The Two of Swords, Volume 1

by K. J. Parker

  She heard most of their conversation, since the tunnel amplified sound quite wonderfully. She was still climbing. It was desperate work, with her back arched against the opposite wall, her fingers and toes crammed into mortar cracks between the stones—fortunately the builders had lined the garderobe with undressed stone, which gave slightly more purchase. Halfway between floors she came to the conclusion that she’d made a dreadful mistake and she wasn’t going to make it, but she kept going nevertheless. She found the door on the upper storey by resting her back against it, thinking it was solid wall; it swung open, she lost her grip, actually slid down the best part of a yard before finding a crack with one wildly scrabbling foot. For a moment her weight was too much for four toes to bear, but she found a handhold just in time, and then another, and then got the tips of three fingers over the sill of the door. It was pure luck that the upper gallery was empty, at a time of day when there should have been a sentry there; but he’d gone down the stairs when the alarm was sounded on the floor below.

  Well; she was officially dead and nobody was actively looking for her, but it still wasn’t wonderful. Fortunately, she had a resource that most escaping prisoners are denied: she was female and women carrying baskets of washing don’t attract attention in the inhabited parts of castles, particularly if they’re supposed to be dead. She searched until she found the cupboard where the dirty linen lived, grabbed a big armful that covered most of her face and staggered along the gallery looking for the backstairs. Three guards took no notice of her whatsoever, and then she was trotting down a proper square-section stairway, bare-walled and imperfectly whitewashed, which could only lead to the kitchens, laundry and other tactically negligible facilities where fighting men rarely go.

  She came out eventually into a lantern-lit courtyard. A quick glance upwards told her that she was now in the very centre of the castle, surrounded on all four sides by impenetrably thick stone walls, at the junction of all routes of communication and access used by the garrison and the castle servants. Best-quality Mezentine armour wouldn’t have saved her, but the armful of washing made her invisible. The difficulty was that a laundry maid had no lawful excuse for leaving the castle, even by daylight; in the middle of the night, forget it. Nor could she spend the rest of her life wandering around with an armful of dirty sheets.

  A castle is a fair-sized community, larger than many villages, almost the size of a small town. Even in a small town, of course, everybody knows everybody else, unless their faces are obscured by washing. But she was exhausted, bone-weary and finding it increasingly difficult to think about anything except finding somewhere to sit down and rest. It was only later, in hindsight, that she realised that the exhaustion and the indifference almost certainly saved her life – it made her impersonation of a laundry maid in the last quarter of the night shift far more convincing than mere acting could ever have done. If she’d had to walk past the sentry on the gate between the middle and outer courtyards, almost inevitably she’d have given herself away, if she’d been acting natural. Instead, she caught her foot on the lintel out of sheer weariness, stumbled into the guard, scraped the back of her hand on the stonework, squealed at the pain, mumbled an apology and trudged away, unchallenged, sworn at for clumsiness and completely accepted as genuine.

  The outer courtyard was another world entirely, and as soon as she emerged into it she realised she’d made a mistake. A laundry maid could believably carry dirty washing from the outer yard to the middle, but not the other way round. She calculated that she had five, maybe ten seconds to deal with the error before someone noticed. She made her mind up in three.

  There were two sentries posted outside the doors to the Great Hall. She headed straight for them, well aware that they’d noticed her. “Excuse me,” she said, “but I’m new here and I’m lost. Which way to the laundry, please?” They laughed and told her. That posed another problem. The route she’d been given to the laundry meant going back the way she’d just come, past the guard she’d bumped into. Here the bone-weariness was unquestionably her salvation. She left the guard thinking she was mad or drunk or probably both, but that was fine. Even with her back to him as she walked away, she could tell he wasn’t looking at her.

