by J A Hutson
“May I present,” he begins in a loud and high-pitched voice, “the illustrious Auxilia Orthanos, matriarch of the Orthanos family and First Trader of the Seven Suns, glory be to her name.” With that, he throws out his arms with an elaborate flourish and bows low in the direction of the doorway.
Cassus drops to one knee like we’re about to be graced by royalty. Shalloch hesitates, then does the same. I’m wondering if I should struggle from my pallet and join them when a Zimani woman sweeps into the room, trailed by a gaggle of handmaidens in white robes. I was expecting an older woman from the honorifics the blue herald had heaped on her, but there’s no hint of frailty as she surveys the room with cool poise. Her skin is as smooth as polished teak, and her hair a lustrous black, and even though she’s not much taller than her odd servant she radiates an aura that commands respect. The elaborate dress she’s wearing seems knitted of the same feathers that adorn the cloaks of her guards, and she shimmers with every step she takes. Her gaze travels slowly around the barracks, finally settling on me.
Her attention is inscrutable, and I’m left wondering how I should react. Finally, after a very long moment in which I’m starting to grow increasingly uncomfortable, she turns to Cassus.
“Open the door,” she says softly, and Cassus scrambles to his feet. He hurries over to pull the cell door wide, then returns to his groveling.
Without sparing a glance at the shabby state of our accommodations, she steps into the barracks, her white-robed attendants fanning out behind her. Shalloch makes a strangled sound as she approaches us, and I sit up as straight as I can, unable to push aside the thought that I’m disrespecting her by remaining on my pallet.
“You are the one who saved my nephew from the undercity?” Her voice is honey poured over steel.
“Yes, Your . . . Grace?”
A slight smile cracks her mask. “Mistress.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Ah. We were . . . we were in a market. A woman rushed up to us sobbing. She said a creature with long pale arms had seized a child and vanished into the sewers. So we pursued. We found the thing called the Pale Man and wounded him, driving him away. The boy seemed unharmed.”
The matriarch’s face is impassive when I’m finished telling my tale, but I can see a spark of interest in her eyes. “You are sure it was the Pale Man?”
I shrug. “I am a newcomer in Zim, Mistress. It is what others have told me. Whether it truly was a legend, I do not know.”
A speculative expression passes over her face. “When I was a small girl my nursemaid told me stories about him. How we would creep into my room and steal me from my bed if I did not fall asleep quickly. I always assumed he was merely a myth to frighten children.” She turns back to Cassus, a ripple of color flashing across her feathery dress. “Is he real?”
The sergeant looks pained. “He is. He’s been glimpsed many times, but we try to keep word of him quiet. Don’t want to cause panic, you see. And we think some of the muckers we’ve lost were taken by him, though we don’t know that for sure.”
“Fascinating,” the matriarch murmurs. “You have perhaps killed a myth, warrior, as well as saved my sister’s son. What is your name?”
“Talin, Mistress. Though it was not I who sliced off his hand. That was my companion – she died from her wounds.” Sadness rises in me as I say these words.
“Talin,” she repeats. “Not a name I’ve heard before. Where are you from?”
“Far away, Mistress. These lands are all new to me.”
Her gaze travels to my leg and the circlet around my ankle. “And how did you become a slave?”
“I was found by a caravan after tumbling into a river. They . . . claimed they rescued me, and that by the laws of Zim my life belonged to them.”
She must hear the bitterness in my voice, because she frowns. “But you do not agree?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know whether I would have survived or not, but it is wrong to own another.”
She nods, silver wires woven into her dark hair flashing. “Yet it is the way of Zim. Even I cannot break the chains that bind you, warrior. Only the emperor has that power. But” – and now she glances over to the blue-skinned man who announced her entrance – “I can still improve your circumstances.”
Her servant clears his throat hastily and steps forward, unrolling a scroll. This close I can see a tracery of gold veins beneath his skin. “Let it be known that the life debt of the mucker Talin has, by the authority of the Esteemed Exarch Velius, been transferred to Auxilia Orthanos, matriarch of the Orthanos family.”
