Chapter 11
Twenty-five years ago
It was hard work to mop up so much blood. Luckily there had been so many opportunities to practice lately that he’d become very good at it. He may have only been a child of the non-people, and a small, sickly one at that, but you didn’t need to be strong to clean up blood, only committed. When he was done, the stone floors were so clean you couldn’t even tell that a man had just been gutted there like a pig. He had been doing such a good job at scrubbing up the blood that the overseer had not had him beaten even once over the last few weeks.
After the whole men had stormed out in frustration, and the other casteless had carried the dead warrior’s body outside for cremation, the boy found himself alone in the main chamber of great house Vadal, on his hands and knees, pushing a red puddle.
Only he wasn’t really alone. The sword was there, watching him.
Ringing out his rag over the bucket, he saw that the water running over his hands was still very pink. There was much work to do.
* * *
When the Thakoor of House Vadal had died, they had placed his terrible magic sword in the main chamber. Casteless did not usually live as long as whole men, but there were a few among them old enough to remember the last time this had happened. They warned the other casteless what to expect. Until the ancestor blade was satisfied, the whole men of the warrior caste would be tense and quick to anger. Do your jobs, stay out of sight. The warrior caste loved to spill blood, but they considered it beneath them to mop it off the floors. That was unclean. Even the lowest of the workers thought they were too good to play with corpses and blood and guts. That was work for the casteless, so some of them would be sent into the main chamber. If they were chosen, look only at the ground, do not speak unless spoken to. If they were lucky, they would not be killed by frustrated warriors. If the Forgotten had mercy on them, the sword would pick someone sooner rather than later and life could return to normal.
It had not taken long for the sword to begin killing whole men. That last Thakoor’s ashes were still warm when the first of the warrior caste tried to take up the sword. A few minutes later the overseer had arrived in the casteless quarter looking for help to remove the body parts.
* * *
“Why take the boy?” his mother asked.
The overseer frowned. “Why not?”
“He’s weak. He’ll just be in the house slave’s way.”
The overseer was casteless as well, but even amongst the non-people, there was order, and questioning his commands could lead to a beating or worse. The overseer seemed like a huge, muscled beast to the small child, especially when he roughly grabbed the boy by the wrist. “I got strong men for lifting bodies. He’s got small fingers to get into the cracks. I don’t want no stained mortar and I don’t want the main chamber stinking of death. Got it?”
His mother had lowered her head in submission. The casteless did as they were told. They worked and they died at the pleasure of their betters. That’s how it always had been and how it always would be. Such was the way of the non-people.
The overseer had given him a rag and a bucket. They were his most prized possessions.
* * *
The first time he had entered the main chamber, he had tried to heed the elder’s warning, but he had been too tempted, and had lifted his head to see. The inside of the great house was truly as amazing as the house slaves proclaimed it to be. The floors were flat stone, not dirt. The walls did not have holes in them, and in fact, they were covered in carvings and paintings of animals and birds, mountains and trees, and heroic scenes of warriors defeating demons. There was food everywhere. This one room was big enough to hold ten casteless’ barracks. It was more than he could comprehend. But it wasn’t the vastness of the great house that intimidated him, it was the sword.
There was no ceremony to it. The sword was just lying there on the floor where the last warrior had flung it after severing his own legs. Though there was blood on the walls and the floor and in every crook and crevice and joint, there wasn’t a drop on the sword or anywhere close to it. In time, he would learn that this was normal for the ancestor blade, as it did not want to stain itself with unworthy life, which was good, because the boy was scared to get close to the sword.
He’d overheard warrior caste speak of the dead Thakoor’s sword. It was said whoever carried it could defeat entire armies by himself. Only this kind of sword could easily kill a demon from the distant and terrifying ocean. Even the mightiest heroes were scared of the ancestor blade. The boy took their fear and made it his own. He was casteless. The Law declared that his kind were not even allowed to touch a weapon. His experience with swords consisted of seeing them in the hands of warriors when it was time to intimidate or execute.
