Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) (11 page)

"Make way!" Lucifer sounded as though his throat was getting hoarse.

The crowd cleared for moment, but as Miranda poked her head out of the litter she soon found that it was not to allow the litter to pass but to allow the people to get a better view of two armed men who stood in the middle of the press, hands upon the hilts of their swords, posturing at one another like two colourful birds fighting over a mate. Neither of them wore anything that could be called a uniform, yet one wore a blue sash tied around his waist while the other wore a grey scarf around his neck. As she looked around the crowd Miranda saw that many of the people heaving and jostline were wearing blue or grey, but never both. Fewer people, though still a good many of them, wore red, green, or white. A few even wore yellow. Clearly the colours meant something to the people here, even if Miranda herself was ignorant of their meanings.

"Out of my way, serpent!" the bantam in grey cried, puffing out his chest. "Turn and show me your back."

"Show my back to a silver dog?" the cock in blue declared as he struck a pose. "Why, I would as soon show you my heel, and plant it on your face besides."

"Your heel on my face, hah!" shouted the grey, drawing his sword. "With his foot of mine I'll crush your head like a copperhead snake and send you home to your mother." With his free hand the man bit his thumb deep enough to draw blood.

"What are they doing?" Miranda murmured.

"Exchanging taunts," Quirian said, without turning around. "Gathering their courage before the battle."

"Bite your thumb at me? Then have at you, rogue!" the blue declared, drawing his sword and throwing himself upon his enemy. Their blades clashed in a furious flurry, moonlight glinting of their swords. Some of the crowd gasped as they fought back and forth, but Miranda had seen enough fighting in the arena that, besides rolling her eyes at the pointlessness of it all, she could recognise that neither man was that good a fighter and that, in spite of that, the fellow in blue was going to win. And sure enough, before too long he had skewered the man in grey upon the end of his sword and left him bleeding in the middle of the street as he swaggered off into the crowds to the cheers of those who, like him, wore a show of blue upon their garments.

Miranda pushed herself out of the palanquin, stumbling a little and only regaining her footing with the assistance of Octavia, before she began to walk as quickly as he withered leg would allow her to where the poor man lay.

"Filia?" Quirian asked, a touch of alarm entering his voice. "Filia, what are you doing?"

"He might still be alive, in which case I can save him," Miranda said.

Miranda heard, rather than saw, Quirian following her out of the palanquin.

"Lord Father-"

"Follow her, you fools!" Quirian snapped. "Keep her safe."

The Lost formed a rough circle around the defeated combatant as Miranda knelt beside him. The blood that lay all around him stained her dress, but Miranda thought nothing of it as she placed her hand upon his mouth and felt the faintest touch of breath rising out of his throat.

"Stay awake and stay alive," Miranda snapped at him. "Don't stop breathing." She placed her hands over the gaping wound the blue had opened in the silver's chest and called upon her magic. It came more sluggishly than usual, it was tired out from a day of hard exertions, and Miranda had to prise it out of her body, where it lay curled up in comfort like a dog before a fire, as though she were pulling someone's teeth from their mouth. But pull it she did, by inch and by foot, by force and imprecation summoning her power to her command like a king summoning his vassals to war. She pulled it out through her hands with force of will and bore it down upon the poor man dying in the street, a the blue light from her hands engulfing him, ebbing and flowing like the tide draining out of Miranda and washing up upon the shores of her patience. Lightning crackled over his skin, sealing his wounds as sparks of fire burned away the dirty flesh.

And then he was whole again, breathing deeply as his eyes widened with shock and the crowd around them gasped.

"What magic is this?" someone cried.

"She's a sorceress!" someone else yelled. "She'll bring the Eldest One back down upon us, seize her!"

"The first fool to try it will die!" Quirian bellowed. "I give you my word I shall not hesitate to cut you all down if I must."

"Sorcery!" came the voices from the crowd. "Cursed sorcery! Heresy and evil!" But there were other voices coming out of the press as well, voices praising her achievement and crying out in support of Miranda. She did not think it was a coincidence that most of those who approved of her seemed to be wearing the silver.

A whistle sounded, the high pitched squeal cutting through the shouting of the crowd, many of whom made themselves scarce as a score of men in armour, carrying shields and spears, pushed through the mass to reach Lord Quirian and the Lost.

Their leader, who bore neither shield nor spear but had a tall green crest on his helmet, bowed his head. "Lord Quirian, you seem to be in difficulty."

"Unfortunately so, lieutenant," Lord Quirian replied casually. "We were on our way to Lord Maro's soiree when my guest stopped to help an injured man and, for this act of charity, we find ourselves the objects of some revulsion."

The lieutenant - Miranda presumed that these men were of the city watch - nodded. "Don't worry, m'lord, we'll see you there safe. Best you get back in the litter though. Make way! Make way for Lord Quirian, you scum, or I'll summon the cavalry to make a way. Be off with you!"

With the ranks of their attendants now swelled by the city guard, they resumed their journey, although Miranda felt so weak from her exertion that Octavia had to pick her up like a child and carry her back into the litter. It was only when she was seated once more upon the cushions, the palanquin gently swaying around her, that Miranda realised what a mess she had made of her dress.

"We might be better turning around, don't you think?" Miranda asked. "I will only embarass myself, and you, in the home of a lord looking like this."

"I think that, once he knew you had saved the life of a silver man, Prince Antiochus would understand," Quirian said. "However, I do take your point. Which is why..." he took out a stick of carved wood from the folds of his toga. It was about a foot long, and carved with many runes in a language could not read, nor would have known where to begin writing, all carved in a cursive script that twisted like waves, lines curling and dancing around one another with no seeming logic to it.

