Markan Sword

  Djerana grinned. "Yes."

  "I expect you enjoy having two of the Ten to bully."

  "One," corrected Djerana, absently. "Sandev does not help me very much."

  "She has the city to look after," replied Grayar. "There is much work still to do and there are only so many hours in each day."

  Djerana pouted briefly. "She makes it clear she has little time for me."

  "You display your insecurity; the world doesn't revolve around you."

  "Of course it does." Djerana giggled. "This is the ilvenworld. Our world and not yours."

  Grayar shook his head. "I meant around you personally," he said. "You did not come here to debate the finer points of philosophy, nor yet to complain that Sandev ignores you."

  Salu brought the conversation to an abrupt end as she pushed the study door open with a foot and entered, carrying the alovak tray. A large mug of water stood beside the can.

  The sylph passed the water to Djerana and the ilven absently sniffed at it. Despite almost two years in Marka, she still did not fully trust water given to her.

  Salu's earpoints twitched as she glanced at the ilven, but she adopted a rather more submissive posture as she served alovak to her owner.

  "Thank you, Salu." Grayar smiled at her.

  The infertile flushed brighter blue, inclined her head and returned to the kitchen. Djerana watched her go.

  "Still a very quiet sylph," she remarked.

  Grayar waved a dismissive hand. "That's sylphs," he said. "As you well know." He took a sip of his alovak. "Talking of sylphs, are you here because Zenepha is finally tired of you, or you of him?"

  For a moment, he thought the ilven might stamp a foot, the nearest she usually came to showing bad temper.

  "I'm worried that people are plotting against him," she said. "They plan to replace him with a human."

  Grayar restrained an urge to laugh. "You knew all along this would happen. Speaking for myself, I'm surprised he lasted this long. Zenepha is a caretaker, crowned to stop the throne falling into abeyance while Marcus cleared his name."

  "Yes, yes." Djerana sounded impatient and it was her turn to wave a dismissive hand, in mock imitation of his earlier gesture. "But not yet. His best advisors played him false and have gone home to Sandester, and Marcus Vintner all but demanded the throne today."

  "Silmarila told me Marcus only pointed out that Zenepha was free to abdicate whenever he wished."

  "I didn't say that he said 'Gimme the throne'," countered Djerana. "But it was a demand. Samrita told me that he also reminded His Majesty who had the strongest claim. What's that, if not a demand?"

  "A reminder?" suggested Grayar, peaceably.

  This time, Djerana did stamp a foot. "This is serious. Zenepha is getting quite concerned. The time is not right, yet I can see that he is tired of all the politics going on all the time."

  Grayar gave a sympathetic nod. "Sadly, that is the nature of high office everywhere," he replied.

  "It doesn't happen with us," countered Djerana. "Once we choose an ilvenleader, that is it."

  "But when you are about to choose a new leader, there is always politics before the election," countered Grayar.

  "They are not about to choose a new leader."

  "If you mean the Markans, then yes they are." Grayar took another sip of alovak. "This is the culmination of a struggle to see the empire recognized again. And to address your earlier observation, it is one of the reasons why I'm still in Marka."

  "But it's not fair on Zenepha," protested Djerana. "He has served faithfully and well. What will come of him when he is no longer Emperor?"

  Grayar smiled and drained his alovak. "You finally ask an intelligent question. What indeed befalls Zenepha when he is no longer Emperor?"

  "I'm not sure he could go back to a collar," said Djerana, a faint grimace of distaste twisting her features.

  "Even if he wanted that, he couldn't," replied Grayar. "The Senate manumitted him, so there's no going back."

  "Going back." Djerana nodded and her emerald eyes glowed with sudden enthusiasm. "That's exactly what he must do."

  Grayar's puzzlement slowly faded as the ilven began to explain what she meant. Soon, a happy smile spread across his face. This might do very well indeed.

  ***

  "I will see you tomorrow."

  Kaira, her eyes alight, stood on tiptoe to plant a quick kiss on Basren's lips. The boy, as she had expected, blushed to the roots of his hair.

  "You had better," he said, trying and failing to sound authoritative. "Any later and those books you borrowed will be overdue. All librarians hate that."

