Everything hurt, but that was all right. She’d earned it. Stretched flat on the ground in the abandoned garden, Neda couldn’t repress a ridiculous grin. Tierce probably thought she was crazy, but she didn’t care. For the first time in her life, she felt like she was doing exactly what she was meant to be doing, and it was glorious. Bruised limbs and aching muscles were a fair price to pay for fulfilling a lifelong dream.
“We should go soon.” Tierce was sitting on a half-broken bench nearby, tying up the bundle that held the wooden swords they’d been practicing with. Unfairly, he looked barely winded after their two-hour workout, and no sweatier than anyone else might in the middle of a hot summer afternoon. Neda, by contrast, felt like someone had sloshed a bucket of rancid water over her.
“I don’t think I can move just yet,” she had to admit. To forestall the inevitable apology, she quickly added, “Thank you for not going easy on me.”
“It’s the same routine your father used to put me through when I was just starting.” He still sounded apologetic but added a word of encouragement. “You’ll get used to it.”
She laughed, remembering. “When you first came to Fleuracy House, you only left your room for lessons and meals. And you never talked. I thought there was something wrong with you.”
He ducked his head and a wavy lock of his dark brown hair flopped over his face. “I was just exhausted all the time.”
Tierce had been barely fifteen years old when he’d come to Corregal, all on his own. He’d spent two weeks haunting the Blade by day and sleeping in the alleys of Landslip before Neda’s father, Sieur Eristan Fleuracy, had found him and took him in to his household as a student. Though clearly grateful for the opportunity he’d been given, it had taken him weeks to settle comfortably into his new surroundings. Once she had gotten to know him a little better, he confided that, as the son of a traveling minstrel, he’d never lived anywhere longer than a month or two at most. It was no wonder it’d taken him time to adjust to living in an actual home.
She rolled over onto her belly and rested her chin on folded hands too look at him. “What’s it like, in Batair?”
“Colder,” he said. “And wetter.”
“That’s not what I mean. What’s it like to live where women can be warriors? Are they different?”
“I don’t know. I never really thought about it.” He seemed to consider the question for a moment and then grinned. “My first teacher was a girl. Her parents were in guard service to the earl of West Tolk, so she thought she knew a thing or two.”
“She was ten. I was twelve. I think she just liked having an excuse to boss someone around.” Neda couldn’t help laughing, and his cheeks reddened with good-humored chagrin. “I don’t think I learned much, but it was a start. I might not be here if it weren’t for her putting a sword in my hands.”
He stood and crossed the garden, bundle in hand, to where a shed slumped against the wall. The garden was oddly shaped, wedged between a rocky slope and sharply angled walls. As far as Neda could tell, it wasn’t attached to any of the surrounding properties—there wasn’t even a proper gate, just a narrow opening blocked by a few wood planks that Tierce had moved aside for them to enter. She had no idea how he’d found the place, but as hidden and forgotten as it was in the midst of the noisy smithies and workshops of the Hammeroad District, there was little chance that their training sessions would be noticed by anyone.
“We can leave these here for next time,” he said, disappearing inside the shed. He was only gone a moment before he emerged again, dusting off his hands.
“Tomorrow?” Neda smiled hopefully, but now it was his turn to laugh.
“I doubt it.” He gave her a wry, appraising look. “If you can move at all tomorrow, I’ll be impressed.”
Neda groaned as she rolled over to her back again, but even the promise of worse pain to come couldn’t dull her happiness. The blue in the sky overhead was starting to deepen in color, a sign that the afternoon was starting to wane. Even in midsummer, night fell early in Corregal, tucked as it was along the gorge of the Cille river. She’d have to get home soon if she was going to wash and change in time for dinner.
“Just tell me it’s worth it,” she said as Tierce extended a hand to help her rise. “Am I any good?”
“You’re the best student I’ve ever had.” He said it with such seriousness that it gave her a moment’s pause before she realized he was teasing her.
She aimed a kick at his shin that he easily avoided. “I’m your only student, you louse!”
He broke into another grin and pulled her to her feet. His hand was warm and strong in hers, and she could feel the rough places where he’d earned calluses from long hours wielding a sword. I’ll have those someday, too, she thought to herself.
He did not release her hand once she was standing. Instead, his face grew serious again. “Neda, I promise you I’m not going to change my mind about any of this. But I think you should tell your father what we’re doing.”
With that earnest expression on his too-handsome face, Neda almost gave in to him. Almost. She could appreciate his concern. She was uncomfortable keeping such a secret from her parents, especially when there was so much risk involved. But she wasn’t ready to give up her dream yet on the mere hope that her father might understand why she wanted it so badly.
“I’ll think about it.” She pulled her hand free from his and used it to pull the damp hair from the back of her neck. It wasn’t quite a lie—she would think about it, even if she already knew what her decision would be. But Tierce seemed satisfied.
He motioned her toward the hidden entry. “You go first. We probably shouldn’t be seen coming and going together.”
Neda nodded in agreement. It wasn’t just a matter of reputation if they were found out. There were laws in Corregal about women wielding swords. They were both taking a risk. She took a half-step toward the gate before turning back to him. “Thank you, Tierce. You can’t know how much this means to me.”
He started to smile, that sheepish little half-smile that was so adorable, and before she knew what she was doing, she leaned forward and kissed him. Not on the cheek, which might have been all right, but on the mouth. It was so fast that Tierce didn’t even have time to react before she pulled back. She caught only a glimpse of his startled expression as she turned and fled.
She was through the gate and two streets away before she slowed down enough to chide herself. Foolish, she thought. Unkind. She knew how Tierce felt about her. He’d never acted on his infatuation, but she’d felt it. It was unfair to suggest that anything but friendship was possible between them, not while he still lived in her father’s house. Even if she had spent a pleasant daydream or two entertaining the notion of just such a dalliance.
And hadn’t his lips been just as soft as she’d always imagined they would be?
She gave herself a vicious pinch to force the memory from her mind. She had to pinch herself three more times before she reached home. At least one thing was certain, she ruefully reflected as she plodded up the hill toward the House. This was one impulse she couldn’t blame on Evod.
Every Gatehouse was built with one purpose: to impose order on the wild energies that spewed through the empyreal Gate and into the world. Even amid the opulent and unconventional architecture of the Corregal Gatehouse, that sense of order was absolute, apparent in every aspect of its design. in each sharp corner, every measured archway, even the placement of the windows in the high gallery overlooking the assembly hall. For most people, the effect was as comforting as walking into a mother’s embrace.
Jaciel Oura was not one of those people. Her skin prickled whenever she came to the Gatehouse, and her teeth itched. More irritating than painful, she often likened the sensation to having fallen asleep on an anthill. Once, at the urging of a sympathetic cleric, she had tried to overcome the problem by spending more time at the Gatehouse instead of less, and volunteered for a year of service as an acolyte, hoping the constant exposure would inure her to the discomfort. But by the end of the first week, her hair was standing on end all the time, and after a month she was practically sparking whenever anyone so much as touched her. She said goodbye to the Gatehouse soon after, and made it a habit to visit as seldom as possible.
Needless to say, it was not the place she would have chosen for a meeting, but her employer had insisted. And, naturally, her employer was now late.
She took refuge in a window embrasure to wait. The assembly hall, which bridged the river itself, was crowded at this time of day, and no one paid her much attention. She watched the people coming and going, making their petitions at the three alters to the Hands of the Broken God, some silent, some singing, some smiling, some weeping, depending on the need that had brought them here. Priests and priestesses moved among them, providing guidance and support as they might. Twice, she saw them usher ill or injured individuals towards the healer’s sanctuary, when a more intensive ministration was required. Meanwhile, members of the Bell Guard patrolled the periphery, more an honor guard than from any real need to keep the peace.
The only good thing about having to be here was that her arm was already starting to feel better, as being closer to the gate’s power worked to ease the discomfort of her wound, even without a prayer or ministration. Her leather coat had taken most of the damage from the girl’s small knife, leaving only a shallow, two-inch gash in the flesh of her bicep. She had cleaned and bandaged it herself, and would not have sought healing at the Gatehouse for something so minor. But if she had to be here anyway, at least she was getting some benefit from it.
