The Sunset Warrior - 01 (5 page)

‘Wanted to make sure, is all,’ said the other.

‘Well?’ The stylus was poised.

‘I must have cut it on the edge of a plate when I fell. Quite a lot of them broke.’

‘Yeh, so I see.’ He turned. ‘All right, nothing going on here,’ he called to the crowd, and they began to disperse. ‘Go on,’ he told the other one, and as he turned to leave, he said to Ronin: ‘Clean up this mess.’

K’reen stood silently beside Ronin, her hand on his back. He looked at Nirren, who shook his head. ‘I can manage.’ He still had to support G’fand almost totally. ‘Look after yourself.’

Ronin nodded. He turned and saw Tomand, face white and sweaty. Bessat was comforting him as if he were a small child. They came up to him and Tomand said, ‘I do not know what to—’ He eyed the blood. ‘But he had it coming to him.’

‘It was about time someone stopped that kind of talk,’ said Bessat. ‘We are grateful.’

Ronin felt annoyed. ‘That is simply what it was. Talk. He meant none of it.’

‘He insulted me all right,’ whined Tomand. ‘But he feels differently about it now, I’ll warrant.’

Very softly K’reen said: ‘I had better clean you up. Now.’

Ronin looked at her. She had recognized the drift of the conversation.

‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose you had better.’

‘And no one saw you pick it up?’

‘I rather think not. They were all too busy.’

‘Yes. I can see that.’

‘How far did it go in?’

‘To the hilt.’

He sat on the bed, with his shirt off, turning G’fand’s dagger over and over in his open palm, staring at the blade with its dark smear. K’reen bent over him, working on the wound. Occasionally she rummaged in an open bag beside her.

They had gone at first to Stahlig’s, even though he knew it could have been awkward. But the surgery was dark and the cubicle behind it, and there was no telling where the Medicine Man had gone or when he would return. So they had come to K’reen’s quarters because of her bag.

She began to stitch the wound closed, having already cleaned it thoroughly. ‘What is wrong with that boy? A weapon at Sehna! What was he thinking of?’

He kept his body very still. ‘He is not a boy, firstly,’ he said. ‘And he takes his work seriously—perhaps too seriously. They do not exactly make it easy for the Scholars, and it affects him. Perhaps.’ He forgot and shrugged.

‘Keep still.’ Her hands were suddenly motionless, then began again.

‘I do know that what I said to Tomand is true: he meant none of it.’ She finished the stitching and laid a dressing over it.

‘But he attacked you.’

‘Yes,’ said Ronin, ‘and that is what bothers me.’

She took cream from the bag and began to massage it on to the bruise over his ribs, which was slightly swollen, with the skin turned dark colours.

‘Why?’

He shrugged.

‘Do you really care?’

He said nothing. Her fingers felt good against his skin. Along the ridge of swollen flesh she tenderly stroked the inflamed muscles. She wondered what he was thinking about, fancied it was her. She wiped her hands, and unbound her hair so that it fell thick as a forest, long, swirling about her pale face. Traces of the cream glistened in her hair, iridescent and unreal. Her fingers scooped into the bag, came out, set to work again.

‘I had never seen you fight before,’ she said softly. And something in her voice recalled the image: swift pink tongue on bright scarlet. He flung the dagger from him so that it cartwheeled in a bright arc and stuck in the floor, quivering. He turned his hands over, staring at the backs, fingers clenched, knuckles white. He slammed them together.

‘It’s all right,’ she whispered.

The adrenalin was not quite gone. ‘I am trained,’ he said slowly and softly, ‘to kill and to stay alive. All Bladesmen learn this, some better than others. But those years with the Salamander were different, and now there are times when instinct takes over—very pure and very lethal—because there is no time to think:
Hesitate and you are dead.’
He paused and spread his hands, and, perhaps, at that moment he was not aware of her at all. ‘I almost killed him—it was so close. He was defenceless and terrified at what he had done.’

‘I know,’ she said.

His back arched slightly as he felt her breasts press into him as she leaned over. Her fingers worked. ‘To see you in Combat,’ she whispered at his ear. ‘I want that.’ She moved her hands up to the nape of his neck and began a circular motion that drew the tension from his tired muscles, ‘I think about that.’

‘Somehow I cannot imagine you spending your free time that way.’ His body relaxed.

She moved her breasts from side to side against his back. ‘I am full of surprises,’ she said with a light laugh. Then her fingers moved down along his spine, slowly circling. The stroking became rhythmic. ‘Do you win?’

