Brent Weeks - Way of Shadows

Kylar landed on top of him and heard the breath whoosh from Logan’s lungs. He grabbed each of Logan’s arms and yanked them up behind his back, trapping them in one hand. He grabbed a fistful of Logan’s hair with the other hand and slammed his face into the sand as hard as he could, again and again, but the sand was too yielding to knock him out.

Standing, Kylar drew his sword. The sounds of Logan moaning and his own heavy breathing seemed to be the only sounds in all the world. The stadium was silent. There wasn’t even any wind. It was hot, so damned hot. Kylar slashed viciously across Logan’s left kidney and then his right. The sword was warded, so it didn’t cut of course, but it was still like getting smacked with a cudgel.

Logan cried out in pain. He sounded suddenly so young. Despite his huge body, Logan was barely eighteen, but the sound embarrassed Kylar. It was weakness. It was humiliating, infuriating. Kylar looked around the stadium. Somewhere, the Nine were here watching, each dressed as an ordinary man, pretending to share his neighbors’ horror. Pretending to be friends with men they despised, men they would betray for nothing more than money.

There was a noise behind Kylar, and he saw Logan had fought to his hands and knees. He was struggling to stand. His face was bleeding from a hundred tiny cuts from the sand, and his eyes were unfocused.

Kylar lofted his glowing orange sword to the crowd. Then he spun and smashed the flat of the blade into the back of Logan’s head. His friend crumpled, unconscious, and the crowd gasped.

Humiliating Logan had been the only way to save him, but humiliation served in such a dishonorable manner would not draw attention to Logan’s defeat, but instead to the Sa’kagé. They were vile, and shameless, and omnipotent, and today Kylar was their avatar. He tossed the red sword down and raised his hands to the crowd once more, this time in dual one-fingered salutes. To hell with all of you. To hell with me.

Then he ran.

The Modaini Smoking Club’s windows were Plangan plate glass cut into wedges and fanciful zoomorphic shapes. If you looked at the shapes in the glass, you could ignore the outside world completely, which was the point. If you looked at the shapes, you wouldn’t notice the bars on the other side of the window. Kylar stood at that window, staring through those bars at a girl down in the Sidlin Market.

She was bargaining with a vendor for produce. Doll Girl—Elene—was growing up, perhaps fifteen years old now that Kylar was eighteen. She was beautiful—at least from this safe distance. From here he could see her body, supple curves clad in a simple serving dress, her hair pulled back and shining gold in the sun, and the flash of an easy smile. Though he couldn’t make out her scars from this distance, through the colored glass, her white dress was blood red. The leaded zoomorphic whorls reminded him of the whorls of her scars.

“She’ll destroy you,” Momma K said behind him. “She’s part of a different world from any you’ll ever know.”

“I know,” he said quietly, barely glancing over his shoulder. Momma K had come into the room with a new girl, an east side girl, young and pretty. Momma K was combing the girl’s blonde hair out. The Modaini Smoking Club was very different from most of the brothels in the city. The courtesans here were trained in the arts of conversation and music as much as the arts of the bedchamber. There was no scandalous dress, no nudity, no groping in the public areas, and no commoners allowed.

Momma K had found out about Kylar’s excursions long ago, of course. You couldn’t keep anything secret from Momma K. She’d argued with him about it, and still made her comments whenever she happened to be here, but once she’d found out that he wouldn’t stop coming, she’d made him swear that he come into the smoking club and watch from inside. If he was going to be stupid, she said, he might as well be safe. If he went outside, sooner or later he’d bump into the girl and talk to her and bed her and fall in love with her and get himself killed for his defiance.

“Don’t be shy,” Momma K said to the girl. “You’re soon going to be doing a lot more while a man’s in the room than changing your clothes.”

Kylar didn’t turn as he heard the sounds of clothes being shed. Just what he needed. He was depressed already.

“I know it’s scary your first time, Daydra,” Momma K said gently. “It’s a hard business. Isn’t that right, Kylar?”

“It had better be. It doesn’t do much when it’s soft.”

Daydra giggled, more from her nerves than Kylar’s cleverness, no doubt. He didn’t turn from the barred window. He was soaking his eyes in Elene. What would her clear brown eyes say as she looked at the girl behind him, preparing for her first client?

“You’re going to feel guilty at first, Daydra,” Momma K said. “Expect it. Ignore it. You’re not a slut, you’re not a liar. You’re an entertainer. Men don’t buy a fine Sethi wine because they’re thirsty. They buy it because it makes them feel good and buying it makes them feel good about themselves. That’s why they come here, too. Men will always pay for their vices, whether it’s wine or lifting your skirt—”

“Or murder,” Kylar said, touching the full coin purse and the dagger at his belt.

He could almost feel a chill in the air, but Momma K ignored him and continued on. “The secret is to decide what you won’t sell. Never sell your heart. Some girls won’t kiss. Some won’t be kept by one man. Some won’t perform certain services. I did it all, but I kept my heart.”

“Did you?” Kylar said. “Really?” He turned, and his heart jumped into his throat. Through Momma K’s art, Daydra now looked identical to Elene. Similar build, similar glorious curves, the same gleaming gold hair, the same simple servant’s dress, similar to everything but that she was on this side of the bars, close enough to touch, and Elene was out there. Daydra had an uncertain smile, like she couldn’t believe how he was talking to Momma K.

Momma K was furious. She swept across the room and grabbed Kylar’s ear like he was a naughty little boy. She hauled him out of the room by his ear onto the second-story landing. It was full of overstuffed chairs and fine rugs, with a bodyguard sitting in one corner and doors leading to four different courtesans’ rooms. Stairs led down to a parlor lined with suggestive but not explicit paintings and leather-bound books. Momma K finally released his ear and closed the door behind her quietly.

“Damn you, Kylar. Daydra is terrified already. What the hell are you doing?”

“Telling an ugly truth.” He shrugged. “Telling lies. Whatever.”

“If I wanted truth I’d look in the goddam mirror. This life isn’t about truth, it’s about making the best of what you’ve got. This is about that girl, isn’t it? That madness. You saved her, Kylar. Now let her go. She owes you everything.”

“She owes me her scars.”

“You’re a damned fool. Have you ever looked at what’s happened to all the other girls in your guild? Not even ten years out, they’re drunks and riot weed smokers, cutpurses and cripples, beggars and cheap whores, fifteen-year-old mothers with starving children, or unable to bear children at all because they’ve used tansy tea so many times. I promise you Elene’s not the only girl from your guild with scars given to her by some twist. But she is the only one with a hope and a future. You gave her that, Kylar.”

“I should have—”

“The only thing you could have done better was murder that boy earlier—before he did anything to you. If you’d been the kind of child capable of murder, you wouldn’t have been the kind of boy who cared what happened to some little girl. The truth is that even if they were your fault, Elene’s scars are a small price for the life you’ve given her.”