She saw Taline Sabenay long before the Maestra of Sabenay House saw her. Taline was hard to miss, sweeping up the length of the assembly hall in an ornate gown that probably dated back to the last years of the empire, with her head held high and eyes flashing when “lesser” folk were not quick enough to hurry out of her way. Sabenay was an ancient and prestigious house (if lately reduced in fortune) and Taline was not about about to let anyone forget it.
Bypassing the first of the altars – Sarrel’s was always the most crowded – Taline made her imperious way up the broad stairs to the second altar, which was dedicated to Evod. Because where else would you plan a secret meeting with your hired informer than at the feet the Grey Watcher? Jaciel wondered why the woman insisted at playing games of intrigue when she was so ill-suited for subtlety.
She waited until Taline had lit a candle on the altar, and seated herself on one of the benches surrounding it, before she emerged from her nook to join her. Dressed in a plain brown tunic with her Porter’s badge on the shoulder, she felt invisible next to the grandiosity of Maestra Taline, lost in the shadow of violet silk, rudfled lace, and embroidered trim.
“Well?” Fabric rustled as Maestra Taline moved her skirts aside to make room on the stone seat. She spared no time for civilities. “Tell me about the Jurati.”
“I had four men waylay him on Crosslight Road, just as you asked. He was able to take them down without raising a sweat.” Granted, the men she had hired had been little more than thugs, not skilled swordsmen, but the Jurati was still young, and he’d handled the ambush with remarkable aplomb. Jaciel was not afraid to let her admiration show.
Taline’s face was flushed with barely contained excitement. She had never been an attractive woman, and now, nearing the end of middle age, she eschewed the sort of quiet dignity that was normally expected of women like her. Her clothes were ostentatious, her personality more so. She said what she wanted, the way she wanted, with little regard for the conventions of polite society. There’s no time for such foolishness, she often said, in the face of all I must accomplish. It was this audacious attitude that had attracted Jaciel to her service in the first place, and kept her there despite other opportunities that now and then arose.
“Four men and you,” Taline said, the fight playing out in her imagination. “He’s better than you expected.”
“He is, Maestra. I’d say he has the potential to be one of the best swordsmen in the city.”
“Can we get him away from Fleuracy House?” She had a habit of gnawing on her thumb when thinking, and she did that now, as if worrying the problem with her teeth.
“He was sent to Sieur Eristan, by someone. I don’t know by whom, or why, but I suspect he’d need a good reason to leave.” Jaciel shrugged. “If you offered him enough money, maybe.”
A dark look crossed the Maestra’s face. “If I had that kind of money I would not be in this position in the first place. We’ll have to find some other way to persuade him.”
“But why, Maestra?” Jaciel was used to carrying out odd missions for her mistress, no questions asked. But Taline’s fixation on the Jurati was more than a little odd. “What is one swordsman going to do for you? No matter how good he is?”
“Do not question me on this, Jaciel.” Taline spoke sharply, drawing curious looks from nearby petitioners. She glared back, until the gazes, daunted by her ferocity, turned away again. When she spoke again, she kept her voice low, but it trembled with intensity. “Three days, I lit a candle to Thest and asked to be shown the path to restoring my House’s fortune. Three nights, I dreamt of a drawn sword. The very next day, you came to me with news of this Jurati wonder.” She reached out and grasped Jaciel’s hand. “Don’t you see? He is meant for me. Do not question me on this.”
There was no room in Taline Sabenay for doubt, and though Jaciel could still not see how the Jurati presented any kind of solution, she could not deny the force of her employer’s belief that he would. “No, Maestra, I will not,” she said, choosing to trust in the vision, even if were not her own.
Taline nodded once and withdrew her hand from Jaciel’s. Her attention turned again to the altar before them, with its scores of candles flickering in a subtle draft. “If he will not leave Fleuracy House on his own, we must find some way to have him removed.”
The fading ache in her arm gave Jaciel the answer right away. Leaning towards the other woman, she kept her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He was with a girl…”
“Where is it we are going, ailenia?” Romeric asked again as he followed Calette up another row of steps. He hadn’t been paying attention. The river was behind them now, with all its cursed, confusing bridges, but the maze of terraced streets that climbed the hillside was no less a puzzle to him.
“It’s not much farther.” She tightened her grip on the fabric of his shirtsleeve. She had latched onto him like that back on Drennan Bridge – not his arm, just the sleeve – and not let go since, fingers twined in the fabric as if she was afraid he’d get away. She led him through the city this way, weaving through the crowds with unexplained urgency. Every so often she’d point to some notable landmark and name it for him, but she never told him where they were going.
The road they traveled now was more stairway than street, broken every few hundred steps by wide terraces that allowed access to side streets and rows of modest shophouses. She stopped now, several steps above him so that their heights were equal. Smitten, he thought, as she stared into his eyes again. Her own were a dusky gray, with drooping eyelids that made her look only half awake, still lost in some dream of the shifting sunlit river. He couldn’t help smiling at the attention, and mirrored her scrutiny with his own, intense and intimate. It made her blush, which made him smile more. Visibly flustered, she turned away and began to climb again.
“What does it mean?” she asked as she led him upward. “Ailenia?” Her tongue tangled on the unfamiliar word.
“It means…’ Romeric hesitated before settling on a suitable translation. “Dear.” A more accurate description would have been woman I plan on bedding very, very soon, but he wasn’t sure how she’d respond to that just yet.
“Ailenia.” She tried the word again, and got the pronunciation right this time. She glimpsed at him over her shoulder, not quite shy. “Ailenia.”
He knew he was grinning ridiculously as he let her pull him along, but he couldn’t help himself. He had not had much opportunity to meet many young women in this new city. Those to whom he’d been introduced were different than girls at home, cloaked in a reserve of propriety that he hadn’t yet figured out how to penetrate. Neda was off limits, of course. Her father had made that clear from the start. If even the hint of a romantic notion came to Sieur Fleuracy’s attention, Romeric would find himself badgeless and with nowhere to go. Barris and Tierce were hampered with the same restriction – not that it had stopped either one of them from falling in love with her. It was amusing, really, watching the pair of them struggle to hide their affections. He suspected they weren’t fooling anyone but each other.
It had been Barris who sent him to the wrong bridge. Whether it was a welcome-to-the-neighborhood joke or some more malicious intent at work, Romeric didn’t know. Either way, he would have to thank him for it later. If it hadn’t been on the wrong Drennan Bridge he never would have met Calette.
From the first moment he first saw her, wedged through the bridge railing so she could stare at the water below, he had been captivated. It wasn’t the sort of thing ordinary girls did, which made her instantly interesting. And then, when he’d finally gotten her attention and she’d looked up at him with those sun-dazzled eyes and soft black hair tumbling around her face, she turned out to be quite pleasing to look at. Plump cheeks, honey-colored skin, rosy lips that kept tempting him to kiss her…
The fact that she was Cael Averre’s sister had nothing to do with his sudden affection. He dismissed that idea the moment it popped into his head. Oh, he had to admit a certain sense of satisfaction at having stuffed the blustering prick’s self-importance back down his own throat the two times they’d met – some people were just asking for it – but aside from Barris’ gloomy predictions of retribution, he’d not given Cael a second thought since the day on the river. No, there was nothing perverse in sudden desire to woo his would-be adversary’s sister. He just liked her. A lot.
Because he was busy falling in love, he wasn’t paying that much attention to where they were going. Which is why, when he stopped abruptly in the middle of the next terrace, it took him a moment to figure out what had jerked his attention away from her.
“Almost there.” Calette yanked on his sleeve. But when he didn’t move again she stopped to look at him. “What’s wrong?”
Uncertainly, he looked around, trying to discern what had made him so suddenly wary. But the terrace was quiet, with only the tinkling of the fountain to interrupt the peaceful…
“There are no people,” he realized. Though two major side streets intersected with the stair-road here, and a number of prosperous looking shops faced the square, there was not a single person in sight – not even a peddler, or a beggar, or a distant passerby. No one.
Calette frowned, looking more confused than worried. Impatient, she pulled on his arm again, but he brushed off her hold and reached for the sword at his hip.
“You should run.”
She opened her mouth to protest, even as the swordmen he was expecting stepped out of their hiding places across the square. “Run!”
This time, she listened. With a look of fear settling over her lovely features, she dashed past him, back the way they’d come.