  Kaira giggled. "You know I forgot to bring them on purpose," she said. "Any excuse to see you again."

  Basren's arms snaked around her and hugged her close. "You could just come anyway," he whispered. "You don't need a reason."

  "I do for the mistress," replied Kaira.

  "Well you'd best be off then." Basren stepped back and smiled. "I want no trouble between you and the Vintners."

  Kaira ran lightly down the library steps, paused at the bottom to wave to Basren, and disappeared into the crowds that swirled along Marka's streets.

  As always, the city showed off its cosmopolitan population, with clothing and people from all over the continent. Some of the outsiders dressed like Markans, in billowing shirts and tight breeches, but others remained in their traditional clothing. Very pale men who wore furs came from the far north, while tanned men came from further south. Men with honey-colored skins from the west; men with jet-colored skins from the southwest; men with skins every color in between and from everywhere in between.

  Some wore cloaks, even in the gathering heat of a Markan summer and a few even showed nothing more than their eyes. One such, perhaps shorter than the rest, caught her attention. Wrapped in some black garment, with only a fringe of dark curly hair and a pair of startling dark blue eyes showing, stopped almost in front of her.

  "You are Kaira," said the stranger, movements graceful and sinuous. The stranger's voice was light, but not unduly so.

  Kaira looked around. "How do you know my name?" she demanded.

  The eyes suggested the stranger smiled at her.

  "Thought it was you. There is something for Zandra Vintner, something you need to take to her, something urgent."

  "What is it?"

  "Come with me to my lodgings and you shall be given the message. You can carry it back."

  Kaira felt suspicious. Though the familiar Markan accent rolled off the other's tongue, the words sounded strange. "What message?"

  "From the field," replied the stranger. "Best it comes from you. No welcome for the likes of me at the palace."

  "I must hurry back," said Kaira. "I'm already a bit late. The children –"

  "Can wait a few moments more," interrupted the stranger. "My lodgings are near, not far. You will lose no more than a minute or two."

  "I don't understand why you need me to carry your message," protested Kaira. "You can... Wait! Where are you going?"

  The stranger already walked away and Kaira paused. Could this message really be so important that she must carry it? She lingered for only a moment before following. The stranger dodged stalls and easily twisted through the crowd without touching anybody. Nobody, not even sylphs, paid either of them any mind.

  The sylphs' lack of concern allayed her fears.

  Until the stranger turned into an alley.

  Alleys crisscrossed Marka. Rarely threatening in themselves, Kaira usually avoided them because one never knew who might be met. And she preferred to ignore some of the uses alleys were put to.

  "Is it far?" she called.

  "Just by here," replied the stranger. "Just here, as I said."

  Kaira paused and blinked. She looked around, but there were no doorways, just a black hole in the ground, from which she heard the thunder of a river far below.

  "Well, what is the message?" she demanded.

  "This," replied the
stranger.

  Kaira thought she had been punched in the chest, until she felt something hot and sticky dribbling down the inside of her clothes. She could not breathe and the pain went on and on. She stared at the spreading wet redness and tried to lift her head. One hand clutched the stranger's dark clothes for support, tearing a button free.

  Then she fell into darkness...

  ***

  Chapter 9

  Decision

  Reshiad stared. "You're the General?" he finally managed, staring at Serifa. "But, you're... That is, you can't be; you're a... a –"

  "– girl?" completed Serifa.

  At her side, Erard chuckled.

  Reshiad blinked.

  Verdin saved him. "We only hope that Dervra and his underlings dismiss the idea as quickly," he said. He waved a hand in Serifa's direction. "But I must say that she has received the best military education possible, short of open warfare."

  Serifa's hazel eyes were expressionless. "We have nearly five hundred men and women within Turivkan's walls; a further thousand outside."

  "The women are fighting as well?" Reshiad hoped he did not sound too naive.

  "They too have lost loved ones," Serifa pointed out, "and in some cases are the only survivors from their family. They have as much reason to be angry as the men of this land."

  "When Marka was besieged a couple of years ago," added Verdin, "the women of the city added their weight to its defense. There is nothing strange in this, Reshiad."

