The Sword Of Angels eog-3

by John Marco

  Aliz Nok nodded, pleased with himself. Like its twin, the blade was perfect. Exhausted, he left the blade on the table, still half-encased in its clay. The hardest part was done, he decided. He had earned some sleep.

  Three days later, Lukien arrived at the home of Aliz Nok. He had not seen the katath maker since giving him the commission, granting the old man the full month he needed to make Lahkali’s weapon. The narrow street was filled with noise when Lukien arrived as mid-day crowds shopped among the many market stalls and bargained with merchants behind pushcarts. Aliz Nok’s humble house sat behind a new, larger home, which cast a sad shadow over the old man’s door. Surprisingly, the door was open when Lukien arrived. He pushed it open to peer inside, noting at once the smell of sulphur and sweat. The windows all remained closed, letting dusty sunlight into the living chamber. The home had not been cleaned since the last time Lukien had been there, and he noted the same bits of debris scattered right where they’d been a month ago. Without a wife to help him, the old master had let his house decay to a depressing sight, and Lukien held his breath against the strong smell of smoke that had polluted it.

  ‘Aliz Nok?’ he called.

  No answer came. Lukien stepped inside and looked around, shutting the door behind him. Across the dismal living area lay the door to the shop. It, too, stood open. Lukien hesitated. He had been surprised by Niharn’s insistence that the old man could help him, and when he’d first seen the home he had almost turned around. But Niharn had assured him with sincerity, promising Lukien that he would find no better smith to make Lahkali’s weapon. Now, surrounded by Aliz Nok’s depressing home, Lukien’s doubts returned.

  ‘Hello? Aliz Nok, are you here?’

  Again the old man did not respond, prompting Lukien forward. He went across the living area to the shop, sticking his head over the threshold. The room stunk of oils and metal and burnt out coals. The firepit stood at the far side of the chamber, cold. Bent bits of iron blanketed the floor around the workbench, where scattered tools lay. Lukien cleared his throat against the smell, looking for a window to open but not finding one. Instead he found Aliz Nok, sprawled on the floor, his body partially covered by a blanket. An old, soiled pillow cradled his head. His mouth stood open, but no sound came from him. Concerned, Lukien went to stand over him, watching for any sign of breathing. When the old man’s eyes opened it startled them both. Aliz Nok bolted up with a shout, making Lukien jump.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ Lukien cried, catching his breath. ‘It’s just me — Lukien.’

  ‘Lukien?’ The old man shook the sleep from his head. ‘Yes. .’

  ‘Fate Almighty, I thought you were dead! You gave me a scare, Aliz Nok.’ Lukien put out his hand and helped the man to his feet. ‘This is where you sleep?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Aliz Nok. ‘When I am busy. I have been very busy for you.’

  Just as it had for everyone else in Torlis, Lukien’s amulet translated the man’s words. The remarkable feat had stunned Aliz Nok at their first meeting, convincing him Lukien was something special.

  ‘It’s been a month,’ said Lukien cautiously. ‘Have you had enough time?’

  ‘I have,’ replied the old man. A strange smile crossed his wrinkled face. ‘You will be pleased.’

  ‘It came out well, then?’

  ‘No, not well. Perfectly.’

  Aliz Nok let go of Lukien’s hand and went to his silent workbench. Beneath it lay a long box of polished wood, perhaps four feet in length. He held it out before him, beaming. A proud twinkle lit his ancient eyes.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Lukien excitedly. ‘You made that box as well?’

  ‘It is a special weapon, Lukien. It deserves a special place to rest. Come.’

  As Lukien approached, Aliz Nok noisily cleared the debris from his workbench with his forearm, then set the box down. Carved into the top of the box was a symbol Lukien had seen before in Torlis, a rune that twisted like a snake — the mark of Sercin. With Lukien hovering over his shoulder, Aliz Nok began undoing the box’s tiny golden latches. A long, gleaming hinge ran along the back of the top, and when the old man had finished with the latches he lifted the top on its silent hinge, revealing the weapon gently cradled in a cushion of velvet.

  ‘Here it is,’ said the old man. ‘A katath unmatched.’

