Gemworld (12 page)

Then, as quickly as it came, the pain was gone. Laryn collapsed against his bonds, exhausted. The obsidian closed the distance between himself and the emerald, coming close enough to smell.

“Tell me who your allies are in Schel Veylin,” he requested softly, emphasizing every word.

“Well, I’m fairly popular, so it may take a while,” Laryn quipped, trying valiantly to shrug his indifference. “If you’d like to bring in a chair...”

“Of course! I could even sit far enough back that you could wither the floor beneath me.” He chuckled delightedly at the suggestion, but his dead black eyes reflected only malice, not mirth. “I think not.”

“Then at least step back and let me draw a breath without your stench filling it,” Laryn said sweetly.

The Highest glanced casually at the ceiling above them. “Again, I think not.”

“You can forget it, ‘Highest’,” Laryn mocked. “You cannot rule a man that is truly free. You might as well just kill me.”

“Perhaps... but not yet. There was a man—something of an oddity—that was placed in that prison cell. An unfortunate oversight by the guards, you see. When you helped to release your rebel leader, you released the oddity as well, and I would very much like to have him back. I’d be willing to negotiate a trade, of course... your life for his.”

“That’s a sad story. Too bad I don’t know anything about it.”

The obsidian nodded, unsurprised, and turned on his heels. “Perhaps thirst will loosen your tongue. A mundane can live over a week without water. I’m told that an emerald mage can last considerably longer, though just as comfortably. And as I fear for the lives of my servants, I can’t very well send you anything to sustain you, now can I?” He chuckled again, and paused at the door. “Oh, and feel free to wither whatever you see. I had you placed facing an outer wall, where the damage wouldn’t affect the structural integrity of the rest of the palace. No chance of killing yourself that way, I’m afraid.”

He smiled faintly as he closed the cell door behind him, leaving Laryn alone to scream his rage.

Sal and Retzu sat on their knees in the center of the village green, eyes closed and absolutely silent. This ate at Sal. When the assassin had offered to teach him how to use the sword, he thought the man might actually be teaching him how to use a
sword
, not showing him how to pray, for Pete’s sake! Sal opened his eyes, on the verge of telling Retzu exactly what he thought, when the assassin spoke.

“
Shol
’
zo rah
is the most basic stance for a
shol
’
tuk
adherent. It is a position of complete rest. If you’d stop fidgeting and relax, you’d know that already,” the assassin said without opening his eyes. Sal redoubled his efforts to remain still, but that only served to make him even tenser. He sighed and shook out his arms, then let them flop in his lap, hoping that would be relaxed enough. “In
shol
’
zo rah
, a
shol
’
tuk
may reach a state of focus difficult to achieve otherwise. It offers singularity of structure between yourself, your weapon, and your foundation, freeing the senses to explore your surroundings and the mind to explore its own boundlessness.”

Retzu knelt opposite of Sal, resting easily in his black silk suit, his body conforming perfectly to the uncomfortable position he was trying to force on Sal. He sat with his back painfully straight, knees apart, hands atop his thighs, toes pointed out behind him, and his entire body weight squarely upon his ankles. “
Shol
’
zo rah
may appear to be a position of disadvantage, but the lower center of gravity allows the
shol
’
tuk
an unlimited array of evasive options. Observe.”

Quicker than the eye could follow, Retzu spun off to one side, coming up in a crouch with his sword out and extended toward Sal. He sheathed the sword, returned to the
shol
’
zo rah
, and rolled forward into a low crouch, with one leg forward and again with his sword drawn and positioned to block.

The assassin sighed as he returned to
shol
’
zo rah
, centering himself. “
Shol
’
tuk
is a discipline that encompasses the entire being, not just the body,” he said as if by rote. “Each strike, block, and stance serve several purposes, and not always the ones you think. For now,
shol
’
zo rah
will only be our meditative stance. The mind is as much a weapon as the sword. Focus is absolutely essential to the
shol
’
tuk
adherent. Without this focus, weapon familiarity is irrelevant.

“Now, as you train, your skill and focus will increase. Once hilted, you will advance from the rawhide hilt of a novice to the doeskin, to the linen, and so forth. Each hilt has its own mantra, a phrase that describes death from a different perspective. You will speak these mantras as you meditate in
shol
’
zo rah
to help you center yourself. Study the mantras, analyze them, and you will come to understand death as more than merely the cessation of life. Do you understand?”

