The Hand of Chaos

26

The fortress of the Brotherhood reigned, solid and impregnable, over the island of Skurvash. A series of structures, built over time, as the Brotherhood grew and its needs changed, the fortress commanded a view of deepsky and its flight tracks, as well as the land all around it and the one meandering road that led up to it.

An approaching single-rider dragon could be spotted at a thousand menkas, a large troop-laden dragonship at two thousand. The road—the only road through the rough land, covered with the brittle-limbed and occasionally deadly hargast trees[55]—wandered through deep ravines and over numerous swinging bridges. Hugh showed Iridal, as they crossed, how a single stroke of a sword could send the bridge and everyone on it plunging into the sharp rocks far below. And if by chance an army made it to the top of the mountain, it would have to take the fortress itself—a sprawling complex, guarded by desperate men and women who had nothing to lose.

The Brotherhood knew itself to be safe, secure. Its vast network of spies warned it instantly of any threat, long before that threat was seen. Vigilance was, therefore, easy and relaxed. The gates stood open wide. The guards played at rune-bone and didn’t even bother to glance up from their game as Hugh and Iridal walked through the gates to a cobblestone courtyard beyond. Most of the outbuildings were empty, though they would have been filled rapidly enough with the citizens of Klervashna had attack threatened. Hugh and Iridal saw no one in their walk along the winding avenues, leading up a gentle slope to the main building.

Older than the rest, this structure was central headquarters for the Brotherhood, which had the temerity to fly its own flag—a blood-red banner bearing a single upheld hand, palm flat, fingers together. The entrance door—a rarity on Arianus, for it was made of wood, decorated with intricate carvings—was closed fast and barred.

“Wait here,” Hugh ordered, pointing. “Don’t move from this spot.” Iridal, numb and dazed with exhaustion, looked down. She stood on a flat piece of flagstone that was, she noticed (now that she examined it more closely) a different shape and color from the flagstone walkway leading to the door. The stone was cut to resemble vaguely the shape of a hand.

“Don’t move off that rock,” Hugh warned again. He indicated a narrow slit in the stonework, positioned above the door. “There’s an arrow pointed at your heart. Step to either the right or the left and you’re dead.” Iridal froze, stared at the dark slit, through which she could see nothing—no sign of life, no movement. Yet she had no doubt, from Hugh’s tone, that what he said was true. She remained standing on the hand-shaped rock. Hugh left her, walked up to the door.

He paused, studied the carvings on the door, carvings that were done in the shape of hands—open, palm flat, resembling the symbol on the flag. There were twelve in all, ranged round in the shape of a circle, fingers out. Choosing one, Hugh pressed his own hand into the carving.[56] The door swung open.

“Come,” he said to Iridal, motioning for her to join him. “It’s safe now.” Glancing askance at the window above, Iridal hastened to Hugh’s side. The fortress was oppressive, filled her with a sense of terrible loneliness, gloom, and dark foreboding. She caught hold of Hugh’s outstretched hand, held on to it fast.

Hugh looked concerned at her chill touch, her unnatural pallor. He squeezed her hand reassuringly, a grim look warned her to remain calm, in control. Iridal lowered her head, pulled her hood down to hide her face, and accompanied him inside a small room.

The door shut immediately behind them, bars thundered into place with a boom that stopped the heart. After the bright light outside, Iridal was half blind. Hugh stood blinking, motionless, until he could see.

“This way,” said a dry voice that sounded like the crackle of very old parchment. Movement sounded to their right.

Hugh followed, knowing well where he was and where he was going. He kept fast hold of Iridal, who was grateful for his guidance. The darkness was daunting, unnerving. It was intended to be. She reminded herself that she had asked for this. She had better get used to being in dark and unnerving places.

“Hugh the Hand,” said the dry voice. “How very good to see you, sir. It’s been a long time.”

They entered a windowless chamber, lit by the soft light of a glowstone in a lantern. A stooped and wizened old man stood regarding Hugh with a gentle, benign expression, made remarkable by a pair of wonderfully clear and penetrating eyes.

“It has that, Ancient,” said Hugh, his stern expression relaxing into a smile.

“I’m surprised to find you still at work. I’ve thought you’d be taking your ease by a good fire.”

