by J A Hutson
Ximachus spits out another tooth, his brow crinkling in confusion. From the way he keeps looking at the door I think he must be wondering why the commotion hasn’t brought anyone running. “Your mistress?” he says, the new gaps in his mouth resulting in a bit of a lisp.
“Auxilia Orthanos,” Irix says lightly, picking up a panther intricately carved of black crystal. “Quite expensive,” he muses to himself. “This fellow has done well for himself.”
The shock in Ximachus’s face at the name is priceless. “Expensive, eh?” I say, and casually knock the statue from Irix’s hand. It breaks into several pieces when it hits the floor and Ximachus makes a strangled sound. With an impressive effort, he manages to compose himself as he finds his feet, steadying himself with a bloodied hand on his desk.
“Why does the Orthanos family care about this slave?” he hisses, glaring at me balefully.
“This fellow is my mistress’s new Sword,” Irix says, lacing his fingers. “And he wanted his old sword.”
“A Sword?” Ximachus says incredulously.
“You stole something else from me,” I say, my voice hardening. “A chunk of stone laced with silver. Where is it?”
For a moment I think Ximachus might refuse to answer, but then he stumbles around his desk and slides open a drawer.
“Thank you,” I say as he lays the Gate key on the desk. “I’ll consider you punished for what you did to me.”
Ximachus has also taken a square of white cloth from the drawer, and he’s holding it to his bloody mouth as he stares at me sullenly.
Irix claps his hands. “Well, then, I suppose that’s settled. You have your property, so let us leave before we break anything else, yes?”
“But you haven’t suffered yet for what you did to Bright Eyes,” I finish, my hand flashing out to grab hold of the slave trader’s shirt.
“Oh, saints,” Irix sighs as I haul Ximachus over his desk and throw him against the wall. Several rows of shelves buckle and collapse as the merchant sags to the floor, books and various artifacts scattering.
“Please don’t kill him,” Irix admonishes me. “That might actually cause our mistress some consternation. A slave killing a free man would almost certainly bring down the emperor’s justice.”
My rage is thrumming hot, and I would like nothing better than to cut Ximachus’s head from his shoulders. Bright Eyes never said exactly how she came to be enslaved, but she told me several times that the ones who took her killed her family. And now she’s dead, and this creature still lives. I lift my sword, my chest heaving. Ximachus raises his arms weakly, his face a mask of blood.
“Talin,” Irix says softly. “His life is not worth your own.”
I turn and with a wordless scream bring my sword down on the desk. It shears through the wood, and the desk topples into two pieces. The key to the doorways between the worlds slides off as the desk collapses, and I leap forward to catch it before it hits the ground. Then I turn back to Irix, ignoring the moans of Ximachus.
“I’m ready to go.”
“Excellent,” says the blue servant, turning back to the door. “You know, I think you’ll get along quite well with the other Swords.”
14
As we pass through the gilded gates of House Orthanos, we leave behind the clamor of Zim and enter an unexpected paradise. Our carriage trundles down a road of gleaming red tiles, lush gardens unfurling around us. The colors are riotous: purple blossoms droop from vines climbing a copper trellis; flowers red as blood speckle a sweeping expanse of vibrant green grass; bushes studded with orange and yellow are sculpted into fantastical monsters frozen in the act of lunging towards us. Birds with iridescent feathers pick carefully through the garden hunting for bugs, the eyes set in their fanned tails watching us as we pass. The only people I can see are a few old gardeners, tending to the plants or on their hands and knees digging up weeds. It is jarring, going from the crowded streets of Zim, with its towers of colorful brick soaring around us, to the serenity of these grounds.
Our carriage halts outside of a great building of golden stone that exudes age and wealth. The gardens lap at the walls here like the ocean surging against a cliff-face, and emerald creepers vein the sides, even disappearing over the edge of the roof many floors above us.
“Welcome to the House of the Orthanos,” Irix says as one of the warriors helps him disembark from the carriage. From his tone I can tell he sees my awed expression.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur as a flock of bright orange birds swoop down from the distant eaves and flutter around Irix. The blue man pulls a handful of seed from his pocket and tosses it casually behind him, which results in chaos and excited chirping as the birds descend.
