No Present Like Time Page 5

  CHAPTER THREE

  Next morning I decided to seek an audience with the Emperor and appeal against the terrible orders that he had given me. I left Tern sleeping in the four-poster bed; I had pretended to be asleep when she came in late. I dressed, ate breakfast and shut the door as the Starglass struck ten. I ran down the frescoed spiral steps three at a time, at a speed that may well be the death of me one day. I ignored the thick rope that serves as a handrail and opened my wings for balance as far as was possible on the dizzying staircase. I hurtled around the last corner and crashed into Lightning, who was climbing up. “Huh? Get out of my way, Micawater.”

  “Jant! I have to talk to you. The Emperor’s just asked me to put Gio out of the Castle!”

  “Who?”

  “Gio Ami. The Swordsman for four hundred years until last night.”

  Gio was from Ghallain, a bleak town on the tip of an inhospitable cape. His wealth and acumen were entirely self-made. Three-letter names were often used among the coastal Plainslanders, a tradition dating back as far as the Emperor’s birth. Like Awian names, they’re not gender-specific. I thought, Gio really belongs in sixteen thirty-nine. What the fuck is he going to do out there, in the twenty-first century?

  We walked toward the Simurgh Passage on the extreme eastern side of the palace, and along past Lightning’s rooms where pale watercolor paintings covered the walls completely, their frames touching. The Archer said, “Gio refuses to leave. I have sometimes seen defeated Eszai act this way. He has lived a long time in the Castle; he may fear the outside world although he’ll never admit it. It has changed since he was last mortal.”

  I remembered Gio’s arrogance and said, “More like he can’t accept that anyone could beat him.”

  “Yes, I agree.”

  “Well, I hope he isn’t armed.”

  “Oh, of course he is armed. That’s why I need your help to evict him.”

  We walked up a flight of steps to the attic of the passage and the quarters traditionally appointed to Serein. Bucklers were displayed on the walls outside his doorway, with dusty bullfighting cloaks and wood-and-leather dusack swords for practice. Broadswords and falchions were arranged in circles and fans, next to sail-hilted daggers and Wrought katanas with naked blued steel. There were ceremonial two-handed swords with curlicued quillions and flamberge blades inlaid with gold wire, and several portraits of Gio. Servants passed us, carrying boxes and suitcases down to the ground floor. One wore a sallet helmet and the others had shirts wrapped around their heads.

  Lightning and I peered into the awkwardly shaped room, which had a sloping ceiling. It looked like the den of a sports-obsessed teenager. It smelled of rubber-soled shoes, canvas ingrained with sweat, the wooden grips of polearms smoothed and varnish worn away with use. Twinned rapiers in cases and practice foils in holdalls were stacked along the wall, under a shabby dartboard with a fistful of darts jammed into the bull’s-eye. A beautiful schiavona cut-and-thrust sword with a basket hilt and a sharkskin grip hung in pride of place on the opposite wall.

  In a big glass tank at the far end of the room enormous yellow koi carp cruised back and forth, their mirror scales glinting like plate armor. Two servants were indiscriminately stuffing the clutter into boxes and moving it out.

  Gio Ami was sitting on the divan, slouched against the wall with despair. A foil with a round guard lay across his knees. His long, old-gold-colored hair hung in twists to his shoulders, he had a single ring in one ear. His face was somewhat lined and worn, hollow cheeks offset by a broad chin, which now had fair stubble. His bare chest and taut belly showed under his unfastened frock coat. It was of Awian manufacture because it had wide slits up the back that were empty and looked peculiar without wings. His pale blue breeches matched, but laces trailed from his open boots. A number of Diw Harbor Gin bottles lay discarded on the floor.

  Gio still had the quality of those who are great at what they do, an intense concentration unknown to most people. His coat’s rich embroidery was testament to his affluence, gained through running his fencing salles d’armes since the turn of the seventeenth century. Branches of the Ghallain School had been opened in Hacilith and the majority of Plainslands manorships.

  Gio had taken the dressing off the wound at his throat, which gaped a little, pink and clean. He must be trying to make it scar. He noticed us standing in the doorway, “What do we have here? A lonely aristo and a gangland killer.” He looked from Lightning to me. “Neither high looks of authority nor smart words will make me leave.”

