One Man

by Harry Connolly

  The stone stairs led to the rim of a shallow depression in the side of the hill. It was perhaps one hundred feet across and was filled with small green growing things and sunlight.

  As well as five glitterkind. Five!

  They looked much like the creatures he’d grown up with in the Safroy compound back in Koh-Salash. They were naked and sexless but otherwise very like humankind in shape. They even had something that approximated long hair, although it was made of the same flesh as the rest of their body. Their skin was pale white with a faint bluish hue, and streaks of darker blue ran through it like impure marble. And, overlaid on that pale flesh, were thousands of tiny facets that threw the sunlight off in a thousand different colors.

  The creatures reflected so many flecks of colored light that they practically glowed in the daylight.

  And of course, they were asleep. Glitterkind spent their entire lives in a state like a coma. As far as Kyrionik could discover, no one had ever seen one of the creatures wake for any reason, even when they were slivered.

  And why should they? No animal would willingly taste the creatures’ flesh, and no plant dared to burrow into one. They simply lay in the sun, drawing life from the nearby greenery and growing.

  Aratill took his helm off and wiped the sweat from his bald scalp. “Your virtue, the stretcher we brought—”

  “Is not large enough,” Kyrionik finished. “I’ve never seen glitterkind of this size. I had not even imagined it.”

  The nearest of the creatures was at least twenty feet long from heel to crown, and that was the smallest. The other four were approximately thirty feet long.

  By the fallen gods, they’d have to come back with a larger ship. Ships. New glitterkind had not been discovered for three hundred years. The last one was in the distant farmwilds north of the Timmer Sea during the Salashi people’s long expansion into Katr.

  Shulipik’s voice was hushed, and he watched the trees at the edge of the depression with restless care. “Your people are ward-Safroy, are they not, your virtue?”

  Noble families who bore the title ward- had been entrusted with one or more of the glitterkind. The Safroy family cared for three of the creatures, protecting them, making sure they thrived, and sharing out their flesh to those whose medical needs were great—at a tremendous profit. Bringing five more back to the city would make the price of medical magic dip, but if Kyrionik’s family controlled eight of the creatures…

  “They are,” he answered. “One of our wards is not even fifteen feet long, and it’s considered an utter marvel. Aratill, our prize is greater than we expected, and we are lucky to have brought so many hands, and to have found these rough stairs. The stretcher should be sturdy enough to carry the torso, but we’ll need to make another for the legs.”

  “Now I wish I’d brought our long spears.” Aratill rubbed his chin. “We will risk the noise of cutting trees, and twist vines to make the bed. How many will we carry?”

  “Just one. The small one, if we can call it that without laughing.” Kyrionik sighed. “I wish we could bring more, but they wouldn’t fit on the ship, and we can’t store them in the cargo hold out of the light. It’s dangerous. Remember that no iron is to touch glitterkind flesh.”

  Aratill nodded and began to arrange things. Kyrionik was grateful that he didn’t ask for more detail, because he had none to offer. Glitterkind were dangerous, that much he knew. How and why creatures that lay in the grass unmoving were dangerous remained unclear. Kyrionik had tried to learn more before this trip, but even idle questions asked in a casual way raised suspicion, and he’d been forced to give up.

  While the soldiers got to work, Kyrionik briefly found himself with nothing to do.

  It was working. He could scarcely believe it, but his mission was turning into a success, and when he returned with a new glitterkind for his family’s compound, he would have pulled off a First Labor greater than anyone had managed since his people had settled Koh-Salash.

  Best of all, he wouldn’t have to kill anyone to do it.

  “Your virtue, if I may…”

  Selso Rii stood beside him, wringing his weathered hands. “What is it?”

  “Perhaps your virtue would allow me to take my reward here and now, while—”

  “No. That won’t be possible.”

  “But your virtue, there is enough flesh here to restore a defeated army. I would not even take from the creature you bring home. Just a thumb knuckle from one of the big ones…”

  Kyrionik thumped his spear against the ground. “A thumb knuckle? Good sir, you have a growing blemish on your scalp. A bit of transplanted skin would be enough to preserve your life, and for that you’d need a bit of broth. Less.”

