The Righteous Blade d-2

by Stan Nichols

  ‘This damn thing’s beginning to itch,’ Reeth complained, fighting back the temptation to scratch his face.

  ‘So does mine. Try to ignore it.’

  They were led up one steep lane and down another, then across a square. A block later they were in a busy street market.

  ‘Do you think she’s actually going somewhere or just wandering?’ Reeth said.

  ‘She seems to be walking with a purpose. Let’s get a bit nearer.’ She upped her pace.

  The market sold everything. There were stalls with vegetables, fruit, cheese, meat, fish, bread and wine. Others were stacked with clothing, boots, saddles, chainmail, pottery, woven baskets, lucky charms and cheap glamours. Live lobsters were on sale, along with rabbits, cockerels, goats, kittens and venomous snakes. Healers held kerbside surgeries; soothsayers read fortunes from cards; people had their hair cut. Musicians strolled, plucking strings or blowing horns; jugglers flung their clubs; street jesters performed. Livestock bleated and everybody haggled.

  Inevitably, there were glamours too. Creatures repulsive and comely materialised in flashes or expired in flaming shards every few minutes. Large and small blasts of magical radiance pulsed out on all sides. The din was fierce, and the air was scented with a thousand smells, pleasant and otherwise.

  With the market growing busier, and the prospect of their quarry disappearing from sight, Reeth and Serrah had to follow at close quarters. They were almost near enough to reach out and touch the meld’s shoulder, should they be sufficiently foolish to do so.

  ‘The wretched thing’s tingling now,’ Reeth whispered, jabbing a thumb at his face.

  ‘Mine too. Don’t think about it.’

  At that instant the meld stopped and turned. Reeth grabbed Serrah’s arm and pulled her to one side. Their heads went down and they pretended to be engrossed in a display of cheap jewellery. From the corner of his eye, Reeth was aware of the meld looking their way. A long moment later she resumed walking.

  ‘Think she spotted us?’ Serrah asked.

  ‘Don’t know. But at least she’s not running. Come on.’

  They continued to trail her. The meld kept to an easy stride, occasionally glancing at the wares on sale, but mostly concentrating on weaving through the crowd. Emboldened, Serrah and Reeth began closing the gap again.

  About six paces separated them from the meld when she stopped again. Once more, she spun around and stared. By this time her pursuers had drifted to the middle of the street, well clear of the stalls on either side. They froze.

  ‘Shit,’ Serrah muttered. ‘Look disinterested.’

  ‘Any idea

  how

  ?’

  The meld took a step towards them, then noticeably started.

  ‘Reeth.

  Your face.

  ’

  His features were liquefying. In seconds his eyes reverted to their original colour, the shape of his cheekbones went back to normal, his whiskers fell away.

  ‘Lousy fakes!’ Serrah cursed as her own disguise began to fade.

  The meld turned on her heel and ran to the right. But as she moved, a near-identical duplicate dashed to the left. The two figures were joined by a membrane, a glistening film resembling a wet spider’s web. When they were separated by a couple of yards it ripped apart and the halves were each rapidly sucked back into their bodies.

  Now two foes were advancing on Reeth and Serrah, and all four of them went for their blades. The crowd, dense as it was, shrank away.

  ‘Watch that one!’ Reeth warned, pointing at Aphrim.

  ‘Watch your own!’ she tossed back.

  Aphri and Aphrim moved in.

  The female came at Reeth fast. Their blades clattered together and the pounding began. Her passes were quick and surgical. He matched her for skill and gave as he got. They bobbed and leapt, whipping the air with steel.

  Where Aphri was agile, Aphrim was strong. The first time their blades met, Serrah felt the shock from wrist to shoulder. She withdrew nimbly from his next stroke. As he regrouped she was under his guard and swiping. He blocked, and set her bones shaking again.

  With Reeth and Aphri it was keen-edged precision. She engaged him with a series of probing nips, interspersed with wide, unpredictable swings. He ducked. Her blade sailed over his head and sliced a rope supporting a wooden cage of chickens. The cage fell and burst in a turmoil of squawking and feathers.