‘Yes. All the time.’ He was aware that she very much wanted to hear him say it. It was something she already knew.

Her fingers moved lower and again he felt her presence more closely. He breathed her perfume. Strands of her unbound hair brushed lightly against him in concert with her hands. He heard breathing in the silence of their attenuated conversation; became aware that it was his own as well as hers.

Her fingers were at the base of his spine; she touched the tops of his buttocks. Her lips were so near his ear that he could feel her warm breath. ‘You fought magnificently. You fought and you bled and through it all I was thinking of only one thing.’ Her fingers made wider circles on his body; the pressure more insistent.

He felt his blood pounding. He said nothing.

Her lips touched his ear. They were moist, and she made a sound.

He twisted then, oblivious of his pains, and pulled her into his lap. His hands were lost in the night forest of her hair, clung there. He pressed his lips savagely against hers. Her mouth opened. His hands moved slowly, sinuously down her body, and she moaned into his mouth. And he reached for the fastening of her robe.

They were thin and tall and quite young. The hilts of the triple daggers across their grey shirts shone dully in the cold lights of the Overheads, still in reasonably good condition this far Upshaft. One said: ‘Freidal wishes to see you.’ He seemed very sure of the identification, although Ronin had seen neither of them before.

He felt a brief worry as he thought of Borros. It was very early, first Spell not half gone, and he was back on his own Level. They had got him as he had walked to his quarters, appearing abruptly from around the far turning, stepping in front of him before he reached his door. Important to remember, he thought, in this Stahlig was right: Freidal is very dangerous.

‘At once,’ the daggam said.

Security had an entire Sector Upshaft. He had never been there, but for as long as he could remember there had been stories told and retold along the Corridors Up- and Downshaft of the strange and secretive doings there. He had automatically discounted most of that talk; now he was not so sure.

He was surprised, however, to find that the forbidding dull grey exterior, with its massive doors and gates manned by faultlessly garbed daggam, gave way to quarters remarkably bland in appearance. Cubicles that were lit contained daggam pursuing innocuous functions: stacking tablets, desk work, and such. They passed many rooms dark and empty. Some were clearly storage areas, others obviously not, and this was puzzling. A door opened on his right and a daggam emerged. Behind him a glimpse in pale, flickering light of a central table with something pinned on top: scored lines. The door closed swiftly and they moved on. Image remaining: heavy shadows, many daggam. And what was on the table?

‘In here.’ They went through a doorway into a small cubicle lit by Overheads. ‘Wait here.’ The daggam left him through a large door. Blank grey walls stared back at him dispassionately. Two chairs, bare floor. Dark shapes moving over the table, pointing. He waited, conscious of fatigue and the dull throbbing in his shoulder. He badly wanted to wash, and he was hungry.

The door opened and a daggam emerged. Eyes the colour of mud regarded him with dull antipathy: Marcsh. Deliberate, Ronin wondered, or is he part of the Saardin’s personal staff? Marcsh cocked his thumb at the door. ‘In,’ he said laconically.

Ronin said, ‘What else do you do besides stand at doors?’ because he was tired and annoyed.

Marcsh’s animal eyes squinted as he made a face. ‘Least I got a Saardin.’

Ronin advanced. ‘To give you orders.’

‘’Course. What else?’ His jaw clenched. ‘Orders is what counts, good orders. An’ we got ’em.’ Ronin was very close now. ‘That’s why we—’ Marcsh’s eyes got cunning.

‘You what?’

‘Nuthin’.’ He went sullen. ‘Just got my orders. Make sure you behave.’

Is that so. Ronin stepped around him and into the room. The door closed behind him, as Marcsh pulled it shut. It was deep grey with very murky Overheads. No carpet, but two unusual wall hangings in dark, muted colours. An ornate desk cut the cubicle off obliquely. Behind it, in a high-backed chair, sat Freidal. He was dressed as before, in dark grey. Silver chest bands glittered. A large lighted lamp squatted on a low cabinet behind him, so it was difficult to see the features of his face. The Overheads illuminated only the top of his head. He did not look up. Across from him sat the scribe, tablet crooked on arm, quill poised. He seemed oblivious to anything except the spoken word. There was one chair before the desk. Ronin ignored it.

After a time, Freidal shuffled some sheets, put aside a scroll, and raised his head.

‘Sir?’

The scribe’s left hand moved, a tiny scratching.

‘You sent for me,’ Ronin said in an even tone.