  What he saw in the box made Lukien’s eyes widen with delight. Inside were two separate shafts of split bamboo, each one lovingly carved with exotic symbols and both fitted with metal collars to lock them together. Separate from these was the head of the katath, two precisely matched blades, each curved and forged together in a V-shaped hook. Lukien could see the edge on them, gleaming dangerously in the dim light. A collar similar to the ones on the shafts lay at the base of the head, ready to fit it to its body. To Lukien’s admittedly untrained eye, the katath looked exactly as Aliz Nok claimed.

  ‘Perfect.’ Lukien reached out to touch it, then pulled back his hand. ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course. It is yours now, to give to the Red Eminence.’

  Its beauty amazed Lukien. He could easily tell how the thing went together, but instead asked the old man to do the honour for him. Aliz Nok nodded proudly and began assembling the katath, first fitting the two shafts together, then snapping the bladed head in place. When it was done he held the weapon out before him, showing its balance by holding it only by a fingertip.

  ‘You see? Just as you asked. Not big, not heavy.’

  ‘And the blade?’ Lukien asked. ‘Is it sharp enough?’

  ‘My friend, you will not find a blade sharper, not anywhere. I have worked until my hands bled to make these blades. They are the finest I have ever made, sharper than the teeth of the Great Rass itself.’

  ‘They need to be, Aliz Nok,’ Lukien reminded him. ‘They have to get through the hide of that beast.’

  ‘They will, I promise. If you can train the Eminence to get close enough, my katath will do the rest.’ The old man turned the weapon upright, showing off its two-bladed head. ‘Look, you see how hard these blades are? They will not break, never. And the edge is soft enough to hold its sharpness. She may train with it, but it must be sharpened before she fights the Great Rass. Do not let it dull, Lukien.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Lukien. Finally he took the weapon from its maker, at once loving its weight and balance. It seemed to have no weight at all, yet there was heft in its ornate shaft, enough for easy thrusting. He rolled it carefully in his hands, admiring its entire length. ‘Aliz Nok, it is remarkable,’ he said. ‘Niharn was right about you.’

  The old man bowed his head. ‘I am honoured to be remembered by Master Niharn.’

  ‘You are, I can tell,’ said Lukien with a smile. ‘Niharn and I aren’t friends. When he suggested you I did not know what to think. It is his job to train the Eminence, after all, not mine.’

  ‘No,’ said Aliz Nok. ‘You have been chosen by Sercin for this.’

  ‘No,’ said Lukien, shaking his head.

  The old man was insistent. ‘Yes. Sercin has touched you, guided you here with his own hand. And then he guided you to me.’ He gazed at the ceiling, but Lukien could tell he was really looking toward heaven. ‘Thank you, Sercin,’ he said with joy. ‘Thank you for not forgetting me.’

  Lukien watched silently as the katath maker said his prayer. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it was Sercin guiding him. His own Liirian gods, that fickle bunch of misfits, had never done anything Lukien could comprehend, and so he had never believed in them. But in these desert realms the gods had power. Lukien had seen it. Beneath his shirt he felt the Eye of God and knew its power was real.

  ‘Maybe your god has guided me,’ said Lukien. ‘I don’t know. Whatever is true, you’ve done me a service, Aliz Nok. I’m grateful to you.’

  ‘You will do well,’ said Aliz Nok. ‘You have talents; I see them in you. Sercin would not have chosen you otherwise. The Eminence is fortunate to have you for a teacher.’

  His praise embarrassed Lukien. ‘I ho
pe so,’ he said. ‘You’ve made the weapon. Now I must teach her how to use it.’

  26

  King Baralosus looked across the table at Minister Kailyr, exhausted and wanting to quit. They had been stuck in the squalid chamber most of the morning, going over ledgers and papers that burdened the table and spilled over onto the floor. Empty tea cups and half-eaten morsels lay scattered among the papers, the remnants of meals meant to keep them going. Kailyr, who always enjoyed this time of the season, smiled despite the drudgery, looking invigorated by the amount of work still ahead of them. It was accounting work, the kind of thing Kailyr excelled at, and the Ganjeese Minister of Treasure always insisted that his king be present at least once a season while the ledgers were balanced. It was an unnecessary formality, a way for Kailyr to prove that his vast department was without corruption. More importantly, it gave the king a true impression of how his treasury was faring. Kailyr worked with his usual aplomb, tabulating every important transaction and making notes in his ledgers with his favourite quill, a dandy pen with a white ostrich feather. He was Baralosus’ most trusted advisor and had been with the king since their boyhoods, and because he was so loyal Baralosus indulged him like this four times a year, pretending to take interest in the dull work of accounting.