Quirian whispered something in a foreign tongue, and some of the runes upon the stick began to glow with amber light, and Miranda felt sure that by following the glowing runes she could have traced some of the words, if only she could have read the script.

The tip of the stick glowed white, there was a flash of light and Miranda felt a soft and gentle breeze washing over her as she closed her eyes against the brightness.

And when she opened her eyes her dress was clean.

Miranda's eyebrows rose. "You are no slouch in magic yourself, my lord, it seems."

Quirian chuckled. "Alas, I am merely a dilettante, Filia, though I thank you for the compliment nonetheless."

Miranda frowned. "Was that...was that sorcery?"

"Indeed, Filia, the magic of the old gods itself," Quirian said. "Of course it can do far more than laundry, as you will learn as your studies continue."

"Isn't sorcery illegal?" Miranda asked. "Isn't that what the crowd was yelling about."

"Illegal under the church law, not the civil," Quirian said. "And thus enforced only so far as the churches writ runs, which is not far where the wealthy and powerful are concerned, but then the civil law does not greatly touch us either. All the same Filia, it would be wise not to mention it in front of Prince Antiochus, it would put him in an awkward position where his friends in the Novar Church are concerned."

Miranda nodded. "I'm not giving to blabbing to priests in any event, and the Novar gods are not my own. If I have a god. Why were those two fighting in the street?"

"Because one was a blue and the other a grey," Quirian said. "Perhaps something personal set off that particular, but the colours are at the root of all such disputes."

"Does this happen a lot?" Miranda asked, feeling a little incredulous that the capital of the Empire would play host to such acts of violence on a regular basis.

"More commonly so now than was once the case," Quirian replied.

"And what do the colours mean?" Miranda pressed. "What matter if one wore blue and the other wore grey, what are they?"

"Chariot factions," Quirian said. "And, unofficially, political factions also. Have you ever watched a chariot race, Filia?"

"No," Miranda said. "In Corona, gladiators are far more popular, I don't think even Davidheyr has a circus."

"In Eternal Pantheia there is no more beloved sport," Quirian explained. "And nothing so arouses the passions of the common folk than the fortunes of their faction in the cursus. In this city there are six factions who compete in the races: the blue, the red, the green, the yellow, the white and the grey. In other cities there are other factions, some using the same colours but different factions nonetheless. Each faction has a noble family as its patron, who pays for the expenses of the faction - horses, chariots, the wages of the charioteers, that sort of thing - out of their own pocket; if the patron family has any close allies they may split the expense. In return the patron family gains the affection and support of their faction's plebeian supporters, particularly when the fortunes of the faction are in the ascendant."

"They buy mobs, don't they?" Miranda said, thinking that she understood where this was going. "You patronise a chariot team and get a mob of fanatics willing to do your dirty work for you."

"You are a quick learner, Filia, that is excellent," Quirian said. "In the case of the blues and the greys, the blue faction is patronised by the Commenae family, and the grey by Prince Antiochus, my own patron. The antagonism between the two runs deeper than any other, partly inflamed by political conflicts between Lord Commenae and the prince, partly by the fact that they are the two most successful factions in the cursus at present, partly by the fact that the Greys have lately stolen the Blues best charioteer and partly by the fact that Prince Antiochus once hoped to marry the Lord Commenae's wife. He had no hope, of course, the two had been betrothed since they were children...but he did get very disappointed; and for his part the Lord Commenae cannot forgive the fact that His Highness made the attempt."

"And so they set their supporters to fighting one another in the street?" Miranda said. "What about the law? How do they get away with it?"

"Who would prosecute such august gentlemen, a prince and the scion of the Empire's oldest patrician family?" Quirian asked. "And as for the violence, well, there are more people in this city who support chariot factions than there are guards, although it is only lately that the violence has become so frequent and so often fatal. It is a symptom of the instability that you will help to rectify."

"I told you I did not intend to put my life at risk," Miranda said. "It seems it is in danger already."

"You are under my protection, Filia, and that of His Highness; no common thug will dare to touch you," Quirian said. "That is more than you could have said those years spent under the dagger of the Crimson Rose, is it not?"

"I suppose so," Miranda admitted. "But you will forgive me if I keep my eyes open for trouble."

"From an intelligent woman, Filia, I would expect nothing less."

Soon after they arrived at Lord Maro's townhouse, which had a wall erected to set it apart from the rest of the city, and stout gates that could be closed to keep out intruders. Now, though the gates were open, a line of slaves with clubs stood ready to repel any who might trespass without an invitation. They parted like the oceans before God to admit Lord Quirian and those who attended on him.

As they entered, Lord Quirian pressed a few gold coins into the hand of the lieutenant of the guard, who thanked him profusely as he took his leave.

Quirian's attendants bore the palanquin through the line of guards and into the palace compound. Then, safely behind the walls, they set the litter down. Quirian climbed out, then offered his hand to help Miranda to her feet. Miranda climbed out, without his help, and stood for a moment admiring the surround. Lord Maro's house was large and spacious, with a tiled courtyard quartered by four beds of flowers, each with a fountain set in the centre of it. The stone-tiled sections of the courtyard was interspered with statues, and unlike Quirian's statues of ancient Coronim these were clearly of Imperial figures. If Miranda had to guess she would have said they were probably Lord Maro's famous ancestors. The house itself loomed overhead two storeys high - Miranda was going to have to get used to living in a place where it was not unheard of for houses to rise higher than a single floor - with a grey slate roof and marble gryphons standing guard upon the door. In the courtyard mingled some of Lord Maro's guests, while their own guards and attendants waited discreetly in the shadowy corners. Other guests, the torchlight glimmering off their finery, headed inside, their mingled conversation filling the night air.

What would my mother say if she could see me now? And Felix, too, for that matter?