Sworn in Steel

Chapter Twenty-two

By the time I made it back to the Angel’s Shadow, the sun was turning the eastern sky a dull gray. I rubbed at my eyes and considered another ahrami, then thought better of it. I was beyond their help at this point-taking more would only make me awake, not alert. And awake was something I was looking forward to not being soon.

I was also looking forward to not having a surly assassin stalking at my side.

When we reached the inn, she stopped at the edge of the courtyard, in the shadow of the entryway.

“You’ll be safe here?” she said, her voice at once perfunctory and smoky behind the drape of her turban.

I looked about the place. One of the innkeeper’s sons was hauling tables away from the inn’s wall, preparing the outside seating for the day. A handful of chickens pecked the ground, and I could see the window and side door to the kitchen standing open. Smoke rose from the chimney at the back.

There was no sign of Fowler, but that wasn’t a bad thing-her job was not to be seen when she was standing Oak. I scanned the roofline, just be sure, and saw the silhouette of a head and shoulder poke up over the stables. It gave a small wave, using a hand signal I was familiar with from back in Ildrecca. A moment later, the figure vanished.

“I’ll be fine,” I said.

A long pause from Aribah as she considered me, the yard, and Angels knew what else.

“This isn’t right,” she said at last.

My hand went to my rapier as my eyes swept the street around us. “Excuse me?”

“Grandfather shouldn’t have let you go.”

Oh, that. I let myself relax, then thought better of it and positioned my hand closer to my dagger than my rapier. Aribah was too close for sword work should she suddenly decide to “fix” things.

“You’re too potentially valuable to us,” she said, turning her eyes back to me. “He doesn’t see that, but I do.”

Her eyes were big and deep and brown and edged with kohl, set close beside a narrow nose. There looked to be cheekbones happening under there as well. Between that and the smoke of her voice, not to mention the stray curve I’d noticed beneath those loose robes. .

I blinked. Focus, Drothe. Assassin. Happy to see you dead.

I cleared my throat. “You were there,” I said. “You heard: I couldn’t show you how to see what I see, even if I wanted to.”

“I’m not talking about want; I’m talking about need. We need to be able to face the Lions, to best them, to. . restore our pride. You can help us do that.”

I watched as her thumb began absently rubbing at the silver ring on her middle finger. It had been the same way in the empty room when he’d argued with her, when he’d mentioned her mother. Old wounds? Frustrations? Something else?

Either way, I’d be a fool not to pick at it.

“You and your grandfather don’t agree on many things, do you?” I said.

“We agree on enough.”

“But not when it comes to me.”

She leaned in close. “There are yazani,” she said, “who can keep parts of a man-a finger, an ear, a foot, a heart-alive for months using magic and alchemy. How long, do you think, they could keep a man’s eye alive and intact? Long enough to draw the secrets from it, perhaps?”

“That’s assuming the magic is held in my eye,” I said. “Who’s to say? Like I told your grandfather, I have no idea how the magic works. Taking my eyes might be the surest way of losing it.”

I saw Aribah’s brow furrow. Clearly, she hadn’t expected her threat to fall quite so flat. I didn’t blame her, though-I’ve been threatened by the best.

“What interests me more,” I continued, “is how long they can keep the head of an assassin alive. Because if you try to find an answer to your question using those yazani, I guarantee you they’ll get a chance to figure out the answer to mine.”

We eyed each other a long moment, her measuring me, me returning the favor while trying not to get lost in her gaze in the process. Finally, she raised an exquisite eyebrow and snorted.

“You’re still too valuable to kill, Marked Man,” she said, and turned away.

I watched her go until she slipped into the shadows. Then I crossed the courtyard and entered the inn.

A couple of Quarter locals were sitting at tables, finishing off their breakfasts. A few glanced up as I entered, but most kept their eyes on their bowls. None of Tobin’s people were present, and neither was Fowler. The former I didn’t care about-I wasn’t in the mood to deal with a brood of clucking actors-but Fowler I could have done with. To have her by me, swearing and fussing and, ultimately, understanding my news held a strong appeal just now. Maybe it was just the hour and the locale, but sharing the burden suddenly sounded damn good.

