Sworn in Steel (21 page)

Fowler and I exchanged a look. She lifted her shoulders, clearly saying,
Hey, you’re the boss; you make the call.

From what little I knew through my conversations with Jelem, Djanese society was a confusing tapestry of blood ties and social strictures, the two not infrequently at odds with one another.
Extending vertically through society were the tribal affiliations, with each Djanese calling one group his home and family. There could be clans and other groups within a tribe, but at the end of
the day, it was the loyalty to the tribe that defined which way a Djanese was supposed to jump when it came to political interests. Meanwhile, extending across those tribal lines were the various
castes that existed within society. These defined the day-to-day reality of most Djanese, determining everything from how a person earned a living to where you lived and who you interacted with. A
man was born into a caste, lived his whole life there, and died in the same place. The only exceptions were the two learned castes—the Path of the Pen and the Path of the Light—scribes
and magicians. Anyone with enough talent and dedication could theoretically enter into these castes and improve their station through diligence and patronage. But it was a hard road according to
Jelem, and one guarded by the elite against incursion from below.

If Jelem had helped Raaz get into the
wajik-tal
—the magician’s academy—in el-Qaddice, I expected there was a sizable debt there. And Jelem was never one to forget, or
forgive, a debt.

I crossed my arms, making sure as I did so that my hands were visibly well away from my blades. Raaz smiled.

“Now come,” he said. “Your meeting is already arranged.”

“Meeting?” I said. “But the message said to meet you here.”

“I’m merely the messenger. I don’t have the rank or status to negotiate what you desire. You will need to speak to my elders if you wish to talk of influencing an audition and
its price. Now, come.”

Raaz headed off into the twisting streets, and we dutifully followed. After a few turns, I said, “Tell me: How does the Despotate feel about what you were doing back there?”

“What do you mean?”

“The glimmered shadows,” I said.

Raaz looked at me for a moment, then laughed. “Glimmer? You mean the magic?” He clapped his hands. “Wonderful! I must remember that: ‘glimmer.’ Very good.” He
shook his head, smiling. “I was trained in the
wajik-tals
. Like all
yazani
, my magic is pledged to the despot.” He held up his left arm and pushed back his sleeve,
revealing an iron shackle fixed around his wrist. “This signifies my obligation to the despot in all things. It is his patronage that makes the academies possible. By using my gifts to
entertain his people, I’m doing a service for him—repaying my debt, to some small degree.”

“And what does the despot get in return?” I said.

“He gets to call upon the
wajik-tals
and its students, of course.”

“For anything?”

“For most things.”

I nodded. It made for one hell of a power base. “And how does the despot feel about it if you use more permanent magic? Or more powerful?”

“One does what’s necessary and needed. There are proscribed limits set forth by the High Magi of the Fifteen Splendid Wajiks, in consultation with the despot and his wazirs, of
course, but a fair amount is left to the discretion of the practitioner; otherwise, how could we fulfill our pledge to the despot?” Raaz looked at me sidelong. “Is it not the same in
your empire?”

I chuckled. “Not quite. Oh, there’s street mages that mend pots and put on a bit of a show here and there, but the better-trained Mouths—the ones who know their stuff, like
Jelem and you—walk a narrow path. You can speak spells just fine in Ildrecca, for a price, but crafting anything more permanent or powerful will get the empire after you.” Which was why
the trade in things like portable glimmer and the most potent spoken spells were the province of the Kin. The magical black market was what had made the Kin, and its first and only king, Isidore,
possible.

Raaz shook his head. “But your Imperial Magi—your Paragons—are feared across Djan, and beyond. How can an empire that so closely limits magic produce such potent
magi?”

“Paragons are different,” I said. “They’re the emperor’s personal magicians. They know the spells no one else knows, have access to the kinds of knowledge that
would get any normal Mouth killed.” Or Nose, or Gray Prince, for that matter. “From what I understand, the kind of magic they tap is beyond what other Mouths can reach.”

“Are you speaking of your Angels?” said Raaz, sounding politely dubious. “Saying they somehow help your Paragons achieve their power?”