Sal nodded his head soberly. He’d been a soldier long enough to become acquainted with death, but never known it quite the way Retzu did. Pushing all qualms he had to the side, he pondered this new insight, and listened very closely to everything Retzu had to say.

“Death is raw, like the hide of the newly skinned bull,” the assassin intoned softly, the words hanging in the air with a certain power that Sal didn’t completely understand, but respected nonetheless. The words echoed back and forth across the far reaches of his mind, gathering the strings of his mind and drawing them taut.

There was truth in the mantra, truth about death. He tried to examine it, to know it intimately, but that understanding teased him, skittering away as he neared it. Frustrated, he focused more deeply on that truth, trying to trap it, to own it.

“Yes,” he heard Retzu mutter. “You’re a quick study. The words do have a tendency to get away from you. They force you to hone your thoughts, to sharpen your perceptions until they are in perfect harmony with your environment. No one knows why the mantras have the power they do. That’s just the way it is.”

Sal accepted this without question, without word. He simply thrust his mind forward toward the understanding he sought. “Okay,” he muttered finally. “My perceptions are sharpened. So now what?”

Retzu made a show of sighing his frustrations, but said nothing. Instead, he reached out to his side and wrapped his hand around the rawhide hilt of a newly crafted katana. He raised the sword to eye level and stared down the edge, looking for any flaws in the blade. Sal doubted he’d find any; the assassin was so serious about his line of work, he’d probably double and triple checked the blade before he first purchased it. “Some of Master Seti’s finest work,” Retzu remarked, lowering the katana. “I’ll have to drop his name the next time I hold court with the Silent Blade.

“The katana is the tool of choice for the
shol
’
tuk
adherent,” Retzu continued, now addressing Sal directly. “Its versatility and precision are utterly unmatched. No other weapon can compare to its effectiveness. And you are entirely unworthy of it.”

That last shocked Sal, almost like a slap to the face. “But I thought…”

“Oh no, you thought correctly. It is your blade. But until you learn to use it, you will not be its master.” With a flourish, Retzu stabbed the blade into the ground, leaving barely half the blade exposed. The black-clad assassin barely registered the effort of driving the sword so deep. Sal was impressed by the display, testimony either to the insane sharpness of the blade, or the strength of its wielder.

“Your tool instead will be the bokuto,” said Retzu, taking up a wooden practice sword and tossing it hilt first to Sal, who caught it easily. Sal hefted it once in his hand, and was amazed at how light the sword was, how perfectly balanced. He could see how the wooden practice sword itself could be a deadly weapon. “Use your weapon wisely. Study it. Know it. Make it a part of you, or you will never see even the rawhide hilt.”

Though Sal had been eager to start his employment with the incredibly
hot
Artisan Marissa, he had to admit that Retzu had him hooked on
shol
’
tuk
. It took most of the day, practicing feints, blocks, flourishes, and even a few strikes before Retzu deemed him worthy to take up his rawhide hilted katana.

“If you can reach it,” Retzu added ominously as Sal started toward the sword, still half buried in the soil. Sal wasn’t sure what the assassin meant until Retzu reached over his head and pulled his own gold hilted bokuto from its sheath in the hollow of his back.

“
Shol
’
zo rah
,” Retzu commanded, and both parties went down on their knees, wooden swords placed in front of them at angles. “Defend yourself.”

Swift as the wind, Retzu snatched his sword and rolled into a crouch, stabbing at Sal with the tip of his bokuto. Sal barely had time to grab at his own sword and pop up on his feet, swiping at Retzu’s sword as he backed away.

The assassin let the momentum from Sal’s sweep carry his sword to the fullest extent of his reach, and brought his sword back up, slashing at Sal’s groin. Again, Sal was able to bat it away.

Now both combatants were on their feet, with Retzu driving and Sal backpedaling. Retzu slashed and hacked relentlessly. It was all that Sal could do to block and parry the flurry of motion he had coming at him. Each strike drove Sal further and further back away from his rawhide hilted katana, now some twenty feet away. If he didn’t find a way to turn the tide, Retzu would have him backed up completely off the green in no time.

Desperate, Sal used the next block to set up a strike of his own. Reversing his grip on the sword, he brought his wooden blade up to block a chop coming in from his right side, then swept the sword forward, the tip making contact with Retzu’s temple. Not stopping long enough to see how the assassin recovered, he let the momentum of the blade spin him around until he was past Retzu and facing the rawhide hilt.