An intake of breath from Shalloch.
“So I’m yours now?” I ask, unable to keep the edge of anger from my voice.
“Until the end of your life debt,” she replies, ignoring my tone. “But I think you will find my service a bit more comfortable. You will be joining my Swords.”
A louder gasp from Cassus, which he tries to hide with a sudden coughing fit. From the corner of my eye I see Shalloch jerk his head up in surprise.
“Swords?” I repeat dumbly.
“I will leave it to my servant to explain,” she says. “I have other obligations today.”
She turns to address the small blue man. “Irix. Grant Talin one boon that is within the power of the Orthanos for what he has done. Then return with him to the villa and have him settled there.”
The little man bobs his head. “Yes, Mistress. It shall be done as you command.”
Her slight smile has returned, and she gives a last, lingering look at me before turning in a sweep of flashing feathers. Her coterie of handmaidens giggle and steal little glances in my direction as they follow her.
The blue man remains behind as the matriarch exits the barracks with her servants and guards. Carefully, he rolls up the scroll and beckons for Cassus to come take it. The old sergeant stumbles over to accept the parchment, his surprise at what just transpired evident.
Then the man looks at me, much more confident than when the matriarch was standing beside him. “I am Irix, the seneschal of our mistress’s household. All the servants and slaves answer to me, though as a new-forged Sword, you are not one I can command. May I approach you?”
I nod, unnerved by the formality of Irix’s tone.
“Excellent,” the blue man says, withdrawing a jar from one of his tunic’s pockets. “This is salve, very rare and very effective. It will help with your wounds.”
He seems to be waiting for permission, so I nod again.
“Very good, Sword Talin. Take off your clothes.”
With Shalloch’s help, I struggle out of my shift. Irix makes a tutting sound as he approaches, as if disappointed in the mess of bruises darkening my chest. With practiced efficiency he begins to slather my skin with the goo he has extracted from the jar, and I shiver at the tingling coolness.
“What is that stuff?”
Irix remains intent on what he’s doing, not looking at me as he replies. “Salve is a great botanical marvel, created from plants that can only be harvested deep in the Tangle. Our mistress must be feeling generous to use so much on you. But of course,” he pauses to look me meaningfully in the eyes, “you did save her favorite nephew.”
“And now I’m her Sword?”
“Yes, one of them.”
“What does that mean?”
Irix draws back, examining my glistening chest and arms for any wounds he has missed. “You are now one of her champions, and you will protect and serve her and the Orthanos family, and fight when you are called upon.” He sees my puzzlement. “I see you are truly ignorant of the ways of Zim. You see, every one of the great families is headed by either a patriarch or a matriarch.” His speech has slowed, as if he’s explaining things to a simpleton. “For many centuries, the empire was torn by great conflicts between the houses. Assassinations and even open conflict between mercenary armies were common.” He screws the lid back on the jar and deposits it in his po
cket once more. “Then the realization was made that a better way to settle grievances was controlled conflict between representatives. Thus the great heads of the households began to collect the fiercest warriors. But times have changed again, and now the Swords and Shields are largely ceremonial.” He gives me a sly smile. “Kept around as housecats, lapping cream and lounging on pillows when they should be tigers stalking through the jungle. But I’ve heard few of them complain. It is a life of luxury and ease, mostly, and even if you are called upon to represent the matriarch in battle, it is rarely to the death.”
“The Swords and Shields are famous in Zim,” Shalloch adds, helping me to slip again into my shift. “Some are better known than the patriarchs or matriarchs they protect. I doubt there’s a fighter in Zim who doesn’t dream of being offered what you’ve just been given.”
Irix nods at Shalloch’s words. “Indeed. Your new life will have many . . . advantages over your current condition.” He gaze drifts around our barracks.
Shalloch lightly touches my shoulder. “You’re not a mucker anymore.”
