Joel Rosenberg - [D'Shai 01] - D'Shai Read online

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  CONTENTS

  Prologue The Way of the Runner

  1 No Splendor, Some Ceremony

  2 Dinner Party

  3 NaRee

  4 Highwire

  5 Sore Points

  Interlude The Way of the Warrior

  6 Descent

  7 Fall

  8 Stormy Night

  9 Breakfast and Burial

  10 Tears on a Pillow

  11 Trapeze

  Interlude The Way of the Cook

  12 Courting Disaster

  Interlude The Way of the Servitor

  13 Apprehension

  14 Raising Kazuh

  15 Sword Talk

  16 Investigation

  17 Kami Dan Shir

  18 Many Farewells

  Interlude The Way of the Ruler

  19 One Last Farewell

  * * *

  TRIAL BY SWORD!

  Only twice before had I held a sword in my hands; I still didn’t much like the feel of it. I couldn’t think straight. None of this made sense. This wasn’t how an acrobat was supposed to die, cut down by a swordsman, with a sword in his hands. Of old age, perhaps, or killed by a jealous husband or father, or by a fall from a trapeze, or a broken neck when doing a high dive-and-roll wrong.

  Dun Lidjun and I Squared off, him circling first to the right, then the left, me just holding the challenge sword out in front of me, hoping to block him ...

  * * *

  * * *

  This one is for Mark J. McGarry: writer, reporter, editor, copyeditor, smartass, friend

  This book is an Ace original edition, and has never been previously published.

  D’SHAI

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Ace edition / February 1991

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1991 by Joel Rosenberg.

  Cover art by Darrell Sweet.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  200 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016.

  ISBN: 0-441-15751-3

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

  The name “ACE” and the “A” logo

  are trademarks belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  * * *

  Acknowledgments

  I’m grateful for the help I’ve gotten with this one from Bruce Bethke, David Dyer-Bennet, Emma Bull, Peg Kerr Hunger, Harry F. Leonard, Victor Raymond, and, particularly, Pamela Dean. Particular thanks to Beth Friedman, for the last-minute proofreading.

  Special thanks to my agent, Eleanor Wood (she knows why) and to both Beth Fleisher and Susan Allison, for the sort of patience that Job would envy.

  -J.R.

  * * *

  PROLOGUE

  Way of the Runner

  BEGIN WITH A secret: balance is the Way of the Runner.

  Attention to balance is all; the rest will fall into place. Balance is not just the Way of the Runner; it is the way of D’Shai.

  It was time to be going.

  “I thank you, Innkeeper of Oled,” Duerni Draven said, taking an oblong coin from his pouch. The thin coin was of dull copper, patinaed with age; he laid it on the smooth wood in payment.

  Old Adan, the keeper of the Scion’s Inn, who had spent part of the previous hour sharing gossip with Duerni Draven, fell silent. It was a commonplace to chat with a customer; it was another thing entirely to leave oneself open to an accusation that one had interfered with a runner.

  Duerni Draven stood easily, his weight balanced as he hefted the half-empty tankard of bitter ale. He swallowed quickly, “eating like a runner,” before he exited through the dust curtains and into the golden morning.

  He had taken food and ale, and now it was time to be on his way before the spirits of the ale prevented him from raising kazuh. Once he had raised kazuh, nothing but his own will or his death could drop it; balance is the Way of the Runner.

  The others of the fifty-two kazuhin had their own Ways; none could understand his. It wasn’t speed, although that was the face a kazuh runner turned to the public.

  A lie: speed is the Way of the Runner.

  The truth, and the runner’s secret: the balance created the speed. Speed was the effect, not the cause.

  Balance is the Way of the Runner.

  Duerni Draven, seventh of his line, knelt on the cold dirt, facing morningwise, letting the rising sun’s red warmth wash over him in gentle benediction.

  His twin packets of dispatches were, like his purse, already bound tightly to the belt around his waist, and tied firmly to his thighs. Other than the twisted cotton lotai about his loins, the belt was to be his only garment.

  He stripped off his tunic, rose to one knee to unfasten his right sandal, then his left, then took the three steps forward, leaving his tunic and sandals behind him, ritually leaving everything except his duty, and his running, and his Running, behind him. Tense muscles already loosening in anticipation, he bent forward in the first of the Nine Stretches that would protect his tendons and muscles during his running.

  The first hour of the day was the hour of the cock, and the first stretch was of the hamstring that existed to soften the impact of the balls of his feet—

  The clattering of a horse’s hooves interrupted his meditations. He turned to see a great white beast thundering through the town, passing him on the edge of the road. The red stripe diagonally across the rider’s snow-white tunic told Duerni Draven that the horseman was one of the minor nobles of Lord Nerona’s court, out for a morning canter. And while not even Lord Nerona himself would dare to interfere with a runner in the performance of his duties, there was no penalty for distracting him. A different matter entirely.

  Duerni Draven returned to his meditations. There were nine, each named for an hour of the day.

