The Sunset Warrior - 01 (6 page)

A small silence built itself in the room and the air seemed to get thick and difficult to breathe. ‘I trust you have good sense.’

The white eye went out once more as Freidal returned to his papers. The scratching of the quill had ceased. After a time, the Saardin said, without looking up, ‘Sir, I believe you are late for Combat practice.’

Extend the leg twist block thrust forward and down. All in one motion. Return to position. This one will never make it, he thought, as his opponent bent to retrieve the sword he had just flicked out of his hand. No more than a blur.

Not far away Nirren
posted
, a deceptively slow movement, which his opponent reacted to, making him vulnerable to the difficult
solenge
, which Nirren executed with terrifying speed. The point of his blade hooked, bit and thrust, and it was over. Ronin wiped his forehead with the side of his wrist as he watched Nirren step back and bow to his opponent.

Black shadows moving slowly around a table, orange flame flickering, sending shards of light glinting from deadly dagger hilts.

The din of two hundred men boomed off the walls of the Hall of Combat. The place reeked of sweat, hanging heavily on the hazy air. Ronin could not allow himself to miss practice, although he wanted to see Stahlig. He felt instinctively that he must maintain his routine as much as possible. He did not take Freidal’s warning lightly.

All eyes on the table in the centre of the room: lines drawn in a familiar pattern. But there had been no time. He had just a split second and he had not been looking directly at the tabletop. The pattern had registered on the periphery of his vision, so that now he could not force it, it would have to surface on its own.

Nirren walking over, very little sweat on him. He grinned. ‘How about a real workout?’ Ronin smiled, bowed to his opponent, turned to face Nirren. They took up position, searching for an opening.

On the other hand, he had no more doubts as to his course of action. In fact it was the Saardin’s warning that had decided him. Not that he had ignored his friend’s plea. But in the end it was because this very powerful and dangerous man with the false eye and the smile of a cold animal had warned him away, that he was going to find out all he could about Borros, the mad Magic Man. The authority principle: it rankled.

Nirren found it first, and Ronin, his reaction time down because his mind had been elsewhere, was hard pressed to turn the attack aside: the
faeas
, low thrust, blade extended far forward, flicking up at the last instant, ready to disembowel, and if it was successful, that was the end. Ronin did the only thing he could, turning sideways and plunging his blade straight down just in front of his forward thigh. It was instinct and speed. The inexperienced Bladesman would retreat and that would be it. Attack the
faeas.
Their blades clanged sharply and Ronin swung immediately out and up, attempting to take advantage of Nirren’s extension—the drawback of the
faeas
if it does not work—but the Chondrin countered.

By the end of practice, Ronin had disadvantaged Nirren twice, but, as usual, neither had gained a decisive victory. But then neither was looking for victory. They had been trained differently and thus had vastly individual styles. In practice they learned from each other, keeping their reflexes sharp and their minds ready for the unexpected. Ronin knew many tricks that he simply would not use during a practice; he supposed Nirren had some too.

Into the Corridor and on the way Upshaft, the tarred reeds fitfully illuminating the scarred and cracked concrete walls of the Stairwell. Patterns of lines rippling past him, and he had it, the latent image impressed through the retina on to the brain suddenly giving meaning.

When Nirren had asked him to have a drink after practice he had declined, thinking of Stahlig and Borros. Now he wanted a talk with the Chondrin.

His quarters were much like Ronin’s several Levels Upshaft: two sparsely furnished cubicles. ‘Sirreg’s not in, so we need not worry about what we say,’ Nirren told him, reaching out a flagon and goblets from a cabinet. They drank the deep red wine, their sweat drying, muscles relaxing. Ronin sat back in the cushions of the divan, feeling the spreading warmth within him. ‘I have never asked you this, but how did you become affiliated?’

Nirren looked at him reflectively and sipped his wine. ‘You mean the belief?’ He cocked his head. ‘Um, so it is not true what they say about you?’ He said it with a smile.

‘You know perfectly well what is true and what is not.’

‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ He shook his head. ‘My friend, there are many stories—perhaps because you have so few friends, perhaps because you are unaffiliated—they cannot understand that—’

‘Neither can you,’ said Ronin not unkindly.

‘Ah, not true, my friend. Your choice. I respect that, but—well, one must try—’

‘If one has the belief.’

