Sworn in Steel (23 page)

I heard a deep breath come from where I had fallen, followed by a hiss of pain.

“No, not a Lion,” she said, her voice tight now. I heard movement—loud for her, I expected, and soft for anyone else. “But good enough in some ways, and worse in
others.” A soft scuff, and my rapier skittered across the floor in my direction, stopped at my feet. Another hiss of pain.

“I give you today as a gift,
jeffer ani
,” she said softly. ‘Fortunate ghost.’ “But I would advise you to not rest too easily. You are marked.”

Then soft sounds, fading, gone. I was across the space and kneeling over Fowler before they had completely faded.

“What . . . ?” croaked Raaz in the darkness.

“She left,” I said, not looking up from my examination of Fowler. There was blood on the side of her head, and she was responding weakly at best.

“Left?” His voice was still rough, still more a gasp than speech, but even that couldn’t hide the genuine astonishment in it. “How did you—?”

“If I were you, I’d give more thought to answering questions than asking them right about now.”

A brief silence. “Yes, of course. I . . . it’s just that I didn’t expect . . .” He coughed and looked back into the darkness, in the direction of the wall he’d been
casting the shadows against. “To have one of them show up here, to see one of my masters killed through my magic. I—”

“Raaz,” I said, my tone sharp. “I need you with me. Fowler’s hurt.”

I watched him bow his head, then nod. “Yes, of course. What do you need?”

“Can you speak anything over her to help?” Jelem had used magic to heal me once, but that was special, and that was Jelem. I had no idea how patching glimmer might translate to Raaz.
It wasn’t the kind of thing most Kin could afford, or most Mouths could pull off.

Another cough. “Perhaps. Wait.” Words spoken, power gathered, and there was light in the darkness.

Thankfully it was weak, but I still found myself looking away. Amber-tinted darkness turned into a too-bright wine vault, the bricks and stone reflecting light almost as if they were mirrors,
each one directed at my eyes. I blinked, squinted, and ducked my head farther into my shoulder.

Behind me, I heard Raaz crawl over to us, settle down on the opposite side of Fowler. He turned her to better face him. I realized I was holding her hand, and that doing so hurt like hell. My
strained fingers didn’t like the idea of trying to hold on to anything just now. Screw them: I didn’t let go.

“It’s a single blow to the temple,” he rasped. “Very precise.”

I blinked against the light, not quite ready to turn around yet. “How bad?” I said.

Sounds of movement, a gasp from Fowler. Then, “I can’t tell.” Raaz spoke a series of low, broken words. The words were followed by a gust of cool air that made the hairs on my
arm stand up.

I risked a look over my shoulder. A small magical flame flickered over the spilled lamp oil on the floor, floating just off the surface. Raaz was on his knees next to Fowler, leaning over her.
Her hair had ice crystals in it now, and there was a thin coating of frost over the blood and swelling. As I watched, he ran his right hand over the wound, his fingers skimming the air just above
her skin. Vapor filled the space between his skin and hers, and when he pulled away, the frost seemed thicker.

“That’s the best I can manage,” he said. “If she doesn’t wake up soon, I’d suggest a physician. Or even if she does. Head wounds.” He made a face.

“Find someone,” I said.

“There’s a charity hospital not too far away, founded by the despot’s twelfth son, Padishah Shar—”

“No,” I said. “Find someone who can glimmer her.”

“Where?” he said, looking pointedly around the room, his voice turning even more ragged. “My masters have other concerns right now, and there’s no saying the
neyajin
won’t return with help. We have to leave.”

He was right. Of course he was right. I shook my head, trying to clear away the post-fight comedown that seemed to be settling in faster than usual.

Between us, Fowler moaned and shifted on the floor, her hand pulling weakly against mine. I almost gasped in pain and decided to let go after all. I was amused to see that, even like this, her
hand tried to find its way to where her knife hung at her belt.

“Fine,” I said. “Then take us to a Carver you trust.”

“A . . . ?”

“A surgeon,” I said. “Or a street physicker. Or even a barber. Someone who can check her over, at least.”