  Sometimes it was hard to concentrate, to push the world aside; he found himself noticing the clattering of hooves off in the distance, and the wind on his body, and the sun in his hair.

  “Powers that Be,” he said, quietly, in the Runner’s Prayer, “a kazuh runner faces you. Let me raise kazuh, and be on my way, for I have duties to perform.” The words were important, of course, but the attitude, the Way, was all.

  He rose in the meditation of the first and second hours, the hours of the cock and of the hare: stretch the hamstrings, like a cock rising to announce the first hour of the day, and like a hare kicking out its leg before bounding into flight.

  Meditation of the third hour, the hour of the horse: he tossed his head on his long neck, loosening the muscles that balanced his head.

  Meditation of the fourth hour, the hour of the ox: leaning forward as though pulling a plow, he tightened and then eased the strong shoulders, the shoulders that would support his pumping arms.

  Fifth and sixth meditations, the octopus and snake: whirl the arms, from the wrists to the shoulders, first gently, loosely, bonelessly, then swiftly, sharply, like a striking snake. Seventh and eighth, the bear and lion: squatting, spraddle-legged, he moved his body from one side to the other, stretching the muscles of the thighs, the pillars that supported the moving body, then leaped up, springing high into the air, like a cat bringing down a bird.

  Ninth and last, for the hour of the dragon, the hour before dawn: like a dragon breathing frost, he expanded and contracted the chest, th
e temple that held the breath and balance of the Runner.

  Breath was everything in the running, although as nothing in the Running.

  Duerni Draven set off in a slow walk, leaving meditations, like his outer clothing, behind him. He knew that the innkeeper would launder and oil his linen and leather, making them clean and ready for Duerni Draven’s next time in the Oled—

  He stopped himself. He was letting his mind wander, and his mind must not be allowed to wander. Gently, he nudged his thoughts back to his running. The technique came first: keep the walk deliberately slow for the first league, ignoring the muscles that protested the languorous pace.

  He walked: slowly, carefully, precisely. Form was everything. Step. Step. Step. His feet wanted to jog, to run, to fly, but he kept his pace slow.

  Step. Step. Step.

  After the first league, he let himself break into a brisk walk, and then took that to a light jog, concentrating on the land-and-roll of his feet, letting the heel take up the shock.

  The road was cold and dirty, but empty of peb-bles; pebbles, wheels, and Bhorlani were forbidden on D’Shaian roads, by order of the Scion of the Sky Himself. Lined by watching elms, the road clove straight through the golden fields toward the dark forest ahead. There it would twist and turn; here it was simple and direct.

  His jog became a trot, his breath beginning to catch in his lungs. Still, he was running from the outside, not raising kazuh.

  Never mind, he thought. Never mind, nevermind, never the mind.

  The balance, not the mind. Balance is the Way of the Runner: he sought to land easily, letting his body flow forward, not lurching as his speed increased, his pistoning arms and legs pumping as fast as the thrum-thrum-thrum of his heart.

  Stepstepstepstepstepstepstepstepstepstep.

  No matter. All was a matter of balance; he would hold himself in a sprint until he raised kazuh or died. Or both, in the Runner’s Death.

  Gradually, his stagger from balance to balance became a flow, always in equilibrium, each step a continuation of the previous one, no longer discrete.

  Still, his lungs burned with distant fire, each moment became more painful than the last, but Duerni Draven did not concentrate on speed. Speed is nothing but an effect of balance, of form, of the flow of arms and legs, of the deep breath and the full release, of the inhaling and the ex—

  And then, flaring together in mind and body like sudden fire from stirred ashes, the familiar miracle happened: Duerni Draven raised kazuh.

  The needs of his body became distant and vague; not nonexistent, merely irrelevant.

  His arms and legs seemingly slowed, moving with an exquisite, delicate languor, but the rest of the universe had slowed even more; from the corner of his eye, Duerni Draven glimpsed a red-bird hanging in the air, its wings flapping lazily as it climbed into the day.

  But it was unimportant; its glossy black and fiery crimson faded, as did the blue of the sky, the cool green and warm brown of the watching elms, the black-spotted yellow of the daisies lining the wheat fields, until they all were pallid ghosts of themselves. Smells, too, went vague and distant. They, too, were unimportant.

  Birds, trees, roads, fields, arms, legs, lungs—they were insignificant.

  The Running was not important; the Running was all.

  He Ran, and at the center of the Running, and at the center of Duerni Draven, there was a quiet peace, untouched by the movement of arms and legs, buoyed up by the slow intake and release of the unimportant air.

  Duerni Draven Ran.

  And when he passed the cantering horse and rider, only a small part of him could smile; there was, as always, not enough for it to reach his face.

  He reached Den Oroshtai in the hour of the snake, the dirt still pounding beneath his feet.

  Hours of Running were behind him, as was the forest, as were leagues of the fields and paddles surrounding Den Oroshtai. His Running was almost at an end. Ahead, the guard station of the lower town loomed, gray and vague at the limits of his perception.

  The danger was always to bypass his destination, to continue Running.