Smart girl, he thought. At least they knew there were people back that way. He pulled his sword from its scabbard and turned to face the pair of assailants who were coming at him quickly now. He felt his heart quicken in anticipation as they showed their own weapons. But he wasn’t afraid. Not for himself, at any rate.
After all, he’d fought at Warden’s Shore.
The first one to come at him was the biggest, dressed in roughspun clothes with a scarf tied over the lower part of his face to hide his features. His sword was just as rough, big but with no finesse to it’s lines, and probably no strength in its forging. But it could kill him just as dead if given the opportunity. His attack came fast, sword heaving over the shoulder in a downward arc that Romeric flicked away with his own blade as he dodged out of reach.
Rather than follow up with an attack of his own, he let the man’s momentum carry him past, then darted around to confront the second attacker coming up behind. This one was dressed much the same as the first, but with a full mask covering his face. Romeric didn’t need to see his face to tell he was surprised to find himself embattled so quickly. His sword, prettier than the first man’s, jerked up in surprise, just as Romeric had expected. With a neat twist of his own blade, he knocked the weapon from the assailants hand and followed it up with a jab that pierced the man just below the ribcage – not deep, but enough to take him out of this particular skirmish.
Romeric slid past him as he fell, turning on the ball of his foot to face the first attacker once again, just as he heard a cry of dismay from Calette. With a glance in that direction he confirmed what he had expected – a third assailant had come up the stair behind them. Calette flailed against him, but could nothing to help her until he’d dealt with his own opponent.
The big man came at him, more cautiously this time, but with no less energy behind his blows. Romeric’s slender Arrenal blade was surprisingly resilient against the broad gash of steel that was his opponent’s sword – but that’s why you paid so much for a weapon like his. He knew he was better armed, and after the first flurry of exchanged blows, he knew he was the better swordsman. All the same, there was no playfulness in his defense this time, not like when he had dueled on the Bridge. Each time he swung his sword it was in deadly earnest. Twice, he cut the man with the edge of his blade, once on the arm, once on the face, while keeping himself clear of the reciprocating blows. The third time his sword connected with flesh, it was a deep thrust into the man’s shoulder that made him jump back with shout of pain. Romeric wrenched his sword free and swung low as the big man’s sword clanged to the ground. A slice across the hamstring sent him toppling to the ground.
Romeric did not watch him fall, but whipped around to find Calette.
There were three swordsmen blocking the way down the stairs now – no, two men, swords at the ready, and a woman who had Calette in her grasp. Calette, her dark hair in even greater disarray then it had been, looked more perturbed than dismayed.
He paused, not sure if rushing forward would endanger her more than she already was.
“Interesting,” the woman said, and gestured for the two men to move forward. “That was even better than I exp- Ah!”
With a sharp cry, the woman jerked away from Calette who – somehow, Romeric saw – had a knife in her hand. A knife she’d just plunged into the arm of her captor.
The two swordsmen paused, and in their moment of confusion Romeric charged forward. He swung his sword at the head of one, and kicked at the kneecap of the other. The sword missed, but a satisfying crunch resulted when his foot connected with the kneecap. He did not pause to gloat, just caught up Calette’s hand and ran.
They were halfway to the river before he let them slow, both of them panting as he became aware that the wary looks he and his sword were getting from the now-plentiful afternoon crowd of passersby. Huffing, he slid it back into its scabbard before anyone thought to make a scene. Calette’s knife had already disappeared. Women, he remembered, were not allowed to carry blades in Corregal.
“Are you all right?” he asked, trying to catch his breath. His heart was still racing from the brief exertion, and now that the threat was receding – there was no sign of pursuit – he allowed himself to feel the thrill of battle just past. He’d been good, and he knew it. Four against one, if you didn’t count the woman, and they hadn’t come close to touching him with their weapons. He beamed with exhilaration.
Calette raked her hands through her hair, trying to smooth it. “I’m fine,” she said, with a dissatisfied frown. “But I didn’t get my paint.”
“I was going to… Never mind.” She exhaled a lengthy sigh, and looked up into his eyes again, almost plaintive in her study of him. “You’ll just have to come to the house.”
“Ailenia, I would be happy to come and visit you whenever you ask it, but -”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Cael you almost got me killed.”
Startled, Romeric blinked. “They weren’t… I mean, they couldn’t have been…why do you think they were after me?”
She tapped the badge of House Averre pinned to her shoulder, which depicted a golden coin ablaze with sun-like rays. “Nobody would attack Averre House anonymously. Anyone stupid enough to come after me would want my father to know who did it. But those men didn’t have any badges at all, and it was too organized to have been a random robbery. That means they had to be after you for some reason.”
Romeric cursed himself inwardly. He had totally overlooked the missing badges in the midst of the fight. It was such a peculiar Corregal custom, this badge-wearing. He’d barely even noticed Calette’s badge (her lips were so much more worthy of his attention). Now he realized for the first time that the badge for Fleuracy House that he himself wore made him immediately identifiable to anyone who saw him. The thought was more than a little unnerving.
Shouts sounded from further up the road.
“Shields!” Calette murmured, then quickened her pace. “They’ll have found those men you stabbed. Best get as far away as we can.”
Hurrying to keep up with her, Romeric cast a wary glance over his shoulder. “We were attacked. They wouldn’t arrest me for defending–”
“Oh, yes they would! It’s the only way to stop the Houses from warring against one another, by arresting everyone involved in a swordfight. If you’re not on the Blade, and you injure someone with a sword, you’ll spend time in Blackbridge.”
The foot of the stair-road deposited them onto a wide thoroughfare that ran parallel to the river Aris. The road was crowded with people going in every direction, and Romeric stopped, not sure which direction to go. He turned to Calette, only to find her backing away from him. “Come to the house tomorrow,” she told him. “No! The next day. That will give me time to find the right colors.”
“Colors for what?”
A smile fluttered across Calette’s face, the first she’d actually shown him since they met, and he felt his heart lurch in response. At that moment, she could have told him to fly across the river and he would have attempted it.
“I’m going to paint you!” she laughed, her grey eyes sparkling like the river. And then she was gone, darting between one passerby and the next before he even had time to react.
He tried to follow, calling out her name, “Calette!” But he couldn’t get through the crowd quickly enough to see which way she had gone. He ignored the aggrieved looks he earned as he shoved people out of his way, and called out again. “Ailena!”
But it was useless. He couldn’t see her anywhere, and he could not begin to guess which direction. It doesn’t matter, he consoled himself. You’ll see her again soon. Two days was not so long to wait to see the woman you were in love with. Assuming he could find his way to Averre House.
And then he swore, and smacked himself in the the forehead with the heel of his hand. The bridge! She had said she would show him where the right Drennan Bridge was, so he could deliver the parcel Sieur Fleuracy had entrusted to him. But now she was gone, and he still had no idea where he was supposed to go. He wasn’t even sure he could find his way back home from here.
Grumbling at himself and at this thrice-cursed maze of a city, he straightened his tunic and adjusted the weight of his sword belt around his hips. Then, picking a direction at random, he headed off to lose himself once again in the City of Bridges.
Calette knelt at the midpoint of the bridge beside the rail, heedless of her rumpled silk skirts and the braids that had come loose from their silver pins. Twisted awkwardly, she could maneuver both head and shoulders between the carved posts. Occasional passersby cast odd looks her way, she didn’t notice. She was lost in the sun-dappled waters of the river Aris.
Long ago, the posts of the balustrade had been carved to resemble notable members of the House that had built the bridge. You could see hints of faces here and there – a sharp nose, a dimpled chin, a mouth twisted into an ingratiating smile. The rest worn into obscurity by time and weather. No one remembered who they were anymore. Calette, when she was little, had made up names for them, and tried to guess how each one was related to the next. But even those apocryphal identities were lost to them now.
She had chosen this sparsely traveled bridge for her quest because she knew there would be few travelers to disturb her. There were more convenient bridges along the Aris, and more picaresque ones too. Only those who were lost would come this way, or those on quests of their own. She would be left alone. That, and the spaces in the balustrade that were just wide enough room for a slender, sixteen-year-old girl to lean through if she sought an unimpeded view of the river below.
Illumination was the purpose of her quest.