This sword was not like those. This one was…beautiful. It hurt his eyes, but he couldn’t help but look anyway. Realizing that he’d been staring, he’d quickly averted his eyes. There were still warriors present. If a whole man saw a casteless looking at the sacred ancestor blade of House Vadal, he’d surely be killed. In this room, his life was worth absolutely nothing.
Only the warrior caste did not see him. The casteless were typically beneath notice. They were simply there to do the things whole men should not have to. They wrapped the body parts in old blankets and carried them down the stairs to the furnace. He was so small that it was a real struggle to carry just the man’s leg, and this one had been cut off at the knee.
Then he’d been put to work pushing thick blood around with a rag and carrying buckets of water up and down the stairs until the main chamber was spotless. The overseer had inspected it carefully. If any blood got into a gap and began to rot, he’d have to smoke the smell out with hot coals, and the smoke might upset the great house family. The pale stones took the most scrubbing to keep from staining. It was hard, but it was better than the typical unclean duties of tending swine, cleaning sewers, or burning corpses.
The first few weeks were very busy, as members of the warrior caste from across all of the lands of house Vadal tried to take up the sword. There was so much blood to clean up that the child found himself working in the main chamber more often than not. The overseer allowed him to stay hidden in there during the day, so he didn’t have to walk back and forth to the casteless’ quarter to fetch laborers.
The boy was able to watch many of the warrior’s attempts to wield the sword. Few ended in crippling injury or death, but all ended with blood.
* * *
There was a shadowed alcove in one corner of the main chamber, well hidden behind a few hanging tapestries. The boy squatted there, waiting, his precious rag clean and his bucket filled to the brim with soapy water. He liked his alcove. It was cool out of the sun, there were no biting insects, and best of all, the whole men could not see him, but he could see them. The overseer had dumped a few buckets of wash water over the boy first, so his betters wouldn’t detect the pig, ash, and dung smell of the casteless.
It was the first time he’d observed whole men. The Law declared that they were separate and better, but outside their armor shells the warriors didn’t seem so different from the non-people. They were strong and proud until the sword opened them up, then they screamed and bled the same color as a casteless. Above the warriors were the members of the great house. They didn’t look so different than his family, only they were far better fed, wearing real clothing, and carrying themselves without constant fear. But the Law said they were superior, so that was the way of things.
The house slaves began preparing the chamber by lighting lanterns. That meant that it was time for another attempt. Men in uniform, their station far beyond his understanding, arrived to serve as witnesses. The sword ended up in a different place every time, depending on where the last user had dropped it after it cut him, but the witnesses always stood as far from it as possible, as if it might become angry and cut them as well. They boy knew that was foolish. The sword only judged those who tried to wield it. He was only a casteless blood scrubber, and he already understood the sword better than the whole men in the fancy robes.
Someone stopped directly in front of his alcove so he could no longer see the proceedings through the gap in the tapestries. He stood up to try and see past them, but his view was being blocked by two people. He didn’t dare move the fabric or risk moving enough to slosh any water from his bucket.
“Who is it this time?” one of them asked.
“A pair of havildars from the coast,” a woman answered.
The young man chuckled. “Has our house grown that desperate?”
“What do you know of desperate? Sixty of our best soldiers have tried and failed. Ten of our own caste have been carried from this hall cut or missing limbs.” The woman sounded very angry, so the boy squished as far back into the corner as possible. Though he understood everything she said, her words were different than casteless speech, clear and not nearly so rough. These two were of the first caste. The angry woman continued. “We’ve been without our ancestor blade for nearly a month. The other houses are circling like vultures, and there are open discussions in the Capitol about our shame. If the sword does not choose soon, it will be seen as a sign of weakness.”
“My apologies, mother…But a mere havildar? That’s a nothing rank. Normally it would choose our greatest. For it to pick someone so low would be unseemly.”