“Ah, this is all the duties I undertake now, sir,” said the old man. “I’ve put the other away long since, except for a bit of instruction, now and then, to those like yourself, who ask for it. A skilled pupil you were, too, sir. You had the proper touch—delicate, sensitive. Not like some of these ham-fisted louts you see today.”

The Ancient shook his head, the bright eyes shifted unhurriedly from Hugh to Iridal, taking in every detail to the extent that she had the feeling he could see through her clothes, perhaps even through flesh.

He shifted the penetrating gaze back to Hugh. “You’ll forgive me, sir, but I must ask. Wouldn’t do to break the rules, not even for you.”

“Of course,” said Hugh, and held up his right hand, palm out, fingers together. The Ancient took Hugh’s hand in his own, peered at it intently by the light of the glowstone.

“Thank you, sir,” said the Ancient gravely. “What is your business?”

“Is Ciang seeing anyone today?”

“Yes, sir. One’s come to be admitted. They’ll be perform—the ceremony at the stroke of the hour. I’m sure your presence would be welcome. And what is your wish concerning your guest?”

“She’s to be escorted to a room with a fire. My business with Ciang may take a while. See to it that the lady’s made comfortable, given food and drink, a bed if she desires.”

“A room?” asked the old man mildly. “Or a cell?”

“A room,” said Hugh. “Make her comfortable. I may be a long time.” The Ancient eyed Iridal speculatively. “She’s a magus, I’ll ’er. It’s your call, Hand, but are you sure you want her left unguarded?”

“She won’t use her magic. Another’s life, more precious for her than her own, hangs in the balance. Besides,” he added “she’s my employer.”

“Ah, I see.” The Ancient nodded and bowed to Iridal with a rusty grace that would have become one of Stephen’s royal courtiers.

“I will escort the lady to her chamber myself,” said the old man in courteous tones. “It is not often I have such pleasant duty allotted me. You, Hugh the Hand, may go on up. Ciang has been informed of your coming.” Hugh grunted, not surprised. He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, refilled it. Placing his pipe in his mouth, he cast Iridal one look that was empty and dark, without comfort, hint, or meaning. Then he turned and walked into the shadows beyond.

“We go through this door, my lady,” said the Ancient, gesturing in a direction opposite from that which Hugh had taken.

Lifting the lantern in his wrinkled hand, the old man apologized for preceding her, saying that the way was dark and the stairs in ill repair and occasionally treacherous. Iridal begged him, in a low voice, not to think of it.

“You’ve known Hugh the Hand long?” she asked, feeling herself blush to ask the question, trying hard to make it sound like casual conversation.

“Over twenty years,” said the Ancient. “Since he first came to us, little more than a gangling youth.”

Iridal wondered at that, wondered about this Brotherhood, who ruled an island. And Hugh was one of them and seemingly respected at that. Amazing, for a man who went out of his way to isolate himself.

“You mentioned teaching him a skill,” she said. “What was it?” It might have been music lessons, to judge by the Ancient’s benign and gentle appearance.

“The knife, my lady. Ah, there has never been one as skilled with a blade as Hugh the Hand. I was good, but he bettered me. He once stabbed a man he was sitting next to him an inn. Made such a neat job of it that the man never moved, never let out a cry. No one knew he was dead until the next morning, when they found him sitting in the same place, stiff as the wall. The trick is knowing the right spot, slipping the blade between the ribs in order to pierce the heart before the mark knows what hit him.

“Here we are, my lady. A room nice and cozy, with a fire well laid and a bed, if you’d care to take a nap. And will you have white wine or red with your meal?”

Hugh walked slowly through the halls of the fortress, in time to feel pleasure in this return to familiar surround-Nothing had changed, nothing except him. That’s why had not come back, when he knew he would have been welcome. They wouldn’t understand and he couldn’t explain - The Kir didn’t understand either. But they didn’t ask questions.

More than a few of the Brotherhood had come here to die. Some of the elders, like the Ancient, returned to spend fading among those who had been their only family—a family loyal and closely bound than most. Others, younger, in to either recover from wounds—a hazard of the business or to die from them. More often than not, the patient recovered. The Brotherhood, from long association with death, had considerable knowledge on the treatment of knife, sword, and arrow wounds, dragon bites and claw attacks, had used antidotes for certain poisons.