The river was full of the light. With the sun high overhead and the summer sky nearly white with heat, the luminous current was an ever-changing panorama that Calette sought to memorize. It wasn’t, she realized, something most people paid attention to. The structure of light. The way it moved upon the water – or through the water. Transparent one moment, opaque the next. She wanted to learn it, to remember it, so she could paint it.
As she stared into the river, she kept her eyes open, not even blinking. To close her eyes even for an instant would separate her from the light she sought to know. So she let herself become mesmerized by its movement, let it fill her awareness until she forgot everything but the light. Adrift in shifting patterns of light and dark, she even forgot about her body in its awkward perch on the bridge. Dissolving, she thought. Soon, she herself would be nothing but light…
“Your pardon? This is the Drennan Bridge?”
The richly accented voice splintered Calette’s concentration. She dragged her gaze away from the water to squint at the young man crouched beside her. Sparkling.
“What?” The sparkles were disconcerting. Feeling strange and disconnected, she wondered briefly if he were real, or some dream sent to her by Thest.
“I said, ‘can you help me’.” The apparition smiled at her. Judging by bemused expression on his face, he had been there for some time, trying to get her attention. “What did you see in the river that was so fascinating?”
She pressed her fingertips against her eyelids, awareness gradually trickling back through her senses. “Nothing. Everything.” The sensation of being permeated with light dissipated. When she looked at him again, the spots of light in her vision were mostly gone. The only sparkles left were those from the gems in his ears, winking at her through the blond curls. “I know who you are,” she realized suddenly.
He seemed surprised, and something subtle in him shifted. “I did not realize I was famous already,” he said. His casual expression masked an inner tension, more felt than seen.
“On the boat,” she told him, disappointed that he wasn’t some dream or vision after all. She squirmed to free herself from between the posts. One of them grabbed at her hair with a carved elbow as she wriggled past, pulling lose the last silver pin. It dropped away, one last fluttering sparkle before it disappeared into the river. Sighing, she untangled her feet from her skirts, smoothed the subtle violet silk, stood. “When you knocked Cael into the river.”
He laughed and rose to stand beside her, wariness gone in an instant. “Oh, that! You were in the boat? I am surprised I did not notice you. I almost always notice the pretty girls. You will have to excuse me for being too distracted just then.”
She feigned a smile, but paid little heed to his unsubtle flattery. Her mind was filled with light, still, even if her eyes weren’t, and she wanted to remember it. More to the point, how could she capture the effect in paint? She could see the hues she would need in her head, but how to ask the pigment-maker for them? She was fairly certain there was no pigment named “glint” or “glimmer.”
“So…you are a friend of Cael’s?”
“Not exactly.” Perhaps she was approaching it wrong. Maybe it had more to do with the colors one left off the canvas instead of the ones you put on.She caught at one of the fallen braids, tugged at it absently.
“Good. I hope that means you and I can be friends.”
The young Jurati – she couldn’t remember if she’d ever heard his name – was not distracted now. Somehow, he had ended up closer to her, though she would swear that he hadn’t moved at all. So close she could taste the spice of his last meal on his breath. So close that she could see the each of the hairs in the golden down that lined his chin. And on his chest, too, where his open-necked shirt revealed far more than any proper Corregan would dream of. So close that when the light caught his eyes…
She caught her breath in her throat. Those eyes. Standing there on the bridge, the same light danced across his hazel eyes that had danced across the surface of the water. No one in Evreme had eyes so light, so it had never occurred to her to look in such a place for the colors she was seeking. But here it was in front of her, the very a palette she was seeking, in the eyes of a foreigner. Who was she to deny that the hands of the Broken God might sometimes reach out to those in need?
When she spoke, she had to keep her voice low to control the shaking. “What is it you want?”
“Only to spend some time in your company—”
She threw up a hand, pressed her fingers against his lips to silence him. “No, no. Why did you stop here. To speak to me now?” She lowered her hand again, but kept her eyes locked on his, light-touched, studying them with the same intensity as she had watched the water.
Somehow, he managed to look both canny and abashed at the same time when he told her. “I need of directions. This city …” He waved a hand, encompassing the entire maze of bridges and terraced streets that made up Corregal. “All these bridges. I admit I am lost. I must have crossed this bridge a twelve times before I decided I must ask for help.”
There were one hundred and twenty-seven bridges, crossing the two rivers. Even Calette, having lived here her whole life, could not claim to know the city’s every turning. It did not surprise her that someone so new here would lose his way. She allowed a little sympathy to share her awe at her discovery. “Where are you supposed to be?”
“Drennan Bridge?” He pulled a small, cloth-wrapped packet from his belt, and a slip of paper that he held out to her. “Sieur Eristan asked me to deliver this.”
She glanced briefly at the writing on the paper, then back up into his remarkable hazel eyes once again. “This is Drennan Bridge,” she told him, “but it’s the wrong Drennan Bridge.”
“The wrong…” With a groan, the young foreigner slumped against the railing. “Are you telling me there are two Drennan Bridges in this thrice-cursed city?”
“Three, actually.” Calette nibbled on the end of her braid, seeing an opportunity in his consternation. “It’s a… quirk. The one you want is over the Cille.” The story of the Drennan ones was a long one, several generations in the making, but she didn’t think he was interested in the details just now. He had come a long way out of his way to reach this Drennan Bridge, coming from Sieur Eristan’s House. She wondered who had given him his directions. Or if, indeed, some otherworldy hand had reached out to lead him to her. “I can take you there…” she said, saw his expression brighten in response. “But you have to come with me somewhere first.”
His smile deepened. “You’re not going to lead me off to seduce me, are you?”
She felt herself blush. Belatedly, she realized she had given him entirely the wrong impression, gazing so intently into his eyes. He was Jurati, for goodness sake! The islanders’ worship of the heretical Fourth Hand gave dispensation for all manner of licentious behavior, her father said. This one, bold enough to wear Aratanne’s symbol on a chain around his neck, probably thought she was besotted with him.
“It’s not safe.” She blurted out the first excuse she could think of to explain herself. His eyebrow quirked a question. “Where we’re going. It’s not safe. You have a sword. For protection.”
“Ah,” he said, one hand automatically moving to the hilt at his waist. He smiled still. “So I do. And I would be happy to escort you wherever it is you need to go, ailenia. But perhaps you will do one small favor for me first?”
She hesitated. He was probably jesting about the seduction, but the truth was she was desperate for the light he carried in his eyes she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t give in to his advances, if he made any.
The Jurati chuckled then, seeing her unease. His eyes shined with good-natured charm. “Your name, ailenia. That’s all I ask. Your name.”
“Oh!” she said, feeling a surge of relief, and after that a surprising tinge of regret. All he wanted was her name. That seemed a fair trade for what she hoped to get. So she gave it to him.
To be continued…
Edited Oct 21 2012: Stylistic changes mostly. But also changed the name of the POV char.
Neda set the book on the table in front of Tierce, and was gratified to see his green eyes go wide in astonishment.
They were alone in one of the gallery rooms of Fleuracy House, sitting on either side of a long work table. Her father had been called away on council business, and Barris and Romeric were out on the lower terrace battering at each other with practice swords. As usual, Romeric was taunting Barris good-humoredly, and Barris was doing a poor job of pretending he wasn’t annoyed. Soon, he’d lose his temper and come storming inside, just like he always did.
So she didn’t have much time.
Tierce reverently touched the aged cover of the book. It was a good sized volume, with stamped leather that still showed flecks of gold leaf and filigree corner bosses that had once been gilded. In the center sat a silver medallion engraved with the image of a mounted warrior – one of the Eresti, with a pennant flapping from the tip of his lance as he cantered off to do battle with some fell beast of the Gate.
“Open it,” she urged him, and then instead of waiting she pulled open the clasps herself and laid the book open for him. Inside, an illustration of the same warrior burst from the page, brilliantly illuminated in reds, yellows and blues. Beneath the picture, in elegant calligraphy, the title read, “Delandir’s Tales of the Eresti.”
An audible sigh escaped Tierce’s lips, and his expression melted in utter delight. “Delandir! My father has looked everywhere for one of these.”