  Erard said nothing.

  "Yet it is true that they look for a man to lead," added Serifa. "They are happy to follow me, but the actual battle leader must be a man. If I am seen to follow him, then everybody is happy."

  "You want me to take over?" Reshiad's eyes widened. "Everything I know involves sheep, stone walls and sylphs."

  Serifa's smile widened. "I did not say you would actually lead," she said. "Only that I would be seen to follow. You will be guided and helped by me, and by those who assist me."

  "And I will continue to teach you," offered Verdin.

  "I am not related to the old Prefect," pointed out Reshiad. "I am not one of his sons."

  "Which is a pity," said Serifa, solemnly, "but we must work with the clay we've received."

  "I am not clay," protested Reshiad.

  "Sounds like your feet are made from it though," muttered Erard, attention focused on cleaning dirt from under his fingernails with a daggertip.

  "I understand we ask a lot of you," said Serifa. "But there is great need."

  "If I say no?"

  Serifa shrugged. "Then we shall arm you with a stick or something, train you to use it and put you in the ranks with the rest. If you want some time to make your decision, well and good, but I'm meeting some of the commanders in a little more than an hour. I'd be honored to introduce you to them."

  "As their leader." Reshiad's voice was flat.

  Serifa smiled and nodded. "Yes."

  ***

  Glayen had a small courtyard, almost exactly square, beside the large bath area. Benches and pots holding flowering plants dotted the yard, giving the merchant somewhere to relax in the summer. Rain downspouts led to barrels in all corners, presumably to provide water for the pots.

  Reshiad paced the yard, twelve steps before turning and twelve steps more before turning again. As he turned, he argued aloud for and against Serifa's proposal.

  "I resemble the old Prefect's son; they need me." Turn. "I'm just a peasant boy, nobody will believe I am a battle commander." Turn. "They need to be led. A group of bereaved peasants with no more idea than I have." Turn. "Nobody can squeeze a lifetime's military education into weeks."

  A cough came from one of the water barrels and Reshiad jumped. He saw a pair of sylph eyes, glowing faintly in the near dark.

  "Neptarik," he said. "How do you manage that? I never saw you."

  "I have been here all the time," replied Neptarik, just a touch of hurt in his voice. "It is not my fault human eyes cannot see well."

  "You know what they want me to do?"

  "Yes."

  "I have no idea what to do." Reshiad sensed the sylph's earpoints had risen bolt upright. His eyes had certainly widened.

  "Nobody hears a sylph's voice, but if someone did listen, then this one says Reshiad Wajrun Helzar should accept the proposal. He should go to these men, assume command and tell them how he shares their grief at losing loved ones. Reshiad might tell these men how he lost his own family, because of the census. He might point out that the murder of innocents suggests fear in those who give such commands. Rulers who fear their people cannot survive long."

  "I've never persuaded people to follow me before," pointed out Reshiad.

  Neptarik sniffed. "They already want to follow," he replied. "My advice, which no doubt you will ignore, is that you should go there, take charge and make them follow."

  "Do you believe I can do it, Neptarik?"

  "It does not matter what I believe," replied the sylph. "Only what you believe. And another thing, from this miserable sylph scout, whose advice has no value: assume a name that is not yours. Safer for you, safer for what is left of your family. This sylph thinks a name like Deshad would suit." Neptarik sniffed again and dropped to the ground with a soft, almost silent thud. "But nobody listens to a sylph's ramblings. We live to serve, donenya."

  Reshiad held his tongue until the scout neared the door leading from the courtyard. "Your advice is wise, Neptarik and I will take it. Thank you."

  The sylph paused. "I pulled the right boy out of the water after all," he said, before leaving.

  ***

  Reshiad watched the five men arrive. They did not come together, but one at a time, tapping on the outer door before admittance. He leaned against the balustrade, watching each man bound up the stairs to the meeting room.

  Serifa and Verdin were already within, as well as the taciturn bodyguard. Erard could give sylphs lessons in silence.

  Three of the men went directly to the room, but two paused, greeted by sylphs Glayen claimed did not belong to him. To judge from the hugs and, in the case of the infertiles, tickled earpoints, the sylphs' genuine owners visited now.

