The Heir (Fall of the Swords Book 3) (16 page)

“As the Heir, Lord Sword,” Flashing Blade said quietly.

“I held the General Guarding Bear in my arms, and he
still
thought I was the Heir.” Seeking Sword looked each man in the eye. “I think my actions prudent. The point I proved is much more important than the death of two enemies—even one as important as Guarding Bear. Knowing this, we can disinherit the Heir Flaming Arrow.” Sighing, he dropped his gaze to the ground. “I don't understand it, and it upsets me very much. Along with all the other similarities, this shakes me to the depths of my soul.”

Seeking Sword spat in the dirt. “Do you think I
want
to look like Flaming Arrow's twin brother?!”

T
he effects of implants can be obvious or subtle. The desired response can range from avoiding a thought to acting out a complete charade. Although they can orchestrate repetitive behaviors, most assassin implants trigger singular acts. In searching for these implants, however, Wizards mustn't overlook how a repetitive and innocuous behavior might result in death. A slow assassination is as deadly as a quick one.—
Assassin Implants
, by Deadly Thought.

* * *

Chameleon woke before the finger touched his lips.

Thinking Quick struggled to pull her hand from his grasp. With a sigh, she gave up, and with her other hand, held up his sword and pack. Her anxiety was clear even in the dormitory's muted light.

Taking his weapons from her, Chameleon released her wrist and sat up. Dispelling the disorientation of sleep, he mentally took his bearings: In a crowded dormitory somewhere deep below the Lair, inside the fortress of the bandit general Scowling Tiger, in deepest night, at the third hour before dawn, when most slept, when the body's rhythms were at their lowest ebb.

Wondering why the girl had awakened him at such an odd hour, he heeded the admonition with which she had roused him, the finger across the lips being silence in any language.

Five days ago he had arrived at the fortress. Ten days ago he had survived the Imperial attack on Spitting Wolverine's camp, thirteen days ago that on Hissing Cougar's.

Chameleon felt fit and eager to begin his service with Scowling Tiger. The bandit general had neither accepted nor rejected his offer of service, but had seemed amenable. On each of Chameleon's three days out of the infirmary, Scowling Tiger had questioned and cross-questioned him about the Heir's attacks. After each interview, the bandits had returned him to this dormitory, where hundreds of refugees like himself were staying. His not knowing anyone else went unremarked. In large camps, fellow members might fight side-by-side without ever learning each other's names.

The camaraderie of those who had survived a cataclysm was strong among the bandits in the dormitory. The other refugees regarded Chameleon with a mixture of awe and admiration. None of them had survived both attacks, and Scowling Tiger had interrogated none of them as thoroughly as Chameleon. He quickly became a focus of attention, how ever much he wanted otherwise.

In the quiet hours between the last meal and lights out, he was never without an interlocutor and a ring of listeners. He said little, preferring to ask questions and listen, deftly deflecting questions asked of him. Word of exactly how he survived the two attacks filtered down to the dormitory. Another refugee usually waited nearby while Scowling Tiger plied him with questions. As Chameleon revealed more of his story, the other refugees had treated him with more deference.

The others insured Chameleon got large chunks of meat in his stew, while those around him got small. No matter how he tried, he couldn't make them distribute the food more equitably. When the Tiger Raiders issued clothes to the refugees, he was one of the first to get a complete set, although there were too few clothes for everyone. His old pair of moccasins still wearable, Chameleon gave away the new pair. In the morning, though, his old pair disappeared and in their place was a new.

During his first day in the dormitory, a fight had broken out. Chameleon had stepped between the two men. He had helped them settle their differences to the satisfaction of both. Since then, the other refugees had come to him with their more serious conflicts and asked him to resolve them. His best quality, other refugees had told him, was that he never made judgments. He simply gave the disputants a basis for understanding.

On his second day, Raging River appeared and rapped his sword on the door-post to get their attention. On either side of him stood a burly bandit.

The usual dull roar of the dormitory ebbed.

“The Lord General Scowling Tiger has ordered,” the retainer orated, “that I collect and catalog your weapons, and have repaired all those needing it. I will issue a receipt for the weapons you each possess, and you may retrieve your weapons from the quartermaster at any time. Since you live in such close quarters, however, we must for now forbid weapons inside this dormitory to avoid undue conflict and injury. Please line up at this door. After I give you a receipt, you will proceed to the quartermaster to turn over your weapons. I appreciate your cooperation.”