For the next few minutes, there was no sound but the rustling of parchment as he turned avidly through the book, stopping now and then to skim a bit of text, or to linger over another dazzling illustration. Neda forgot her purpose for a moment, charmed by his boyish enthusiasm. Apparently, it had been the right choice. She knew his predilection for old stories, especially those dating back to the Age of Kings, but it had cost her another candle to Evod to find her way to just the right volume to tempt him. Even then, she’d spent two days wandering through Arisholm bookshops trying to lay hands on a copy. After all that trouble, she couldn’t help but enjoy the way his wide, soft lips curled in a smile as he poured over the pages.
“This is amazing,” he said finally, dragging his attention from the book. “Sieur Eristan will love it.”
Neda shook her head, averting her gaze and hoping he hadn’t noticed her staring at him. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. “It’s not for him. It’s for you.”
For the second time, his eyes widened in surprise. “For me? I couldn’t … this is too much. I can’t accept such a gift.” The words were heavy with regret and longing, which she took as a good sign, even as he pushed the book reluctantly away.
“It’s not a gift, Tierce.” She pushed the book back across the table to him. “It’s a bribe. I want you to do something for me.”
Color flushed his cheeks. “Neda, you don’t have to bribe me to do anything. All you have to do is – .”
“I want you to teach me how to fight. With a sword.” His mouth dropped open, but she barrelled onward, not giving him a chance to say no. “It’s illegal, I know. But only here in Corregal. Most of the Lands don’t care. You’re not even from here. You probably grew up knowing lots of girls who learned how to use a sword.”
“Yes, but, your father…”
“What has he got to do with it? Some of the greatest warriors in history have been women.” She flipped through the Delandir book till it showed them an illustration of an armored woman battling against two fire crawlers. She tapped the picture with her finger. “Hallanan of Deros. No one ever tried to keep a sword out of her hands. Ibra Aendri led the whole Order of Erest for twenty years. Even Daena herself, before she had to go and get her stupid self killed and ruin it for the rest of us. There’s nothing wrong with a woman knowing how to use a sword, and you know it.”
She could tell from the way he was looking at the picture of Hallanan that she’d won. There was no reasonable argument he could make to counter her. What was one pesky, antique law in the face of centuries of history?
Still, he hesitated, eyebrows drawn together as he struggled with an answer.
It was the obligation he owed her father, she assumed. The oath he’d taken to Fleuracy House. If he agreed to do this and they were discovered, it would probably mean his dismissal from the House, if not worse. Though if she knew Tierce at all he was probably more worried about how badly it would reflect on her father than worrying about his personal comeuppance.
She wished she had time to explain to her reasons to him. To make him understand her need to do this. But from the terrace, she could hear Barris’ voice rising in anger. If she didn’t get Tierce to agree now, she might never have the chance again. She could see the refusal forming on his face already – if had time to think about it further, there’d be no convincing him at all.
“If you won’t teach me,” she declared, resorting to her last desperate ploy. “I’ll have to ask Romeric, I’m sure he’ll be willing to help me. Though who knows what he’ll ask for in exchange.” She lifted her chin, tried to appear wanton in the gesture she used to smooth her hair back from her face. “They worship Aratanne there, you know. It makes them very open minded in matters of….love.”
Dismay tangled Tierce’s expression as the significance of her words sank in. She’d known he’d react like this, which is why she hadn’t wanted to use this tactic if she could avoid it. She didn’t like taking advantage of him like that…especially since she wasn’t entirely sure if was a bluff or not.
A clatter downstairs and Romeric’s bright, amused laughter from the hall alerted her that practice was over and their time alone together was up. Neda caught her breath and stared hard at Tierce, willing him to give her the answer she wanted to hear.
“All rright. I’ll do it,” Tierce said finally, keeping his voice hushed and hurried. “I don’t know how or where or when, but I’ll help you.” His brow was still knotted with concern. “Not because of the book, though.”
Relief flooded through her. She beamed at him as she rose to her feet. “I know it’s not because of the book, Tierce. It’s because you know it’s the right thing to do.”
He smiled at her weakly as she hastened past out, anxious to be gone before Romeric and Barris made their inevitable appearance and anything would need to be explained. She paused before departing though, a smile bright on her face as she turned back to him briefly.
“You can keep the book, though!”
It had been a long afternoon, with no wind down the gorge to break the sweltering grip of the summer sun. Even down on the waterfront there was no relief. Workers on the docks had stripped their outer layers, some even bare to the waist, their only means of enduring the oppressive heat.
Not Barris. His tabard stayed on, with the Fleuracy badge pinned properly to the shoulder. Shirt sleeves fastened at the wrist, collar decorously closed around his neck. Trousers tucked into boots that had been polished with care the night before. He had tied his black hair back, to keep it out of his face, but that was the only concession he’d made in his appearance.
It was a statement.
Perhaps not the most reasonable one, he considered, as he paused at the top of the gangplank that lead onto the barge he had been instructed to load. He wiped at the sweat on his forehead, wondering if there hadn’t been some other, less uncomfortable way to make his point. How much did clothes define a man, anyway?
The barge swayed in the river’s current, and barrel he was in the midst of moving tottered. He put out a hand, but before he could steady it, it rolled out of his grasp. Lurching the rest of the way down the gangplank, it hit the deck with a thud that made the whole barge rock. Tierce and Romeric, tying down cargo, were caught unprepared and had to grab at the ropes to keep themselves from topping over the low rail into the river.
“Sorry!” he quickly called out as he chased after it, but the other two only laughed, and then resumed their pointless conversation as if he hadn’t interrupted them.
“That can’t be the last bridge,” Romeric waved a hand at the bridge that stretched across the river to the east, a fortified span crowned by three square towers. Fishing boats and tradesmen’s barges slid beneath the high stone arches, along with one sleek pleasure craft with a bright red hull, pulled against the current by a crew of hired oarsmen. He leaned over the side of the barge so he could peer downriver. “I can see at least two more beyond it.”
“It didn’t say it’s the last bridge.” Tierce grinned despite his sunburnt cheeks. When he finished the knot he was working on, he leaned against one of the crates, taking a moment to rest and mop the sweat from his brow with a shirt sleeve. He and Romeric had discarded their tabards hours ago, and rolled up their sleeves like common dockworkers, but it hadn’t kept them from suffering from the heat any. “It’s just called Last Bridge. Maybe it was the last bridge when it was built a hundred years ago, but then the woodcarvers’ guild built the Level. And past that is the Summer Bridge, built by…was it House Dunac, Barris? Or Ivrane that built the Summer Bridge?”
“It was Bonifel House.” Barris gave his barrel a shove so that it butted up against those already stacked. His back twinged as he straightened, and he suppressed a grimace of pain. His muscles ached, his head throbbed from the glare of the sun, and there wasn’t a bit of him that wasn’t soaked with sweat after hours of labor. The last thing he wanted to talk about was bridges and who had built them, especially with this presumptuous, overconfident foreigner whose accent grated on his nerves like ice limes on a sore tooth.
“That’s right. Bonifel. And then a mile or so downstream is Willow Crossing, but that’s not really part of the city proper.”
“You Evremes and your thrice-cursed bridges!” Romeric exclaimed in frustration. “Someone told me that I would see a hundred bridges in Corregal and I told him he was mad. Next time we meet, I’ll have to apologize.” He flicked a strand of blond hair from his face in annoyance. “Who needs a hundred bridges in one city?”
“One hundred and twenty-seven,” Barris corrected automatically.
“On most days,” Tierce added. It was an old joke, but it made Barris smile despite his bad mood.
Romeric threw up his hands. “Madness.” He strode up the gangplank towards the wharf. “I’ll go get the next one.”
The wide, flat-bottomed barge was tied up alongside a stone pier, one of dozens that jutted out from a wharf that had been carved out of the stones of the river bank itself. Vaulted bays covered the entrances to the cavernous warehouses built under the hill, and Romeric disappeared inside to fetch more of the cargo they had been assigned to load.
The Jurati had proved a better worker than expected, when he’d first volunteered to join Barris and Tierce on the disciplinary chore. “It was my fault that you were late,” he explained, with a contrite smile. “It’s fair I share in the punishment.” Sieur Eristan just nodded quiet in approval. Fair or not, Barris hadn’t thought Romeric would be much help–neither his rich clothes and jewels nor his casual arrogance pointed to any experience with hard labor. He reckoned the Jurati would do just enough work to get in the way…if he didn’t find some way to weasel out of it entirely.