  Once all five men were closeted in the meeting room, Reshiad took a couple of calming breaths. At least, they were supposed to be calming.

  "A disgusting display," muttered Neptarik, from beside him. "So public."

  Surprised, Reshiad turned. "What?"

  "All that touching of earpoints." The male sylph shuddered.

  "It's different for infertiles," said Reshiad. "You ought to know that."

  The door creaked open and Verdin left the room. He looked around, saw Reshiad and beckoned.

  Reshiad stepped forward. He glanced over his shoulder once at Neptarik, who smiled and nodded encouragement. Reshiad managed a small smile in return.

  "Come on," said Verdin, voice gentle. "You'll be fine."

  As the door closed behind him, Reshiad felt like a condemned man climbing the scaffold.

  The room had several light crystals to help keep it bright. That took some doing, thanks to Glayen's obvious obsession with dark wood paneling. Seven people sat around the table stood in the middle of the room, and most stared at Reshiad with open curiosity. He took the only vacant chair, between Serifa and Verdin.

  Serifa looked quite at her ease. Girls her age could act ten years older or ten years younger, but she looked self-possessed and mature now. Erard's brown gaze skewered Reshiad and the boy quickly looked at the other five men.

  "Good evening," he managed.

  Serifa smiled and pointed to each newcomer in turn. "Let me introduce our field commanders." Even as she spoke, Reshiad knew he would hear false names, adopted to protect each man's family.

  Helden, Vawn and Silbur had the hazel eyes and brown hair so common in Turivkan. The bearded Silbur had the palest skin, hinting at a base birth, while the other two had the honey-colored skin shared by Serifa and himself.

  Ozbon had b
lack hair and green eyes flecked with silver; while Kedric, blue-eyed, fair haired, and boasting an impressive mustache, was easily the oldest man present. Reshiad doubted if he had many more years than forty.

  The door opened again, admitting Neptarik and Mya, carrying mugs and two heated cans. The sylphs passed around the room, offering alovak, before they withdrew to the sides of the room. Reshiad soon realized that the other humans quickly forgot they stood there.

  "Which one are you?" asked Ozbon, after savoring his alovak and taking the first sip. "Awen or Warlon?" His strangely colored eyes glittered.

  "He's too old for Warlon," muttered Silbur.

  Verdin and Serifa looked expectantly at Reshiad.

  "My name is unimportant," said Reshiad, "but you may call me Deshad. I am pleased to meet you all." He glimpsed Neptarik staring at him. See? Someone listens to you, miserable sylph or not.

  Verdin and Serifa exchanged a look. The other five men nodded in approval.

  "We feared you might already want us to call you Excellency," said Ozbon.

  "Not yet," said Reshiad. He wondered what secrets Ozbon's assumed name hid from view. "We need to win first."

  A small chuckle rippled around the table.

  "My understanding is that we have fifteen hundred men and women here," continued Reshiad.

  "That is just Shelcar's cell," remarked Ozbon. "Numbers vary, but we have fifteen cells, including one in Turivkan itself."

  Reshiad nodded. "Good. Who is responsible for coordination between us all?"

  Ozbon pointed to Serifa, who smiled.

  "Excellent." Reshiad decided he was enjoying himself.

  "Only thing that bothers me," continued Ozbon, his silver-flecked green eyes steady and expressionless, "is how you sound so different from her."

  "We were raised in very different parts of the Prefecture," said Serifa.

  Ozbon sniffed.

  "But we are all here for the same reason," said Reshiad, hoping Ozbon was not about to destroy his promising start. Why would he think we should sound the same?

  "Which is?" Ozbon sat back and crossed his arms.

  Reshiad gestured with an arm. "We have all lost loved ones, else we would not be here. The man I called Father, the woman I called Mother and the girl I called Sister were murdered because they helped me flee. And I haven't even mentioned our sylphs, whose loyalty cost their lives. I am sure you and those who follow have equally sad stories to tell. Nobody needs revisit their grief to prove a point. The enemy is in Turivkan and, no matter what disagreements we have here, the Prefect unites us against him."