City of Bones (25 page)

The blond one frowned. His long features were classically Patrician, though the lightness of his skin and hair indicated a lower family. “You heard him. Stand.”

Khat ignored him, keeping his eyes on Seul, who was smiling now. The scene had caught the interest of the other young Warders out on the terrace, and some had stopped their practice, stumbling awkwardly to a halt in the midst of the exercise.

The dark one glanced at Seul. “It’s true, isn’t it? They don’t have souls. I can’t read him at all.”

“Can’t do what?” Khat said, startled into an honest question.

Seul said, mildly, “Of course it’s true. They aren’t any more human than rock demons.”

The blond one was tiresomely persistent. “I said stand up.”

This time Khat did, almost in the young Warder’s face.

Seul didn’t react, but the other two had been expecting him to be about the height of a lower-tier city dweller, and were startled to suddenly be eye-to-eye with him.

Recovering, the blond one said, “It’s none of our business if Elen wants to keep pets, but she shouldn’t bring them up here.”

The other young Warders were drawing up to watch and listen, and it was already too late to retreat. Khat said, “Why don’t you tell Elen that?”

Seul stepped back, still smiling, and turned away. Permission for the other Warders to do whatever they wanted was implicit. Khat felt he could hardly claim to be surprised. He had known Seul was a bastard before this. He was trapped against the wall, any retreat into the house blocked and not a friendly face in sight.

Someone in the group was saying, “Gandin said he’s supposed to be some kind of an infighter. He started a fight with a couple of our lictors, but they didn’t have much trouble with him.”

“Oh, a fighter,” the dark one said with a grin, glancing back at the speaker. “That’s not what I thought they were known for.”

The blond one had to elaborate on this theme. “Maybe he showed the lictors how well he did that, too.”

The humor was about the same level as that demonstrated by lower-tier thugs who roamed the streets looking for people to harass. Too bad Khat couldn’t handle this group in the same fashion, and simply put a knife in the leader’s guts and leave. He said, “Maybe so. Why, is it usually your job?”

More laughter greeted this, but this time at the blond one’s expense. Even his companion grinned derisively, saying “Is it, Therat?”

Therat ignored him, and with an edge in his voice said, “I think we should teach him a lesson.”

“I think we should throw him off the tier,” someone else suggested helpfully.

A few of the apprentice Warders were drifting back to their practice, out of boredom or an excess of common sense. Still, there was a murmur of agreement, uncomfortably loud despite the defections, and Khat felt a prickle of unease go down his spine. He had his knife, but he might as well use it to cut his own throat, because that would certainly be the long-term outcome anyway. Even striking a Patrician could earn him a messy public execution, if Riathen for his own reasons chose not to intervene. And they were only upper-tier bravos; it wasn’t as if they could do anything to him that somebody else hadn’t already done.

But he didn’t want to be beaten up again.

“We’d get our hands dirty,” Therat’s friend objected. He was bored with the game and ready to leave. “Therat, why don’t we go? We’re expected and—”

The painrod appeared out of a fold in Therat’s robes, was too close to avoid almost before Khat realized he had seen it. He threw himself backward, fell against the wall behind him, and the rod brushed his midsection.

His legs gave way, and he hit the edge of the bench with bruising force, then collapsed on the pavement, twitching helplessly, unable to take a breath. All sensation was intense, the smooth pavement unbearably grainy under his hands, the weight of his own body almost too much to bear. The effect was different from that of the painrod the pirate had used on him in the Waste; maybe they were all a little different, each individual little arcane engine producing a slightly different brand of pain. Maybe the difference was in the person who wielded it. Then the wave of agony faded under a wave of rage, and his vision cleared. He lifted his head.

To the other apprentices, Therat was saying, “I have it. If he fights one of us and wins, maybe we should let him go back to the lower tiers.” He looked down, smiling. “What about that?”

“All right,” Khat said. He came awkwardly to his feet, no longer thinking of consequences. No longer thinking at all. “I pick you.”