The Brotherhood’s own magi were skilled in reversing the spells cast by other Magicka, at lifting the enchantments from rings, that sort of work. Hugh the Hand had shared of his own knowledge, gleaned from the Kir monks, whose works took them always among the dead and whose had developed magics that protected against contagion, contamination.[57]

“I could have come here,” Hugh reflected, puffing on his pipe and eyeing the dark and shadowed hallways with nostalgic sigh. “But what would I have told them? I’m not sickening from a mortal wound, but one that’s immortal.” He shook his head, quickened his steps. Ciang would still questions, but now Hugh had a few answers, and since he here on business, she wouldn’t press him. Not as she would have if he’d come here first.

He climbed a spiraling staircase, arrived in a shadowed and ity hall. A series of doors stood shut on either side. One, at end, was open. Light streamed out into the hallway. Hugh inched toward the light, paused on the door’s threshold to give his eyes time to adjust from the fortress’s dark interior to the brightness of the room.

Three people were inside. Two were strangers—a man and a youngster of perhaps about nineteen. The other Hugh knew well. She turned to greet him, not rising from the desk behind which she sat, but tilting her head to gaze at him with the slanted, shrewd eyes that took in all, gave back nothing.

“Enter,” she said. “And welcome.”

Hugh knocked the pipe’s ashes out in the hallway, tucked his pipe into a pocket of his leather vest.

“Ciang,”[58] he said, walking into the room. Coming to stand before her, he bowed low.

“Hugh the Hand.” She extended her hand to him.

He brought it to his lips—an action that appeared to amuse her.

“You kiss that old wrinkled claw?”

“With honor, Ciang,” Hugh said warmly, and meant it. The woman smiled at him. She was old, one of the oldest living beings on Arianus, for she was an elf and long-lived, even for her kind. Her face was a mass of lines, the skin drawn taut over high cheekbones, the fine-boned, beaked nose white as ivory. She followed the elven custom of painting her lips, and the red flowed among the wrinkles like tiny rivulets of blood. Her head was bald, her hair having fallen out long ago. She scorned to wear a wig and one was truly not necessary, for her skull was smooth and well shaped. And she was aware of the startling effect she had on people, the power of the look of the bright dark eyes set in the bone-white skull.

“Once princes fought to the death for the privilege of kissing that hand, when it was smooth and delicate,” she said.

“They would still, Ciang,” said Hugh. “They’d be only too happy, some of them.”

“Yes, old friend, but not for the sake of beauty. Still, what I have now is better. I would not go back. Sit beside me, Hugh, at my right. You will be witness to this young man’s admittance.”

Ciang motioned for him to draw up a chair. Hugh was about to do so when the youngster leapt to do it for him.

“Allow m-me, sir,” said the boy, stuttering, his face flushed red. He lifted a heavy chair made of the precious wood that is in short supply in Arianus and set it down where Ciang indicated, at her right hand.

“And... and you’re truly Hugh the Hand?” the boy blurted, when he had set the chair down and stepped back to stare.

“He is,” answered Ciang. “Few are granted the honor of the Hand. Someday it may be you, boy, but, for now, meet the master.”

“I ... I can’t believe it,” stammered the boy, overcome. “To think Hugh the Hand should be here, at my investiture! I ... I ...” Words failed him. His older companion, whom Hugh did not recognize, reached out, plucked the boy’s sleeve, tugged him back to his place at the end of Ciang’s desk. The young man retreated, moving with the awkwardness of youth, at one point stumbling over his feet.

Hugh said nothing, glanced at Ciang. A corner of the woman’s mouth twitched, but she spared the boy’s feelings, refrained from laughing.

“Right and proper respect,” she said gravely. “From younger to elder. His name is John Darby. His sponsor is Ernst Twist. I do not think you two know each other?”

Hugh shook his head. Ernst did likewise, darting a glance sideways, bobbing and reaching up to tug at his hair, a foolish, country-bumpkin gesture of respect. The man looked like a bumpkin, dressed in baggy patched clothes, a greasy hat, broken shoes. This was no bumpkin, however; those who took him for such probably never lived long enough to regret their mistake. The hands were slender and long-fingered and had certainly never done manual labor. And the cold eyes, that never met Hugh straight on, had a peculiar cast to them, a red glint that Hugh found disconcerting.