  Well, she thought; and what would a worn-out laundry maid do next, if she was as tired as me? The answer was perfectly obvious; she’d caught her own maid doing it once, about a thousand years ago in another life, and given her a tongue-lashing for being lazy. She found a dark corner under some stairs, crawled into it, pulled the shirts and sheets up round her until she looked from a distance like a pile of discarded laundry and closed her eyes. Just for two minutes, that’s all.

  When she woke up, bright light was streaming in from a window high up on the stairs. She made herself stay perfectly still, and listened, and tried to think. At this time of day, in a well-run castle, where would everybody be? The chambermaids would be in the bedchambers, the kitchen staff would be fixing the midday meal, the laundry maids would be doing yesterday’s washing before the chambermaids brought down today’s. None of them would be using the backstairs. If anyone came and saw her, they’d know at once that she was an anomaly. But why would anyone come? They all had work to do somewhere else.

  If there was an alternative, she couldn’t think of it. From the pile of washing she pulled out a plain off-white linen smock, property of some ladies’ maid from the third or fourth floor—now there was a group she hadn’t taken account of; too late now, she was naked on the stairs, one foot in the smock. She hauled it up round her and knotted the belt, then clawed at her hair in the vain hope of getting it into some sort of order; realised that she’d just made another serious mistake; caught sight of a white mob cap in the pile of discarded washing, thanked God for saving her from her own stupidity, pulled the cap on, settled it firmly and tucked stray hair under the headband. The rest of the laundry she kicked into the shadows under the stairs; didn’t matter if it was found and commented on; the laundry maid who’d left it there no longer existed. She noticed her filthy, grimy hands and skinned knuckles, tucked them into her sleeves. The hem of her smock covered her feet. Saved again.

  The wonderful thing about ladies’ maids is that they can be strangers, in service to guests. They can also go almost anywhere, because their mistresses can order them to do all manner of improbable things at inappropriate times—get me a drink of water, an apple, six yards of fine green silk, scissors (no, you stupid girl, sharp scissors, the other scissors), sixteen cheese scones, a half-bottle of the ’06 Pirigouna, something to help me sleep, I want to see the doctor, my coachman, my dressmaker, the castellan, go and find where my useless lump of a husband’s got to, quickly, now. More freedom than any other category of servant; more freedom than the fine lady herself, come to that. Being a ladies’ maid is next best thing to being a man.

  But not enough freedom to get her across the yard, through the gate and out the other side. For that she was going to have to spill blood, or be very clever, or athletic, or all three. She chose a doorway at random, climbed the stairs to the very top and barged open a long-closed door out on to the roof.

  Having caught her breath, and making sure she kept her head down below the level of the parapet, she turned her mind to contemplation of the principles of military architecture. The aim of castle building is primarily to keep people out; but the same principles and functions do a very good job of keeping people in, which is why castles make such good prisons. Theoretically, she could spend the rest of the day getting hold of a rope and then, once night had fallen, lower herself down off the tower, swim the moat and run for it, if she still had the energy.

  Alternatively—her mind went back to lectures at the Tactical Institute at Beal; fat, one-eyed General Tirza. The weakest part of any defensive structure is the man standing in front of it. There were two guards on the main gate, she could just see the tops of their helmets. The first one would be easy – walk up to him, say, “Excuse me,” in a little-girl voice, then stab
him in the eye as he bent forward to listen to her. But the second one was stationed on the other side of the gateway (fifteen feet? There or thereabouts). Lesson one: space is time. Even if she was wonderfully quick about killing the first guard, she had no guarantee of getting to his colleague before he had time to realise what had just happened, lift his shield and level his spear. True, she didn’t actually want to fight him, she wanted to get past him and away, but—She did the mental geometry, and three times out of seven the numbers came out badly. And besides, stab the guard in the eye with what? She’d grown so used to having a knife up her sleeve that she’d forgotten it wasn’t there any more. No, too many conditions precedent. Think of something else.