The grumbling began before Raging River finished. Chameleon didn't hesitate; he knew intuitively that disaster would strike if the refugees had to give up their weapons. “Lord River,” Chameleon called, pushing his way through disgruntled refugees. “Lord River, I think this request imprudent.”

“I haven't asked your opinion,” the retainer replied. “You're first.”

“I humbly ask the Lord River to hear my objection, after which I will happily submit my weapons to the quartermaster.”

“Very well, Chameleon,” Raging River said, grinning, “I'll happily give you the opportunity to offend the Lord General Tiger.” His addressing Chameleon without the obligatory “Lord,” especially after Scowling Tiger had already conferred the address, was an insult.

“I see you'd like nothing better than to take my head, Lord River,” Chameleon replied, his voice calm and a little sad. “I don't understand this personal animosity you've developed for me. I've done nothing to incur it, and I'm sorry to see it. However, I speak for us all when I say I think this request imprudent. We each of us have lost our homes, our livelihoods, our liege lords. Nearly everything we've ever possessed is gone. Except our weapons and our lives. While I know your intent isn't to shame or belittle us, having us give up our weapons would have the effect of humbling us further. I beseech you to allow us to keep our weapons and the dignity we still have, Lord River. I thump the floor with my head in humility.”

Chameleon knelt and bowed for a full minute. The gritty stone was cold on his forehead. Then he stood and slowly pulled his sword from his sash. Extending the badly repaired haft, Chameleon looked into Raging River's eyes.

The old man's gaze was cold, but not devoid of compassion. “I'll submit your request to the Lord General Tiger, Lord Chameleon.”

Chameleon bowed deeply. “Thank you, Lord River.”

Raging River spun and stalked off into the fortress, the two burly bandits hurrying to follow.

Cheers broke out behind Chameleon as he stared after Raging River. Looking down at the pommel, twisted with twine and tape, he wondered what had ever tempted him to turn down the offer to have it repaired.

Now, three days later, he was glad that they still respected the prohibition against touching another's weapon, and hadn't taken the sword while he slept. Why he was glad, he didn't know. Chameleon would have liked a new sword, the haft broken, the blade so tarnished it looked like brass. (Flaming Arrow was glad they hadn't tried to repair or replace the Heir Sword.)

Walking up the aisle between rows of cots, Chameleon felt he knew his place here, despite its being temporary and unfamiliar. He didn't understand the veneration of the other refugees, having held no special position among the Cougar Raiders.

Knowing the others were sure to notice his departure in the darkest hours before dawn, Chameleon grew more puzzled as he walked up the aisle. Not one face turned toward him as he passed. Not one refugee was awake. Not one stirred, even with the movement of dreaming. They all looked dead. He stopped and listened carefully, and then heard the soft breathing of hundreds. Mystified, he followed Thinking Quick from the dormitory and into the trackless warren of the Tiger Fortress.

Soon, she turned into an alcove with two doors on either side. Instead of taking one of the doorways, she pushed on the blank wall opposite the corridor. The wall swung noiselessly inward. She beckoned him through and pushed the door shut behind him. Complete darkness enveloped them. “Put your hand on my shoulder and don't lift it for any reason,” Thinking Quick whispered. Chameleon did as she bade him. Except a word or two, such as “ten steps up,” she didn't speak. Neither did he. Not that he was incurious—merely that he trusted her judgment, beholden to her for the care she had given during his convalescence.

They wended their way ever upward. Sometimes dank, sometimes dry, sometimes noxious, sometimes dusty, the air in the corridors and stairwells gave no indication of their final destination. Every corridor and stairwell was empty. Wondering where the fifteen-thousand plus bandits had all gone, Chameleon began to think they were some place other than the fortress. Then she stopped. “Lift your hand and don't move.” She moved away and moments later lit a lantern.

They were in a small room, which contained only a stool, bucket, tub and other articles for bathing. The walls were featureless stone. Chameleon couldn't even find a door.

“Strip,” she said quietly.

“No!” he said indignantly. How dare she make such a request! he thought.

Her jaw dropped. “Don't you want the dye out of your hair and the freckles off your skin, Lord Heir?”

“I told you, I'm heir to nothing. My name's Chameleon. I want to know why you brought me here!”

She looked at him closely. “Incredible,” she murmured, peering into his eyes. “I know you're in there, Bastard! Wake up! It's me, the traitress Thinking Quick, the one who'll help you take Scowling Tiger's head.”