“They are both young, but accomplished enough. Regardless, we are far beyond courtly matters now. The warrior caste is troubled. There are whispers that perhaps Angruvadal will not deem anyone worthy to wield it. If no one is chosen, then its magic will die. Other house’s ancestor blades have died before, usually from treachery or dishonor, but whatever the reason, those great houses have perished soon after their swords. Perhaps you should try to take Angruvadal up yourself, firstborn.”
“I’m not the soldier father was.”
“Of course you’re not, Harta. And we’d hate for it to mark up that pretty face of yours. Now be silent. The warriors are here.”
He couldn’t see, but he could still hear. He’d already watched the sword maim dozens of others, and he figured that this wouldn’t be any different. The men in the robes announced the warriors by name, and their father’s name, and their father’s father. The boy still found that most curious. Casteless were not allowed to have a family name. Next the announcer listed their offices and exploits. That part normally took far longer than the test itself, only these introductions were shorter than normal. It sounded as if these warriors hadn’t dueled much or attended very many battles. Now the boy really wanted to see if the sword would treat them any differently from the proud ones it had already flayed.
“My lady, you do us all a great honor by attending this event. I will take up Angruvadal and serve with distinction, as your husband did before.”
“Proceed, Havildar,” the angry woman in front of the tapestries commanded.
A hushed silence fell over the main chamber. There were footsteps as the first man approached the sword. He must have been very brave, because there was no hesitation, just the scraping of metal on stone as the sword was lifted. The boy could feel the tension. All of the observers were holding their breath. Could this be the one?
Then the screaming began.
Nope.
The screaming abruptly stopped. The sword must have really disapproved of this warrior, because it had not taken long to make its decision. From the noise and the gasps of the crowd, it had been a particularly violent death. The woman of the first caste swore beneath her breath, but the boy was close enough that he was surprised to learn that even the highest of the high used the same profanity as the lowest of the low.
“Next,” she snapped.
This warrior sounded much younger and not nearly so cocky. “I will do my best, my lady.”
Luckily the man in front of the alcove had stepped to the side so the boy could peek out again. The first warrior had stabbed himself through the chest and it looked like he’d done a messy job yanking it back out through his guts. This one was going to be at least a five-bucket job. Sadly, he was bleeding out right on top of the palest stone in the entire floor. The boy would be scrubbing until his hands were raw tonight.
The second warrior was standing by the sword, looking flushed and timid. As usual the dying man had flung the sword clear across the main chamber. Maybe that was why the witnesses tried to stand so far away, so as to not be sliced by accident as a disemboweled warrior flailed about. Despite just ripping a man in half, the gleaming black sword was clean. Wearing an expression like he was about to pet a cobra, he knelt down and extended one hand, but hesitated.
“Do it,” the lady of the house ordered.
He did. The warrior slowly lifted the sword from the floor. He grimaced when the handle bit into his hand. The boy didn’t know why the sword did that, maybe it wanted to taste them first? He stood up straight, held the sword pointed at nothing, and waited for its decision. This one had an honest face, so the boy hoped that the sword wouldn’t be too hard on him.
Several seconds passed. The crowd was growing hopeful. They began to whisper excitedly, but the boy could already tell this wasn’t right. The man was concentrating so hard that he was red faced and sweating. Veins were standing out in his forehead and neck. This warrior was the strongest one yet, and he was most certainly a good man, but he wasn’t the right man.
Then it was as if the warrior’s limbs moved on their own. The muscles in his arm twitched and contracted. The dark blade flashed and he gasped as it parted his flesh. The sword clattered back to the stone at his feet. He stepped back, one hand pressed to the long weeping cut on his other arm.
It wasn’t even deep enough to sever any tendons. It had only cut him enough to teach him a lesson. The sword must have really liked this particular warrior.
“Forgive me,” the young man said through gritted teeth. “I was found wanting.”
“What did you see?” the woman demanded.
“So much…” It was as if he didn’t know how to put it into words. “It was as if the eyes of every warrior who has carried this blade before were upon me. There’s a thousand years of courage stored within, waiting for…something.” The warrior stumbled, then fell over on his backside. The men in uniform went to him to staunch the bleeding. “I’m sorry, my lady. I’m becoming a bit faint.”