  Reeth battered at the meld, forcing her back. Then he struck her blade a glancing blow. It was no more than a metal kiss, but she’d over-stretched, and lost balance. She staggered, slipped and crashed into a greengrocer’s barrow, bringing it down. While she lithely recovered, rolling a yard and springing to her feet in one fluid move, the grocer’s stock disgorged. There was an avalanche of apples, cauliflowers and onions. Potatoes, turnips and oranges bounced in all directions. Some of the crowd scrabbled for them, or trod them underfoot. People slipped and fell on the mush as the stall’s owner bellowed impotent oaths.

  Caldason and the meld squared off again. The crowd was shouting and brewing minor fights of its own. Caldason knew it was a bad place for a brawl. Law enforcers were going to be drawn like flies, and soon.

  Serrah and Aphrim had fallen into a slog of hack and slash. He was given to vicious downward swipes, using his sword like an axe, and one nearly cleaved her. Instead his blade ploughed through the wooden support of a stall selling beer. The counter pitched forwards, hurtling half a dozen barrels to the ground. Two smashed instantly in foaming amber explosions. The others rolled into the crowd, bowling one man off his feet and triggering fistfights for the spoils.

  Taking the chance to pull back, Serrah tensed for Aphrim’s fresh assault. But his next move baffled her. He tossed his sword

  aside, as though discarding a broken toy and, staring at her, he opened his mouth wide. For one crazy second she thought he was going to poke his tongue out at her. But what shot out of his mouth was a glittering red orb the size of a grapefruit. It flew at her, swift as an arrow, leaving a fiery trail in its wake. At the last moment she dropped and it soared overhead. The glowing ball smashed into a clothes stall and detonated in a huge gout of flame. The stall and its stock went up immediately, throwing out a wave of heat and acrid black smoke.

  This was too rich for the blood of many in the crowd, and there was a disorderly retreat. But the press of people was so great they could only withdraw about twenty feet. The fire spread from the burning stall to an adjacent sweetmeat booth. A few hardy souls appeared with buckets of water and tried to douse it.

  Slowly, warily, Serrah advanced towards her opponent. Aphrim stood in the same position, absolutely still, his face impassive. She was tensing for a charge when his jaw gaped and he spat another fireball. This one came lower than the last, and would have impacted at her waist if she hadn’t swerved. The fireball zipped past on a downward trajectory and hit the road, shedding sparks, then rocketed on, straight at the crowd. There was panic. People yelled, screamed and struggled to get out of the way.

  Reeth and Aphri’s duel had spilt back into the road. The flaming globe was set to miss them by several feet as it sailed towards the mob. Reeth took a chance. Back-footing Aphri with a rain of blows, he threw himself to one side, swinging his sword in a high, broad arc. The flat of his blade met the flying orb like a bat slapping a ball. He acted on instinct; for all he knew the globe would explode on impact.

  But as Reeth came heavily to ground, the orb was deflected onto a new course. It travelled at a right-angle to the crowd, speeding in the direction of the houses lining the market.

  Nobody moved an inch, not even Aphri, and everyone was transfixed in silence as they tracked its progress.

  A small comet towing a vivid crimson tail, the missile headed for the upper storey of a brick and timber warehouse. With a precision it would have been hard to improve on if actually aimed, it flew through the only window with open shutters. There was a second of utter quiet, followed by an echoing blast and an eruption
of flame. Smoke spewed from the window. People began blundering out of the street-level door, red-eyed and coughing. Behind them, the interior of the warehouse was blazing.

  The spell was broken. Renewed uproar swept the market. Reeth climbed to his feet, but Aphri had gone. He looked round and saw her running. Aphrim had bypassed Serrah and was on the move, too; dashing his twin’s way. To Reeth, Aphri looked like someone racing towards a life-sized mirror. The two figures collided, but only one carried on. Bystanders shifted fast to let the meld through.

  Serrah jogged over to Reeth. ‘Do we go after her?’

  ‘No. Look.’

  Militiamen were shoving aside the spectators, and red tunics appeared.