  Then, in the distance (no, be precise; in the Great Hall, on the other side of the yard) someone started to play the violin. Her eyes opened wide, and then she laughed.

  if you enjoyed

  THE TWO OF SWORDS: VOLUME 1

  look out for

  SOUL OF THE WORLD

  The Ascension Cycle

  by

  David Mealing

  Three heroes must rise in a world on the brink of destruction in the first book of this epic fantasy trilogy that RT Book Reviews called “an impressive fantasy debut with … a unique magic system sure to capture a fantasy readers attention”!

  It is a time of revolution. In the cities, food shortages stir citizens to riots against the crown. In the wilds, new magic threatens the dominance of the tribes. And on the battlefields, even the most brilliant commanders struggle in the shadow of total war. Three lines of magic must be mastered in order to usher in a new age, and three heroes must emerge.

  Sarine is an artist on the streets of New Sarresant whose secret familiar helps her uncover bloodlust and madness where she expected only revolutionary fervor.

  Arak’Jur wields the power of beasts to keep his people safe, but his strength cannot protect them from war among themselves.

  Erris is a brilliant cavalry officer trying to defend New Sarresant from an enemy general armed with magic she barely understands.

  Each must learn the secrets of their power in time to guide their people through ruin. But a greater evil may be trying to stop them.

  1

  Sarine

  Fontcadeu Green

  The Royal Palace, Rasailles

  “Throw!” came the command from the green.

  A bushel of fresh-cut blossoms sailed into the air, chased by darts and the tittering laughter of lookers-on throughout the gardens.

  It took quick work with her charcoals to capture the flowing lines as they moved, all feathers and flares. Ostentatious dress was the fashion this spring; her drab grays and browns would have stood out as quite peculiar had the young nobles taken notice of her as she worked.

  Just as well they didn’t. Her leyline connection to a source of Faith beneath the palace chapel saw to that.

  Sarine smirked, imagining the commotion were she to sever her bindings, to appear plain as day sitting in the middle of the green. Rasailles was a short journey southwest of New Sarresant but may as well have been half a world apart. A public park, but no mistaking for whom among the public the green was intended. The guardsmen ringing the receiving ground made clear the requirement for a certain pedigree, or at least a certain display of wealth, and she fell far short of either.

  She gave her leyline tethers a quick mental check, pleased to find them holding strong. No sense being careless. It was a risk coming here, but Zi seemed to relish these trips, and sketches of the nobles were among the easiest to sell. Zi had only just materialized in front of her, stretching like a cat. He made a show of it, arching his back, blue and purple iridescent scales glittering as he twisted in the sun.

  She paused midway through reaching into her pack for a fresh sheet of paper, offering him a slow clap. Zi snorted and cozied up to her feet.

  It’s cold. Zi’s voice sounded in her head. I’ll take all the sunlight I can get.

  “Yes, but still, quite a show,” she said in a hushed voice, satisfied none of the nobles were close enough to hear.

  What game is it today?

  “The new one. With the flowers and darts. Difficult to follow, but I believe Lord Revellion is winning.”

  Mmm.

  A warm glow radiated through her mind. Zi was pleased. And so for that matter were the young ladies watching Lord Revellion saunter up to take his turn at the line. She returned to a cross-legged pose, beginning a quick sketch of the nobles’ repartee, aiming to capture Lord Revellion’s simple confidence as he charmed the ladies on the green. He was the picture of an eligible Sarresant noble: crisp-fitting blue cavalry uniform, free-flowing coal-black hair, and neatly chiseled features, enough to remind her that life was not fair. Not that a child raised on the streets of the Maw needed reminding on that point.

  He called to a group of young men nearby, the ones holding the flowers. They gathered their baskets, preparing to heave, and Revellion turned, flourishing the darts he held in each hand, earning himself titters and giggles from the fops on the green. She worked to capture the moment, her charcoal pen tracing the lines of his coat as he stepped forward, ready to throw. Quick strokes for his hair, pushed back by the breeze. One simple line to suggest the concentrated poise in his face.

