3: Black Blades (9 page)

Even old, bald priests like Samsango technically wore honor braids. Samsango’s were woven from goat hair and sewn to the shoulders of his robes. He had two, which placed him just below the prior in honor. But even without any, John’s position was better than that of a priest whose hair had been cut.

For a year after his braids were shorn, a dishonored priest was treated with animosity and utter contempt. He received the most demeaning and dangerous work, often cleaning the latrines or replacing the cracked tiles of the steepest roofs. He ate the coarsest food, wore the roughest clothes, and slept beneath the thinnest blankets. He could be punished for any misfortune and had no right to speak in his own defense.

John knew now that when they had first met, Ravishan’s short bristle of black hair had been a symbol of disgrace. Ravishan had been punished for some transgression against the Payshmura creed. John had no idea which one. The ushvun rarely spoke of the ushman’im or the ushiri’im. When they did, it was with awe and reverence.

There had only been a few nights, while John had been serving guard duties high on the walls, when Ravishan had managed to visit him. Their time together had been brief and precious. John hadn’t wanted to ruin those pleasant few hours by asking questions that could embarrass Ravishan. Instead, they had talked about Nayeshi and shared gossip about their fellow priests.

John wondered if Ravishan was watching from one of the raised walkways. He thought he could see other dark forms on the farthest walkways, but he couldn’t make out any faces.

The prior lifted both his tanned plump arms into the air and John’s attention snapped back to the practice grounds and his opponent. The other priest crouched back into a defensive stance. The prior dropped his arms, and John charged forward.

John’s opponent shifted to catch John’s shoulder, but he moved too slowly. John spun, mud spattering up under his feet. He swung his leg up and hooked the soft back of his opponent’s knee. The priest buckled back. John slammed his open hand into the man’s chest and his opponent splashed down into the mud.

Cold spatters smacked across John’s bare stomach and chest. It was fast and simple. John found he liked that about the Payshmura battle forms. The fallen priest swore, but accepted John’s outstretched hand. John helped him back up to his feet. Behind them, John heard another short crow of triumph from Samsango.

“Good form, Jahn,” Samsango called out. “Keep on your feet.”

John wondered just what Samsango had bet on him. It couldn’t have been much. None of the ushvun owned anything but their braids, razors, and a few polished prayer stones. Though, they often wagered their duties. It was a sort of gambling where everyone started out laden with obligations and then hoped to come out with none. No one ever struck it rich. Even the greatest winning streak never amounted to more than a day off.

John strode back to the left side of the practice ground.

The prior lifted his arms again. This time, it was John’s turn to take the defensive stance.

His mud-caked opponent charged, throwing himself ahead with brutal force. John crouched and, as the priest sprang at him, John lunged into him. The smaller priest was jarred with the force of the impact. John caught him by the hips, then heaved him upward with all his strength. The priest’s legs flew out from beneath him as he flipped across John’s back and went down into the mud again. John pivoted to face the priest.

Still sprawled in the mud, he shook his head at John. His expression didn’t seem so much angry as concerned. John helped him back up to his feet.

“You’re too good for your own well-being, Jahn,” the priest whispered to him. Then, he glanced up to the walkway above them. John followed his gaze to Ushman Nuritam’s thin figure.

John frowned. Ushman Dayyid was no longer there.

The prior lifted his left arm, again pronouncing the test in John’s favor. John’s opponent wiped the mud from his body. Then he climbed up the stairs and back out of the filthy grounds. John watched him go.

Then, John saw the tall black column of Dayyid’s figure advancing down the steps. The soft murmurs and quiet conversations that had hummed across the steps went silent. As John looked out over the steps, he took in row upon row of black braids as all the assembled ushvun bowed their heads.

Dayyid spared none of the priests a glance. He stopped beside the prior. The prior bent in half before Dayyid. Dayyid spoke softly over the other man’s bowed head. John couldn’t hear any of what he said. He only caught murmurs and pauses. The prior bowed slightly lower, his glistening braids spilling down over his face and sweeping against the stone floor. Dayyid turned with mechanical precision and strode back up the stairs.

 
The prior straightened. His round face was dark red from being bent over for so long. He scowled, seeing John looking at him. John quickly lowered his eyes.

“Practice is done for the day,” the prior shouted. “Those of you who have been on the grounds, bathe and then attend your duties. Those who have not been on the grounds, go directly to your duties.”

John trudged through the mud and started to pull himself up onto the stairs. His dormitory was in charge of the pine garden this month. With the weather turning warm, the soil would need to be turned and prepared for seeding. It was work that John enjoyed.

 
The prior held up his hand for John to remain where he was. John waited as the other priests filed out of the arena. Samsango milled on the steps for several minutes after all the rest had gone. The prior gave him a sharp, warning glare. With an apologetic shrug to John, Samsango left too.

Once they were alone, the prior said, “Ushman Dayyid has done you the honor of accepting you for his ushiri’im to practice their battle forms against.”
               

A slightly sick chill slithered through John’s stomach. He didn’t want Ushman Dayyid practicing anything on him, particularly not battle forms.

“You will wash and then go directly to the golden chamber on the second floor. If Ushman Dayyid finishes with you today, you are to come back to me directly. I won’t allow for any distractions or laziness.”

John nodded.

The prior scowled. “Well, go! You don’t want to keep Ushman Dayyid waiting.”

“Of course not.” John couldn’t manage to force any enthusiastic inflection into his voice. His words came out flat and dull.

He climbed up from the grounds and took the long way around the armory. The baths were a series natural springs, which the priests had sheltered with tall, latticed stone walls. There were carved stone seats where towels and clothes could be left but no roof. Moss and lichen covered the rough stone floor.