“Twist’s scars are still fresh,” said Ciang. “But he has already advanced from sheath to tip. He’ll make blade, before the year is out.” High praise, from Ciang.[59] Hugh regarded the man with loathing. Here was an assassin who would “kill for a plate of stew” as the saying went. Hugh guessed, from a certain stiffness and coolness in her tone, that Ciang shared his feelings of disgust. But the Brotherhood needed all kinds, and this one’s money was as good as the next. So long as Ernst Twist followed the laws of the Brotherhood, how he thwarted the laws of man and nature was his business, vile though it might be.

“Twist needs a partner,” continued Ciang. “He has brought forth the young man, John Darby, and, after review, I have agreed to admit him to the Brotherhood under the standard terms.”

Ciang rose to her feet, as did Hugh. The elven woman was tall and stood straight, a slight stoop in the shoulders her only concession to old age. Her long robes were of the very finest silk, woven in the shimmering color and fantastic designs favored by elves. She was a regal presence, daunting, awful in her majesty.

The youth, undoubtedly a cold-blooded killer, for he could not have obtained entry without some proof of his skill, was abashed, blushing and flustered, looked as if he was about to be sick.

His companion poked the young man roughly in the back. “Stand up tall. Be a man,” Ernst muttered.

The boy gulped, straightened, drew a deep breath, then said, through white lips, “I’m ready.”

Ciang cast a sidelong glance at Hugh, rolled her eyes, as much as to say, “Well, we were all young once.” She pointed a long finger at a wooden box, encrusted with sparkling gems, that stood in the center of the desk. Hugh leaned over, respectfully took hold of the box and moved it within the woman’s reach. He lifted the lid. A sharp-bladed dagger, whose golden hilt was fashioned in the shape of a hand—palm flat, fingers pressed together. The extended thumb formed the crosspiece. Ciang drew forth the dagger, handling it carefully. The firelight gleamed in the razor-sharp blade, made it burn.

“Are you right-handed or left?” Ciang asked.

“Right,” said John Darby. Droplets of sweat ran down his temples, trickled down his cheeks.

“Give me your right hand,” Ciang ordered.

The young man presented his hand, palm open, out.

“Sponsor, you may offer support—”

“No!” the boy gasped. Licking dry lips, he thrust Twist’s proffered arm away.

“I can stand it on my own.”

Ciang expressed approval with a raised eyebrow. “Hold your right hand in the proper position,” she said. “Hugh, show him.” Hugh lifted a candle from the mantelpiece, brought it over to the desk, set it down. The candle’s flame shone in the wooden finish—a finish spotted and stained with dark splotches. The young man looked at the splotches. The color fled his face.

Ciang waited.

John Darby pressed his lips tightly together, held his hand closer. “I’m ready,” he repeated.

Ciang nodded. She raised the dagger by the hilt, its blade pointing downward.

“Grasp the blade,” said Ciang, “as you would the hilt.” John Darby did so, wrapping his hand gingerly around the blade. The hilt, in the shape of the hand, rested on his hand, the thumb-shaped crosspiece running parallel to his own thumb. The young man began to breathe heavily.

“Squeeze,” said Ciang, cool, impassive.

John Darby’s breath halted an instant. He almost shut his eyes, caught himself in time. With a glance of shame at Hugh, the youngster forced himself to keep his eyes open. He swallowed, squeezed his hand over the dagger’s blade. He caught his breath with a gasp, but made no other sound. Drops of blood fell down on the desk, a thin stream trickled down the young man’s arm.

“Hugh, the thong,” said Ciang.

Hugh reached into the box, drew out a soft strip of leather, about as wide as a man’s two fingers. The symbol of the Brotherhood made a pattern up and down the long strip of leather. It, too, was stained dark in places.

“Give it to the sponsor,” said Ciang.

Hugh gave the thong to Ernst Twist, who took it in those long-fingered hands of his, hands that were undoubtedly splotched with the same dark stains that marred the thong.

“Bind him,” said Ciang.

All this time, John Darby had been standing, his hand squeezing the dagger’s blade, the blood dripping from it. Ernst wrapped the thong around the young man’s hand, bound it tight, leaving the ends of the thong free. Ernst grasped one free end, held onto it. Hugh took hold of the other. He looked to Ciang, who nodded.

The two of them yanked the bond tight, forcing the dagger’s blade deeper into the flesh, into bone. The blood flowed faster. John Darby could not hold back his anguish. He cried out in pain, a shuddering “ah!” wrenched from him in agony. He closed his eyes, staggered, leaned against the table. Then, gulping, drawing short, quick breaths, he stood straight, looked at Ciang. The blood dripped onto the desk.

