Seven Blades in Black

by Sam Sykes

  For the last time, Yala bowed before her brother’s stone. If she walked slowly on her return, the evidence of tears would be erased by the time she reached the foot of the pailai’s smooth-worn stairs and the single maidservant waiting, holding her mistress’s horse and bundled against the cold as Yala disdained to be.

  A noblewoman suffered ice without a murmur. Inside, and out.

  Hai Komori’s blackened bulk rested within the walls of the Old City. It frowned in the old style, stone walls and sharply pitched slate-tiled roof; its great hall was high and gloomy. The long table, crowded with retainers at dinners twice every tenday, was a blackened piece of old wood; it stood empty now, with the lord’s low chair on the dais watching its oiled, gleaming surface. Mirror light drifted, brought through holes in the roof and bounced between polished discs, crisscrossing the high space.

  Dusty cloth rustled, standards taken in battle. There were many, and their sibilance was the song of a Second Family. The men rode to war, the women to hunt, and between them the whole world was ordered. Or so the classics, both the canonical Hundreds and supplements, said. Strong hunters made strong sons, and Yala had sometimes wondered why her mother, who could whisper a hawk out of the sky, had not given her father more than two. Bai, the eldest, was ash upon the wind and a name on a tablet; the second son had not even reached his naming day.

  And Komor Madwha, a daughter of the Jehng family and high in the regard of the King and her husband as well, died shortly after her only daughter’s birth.

  Komori Dasho was here instead of in his study. Straight-backed, only a few thin threads of frost woven into his topknot, a vigorous man almost into the status of elder sat upon the dais steps, gazing at the table and the great hearth. When a side door opened and blue silk made its subtle sweet sound, he closed his eyes.

  Yala, as ever, bowed properly to her father though he was not looking. “Your daughter greets you, pai.”

  He acknowledged with a nod. She waited, her hands folded in her sleeves again, faintly uneasy. Her father was a tall man, his shoulders still hard from daily practice, and his face was pure Khir. Piercing grey eyes, straight black hair worn long as a Second Dynasty lord’s, a narrow high prow of a nose, a thin mouth, and bladed cheekbones harsh as the sword-mountains themselves. Age settled more firmly upon him with each passing year, drawing skin tighter and bone-angles sharper. His house robe was spare and dark, subtly patterned but free of excessive ornamentation.

  The very picture of a Khir noble, except he was not, as usual, straight as an iron reed on his low backless chair with the standard of their house—the setting sun and the komor flower7—hung behind it.

  Finally, he patted the stone step with his left hand. “Come, sit.” His intonation was informal, and that was another surprise.

  Yala settled herself, carefully. With her dress arranged and her feet tucked to the side, she lowered her eyelids and waited.

  Lord Komori did not care for idle chatter.

  The great hall was different from this angle. The table was large as it had been when she was a child, and the cavernous fireplace looked ready to swallow an unwary passerby whole. The braziers were blackened spirit-kettles, their warmth barely touching winter’s lingering chill. Flagstones, swept and scrubbed even when winter meant the buckets formed ice, which needed frequent breaking, stared blankly at the ceiling, polished by many feet. Yala stilled, a habit born of long practice in her father’s presence.

  The mouse that moves is taken. Another proverb. The classics were stuffed to bursting with them.

  As a child she had fidgeted and fluttered, Dowager Eun despairing of ever teaching her discretion. It was only in Yala’s twelfth year the weight of decorum had begun to tell, and she had decided it was easier to flow with that pressure than stagger under it. Even Mahara had been surprised, and she, of all the world, perhaps knew Yala best.

  After Bai, that was.

  “Yala,” her father said, as if reminding himself who she was. That was hardly unusual. The sons stayed, the daughters left. An advantageous marriage was her duty to Komori. It was a pity there had been no offers. I wonder what is wrong with me, she had murmured to Mahara once.

  I do not wish to share you with a husband, Mahara answered, when she could speak for laughing.

  “Yes.” Simple, and soft, as a lady should speak. She wished she was at her needlework, the satisfaction of a stitch pulled neatly and expertly making up for pricked fingers. Or in the mews, hawk-singing. Writing out one of the many classics once again, her brush held steady. Reading, or deciding once more what to pack and what to leave behind.

