Saber and Shadow

by S. M. Stirling

“Ach, moving at all is the problem.” Megan bowed slightly. “I still would like to speak with you, once I cease feeling like a smashed clockwork toy.” Yeva’s cool amusement followed her out of the sunny room, like the scent of lavender.

  Like a great sperm whale rising from the depths, the Weary Wayfarer’s head cook lumbered up the stairs. Servants shrank against the walls as she passed, gawking at the afternoon tea tray in her hands. It had been many years since Glaaghi had carried anything heavier than a ladle.

  She slowed as the bare concrete and stone of the working quarters gave way to paneling and tile; that aspect of the old manor had needed little change when the Weary Wayfarer had become a business as well as a home to its owners. One of the upper-slaves stopped her.

  “The owners wouldn’t appreciate this,” he said apprehensively. Old highlander tattoos showed on his cheeks, but years in captivity had worn the soft dialect of coastal Fehinna into his tongue.

  Glaaghi grunted. She was a free employee and highly valued; the kinfast might own her kitchen, but it was hers. She waved the tray slightly.

  “Trouble in two-west-five,” she said. “Not taking trays, and the lazy fishbrains can’t tell me why.” She plodded stolidly on, uneasy in her feast-day tunic, conscious that it diminished her. In leather apron and clout she was a figure of terror; with blue cotton on her shoulders she was a fat, middle-aged servant woman. “I will find out what’s going on. Even if they prefer that only the younger, comelier servants wait directly on guests and are offended by me.” Still, she was careful not to tread too heavily and not to knock against anything.

  The stairs creaked under her weight, and she remembered why she’d stopped coming up to this level. If someone had been standing down the hall, he would have seen Glaaghi’s head and shoulders emerge from the stairwell, Titanlike. Even out of her realm, the head cook was impressive. Not for nothing did the under-servants call her the Sea-Cow behind her back, being very careful to be out of earshot.

  She stopped in front of second-west-four and looked down at the tray in her hands. “Two-west-four has their tray. Only four rooms on this floor. Why am I carrying this tray?” She shifted the tray to one meaty hand and scratched her head, counting. “One, yes. Two, yes. Three, no breakfast tray today. Four has theirs.” She looked down at herself and her puzzled frown deepened. “Now why would I dig out my festival tunic and do something strange like come upstairs?” She lumbered back down the stairs still muttering. “Festival? Maybe that’s it. A festival trick. But why am I carrying this tray?” The slave was still where she had left him.

  “Here. You take this. This isn’t my job.” He looked puzzled as well.

  “What?” he said, trailing in her wake as she headed back downstairs. “Didn’t they take it?”

  “Didn’t who take it?” Glaaghi asked.

  “Why, second-five-west,” he said.

  The head cook stopped on the stairs, one hand on the balustrade. “I, I don’t remember,” she said. “I must have spoken to someone. Yes. I must have.” She sounded more confident. “That is an extra tray. Take it downstairs. I have work to do, and good tunics don’t mate well with grease.”

  Chapter XXIII

  Megan gnawed on the end of her pen, then carefully drew in another line. “There,” she said. “Hmmm, it still isn’t very complete.”

  Shkai’ra scowled. “You’ll need more information than that, if you’re to get our little scrap of paper into the temple,” she said. “Not just floor plans; the organization, and what approaches would work.”

  “At least you’ve agreed I’m the one to deal with the priests,” she answered.

  “Little people are better at hiding, and neither of us could pass for a local, but you’re closer. Agreed: you for the temple, me for the Iron House. But how are we going to do an in-and-out with the Adderfangs? With the contract, both of us are kill-on-sight blade fodder.” She prodded a finger at the paper. “And we don’t even know enough for this.”

  There was a dry cough from the hearth. Harriso looked up from his teapot. “Although elderly, I am not quite on my pyre,” he said. “For the temple, recall what I was: guidance I can give, and the Beggar King has often sent me to deal with the Adderfangs.”

