Michael Flynn - On the Razor’s Edge

“Of me!”

“As you seem to have grown fond of the harper.”

“She sings well.”

“And yet you turned her over to me.”

“I was oath bound to do so. I could not lure Bridget ban herself. But I think Donovan would have told you what you wanted even without the added spur. His memories were genuinely locked away.”

“Perhaps. We leave shortly for Dao Chetty. They are waiting for me at Mount Lefn.”

Ravn nodded. “Then we had better move.”

Gidula smiled briefly. “They won’t leave without me.” He glanced down the side of the Nose. “It does not look so far, but then it is the speed, not the distance, that matters.”

Ravn stepped beside him and looked down at the rushing waters below. It was far enough, she thought.

For an old man, Gidula was remarkably strong. He seized her and tossed her in a hip roll over the edge of the cliff.

She found herself suddenly a bird, though without a bird’s authority for flight. She spun, and sky, waters, and Gidula’s weeping face passed rapidly before her.

Endless training had taught her body what to do. Her right arm snatched a piton gun from her belt and fired a spike into the cliff face. The cable ran out and she swung at the end of it, striking the rocks with such brutal force that she nearly lost her grip on the gun. She grunted and pulled herself up, found a foothold, and shoved her left fist into a crack in the rock face.

Gidula looked down at her, judged where the piton had struck—well below the lip of the cliff. “It is much harder that way,” he said. “You will grow tired and lose your grip and only then complete what has begun. Better far to have concluded the business in one fell swoop.”

“Why? Because I thought to kill you?”

Gidula appeared to consider that. “Some might count that a reason, but mine is more serious. As I said: I had begun to grow fond of you.”

A horrible cold seized Ravn’s heart. “And Ielnor?”

Gidula’s head bobbed. “It was faster for her. She had no place to seize hold.”

“You pushed your wife off the Nose?”

“No! Oh no. She leapt. Trying to grab the baby. It was the baby I threw off.”

Ravn refused to let the image focus. “You threw your baby off the cliff?”

“Of course not. It wasn’t my baby. That was the whole point.”

“Ah.” Ravn had always thought of duty as a noble beast. But it had fangs. It had fangs.

“In each Shadow’s path,” said Gidula, “there is some fell deed that empties him out and after which there is no returning. Have you ever…?”

“I killed my gozhiinyaw when we moved the governor of Stratfondle.” Once more, she saw that farewell feast, tasted the wine they had toasted with. No one knew which side the others had chosen until one day she found the path to the governor’s life running through the body of Anwar Cheston.

“There, you see?” Gidula said in tones of sweet reason. “After that what other deed can be so dire? One may trod the Shadowed Path with a lighter heart.” He pointed to the rocky knob that crowned the cliff. “Best if you simply let go, Ravn. The upper face is unclimbable. Many others have tried. Why do you suppose Number One has not returned? You see what affection does to one’s instincts. Next time, Ravn, once the gun is aimed, don’t hesitate.”

“I will keep that in mind. For the next time.”

“Well…” He stood and dusted himself off. “I’m off to take down the Committee. Wish me luck.”

“Ooh, my sweet Gidula. I fear I can spare you none. For I need all of it for myself.”

Méarana remained in good cheer, and this for two reasons. Although Donovan had gone with the kill team and left her here, she had reasoned that this was for her the safest course. Had he told Gidula everything and stayed here with her, the Old One would have had no further need of Donovan, and thus no further need of her. Until Donovan pointed out the secret entrance, Gidula might still need her to hold over him.

That did not mean she was safe. For so long as she was in the Forks, she walked among cobras, and felt small black eyes tracking her every step. They had not forgotten, in the midst of their civil war, that they had another enemy across the Rift. And if she was a lever over her father, she was also a bait for her mother.

Khembold had established Méarana in a small apartment, plainly furnished and of two rooms, just off Jeshire Street in the transient quarter. The sitting room featured a play deck, large stuffed chairs, and a well-supplied cabinet of sensory intoxicants. The back room had a two-fold bed with multiple pillows and a foldaway dresser and wardrobe. To the side were the usual conveniences for those with use for beds.

She had placed her harp atop the pillows and carefully loosened all the strings—metal strings that she played with the nails. Sometimes, when the music carried her, she would find afterward her fingertips red with blood. She bent over the harp and kissed it. Cecilia preserve me, she thought. And she added Jude for good luck.

In the front room, she inventoried the contents of the cabinet. There were several aerosols, but none seemed suitable for her needs. Solids whose smoke might be inhaled. A variety of liquids in bottle or syringe. The bottles were steel, ceramic, plastic—but two were glass, and these she removed from the cabinet. She poured herself a tumbler of each. The green-tinged liquid proved a wine of some sort, quite good. The clear one was a silverplate head-banger. Even a sip set up an ache between her eyes. She made a face and poured the rest of the bottle down the drain, leaving the empty bottle on the sideboard.

Afterward, she turned her attention to the play deck, where she played shaHmat against herself.

Before departure, Donovan had sent a missive by way of Magpie Three Padaborn. It was a list of numbers arranged to resemble an account in Dangchao groats: Gr 844.60 + Gr 288.60 + Gr 311.18 + Gr 109.11 and she immediately recognized it as a Clanthompson code derived from Rosie’s Thesaurus. The numbers represented a taxonomy of concepts. Donovan had seen the code exactly once, years before on Harpaloon, but the Pedant remembered details.

Méarana was not so lucky. She pretended to refer to a list of accounts, muttered something about overcharging for services, and translated the message. Anticipate/expect. Cross-grained/rough/unsmooth. Sporting/hunting-dog. Cheerfulness.

That was clear enough. He knew that one or more Hounds were on their way to her. There would be a rough time between his departure and the Hounds’ arrival, but she should maintain hope.

Any fool can hope, her mother had told Méarana once, when success lies in view. It takes genuine courage to hope when matters seem most hopeless.

Khembold Shadow Darling—no, Confederals placed office-titles last—Khembold Darling Shadow came to fetch her two days after her father had abandoned her among sullen strangers. He came about midmorn on market day, and the Great Square was bustling with activity. Farmers and craftsmen called out greetings from their booths and pavilions and offered wonderful bargains. One man in a brown robe cried out, “Ho, everyone that desires wisdom, let him draw near and take it at our hands, for it is wisdom that we have for sale! Come to the lecture hall tonight!”