I hold out my arm. He grasps it, then helps me stand. The salve seems to have worked incredibly quickly; my pain has already dwindled into the distance. When Shalloch moves to let go, of me I grip him in turn and squeeze.
“Thank you,” I say earnestly.
The swashbuckler gives me a wide smile, gold teeth flashing. “Usually, if a mucker in Manticore squad vanishes after a few weeks it means something nasty ate him. It feels good to be able to say goodbye. And you never know, we may see each other again. I’ve got less than a month on my life debt, and if Vesivia agrees, maybe I’ll try and find my way into being a Sword of some matriarch.”
“I doubt she’ll say yes to that,” grumbles Cassus.
“Why’s that?” I ask, and the sergeant throws a cautious glance in the direction of Irix before answering.
“Swords . . . ain’t just for fighting,” he says slowly.
“What do they do?”
Cassus gives me a meaningful glance. Irix pretends not to see it.
“Oh. Oh.”
“So,” the small blue servant says, clapping his hands together briskly, as if to change the subject, “Mistress Auxilia said she will give you a boon. Is there something you wish? Perhaps it is in my powers.”
“Take this off?” I quickly say, pointing at the gleaming metal encircling my ankle.
Irix shakes his head, looking mournful. “Alas, I cannot. As my mistress said, only the emperor may end a life debt early. Is there another boon you crave?”
“Actually, there is . . .”
13
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
From the tone of Irix’s voice it sounds like the very idea of what I’m about to do pains him. I smile out the window of the carriage at the unraveling city as we rush down the wide avenues of Zim. The sky is gray and overcast, and everything glistens from a recent rain, but this does little to dampen the colors of the soaring towers or the garb of the locals as they slosh through puddles.
“I’m sure.”
“Perhaps I could tempt you with a night in one of the Silk Houses? Usually only the nobility can afford such pleasures, but our mistress’s name will open doors anywhere. Or a trip to the Street of Swords. Finest weapons in all of Zim! We could find a blade suitable for your new position, something of impeccable balance and encrusted with jewels. A boon from a matriarch should be given very careful consideration!”
I don’t bother to reply, and the blue servant slumps deeper into his cushioned seat.
“It’s just that this will ruffle some feathers, and I will have to smooth them down. The merchants and the nobles enjoy a somewhat fraught relationship.”
I don’t plan on ruffling any feathers, I think to myself. I’d rather pluck them out.
Despite the recent rain, the streets are still bustling. Mostly black-skinned Zimani wrapped in their brilliant robes, but also men and women of every other color. Here and there stranger races speckle the crowds, scaled or furred or covered in chitin. They seem so unworried, haggling and laughing, and yet under their feet tunnels seethe with dangers, and brave warriors risk their lives so that the horrors below do not infringe upon the city above. That strand of thought makes me think of Bright Eyes, and sadness rises again. Well, if she’s watching me now from beyond the veil then she’ll soon be smiling.
Our carriage slows to a stop, and Irix lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Last chance to enjoy the Silk Houses?” he pleads.
I shake my head as I push open the door and leap down onto the cobbles. A massive edifice of gray stone squats among the graceful, colorful towers, like a toad crouched in a flower garden. Stone gargoyles peer down at us from the eaves, gleaming from the earlier shower, spitting or urinating water on the streets below. The building radiates age and permanence – which, I suppose, is what merchant houses should do, if they are to be trusted.
The bronze-armored warriors who rode alongside our carriage slide from their horses. One of them assists Irix in getting down from the carriage, lifting him like he’s a child and depositing the little blue servant beside me. He spends a moment smoothing his tunic, then marches up to the building’s great door. The doorman – a fresh-faced youth in overlapping plates of armor far too large for him – goggles at us as we approach. He opens his mouth to say something, but Irix pulls an amulet from under his shirt and flashes it at the lad.
