A soul for tsing, p.22
A Soul for Tsing, page 22
The body lay jammed up against a refuse heap, the legs sticking out of the shadows. The shoes were tatters, and the trousers not much better. She could not see any other features. She scanned the shadows and saw nothing, so she edged around the corner, her back still against the wall. Three steps brought her to it, and a kick told her that the man was either dead or very unconscious. She could see his shape in the shadows, but no detail. She crouched, the fighting dagger hastily clenched between her teeth, and gave the trouser leg a pull, drawing the body into better light.
Looking down at the corpse, she was inwardly surprised that she was not taken ill. The head was nearly severed, cut down to the spine all the way around the skinny neck. Blood had stopped flowing, but only because there was none left to flow. Both major arteries had been cut, along with the wind pipe and several muscles and veins. The cut was ragged at the edges, as if done with a saw instead of a knife. The sounds she had heard played back through her memory: the truncated yell—the wind pipe being cut off by constriction; tearing silk—the serrated wire of a garrote zipping through flesh; the gurgle—the dead man trying to scream through his severed trachea, his life’s blood pouring down his chest. It all took form in her mind like she had seen it first hand. She tightened her grip on her daggers and studied the dead face. He was skeletally thin, bedraggled, and dirty, his face thin, angular and totally unfamiliar.
“Sorry about the mess, Lass.”
Katie moved like there were hot coals under her feet, springing a full five feet into the alley, and cocking back her throwing dagger. Thankfully, she recognized Torghen’s characteristic shape before she let the sharpened steel fly. He walked out of the shadows, smiling disarmingly, a coil of serrated wire with two handles hanging from one hand.
“Did ye know him?” he asked, pushing one dagger aside with his free hand and looking up at the other, still cocked and ready.
“Huh? Oh, no.” She put the fighting knife away, but kept the thrower in her hand for comfort. “Didn’t you?”
“Nah,” Torghen rasped, walking over to the corpse. His hands flashed over the body, coming up with two silvers and four pennies, a short, wide dagger and a length of stout chord. “I’m sorry ‘bout followin’ ye, Girl, but it turns out lucky I was. I picked ye up about four blocks away on yer way out. I noticed yer shadow right off. He was watchin’ yer back, not his own. First and last mistake.”
“Why would anyone be following me?”
“Aside from robbin’ and rapin’, ye mean?” Torghen shrugged, handing the money to Katie and tossing the chord and the dagger into the rubbish heap. “Mayhaps the caps are lookin’ fer ye. They often scatter around a few silvers to the likes of this’un in hopes they’ll do their work fer ‘em.” He squinted up at Katie, rain dripping steadily off his prodigious nose. “Know any reason why the caps might be lookin’ fer ye?”
“Aside from burglary and murder you mean?” she shrugged, smiling wryly and trying not to think about the tall, dark chief constable who had been so interested in arresting her. “Maybe he was just some crazy, out for a thrill in the rain.” She looked down at her mentor and sheathed her throwing knife. “Thanks, by the way, but would you mind not leaving him here? It attracts vermin.”
“Sure.” Torghen pocketed his garrote and walked over to the body, now washed clean by the rain. He put up the hood of his cloak, then hoisted the larger form easily, balancing the weight on his shoulder while the dead man’s head lolled sickeningly at his hip. “Oh, I near fergot with all the excitement; we got work.” He looked back at her with a smile. “Ye might tell yer nursemaid ta come over tomorrow night about dusk. Get plenty’a sleep tomorrow, yer gonna be up all night studyin’. The job’s just afore dawn. Come over for a while durin’ the day too, if ye want ta look at the plans some more. It’s gonna be a tough one, but your cut should give ye enough fer the healer’s fee.”
“Uh huh,” she muttered, more dumbfounded than angry about all of her secrets that he had obviously discovered. “Torghen,” she called before he could disappear into the shadows. “Thanks.”
“Nah,” he growled with a wave. He melted into the darkness and the rain, his gravelly tenor cutting easily through the wet hiss. “I got a mum, too, ye know.”