  “Transplanted? My olive skin would be marred by a patch of dark Salashi brown. My face—”

  Kyrionik waved him off. “My own grandfather lived for many years with a patch of pale Carrig skin on his arm. If it’s good enough for him, it’s more than good enough for you.”

  Kyrionik turned away, and Selso Rii took hold of his spear arm to stop him. The noble spun swiftly, raising his gauntlet to strike a blow, but the old sailor was already cringing away, his empty hands upraised.

  “Your virtue, I apologize for daring to touch such a fine young warrior as yourself, but your virtue, I fear that the terms of our agreement are unclear.”

  “There’s nothing unclear. You have led me to our prize, as promised. I will see you healed to full health once we return to Koh-Salash, as promised. Or do you doubt me?”

  At that moment, Shulipik stepped up beside Kyrionik, his hand on his dagger. Kyrionik realized, with a little thrill, that he could have the sailor slain with a word. His thought immediately went to the expression of the “bandit” he’d slain, and his thrill turned to ice.

  Selso Rii bowed even lower without lowering his hands. “I do not doubt your word or your honor, your virtue. I would say the same in any port in the world, even if I were not facing your strong young spear arm and your noble companion with his ghostkind weapon that could slice poor Selso Rii apart like butter.” He caught his breath. “Your virtue. My only concern is that, in keeping your word to me, you may find the cost dearer than you knew, and I would not want you to have a single regret, not when a humble word from myself could have given you fair warning.”

  Every word out of the sailor’s mouth made Kyrionik feel wearier. “Explain.”

  “The name Rii comes from the Elderspeak, your virtue, one of the ancient tongues of humankind before we were driven from the west. Like khan or autarch, it means king. My ancestors were kings of Thelmagypica, a land of blowing sands, rich delta farmland, and gold mines of fabulous wealth. All taken by the ghostkind long before the fall of Selsarim.

  “Your virtue, I am a humble man of proud lineage, and I believe I am the last of my line. The petty machinations of powerful men—mere merchants, your virtue, not men of noble birth like yourself—would see an end to the names of the kings of the west. Only glitterkind flesh can prevent this, and no transplant will do. Your virtue.”

  Kyrionik had lost the thread of the conversation somewhere. He turned to Shulipik, whose expression had turned grim. “He’s saying he’s been castrated.”

  The sailor clenched his hands into fists. As shocking as the revelation was to Kyrionik, hearing it spoken so plainly had embarrassed and angered Selso Rii. The sailor recovered himself quickly, unclenching his fingers and letting his shoulders sag. “It is a terrible burden to bear, your virtue. Shameful.”

  Kyrionik looked back and forth between the two men, utterly at a loss for words. He’d taken his share of cuts while sword-fighting, of course, but the idea of feeling that very specific sort of pain down in—

  “In the Free Cities,” Shulipik said, “they castrate rapists.”

  Rii bowed even lower, but this time, he turned his face to the ground. “Your virtue, I swear, I swear that I never—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Kyrionik’s skin was crawling. This sh
ould have been his moment of triumph, but Selso Rii had shit all over it. “Whatever crime you’ve committed, I made a promise I will have to keep. I must be the instrument that undoes the punishment you received, whether it was just punishment or not.”

  The sailor looked up, a faint glimmer of hope in his expression. “I knew you were a man of honor, your virtue. But my reward does not have to be subtracted from the prize that you bring home! That is the humble point I seek to make. A sizable piece from one of the others would benefit us both.”

  “And you would not have to wait for your cure, yes?” Selso Rii bowed his head, but his smile vanished when Kyrionik continued. “Absolutely not. Do not interrupt me again, good sir. No one will be getting a piece of glitterkind flesh before we return to Koh-Salash. Glitterkind magic is dangerous, and it’s risky to cut one. We do not have the tools for the job.” In truth, Kyrionik carried a slender bronze scalpel in his boot, but it was for dire emergencies only. “Or the skill.”