“Smart little creatures,” Irix says, straightening his surcoat. “They recognize me.”
“This place . . .” I say, still awed by the sprawling wonder of it.
“Yes, it is quite marvelous,” Irix replies. “The Orthanos are one of the oldest and richest families in Zim. It is said that even the gardens of the Purple Emperor pale in comparison to these grounds.” Irix begins walking towards the pillared entrance to the golden manse and I fall in behind him. “You will have complete freedom of the house and gardens, but if you wish to enter the city you must tell me or another of the senior servants. I hope we never have to activate the Zino Circle you are wearing, but if it does appear that you have abandoned the life debt we now hold, we will be forced with a heavy heart to do so.” He gives me a somber look. “I appreciate that the idea of slavery does not sit well with some – in my people, for example, the idea is considered monstrous – but I can assure you that the life of a Sword is not arduous, and after a few years your life will be your own again.”
“Explain to me what being a Sword is like,” I ask as we slip between the pillars and enter an airy foyer. Dust motes glitter like specks of gold in the shafts of light falling from the great windows above.
Irix paces across the gleaming floor, the ringing of his boots echoing in the vast space. “As I said, the Swords are vestiges of an earlier age. Back then, conflicts between the great houses were settled by proxy – champion against champion. If a matriarch headed a house, then their champions were referred to as Swords. If the house had a patriarch, his champion was called a Shield. Over time, the positions transitioned into something more ceremonial, and the . . . physical appearance of the Swords and Shields became as important as their fighting prowess.”
“So Auxilia chose me –”
“Because you’re handsome,” Irix finishes. “Though please call her ‘Mistress’. Only her daughters call her Auxilia.”
“Are all the Swords men?”
“And all the Shields are women.”
“Then are we really just –”
Irix turns to me with a sigh. “Yes, you are the newest member of the Orthanos harem.” He hurriedly continues when he sees my expression. “Believe me, there are worse ways to fulfill your life debt. The mistress is quite attractive.” His blue cheeks darken as he says this. “Unlike some of the other matriarchs and patriarchs. You are extremely lucky, to be honest.”
A harem. In the span of a day I’ve gone from slogging through sewers hunting monsters to the harem of one of the empire’s richest women. I can’t decide how I feel about this.
Irix continues to natter away as he leads me through great rooms and galleries stuffed with works of art and expensive furniture. Most of his explanations and advice wash over me in a wave, ignored and unremembered, as I struggle with the massive change in my situation. What is the same is the feeling of the metal circlet around my ankle – I need to remember that I’m still a slave. My cage may be gilded now, but it’s still a cage.
“And this wing of the manse is reserved for the mistress’s Swords,” Irix says, throwing out his arms at the entrance to yet another opulent room. This one looks more lived-in than most of the others: silver platters holding the remnants of lunches are scattered about on some of the low tables. A m
assive man with long black hair is sprawled on one of the velvet couches, his face deep in a book. Several other tomes are scattered around him on the cushions. When he notices us, he tosses down the book he’s reading and bounces to his feet, grinning. The furs he’s garbed in remind me of something I’ve seen before . . . particularly the vest of white hair that reveals the muscles etched into his chest and stomach.
“Irix!” he bellows, striding over to us. “Hast thou acquired what I asked of thee?”
Irix holds up his empty hands. “I have not, Romen. My apologies. I thought I would be able to stop by the Scriptorium today, but the mistress asked me to accompany her elsewhere.”
A cloud of disappointment passes over the huge man’s handsome face. “Truly, a pity. I have been excited to read the poems of Gustavia ever since I saw them referenced in The Dawning Light.” Then his face brightens. “But you return with a stranger! Well met, friend. I am Romen of the gel-akon, fiercest of the Northmen.”
“Sometimes called ‘The Librarian’,” adds Irix. “Romen, this is Talin, the newest of the Swords.”