“Get out,” she snapped. “All of you, be gone from my house. Come back when you have someone worth a damn.”
The boy was glad the sword hadn’t chosen yet, because when it finally did he’d have to give up his comfy job of blood scrubber.
* * *
It would be dawn soon. He’d spent the entire night cleaning the pale stones. He’d scrubbed until his fingers had grown soft and his calluses had begun peeling off. He had to be careful not to add his own blood to the mess, so he’d torn scraps from the bottom of his shirt and wrapped his fingers so he could continue.
Up and down the stairs, he’d carried that bucket so many times. Down red, up clean, over and over, until he was satisfied that the main chamber was perfect. The house slaves told him that this big room was normally only used for parties, where members of the first caste and the highest-ranking warriors and richest workers would gather to dance and eat more meat than the entire casteless quarter would consume in a season. He suspected they were teasing him.
The boy had not seen the other casteless since they’d taken the warrior’s body to the furnace. There were guards patrolling inside the great house, but they didn’t pay any attention to him. He’d be inspected by the overseer when he was dismissed to make sure he hadn’t stolen anything. It was just the boy and the sword in the main chamber, so there was no one to punish him for speaking. He had been alone with the sword so many times over the last few weeks that it had become his only friend.
“Why did you spare the last warrior?” the boy asked the sword as he inspected the seams for any errant spatter. Of course, the sword did not answer. The only time it made any sound was when it was whistling through the air or hacking through bone. “Why do you only hurt some but kill others? I think it is because you like them better. The whole men think they know you, but I don’t think they do.”
The sword lay there, as long as he was tall, and made out of some dark metal that he’d never seen before. The boy walked around it carefully. “You don’t have ears so you probably can’t hear me, but mother says I talk just to hear myself anyway. You don’t have a mouth to talk, but you still let everybody know what you think!”
It was hard to find tiny specks of blood by lantern light alone, and a few times he found himself picking at something that was actually a brown spot on the rock itself. Even though he’d practically memorized ever single stone set in the floor, he scrubbed at them just in case. “I probably shouldn’t talk to you because I’m not a real person, but you’re not a person either. I don’t know what the Law says about that.”
Then he noticed a fat drop of blood that he’d somehow missed, but only because it was beneath the sword.
The boy was suddenly very afraid. That had never happened before.
“I mop around you every night, but I can’t mop under you,” the boy said. “I could slosh some water on you.…” The tools the older casteless were issued sometimes rusted. Could this sword rust? If the whole men would have him severely beaten for missing a drop of blood, they’d surely murder him for making their magic sword rust.
Very carefully, he reached for the drop with his rag-wrapped fingertips. He didn’t know what the parts of the sword were called, but the part that protected the fingers was resting on the floor and lifted up the part the warriors tried to handle. If he was careful, he could sneak under that without touching anything.
He bumped it with one shaking knuckle. “I mean no disrespect.” The sword didn’t answer, but since it didn’t remove his fingers, it didn’t seem to mind. He wiped away the drop with a fingertip, but there was still a stain there on the stone. If he let it sit it would become a permanent blemish on House Vadal and he’d be beaten to death for it.
There had to be a way to move the sword without offending it…They’d put it here somehow after the Thakoor had died after all, but he was not a trained warrior. He was a child of the non-people. He didn’t know any other way. “Forgive me, sword, but I have to fulfill my duty.”
The boy looked at the filthy rags wrapped around his hands. That would not do. It would be wrong to touch the sword with something dirty, so he unwound them until it was just raw, clean skin. Then he took a deep breath, reached out, and took hold of the handle.
It was far lighter than it looked.
The sword bit into his palm.
* * *
The guards found him some time later, lying on the floor, barely conscious, and raised the alarm.
Weak, confused, it was like waking up from a bad nightmare, and when the boy realized he was still holding onto the sword he began to panic. “I’m sorry!” Hot tears began to stream down his cheeks. “Please don’t kill me.”