But Romeric had bent his back to the work with good humor, never uttering even the slightest complaint about the strenuous labor, the heat of the early summer sun beating down on them, or even the stench of old fish that clung to the riverfront. In fact, it looked as if with his help they were going to get done sooner than expected.
“There’s no shame in hard work,” he’d told them, at their first grumbles about the unaccustomed labor. “After the Khar attacked Jurat, everybody worked. So many people died, there weren’t enough to bring in the crops. There was one boy, a little princeling, yes? He thought he was too good to work in the fields. His grandmother told him, if you think you’re too good to grow the food, you’re too good to eat it too. And she wouldn’t let him have any food. A few days of no eating was enough. After that he was all too willing to do his share.”
“Did you really fight at Wardens Shore?” It was Tierce who asked it, of course. He’d been dying to learn the truth of that story since the day before, on the Bridge of Blades.
The Jurati’s expression had turned grave. “I did. I wasn’t supposed to. I was with the other boys, in the back. Carrying messages, helping the wounded, whatever we could do. But there were so many Khar…when they overran the lines, if you didn’t fight, you died.” His eyes grew distant, troubled by memory. But then shook his head, and whatever dark thoughts he’d been thinking slid away in the summer brightness. “When we get done here, what say you let me buy you both a drink? You have taverns in this town, right? Not just bridges?”
He smiled companionably, and because Tierce accepted the offer, Barris did to. It didn’t mean he liked him any better, though. The Jurati was too flashy, too overconfident – even his accent grated against his nerves. At least if they went to the Point it would be noisy enough they wouldn’t have to talk.
It took Tierce and Barris both to lift the barrel into place with the rest of the cargo. They had just gotten into position and were tying it into place when a voice called out over the water towards them.
“Barris? Barris Aderen, is that you? I told you it was Barris, Rion, and you didn’t believe me. You owe me a silver sal now.”
Common sense told him he’d regret it, but Barris turned to look anyway. The red pleasure boat had come alongside the barge, its two-man crew holding it in place against the current with the oars. A half-dozen people bunched together on the middle seats — all young and well-dressed and smiling, enjoying their outing on the river. Barris knew them all. Had counted them each as friends once. Even Cael Averre, who stood in their midst, wearing a fresh, sweat-free tunic and a too-smug smile on his face.
By the thrice-cursed fiends, indeed.
“It’s a sad day,” Cael said, though there was nothing particularly compassionate about his tone of voice, “when the scion of a Great House has to work for a living. But then…that’s right. Aderen isn’t a Great House anymore. Is it.”
As if Barris needed anyone to remind him.
Eristan had warned him this would happen, that there would be those who would try to shame him for his father’s crime. He could fight them, Eristan had told him, or he could ignore them. The choice was his. Either way, only time would silence those that carried any doubt.
He turned his back on the boat and on Cael’s smug expression. It was hard, though, and his hands shook as he pretended to work with the ropes. In his stomach a bitter, persistent knot tightened uncomfortably.
Tierce leaned close and hissed, “He’s an ass. Don’t pay him any attention.” He was trying to help, of course, but he couldn’t understand. Not really, He wasn’t from Corregal. He hadn’t been here when the Sun Bridge had fallen. He didn’t know what it had done to this city, which prided itself so much for its bridges. What they meant to the people who built them. Tierce tried, but he could never know what it was like to be the son of the man who was responsible for bringing one down, for the chaos, the destruction. The death.
Cael, of course, was not in the mood to be ignored. At his imperious order, one of the hirelings traded his oar for a long hook and used it to latch onto the side of the barge and pull the red boat close-to. As the two vessels bumped together, bobbing in the current, the young bravo sprang across the gap and landed on the deck of the barge with a thud.
“What’s the matter, Barris?” he asked as he prowled down the deck, voice curling with contempt. A scabbard swung at his hip, sunlight glinting off the gold-embellished hilt of the sword it held. “Couldn’t you find a job gutting fish on Grayling Bridge?”
More laughs from the boat. Barris felt his face flush and struggled to keep his composure. Eristan had warned him, but it didn’t make the taunting any easier to endure. Shame clung thicker than sweat, and stank worse. “I do what Sieur Eristan tells me to do,” he said, and hated himself for not being able to look Cael in the eye when he said it.
The other youth threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, that makes sense! Here everyone thought he was doing you a favor when he took you in. It turns out he was just looking for cheap labor!”
“That’s it, Cael!” Tierce. Mild-mannered usually, not easy to anger, but angry now. Fists tight at his side. He stepped between them now, dark eyes fierce. “What are you trying to prove?”
Cael didn’t look at him. Didn’t even bother to get irritated at the interruption. “Stay out if it, sheep-boy. If I wanted to talk to you, I’d find a shepherd to translate for me.” He flicked his hand as if to shoo him away, all his scorn pinned on Barris. “You know I’m right, Aderen. You don’t deserve Fleuracy, not after what your father – “
“Barris isn’t responsible for what his father did!”
“I said be quiet!” This time, Cael snapped at Tierce, and his hand went for his sword. Whether he actually meant to draw it or not, no one ever knew.
The warning came just a moment too late. The barrel was already halfway down the gangplank by the time Romeric’s half-hearted, “Watch out” alerted anyone that it was careening towards them. Barris and Tierce, who were facing that direction, had just enough time to scramble clear. But Cael was closer. By the time he whipped around to see what was happening, it was already crashing into him.
The barrel bounced one way; he went the other — right over the side of the barge and into the water.
A splash. A moment’s stunned silence.
“Oops,” said Romeric, sounding entirely unapologetic.
Someone on the red boat screamed, and someone else laughed, and then there was shouting as Cael thrust his head out of the water, sputtering, flailing, and cursing. The hired oarsmen burst into action, scrambling to retrieve their customer from the water before the current carried him away.
Barris and Tierce gaped in astonishment as Romeric strolled down the gangplank to join them. Together they watched the red boat swing about, rocking dangerously when some of the passengers – Cael’s friends – tried to lean over the side to pull him out.
When it became clear that Cael’s life was not actually at risk – he could swim well enough to keep himself afloat, at least – Tierce’s shock gave way to mirth and he collapsed against the stacked barrels, holding his sides in laughter. But Barris found it hard to find any humor in the situation. He gave Romeric an incredulous look. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“Boats are dangerous places,” the foreigner said, a placid expression on his face. “He should be more careful.”
After more shouting and curses, the boatmen managed to haul Cael out of the water and into the boat. The deposited him, dripping wet, into the midst of his companions, who were clearly torn between their concern for him and their concern for their finery getting dripped on by their soggy friend. Cael struggled to his feet and turned towards the barge, face contorted with anger.
You…!” He shouted at Romeric, his face turned several shades redder than should have been possible. “You could have killed me!” He lurched forward, but the red boat had drifted too far downstream now to do anything but shout. and the boatmen clearly weren’t going to do anything to stop it.
As the boat moved away, Romeric cupped a hand to his mouth to make sure Cael heard every word “If I wanted to kill you, I would have used something a little more reliable than a barrel of dried fish.” He allowed himself a laugh then, quiet and self-satisfied. Not mocking. Tierce still cackled in amusement.
Even from this far away, Barris could see the fury in the look Cael sent their way. “He’s not going to forget this,” he murmured to the Jurati in warning. “He’ll come after you, sooner or later.”
“So let him come.” Romeric shrugged, then clapped him companionably on the shoulder. “I know you’ll have my back. Let’s get this finished so we can get that drink, yes?”
As he strode off to collect his errant barrel, Barris watched him with a divided mind. He didn’t think he liked him any better, but it wasn’t every day that a near-stranger tossed someone into the river on your behalf. Whether it was a matter of house loyalty or some other kind of madness that had prompted the barrel-rolling routine, he couldn’t be sure. But there was something reassuring about having someone willing to stand up for you like that. Yes, having that drink might not be so bad after all. At least in the tavern it would be noisy enough he wouldn’t have to listen to him talk. And, if he was lucky, he might even be able to have some fresh ice limes.
She led them home quickly, the two young men she knew and the one she didn’t, across the river three times and through all the convoluted byways of the city towards Fleuracy House. Even Barris with his long legs had trouble keeping up with her, which was the point, because she didn’t want him to have a chance to ask any of the questions she knew he wanted to ask. Questions for which there were only awkward answers.
