry regiment for intelligence duties, glanced around the antechamber. Her escort stood stolidly; six troopers from the special-forces section of the city garrison. There were only two blackcoat Adders present, that she could see, but ...

  “By all means,” she said from between tight-clenched teeth. Control, she thought. Let the city rabble see how a Layee’s-kin behaves under stress. The assassin took the long basket-hilted blade with a bow; was there a smirk behind his facemask? The door of the sanctum swung inward.

  The interior was a surprise. This was the fifth headquarters the Adderfangs had established, a mere seven hundred years old. Once it had been a suburban retreat, a place of privacy and relaxation for a kinfast of wealthy wine merchants. The city had grown around it; the level of the land rose; when the time came to pave the streets of the New City, the new avenue ran past the first-story windows of the older structure. The maps that moldered in the archives of the muncipium showed only fill and sewage pipes; considerable gold and a sharp-curved knife had ensured that. More gold had emptied the extensive cellars and raised supports for the tenement above; the sewer pipes had proved useful for carrying away the dirt, and later the bodies.