  He crossed the little room and gently lifted a stone from the irregular wall. The niche within was dank, but the documents were safely enclosed in a greased leather bag, tightly sealed. “Now, with your help, Red-Hair—”

  “Now wait a minute, Harriso,” Megan cut in sharply. “Granted that all you say is true ... I, for one, don’t wish to expose anyone else to the risk. Besides, even if we succeed in pulling the hairs from these skunks’ tails without getting stinking, we can always leave. This is not our home, though perhaps it is becoming yours,” she said in an aside to Shkai’ra. “Afterward, the survivors are likely to have long memories and come looking for you.” She paused. “I won’t do that by involving you more.”

  Harriso’s ruined eyes swung toward her. “Child,” he said in a voice soft with power, “I have lived eighty turnings of the Sun. Many more than most. All that I loved died long ago; memories and words are left, memories and words.”

  He paused. They might almost have thought him asleep, but for the schooled stillness of his cross-legged stance. “Because I have bent with my fate, do not presume to believe that I welcome it. Two things remain to my hand. Those chance-met friends I have made, here in this second world, my second life.” His voice dropped, caressingly. “And my enemies. While they are, I am. We are bound closer than kinmates or parents. This—” he touched the message “—puts me within reach of them again. Those who cast me down and oppress my people. Let me bring us to our ending and give a fitting farewell gift to those who saw more than a blind beggar.”

  Megan’s lips parted slightly, then closed in silence. Shkai’ra dropped a hand lightly on her shoulder. Death pride, she thought.

  Harriso poured the tea and set the cups out with the quiet gestures of ritual. The three sat, glittering firelight casting highlights from below on the harsh cheekbones of the Kommanz steppe, glistening on curtains of raven’s wing hair. They drank.

  “So. Now that you infants have listened to the voice of wisdom—” the wrinkled face lost its inhuman serenity in a smile of friendly mockery “—consider the coming Purification in the temple. All of Illizbuah will be there, or that part that can cover its nakedness and contribute to the Servants’ treasury. A small, agile person might do well.”

  “I suppose that a warhorse plunging around in the crowd would be rather obvious,” Megan said. “A Purification? If the crowd is that big, it might be my best chance. When?”

  “Three days from now. Enough time for me to pay ... a visit to the ones the current Reflection of the Effulgent Light finds useful tools. Yes, by all means, the Silent Knives first. That will clear the way for you, Red-Hand, to drop the pomegranate of discord among the warriors, to scatter its seeds. Then, before any but vague rumors of turmoil spread, we send the message of disharmony to the Reflection and watch the results among them allfifi. It will be some time before the survivors have the leisure to seek out the authors of their troubles.”

  Shkai’ra blinked and choked on the last sip of her tea. “Harriso, you were wasted on these dwellers-in-stone-warrens, she said. “You should have been a Granfor Warmaster; you have just the devious, nasty mind. When I asked for your aid, I wasn’t expecting you to set our strategy.”

  The fire had died by the time they were done, and even several pots of the tea were not enough to keep hoarseness from their throats. Harriso stood, moving unerringly in the semi-darkness, and began to sling a blanket curtain across the middle of the hut. Megan paused in fluffing a pallet.

  “Harriso,” she said in a thoughtful tone, “it seizes me that one thing is lacking in your plan.”

  The blind man inclined his head toward her. “Can it be found on such short notice?”

  “If I know anything at all of the underside of cities, yes,” Megan said, her
eyes focused unseeingly on the dim shape of Shkai’ra pulling off her tunic. “ A small, swift, inventive, and very, very greedy child.”

  “Excuse me again, young one, but is the Shadowed One still busy?” The Adderfang apprentice looked up sourly from the records spread on the low table at the stooped figure of the beggar leaning on his staff. The small boy who had led him here hadn’t ceased moving once since they had arrived, and had contributed greatly to his decision that the Beggars’ Guild could wait, for a change.

  Sunstruck, blind old fool, he thought. Three times I’ve lost my place. Adventure in the Assassins’ Guild, hah! Might as well be a priest. He prodded again at an aching molar with his tongue and broke his silence.

  “Yes! My Shadowed, Luko, is very busy today and is likely to be so for another finger-width of the candle, so could you kindly sit down? And keep the boy quiet.” As if on cue, the urchin spoke up again.

  “Grandfather, I hafta go to the jakes, the latrine, I mean. I hafta, now!” He tugged at the beggar’s cloak and set up a whine that carried around the room.