“Orthanos family business,” the servant says, and I can hear the guard’s teeth click together as he decides against challenging us. Instead, he pushes on the huge door and it swings open smoothly to reveal a gleaming expanse of marble.
As soon as we cross the threshold a tonsured clerk comes around from behind a desk of gleaming hardwood, his long robes flapping.
“Gentlemen! Sirs! Welcome to the house of Lessanius! Do you have an appointment?”
Irix draws himself up, and despite his stature still seems to be looking down on the alarmed clerk.
“No appointment. We are here to see Ximachus, merchant of the second rank. His offices are above, I assume?”
The clerk casts a worried glance at the wide set of marble stairs ascending to the second floor. A few other clerks are leaning over the balcony above, papers and books clutched to their chests, murmuring as they watch us. I suppose it’s not every day that a troop of heavily armed warriors barge in here brandishing the crest of a powerful noble.
“Ximachus?” the clerk who greeted us splutters. “Yes, I mean, his offices are indeed upstairs, but I must insist on sending a message up so he has time to receive you in the manner you –”
“No need,” I say, starting on the stairs. The clerk gives a squeak behind me, and the titters from the clerks above me swell. I must be a very unusual sight – I’m wearing a mucker uniform with the crest of Manticore squad, which were the only clothes I had back at the compound.
“I’m looking for Ximachus,” I say to the staring clerks when I reach the second floor. After sharing a few uncertain glances one of them points down a hallway.
“Sixth door on the left,” says the young man, his eyes round.
The clomp of heavy boots are on the stairs behind me, but I’d prefer a few moments alone with the slave trader. I hurry in the direction the clerk indicated.
I make sure I push open the door with enough force that it bangs into the wall.
“How dare you –” a familiar voice begins as I stroll into the office. The old merchant is rising from behind an imposing desk, his face twisted in anger.
“Very nice,” I say, my thumbs hooked into my belt. And it is. Bookshelves are built into the walls, crammed with tomes bound in dark leather. A plush, colorfully patterned carpet covers the floor, and a few small tables and chairs are scattered about, all beautifully carved of red wood. Crystal statues and jade carvings are in abundance, as well as a few other items I recognize.
Ximachus sneers when he sees me, though I do think I detect a hint of fear
in his eyes.
“How did you get in here, slave?” he snarls, his gaze flicking down to my leg, as if to make sure I’m still shackled.
I ignore him and pace across the office, my sandals sinking into the carpet, intent on the display of treasures. Most prominent – its green-glass blade resting upon a pair of golden pegs driven into the wall – is my sword. I reach up, my hand closing around the leather-wrapped hilt, and pull it from where it’s hanging.
Ximachus makes a strangled sound behind me. “How dare you! I’ll have you flayed!”
I turn back to him holding the sword. A tingling puissance is seeping from the warm metal into my hand, traveling up my arm. I shudder with pleasure as the residual pain that the salve hadn’t alleviated vanishes completely. I feel like I’m whole again for the first time in a long while.
The slave trader is stomping towards me, his fists clenched. He’s carrying a lash of some kind, as if he’s going to start whipping me right here in his office.
I bash him in the face with the hilt of my sword.
He was in the process of opening his mouth to scream something else at me, and I catch him right in his spittle-flecked lips. A fair number of his teeth go flying as he staggers backwards, dropping his lash as he clutches at his bloodied mouth. I step after him, smiling, and strike him again, this time in the side of his head. Ximachus almost leaves his feet as he bounces off his desk and collapses on the carpet.
“Oh, this is not good,” Irix says, stepping into the room with a sigh. “Not good at all.”
Ximachus has struggled to his knees, blood drooling from his shattered mouth. Surprisingly, he still looks more angry than afraid.
“You’re dead,” he hisses, then points a finger accusingly at Irix. “And you too, maggot.”
Irix frowns, his gaze hardening. “Unlikely. When Charilia Lessanius hears what happened here today, she’ll most likely start groveling before my mistress, asking for forgiveness.”