Tired as I was, I couldn’t help noticing that my stomach was trying to eat a hole through my spine. I made my way over to the bar and signaled for a serving of whatever they’d made for breakfast. Then I put my back to the counter, rested my elbows on its top, and gave myself permission to relax.

Djinn hunters? What the hell did a bunch of djinn hunters have to do with me, let alone my night vision? Bad enough when I’d thought they were some sort of shadow-wearing assassins, but now. . now I had to wonder at the connection between my night sight and that of the djinn, or their riders, or whatever the hell the Lions of Arat were. The old assassin’s dismissal aside, I didn’t believe for one moment it was a coincidence that the neyajin’s glimmer foiled both the Lion’s vision and my own. In my limited experience, those kinds of things don’t just happen when it comes to magic: If anything, unexpected glimmer usually makes a situation worse, not better. No, as much as I disliked the notion, odds were good that, if there wasn’t a direct connection between the Lions of Arat’s vision and my own, then there were some damn close similarities. Similarities that might very well point to Djanese magic and the djinn.

Djinn.

Damn it, Sebastian, how the hell had you gotten our night vision, anyhow? And from where?

The innkeeper’s girl set a bowl near my elbow, practically startling me. I turned around to take it up, and smiled. The porridge inside was done in the Ildreccan style, smelling of rice and goat’s milk and honey and coriander. My stomach grumbled at the memories of home. I took up the bowl and the horn spoon she’d set beside it, and headed for the stairs.

Well, one thing was for certain: If I didn’t believe my night vision was a lucky coincidence, neither did Aribah’s grandfather. His letting me go simply meant that holding on to me right now wasn’t tenable. I was under no illusions about being done with him, or his granddaughter, or their interest in me. You don’t break a contract and then dust four of the local Upright Man’s enforcers, only to let the man you put your people at risk or go free. No, he was playing a long game, but whether I was a target or a tool at the moment, I couldn’t tell.

I put a foot on the stairs, then another, and dipped the spoon into the porridge. It was hot and thick and grainy, and dropped into my gut like a stone. Despite that, it felt good-like a piece of home, sitting in my center and giving me indigestion. Small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

I didn’t want to think about anything right now: not glimmer, not neyajin, not the audition, not anything. I just wanted to fill my stomach and crawl into bed and come back out on the other side with enough energy to get back out onto the streets again. That’s where the answers would be: lying on hesitant, twisting tongues in the dark places of el-Qaddice-places that didn’t welcome anyone with open arms, let alone an Imperial. Places I had to tread carefully because answers didn’t come wandering in and sit themselves down on your doorstep in a new city. You had to fight and pay and lie and bleed for them; had to keep one hand in the open and the other on your knife; had to wonder whether the Djanese across from you was smiling because you’d offered the pay, or because he was planning to gut you the first chance he got. You had to throw yourself at the night over and over, hoping each time that it would be the one that broke instead of you.

It was never easy. Never.

Which made it all the more stunning when I reached the top of the stairs and found Bronze Degan sitting in a chair outside my room, eating breakfast.

My porridge and bowl hit the floor with a heavy thud. For the moment, my exhaustion fell away with it.

I felt a smile begin to split my face as I stepped over the bowl and started down the hall. How had he-?

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” said Degan, not looking up from his own repast. He’d forgone the morning’s offering, and instead had a platter of what looked like last night’s leftovers from the kitchen.

I stopped where I was, the smile dying on my lips. So much for happy reunions. Not that I’d been expecting one, but still.

“I’m inclined to ask the same thing,” I said.

“What a surprise.”

Degan was still Degan: broad-brimmed hat, tailored but comfortably loose fitting doublet and breeches, and tall campaign boots-the last rolled down to let the air get to his bare calves. The doublet was open as well, revealing a worn but clean shirt, its weave loose in deference to the Djanese climate. He was all in grays and faded yellows this morning, the dusty gold of the doublet’s piping matching the pale fall of his hair.

He had a sword at his side, of course-he was Degan: he couldn’t not have one. But while it was a handsome piece of steel, with the guard filed and chiseled to look like a sweeping length of fixed, heavy chain, it didn’t feel right seeing it at his side. There was no bronze, no carefully etched vines, no. . Degan to it.

I could fix that with one quick trip to the stables, but I knew better than to offer. Not now. Not yet.