But the intimidating guards seemed more terrified by this development than he was. Most of them seemed too stunned to react and stood there clutching nervously at their swords. One ran for help. Another even dropped to his knees, bowing to the boy as if he was of the highest caste.
“I was only trying to clean the blood,” the boy cried. “Take it back!” But his fingers would not unclench from the hilt. He tried to pry them off with his other hand, but they wouldn’t budge. He managed to get to his feet. The tip of the sword was dragging along the floor and slicing through the stone. “I’m sorry!” He lifted the sword so it would do no more harm. “I’ll fix that. I promise.”
The boy turned in a circle, and found that he was surrounded by warriors. Each one took a fearful step back as the blade pointed at him. Even in the hands of a child, there was no mistaking how incredibly lethal the sword was.
“Why have I been awakened?” It was the woman, the angry one all of the warriors deferred to, the one who was in charge, the one who was going to have him whipped to death in the dungeons for his insolence. Then she was staring right through the boy at the sword he was waving about and her expression changed from icy rage to shock.
“The blood scrubber picked up the ancestor blade,” one of the guards explained.
“As if Angruvadal would choose a casteless!” She began to laugh, only it was a bitter, mirthless sound. “Give it a moment and he’ll slice his own throat.”
“He’s been holding it for several minutes, my lady. It doesn’t appear to be turning on him.”
“Well…oceans.”
“This is impossible,” one of the guards stammered. “Only the best warrior may take up the sword. This has never happened before!”
“As far as anyone knows, it isn’t happening now.” The woman appeared to be deep in thought. She frowned at the boy. “Do not speak a word about this to anyone. Summon my advisors.”
* * *
“Are you comfortable, child?” the woman asked him.
The boy nodded. The lady of the great house didn’t seem so angry with him now.
“Good. Drink up.”
They’d given him some cushions to sit on and a cup of wine. He was still scared, but something in the drink had made him very sleepy. The sword had finally allowed his fingers to release it, so it was resting at his side. Though he wished they would, no one had tried to take the sword from him yet.
“I’m sorry I took it.” He was having a hard time speaking. It was like his tongue was too big for his mouth. “You can have your sword back.”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, child. An ancestor blade cannot simply be given or taken.”
A few other members of the first caste had joined them and then they’d gone to a smaller, more private room. It was covered in silks softer than anything he’d ever felt before and the air was filled with perfumes that made his face itch. The woman in charge was named Bidaya, because that’s what the other important whole men called her, except for the youngest one who kept calling her “mother.” The young man was pacing back and forth nervously while the others sat. The boy was very sleepy, but he could tell that the young man was very upset, even more so than the others, or maybe he wasn’t as good at hiding it yet.
“You should have had the guards execute the little fish-eater on the spot!”
“That would have been foolish, Harta,” one of the old men in robes stated. He had white hair and a bushy beard. “Your mother was wise to proceed cautiously. What’s done is done. Angruvadal chose this casteless for some unknowable reason. He is the bearer now, and one does not simply execute a bearer.”
“Speaking of which…” The young man stopped his pacing long enough to look the boy over. “Are we in danger? What’s to stop it from slaughtering us all?”
“Besides the fact that he’s probably only five or six years old and the sword is bigger than he is?” Bidaya snorted. “Calm yourself. The boy is no danger. His drink is laced with a bit of the sleeping poppy. I’m surprised he’s still awake at all.”
“You should have just poisoned it and saved us all the trouble,” Harta complained.
“That would be unwise,” the old man said. “The sword has spoken. If we went against its wishes, the Angruvadal might construe that as an act of treachery. To murder the bearer of an ancestor blade is a terrible dishonor against a house. Traditionally, the only way to remove a bearer is through a proper duel, and he is far too young to legally enter into a duel.”
“Damn it, Chavans, the judges don’t have to know,” Harta shouted.
“I’m not worried about what the judges think. I’m worried about what the sword thinks. Why do you think there are so few of them left? There were once hundreds of black steel weapons and now there are only a score, if that many. If the blade feels its house is no longer worthy of protection, then it will perish. The surest way to prove we are unworthy is by murdering its bearer.”