Cagen Thul had done her a favor, really. Whatever impulse had driven Neda to challenge the foreigner to a duel had not been born of experience with the sword. If the watchman hadn’t stepped in when he had, she would have humiliated herself nine-times more thoroughly than his public rebuke had done. She could just imagine the ridicule that would have ensued, had she actually tried to cross swords with the Jurati. With Barris and Tierce there to witness, no less.
But what had she expected, invoking Evod as she had?
Night had settled fully on the river by the time they reached home; even the towering mansions of the High Bank had surrendered the day’s last light. Down below, nearer the water’s edge, shadows thickened into blackness, with the lights on the bridges making dotted lines across the river. In on a quiet street that cut up from the south shore of the Cille, Fleuracy House was hidden behind high stone walls, indistinguishable from its neighbors save for the twin falcons carved into the ironwood gate.
The gate was open, and torches lined the vine-wrapped arcade that led to the house, an austere, three-storied structure half-carved out of the hillside itself. Neda ran past the steward standing watch with barely a word. Evod’s influence still curled around her tongue, and she was desperately afraid of what she might say, if she had to say too much. It wasn’t fair. All she’d asked for was a little misdirection, so that she might go unnoticed on the Blade. Instead, she’d found herself stepping out of the crowd, pretending a competence she surely didn’t own. But everyone knew that Evod, who was sometimes called the Master of Lies, had a devious sense of humor.
She crashed through the door into the house, desperate to reach her room before anyone could stop her. Instead, she nearly crashed into her father, who stood waiting in the pilastered entry hall. Eristan Fleuracy was nearly sixty, with grey hair and wrinkles on his face, but even so it was hard to think of him as old. Beneath his formal, grey-green tunic he was lean and straight-backed, and still quick enough to catch his daughter by the elbow as she tried to fly by.
He held her fast while he leveled a hard glare at the three who spilled through the door in her wake. Words weren’t necessary, under that gaze. Both Tierce and Barris flinched from the unspoken rebuke, looking even more like boys than they usually did. They’d been due back at sunset, Neda remembered, in order to attend the Bell Guard dedication at the Gatehouse. Her father did not often set curfews on the young men he’d taken into his House, but when he did he expected to be heeded. There would be consequences after tonight, she was sure. She might have felt sorry for them, if she wasn’t tied up with her own resentment at not being allowed to go herself.
“Five minutes.” He didn’t raise his voice, but reproach shaped his words like a whip. “Then I want you back down here, appropriately groomed and dressed. We can discuss whatever excuses you have to offer for yourselves in the morning. Go.”
They went, shoulders hunched, eyes to the floor. Tierce looked up at her as he passed her on the way to the stairs, a bemused expression on his face, but Barris hardly acknowledged her. His jaw was clenched so tightly she could almost hear his teeth grinding together.
Not until the clatter of their footsteps had died away did Eristan turn his attention to the stranger that still hovered in the doorway. Releasing his daughter’s arm, he surveyed the Jurati swordsman with a critical eye, taking in the brightly colored clothing and jewels, along with the expensive sword that hung at his hip. “Who are you?” he asked. “Has my daughter been out collecting suitors dressed like that?”
“Very funny, father.” Neda yanked the cap off her head, loosing her hair that had been trapped beneath. The long, dark hair fell across her face and obscured a rising blush. She did not welcome talk of suitors at the best of times, but especially not when she was wearing clothes borrowed from the cook’s son. “He’s here to see you.”
“Is that so?”
The Jurati swept forward with a bow. “Sieur Eristan,” he said. His eyes, a light hazel, glimmered almost golden in the lamplight. “I am greatly honored. My name is Romeric Esard. I bear a letter, from Anieve aira Berdenne.”
“Anieve?” The name caught her father off-guard. He stared at Romeric a moment, and the stern lines on his face softened. “It’s been a long time…”
“So she said, before I left her.” The Jurati held out a square of folded parchment. “She said also that it would not matter.”
There was a wax seal holding the letter closed, but Neda could not make out the insignia pressed into it. Her father studied it a moment before breaking it open.
“She asks that I give you a place in my House.”
Romeric straightened his shoulders, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “I have some skill with the blade, Sieur. I would be honored to wield mine in your service.” Somehow, he managed to say it without looking smug. He had a right to boast, after his victories on the Bridge of Blades, but he didn’t. Perversely, his casual self-assurance rubbed Neda the wrong way.
Neither was her father much impressed. He looked at the young man over the top of the letter with raised eyebrows. “Really? Anieve suggested that I send you to my farm in Barasti.”
Doubt flickered across the younger man’s face. “She said that?”
“She seems to think time shepherding goats would do to teach you some humility.”
“I…” It was the first time she’d seen him unsettled since he drew his sword on the Bridge of Blades. As Romeric stumbled over his response, plainly dismayed by this unexpected turn of events, she decided she might like him after all. Especially when, despite his consternation at the prospect of a career as a shepherd, he dipped his head to her father and said, “If you think that’s best, I will be guided by your wisdom, Sieur.”
“I think that I do not need a goatherd who likely does not know the difference between a goat and its own fodder. You can stay here. We’ll discuss our obligations—yours to me, and my own to you—on the morrow.” Eristan refolded the letter in his hand. “Do you have something else you can wear tonight?”
“I left my belongings with the barge—”
“Tierce!” Eristan cut him off, his shout reverberating up through the hall. A moment later, Tierce peered down at them from the top of the stairs.
“See if you can’t find something for him to wear tonight. You’re close enough in size. Go on.” He waved Romeric towards the stairs. “Be quick about it. We are late already.”
The Jurati, his relief almost palpable, bowed again and murmured a quick thanks. He took the stairs two at a time.
When he was gone, her father exhaled softly. “Well, daughter, do you think your mother will approve?”
“I think you could bring a whole clan of Grennish hill folk to live here, and she would not object. She’ll put her foot down if you try to send him to the farm though.”
He chuckled in rueful agreement. Lesina Fleuracy was relentlessly detached when it came to matters of the Corregal house, but she was dictatorial about how the farm was run. She was in Barasti now, in fact, three days to the northeast, overseeing the spring planting. She would not thank her husband for sending an untried popinjay to her as a farmhand.
“I don’t think Romeric Esard is his real name,” Neda said unexpectedly, so suddenly that she surprised herself along with her father. The thought hadn’t even been in her head before her tongue had shaped the words.
Evod again, she knew. But was he twisting her tongue with more lies, or had he given her a truth this time? The Liar was only one epithet he wore. He Who Sees was how most called him, or the Open Eye, but he was also the Grey Watcher, and the Honest Knave, and sometimes just the Spy. To him truth and lies were but different sides of the same coin he played with.
Her father gave her a shrewd look. “You may be right. But Anieve would not have sent him to me if he was not trustworthy. Whatever his reasons are for hiding who he is, I don’t believe he means us harm.” He pinched the folds of the letter between his fingers, deepening the creases. “I’ll not trouble him about it. Nor should you.”
It was not an entirely reassuring response, but since she could not explain where her suspicions came from—or even if there was any foundation to them—she decided to let the matter drop. At least he was aware of a possible deception. But it bothered her, a little, that her father placed such trust in this unknown woman from his past. “Who is she?” she asked. “Anieve aira Berdenne. That means ‘of the honey crag’, doesn’t it? Is that where you met her? Did you…were you lovers?”
Sieur Eristan pursed his lips and considered her. “That’s a frank question for a girl to ask her father.”
She bit down on the inside of her lip, hoping she hadn’t gone too far. Growing up, he had always answered all her questions, even the uncomfortable ones. But she had never asked him something quite so personal before.
“I’ll give you an answer,” he told her then, “if you’ll tell me why you’re running about the city dressed as a boy.”
She opened her mouth, and then shut it again without saying anything. At her hasty headshake, Eristan nodded gravely.
“I thought so. Let’s just agree that some questions between father and daughter are better left unanswered.”
A short while later, Sieur Eristan Fleuracy left his house with the three young men in tow. From across the street, a woman watched them go. She was dressed in worker’s garb, with the badge of the Porter’s Guild on her shoulder, but that was mostly for convenience’s sake. In this city of stepped roads and terraces, most goods had to be carried by hand, and the Porters were the ones who did it. Porters could go anywhere, and were never questioned.