“Fowler knows you’re here?” I said. Above me, I could hear the rafters creak as the inn settled in for the day’s heat.

“She wouldn’t be much of an Oak Mistress if she didn’t.”

“And she didn’t tell me, why?”

Degan shrugged and turned back to his plate, pausing to brush a small fall of dust from his knee. “You’d have to a-”

“Wait,” I said. I looked up at the ceiling. Another creak, another fall of dust.

Dammit.

“Fowler!” I shouted. “Get your ass out of the attic and stop listening in!”

Silence.

“Angels help me,” I said, “I’ll start poking holes through the ceiling with my sword if you don’t move.”

More silence.

“Now, Fowler.”

Fowler’s voice came drifting down from somewhere above Degan. “You couldn’t reach the ceiling if you tried.”

I began to clear my steel, making sure to scrape the blade along the lip of the scabbard. “You want to risk it?”

Another pause, then, “Fine!” The ceiling creaked and rained small falls of dust as she made her way among the rafters.

I waited until the last drift of plaster had settled to the floor before I turned my attention away from the ceiling and to the hallway. “And if there’s anyone else listening at doors,” I yelled, “I’ll find out and gut you as well!”

Doors began opening on my right and left, releasing actors in various states of dress, embarrassment, and amusement. They muttered and joked their way down the stairs, with Degan gathering at least a few winks from the female members of the troupe along the way.

When the hallway was empty, I looked back toward Degan. There was a reluctant smile on his face. “It can never be easy with you, can it?” he said.

“Why didn’t Fowler tell me?” I said again.

Degan’s smile left altogether. “Because I asked her not to.”

I nodded: I could see that. It didn’t mean I liked it, but I could understand it. Even Fowler didn’t know all of what had fallen out between Degan and me, but she knew enough to respect Degan’s wishes when it came to me.

“All right,” I said. I walked the rest of the way down the hall and stopped beside Degan. “Congratulations, you’ve caught me by surprise and put me off balance: What next?”

“Normally, I’d press the advantage and thrust home as soon as I was able, but this isn’t that kind of a conversation.”

“What kind is it?” I said.

“It’s the kind where I tell you to get the hell out of Djan and mind your own business.”

“And how well do you think that’s going to work?”

Degan set his plate on the floor and stood up. “Better than you seem to.”

I stared up at him. “I think you may be misjudging the nature of this conversation,” I said.

Degan clenched his jaw, along with his fists, and ran a hard eye over me. It was a look I’d seen before: the look of a degan weighing not just options, but his points of attack, the geometry of the conflict, the measure of his opponent. It was a cold, bloodless look, and one I wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of. It scared the hell out of me.

Then he turned away and let out a sigh. I almost joined him.

“Why Djan?” he said, not looking back. “Why now?”

“Why the hell do you think?” I said.

“Well, I’m fairly certain it’s not to keep your Oath,” he said. “We both know better than to expect that.”

I stared at his back. I’d expected as much-and, honestly, deserved as much-but it still stung. No, it did more than that: a hell of a lot more.

“I explained that,” I said.

“I recall,” said Degan, “although it was hard to grasp all the subtleties of your argument: You’d just clipped me in the back of the head with a glimmered rope, after all, and my hair was smoldering. That can be a bit distracting. Something about your ass and the empire, wasn’t it?”

“You know why I did what I did,” I said. “It wasn’t just about me or you or the empire or that damn journal: It was about Christiana and Kells and the rest of the Kin. It was about keeping them all alive despite the emperor and Shadow, about keeping my hands on the one thing that gave me any hope of bringing them out of that mess in one piece.”

“I know,” said Degan.

“And?”

“And at first, I thought your argument was enough, that it could be enough to let me let it go,” said Degan. He turned back to face me, and his eyes were hard: hard like a soldier’s, hard like a broken promise, hard like the truth. “But I was wrong.”

“Wrong?” I said, my guilt flaring, turning into anger. “Wrong how? Wrong in that you didn’t leave me a good choice? Wrong in that I didn’t know what the hell was going on with you and your Order until it was too late? Wrong in that I not only bent over backward to cover your involvement, but lied to your ‘brothers’ when they came asking questions with their fists?” I stepped forward, putting myself inches from Degan. “What part of that is so fucking ‘wrong’ that you can’t see past what either of us-what both of us-did?”