  Suspecting that his lie was not convincing, Kyrionik leaned forward and scowled. “One of my own, a soldier who stood at my shoulder two years ago in the midst of battle, has broken his ankle. If he has to wait to be ministered by a skilled healer, so do you.”

  Selso Rii stood for a moment with his jaw muscles throbbing. He clearly had much more he wanted to say, but he did not dare. He recovered himself, bowed politely, and thanked Kyrionik for his fair consideration. Then he skulked into the trees to make room for working soldiers.

  Shulipik glowered at him, then went back to watching the jungle for threats. Kyrionik wondered what he would have to do—or endure—to train himself until he had a similar habit. “If that scurvy-ridden old backstabber has royal blood in him,” Shulipik said, “I’ll eat a rat.”

  Kyrionik shrugged. “We have hosted former kings in our family compound. You shouldn’t offer that wager unless you think rats a delicacy.”

  Shulipik smiled again without turning his gaze from the surrounding trees.

  “I don’t think there’s an ullroct on the island,” Kyrionik said. “Everything I’ve read about them says they destroy glitterkind on sight, and these are just lying out in the open.”

  “Perhaps.” Shulipik glanced at Selso Rii. “I’ll keep watch over that one.”

  The new poles were cut without incident, although twisting and tying the vines took longer than expected. The afternoon had started to fade when the soldiers lifted the closest of the glitterkind onto the stretchers.

  The creature’s shoulders were so broad that its hands had to be draped across its midsection and bound at the wrists. Kyrionik felt a twinge of regret at that. He’s been taught that glitterkind healing magic was sacred, and the creatures should be treated with respect. Still, it was only temporary, and better than dragging its wrists on the jungle floor or, worse, bumping it against steel armor.

  They also had to wrap their cloaks around it. When it came to a choice between risking permanent scarring from the accidental touch of steel or temporarily blocking the sunlight, Kyrionik chose the latter. Glitterkind survived nightfall, didn’t they?

  It required fourteen men and women to carry it, seven on a side, four each by the torso. Tucking his gauntlets into his belt, Kyrionik preceded it down the rough stair. If it began to slide forward on the stretcher while they carried it on the steep slope, he wanted to be in position to brace it.

  Great gods, but it was huge. The head alone, lolling off the front edge of the stretcher, would have stood from Kyrionik’s knees to his collarbone, and the mouth was big enough to bite him in half. The thought made him shiver despite the heat.

  Aratill arranged for a small contingent of soldiers to lead the way down the stairs, while Oblifell and Shulipik organized the rear guard.

  It was difficult work, and Kyrionik twice had to brace the glitterkind when the stair became too steep. Still, things were going well. If the crew at the cliff had finished the boom, their prize could be aboard before sunset.

  Kyrionik tried to imagine his mother’s expression when she saw what he’d brought home for his First Labor. She had been an Elder under a previous Steward-General, but maybe some portion of the renown he was about to win would help her return to her place in the High Watch. It was only fair, after all. She deserved it. Maybe she’d even be elected Steward-General.

  When they reached the ruins of the mill, a great wordless cry sounded from the top of the hill. It was a deep, bellowing sound, full of pain and fear. Then there was another, then another.

  The massive head of the glitterkind on the stretcher twitched. With a cry, Kyrionik jumped back into the edge of the pond.

  The creature’s eyes snapped open, its mouth gaped, and it began to bellow, joining the chorus atop the hill.

  “Don’t drop it!” Aratill shouted, his voice booming in the jungle. There was no more need for secrecy, not with this awful choir. The glitterkind voices seemed to reverberate within Kyrionik’s rib cage and skull—inside his very thoughts—and filled him with a terrible emptiness.

  Several soldiers swore against their fear, and Aratill called for double time. They did, leaving Kyrionik standing beside the mill pond like a lost child. He peered up the slope to see what was happening, but the greenery was too thick.

