Paul Kearney - The Mark of Ran

“You would be lying. And you are getting too old for such empty bravado. I see now that your education must be moved forward.”

Rol hesitated. “Don’t send Rowen back to those animals.”

“Why not? Are you smitten with her, Cortishane? Best stick to the serving-maids. She’s not good for you.”

“If you send her back, I’ll leave this Tower.”

Psellos snarled audibly. “You simpleminded-I see Ardisan’s absurd romanticism has rubbed off. Better for you to do as you’re told.” A black snake of a tongue snapped out from between his teeth and disappeared again. His eyes glowed.

“No. You want something more than my blood from me, else I would be dead already. Sticking my head in a jar will not get you it, I think. So that is my price. Leave her alone. Don’t send her out again.”

Psellos straightened. His face grew calm. “Very well-by all means. Have your absurd chivalry. A piece of advice, though. You cannot bargain effectively when you do not know the value of that which you are selling.”

He retreated, becoming a shadow limned by the light from the windows once more.

“I have told you a little of your history-”

“Who were my parents?”

“All in good time. We must save something for later.”

“Killing those men down at the waterfront-was I able to do that because of-of what I am?”

“Had you been any ordinary stripling they’d have had your throat out before you made one step toward them. But do not think yourself some kind of champion. There was luck involved also. You are fortunate to be alive. As it is, your debt to me is increased.”

“Why?” Rol asked angrily.

“Because, you young fool, I must find some other means of payment now that our dear Rowen is off the menu. And should they suspect that I had a connection with the killings-which they will in time-I will have to stump up weregilds to avoid having the King of Thieves at my door.”

“What did they have that was worth so much anyway?” Rol did not mention the scroll that had so delighted Psellos two nights before.

“That is not your business.” Psellos stared at Rol thoughtfully, sipping his wine. Finally he sighed, and said: “Rowen.”

She stepped noiselessly from a curtained alcove behind Rol. He twisted round to stare at her in astonishment and dismay. She was dressed in a close-fitting suit of sable leather, long knives strapped to her thighs, her hair tied up behind her head. Her face was still bruised, and there were smudges the color of plums under her eyes. She did not look at Rol.

“Your shining knight has seen fit to preserve the rags of your chastity from the minions of the Thief-King. He is your responsibility now. Teach him well.”

“What shall I teach him?” Her voice was as low as the beat of a swan’s wing in flight.

“Everything, Rowen. Teach him everything.”

Seven

Sweating, their bodies slapped together bruisingly. His bare toes dug for purchase in the earth floor, gouging furrows. They strained breast to breast, each trying to overthrow the other by sheer force for half a second; realizing it would not work, they immediately began writhing for advantage, arms locked together, hot breath mingled, trying to hook their feet around the other’s ankles.

She slipped fractionally, her grip slithering on his sweat-slick bicep. At once he shifted, committed his weight. She gave way smoothly, deliberately, and his balance tilted out of kilter. Somehow she spun in his grasp. Her thigh pushed between his legs, knocking one foot clear of the ground for a moment. Her tensed arm came round and the tricep impacted against the side of his neck. He went down face-first in the dirt and felt the weight of her foot set on his nape.

He slumped in defeat, and felt the pressure of her sole ease. As it did, he flipped onto his back, knocking her leg aside with his left elbow. His right fist came up in one smooth blur with all his remaining strength behind it. It connected with her abdomen in a sickening slap of meat, and the breath was concussed out of her lungs as her diaphragm buckled into her rib cage. She staggered backwards, and he rose unhurriedly. Her eyes remained fixed on his as she fought for breath, color rising red from her collarbones up. She fell to her knees, whooping, and he watched her dispassionately.

“Yield,” he said.

She shook her head and began to rise to her feet, still struggling for air.

He hesitated only a second, and then the butt of his palm slammed into her forehead. She flipped over onto her back. Her body arced once, fists furrowing handfuls of earth. Then it flattened out, and she was still.

Rol stood breathing evenly. “Rowen?” And then more urgently: “Rowen?”

He darted forward, and her left heel snapped up with the speed of a hawk’s strike with all his weight and all her force behind it, and smashed into his breastbone. He flailed backwards, red darkness pummeling his sight, lungs a sucking vacuum, and he never felt the kiss of the earth as he fell full-length upon it.

Air, life being blown brutally into his mouth, his chest rising as it filled. He felt the bite of her teeth on his lips, and opened his eyes, then turned on his side, coughing, heaving. Her hand passed through his hair, down his cheek, and then receded. When he had caught his breath-her breath in him-he looked up at her as she stood composed as a caryatid before him, white skin shining, naked save for the breechclout. A few damp tendrils of hair framed the triangular perfection of her face, and there was a rising lump on her forehead. She essayed a small smile, teeth white as a cat’s. “Once again, eagerness is your downfall. Overconfidence will kill you yet, Fisheye.”

He hated that name, and she knew it, which was why she never called him by anything else.

“I thought I’d damn well killed you for a second.”

“I take a lot of killing.” She offered him her hand and hauled him to his feet. Tall as she was, he towered over her now. Her small breasts, taut and glistening, brushed against him. They stood like that a moment, like two lovers sharing a whisper, and then she turned and left the earthen practice ring to fetch her towel.

They stood in the clammy dimness of the chamber in the bowels of Psellos’s Tower, and stared silently at one another as they wiped the dirt from their bodies. Rol had a scratch above his left eye that oozed blood, and Rowen’s forehead was bulging purple.

Fighting men, ordinary men, subjected to the force of the blows that had just been exchanged, would be dead by now, one with a broken skull, the other with a burst rib cage. For Rol and Rowen, however, there were only scratches and bruises. If anything had finally convinced Rol of his… inhumanity, it had been the last year in Psellos’s house. He was not cattle, as Psellos jauntily referred to the mass of everyday humanity. He was something else. Part of him reveled in the sense of superiority-Psellos encouraged this-and part of him mourned the fact that he was set apart from the everyday concourse of life as surely as a freak in a traveling circus.

The main thing, though-he had finally accepted it.

This secret complex near the Tower’s foundations was where the bulk of Rol’s combat training took place. He and Rowen left the practice circle without exchanging another word, and limped down a candlelit corridor to the plunge-pool. Discarding their stinking breechclouts, they dived in within seconds of each other, as once they had leaped from the wharves of Ascari. The water was freezing cold, fed by some subterranean spring whose origins were in the roots of the mountains. The cold stole Rol’s breath, but he was used to that now. It was good for his wrenched muscles and battered skull. He floated, staring up at the bare rock of the ceiling, and felt the kindly chill numb his aches and pains. He rubbed dirt from his limbs, emptying his mind as he had been taught, discarding whatever preoccupations floated there. Finally, at a nod from Rowen, he pulled himself heavily out of the water again. The pair padded naked across the bare stone toward the steam chamber. Within it, heated rocks had raised the temperature to the limits of endurance. They ladled water over the rocks and sat side by side in the scalding billow of steam that ensued. A single oil lamp guttered and fought for life, flashing out broiled shadows. The air was hot enough to sear the lungs, but Rol breathed in the steam deeply while fresh sweat popped out of every pore. Rowen scraped the running moisture from his body with a curved strigil, and her deft hands explored the places where she had hurt him, much as a farmer might feel over a horse he meant to buy at market. There was something soothing in the touch of her hands. Her business was killing, but her gift was in healing. She seemed to drain away the pain, leaving Rol limp and relaxed as seaweed abandoned by the ebbing tide.