“The part,” said Degan, glaring down at me, “where only one of us kept his word.”

I held my ground under his gaze, even though part of me wanted to throw pride and pretense aside and ask for forgiveness, to say, fuck it, we both were wrong, let’s start over. But there was too much history between us to start fresh, just as there was too much spine in either of us to bend. Both of our trades had trained us to equate giving ground with weakness, and neither of us was in the habit of appearing weak.

This was going to be even harder than I’d expected, for any number of reasons.

“You could have told me about the Oath,” I said. “Told me that by taking it, you were going against the laws of your Order. If I’d known what it meant for you-”

“Angels!” said Degan. “It’s not about the Oath! Don’t you understand that? If this were only about you breaking your word to a degan, I might be able to look past it, but it isn’t. It’s about you breaking your word to me. I took your Oath because of who we were, Drothe, because I didn’t want to see you cut down by Iron or Solitude or anyone else. Even if I ended up going against the Order, I knew I’d be doing it for two good reasons: you, and my duty to the empire. If everything else collapsed, I’d still be able to hold on to those things.

“But then you swung your rope, and I fell, and both promises were broken.” Degan sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. “My failure is for me to bear, but I won’t carry yours as well: That’s your concern. Nor am I going to absolve you. You have to realize that knowing the ‘why’ behind something isn’t always enough, especially when it comes to things like this. Being able to talk your way out of a dilemma doesn’t mean it goes away.”

He reached down to let his hand rest on his sword guard, then hesitated, steel untouched. “I have to remind myself what I am every day now,” he said, looking down as his fingers hovered over the chain-wrapped handle. “Every time I buckle this on in the morning, every time I take it off at night, every time my hand brushes against the guard, I stop and realize I’m no longer a degan. I remember that my word doesn’t carry any more weight than a mercenary’s, that my blade doesn’t serve any higher purpose than the one it’s been paid to enforce. My steel is just steel.” He lowered his hand and looked at me. “All the excuses and reasons in the world aren’t going to change that.”

Just like all my pondering wasn’t going to change my being a Gray Prince, I thought. But that was different: I’d moved up the chain, not been cast from it. I might have lost friends and my ability to work the street as I once had, but Degan had lost everything that defined him. There was no way I could make a comparison between where he’d ended up and where I was-there wasn’t any, and I wasn’t going to insult him by trying.

I sighed and sat down in Degan’s chair, suddenly tired. I could feel the spot where Aribah had tapped me on the back of the head starting to throb again, feel the aches and fatigue of earlier fights begin to reassert themselves. At fault or no, I was still a Gray Prince, and I still had a job to do and people to protect. If I wanted to make my case with Degan, I was going to need to do it quickly, before my brain decided to follow my body’s slide toward exhaustion.

I looked down at the plate of food on the floor: A leg and thigh of chicken, braised in a reduced wine sauce that smelled of rosemary and tart cherries, sat alongside a small charcoal-roasted turnip, the outside dark with ash, the inside smooth and buttery to the eye. Degan had hardly touched it, and it looked as if the inn’s cockroaches hadn’t found the bounty yet. My stomach rumbled. I licked my lips.

Degan sighed. “Help yourself.”

I did. The chicken had cooled and the sauce congealed, but there was an undercurrent of pepper that stood out nicely against the sweet-bitterness of the liquid. The turnip was still warm in the center, touched with a hint of olive oil, and delicious.

Degan stood, watching and waiting. I knew he was going to start back in the moment I was done, so I decided to strike first.

“You know,” I said, still chewing, “I could always help.”

A harsh bark of a laugh. I winced. “The last thing I need-”

“How long have you been down here?” I said.

Degan frowned. “A little over two months.”

I nodded, scooped the last bit of turnip into my mouth, and wiped my mustache and beard with my other hand. “I’ve been here less than two weeks,” I said. “And in the Old City maybe that many days. Want to know what I’ve found out in that time?”

“Not really, no.”

“But you get my point?”

“I get it,” said Degan, “and I don’t care. I don’t want your help. What I want is for you to leave.”

“Why?”