The painrod went flying one way, and Therat went the other. Another Warder swung at him, and Khat caught his arm, shifting his weight and slinging him into someone else. Therat had time to roll to his feet and now ran at him again.

In the next moment of coherent thought Khat had Therat facedown on the pavement, his arm twisted into an easily breakable position. Two of the other apprentices lay unmoving a short distance away. The others were scattered.

Elen was standing over him, saying mildly, “I’d really rather you didn’t do that.”

He looked up at her. For an instant, her eyes widened in fear. That startled him, because he had never been interested in frightening Elen, only in irritating her as much as she irritated him. He let the boy go, standing up. His right knee gave a twinge, and ribs still tender from the beating at the Remnant ached again.

Gandin stood behind Elen, and now he looked around at the other young Warders, and shook his head in disgust. Elen started away, and Khat followed her through the arch and into another smaller court. She turned to face him, and now she looked angry. “You could have killed him.”

Khat couldn’t answer. The fear and anger were so mixed up his thoughts wouldn’t come straight. He remembered the fight only in bits and pieces; most of it was blotted out by rage. The apprentices had been trained well, but none of them had ever had to apply that training to the lower-tier streets of Charisat, and none of them had ever fought for their lives. He had remembered not to use his knife, at least. He looked away.

“Say something,” she demanded.

The Warders had provoked him, but the truth was that if Khat started a fight every time he was provoked to it he wouldn’t have time for anything else. He looked down at her, sneering. “Me? An inferior creature from the Waste, kill a Warder? Are you joking?”

Elen threw up her hands in disgust. “Oh, don’t start that. I can’t listen to it now.”

She turned away, weary, and suddenly he thought he owed it to her. “Elen.”

She stopped, waiting. Elen always seemed to listen when people wanted to talk to her; it probably caused her a great deal of grief.

He said, “When I lived at the Enclave …” She turned back to look at him then, and he avoided her eyes. “Pirates attacked the caves my lineage held, and they killed most of us and took prisoners, including me. They had us for three days, but I don’t remember much of it. When the others came after us everyone was dead but me.

“What’s-his-name said that they would leave me alone if I fought one of them. I think one of the pirates said that to me then. But that’s not what happened afterward.” It had been more than that. Perhaps he had been disoriented from the painrod, but for a moment he had been back there again.

Elen came toward him, stopping near the fountain. She rubbed her palms on her kaftan, uncomfortable. “Is that why you don’t live in the Enclave?”

Somehow it didn’t sound like much of an explanation, or any kind of excuse. He didn’t know why it had seemed so important to tell her. “If they killed everyone except me, there must have been some reason for it. Or that’s what the other lineages thought.” She drew breath to answer, and he interrupted her. “What did you find out from Riathen?”

She hesitated. “He’s sending someone for the records.” It was Elen’s turn to look away now. “I want to tell you something. Please listen, and don’t ask me any questions I can’t answer. There’s a good chance the kris embassy is here looking for you. If you can settle that with them, it would … make things easier for both of us.” She hunted distractedly in her kaftan, and produced the token she had shown the vigils and used to pass into the upper tiers. She handed it to him. “I have to wait for Riathen’s clerks to find the right scholar for us, and I’ll take care of the trouble with the apprentices. Perhaps you should go and get Sagai, and we could meet at the Academia.”

Khat turned the token over thoughtfully, with no idea how to react. It was solid and coin-shaped, still warm from her body heat and embossed with the crossed sun symbol of the Elector’s court. He liked Elen, and thought her honest in her own Warder way, but he hadn’t expected her to return the regard enough to betray Riathen. And everything in her face, the way she stood, said this was a betrayal.

He glanced up and saw Kythen Seul watching them from the terrace side entrance to the court.

Khat caught Elen by the shoulders, half lifted her, and kissed her on the lips. He was gone before she or Seul could react, out through the archway on the near side of the court and away.

Elen sat down on the edge of the fountain. The heat in her face told her she was turning a lovely shade of red. She was surprised she wasn’t turning blue from shock.

As Seul bore down on her from one direction, the training master and Gandin entered the court. Gandin sat next to her. He was grinning. She wanted to slap that expression off his face, but just managed to contain herself. It was Seul she really wanted to strike.