CHAPTER XXVI
Emperor Tynean Tsing III swelled with pride as he took his place atop the palace steps and looked down upon this year’s squires. Midmorning light glinted off of the polished armor of the five stern young men at the foot of the palace steps. They stood as if chiseled from granite, their faces impassive despite the riotous cheers of the crowd and the honor about to be bestowed upon them. An immaculately groomed charger stood steadily behind each young man, the bridles held by the squires’ sponsoring knights whose faces bore even more pride than the Emperor’s. Behind those knights stood a solid wall of fifty-three knights and twelve paladins, all of the knighthood that had not been called away on dire business. For this was the ritual of their origin, the rite of ascension to knighthood.
During the last Emperor’s reign, the event had been a somber affair held in the great hall, and attended only by the nobility. Tynean III had changed that, however, claiming that the knighthood belonged to all citizens, and should be viewed by all. Today, the wealthy and highborn commanded the best vantages, of course, but that did not keep nearly two thousand of the common folk from also crowding shoulder to shoulder into the inner court. The knights were their heroes and protectors, not just some wealthy descendants of long dead aristocrats. They were the epitome of what the nobility should represent, but had unfortunately diverged from. So the spring equinox had become a holiday, the entire day after the ceremony devoted to contests and pageantry. The celebration brought the commoners that much closer to their Emperor, and Tynean Tsing III embraced it.
This year, however, there was an even greater reason for excitement. The consecration of the new knights would be the first public use of the Emperor’s new weapon, Paladin. The populace would see it for the first time, and rumor would spread of its greatness, and therefore his. This was the first step in spreading the word of Paladin, Blade of Justice, symbol of Emperor Tynean Tsing III.
“Gentle Ladies and Lords,” the Emperor began, raising his hands wide in an attempt to calm the tumultuous crowd, “and all ye good people of Tsing. Welcome.”
The crowd thundered again, the nobles applauding politely while the commoners cheered in absolute pandemonium. They yelled and howled, waving their arms and raising their small children up in vain attempts to attract his royal attention. He was indeed an Emperor of the People; their hearts and minds were his, and in them dwelt his greatest strength. With their adulation, the common folk of Tsing confirmed his success. In their beaming faces they recapitulated his belief that justice was for more than just the privileged classes.
If an empire is built upon anything, he realized, gazing out at the sea of faces, it is built upon the hopes and dreams of people such as these. I cannot fail them.
“Today,” he began again, quieting the crowd with calming gestures, “we gather to honor five young men who have proven themselves worthy of the title Knight of Tsing. Each has served well in the eyes of his Knight Sponsor, and has passed the tests of both mind and body that were set down by Our ancestor, Emperor Arianus Tsing I. In their service they have proven not only to be Our greatest warriors, but also men of most honorable character and sound judgment.” He paused, motioning three dour religious representatives forward. “Our honored squires will now receive the benedictions of the highest priests of their chosen deities.”
The Emperor stepped back, watching patiently while each squire stepped forward to receive an intricate and rather long-winded blessing. The crowd fidgeted and mumbled, craning their necks to see the spectacle, or shuffling impatiently from foot to foot, wishing for the festivities to begin. Tynean also waited eagerly for the verbose religious leaders to finish, but it seemed that each was taking advantage of the captive audience. Nearly half-a-glass of Thee’s and Thou’s had even the royal guard rocking from one foot to the other in an attempt to keep blood flowing in their weary legs. Nobles yawned and murmured amongst themselves as the fourth squire stepped forward, and one of the priests who had spoken earlier took another chance to exercise his voice.
By the end of the fourth benediction, the only person not bored with the proceedings was Kershann von Keenan, and he was far too agitated to become bored. His vantage point was excellent, a silken pillow supported by two squirming youths only ten feet behind the Emperor. What distressed him was the three thousand bustling, grumbling, scratching, yawning people jammed into this single area, all of whom could be plotting at any moment to shoot or stab or hack away at his master. And here he lay, utterly helpless and unable to do a single thing about any of it!