  “Why, Dahv, you know your kin-mother told you...”

  The old one’s maundering died away as the two were escorted down the hall by another apprentice, who looked just as thrilled as Luko’s.

  By the Sun’s shadow, the two are enough to drive you mad, he thought. And what could be so important that he wouldn’t even mention the insult of being kept waiting? Harriso, yes, that was the blind one’s name. Not a frequent contact, but logical. After all, who better to deal with dwellers in shadow than one blind? It showed the Beggar King’s understanding of his place. He turned back to his papers and wondered if Luko would be in a better mood now that the madam had been in to pay her protection. When they got back maybe he ought to risk disturbing him. How many throwing stars could he have in his office, anyway?

  Officious child, Harriso thought, as they were led back to the waiting area. Luko was normally much easier to see during the evening hours than this.

  He felt Dahvo’s hand on his arm and thought that the boy played his part well. If they believed a clan or Kinfast stood behind them, perhaps it would make them hesitate a little before killing them. Ai, he sighed mentally, the Adders were too fond of killing these days. Subtlety was what they lacked. It had been otherwise in his youth.

  Harriso felt the sour expression on the apprentice’s face; not at all unlike an acolyte serving in the outer chambers of the temple, even to the petty pleasure he took in keeping a supplicant waiting. At last he sighed, laid down his pen, and scratched at the door of the sanctum before entering. The blind man strained hearing honed in darkness; there was a muffled bellow and a sharp thunk of steel on wood.

  “... and if you won’t stand still for it, bring it back!” the voice said, and bellowed again: laughter this time. The heavy door swung open and the apprentice waved them through; his hands shook slightly as he did, and a fresh scar showed white against the pitted inner surface of the door, at neck height.

  Harriso walked in slowly, more slowly than necessary, with a hand on Dahvo’s shoulder. Rooms were largely a matter of smell to him; this one was ... stale sweat, cane spirit ... yes, and perfume overlying sex-musk. The Adderfang’s voice sounded, round and thick and heavy; there was an impression of meaty forearms thick with hair and wet jowls. The tone was still shark-jovial from the lethal baiting a moment ago.

  “Well, old no-eyes, does the Beggar King complain of our tax again? Or have freelances been at the bowls once more?”

  Dahvo shifted under his hand; Harriso could tell that he was glancing around, impressed. The garishness must be truly hideous. The old man spoke softly.

  “Perhaps my business should remain confidential, One in Darkness,” he said. The Adderfang snorted heavily and leaned on the wicker backrest behind his cushions. It creaked heavily.

  “Then why bring the boy? Unless as a present for me.”

  “He is my eyes and ears,” Harriso said absently. Then: “There was a commission for ... those-who-remove, recently. Concerning the recovery of a missing object?”

  The backrest creaked again and stopped. Harriso could hear the man’s breathing catch and pant; the sharper scent of fear was in his sweat. Silently, the blind man produced the folded paper from his robe; at a warning squeeze, Dahvo took it gingerly between thumb and finger to deposit it on the Adderfang’s desk. The boy returned to his position. The rustle of stiff paper unfolding was plain to sensitive ears, but Harriso squeezed again.

  “He’s unfolded it now, Grandfather. Now he’s started to read.”

  “Porpoiseshit!” the Adder gasped, and slammed the paper face down on the desk; a fact which was noted in Dahvo’s clear treble. He had always been one of Jahlini’s supporters; that had gotten him this sinecure in Guild Liaison, when he grew too heavy for active commissions. But if she heard he had read this ... whatever it was ...

  From the Servants of the Effulgent Light... Thank That Which Coiled in Darkness he’d stopped reading more.

  “How did—” He stopped, took several quick breaths, and a long pull at a bottle of cane brandy hidden beneath a cushion. A moment later he regretted that; it was happening too often these days. Decision crystallized.

  He yanked at a cord. The door opened, and the apprentice side-flipped through, landing in guard stance and looking astonished as nothing edged flew in his direction.

  “Get the Adderchief,” Luko began, his voice an octave higher than usual. “Tell her that Luko will pay with his liver and lights if it isn’t more important than anything she’s doing now. No, you fool, leave the door open!” It would be hard enough to convince her that he hadn’t heard, done, or read anything as it was.