  She wished, in fact, to be anywhere but here. After a visit to the ancestors, though, her presence at her father’s wrist was expected. Brought back like a hawk itself, to endure scrutiny. A feather passed over plumage, so as not to disturb the subtle oils thereupon.

  “I have often thought you should have been born male.” Komori Dasho sighed, his shoulders dropping. The sudden change was startling, and disturbing. “You would have made a fine son.” Even if it was high praise, it still stung. A formulaic reply rose inside her, but he did not give her the chance. “But if you were, you would have died on that bloodfield as well, and I would have opened my veins at the news.”

  Startled, Yala turned her head to gaze upon his profile. The room was not the only thing that looked different from this angle. The thunder-god of her childhood, straight and proud, sat beside her, staring at the table. And, terrifyingly, hot water had come to Komori Dasho’s eyes. It swelled, glittering, and anything she might have said vanished.

  “My little light,” he continued. “Did you know? I named you thus, after your mother died. Not aloud, but here.” His thin, strong right fist, the greenstone seal-ring of a proud and ancient house glinting on his index finger, struck his chest. “I knew not to say such things, for the gods would be angry and steal you as they took her.”

  Yala’s chest tightened. A Lord Komori severe in displeasure or stern with approval she could answer. Who was this?

  Her father did not give her a chance to reply. “In the end it does not matter. The king has spoken; you will attend the princess in Zhaon.”

  This much I knew. The pebble in her sleeve-pocket pressed against her wrist. She realized she was not folding her hands but clutching them, knuckles probably white under smooth fabric. “Yes.” There. Was that an acceptable response?

  He nodded, slowly. The frost in his hair had spread since news of Three Rivers; she had not noticed, before. This was the closest she had been to her father since… she could not remember the last time. She could not remember when he last spoke to her with the informal inflection or case, either. Yala searched for something else to say. “I will not shame our family, especially among them.”

  “You—” He paused, straightened. “You have your yue?”

  Of course I do. “It is the honor of a Khir woman,” she replied, as custom demanded. Was this a test? If so, would she pass? Familiar anxiety sharpened inside her ribs. “Does my father wish to examine its edge?” The blade was freshly honed; no speck of rust or whisper of disuse would be found on its slim greenmetal length.

  “Ah. No, of course not.” His hands dangled at his knees, lax as they never had been in her memory. “Will you write to your father?”

  “Of course.” As if she would dare not to. The stone under her was a cold, uncomfortable saddle, but she did not dare shift. “Every month.”

  “Every week.” The swelling water in his eyes did not overflow. Yala looked away. It was uncomfortably akin to seeing an unfamilial man at his dressing, or weeping. “Will you?”

  “Yes.” If you require it of me.

  “I have kept you close all this time.” His fingers curled slightly, as if they wished for a hilt. “There were many marriage offers made for you, Yala. Since your naming day, you have been sought. I refused them all.” He sighed, heavily. “I could not let you go. Now, I am punished for it.”

  She sat, stunned and
silent, until her father, for the first and last time, put a lean-muscled, awkward arm about her shoulders. The embrace was brief and excruciating, and when it ended he rose and left the hall, iron-backed as ever, with his accustomed quiet step.

  He is proud of you, she had often told Bai. He simply does not show it.

  Perhaps it had not been a lie told to soothe her brother’s heart. And perhaps, just perhaps, she could believe it for herself.

  BY SAM SYKES

  THE GRAVE OF EMPIRES

  Seven Blades in Black

  BRING DOWN HEAVEN

  The City Stained Red

  The Mortal Tally

  God’s Last Breath

  THE AEONS’ GATE TRILOGY

  Tome of the Undergates

  Black Halo

  The Skybound Sea

  An Affinity for Steel (omnibus edition)

  1. A single family’s tombs.

  2. A tree similar to a cherry.

  3. Carrion-eating birds with bright plumage, often kept as garbage-eating pets.

  4. A handheld firework.

  5. Khir. Affectionate. Elder brother.

  6. A small, slightly acrid fruit.

  7. A native, very hardy Khir flower with seven petals on its small highly fragrant flowers; the root of the plant is used for blue dye.

  We hope you enjoyed this book.

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