He had objected to this stupid idea right from the start. What good was a magical weapon designed to protect an Emperor, if the stupid Emperor refused to keep the stupid weapon in his stupid hand? Tynean had argued that the people would not like an Emperor who always had a weapon in his hand. He would pick up the axe for the knighting itself, and not until then. It was like putting handcuffs on a bodyguard, then parading through a crowd because you wanted them to see how trusting and brave you were.
So here Kershann lay, watching three thousand potentially lethal threats milling about like bees in a hive, while his utterly defenseless master stood there like a big, living target. His all-seeing vision noted every jerky movement, every hand thrust into a pocket, every impatient fiddle, every uncomfortable scratch. A man appeared in the second floor window with a knife in his hand and Kershann nearly screamed, but the man was wearing a chef’s hat and the blade was a fillet knife. Elsewhere, a courtier slowly drew a short, curved blade from an ornate silver sheath, but then used it to pare his nails. On top of this, the incessant humming in Kershann’s mind was now so strong that he felt like his head was about to explode. All in all, he was very near panic.
Finally, the last long-winded cleric was finishing his excruciating speech, and the Emperor turned toward him. Behind Arbuckle, a rich lady in a gold-sequined gown was drawing something shiny from an ornate handbag—was it a blowgun? No, just a paint stick for her trashy red lips. Ah, finally! Arbuckle was reaching down for him, taking his haft firmly in hand.
Are you all right, Kershann? the Emperor asked immediately, his thoughts radiating concern. You feel strange.
*Of course I’m not all right! This is totally insane, Arbuckle!* he raged, watching the throng as the Emperor turned back to the steps. *There are too many people here! I can’t protect you in this kind of situation, especially if you refuse to pick me up!*
Oh, relax, Kershann, Tynean replied, somewhat irritated with the paladin’s unnecessary worry. It’s just a knighting ceremony. These people aren’t here to hurt me, they’re here to see their Emperor bestow knighthood upon these five good men. I’ve lived through seven other such ceremonies; I’m sure I’ll live through this one. As the Emperor’s gilded shoe touched the first step, he raised Paladin aloft and began the speech that would culminate with the knighting of the squires.
*Just because you lived through one battle, does not mean you’ll live through the next!* Kershann growled, eying a gawking Count as he retrieved a gleaming silver snuff box from a vest pocket. *There are nearly three thousand people in this courtyard, Arbuckle. Any one of them could have put an arrow or dagger or dart into your back a dozen times while I lay there on that damnable pillow. I can not protect you if I am not in your hand!*
The Emperor was half way down the steps now, his speech continuing without falter, exalting the fine squires, announcing that they would be the first knights ordained with his new symbolic weapon, et cetera, et cetera...
I’m not going to drag you around everywhere I go, Kershann, he thought acidly, as he tried to keep his practiced speech unaffected by their heated conversation. There will be times, like this, when it will not be appropriate for me to bear a weapon. You’ll just have to trust my guards a little. They’ve kept me alive this long, after all.
Tynean Tsing III reached the bottom step and stopped, standing before the young knights-to-be. He gripped Paladin’s haft near the blade, presenting it out flat to the young men in tribute.
*It’s a wonder you’ve lived so long!* Kershann raged, nervously eying the knights behind the squires. Their hands had suddenly gone to their swords. Why? *They’re a bunch of inept buffoons who couldn’t spot an assassin if they were standing on one!*
Relax, Kershann! There are no assassins lurking here. Not with half my military elite in the same courtyard. Tynean finished his speech, and nodded to the squires. We will talk about this later!
*We will talk about it NOW!* Kershann raged, watching unbelievingly as the squires’ hands moved to their swords as well. It was not possible! They were actually drawing steel from their scabbards. These were not fillet knives or nail parers or snuff boxes; these were three-foot lengths of gleaming, razor edged steel. Killing weapons! They were drawing killing weapons! *Arbuckle! LOOKOUT!!*
All Kershann’s attention suddenly focused on those five blades. The crowds were forgotten. The chef in the window ceased to exist. The thousands of courtiers and commoners were not even a distraction. Unfortunately, the one thing that had commanded so much of his attention of late—that mind-wrenching inner turmoil that he had suppressed only by sheer force of will—was also forgotten. And in that instant, the building resonance of the gradually failing spell that held the weapon’s alloy in a stable lattice exploded in Kershann's mind like a fireball...