“A duel isn’t murder under the Law…Neither is falling asleep in the bath, and this stinky little creature could certainly use a bath.”
“No one has ever accused an ancestor blade of having nuance, Harta. If we murder the bearer, no matter how clean we keep our hands, the sword might shatter.”
“So what?” Harta waved his hand dismissively. “Killing the brat is worth the risk. Even if it breaks, it isn’t like father used that sword in decades. There hasn’t been a demon washed up on our shores in my lifetime. Vadal is the strongest of the great houses. We don’t need to rely on some superstitious artifact when we’re this well positioned in the capitol.”
“It isn’t just the blade itself, but what the blade symbolizes,” Chavans argued. “Losing our house’s sword will make us appear weak, and our allies in the courts will turn on us.”
“I’d rather not have an ancestor blade at all, than bear the scorn of having it carried about by casteless scum!” Harta kicked a pillow for emphasis.
“On that point, heir, we are in agreement,” Chavans said. “However we proceed, no one can ever know of this shame.”
The sleeping poppy was making it hard for the boy to keep his eyes open and there was a pleasant humming in his ears. While Chavans and Harta continued their debate, Bidaya was absently studying the boy. He’d seen that expression before on the face of a butcher about to take apart a hog, only he found that he was too tired to care.
Harta had gone back to pacing. “Worst case scenario: we kill the casteless, the sword shatters, and then we give the shards to Kule’s wizards to play with. I know they’re constantly raiding the treasury to buy black steel fragments and demon parts enough as it is.”
“If you believe that’s the worst that can happen, then you lack the imagination necessary to someday rule this house,” Chavans replied. “If this scandal were ever brought to light, it would ruin us. We would become the laughingstock of the council. Our warriors would revolt before they would follow a non-person into battle. The Capitol would send the Protectors to execute us all.”
“Enough, both of you,” Bidaya said. Chavans and Harta closed their mouths. She looked over her shoulder at the last person in the room. This man had not spoken this entire time. He was so quiet and unassuming that the boy had nearly forgotten he was there. “The boy must go, but we can’t jeopardize the sword. What do you think, Kule?”
The boy shivered. It was a name that was spoken of only with fear and superstition among the casteless of House Vadal. From the stories, he’d expected a fire-breathing giant dressed in demon hide, raven feathers, and baby skulls, but Kule just seemed like a small, quiet, soft-spoken type. If he’d been casteless he would have been too frail to work and would have been sent to the pleasure houses to be abused for the whole men’s amusement. But everything was different when you could work magic.
“Kule?”
The terrifying wizard was cleaning beneath his fingernails with a talon that had been cut off a bird of prey. “Send him to the Protectors,” he answered absently.
“What?” That seemed to alarm Harta. “Are you mad? What would that bunch of fanatics want with it? How does that solve—”
Bidaya held up her hand and the heir immediately fell silent. “Continue.”
“The answer to our conundrum lies with history. It has been a very long time since a great house has volunteered the service of the bearer of their ancestor blade to the Protectors of the Law. The last time that happened, impoverished Akershan’s obligation died after a few years, but they gained the Capitol’s gratitude for a generation. For mighty Vadal to give such a gift would be seen by the judges as an incredible act of devotion. Our foes will believe that we are so confident in our defenses that we do not even require the blade’s presence. Angruvadal exists to serve, and there is no honor greater than to dedicate a life to protecting the Law. Everyone wins.”
Except me, the boy thought to himself. All he knew about Protectors were that the non-people were taught from birth to never break the Law, because then the Protectors would come for them.
“The life of a Protector is one of hardship and service, but it is not usually a long life…” Chavans mused.
“That is correct, Arbiter. Their lives tend to be glorious and brief. Their average member doesn’t survive their obligation. Our only terms would be that when he is inevitably killed fulfilling his duty, the ancestor blade must be swiftly returned to its rightful house so that it may choose its next bearer. Then we can put this unfortunate incident behind us.”