  There were those among the onlookers who might have tried to stop Reeth and Serrah from getting away. Whether they stayed their hands through fear, gratitude or greater hatred of the law-enforcers, the crowd parted and let them pass.

  Minutes later, they were several blocks away.

  ‘I can’t say that exactly added to our sum of knowledge,’ Serrah lamented. ‘Apart from the fact that those two are dangerous.’

  ‘Actually, we learnt something valuable. We can be pretty sure the meld’s connected in some way with the paladins.’

  ‘Like I said, Reeth; it might be a good idea to get out of Bhealfa for a while.’

  18

  Of all the major cities of the known world, Merakasa, capital of the western empire of Gath Tampoor, was one of the most colourful and vibrant.

  Like its eastern counterpart, Rintarah’s Jecellam, Merakasa housed a city within a city. This nucleus, or unlanced abscess as some saw it, was the leadership’s citadel. It was a self-contained metropolis that provided everything the ruling clan needed to keep them isolated from their subjects. So that with the exception of ceremonial occasions, or affairs of national importance where their fleeting, distant presence was unavoidable, the empire’s masters could live in shadow.

  But it was necessary now and again for the elite to come into contact with the lesser mortals who served them. This could be to dispense rewards or punishments, or where news concerning their far-flung interests was best heard directly from the mouths of their representatives.

  Today it was the turn of Andar Talgorian, Imperial Envoy to the Sovereign State of Bhealfa. Though the term ‘sovereign’ was misleading.

  Whether he had been summoned to Merakasa for reward, punishment or the imparting of news was something

  Ambassador Talgorian never entirely knew in advance. Which made his job all the more exciting. Exciting in the sense that a drowning man thrown a lead weight as a life-belt might use the word.

  This wasn’t the only reason the Envoy always found an audience with the Empress an unnerving experience. She was a disquieting presence. Partly this was due to the power she wielded, and the knowledge that his life was worth no more than a capricious snap of her fingers. Partly, he had to admit, it was her appearance.

  He couldn’t begin to guess how old Bethmilno XXV was, beyond very old indeed. Like her Rintarahian counterparts, whom Talgorian had never seen, she sought to disguise the ravages of age. So she caked her face in white rouge, and coloured her lips in pigment redder than blood. Her eyelashes, eyebrows and suspiciously full head of hair were all densely blackened. That all this looked so synthetic was due either to the artlessness of her maids or to the fact that her great age was beyond masking.

  He sat opposite her in a grand reception room on the palace’s ground floor, where one entire wall was occupied by casement windows, affording a panoramic view of the estate. A subterranean power channel ran beneath the chamber. He knew this because the imperial household kept the tradition of marking out these conduits of magic, and a tincture had been used to show its course across the floor. The incongruous gold line, ramrod straight, passed almost exactly through the centre of the apartment. He thought despoiling the room in this way took respect for custom too far.

  But the outrage to Talgorian’s aesthetic sense was forgotten when, midway through their conversation on security matters, the Empress declared, ‘It might well come to war.’

  The Envoy was taken aback. ‘Excellency?’

  Feigning patience, Bethmilno spelt it out. ‘With the other side.’ She almost always referred to Rintarah as ‘the other side’.

  ‘Forgive me being dull-witted, Excellency, but we’ve been fighting against Rintarah with proxy wars for a very long time.’

  ‘I’m referring to

  open

  war; a direct confrontation.’

  ‘May I be so bold as to ask what has brought you to consider such an option, ma’am?’

  ‘Impatience, Ambassador. I grow weary of this eternal game of cat and mouse with them.’

  ‘Would not stepping up our present activities be sufficient, Excellency?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Perhaps by offering more assistance to the insurgents within Rintarah’s borders?’

  ‘It may have escaped your attention, Ambassador, that giving money to their terrorists amounts to handing it to our own. Besides, I regard the so-called Resistance as a disorganised rabble, and of doubtful use as a weapon against the other side.’ She anticipated his rejoinder, and waved it away. ‘I don’t say they aren’t a problem. But they could never overthrow even the smallest of our protectorates. Essentially they’re just an irritant.’