“That’s the imperial line on it,” I said.

“And?”

“Do I look like a priest to you?”

We fell silent after that, but I caught Raaz studying me from time to time as we walked. I knew the truth behind the power of the Paragons, knew the truth about Imperial magic: about how the men
and women who used it used their very souls to focus and control the power, and how it scarred and ate those souls in the process. I’d read it in an ancient journal, but I wasn’t about
to tell a Djanese Mouth about that.

Raaz led us along the curving, twisting side streets that seemed to be the standard for most Djanese cities. Clean or dirty, crowded or empty, they were the common thread that ran through all
the towns of Djan I had visited. The exceptions—the broad, straight boulevards that led from one public space to another, be they temples or parks or markets or communal ovens and
more—were all the more notable because of their seeming uniqueness.

Straight and true in public, turning and subtle in private: That certainly seemed to fit the Djanese way.

We ended at a small doorway set partway below street level. An iron key and a string of muttered words gained us access. Three steps down, five forward, then four up. Another door, this one only
needing a key. A large Djanese man wearing a curved sword stood there. He nodded to Raaz as he opened the door, glaring at me and Fowler. Beyond, there were spiral stairs going down.

The light coming in from the room above vanished as the guard shut the door behind us. More shone up from below, but it was faint. I could sense my night vision coming to life as we
descended.

A small taper burned in a sconce at the bottom—not enough to blind me, but enough to hurt. I averted my eyes as Raaz opened another door, this time not even bothering with a key.

The room beyond was long and low, with a barrel-vaulted ceiling extending off into the darkness on either side. It felt more like a tunnel than a room. Between the columns, deep alcoves had been
built into the walls, easily the height of a man and four to five times as wide. A wine vault, if I had to guess, except without the wine.

A pair of clay oil lanterns sat on the stone floor. They were already lit. Otherwise, the space was empty. I blinked in the light and lingered in the doorway, letting my eyes burn and
adjust.

“Please, come in,” said Raaz, this time in Imperial.

Fowler entered, looked around the space, and nodded. I came through.

“You have to understand,” said Raaz as he stepped forward, putting himself between the far wall and the lamps, casting two shadows. “Jelem is . . . not a favored person in
Djan, and especially not in el-Qaddice. Since you’re delivering something of his, we have to be careful. To be found in possession of messages or packages from one cast out as Jelem has been
is dangerous indeed. We have to be careful.”

“We?” said Fowler, placing her hand on the hilt of her long knife. I didn’t discourage her. “I don’t see any ‘we’ here beyond us.”

“I say this so that you understand what I do next is a precaution, and not a slight against you, O Sheikh of the Kin.”

My hand went to my own blade now. “What precautions?” I said, peering into the darkness on either side. The amber of my night vision was, at best, a washed-out gold hovering on the
edges of things in this light, but it was still enough to see that dark space beyond the lamps were empty. “When people start making speeches about ‘precautions’ and
‘slights,’ I get worried. For that matter, I don’t much like it when the people I’m supposed to meet aren’t where I’m supposed to meet them. Those kinds of
things usually mean blood.” I turned back to Raaz and cleared a hand-span of steel. “Where are your elders, Mouth? Where are your magi?”

Raaz’s eyes narrowed in the dimness. “I said nothing of magi.”

“No, but others did, and I’m not about to think for a moment that you’d go through all this just so I could talk to a couple of tribal elders.”

Raaz looked from me to Fowler and back again. Then he nodded. “Jelem said you were sly. Yes, you are going to speak to members of the
Majim
—two of them. Both are sympathetic
to Jelem’s plight.”

“And what plight is that, exactly?” This was starting to sound a hell of a lot more complex than a simple banishment.

“I cannot say. You have to understand that you’re dealing with Djanese politics now, and that you’re not of our tribe or clan. While Jelem spoke well of you, we cannot trust
you fully in this—there is no blood or bond between us. Hence, our precautions.”

“And yet, despite this . . . gap . . . between us, your masters are willing to help me get into the Old City. Isn’t that just as hazardous?”

