Michael Stackpole - The New World

“You said I act. I only do that because your aunt showed me how. Before her, I was an observer. But now, you’re right. I have to stop this nonsense. If I don’t, love won’t matter. There won’t be anyone left alive to love.”

Ciras Dejote huddled under a cloak, less to ward himself from the cold than to conceal the stump. He wouldn’t even put it through a sleeve. He just hid it inside his robe.

It struck him as curious that what he noticed more than not having a right hand or forearm was the lack of weight at his left hip. He no longer wore a sword. What is the purpose?

It really didn’t matter that his left hand was still healing from the arrow. He certainly had been trained to use a sword in his off hand. One couldn’t reach a level of mastery without that, and though he did not fight with two swords, he could certainly defend himself. But the ability to use a sword did not bring with it the will to use one, and it was that will which had abandoned him.

No, not abandoned. I left it behind.

He peered south across the Gold River’s sluggish breadth, where crucified soldiers moaned on their crosses. They’d continued fighting even though they’d been hideously wounded. Such was Nelesquin’s idea of justice that one soldier who had lost a leg had it nailed knee and ankle to the crossbeams along with his body.

Smoke and clouds swirled. Archers lurked on both sides of the river, occasionally taking shots. They couldn’t hit anything. Even with a tailing wind, the arrows fell short of either shore. But as futile as the task was, the archers had to try occasionally, relieving tension and venting fear.

Ciras would never have done that. Engaging in a futile act revealed weakness. If a warrior perceived himself as weak, he would die.

A tugging at his cloak brought Ciras around. “Yes, boy, what do you want?”

The young boy wore a white robe with a red bear crest. The long sword tucked into his red sash almost scraped on the ground after him. His left arm, wrapped though it was in leather and ring mail, clearly was withered.

“I wish to know why my master sent me to watch you.”

“Your master?”

“Moraven Tolo, though some call him Virisken Soshir.”

“I don’t know why he sent you.”

The boy shrugged. “I was watching him. He asked why and I said I was studying to be a hero. He told me I should study a real hero. That’s when he sent me to find you.”

Ciras sagged against the river wall. “I am afraid your master has made a big mistake.”

“He doesn’t make mistakes.” The boy shook his head adamantly. “If he says you’re a hero, then you’re a hero.”

“No.” Ciras threw the cloak back, revealing his half arm nestled against his chest. “I’m a broken man.”

The boy shrugged again. “Well, I only have one good arm, too. But I’m going to be a hero.”

“Are you?”

“I’m already on my way. I’ve killed some vhangxi. Couple of men, too.” The boy jumped up to peer over the wall. “Haven’t killed any kwajiin yet, but I’m going to. Maybe one of the vanyesh, too. You think I should?”

Ciras squatted down. “If you think killing is all that makes one a hero, you have not studied your master enough.”

“Oh, I know. He says that, too.” The boy smiled. “But he’s awfully good at killing.”

“Sometimes it is more important to know when not to kill.”

The boy nodded. “Is that why you’re not wearing your swords? It’s not time to destroy anything?”

“No, boy, it is because I have been destroyed.”

“Oh.” The boy frowned. “Does that mean you’re going to leave the city with the old people and the kids and the sick ones?”

“I hadn’t thought to.”

The boy nodded solemnly. “All right. Well, if you need help, like if the kwajiin are chasing you or something, you let me know. My name is Dunos. That’s my only name, but when I’m a hero I’ll ask the Empress to give me another one. It’ll be good.”

“I’m sure it will.” Ciras patted the boy on the shoulder. “Please give your master my best regards.”

“All right. Take care of yourself.” Dunos nodded once, then smiled and ran off. “Bye.”

Ciras watched him go, distantly remembering a dream in Voraxan where a nephew had similarly run off. He almost reversed his decision and sought a horse-a real horse, not some mechanical mount. He could ride to the coast and get a ship to Tirat. He could join his family and spend time with them.

And then die in front of them when Nelesquin comes for Tirat.

“Master Dejote, I’m glad I found you.”

Ciras stood, pulling the cloak around himself. “Master Gryst, good to see you again.”

“And you, Ciras.” Borosan frowned. “I was wondering if I could ask your help in something.”

One of the gyanrigot foot soldiers had accompanied the inventor, and the silence with which it moved had not betrayed its approach. It had taken on even more of the shape of a man, with decorated armor plates covering gears and hiding command-slates. The thing even wore a battle mask-far too slender ever to hide a real face, but impressive and haunting despite that.

Ciras smiled. “I see you have made great progress with your machines. I fear I will be of little use to you, however.”

“No, you’re the perfect person.” Borosan nodded toward the other side of the river. “I have collected reports about the big gyanrigot. They have warriors inside them, guiding them like you do with the mounts, only more direct. They use thoughts the way you use the pressure of your knees.”

“It makes for formidable armor.” Ciras shrugged. “I doubt they are putting their halt and lame in the suits.”

“Probably not. What I want, what I need, is some measurements.”

“Of?”

“Your arm.”

Ciras’ eyes narrowed. “My arm?”

“Yes, I think I have a way to fashion a substitute arm for you. It would work just like your real arm.”

“My arm?” Ciras staggered back against the wall. “You would replace my arm with a gyanrigot device?”

“Yes, exactly. You would be able to fight again.”

Ciras turned away and hugged his half arm to his chest tightly. “No, Master Gryst. Ninety-nine times no. I have respected you. I have tried to understand you. I even have achieved an appreciation for your machines, but I will not become one of them.”

“No, Ciras, it is not like that…”

“Yes, it is!” Ciras turned back and threw the cloak off. He slipped his robe down, thrusting it aside with his cloth-swaddled stump. “You mock me, sir, in a most horrible way.”

“No, Ciras…”

“You know not the depth of the insult you have paid me.” Ciras shook his head adamantly. “Leave me, Master Gryst. It is out of respect for all you have done that I do not challenge you to a duel. Trouble me no further with your artificial warriors. I may be half a man, but I am still a man! And I won’t let you take that away from me.”

34th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Gold River, Moriande

Nalenyr

Deciding how he would get to the barge turned out to be the most difficult choice about the meeting for Nelesquin. The Naleni ministers had agreed immediately on the size of the barge and how it should be anchored in the middle. They proved most agreeable on details about the boats that would carry the delegations. They even allowed that no one would bring weapons, but that his golden armor would not be ruled a weapon.

Their concession on so many minor points meant that the north accepted their cause as lost. Cyrsa and Virisken could not have forgotten that, as a xingnadin, he was capable of killing them. That such exertion was momentarily beyond him was something they did not need to know. He’d gone so far as to make a great show of sparring with some kwajiin while keeping the northern ministers waiting. He’d done so to impress them with his strength, but he ended up enjoying the fights and continued the training even after the negotiations had been concluded.