‘Ah yes, so I did.’ He did not ask Ronin to sit down. The false eye was white and terrible in the reflected bright light. ‘You had better tell me all about it.’

‘I do not—’

‘You most certainly do,’ snapped the Saardin, ‘know very well.’ The scribe’s hand made patterns on the tablet. ‘Begin, sir.’ Freidal’s hands were perfectly still, clasped together on the desktop, white blobs of colour. Except for the unblinking eye, his face was a shadow, unreadable. Ronin thought furiously.

‘An argument—’

‘I do not believe you, sir.’

But at least he had got it right. ‘All right,’ he said resignedly. ‘I had hoped this would be passed over, but—well, remarks were made about the Salamander, about—’

‘One finds it difficult to believe you are so thin-skinned.’ A white hand flicked and light caught the polished nails.

What does he want to hear? A bit of the truth, perhaps. ‘We—did not part on the best of terms, as you no doubt know.’ Sweat had begun to break out on his forehead, and that was good. ‘Many think, therefore, that they may insult him, believing that it will please me. But he was my Sensii and I owe him a great deal.’

There was a pause and Ronin knew that the Saardin was referring to the report. ‘He made numerous—unhealthy remarks,’ Freidal said.

‘Who did?’

‘The Scholar.’

‘I do not—’

‘Other people have given witness.’

This is such a minor matter. What is he interested in? ‘Under the circumstances, I should think the Saardin would understand.’

‘You are defending him?’

Careful. ‘He is quite harmless, Saardin. He is, after all, a Scholar.’

The papers rustled. ‘One cannot be too careful,’ the Saardin said pedantically, ‘when it comes to Tradition. Such a disturbance at Sehna is cause for an investigation, I am sure you understand that. Order must be maintained at all costs—at any cost. Sehna is the time of obeisance to the Saardin and thus to the Freehold itself. Without the Freehold’s structure, we are nothing. Without Tradition, discipline, order, we become barbarians. You understand this clearly, sir?’ The hands separated, spread themselves upon the desktop, an implicit threat. ‘I am aware that you are without affiliation. Is that one of the principles you were taught Upshaft?’ The eye winked out for a moment, shone again. ‘One wonders, sir, what the Salamander would think of one of his pupils—pardon me—ex-pupils who was involved in a disturbance at Sehna.’ His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth.

His head turned then, just enough so that Ronin could see that he was smiling. ‘I am most apologetic at having to disturb you so early, but’—he shrugged—‘the routines of Security must be maintained.’ The white eye winked out as he looked down again. He moved papers off to the side, seemed to be studying something.

‘You forgot your sword,’ he said.

Ronin almost said something then, but understanding came just in time. He stood very still and stared at the shiny cap of the Saardin’s hair. Far off a door slammed, and nearer, booted feet tramped down a hallway, setting a cadence.

‘There’s a good boy,’ said the Saardin. And Ronin knew he was angry, felt some small satisfaction. The sounds of the boots faded, and the silence came again. His shoulder ached.

‘That is your own business.’ The Saardin’s head came up, flash of white light. ‘Other things are
my
business.’ His voice took on a pedantic tone again. ‘Do you know why Security was created, sir? For two reasons. One: to protect the Freehold from invasion from the Outside. Two: to protect the Freehold from those within who would seek to destroy it.’ His hands steepled before him, fingers interlaced like white blades. ‘Now we are the last. The earth above us is frozen solid and no one can survive there. All other Freeholds perished long ago. Perished because they forsook the Traditions. Perished because they lacked our discipline, sir.

‘And so we are the last. And by the Chill, I shall ensure that we remain and flourish.’ The hands came apart. ‘While there is no one from Above who can harm us, there are still members of the Freehold, hiding among us, who wish us ill.’ The hands came down hard on the desktop. ‘That I will not tolerate! Do you understand me, sir?’ Ronin nodded. ‘Good. Very good.’

He turned suddenly in his chair and pointed behind him at a wall hanging. ‘You see this? A fine piece of work. Excellent. Better than anything we can do. How old do you estimate it is? Hmm? Two hundred years, three? A millennium. At least. What do you think of that? And we do not have the faintest idea who made it. What kind of people, even. Could have been our forefathers. Perhaps not. No records. Very mysterious, yes?’ He turned back. ‘There are many mysteries within the Freehold. Most people do not know about them. No time. Would not care about them, if they did. Then there are those few people who cannot resist poking around things they have no business being near. They get hurt that way.’