A screech like the cry of a thousand dying eagles filled the courtyard of the Imperial Palace as tortured metal shifted and flowed at the end of the haft in Emperor Tynean Tsing III’s hand. The lustrous grey of the alloy was torn and misshapen, reforming in variegated lines of black and silver that writhed and twisted like coiling snakes. The runes of power shifted and moved, dragged out of place by the flowing metals. The original form of the blade was held in shape by the strongest of spells, but the tenuous power that maintained the two metals as one had utterly failed. What eventually took shape, that which had once been Paladin, Blade of Justice and symbol of Emperor Tynean Tsing III, no longer resembled that work of art. More dire still, the essence that was Kershann von Keenan, and was still bound to the lattice of metal, also bore little resemblance to the proud paladin he once had been.
As the dissimilar metals diverged, Kershann’s soul diverged with them. Certain aspects of his being were naturally attracted to one metal or the other. His pride, devotion and protective values moved with the silvery grains of mithril. His strength, fury and the killing instinct of a warrior bound themselves to the adamantine grains. Where once was one mind, now raged a vacillating, confused, angry schizophrenic who viewed the world in a new and frightening dualism: His mithril self maintained the overpowering devotion to Tynean Tsing III; his sole purpose was to protect this helpless, indecisive mortal. No harm must befall him; no menace must threaten him. Kershann’s adamantine self, arrogant in the extreme and harboring all the pent-up tension, anger and battle lust of a seasoned warrior, no longer felt the need to consider the insignificant and mundane wants and desires of such a puny human being. Granted, he would protect the fool, but on his own terms. He gripped the man’s hand in a vice of psychic power, knowing exactly what to do about those five naked blades held so menacingly close.
At the first squeal of tortured metal, only one person in the entire packed courtyard realized exactly what was happening. Benoshi Kierokawa, the greatest blademage in seven kingdoms, stared in shock as his creation, his masterwork, transformed into a hideous, misshapen and dreadful abomination. He stood in shock for half a breath, the ringing of the blade’s high-pitched scream echoing in his ears. Then the shifting stilled, half the blade coalescing into silver, the runes of devotion and protection plainly radiant on the burnished surface, the other half darkening into deepest jet, the symbols of sharpness and invulnerability jumbled along its serrated edge. Seeing the spells he had so painstakingly placed upon the blade rent and pulled apart, Benoshi suddenly realized what must be happening to Kershann von Keenan’s soul. The horror of what might result gripped his heart like a hand of ice.
He lunged into action, pushing his way through the stunned courtiers and nobles toward the stricken Emperor. If he acted quickly enough, a simple spell of negation might provide enough time to separate the blade and the man. He pushed and shoved at people who cried out at his rough treatment, but their bruised backsides were his least worry at this moment. Finally he was through the crowd, only the dumbfounded Imperial Guards between himself and the Emperor. He raised his hands for them to move, the single spell that might save the Emperor already forming in his mind. Unfortunately, the guards reacted as they were trained. Three burly men interposed themselves between the blademage and his goal, gripping his wrists roughly.
“No!” he wailed desperately. “You don’t understand. The Emperor needs me!”
A hard blow across his jaw sent lights exploding into his head. He slumped in their grasp, realizing his mistake. In his haste and agitation he had reverted to his native tongue. The guards had mistaken it for a spell, responding as guards usually did, with force. He struggled to rise, trying to speak, trying to tell them he was the only one who could help the Emperor. But beyond their grappling hands, he could see that he was already too late.
Tynean Tsing III gaped in horror at the monstrosity in his hand. Instinctively he tried to open his fingers as the confused, tortured thoughts of the once Kershann von Keenan thrilled up his arm. But his fingers would not open. Panic gripped his heart and he wondered for an instant if it was his or Kershann’s. Then he heard one clear thought from the blade, and his horror was redoubled....