“Truly?” Romen says as we clasp arms. His grip is crushing. “Then I am truly honored to meet thee, Talin. Though I’m afraid your name is unknown to me – are you a new fighter from the pits? Or from another city, perhaps?”
“Talin was a mucker,” Irix says, and the Northman’s eyebrows rise. “He was the one who saved young master Lupinus after he was kidnapped.”
Now the Librarian’s other massive hand claps my shoulder hard, staggering me and nearly sending me crashing into one of the tables. “God’s blood, truly you are a hero! We were all worried for that wee lad when we heard what had happened. Welcome to the Swords of Orthanos, Talin of the Muckers!”
“Talin of the Muckers.”
We turn to look at the man who has appeared in an entrance across the huge room from us. He’s nearly as tall as Romen, but much leaner, his skin pale as milk. His yellow hair has been teased into spikes, and a spidery red tattoo covers half his face. Despite this, he’s still strikingly handsome. He leans against the doorframe, lathered in sweat, holding a pair of thin-bladed swords with ornate crossguards.
“Jalent! We have a new Sword!” Romen says, loud enough to make my ears ring.
“I heard, Librarian” the blond swordsman says, pushing himself from the doorway. “Talin of the Muckers. A new Sword for the mistress’s sheath.”
“Ha!” Romen laughs, though I think I hear a note of unease.
Jalent points one of his thin swords at me. “Can you fight, mucker? Supposedly that’s why we’re here, but some of us seem to have forgotten that.”
“The mind must be sharpened, just like the body! Irix knows this, doesn’t he?”
Romen steps closer to the little blue servant, bringing his arm around like he’s going to clap him on the shoulder. Irix cowers, raising his hands, and the Northman hesitates.
“Quite, Sword Romen,” Irix agrees, peeking around his fingers when the expected blow does not come. “And Sword Jalent, I’m told that Talin here was the finest warrior the old soldier in charge of the muckers had seen in years.”
“The finest of the muckers,” Jalent says slowly with a smirk. “It takes impressive skills to keep the shit flowing in Zim, this is true. I look forward to testing my blade against yours, mucker.”
With that, the blond warrior saunters away, slipping through a silken curtain. The challenge of his final words lingers in the air for a moment, and then the huge Northman guffaws, breaking the tension.
“Ha! That Jalent, always craving the drama! But do not worry, friend Talin, he is not as fierce as he appears.”
“No,” Irix says, straightening his tunic, “he is quite a bit worse. He has been the mistress’s favorite for a few years now, and he brooks no competition. If you submit, he will leave you alone quickly enough. But if you present a challenge to him . . .”
“I don’t care about being favored by her,” I say.
“That might only interest her more,” Irix replies with a sigh. “We shall see. Now, let me show you to your quarters.”
I bid farewell to the Northman and follow Irix as he leads me down a passage decorated with vibrant wall hangings. We pass several closed doors – the rooms of the other Swords, he remarks – until we reach the end of the hall.
“And this is yours,” he says, unlocking the door and pushing it wide.
From the opulence of the rest of the manse I was expecting something nice, but still my expectations are exceeded. The furniture is intricately carved of gleaming red wood, golden sheets of shimmering silk cover a wide bed, and a silver-framed mirror covers much of the wall. Fresh flowers in vases patterned with swimming fish spice the air, and through doors of slatted wood I can see a balcony overlooking the gardens.
The last few weeks I’ve slept on a thin pallet under a threadbare blanket in a cell with fifteen other muckers. I surreptitiously pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.
Irix is talking again, but I’m not listening. I have to force myself to concentrate on what the little blue man is droning on about.
“ . . . and you are expected to make yourself look as presentable as possible,” he says, gesturing at the floor-to-ceiling mirror. “In the closets you will find an assortment of clothes that should fit you. I have a good eye and will prepare something more tailored.” His tone turns lecturing as he wags a finger at me. “Remember, you represent the Orthanos now. If you are called before the mistress and she has guests, and you do not adequately impress with your appearance – or are, saints forbid, a slovenly mess – she will be angry. And what she gives,” – the little man indicates the contents of my room with a sweep of his hand – “she can also take away.”