“What? Who are you talking to? Are you insane?” Chameleon was about to shout for a guard, when that feeling of displacement (pulled him downward. Infinite blast it! Chameleon thought, hating the confinement). “Infinite be with you, Lady Quick,” Flaming Arrow said.

“Incredible, Lord,” she said again, looking astonished. “How
do
you do that?”

Smiling, the Heir began to take off his clothes. “You'll need vinegar to remove the freckles and restore my hair, Lady.”

“In the bucket already, Lord,” she replied.

“Thank you, Lady. Since you'll remove my disguise, I need you to tell me the name of the last Northern Emperor.”

She frowned at him. “Lofty Lion. Why?”

Immediately, he felt better, the alter-ego fully reincorporated. “It's a form of self hypnosis I learned from Spying Eagle. It works much better when I go without sleep or food for five days! I thought I wouldn't be able to regain control this time. Good impersonation, eh?”

“Incredible,” she said a third time, bending to get the sponge from the bucket.

“Thank you, Lady Quick. From a psychological Wizard, that's quite an accolade. What I do is I put myself into a semi-trance, and focus on the behaviors, attributes and personality I want to assume. For long marches and the privations of the battlefield, it works so well I hardly feel pain or hunger or fatigue. The first time I tried it was amusing. I forgot to include a trigger to bring me out of it. Spying Eagle had to hypnotize me.”

Thinking Quick smiled. “It worked so well that Scowling Tiger and Raging River and everyone who knows you and Seeking Sword couldn't say for certain that Chameleon was the Heir.”

“Bandits here know me?” he asked, upset.

“Scowling Tiger has several spies in Emparia Castle,” she said, shrugging.

I probably should have suspected that, Flaming Arrow thought. “We're very, very similar, aren't we?”

“Yes, Lord,” she replied, unperturbed.

“You won't tell me why? I thought not. Are you Spying Eagle's daughter? You resemble him.”

“His sister. I thought you knew.”

“Melding Mind's daughter, of course. I
should
have known. Spying Eagle tried to assassinate me when I was five. I just never questioned how a bandit had implanted such a powerful Wizard. Melding Mind being his father, not impossible. Your father, he's not a happy man, I guess.”

She laughed at his euphemism, sponging off his right shoulder.

She looks so sad, he thought. “What's the situation with Scowling Tiger?”

“He's on top of the mountain, as usual, looking south. He won't expect you, but he'll be so happy to see his daughter's betrothed, he won't question your sudden appearance.” She scrubbed hard to remove the freckles.

“Why didn't any of the refugees see us as we left the dormitory?”

“I put 'em to sleep,” she replied tersely.

“Oh.” Seeing her reluctance to speak, he respected her reticence for a few minutes, wanting to ask a hundred questions.

“Now your hair,” she said, finished with his shoulders, arms, and chest, where the freckles had been the thickest.

He knelt in front of the bucket.

She picked it up, looked into it, shrugged and doused him with the contents. “Into the bath,” she said.

Squinting at the piquant smell, he complied, stepping into the wooden tub of hot water. Dunking his head, he saw when he came up that she replaced his every article of clothing—pack, weapons belt, even the sheath for his sword. “Is the coloring out of my hair?” he asked.

She stepped over to look, pulling wet hanks away from his head. Then she nodded, jerking her thumb. “Out.” Her manner was that of a drill sergeant—cold, precise, pre-emptive.

While she dried him, he asked, “What hurts so much?”

She stubbornly continued to towel him off.

He put a hand on her shoulder. “I know you're in pain. I want to know why.”

Straightening, she looked at him directly. “Once you find out, you'll wish you hadn't asked!”

He thought about her reply. “The pain of an Empire rests on my shoulders. Though you're the enemy, your pain is my pain. You want something I'll soon control. To do what's right, I need some understanding, which I can gain by knowing your pain. Tell me, Thinking Quick, for the good of both our Empires.”

“You bastard,” she whispered bitterly, and resumed drying him. “It wouldn't be so difficult if you two weren't so caring and compassionate. I'm helping you wreck everything we've built—all for a future that won't include me. My exclusion isn't why I'm so bitter, though. Since you're both so skilled and daring, half a culture must die to preserve civilization. If you'd been half as intelligent, we could've preserved civilization without all this bloodshed and destruction.” She finished toweling his body and made him sit so she could dry and comb his hair.