Nirren shrugged. ‘Or not. Many do not have it, deep down. But the world of the Saardin is all they know. In any event, they fear you—yes, fear is the correct term—because you are a mystery. That and the Salamander, of course. They believe you shun them because of some terrible deed you once committed. Very interesting. But I digress. You asked how I became affiliated.’ He refilled the goblets. ‘Very well then.

‘When I was a Student I had a friend, never mind his name, and he was very ambitious. He dreamed of becoming a Chondrin and thence a Saardin. Now the world is a complex place—you and I understand that now—my friend did not. He craved power but refused to acknowledge the Traditional paths to that end. I saw what was happening, and although I had no clear idea of the world at that time, still I knew down here’—he pointed to his stomach—‘that he was wrong in his approach. I spoke to him but he would not listen. He nodded his head, said, “Yes, that is good advice,” and then went out and did the opposite.’

His voice had taken on overtones, the words hanging vividly in the air. He sipped his wine and regarded Ronin. ‘And then one Spell we filed into the Hall for practice. We found him spread out on the floor in the shape of a star. Five points in a dark and evil-smelling pool: head, arms and legs. And none of them connected.’

He finished off his wine, poured them both more. It was very quiet in the cubicle; outside, the Corridor was still.

Ronin cleared his throat. ‘And then?’

‘And then I knew I must affiliate myself as quickly as possible.’

‘After what you saw?’

‘Precisely that, yes. One moment he was there, full of life and bluff disregard for the Traditions of the world, the next
—
nothing. A mote of matter. They had gone through him, discarded him as if he were a pile of rubble they had hauled from here to there. The results were public so that we should not mistake his death. They wanted us to know.

‘I saw very clearly what I must do. I am a realist, my friend. I understood what he wanted. He was not an evil man. And he was right to want power. Without it we are nothing; worse, we achieve nothing. Power is the link between dream and reality. He understood its nature as do I. But he lacked foresight and patience, and he paid for those deficiencies. I do not mourn for him.

‘The world is reality, any fool can see that. One does not have to agree with it, but one must allow oneself to work
within
its structure, do you see. To obtain the power. From there, anything is possible, my friend. Anything.’ He was finished and Ronin knew he was waiting for a response.

Nirren rose and went to the cabinet for another flagon. As if divining Ronin’s thoughts he said: ‘I do not expect anything from you. I want that quite clear.’

‘Why say it?’

Nirren smiled then. ‘Are you surprised that I should tell you all this?’

Ronin shook his head. ‘You know the answer to that.’

The Chondrin laughed. ‘My friend, I know you not at all.’

‘Because you know nothing of my background. Is that so important?’

‘A man is forged by his background, Ronin,’ Nirren said with some force. ‘And you are only fooling yourself if you believe otherwise.’

‘All of us are different.’

‘Aye, up to a point.’

‘At the centre, I mean. At the core of the being.’

‘At the centre all men are linked by their spirit.’

Ronin looked at him with dark eyes. ‘Do you really believe that?’

‘Yes.’

He said very softly, ‘I am not,’ and it rushed at him on a chill wind down deep where he feared to go, and knew not why but felt a rushing in his ears and a wetness on his face and body, pinpoints of pressure, and very far off a gasping sound distorted and inexplicably terrifying, and he tried to see but something was in his eyes like mist, so that nothing was clear, and …

‘—do you know?’ Nirren was asking. He leaned over to pour more wine. Ronin cleared his throat again, put his hand over the top of his goblet. ‘Enough,’ he said thickly.

Nirren laughed. ‘Aha, yes. I believe you are right. Too early for more.’ He stoppered the flagon, put it away, turned. ‘You did not answer.’

‘What?’

‘Did you know that Jargiss is my second affiliation?’

‘No, I—’

‘It does not often happen. That is, not many are able to break affiliation and live.’

Wisp of mist, still. ‘But you did.’

‘Yes, but I was lucky. Jargiss knew of me, my situation, and he approached me.’

‘Who was the first?’

‘Ah. Dharsit.’

The Chondrin’s skin like wax, white scar pulling at one eye, colours of black and gold. He told Nirren of the incident.

‘Just like his Saardin. I am not surprised. They treat Combat without respect. They are Freidal’s men.’

‘But he is such a Traditionalist.’

‘Yes, but it does not matter. He uses them only. After he is finished with them—he will use Dharsit’s men first in battle, they will make the first assault and they will die—both Saardin and Chondrin will cease to exist.’