She recognized the foreign swordsman amongst the the Sieur’s charges, though he had changed clothes and now wore a badge on his shoulder, too. She’d caught the gleam of it in the torch’s light as they passed. Fleuracy’s twin falcons, no doubt. Her employer would be interested in knowing that, to be sure. Hopefully, the information would earn her an extra coin or two when she passed it on.
When the street was empty again, she slipped away from her hiding place. As she headed up the hill towards High Bank, she whispered a prayer to Evod. He Who Sees had a special fondness for those who watched from the shadows.
Pay attention, and the world would drop stories at your feet. Tierce’s father had taught him that. But because he was not particularly interested in collecting stories, he’d added a corollary of his own: find enough stories, and sooner or later you’d end up in the middle of one. That was how he happened to find himself wedged into the throng on the Bridge of Blades, hoping for his chance to duel the foreigner who had thrown down an open challenge to all-comers—and was, improbably, beating every one of them. If a story was going to start on the Blade today, he wanted to be a part of it.
“Sieur Eristan wants us back before dark,” Barris reminded him, raising his voice to make sure he was heard over the enthusiastic clamor of the onlookers. The two of them stood side-by-side in the crowd that packed the bridge to the rails, all young men with House and Guild badges on their shoulders and swords at their hips. Barris was a head taller, which gave him a slightly better view of the cleared area in the middle where the duelists circled one another, though he didn’t look particularly happy about it. He had not wanted to be there at all, and his impatience with his companion was clear. “We’ll be late.”
Tierce pulled his attention away from the duel long enough to glance upriver, where the sun would soon disappear behind distant mountains. “Not that late. We could take Shinetower.”
The peal of sword against sword interrupted Barris’ next objection. Blades flickered back in forth in a swift exchange of blows that left him as mesmerized as everyone else on the bridge. “We’ll miss the dedication,” he muttered as the duelists pulled apart again, though there was not much conviction to it.
Frustrated by the heads still in the way, Tierce tried to elbow his way forward for a better view, but he had to settle for standing on tiptoe to see much. Cael Averre was having a hard time of it. The youngest son of one of the richest Houses in Corregal, Cael was an aggressive duelist with a reputation for overpowering his opponents in the first minutes of a fight. Tierce had personal experience of that, so it was with some satisfaction that he watched the Jurati swordsman rebuff his attacks with apparent ease. The sheen of sweat on Cael’s brow showed the effort was starting to wear him down.
In contrast, the foreigner seemed hardly winded at all, and this was his sixth—no, seventh—bout of the afternoon. Impressive.
“Look at that,” Tierce exclaimed, admiring the negligent flick with which the Jurati deflected a thrust, and then smoothly turned the move into a cut of his own. His blade moved with precision and speed, too fast to possibly avoid. Only at the last second did he pull the blow aside, the blade skimming so close to flesh that Cael must have felt the wind of its passing against his cheek. There was a shout of approval from the audience.
“Who is he?” Barris mused as the Jurati danced away once more from Cael’s blade.
“The son of an impoverished count,” Tierce suggested, the details spinning themselves out in his head even as he spoke. The Jurati’s flamboyant clothing—not to mention the fine blade he wielded—suggested something less humble than ordinary merchant-folk. And since Corregal had no hereditary aristocracy of its own, tales about foreign nobility always had a particularly romantic appeal. “His father gambled away the family’s wealth. All he had left was a sword with which to make his fortune, so that he can return home, restore his family’s honor, and claim the woman he loves as his bride.”
The story earned him some wide-eyed stares from the boys near enough to overhear him, but Barris only snorted. “You just made that up.”
“Of course.” Tierce grinned. “I usually do.”
Read more →
A man could make a name for himself on the Bridge of Blades, if he had a good sword and he knew how to use it. For local boys, it was almost a rite of passage, to stand on the bridge and make an open challenge, to face any opponent who came against you with a sword in hand. You fought until you lost. If you fought long enough, someone would notice…and if the right person noticed? It could earn you a place in one of the Great Houses. Maybe even a chance at the Bell Guard. At the very least, you might prove yourself worthy of the city watch, which was better than laboring in some tradesman’s shop for the rest of your life, or hauling cargo on the river.
Yes, there were opportunities to be had on the Blade.
But the foreigner was only looking for a bit of fun.
Even before he drew his sword, he managed to call attention to himself. Blond and fair, he stood out amongst the dusky people of Corregal all the more for his outlandish clothes. Local fashion favored sleek cuts and subdued colors—his elaborately embellished, plum-colored shirt, belted at the waist with an embroidered sash, was ostentatious, to say the least. He wore too much jewelry, too, with gold and gems glittering at fingers, throat and ears.
Jurati, the word went round, with some derision. The islanders were renowned for drinking, gambling, and debauchery, not swordplay. No one took him seriously when he first started nosing around for a bout; they judged him to be some rich merchant’s son, too young and stupid to know what he was asking for. But he persisted, sauntering between the groups of young men gathered on the bridge in the late afternoon, offering unasked for opinions, and calling the reputation of the native swordsmen into question when no one would consent to spar with him. It was Donan Patt who finally gave in, hoping that if he humiliated the peacock quickly enough they’d see nothing more of him but his plucked tail as he ran off.
“What is the wager?” the Jurati asked, his accent making a lilting cadence of the words. The question was met with more scorn. A circle of onlookers had cleared around the pair, Donan’s friends, mostly, looking forward to seeing the stranger get what he had coming. Donan was not necessarily the most talented youth in the group, but his father was in the watch, and he was certainly competent enough to deal with this upstart.
“It’s against the law to wager on the Blade,” Donan informed him. The Bridge of Blades had many rules, necessary in a city where each of the ruling houses maintained what amounted to its own standing army. Bloodshed in the streets might be unavoidable when one house went to war against another, but on the Blade it could at least be contained. The ban on wagering kept tempers from flaring if a contest turned unfavorably for either party.
The stranger accepted this stricture with an easy shrug. “We fight for honor alone, then. ‘Tis better that way. Now tell me,” he said, pulling his sword from the scabbard at his hip. “Does our honor demand real steel, or must we duel with sticks like those boys over there?” He gestured to the far end of the bridge, where a pair of ten-year-olds in livery swatted at each other with wooden practice swords.
At the sight of the Jurati’s sword, a ripple of surprise moved through the circle of onlookers. An Arrenal blade, it was, the silvery engravings down its length thought—but never proven—to be part of a spell-forging that made them lightweight and ever-sharp. Magic or not, there wasn’t a man on the bridge, fourteen or fifty, who didn’t know the value of an Arrenal sword, and few who had hope of ever owning one.
Donan drew his own sword, solid, local craftsmanship without the elegance of the foreign weapon, but just as potent. He’d worked six months laying stone on the Meridian Bridge to pay for it, and he trusted it wouldn’t let him down now. “We can fight with steel,” he said. “You should know, though, that if you’re injured here, you’ll have no recourse to the law. Not even if someone died.”
It did happen, sometimes. But a man who drew his sword on the Bridge of Blades was expected to know the consequences.
“I am not so worried about dying.” The Jurati smiled, a little sideways tilt of the lips that was just shy of arrogant. “Nor for killing either.”
He bowed then, and, with a flourish of his arm, straightened into a position of readiness.
It was a shorter duel than anyone expected. Donan, not wanting to spend any more time than necessary, moved in quickly with a blow aimed high at his opponent’s shoulder. The Jurati deflected it easily and returned with a thrust that made Donan jump back to avoid the point of his blade. Before he had a chance to recover for another attack, the Jurati slid forward and, with two cutting swings to keep him on guard, brought the flat of his sword down on Donan’s wrist with a resounding thwack.
He cried out and dropped his sword. As it clattered onto the cobblestones, there was a moment’s incredulous silence among the witnesses, and then an explosion of consternation. Impossible, that a Corregal swordsman could be defeated by anyone so quickly, let alone by a Jurati fop. Some trickery must have been at play. Someone would have to step in and make things right. Donan Patt, clutching his bruised wrist along with his bruised ego, slipped off unnoticed into the crowd.
The Jurati just stood there, smiling complacently amidst the uproar as the young men on the bridge wrangled over who would get the next chance at him. Spinning his Arrenal sword around by the hilt, he gestured his next opponent forward and said, “Who’s next?”