  The stretchers snaked down the long crumbling stairs, allowing Aratill to approach Kyrionik. The bodyguard had already drawn his sword and his bull’s-head shield.

  A sound like ice water cast onto red-hot iron resounded from the top of the slope, and a column of pale white light shot into the clouds.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When word came that the Pails’ messenger had arrived, Harl Sota List Im was composing a letter to his sister.

  Harl was a rich man. Not the richest in the city, certainly not, but he had enough money that the most precious coin he could spend was his time. And he did not want to spend another minute carefully composing and sending a reply to his fucking sister. For the third time.

  He figured that the letter she’d sent to him, barely enough to cover one side of a sheet of paper, had taken a full day to write. In it, she begged him to visit her children—even though her only child was already making a killing as a jewel trader in the Free Cities—and to see Mother one last time before she passed, even though their mother had been dead for fifteen years. She told him he’d spent long enough in a doomed foreign city. She implored him, more forcefully than ever, to come home.

  It was, Harl knew, a warning. His sister’s husband was a committee officer in the court of the Amber Throne, and he must have told her a secret. It wasn’t something she could say openly in a letter, but the meaning was clear.

  Carrig was preparing to invade Koh-Salash.

  There had been rumors of war for years, but if the Carrig fleets were preparing to sail in the coming spring, Harl’s sister might have tried something like this.

  What she didn’t understand was that his venerable uncle had already ordered him to stay.

  Harl had spent the last year compiling blackmail material on the members of the High Watch that he could use to foment conflict among the ruling class. He’d acquired warehouses in neighborhoods built of ordinary wood that would be prone to arson and fire. He’d sent laborers into Mudside to dig “foundations” that could easily be turned into tunnels.

  He’d even stockpiled little packets of white tar for upcoming Sword and Spear Day. His venerable uncle had not ordered this, but Harl figured free samples on the holiday meant to honor Salashi soldiers would mean more addicts among the ranks and fewer fighting troops when he withheld their drugs on the day the invading fleet arrived.

  But of course, none of this could be put onto paper, either. His sister was worried that he would be innocently caught up in a coming battle, without understanding that he had a role to play in it. And if she kept sending increasingly urgent letters by sea, someone was going to notice.

  He needed to make her stop, and it wasn’t a task he could entrust to a clerk.

  So, when
the heavy at the door said the Pails had sent a courier to return his lost property, he was almost grateful.

  “Show him in.”

  In Harl’s experience, you could judge a gangster by the people they employed. Smart people hated working for cowards and fuck-ups. They wanted bosses who could put coin in their purse and protect them from the cosh.

  Harl had the best people in the city and, not surprisingly, considered himself the sharpest boss in the city. He’d have to be, to last fifteen years at the top of this shit pile. Tin Pail’s flunkies, on the other hand, impressed no one at all. Especially that northerner with the stinking fur around his grimy neck.

  So, he was surprised to hear that she’d sent someone rather than deliver it herself.

  When the Pails’ messenger was led to his lounge, Harl stood beside the counter, comfortably relaxing beside the remains of his supper. The fellow had already been searched downstairs, of course, but Harl’s bodyguards did it again. They liked to grab other people’s flunkies and shake them around a little.

  The man had a knife sheath on his belt, but it was empty. He was allowed to enter.

  Harl’s first thought was I am not impressed.

  The messenger was taller than average, but not by much. Harl himself was often the shortest guy in the room, and in his experience, again, the tall ones were more confident than they should have been.

  This one, for example, didn’t show any of the tics that suggested he was trying to hide his fear. Smart criminals knew Harl’s reputation and were nervous when they met him. Therefore, stupid. This guy’s shaggy hair hung in his face. Careless. His clothes were all black, as though he’d just come from a funeral or was trying to dress like a villain in a play. Trying too hard. He was also younger than Harl first thought. His posture and expression—not to mention the scar on his face—made him look older, but he was still a young man, not even thirty. Inexperienced.

  Then Harl looked at him again and noticed the defiance in his eyes.

  Was it possible that the messenger had steel to back him up? Who had the Pails sent?