“Because what I’m doing down here has nothing to do with you or the Kin, and I don’t want it to have anything to do with you or the Kin. It’s personal.”

I took up the chicken’s thighbone and examined it for any remaining meat. No, I’d picked it clean. Oh well. I put it down on the plate, set the plate on the floor, and stood.

“Fine,” I said.

Degan took a small step back. “Fine? Just like that?”

“Just like that. All I ask is that you answer me one question.”

Degan’s brow furrowed. “All riiight.”

“What’s so damn important about a bunch of ivory and papers that you had to come all the way to el-Qaddice?” I asked.

The question was a gamble. It was one of the few consistent rumors I’d heard about Degan up to this point, but that wasn’t saying much. But I needed something, anything, to catch him off guard.

Luckily for me, my play worked. Degan’s eyes went wide and, after a moment, he shook his head in disgust. “Damn Noses.”

I suppressed a smile and pressed forward instead, keeping up the assault.

“What are they?” I said. “Relics? Notes? Something you can use to protect yourself from the Order?” Something that might help me talk you into going back to Ildrecca with me?

“Something like that.”

“What kind of something?”

Degan shook his head.

“Dammit, Degan, I don’t have time for this!”

“No, you don’t,” he said. “And neither do I.” And he began to turn away.

Crap. I’d been hoping to figure out what Degan was after before I told him why I was here, before I told him there was another degan in el-Qaddice. I hadn’t wanted to admit I’d come down here for any reason other than our lost friendship. It was stupid, I knew-there was no way to tell him about Wolf’s side of the deal without mentioning the threat to my own organization-but it made it sound more mercenary than it felt. And the last thing I wanted Degan to think was that I was using him as a means to help myself-again.

Except that I was, to a degree. And I didn’t have much of a choice.

“If your being here is about the Order of the Degans and getting back in,” I said, “I can help.”

“Blackmail won’t work on them, Drothe,” he said as he walked down the hall. “And even you can’t cut a deal with the Order when it comes to fixing what I did.”

I took a deep breath, let it out, and steadied myself with a hand against the wall.

“I didn’t come down here alone,” I said.

“I don’t care if you tied your sister in a sack and brought her along kicking and screaming, I’m not about to-”

“Silver Degan is here, too,” I said, barely keeping myself from calling him “Wolf.” “We came to el-Qaddice together.”

Degan stopped in his tracks. I saw his hand go to his sword. “Silver’s here?” he said, turning partway around so he could see the entire length of the hallway. He took a small step backward, putting himself up against the wall. “With you?”

“Not here in the inn, no. And not so much with me as. . pushing me along.”

Degan shot a sharp look my way. “Pushing how?”

“Blackmail may not work against degans,” I said, “but it operates just fine when it comes to newer Gray Princes.”

Degan lowered his hand and cocked his head. “Silver blackmailed you?”

“He set me up as the finger for another Gray Prince’s death, made it look like I dusted the prince when he was under the protection of my peace. It was all just whispers when I left Ildrecca, but if enough Kin start to believe it, or if Silver decides to up the stakes by laying a few more bodies at my door, all hell will break loose. Nijjan Red Nails has already brushed her hands of me, and I might’ve lost others in the last month. I don’t know. All I do know is that, if the rumor takes hold, it’s a perfect excuse for a couple of the other Gray Princes to get rid of me.”

“That’s a bit extreme for Silver, but I suppose I can see him doing it. Especially now.” Degan considered a moment. “And he wanted to use you to find me?”

I nodded. “He says the Order’s falling in on itself since Iron was dusted. From what I can tell, no one is saying directly that you did it, but it’s common knowledge among the degans. I tried to convince them Shadow killed Iron instead of you, but-”

“You did?” said Degan. “How?”

“I left Iron’s sword on Shadow’s body and made sure the Order found it. You’d crossed swords with Shadow already, and he was on the opposite side of the fence from Iron. I didn’t think it’d be too much of a stretch.”

“Nice. But I’m gathering it didn’t work, considering you’re down here.”

I shook my head. “To hear Silver tell it, no one argued with the official story, but no one’s fully buying it, either. Not having you, or at least your body, around seems to be making it a hard sell.”