Gandin said, “Did you see what he did to Therat?”

Seul stood over her now, glaring down. She ignored both of them and said to the training master, “I’m sorry that happened. It shouldn’t have.”

“Therat asked for it,” Gandin pointed out.

“I know that,” Elen snapped, impatient at the interruption.

The training master nodded. She had known him at least as long as she had known Sonet Riathen. He had given her the infighting skills that had saved her life more than once, when court intrigue had turned deadly. He said, “They’re young fools, most of them. I’ll make sure there’s no trouble over it.” He lifted an eyebrow. “If I have to, I’ll say I arranged it, as a test.”

“Thank you.” Elen looked up at him, surprised and gratified. She had expected to have to stand bond for Khat when Therat charged him and to try to find a way to keep him from having to appear before the High Justices. Noncitizens couldn’t testify except under torture, even when they were only witnesses.

“It was a lesson they needed to learn,” the training master continued. “Now they know that just because an opponent is an inferior doesn’t mean he can’t beat you into the ground in an open fight.”

“Oh.” Elen remembered what Khat had said when she had accused him of nearly killing Therat. She rubbed the bridge of her nose.
I think I’ll save my coins and move to Kenniliar, the way Sagai wants to. No Warders there. I could take up some occupation that doesn’t require me to think
.

Gandin was frowning at Seul. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” the older Warder said, his voice tight.

Elen looked up at Seul, put as much cold iron into her voice as she could, and wished she dared put what little of her power there was into it as well. “Don’t you have somewhere to go? Some task to perform?”

Seul’s eyes narrowed, but Elen was too angry to be stared down. He retreated finally, striding off across the court.

“What’s the matter with him?” Gandin demanded again.

Elen shook her head, with no intention of answering.

The training master grunted noncommittally. “Thinks too much of himself,” he said. “Friends in high places.”

“What?” Elen asked, curious at the disapproval in his voice.

He shrugged. “Gossip.”

The training master left the court to return to his apprentices, and Elen ignored Gandin’s attempts at conversation until he went away. She had a great deal of thinking to do.

Khat had to show the token only once, at Riathen’s gate. News of the fight hadn’t found its way there yet, and the lictors were beginning to regard him as a commonplace if not entirely welcome visitor.

The streets that led off from the central avenues and wandered between the manses were little more than paved, shaded paths, almost as narrow as lower-tier alleys. Khat finally realized it was because there was no need for handcarts. Street space had been given over to trees and plants instead. Few people were out, even now, and it was ridiculously easy to climb the garden wall without being seen.

Khat avoided the pebbled paths, making his way through the fragrant groves toward the pavilion, trying not to tread on the moon flowers. There were two Imperial lictors at the copper screened doors on the first terrace floor, an honor guard, only. The pillars were twined with carved snakes, as easy to climb as a ladder. Khat circled around to the back of the building and started up one of the columns.

Reaching the second level, he hauled himself over the balustrade. There were open arches every ten paces, set into the marble-faced walls. The pavilion would catch every available breeze, and the roofed terraces would keep the sun at a distance until it sank past the surrounding houses. He went around the outer terrace, moving quietly from archway to archway. The rooms he could see had mosaics on floors and walls, colored pebble scenes of Charisat: the Elector’s palace, the Porta Major and other old buildings in the Academia, the First Forum down on the Fourth Tier. The colors were too bright, lacking the soft glow of Ancient work, and he couldn’t admit to liking the modern style.

He paused at the side of one arch, hearing soft voices. They were speaking Old Menian—though he couldn’t make out the words— speaking it the way it was meant to be spoken, not the corrupted version that had become Tradetongue. Time blurred for a moment, and it almost seemed as if one of the voices was familiar. He could tell they were arguing, and that was familiar too.

It gave Khat an uneasy coldness down his spine, as if he were alone out in the Waste, hearing the piping voices of air spirits on the wind. That was ridiculous. He had been around the Warders too long; they were enough to make anyone crazy.