John wasn’t surprised to find Samsango waiting for him. The old man looked worried.

“You haven’t been called up to serve the ushiri, have you?” Samsango asked.

John just nodded and stripped off his mud-caked pants.

“But you haven’t even been initiated!” Samsango protested. “How can Ushman Dayyid even ask you to walk through the golden doors, much less fight with his ushiri’im?”

“I don’t know.” John had the feeling that Ushman Dayyid could do just about anything he liked, but he didn’t want to say that out loud.

Other priests were in the bath as well, some of them barely bobbing above the water.

 
A few of them glanced up at John, but then looked away. Their expressions were too sober and their voices too low. Normally, one of them would have teased John, or smacked his bare shoulders with a towel. Instead, he received only a few pitying glances.

“The prior should tell him he’s made a mistake,” Samsango announced from where he sat cross-legged at the edge of the bath.

“If the prior was going to say anything to Ushman Dayyid, he would have already done it,” John replied.

John scrubbed at the dried mud on his legs. Then he dunked beneath the water, washing his face and hair. When he came back up, Samsango continued talking.

“It’s not just wrong to do this to you, but it does the ushiri’im no good to practice against a novice. Ushman Dayyid should reconsider.”

 
John squeezed the water out of his hair and tied it back away from his face.

“You think that’s likely?” John asked.

Samsango didn’t answer. His frown deepened.

“I wouldn’t have encouraged you so much if I had known.” Samsango’s gaze dropped to his lap. “I would never have thought that you would be chosen. Who would have?”

“It’s not your fault,” John told him.

“But I feel bad for winning bets on you now,” Samsango admitted.

“It’s all right,” John assured him. “Just tell me what it is exactly that I’m going to be doing.”

“You will fight the ushiri’im.” The wrinkles lining Samsango’s mouth pulled into deep fissures as he scowled. “They use criminals while they’re perfecting their open-handed blade work. But after that, they need opponents who are trained in the battle forms, so that they can hone their skills. It’s an honor to serve them, but you...”

“I’m going to get my ass kicked?” John supplied for Samsango and the old man offered him a grim smile.

“I’m afraid so.”

John closed his eyes. Before Dayyid had made it his mission to subdue his insolent spirit, John hadn’t known how it felt to truly be beaten. He had thought that he would have to be dying to hurt so much. Black bruises had decorated his flesh like tattoos. His ribs had ached each time he took a breath, his muscles trembled with each motion, and his split lips had cracked and bled when he spoke.

Each day had added injuries and pain. To be hurt that much that often changed a man, he had realized. It made pain the center of his existence, the one constant that he could not escape. Even when Dayyid finished for the day, the pain remained. It became all he felt and all each new day promised. It devoured any pleasure he might have found in his surroundings, leaving him with only dread.

But he had endured it, and it had ended.

His muscles throbbed with the physical memories of those days. He didn’t want to go through that again. But his only other choice was to flee.

If he got up right at this moment and abandoned Rathal’pesha, he could avoid it. No one was going to chase a braid-less novice down the steps. But it would mean abandoning his hope of finding a way home. It would mean facing Laurie and Bill and telling them that this world would be where they lived from now on. Sickness would dominate the rest of Bill’s life; servitude and repression, the rest of Laurie’s.

He had brought them here. It had been his foolish mistake. He owed it to them to try and get them home.

“Well,” John said, “it can’t be much worse than last time.”

“It will be much worse,” Samsango protested. “This will be blade fighting. The Unseen Edge, the God’s Razor, the Silence Knife. You don’t even know what these things are! How can you hope to defend yourself against them?”

“With my battle strategy of running, hiding, and crying?” John suggested.

“No,” Samsango said suddenly. “I will have to go and tell Ushman Dayyid that this is wrong.”

This statement drew a startled gasp from the ushvun sitting close enough to overhear.

John said, “Ushman Dayyid has never struck me as a man who is open to criticism.”

“No,” Samsango admitted. “But someone should...”

John could tell that Samsango was frightened. He was old, frail, and of lowly rank. Ushman Dayyid could snap him apart like pieces of kindling. Or worse yet, Ushman Dayyid could pronounce Samsango’s criticism a transgression of his holy authority. The two rough braids sewn to Samsango’s robe would be stripped away. Then it would be the duty of every ushvun to punish the old man.

 
Samsango was too old to do much work. Other priests often took his share. They respected the lifetime he had given to the monastery and went out of their way to look after him. He depended on the kindness and generosity of his fellow priests. A year of castigation, abuse, and deprivation would kill him.

“It’s all right,” John said. “I can do this.”

“But—”

“I’m a tough young man.” John pulled himself up out of the water. “I’m sure the first sight of me bawling and hiding behind furniture will disgust the ushiri’im so much that they’ll just send me away.”

Samsango laughed, but then shook his head. “Don’t offend them. They carry the god’s own bones.”

“I won’t.” John took the clothes that Samsango offered him.

John forced himself to dress quickly. His body seemed to resist him. His legs felt heavy and slow. His hands wanted to become clumsy. He almost dropped his clean pants twice. Finally, with the slow, premeditated gait of a reanimated corpse, John started up the stairs toward the golden chamber.

John had been to the second floor before, but only to scrub the halls. He had never been through one of the ivory inlaid doors that ran along the left wall of the hall. He recognized a few written Basawar words now, but not many more than those that allowed him to distinguish a cask of wine from a cask of fermenting taye blossoms. Nothing so complex as this writing.

The ivory inlaid words that arched and curled over the black door panels fascinated him, in part because he couldn’t read them. John traced the curving sweep of polished letters with his finger. Beneath them, gleamed the emblem of a book. John wondered if the symbols spelled out the word for library.