  The crowd gasped and cheered as the flowers were tossed. Lord Revellion sprang like a cat, snapping his darts one by one in quick succession. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. More cheering. Even at this distance it was clear he had hit more than he missed, a rare enough feat for this game.

  You like this one, the voice in her head sounded. Zi uncoiled, his scales flashing a burnished gold before returning to blue and purple. He cocked his head up toward her with an inquisitive look. You could help him win, you know.

  “Hush. He does fine without my help.”

  She darted glances back and forth between her sketch paper and the green, trying to include as much detail as she could. The patterns of the blankets spread for the ladies as they reclined on the grass, the carefree way they laughed. Their practiced movements as they sampled fruits and cheeses, and the bowed heads of servants holding the trays on bended knees. The black charcoal medium wouldn’t capture the vibrant colors of the flowers, but she could do their forms justice, soft petals scattering to the wind as they were tossed into the air.

  It was more detail than was required to sell her sketches. But details made it real, for her as much as her customers. If she hadn’t seen and drawn them from life, she might never have believed such abundance possible: dances in the grass, food and wine at a snap of their fingers, a practiced poise in every movement. She gave a bitter laugh, imagining the absurdity of practicing sipping your wine just so, the better to project the perfect image of a highborn lady.

  Zi nibbled her toe, startling her. They live the only lives they know, he thought to her. His scales had taken on a deep green hue.

  She frowned. She was never quite sure whether he could actually read her thoughts.

  “Maybe,” she said after a moment. “But it wouldn’t kill them to share some of those grapes and cheeses once in a while.”

  She gave the sketch a last look. A decent likeness; it might fetch a half mark, perhaps, from the right buyer. She reached into her pack for a jar of sediment, applying the yellow flakes with care to avoid smudging her work. When it was done she set the paper on the grass, reclining on her hands to watch another round of darts. The next thrower fared poorly, landing only a single thunk. Groans from some of the onlookers, but just as many whoops and cheers. It appeared Revellion had won. The young lord pranced forward to take a deep bow, earning polite applause from across the green as servants dashed out to collect the darts and flowers for another round.

  She retrieved the sketch, sliding it into her pack and withdrawing a fresh sheet. This time she’d sketch the ladies, perhaps, a show of the latest fashions for—

  She froze.

  Across the green a trio of men made way toward her, drawing cur
ious eyes from the nobles as they crossed the gardens. The three of them stood out among the nobles’ finery as sure as she would have done: two men in the blue and gold leather of the palace guard, one in simple brown robes. A priest.

  Not all among the priesthood could touch the leylines, but she wouldn’t have wagered a copper against this one having the talent, even if she wasn’t close enough to see the scars on the backs of his hands to confirm it. Binder’s marks, the by-product of the test administered to every child the crown could get its hands on. If this priest had the gift, he could follow her tethers whether he could see her or no.

  She scrambled to return the fresh page and stow her charcoals, slinging the pack on her shoulder and springing to her feet.

  Time to go? Zi asked in her thoughts.

  She didn’t bother to answer. Zi would keep up. At the edge of the green, the guardsmen patrolling the outer gardens turned to watch the priest and his fellows closing in. Damn. Her Faith would hold long enough to get her over the wall, but there wouldn’t be any stores to draw on once she left the green. She’d been hoping for another hour at least, time for half a dozen more sketches and another round of games. Instead there was a damned priest on watch. She’d be lucky to escape with no more than a chase through the woods, and thank the Gods they didn’t seem to have hounds or horses in tow to investigate her errant binding.

  Better to move quickly, no?

  She slowed mid-stride. “Zi, you know I hate—”

  Shh.

  Zi appeared a few paces ahead of her, his scales flushed a deep, sour red, the color of bottled wine. Without further warning her heart leapt in her chest, a red haze coloring her vision. Blood seemed to pound in her ears. Her muscles surged with raw energy, carrying her forward with a springing step that left the priest and his guardsmen behind as if they were mired in tar.