  ‘We have more orders with Marn still coming,’ said Kailyr, referring to their fruit trade with their northern neighbour. The Marnans had always adored Ganjeese dates and pomegranates, and the past season had yielded fine crops of both. Kailyr grinned in delight as he noted the order in his ledger. The accounting of the crops had taken longer than usual, but the Minister seemed in no hurry to finish.

  ‘Good,’ said Baralosus. ‘That’s good news.’

  He knew what his old friend was trying to do, and in an odd way Baralosus appreciated it. It had been days since he’d learned of Salina’s disappearance, and so far he’d heard nothing of her welfare or location. The entire palace had been mourning her loss, sure that she’d perished somewhere in the desert. Baralosus own wife was shunning him, blaming him for driving their daughter away. The pall over the palace had driven Baralosus to depression, yet he was grateful for Kailyr’s attempt to distract him.

  When will they come? he wondered to himself, not even hearing Kailyr as the Minister counted aloud. Four days ago, Jashien and Zasif had left for Aztar’s camp, and so far neither man had returned. Are they dead? Has Aztar killed them?

  He had tried to stop asking these questions, but they came anyway, flooding his fevered mind. He spent long hours staring out the palace windows, waiting for Salina — or anyone with news of her — to return. Kailyr had seen the senselessness of this and insisted that the king join him in the counting chamber. For a man who’d spent his entire life with numbers, Kailyr was surprisingly wise.

  Kailyr licked the tip of his ostrich pen, then dipped it into his ink well. ‘Look, Majesty — I have found an error! Those merchants who came from Dreel last year — did they pay all they owed?’

  ‘How should I know, Kailyr? I’m the king, remember? Counting coins is your job.’

  ‘Of course, Majesty. But I have an imbalance here.’ The Minister wrinkled his beakish nose. He loved puzzles, and always took glee in finding mistakes. ‘Let me see. .’

  As Kailyr worked, Baralosus poured himself some wine. He had already drank more than he should for so early an hour, but boredom had got the best of him and the wine helped to loosen his knotted shoulders. Part of him worried that he would never see Salina again. Part of him believed his wife’s accusations, that his cruelty to their daughter had driven her away. But another part of him — the part that knew Salina best — believed in her. She had always been a wily girl, and not at all stupid. She had planned her escape from the city well, and if anyone could survive the desert alone, it was she. Baralosus tried to convince himself of this, using the wine as a balm.

  The afternoon wore on like the morning had, with the two men talking about things that didn’t really matter, things that a king should not trouble himself with but which Kailyr insisted was important. Eventually, Baralosus succumbed to his friend’s peculiar charms, so blunted by the wine that he no longer cared how many hours they wasted. They broke for a proper meal at midday, a great respite for Baralosus, but at the Minister’s insistence they went back to work exactly one hour later. Baralosus returned just as the last sands drained from Kailyr’s hourglass. The Minister looked up from his papers at the king.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d come back,’ he said, gently grinning.

  Baralosus took his chair. ‘You would have found me if I didn’t.’ A young serving girl offered him a drink from a collection of northern liquors. The king looked at the girl askance. ‘I didn’t order these.’

  ‘I did, Majesty,’ said Kailyr. ‘I thought they’d help us pass the time.’

  The king smiled at his Minister, told the girl to set her tray down, then dismissed her. He sighed across the table at Kailyr.

  ‘Much more?’

  The Minister shrugged. ‘We could go on for days.’

  ‘Please, let’s not do that.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Kailyr. ‘Really, it’s just something to do. While you wait, I mean.’

  Baralosus nodded. ‘I know.’

  There was silence between them, awkward and tense. The door behind Baralosus opened. He assumed another servant had come in, but then saw Kailyr push his work aside. The king hesitated, then quickly turned around. In the threshold stood one of his grooms, a man named Goval. The groom’s taut face told the king something had happened.