‘I saw Freidal today,’ said Ronin. ‘He sent for me.’

Nirren went very still. ‘Really.’ His tone was neutral but as Ronin related what had happened he could see that the Chondrin was excited.

Nirren frowned. ‘Either he is being overly cautious or he has some interest in you. I do not like it.’

‘I saw something while I was at Security. A room filled with daggam studying a large tablet. I only got the briefest glance but I am sure now. They were looking at a map.’

Nirren did not move and his face was lit by a tense concentration. He said: ‘You could not be mistaken?’

‘No.’

He nodded. ‘Very well. Anything else you can remember? Details of the map—’

Ronin shook his head.

The Chondrin sat back for a moment, then stood up. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We shall go to Jargiss.’

‘There are other matters that require my attention.’

They were at the door. Nirren knew better than to press it. ‘Later, then.’

‘Yes,’ said Ronin. ‘Later.’

Because of his shoulder wound, he felt confident in approaching Stahlig, even if his visit was reported to Freidal. Sirreg was just coming out of the Medicine Man’s quarters when he arrived. His brown and orange shirt was stained and one arm was bandaged near the wrist. ‘Ronin. Good to see you.’ He was blond with a fine square face and direct dark eyes with long lashes. His face darkened. ‘I heard what happened at Sehna.’ He shook his head. ‘What are we coming to. Brawls at Sehna, really!’

Ronin pointed. ‘What happened to you?’ He had no wish to discuss the fight, especially in the Corridor.

Sirreg grimaced. ‘A souvenir from one of Dharsit’s Bladesmen.’ He laughed shortly. ‘It is nothing, really. You should see what I left with
him
.’

‘This happened in Combat?’

‘No, in the Corridor—Downshaft. One must get used to these inconveniences now.’ He shook his head again. ‘But at Sehna! Would that I had seen it. Nirren has all the best of it, being able to sit at any board he chooses, while we Bladesmen are stuck—have you seen him this Spell by chance?’

‘He was off to see Jargiss not a few moments ago.’

‘Ah. Well, then.’ He lifted his good arm and walked off.

A Neer was waiting to see Stahlig when Ronin entered. She was neither attractive nor unattractive, with short brown hair and a lined face like a ripe fruit. She stared at him unashamedly. ‘I don’t get to see many Bladesmen,’ she said in a thin dry voice. ‘That’s because I’m Downshaft at the eighty-fifth Level.’ Ronin had never met anyone who had been that far Downshaft. ‘Huge Machines Down there—larger than you can imagine, I’ll warrant.’ She began to stroke her leg and Ronin saw that the foot and ankle were bandaged. There seemed to be something wrong with the foot’s angle to the leg.

She saw where he was looking. ‘In one of them,’ she said. ‘Frost, it hurt!’ Her shoulders slumped. ‘We were working on one of the Air Machines—the primary ones, you know?—and they tell us first thing when we go Down there to mind the Machine fluids because they’re slippery. I guess that’s what happened. I stumbled and slid along the hot metal and’—her face screwed up—‘oh, it was awful, the foot in the Machine! It took them almost an entire Spell to decide what to do and get me out.’ She stroked the shin above the mangled foot, not looking at it. ‘After a while I couldn’t feel anything at all, so I didn’t care when they talking about sending for a Medicine Man to cut off the foot. They were afraid of damaging the Machine in some way, because we still don’t know how it works or even why, only that it does and keeps us alive.’ She smiled a beatific smile. ‘But in the end they managed to get it out by breaking the ankle and it was all right.’

Stahlig came out to help her into the surgery and she looked back over her shoulder at him for as long as she could. He had never shared the Bladesman’s contempt for Neers and Scholars and, of course, the Workers. Frost, it was not their fault, and someone had to—

Stahlig called him. There were several exits from the surgery and, for an obscure reason, Ronin was glad that the Neer had been sent another way. He went through the half-lit deserted surgery, the elliptical stone slab dominating the room. Its polished top and sloping pebbled sides caught the orange lamplight in such a way that for a startling moment it seemed to him to be covered with bright glistening blood, pooling thickly in the slight hollows of the top, running in complex networks down its sides. He blinked and looked again, saw light purple-grey stone marbleized with white striations. He moved slowly past high cases, into the inner cubicle.