“I told you,” said Raaz. “There’s a hospital over—”

“No,” I said. “No Quack Shacks. I don’t want some mask-wearing herb crumbler cutting at Fowler while he burns incense and packs her wound with ground dog bones that he
swears came from a griffin. I’ve seen enough of their shows to know the only thing they cure is their own empty pockets.”

“Quack Sha . . . ?” said Raaz. Then he barked a short laugh, which turned into a rough cough. Looking, I noticed a puckered grayish line running across . . . no, around . . . his
neck that hadn’t been there before the lights went out. That explained his sudden change in voice. I tried to catch a brief glimpse of his hand, but it was hidden by his body. I got the
feeling that wasn’t by accident.

“Listen,” said Raaz after the coughing had subsided, “I don’t know what you’re used to in your empire, but there are no dogs, or even their bones, in our hospitals.
They’re a public duty—a requirement of the nobility to found, fund, and oversee.” Raaz leaned forward. “Do you think a great sheikh, let alone one of the despot’s
sons, would let something he’s attached his name to bring shame upon him through poor practices? Do you think the physicians working there would risk the ire of their patron by failing in
their duties? Fowler will be in better hands there than I can hope to provide here.”

I glowered at him for a moment. It wasn’t that I’d never heard of Djanese physickers, or even their hospitals, but they were more stories than reality in Ildrecca. Back home, unless
you had the ready to pay for the best, hospitals were largely for dying in. Quacks and backdoor surgeons and, if you were lucky enough to suffer from plague or leprosy, the Sisters of the Benign
Fellowship, were the options for most. A little more money might get you an apothecary or maybe a Cutter, and a fistful of hawks would buy their discretion along with the treatment. But true
medical help? Honest physicking? Unless you happened to know the location of one of Margalit’s disciples, you were better off taking to the street than putting yourself on a cot at the local
Blood Ken.

Hospitals were for either the rich or the desperate back home, and where you ended up depended on which category you fell under. Except, I had to keep reminding myself, this wasn’t
Ildrecca. And we were desperate.

“All right,” I said. “We’ll try it your way.”

I stood and went to retrieve my rapier. As I bent down, a glint of silver in the shadows caught my attention. I tensed, then relaxed once I realized it was a blade lying on the floor.

It was a dagger—the assassin’s—finely crafted, with a gently forward-curving blade. The crosspiece was made of twisted metal, the steel pommel and bone handle echoing the
spiral design of the guard. But what gave me pause was the blade itself: While it resembled a typical piece of forged and honed steel, when I picked it up, I saw what looked like shadow lingering
along the inside of the curve.

I brought the blade back into the light. The shadow resolved itself into a faintly smoking line running along the steel. Metal slowly gave way to something else—a wavering, almost
insubstantial other—that lingered where the edge should be. It was if the dagger were dissolving into its own shadow . . . if that shadow could somehow exist without light or substance.

I looked from the dagger to the wall where the shadows of the magi had fallen, to Raaz and his still-hidden fingers. I pulled off my kaffiyeh, wrapped the dagger in it, and slid it into my
boot.

I examined the wound on my arm as I walked back to Raaz and Fowler. It burned, but didn’t seem to be bleeding badly. A shallow cut. Good.

Raaz had gone back to staring at the wall and the knife groove it now sported. I left him be for the moment.

“Fowler?” I said, bending down beside her and touching her shoulder.

Her eyelids futtered. “Whum?” she said.

“I have to get you out of here. Can you sit up?”

“Hrmn tr,” she said, and began to sit up. I caught her a moment later as she fell back.

“Looks like you get to ride a prince,” I said as I shifted her and slid her over my shoulder. “Too bad . . . Angels! . . . it isn’t the way I’d like.”

“Fuf yh.”

She was small, but that didn’t make carrying her any easier. I was surprised to find myself staggering a bit as I straightened my knees and headed for the door. After one last look at the
wall, Raaz got to his feet and followed me.

“I’m going to need some help going up,” I said.

“I wish I could, but. . . .” He lifted his left arm slightly. Raaz had let his robe’s sleeve hang down, covering most of his hand, but I still managed to catch a glimpse of
what looked like gray, curled flesh. I noted that the edges of his fingers seemed to drift in the breeze of his action, just like the edge of the dagger in my boot. He hid his hand quickly again,
then opened the door.