  Begging to differ was more than Talgorian dared. So he fell back on diplomacy. ‘Quite so, your Highness. Although even an irritant can tie up valuable resources, and on occasion inflict real damage. As we’ve discovered in Bhealfa.’

  ‘Yes, it does seem a particularly troublesome little island.’ She shot him an accusing look that chilled his backbone. ‘But I anticipate a lessening of their activities now that I’ve ordered our law enforcers to bear down more heavily on the insubordinates.’

  He wanted to believe that would happen.

  ‘And in that respect,’ she went on, ‘authorising the Council

  for Internal Security to operate beyond our shores strengthens our hand immeasurably. I could wish we’d done that long since. Commissioner Laffon himself is in Bhealfa at the moment, as you know, and proving as loyal a servant as ever.’

  Talgorian noted her approving tone, and judged it prudent to show his solidarity with someone she favoured. But he kept it low-key. It didn’t do to be

  too

  closely associated with a man who might yet fall. ‘A commendably industrious worker, Excellency. The Commissioner has already been instrumental in at least one high-profile arrest.’

  ‘Indeed. And if he succeeds in Bhealfa, as I have no doubt he will, the CIS will have my blessing to extend its operations to all other protectorates.’

  Making Laffon even more powerful,

  Talgorian thought. But his only response was a smile.

  ‘However, we drift from the point,’ the Empress continued. ‘Some of my advisors-’ by which she meant her family ‘-have expressed concern about the progress of this new northern warlord, Zerreiss. For myself, I have yet to be entirely convinced that he represents any kind of threat to our interests, though one or two factors have given me pause.’ She meant the upheavals in the essence, but naturally wouldn’t mention that to Talgorian. The knowledge required to read the matrix was available only to those of her blood, and was never to be revealed to outsiders. ‘We must be alive to the possibility, no matter how remote, of a pact between the warlord and our enemies.’ She fixed her stern gaze upon him. ‘What word is there of our expedition to the northern wastelands?’

  It was a question he dreaded. ‘As of yet, your Imperial Highness,’ he replied carefully, ‘we’ve had few tidings from them.’

  ‘None, you mean. And what about the party sent by Rintarah? Have we heard how they’re faring?’

  ‘Information concerning their progress is equally-’

  ‘So nothing about them either. We need information, yet we’re working in the dark regarding this man. And I don�
�t like working in the dark. Efforts to make contact will be redoubled.’

  ‘Excellency.’

  ‘And if that yields no fruit, I’ll seriously consider the option of sending you personally to the northern wastes to assess the situation.’

  Talgorian suppressed a shudder. ‘I understand, Excellency.’

  ‘Should the barbarian and Rintarah unite,’ the Empress said, ‘the consequences could certainly include all-out conflict. But even that has its compensations. A distraction for the populace in a time of strife isn’t necessarily a bad thing.’

  ‘But…

  war

  , Excellency?’

  ‘I said that it

  might

  come to war.’ She huffed an exasperated sigh. ‘As a diplomat your impulse is towards compromise and negotiation. But there are times when the silken tongue must give way to steel.’

  He bowed his head low in the customary show of obeisance. Her will was law.

  ‘My spies tell me that fool Melyobar continues to squander Bhealfa’s resources on harebrained schemes,’ she added.

  Talgorian looked up. ‘It’s always been our policy to allow certain conquered rulers to remain in place as puppets, as your gracious Majesty knows. It’s proved a cost-effective way of administering protectorates.’

  ‘It’s a close-run thing in this case. His excesses have come near to draining the coffers. Perhaps it’s time to rethink the whole issue of titular rulers of our colonies.’

  ‘It is worth considering that peoples taken into the empire’s embrace, ma’am, are generally more manageable if their own leaders remain in office. They tend to respect the monarchs they know.’

  ‘What respect can the rabble have for a madman?’

  Talgorian was mindful that hereditary rulers could be touchy about suggestions of insanity, despite what they might say.

  ‘Mad, Excellency? That is perhaps a

  little

  harsh.’

  Prince Melyobar had spent the morning chatting with his dead father.