The Dark Lord

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Mare Internum, East of Sicily

"I don't know," Betia said slowly, biting her lip, looking from the imposing figure of Mithridates, late afternoon sun gleaming from smooth, glossy muscle, to Vladimir, bare-chested and peeling red. "They both look equally large…" Her bright blue eyes traveled back to the African.

"Perhaps if you flexed them again, I could tell." Smiling, she kicked her heels against the boards of the foredeck anchor housing. A hundred feet of tarred rope lay coiled within, threaded through a cored-out marble bust. When they had last anchored, off the Sicilian shore, the head of Perseus had rested on a sandy bottom, where Betia could trace the taut line of the cable plunging through clear, sapphire water.

Grunting, the two men clenched their fists, biceps bulging. In truth, Betia was having a hard time determining which man's arms were larger, whose muscles were more tightly corded. She put her chin on her palm, paying close attention. The African grimaced at the Walach and Vladimir squinted back ferociously, baring long, white incisors.

"Hmmm…" Betia said, distracted again. "This is very difficult."

Thyatis settled onto the deck beside Nicholas, her long cavalry sword in one hand, a bundle of rags, a whetstone and oil in the other. With the sky still warm with summer, she had stripped down to a short linen kilt and a Persian-style shirt. Nicholas looked up, surprised-the woman's bare feet made no sound on the smooth deck-and his nostrils flared in response to her smile.

"Nice blade," she said, sitting cross-legged. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught his immediate frown and there was an abrupt click as he slid the steel back into a battered, worn leather sheath. An afterimage lingered for a moment-sunlight burning on a slick, oiled metal bar three fingers wide, a long series of squared-off glyphs flaring as they vanished into darkness. "True steel?"

"Yes," Nicholas said gruffly, averting his eyes.

Nodding companionably, Thyatis slid out her own blade, a heavy spatha-style sword, the surface mottled with the waterfall pattern typical of Eastern swordcraft. Pursing her lips, Thyatis hefted the sword, turning it this way and that in the sunlight, squinting at the surface. Then, with careful deliberation, she picked a clean cloth out of the bundle and began to oil the blade.

"This one's Rajput work," she said after a bit, when Nicholas' breathing had settled. "My second one. The first was… ah… lost in a bad fight. The Duchess was kind enough to find me a replacement."

"Good," Nicholas said, after sitting in silence, listening to the careful burr of the whetstone along the steel. "Hard to get a good blade these days… the Legions or the generals take them all."

"Expensive, you mean," Thyatis said, lifting the sword again and letting the sun slide slowly down the edge, eyes intent, watching for imperfections, scratches or oily fingerprints. Across the deck there was a sharp grunt and the Roman woman looked up. Mithridates had his arm out, stiff, and Betia, small, pale hands gripping his teak-dark forearm, was doing pull-ups. The Walach was watching, a huge grin on his face, and laughing. Thyatis froze for a moment, letting painful memories rise, then fade. The past, she thought sadly. Not today. Then she forced a smile. "Vladimir seems a good companion-you two been together long?"

"Three years, almost." Nicholas settled the battered sheath across his knees. Quick, nimble fingers rooted among his own gear, finding a bottle of heavy, dark oil. He began to treat the scabbard, working the oil in with his fingers. "I was working for the Eastern Office, doing cleanup work, odd jobs, you know the kind of thing… there was a sea attack on the city. We were on the same boat. I went overboard, to cut a tangled line free… he jumped in after me, the oaf!"

"Can he swim?" Thyatis turned her sword over and began to work on the reverse.

"He can now." Nicholas shook his head. "The big idiot was wearing scaled armor-like he is today! — must weigh sixty, seventy pounds; but he's strong, very strong. Between the two of us, we kept from drowning. He doesn't like the water, though… makes him nervous just to see a boat."

"Like a cat," she said, deadpan.

"Huh. Like a cat." Nicholas looked sideways at her. "You've met a Walach before?"

"I've heard some tales," she replied, keeping her voice light. "He get hungry much?"

"Sometimes…" Nicholas sighed, rubbing the back of his hand against his nose. "He counts us all as family, though… he won't think your maid a tasty snack or something."

Thyatis' lips twitched, then she looked back across the deck. Now Vladimir had his arm out level and Betia had drawn herself up, arms stiff on his forearm, body balanced over his fist and was slowly swinging her legs up over her head. The muscles of her back and shoulders were sharp as razors. Vladimir watched with open appreciation, stiff with the effort of holding her entire weight with one arm. "Betia's not a maid."

"Ah-huh. Why bring her, then?" Nicholas scratched his head and Thyatis realized he was truly puzzled. She hid a sigh, thinking, but what do you expect? He has no idea what kind of training she's been through…

"She's our messenger, our spy in the marketplace, our quiet, hidden eyes in a crowded street." Thyatis pointed at the African and the Walach with the point of her blade. "Each tool to a purpose, my friend. Strength, size, speed, a deadly eye-not much use if you don't know where to go, who to kill, where to find a missing pouch of letters… our little Betia is worth her weight in gold, or more." She looked back at Nicholas, grinning. "You'll see."

"I suppose." Nicholas twisted the ends of his mustache in a nervous gesture. "You won't be worrying about her if things get hot, then? I would…"

"Are you going to worry about me?" Thyatis' voice settled into a professionally level tone. "Why would you worry about her and not about Vladimir? Or Mithridates?"

Nicholas made a face and raised a hand as if to deflect the question. "I see. We'll each take care of our own business."

"What we'll do," Thyatis said softly, eyes narrowed in a hard glare, "is trust each other. If any of us are in trouble, the others will help, but we won't assume Betia, or I, or you, require 'looking after.' Do you follow?"

"Yes," Nicholas said, rising from the deck. Thyatis could see he was irritated.

"Good," she said, rising as well. "Let's spar. I'm starting to feel rusty, sitting on this damp boat." She stepped back, clearing some space. The Indian steel blade gleamed in her hand, point drifting towards the deck, her grip light on the hilt.

Nicholas stared at her as though the seas had parted, revealing Typhon in all his awful glory. "What? You want to fight?"

"Yes," Thyatis said, letting her body relax into stance, shoulders level, rising up on the balls of her feet. It felt good, even to begin the proper exercise of form. The sword quivered, a seamless extension of her hand and will. "We need the practice-and the time will past the quicker for some honest sweat!"

Nicholas blinked, watching her, and he shook his head suddenly. "No-I won't. Not with bare steel! Let us take staves and spar with them instead." Thyatis saw his knuckles turning white on the hilt of the blade. He's afraid, she thought in amazement. Afraid he'll hurt me. How strange!

Chuckling, Thyatis sheathed her sword. Given the man's reaction, there was no point in pressing the matter. "Very well," she said. "The staff it is, then."

Relief flooded Nicholas' face and he tossed the scabbard to Vladimir, who had wandered over. The big Walach caught the weapon from the air with one hand. Mithridates was right behind him, Betia riding his shoulders, arms crossed on his bald head, pale legs tucked into his armpits. "Vlad-are there staves about?"

Thyatis rolled her neck, then deftly caught a length of oak tossed by the African. She spun the wooden staff in her hand, flipping it across her shoulders and into her other hand. Nicholas had his in hand as well and now his body relaxed into a fighting pose-not quite the same as Thyatis'. She saw he'd been trained by a master emphasizing power and the striking blow. She shifted her feet, turning a little away from him, hands sliding on the smooth wood. The hiss of bloodfire began to trickle through her and she grinned wide, feeling suddenly awake.

Nicholas began to circle, his feet very light on the deck.