  ‘Majesty, forgive me. .’

  ‘Goval? What is it?’ asked the king. He heard the dread in his voice and tried to tame it. ‘Is there news?’

  ‘Majesty, Jashien and Zasif have returned,’ said Goval.

  ‘Well?’ barked Kailyr. ‘Do they have the princess with them?’

  ‘No,’ said Goval nervously. ‘I’m sorry, Majesty. They are alone.’

  The news sent Baralosus crashing. He leaned back in his chair, unable to speak.

  ‘Where are they?’ asked Kailyr.

  ‘They’ve only just arrived,’ said Goval. ‘They’ve barely got off their horses. I heard the news and ran up here to tell you.’ The groom looked at his stricken king. ‘Shall I bring them, Majesty?’

  It took effort for Baralosus to speak. ‘Yes,’ he groaned. Then, ‘No. Just Jashien, I mean. Just bring Jashien.’

  ‘Quickly, man,’ urged Kailyr. ‘Bring him here and don’t talk to anyone else.’

  As Goval left the chamber, Baralosus felt himself go numb. It was bad news at least that his scouts had returned alone, and all he could think of was his daughter — his precious Salina — dead somewhere in the desert. The thought made his mind reel, forcing him to grip the arms of his chair. Kailyr, seeing his indisposition, went to stand beside him.

  ‘It is Vala’s will, whatever has happened,’ he said softly.

  The notion did little to comfort the king. ‘She’s my daughter. .’

  The Minister nodded and leaned against the table. A few interminable minutes went by until they heard Goval’s footsteps returning down the hall. Baralosus hurried out of his chair and stuck his head outside the door, at once seeing his groom leading Jashien toward the chamber. The soldier looked weary beyond words, his hair matted, his clothing caked with filth. He hadn’t shaved in days and his eyes had a wild, sunken appearance. When Jashien saw his king he mustered up a strong fac?ade.

  ‘Jashien?’ probed Baralosus. ‘What news?’

  Minister Kailyr took his friend’s arm and guided him back into the chamber. ‘Inside, Majesty. Jashien, come inside.’

  Baralosus let Kailyr sit him back in his chair. He looked up expectantly at Jashien. ‘Have you news?’ he asked. ‘Have you found her?’

  ‘I have, Majesty, and she is well,’ said the soldier. ‘Don’t fear for her. She is unharmed.’

  The king let out the breath he’d been holding. ‘She’s unharmed,’ he whispered. �
�Thank Vala, she’s unharmed. Where is she?’

  ‘We found her in Aztar’s camp in the Skein, Majesty. That’s where she remains. Aztar had men rescue her from the desert. She was lost, on foot when they found her. She would have died if not for him.’

  ‘Aztar saved her?’ Baralosus couldn’t believe the luck of it. ‘He actually found her?’

  ‘She was on his way to him, just as you thought,’ said Jashien. He licked his lips, which were so dry they looked bloody. He cleared his hoarse voice. ‘She wasn’t in camp yet when Zasif and I got there. She didn’t come till the next day.’

  ‘Jashien, sit,’ bid Kailyr, holding out his own chair for the soldier. ‘You look about to drop. Goval, you may go now.’

  The groom gave his king a glance to make sure he was no longer needed. Baralosus quickly waved him away. Kailyr handed his own wine glass to Jashien, who thanked the Minister and drank. Baralosus waited impatiently for the soldier to finish.

  ‘Majesty,’ said Jashien, ‘there’s more.’ He steadied himself. ‘The princess is well, have no fear of that. I spoke to her myself and saw no harm in her. But she would not come back with us to Ganjor. She refused, Majesty.’

  ‘What do you mean, she refused?’ asked the king. ‘You had orders to return her.’

  ‘I know, Majesty, and we tried. But she wanted only to stay with Aztar, and Aztar would not release her to us.’

  ‘That girl!’ Kailyr erupted. ‘She has worked her wiles on him again!’

  Baralosus put up a hand to silence the Minister. ‘Jashien,’ he said evenly, ‘explain this to me. You were sent to bring my daughter back. Are you telling me you left her there? With Aztar?’