  They sat for long minutes of echoing silence, Luko sweating still more, jamming thick hands against each other to still the urge to reach for the black glass bottle; Dahvo fidgeting; Harriso serenely motionless. Very faintly, he smiled; the taste of intrigue and danger and great events was not one he’d thought to enjoy again, and he found that the appetite had not vanished so thoroughly as he had imagined. Like most cravings, he thought, it grows with the feeding.

  The apprentice did not reappear. Instead, Adderchief Jahlini herself eased through the door. Harriso knew the smell, dry and old and somehow reminding him of wet metal and rat fur. She stayed silent as she crossed to the desk and flipped the paper over.

  Luko burbled, a safe three paces away, with his face carefully averted. “I didn’t read a word, not a word, Darkest!” he stuttered. “As soon as I knew, believe me ...”

  “Oh, I believe that, Luko,” she said softly, smoothing the parchment down with one hand. The other curled fingers toward the slit under the right armpit of her tunic. “Not even you would be fool enough to bring me to this, when your name is at the top of the list.”

  The knife she drew was small—a handspan and a half, slightly curved, with a hilt of dimpled bone. Luko’s black jacket parted soundlessly; the point slid in just under the floating rib and drew down and across, finishing with a twist.

  He fell, and she stove in his larynx with a sandaled heel. “No dying words from you,” she said coldly.

  Her eyes moved to Harriso and the child, and even in his darkness he felt them. His reply was cool and dry. “Consider, Commander of Silent Knives, that I at least cannot read the product of any pen; nor can this child of the streets. And further, will sources of information be forthcoming if your reward is a journey to the sewers to dine with the crawlers?”

  She stood silent. Suddenly, Dahvo ran forward, kicking at her shins and pounding at her waist with small fists.

  “You leave Granther alone!” he cried. “I don’t like you! You smell!”

  There was a hard smack as she backhanded the child into a sobbing huddle on the floor.

  Not worth my time, she thought as the grey face of Luko’s apprentice peered through the door. “Get me the ... no, the Assistant Master of Terminations, and my guards! Who would have thought so many?” she muttered, i
gnoring the old man as he helped Dahvo to his feet, leaning on the desk. He sidled out the door as black-masked figures began to pour through it.

  Harriso went to hush Dahvo and found him already quiet. The boy sniggered slightly. “She didn’t even hit me as hard as Ma does. Did that bit good, din’t I?”

  “Yes, Dahvo. Now come—this place is too close for my liking.”

  “How? They blindfolded me on the way in and led us both. I’m lost.”

  “This way.” Harriso turned around a corner, hearing the fttt of blowguns behind them, coming closer. He pulled Dahvo into a doorway and listened to the sounds of Jahlini’s housecleaning. It sounded as if many were going to die in this.

  Blindfolds worked well with those dependent on sight. Everyone forgot that the blind remember. Out of darkness then, the blind man led the boy. The heavy smell of frying food told him that they were near the exit ... or entrance, as the case might be. The latch clicked and the small door swung open.

  “Now, Dahvo, be my eyes for a short time again. Has anyone moved the box from below or disturbed anything?”

  “No, but I think the fight’s following us.” He sounded a little nervous.

  Harriso smiled and stepped to the box below, to the small barrel, and then to the floor. “We have time. Close the door.” He could hear the muted rustle of conversation and the clatter in the kitchens on the other side of the door.

  A thump and Dahvo was down as well. “Come along. You shall have your reward for playing my grandson. You shouldn’t get hit for not making your quota today. Maybe even tomorrow, if you’re careful.”

  They moved through the kitchen and the restaurant, weaving between seated patrons, cushions and low tables. As they got to the door, Harriso squeezed Dahvo’s shoulder and pressed the bit into his hand that Megan had given him to pay the boy.

  There was an unkitchenly clatter from the kitchen, and a figure fell through the fishbone curtain, black-clad, rigid, with a small dart pinning the hood to the throat. The restaurant cleared with lightning speed as panicky diners realized the Adders were fighting among themselves. Some nearly stumbled over an old beggar who sat by the corner of the building, shaking his bowl, crying, “Alms! Give and the Light shine on You! Alms ...”