“The Order is brutal. With any luck he’ll die in training.” Chavans smiled. “Yes. This course is honorable and brief.”
“Foolishness,” Harta declared. “The Law is clear on the separation of castes. What happens when the most ruthless of all its enforcers discover that we not only violated the Law, but insulted them in the process by sending them this…this…farm animal?”
The wizard smiled. Perhaps it was the poppy, but the boy thought Kule’s teeth were too sharp. “I will make sure the boy tells them only what we wish him to.”
“Your potions may be able to cloud the mind, but they can’t pass a casteless off as a whole man.” Forgetting his earlier fear, Harta strode over to the boy. It probably helped that by now he was barely able to keep his eyes open or his heavy head from drifting toward the cushions. Harta roughly put his hand on top of the boy’s head and rubbed it around through his hair as if searching for something. “Everyone knows casteless have horns.”
“That’s only a myth,” Chavans snapped. “Did you not pay any attention in your studies? They are mentally defective savages, but they’re still physically human.”
Embarrassed, Harta backed away, wiping his hand on his robe because he’d touched something filthy. “They’re still coarse and stupid. This charade will fool no one.”
“Protectors are not known for their polite company, firstborn, but rather for their viciousness, a quality which casteless have in abundance,” Kule explained patiently. “The Order will be so pleased at having access to an ancestor blade that they will overlook his limited intellect. Vadal encompasses a vast territory, I have no doubt we can find some backwoods inbred village for him to hail from.”
“My scribes keep the Vadal genealogy,” Chavans said. “It can be arranged.”
Kule, satisfied that his nails were clean, stuck the talon back inside his sleeve. “I assure you, grant me a bit of time and no one will ever suspect this little thing was not born a whole man.”
“Very well, wizard, you had best not disappoint…Giving our best to the Order…Only Vadal cares enough about the Law to make such a sacrifice,” Harta muttered. “Yes, I could sell that in the Capitol. Let those Vokkan monkey-humpers try to suck up to the chief judges over our trade disputes after that.”
“What of the boy, Kule?” Bidaya asked.
“What of him, my lady?”
“Can you truly make him believe he is one of us? Can you truly make something forget what it really is?”
The wizard was confident. “It will take a great deal of effort and expense, but my art can obscure its memories and construct new ones in their place. I will give it a new foundation built upon a total devotion to the Law. Upon that foundation I will build a most obedient servant.”
Bidaya seemed intrigued. “While you’re at it, can you remove his fear?”
“It will take some doing, my lady. Emotions are stamped upon us. Cutting off one may damage the others. May I ask why?”
“I want my family’s sword back as soon as possible.”
“Ah, yes, of course. That is wise. The bold die first. I will erase his sense of fear. As for erasing the evidence of the rest of his existence, that is up to you.”
“Very well, we will proceed with the wizard’s plan. Chavans, how many others know of this?”
“Six guards, mere nayaks, so no one of rank sufficient to cause a scandal if they die. I saw to it that they were all confined to the palace and allowed no visitors.”
“Excellent. Come up with a crime and execute them for it. Murder all the house slaves and their overseer as well.”
The boy protested. The house slaves had been kind and fed him, but his cries meant nothing to the first caste.
Bidaya turned back to the boy. “Do you have a family?”
He didn’t want to answer, but the sleeping poppy made it so the words just fell out. “I have a mother.”
“You don’t know who your father is? Of course not. Since the sword chose you, I’m assuming you’re my dead husband’s bastard. And all this time I thought he had better taste than to slum about with a fish-eater whore…Chavans, before you kill the overseer have him take you to the casteless quarter, find the boy’s mother, and kill her. In fact, let us err on the side of caution. Find whatever slum he called home and burn it to the ground. Kill everyone he’s ever known. Make it certain.”
“It will be done,” the old man assured her.
“Please don’t, my lady,” the boy begged. “I can keep a secret.”
“This is for the best, child. Go to sleep now. Tomorrow will be a new day.”