Ciang smiled as though she had sipped that blood, found it to her liking. “You will now repeat the oath of the Brotherhood.”

John Darby did so, bringing back through a haze of pain the words he’d laboriously memorized. From now on, they would be etched on his mind, as surely as the scars of his investiture would be etched on his hand. The oath completed, John stood upright, refusing, with a shake of his head, any help from his sponsor. Ciang smiled at the young man, a smile that for a single instant brought to the aged face a hint of what must have been remarkable beauty. She laid her hand upon the youth’s tortured one.

“He is acceptable. Remove the binding.”

Hugh did so, unwrapping the leather thong from John Darby’s bloody hand. The young man opened his palm, slowly, with an effort, for the fingers were gummed and sticky. Ciang plucked the dagger from the trembling grip. It was now, when all was ended, the unnatural excitement drained, that the weakness came. John Darby stared at his hand, at the cut flesh, the pulsing of the red blood welling out of the wounds, and was suddenly aware of the pain as if he’d never felt it. He turned a sickly gray color, swayed unsteadily on his feet. Now he was grateful for Ernst Twist’s arm, which kept the young man upright.

“He may be seated,” said Ciang.

Turning, she handed the gory dagger to Hugh, who took the blade and washed it in a bowl of water, brought specifically for the purpose. This done, the Hand wiped the dagger carefully on a clean, white cloth until it was completely dry, then brought it back to Ciang. She shut it and the leather thong back in the box, replaced the box in its proper place on her desk. The blood spattered on the desk would be allowed to soak into the wood, mingling young Darby’s blood with that of countless others who had undergone the same rite.

One more small ceremony remained to be completed.

“Sponsor,” said Ciang, her gaze going to Ernst Twist. The man had just settled the pale and shivering young Darby into a chair. Smiling that deceptively foolish smile, Twist shuffled forward and held out his right hand, palm up, to Ciang. The woman dipped the tips of her fingers in Darby’s blood, traced two long red lines along scars on Twist’s palm, scars that corresponded to the fresh wounds on Darby’s.

“Your life is pledged to his life,” Ciang recited, “as his is pledged to yours. The punishment for oath-breaking is visited upon both.” Hugh, watching absently, his thoughts going to what would be a difficult conversation with Ciang, thought he saw, again, the man’s eyes glisten with that strange red light, like the eyes of a cat by torchlight. When the Hand looked more closely, curious about this phenomenon, Twist had lowered his eyelids in homage to Ciang and was shuffling backward to resume his place near his new partner.

Ciang shifted her gaze to young Darby. “The Ancient will give you herbs to prevent infection. The hand may be bandaged until the wounds are healed. But you must be prepared to remove the bandage should any require it. You may remain here until you feel you are well enough to travel. The ceremony takes its toll, young man. Rest this day, renew your blood with meat and drink. From this day on, you have only to open your palm in this fashion”—Ciang lifted her hand to demonstrate—“and those in the Brotherhood will know you for one of our own.”

Hugh looked at his own hand, at the scars that were now barely visible on a calloused palm. The scar taken in the meaty part of the thumb was clearest, largest, for that had been the last to heal. It ran in a thin white strip, cutting across what the palm readers know as the life line. The other scar ran almost parallel to the head and heart lines. Innocent-looking scars; no one ever noticed them, not unless they were meant to.

Darby and Twist were leaving. Hugh rose, said what was appropriate. His words brought a faint flush of pleasure and pride to the young man’s gray cheeks. Darby was already walking more steadily. A few draughts of ale, some boasting of his prowess, and he’d be thinking quite well of himself. Tonight, when the throbbing pain awakened him from feverish dreams, he would have second thoughts.

The Ancient stood in the hallway as if on command, though Ciang had made no summons. The old man had been through many of these rites, knew to the second how long they lasted.

“Show our brothers to their rooms,” Ciang ordered. The Ancient bowed, looked at her inquiringly. “May I bring madam and her guest anything?”

“No, thank you, my friend,” said Ciang graciously. “I will take care of our needs.”

The Ancient bowed again and escorted the two off down the hallway. Hugh tensed, shifted in his chair, preparing himself to meet those wise and penetrating eyes.

He was not prepared for her remark.

“And so, Hugh the Hand,” said Ciang pleasantly, “you have come back to us from the dead.”