“She’d send me back to the Department of Public Works?”
“Possibly. Or perhaps a worse fate. She is not usually fickle – but then again, few dare to disappoint her.”
“I understand,” I say, tossing my sheathed sword onto the silken sheets. The gentle breeze wafting in from outside stirs the flowers in their vases, and the weight of my exhaustion suddenly comes crashing down on me. I’m apparently not fully recovered from my ordeal in the undercity.
Irix seems to sense what I want. “Take a good rest, Sword Talin. You’ll be called upon soon enough.”
15
I wake with the dawn, the slatted screen leading to my balcony infused with pink. I feel reborn; the bone-deep weariness has vanished, along with the aches and pains I’ve accumulated over the last few days. I bury my head in a pillow, hoping to return to the dreamlands, but a songbird just outside my window has decided to serenade the rising sun, and after a short while spent tossing and turning I throw back the sheets and slide from the bed.
The slight chill in the morning air licks my skin, but before I can reach for the tattered mucker uniform I wore to the Orthanos manse I catch myself in the mirror and pause. I haven’t seen myself since the Red Sword handed me a mirror when I awoke in her hidden fortress. At the time, the face staring back at me seemed to belong to someone else. Now, the high cheekbones and gleaming silver eyes are familiar, and the freshest of the scars lacing my body tell me stories I can remember. There is where the hooked horror of the red waste sliced me open, now a thin red blemish thanks to Valyra’s healing magic. And that cut is from when Valens in his guise as the Marquis scored my side, just before I dumped the Cleansing Flame atop him. And those inflamed crimson streaks are where the talons of the Pale Man nearly disemboweled me. The story of what has happened to me since I came to myself, written into my skin.
I take up my sword and toss its scabbard aside, examining the gleaming blade in the mirror. It looks the same as when I first drew it, as the howls of the Shriven were rising up from the wastes around me. Pale green glass, in places webbed by darker emerald strands. A silver hilt carved to resemble a bird with wings outspread. I cut the air with the sword, reveling in the lightness and perfect balance. The weapons I was given as a mucker had
been ill-hewn lumps of iron compared to the grace and beauty of my green-glass sword.
The only thing I remember from my past life is how to fight, and I slip into one of the stances, my weight on the balls of my feet. My sword flickers out, carving a pattern in the air. I lunge, block, twist away, slash again, my body tingling with pleasure as I work my way through a few basic routines.
A gasp comes from behind me, and I whirl around, my sword upraised. A girl stands in the doorway, her face drained of color, a silver tray laden with food in her arms.
“Oh,” she murmurs, her wide dark eyes traveling from the sword I’m holding above my head, then down my body, pausing below my waist.
Then she whirls away, nearly spilling what she’s carrying. With jerky movements she slides the tray onto a nearby dresser and flees the room, leaving the door open behind her.
With a chuckle, I pace over to where the girl abandoned the tray and pluck a glazed pastry from the breakfast, an assortment of sliced fruits and baked delicacies. Sweet jam floods my mouth as I bite down, and it’s so good I can’t hold back a little moan of contentment. Far superior to the lukewarm porridge we ate every morning in the mucker eating hall.
There’s a steaming cup of black liquid as well, and I take a tentative sip. It’s intensely bitter, but something within me seems to awaken at the taste.
Coffee. This is coffee.
Despite the unpleasant taste I feel a deep affinity for the drink – I’ve drunk this before, and my body remembers even if my mind does not.
I clean the tray with fastidious care, finishing every crumb and seed. My head is buzzing pleasantly after downing the strong dark coffee.
I am ready to attack the day.
My bare feet pad across the cool stone as I make my way over to the screen and slide it open, then step out on to the balcony. The sun here is warmer, and I lean against the wrought copper balustrade, basking in the beauty of the unfolding day. The gardens are spread before me, splashed by the morning light. Beds of brilliantly colored flowers hem the wending paths, and here and there tiny ponds sparkle and flash. I breathe deep of the crisp air, savoring the moment.