  It was the Runner’s Death, the way Duerni Draven’s father had died, and his father, and his, all the way back to the beginning of the line. The Runner’s Death: to Run across the land until the last threads of flesh and bone broke, leaving the spirit to race across D’Shai forever.

  Oh, that would be a wonderful thing. That was always a temptation, to leave blood and bone behind.

  But no. Not now.

  Duerni Draven’s time was not yet, so he dropped kazuh, and let the world come back.

  He staggered up to the guard station, each step an agony of bruised muscles and battered bones. He became aware that he was panting, his breath ragged and painful, almost sobbing like a proud but beaten child. His heart pounded, although the pounding was already beginning to slow as he dropped into a walk. His naked body was covered with sweat and with dirt as he tottered to the guardpost, and the waistband of his lotai was painfully dank against his belly. Out of breath, he knelt at the guardpost, handing over the package of dispatches to the waiting guard captain, who examined the contents before handing it off to a rider.

  “Runner, do you need anything?” the guard captain asked, his silver voice holding the purity and clarity that sounds always did when they became significant again.

  “Water ... Captain,” he gasped out. “For drink. And for washing.” Then rest, then food, and then more rest. The local keeper of the Scion’s Inn would have linen and leather.

  “Show him, Hervel.” The chunky guard reached out a hand to help him, then drew it back.

  A runner walks by himself.

  As he was led away toward the local tavern, the guard captain grunted. “I don’t suppose that he’d have almost killed himself running if he’d known all he had were some broadsides about an acrobatic troupe.”

  Duerni Draven chuckled. They didn’t understand, they couldn’t understand. The dispatches didn’t matter; Lord Toshtai didn’t matter; birds and fields and fire didn’t matter.

  Balance is the Way of the Runner.

  * * *

  1

  No Splendor, Some Ceremony

  BEGIN AT THE beginning, Gray Khuzud would always tell me. Proceed, with all the grace you can muster—and I know that’s not much, but try, try, Kami Khuzud, you must try—until you reach the end.

  Then stop, clean up after yourself, and put the props away.

  So, obedient to command, I begin with the arrival of the troupe of Gray Khuzud in Den Oroshtai.

  “They come;

  “The Troupe of Gray Khuzud ar-rives,” the soldiers at the battlements sang, their lovely four-part harmony growing stronger as we wound our way through the dusk, up the darkening road, toward the castle.

  Lord Toshtai always insisted that his troops be of good voice, and while the war had worn some of his good intentions away at the edges, we were far away from those frayed edges, in Den Oroshtai. Firm, glassy young tenors mixed with heady baritones, bold bass voices supporting the structure of song.

  “Wonders will be seen,

  “We are sure.

  “What wonders they will be,

  “Will be re-vealed,

  “In the hour of the snake.”

  They broke into a game of musical catch—a fugue, I think it’s called—on that last phrase, which slowly faded.

  “Not quite yet,” Gray Khuzud said, “but let us prepare.” He dropped his pack to the ground and loosened his tunic, and then bound it peasant fashion about his waist.

  We all did the same, unworried about the possibility of theft. While stealing is in theory not permitted anywhere in D’Shai, it is D’Shai, after all—but Lord Toshtai’s face was never turned from theft.

  I shivered as the cold evening wind breathed against my chest; I had worked up a sweat as we climbed. I flexed my shoulders and hands, trying to work out the kinks.

  Gray Khuzud hurried up the line, gesturing both tumblers and anc
hors into place, shaming careless Fhilt into better posture with a frown, favoring Large Egda with a quick, affectionate pat, tucking here and polishing there. There was a hint of nervousness in his fastidiousness, perhaps. Or perhaps not; I never really understood my father, and certainly there was nothing unusual in his taking pains on the troupe’s entrance.

  Finally, he arrived at the head of the line, and stopped in front of me. “Eldest Son Acrobat,” he said, formally, as our names are always pronounced formally: Old Shai is formal for everything but names.

  “Gray Khuzud,” I responded, bowing properly, my eyes fixed on his. Gray Khuzud, of course, was always a mix of formal and casual, as was his name. There was no Old Shai translation of the first part of his name—it was not the light gray of the predawn, Erevair, nor the dirty gray of the late winter snows, Belen. He was never Gray Acrobat, never Erevair Khuzud, never Belen Khuzud: he was Gray Khuzud, always and only.

  Gray as a rat, he was a fine figure of a man, even in his fifties, the muscles still firm beneath his broad chest, his belly flat and rippled like a washboard, the treetrunks of his legs solid as ever. The years had lined and creased his face until it looked and shone like old leather, and what was left of his hair was bound behind him in a long thin pigtail.

  His powerful shoulders and arms were of flat, hard muscle, far stronger than they looked, but the hand that rested on my shoulder was a horror of horny ugliness. All our hands were. If you spent much of your life dangling and swinging from rings and ropes, your hands would be, too.

  He was my father, and I loved him.

  Stately jimsum trees bowing over us, the Troupe of Gray Khuzud arrived at the castle in Den Oroshtai without splendor, but with much ceremony.