“What the hell happened, anyhow?” I said, angling myself so that Fowler wouldn’t hit the doorway as I slipped through.

“A mistake,” croaked Raaz’s voice, already moving up the stairs. “A trap. A disaster. Take your pick.”

“I pick an actual fucking answer,” I said. I wrapped my left hand around the rope handrail that ran its way up the stairs, its length held in place by iron loops spaced along the
wall. The trick, I knew, was going to be getting into a rhythm once I started. I held my position, waiting for Raaz to get farther along so I’d have a clear path up.

“And you deserve one,” he said. Then, after a moment, added, “As do I.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“I can’t . . . ah! She killed Turgay, left him lying in the doorway. She must have followed us here.”

“At least we know she wasn’t lying in wait,” I said, “which means you don’t have to worry about someone having whispered the location of the meeting.”

“Small comfort, but likely true.”

“What was she, anyhow?”

Dragging and grunting sounds drifted down from above. “An assassin,” said Raaz between grunts. “But a special breed.”

“How special?”

“
Neyajin.
It’s said they walk unseen in the night. They’re hard to find and harder to hire. To have one turn up here . . .”

“I get the idea.” I settled Fowler more securely on my shoulder and began to half walk, half drag myself up the stairs. Unseen assassins—as if the regular kind weren’t
bad enough. “She mentioned something about the despot’s chosen and Lions. What was she talking about?”

“Stories, mostly. Hen-tales and old fantasies best shared over sweet wine and briny olives.”

“Try me.”

“Very well.” Raaz cleared his throat. When he spoke again, his voice had changed timbre, resonating and rasping its way down to me with a storyteller’s rhythm. I recalled his
performance on the street and wondered how much he did out of obligation to the despot, and how much came from his own personal enjoyment. “It is said that long ago, when the hands of the
Seven Caliphs still held sway over the lives of men and the language of the djinn had not been forgotten, there were magi who knew how to take on certain aspects of the djinn and wear them as you
or I might wear a garment.”

“Aspects?” I said.

“Abilities. Curses. Call them what you like. Borrowed powers, drawn from spirits of smoke and fire and brewed into mystic unguents. To apply these oils to different parts of your body was
to take on a different aspect of various djinn for a day and a night: on the arms for strength, on the legs for flight, over the heart for fire or fear. Each djinni was different, meaning each use
could vary. But with all of them, one thing was constant: Any who wore the aspect of a djinni gained the spirits’ ability of mystic sight.

“It’s said that only a handful of the greatest magi can craft the oils anymore, and that their efforts are but pale shadows of the magic that was. Where once a wearer could fly, now
he can but leap a high wall; where a swordsman glistening with oil used to be able to stand off whole armies, now he is just that much faster than those he faces. Impressive, yes, but not the stuff
of legend—if it ever was.”

“And the djinn sight?” I said as I looked up and saw the light shining through the door at the top of the stairs. Thank the Angels. My thighs were burning, and sweat was running down
the inside of my shirt. The cut the Blade—the
neyajin
—had given me was beginning to ache from all the work my left arm was doing pulling on the rope of the handrail.

“A cat’s vision in the dark,” said Raaz. “The ability to see at night as others would during the day. Or so I’m told. Only the despot has access to the oils
anymore, and he parcels them out sparingly. Rumors are cheap currency, especially among
yazani,
and especially at the despotic court. But I do know this: Where other assassins and spies
have failed to get past those anointed with the unguent, one group succeeds. Not always, and not without loss, but of the handful of thieves and agents who have broached the despot’s various
palaces, all have been said to be able to move unseen, even by the djinn’s sight.”

“The
neyajin
.”

“Even so. And now you understand my concern at her presence—and my appreciation of your achievement.”

“I got lucky is all,” I said as my eyes drew level with the door.
Only a little farther, Drothe.

“Luck?” said Raaz. He was sitting on the steps on the opposite side of the small chamber—the ones that led out to the street. A bloody smear covered the short flight of steps
on my side, ending at the body of Turgay, who lay in the depression between us. “I’d say it takes more than simple luck to fend off a
neyajin
in the dark.”