He dashed for the sword at an all-out run. He slid to the ground like a base runner, grasping the hilt and pulling as he skid past. The blade came free of the ground with barely a whisper. Caught up in the heat of battle, Sal leapt to his feet and brought keen edged sword up to block whatever strike Retzu had planned for him.

But no strike came. Retzu stood back where Sal had struck him, nursing a slight bump on the head, but otherwise uninjured. “About time, mate,” the rogue said good-naturedly. “I was beginning to think you didn’t have it in you.”

***

That afternoon, Retzu helped Sal apply rawhide to the hilt of his bokuto. A simple gesture, really, but it meant something to Sal. It was something he could be proud of. Heck, just that morning, he’d never even held a sword, much less been recognized for his proficiency with it. Of course, he wasn’t so arrogant as to believe he actually knew anything about being
shol
’
tuk
. But the fact that he had the opportunity to find out was enough to put him on cloud nine. It was very much like when he was first accepted to train as a SEAL—that elite fighting force a part of, and yet separate from, the United States Navy. He was the cream of the crop, and he was only going to get better.

He carried that high with him back to his tent, where he carefully placed his sheathed sword and its matching bokuto next to his pallet. He toyed with the idea of slinging the bokuto across his back, but thought better of it.
Not until I earn the real thing
, he thought. Instead, he changed out of his sweat slick leather jerkin and into a cool linen smock, and then headed to Marissa’s wagon.

“Ah, Sal,” she said as he approached, brushing her flaming red hair out of her eyes. “I was wondering if I’d see you today.”

Wild ninjas couldn
’
t keep me away
, Sal thought with a smile, then bowed with mock seriousness. “I was with Retzu, milady, learning the art of the invisible warrior.”

Marissa laughed prettily, and waved him over. “I suppose I’ll forgive you this once, but next time remind that overstuffed street brawler that you’re already a soldier. I need twice the time you give him if I am to mold you into a gemsmith. Now, if between the two of us we could afford you an hour or so on your own, perhaps you could see to it that I don’t have to work with a man that smells like he’s been mucking out the stables?”

Sal immediately colored at the playful insult, but quickly recovered. “Yeah, you bet,” he muttered. He snuck a quick sniff at his armpit as Marissa turned to lead him to the workbenches, then hurried to follow.

“I’ve set up this bench as your workstation,” she said, indicating a tall wooden table standing at the corner of her own. It was a well-worn table of questionable craftsmanship, but it looked sturdy enough. The center of the tabletop was clear, ringed round about with small bins filled with various gems, silver appliances, and tools. Its cleanliness stood in stark contrast to the ordered chaos of Marissa’s own workstation. “I prefer to call it ‘lived in’,” she said sweetly as she followed his eyes.

Sal ran his hand lightly over the bins, staring in slack jawed appreciation at the collection of precious stones they held. Abruptly his left eye started to itch.
She must have kicked up quite a dust cloud trying to clean this mess up
, he thought absently as he scrubbed his eye.

“Have you had a chance to study that runebook?”

Sal cast a wry glance over his shoulder at her. “The ones written in English? Oh, yeah… they’re practically all I’ve thought about.”
Well, almost
.

A slow smile lit her face with a radiance that rivaled the afternoon sunlight. She was pleased that he was taking such an interest in her line of work, Sal realized. Not so surprising. Sal had met many people over the years that bore a similarly fanatical passion for their profession, but none of them had the talent that she seemed to have. Her wagon was burdened inside and out with completed and semi-completed pieces, each one more lovely—and more fitting personally—than any decoration she might have found in the city. She absolutely
loved
what she did, and surrounded herself with her creations, not for some personal stab at glory, but almost as a tribute to her god, the Crafter, for the talent he had given her. “What say we give you an opportunity to put them to use,” she said with an enthusiastic sigh. “The runes, I mean. I was trying to think of a beginner’s project that would suit your personality, but I’ll admit that… well, I don’t know what your interests are.”

Sal furrowed his brow in thought. Interests? In a world of flying horses and fireballs, what could he create that he could possibly relate to? “I dunno,” he muttered noncommittally. “I like order, structure—” He cut himself off abruptly, looking self-consciously at the cluttered work area, but if Marissa took offense to his Freudian slip, she showed no sign. “Umm… I mean, I try to be efficient, practical, dependable…”