“Sorry to complicate things for you by being alive,” said Degan. “So which camp is Silver in? Does he want to give me a hearty handshake or a sword thrust through my heart?”

“He wants to get you back to Ildrecca,” I said. “He says you carry enough weight with the Order that you can help keep things from getting worse, that you can prevent the two sides from coming to blows over the whole ‘How do we serve the empire’ thing.”

“He gives me too much credit.”

“He also thinks he can get you back into the degans.”

“He gives himself too much credit as well.” Degan smiled thinly. “But that’s Silver all over.”

“Is he right, though?” I said.

Degan stared down at his boots, kicking absently at a spot on the floor. “Maybe,” he said at last. “It’s possible that, having killed Iron, I’m now in a position to step forward-if only as an example of what can happen-and ease some of the tension. It’s been a long time since one degan killed another, and it gives me a sort of grisly cachet, I suppose. Mind you, I don’t believe for a moment I can heal the split, but could I put it in perspective? Maybe. But that would require the Order not cutting me down the moment I con-firmed their suspicions. And to even stand a chance of doing that, I’d need to get into the Barracks Hall, and that’s only slightly less likely than me not getting killed in the first place.”

“But if they aren’t willing to admit for certain you dusted Iron, what’s keeping you out?”

“I cast my sword away,” said Degan. “Turned my back on my brothers and my Oath. That’s not exactly something they can overlook. If I wanted to enter the hall in anything other than chains and an iron gag, I’d need the support of at least three degans. Last I checked, Silver is only one man, no matter how big his ego.”

“Which is why he wants to get you back into the Order: so he can bring you into the Barracks Hall.”

“Probably,” said Degan. “If I’m a degan, no one can keep me out, but that’d be one hell of an achievement, even for Silver. No one’s been reinstated to the Order after leaving it. Ever. Oh, there’s supposed to be rules governing that, but they were lost a long time ago.”

“Lost how?”

“Someone took them.”

“From a bunch of degans?”

“Being good with a sword doesn’t mean you don’t make mistakes.”

I was about to ask what kind of mistake would allow a person to walk away with something like that, but then I caught the look in Degan’s eye and stopped myself. Things were delicate enough between us as it was at the moment; the last thing I needed to do was give him another excuse to tell me to fuck myself. Given his look, this time he might just do it.

So instead, I said, “Lost rules aside, do you think Silver could get you back in the Order?”

Degan shrugged. “Silver knows more about the old laws and rituals than I ever will. I suppose it’s possible.”

“So then we could help you get back in,” I said, suddenly feeling as if sunlight were shining on me for the first time in months. “Which means all we need to do is get you and Silver back to Ildrecca, maybe find at least one more degan to speak for you, and-”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m not worried about becoming a degan again, Drothe.”

“But you said-”

“I said I’m trying to come to terms with it, but that doesn’t mean I think I should carry a sword of the order again. I killed one of my sword brothers: I can’t just walk back in like it never happened. For all that I disagreed with him, Iron’s memory deserves better than that.” Degan pushed himself away from the wall. “No, if I’m interested in anything, it’s in saving the Order from itself. I may no longer be a degan, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still love what the Order represents and what my former brothers stand for.

“I appreciate your offer and your effort-you don’t know how much, truly-but I don’t think my going back to Ildrecca is the best way to accomplish that. I’m here for a reason, and if I’m right, it’ll make more of a difference to the Order than anything Silver can pull off.”

“How?” I said. “With a bunch of ivory and paper?”

Degan smiled and began to turn away. “With ivory and paper, yes.”

“So the answer’s no, just like that?” I said.

He stopped but didn’t turn back. “You think this is easy for me? That I walk away lightly? Even after everything that happened, part of me still wants to say yes, to come back and run and fight and laugh at your side again. But the rest of me knows better. It would be too easy to fall back into old habits with you, too easy to forget what happened and why it should matter.

“So no, it’s not just like that-it’s a hell of a lot more than that.”

I stood there and watched Degan walk down the steps and away, feeling the sunlight go out on my face and the darkness return. Suddenly, it was hard to stand, let alone think. I stumbled back to my room, turned the lock, and opened the door.

Wolf was there, lying on my bed, his hands clasped behind his head.

“Well, that could have gone better, yes?” he said.