Raaz let loose a soft laugh. “There are hazards and there are hazards, O Sheikh. What others see as an obstacle, the
Majim
see as an inconvenience. But don’t assume you will
get what you want: My masters have only agreed to speak with you. They will hear you and they will make their decision based on many things, not just your needs. Or theirs.”

I took a deep breath, let it out. The place smelled of damp and dust and mold, and at least two of those things seemed out of place in Djan. I knew exactly how they must feel.

“All right,” I said, sliding my sword home. “Take you precautions and let’s get on with this.”

“As you wish.”

Raaz turned to face the wall and spread his arms wide, causing his two shadows to look as if they were linking hands, speaking softly as he did. It wasn’t Djanese, but I recognized
it—if you could call having heard the same rhythms and sounds pass Jelem’s lips “recognition.”

As we watched, Raaz’s two shadows began to shift and change. One seemed to grow shorter and broader, while the other took on a more willowy shape. The lamps flickered, making the shadows
dance, adding to the sense of change. One—the leaner form on the right—was clearly a woman’s silhouette, with long flowing hair and sharp shoulders. The other shadow had grown a
bulge on top I recognized as a turban, as well as a thickness around the neck that could have signified a beard.

They were moving independently of the Mouth now, but still following the general flow of his movements. When his arm fell, their arms fell, but at their own pace, and each stopped in a different
position: one on a hip, the other folded in at the side. When he swayed left, they moved left—only one stepped, and the other leaned.

The lamps flickered again. This time, the light’s movement didn’t affect the shadows at all. It was clear that someone else was casting the shadows now—someone not remotely
near this room.

Fowler leaned in next to me. “Has Jelem ever . . . ?”

“Not that I’ve seen,” I said.

“Huh,” she said.

Raaz cast a dirty look over his shoulder while still murmuring the incantations. We shut up.

A minute or two later, Raaz stopped speaking. He dropped his arms, bowed to the shadows, and then turned to us.

“May I present . . . well, the people you wished to speak to, I suppose,” he said, flashing the hint of a grin. “You will understand if I don’t use names, O Sheikh of the
Dark Paths.”

“For your sake, or mine?”

“Let us say ‘both’ for now; it sounds more caring, yes?”

I smiled despite myself and turned to the shadows.

They were completely distinct now—two independent silhouettes on a wall where different shadows should be. One—the man—waved jauntily, while the woman’s shape seemed to
cross her arms and wait. She might have been only a shadow, but I could see impatience writ large in the outline of her body language.

I looked down, curious, and saw that each patch of darkness still extended from the base of Raaz’s feet to the wall. He followed my gaze and nodded.

“Yes, I’m still casting them,” he said. “Just as they are casting shadows of me where they are.”

“Can they hear me?”

“Once you join your shadow to theirs, they will.”

“What?”

“You will have to step into the light and cast your own self upon the wall,” said Raaz. “After your shadow crosses theirs, you’ll be able to speak.”

I glanced over my shoulder at Fowler. She was staring at the two shapes on the wall, frowning. She shook her head. I could almost read her thoughts: We didn’t know this Mouth well enough,
didn’t know what his glimmer would do to me once I stepped into its path.

I turned back around.

The man’s shadow had put a hand on either side of his head and was now waggling them back and forth, his fingers extended.

Somehow it didn’t feel like a trap.

I still wasn’t sure how I was supposed to hand over the package like this—or even if I could—but I knew I had to at least make contact with them. Jelem had said they’d be
willing to help me once I got into the Old City, but I needed more than that now: I needed them to help get us into the Old City to begin with or, barring that, then pull some strings when it came
to the audition. Assuming they had the clout to do either.

I looked from the shadows to Raaz. “So I just . . . ?”

“Step into the light, yes. I would recommend you keep your arms beside you until your shadow is distinct and the same relative size as the other two.”

“Better contact?” I said as I took a step forward.

“No. Because if your shadow is too large, you might rip a hole in their physical bodies.”

“What?”
I said, stopping.