  Lightning sighed. “Gio, if you don’t go now, Jant and I will put you out of the Castle bodily.”

  Gio spun the hilt of the foil, making the sword roll up and down his thigh. I watched it, well aware that he was still the second-best fencer in the world. His voice slurred slightly. “Don’t call me Gio. I am still Serein.”

  “You were outmatched.”

  “I have just said goodbye to the Sailor, the Cook and the Master of Horse. All my former friends are abandoning me.” He gestured at the servants. “And the new Serein will have my rooms, as well as my title and my immortality.”

  “We’re not deserting you,” I said.

  “All immortality belongs to the Emperor,” said Lightning.

  Gio gave him a dirty look. “Yes, you nobles are great at knowing who owns what. None of you will stand by me now I’ve fallen from grace. Why should I be cast out? It wasn’t a fair fight!”

  The oldest servant began to pack Gio’s combat manuals. “Bugger off,” said Gio, and threw The Academy of Defense accurately at his head. “The floodlights in the amphitheater are useless. I demand a retrial.”

  I thought for a while. “You can Challenge him in a year’s time, that’s a rule of the Castle.”

  “Challenge him as a mortal? Try to regain my title from him? Damn! I still don’t understand the move he made. He tricked me with an unorthodox caper,” Gio spat contemptuously. “No one will want to be instructed in my method now, the techniques I spent my life recording. My school will empty like the court of Rachiswater and then what will I do for a living?”

  “Having been in the Circle will bring you fame enough,” I said in a conciliatory tone.

  “Fame as a has-been.” Gio pointed the foil, working himself up. “Why did I ever aspire to such a corrupt little world? Wrenn killed me in that duel! All right-so I might die forty years from now of old age, but he has killed me. Ruined by a non-fraternity fighter, opportunist, someone who never studied! A coarse recruit from a frontier town who wasn’t even listed in the top five hundred swordsmen. He never competed in the annual tournaments. I hadn’t even heard of the insane kid before he turned up!”

  Gio did not realize how hidebound he had become over four centuries. He had systematized the art of fencing and relied so much on his perfect knowledge that Wrenn’s irrational move confused him completely. Immortals who are afraid to risk their lives are as useless against the Insects as those who become lazy or overconfident, solitary or debauched. San’s rules for the Circle are wise; fresh blood will take our place if long life causes us to lose our edge.

  “You’ve gained a year and you can try again.”

  “A year for what? A year to practice?” He gestured at a wall-chart of footprints coding positions for rapier exercises. “To shape up, lose weight, gain stamina?” He bent a sinewy arm until the long muscles knotted.

  I took Gio’s point that clearly he was in the best fitness and still got beaten, but none of us could know what effect the following year of renown and a six-month sea voyage might have on Wrenn’s condition. The Castle has lost all Gio’s knowledge now, replacing him with someone who is expert but inexperienced. It struck me as wasteful; I wished they could all be saved. I wondered why the Emperor refused to widen the Circle to accommodate more warriors; we would never pose a threat to San because we would never accumulate enough experience to be as wise as him.

  I said, “Gio, the Empire needs you too. We don’t want to lose you.”


  “The Castle’s already rejected me. Though I devoted my entire life to its service…I defended Hacilith in the last swarm.” His voice was drained of its usual energy. He would take days to recover from such an intense fight. “I felt the Circle dropping me. I knelt down and couldn’t get up. You bastards. But now I don’t feel much different, I suppose because I’m only twelve hours older. I think mortals feel like they’re twenty-one years old all their life, though their body gets slower and then they die. I’ll provoke a few duels before I die, though. I’m going to send a few of them ahead of me.”

  Gio picked up his predecessor’s book, Treatise on the Art of Fencing, and weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. “What happened to the Serein before me? When I displaced him from the Circle he went mad and hung himself.” A downward twist of his lips showed what he thought of a Swordsman committing suicide. He spun the book through the air and swore when a servant ducked and it hardly clipped him.

  Lightning said, “We are nowhere near restoring Awia and people already gripe about the necessary austerity. We need your imagination, not to mention your leadership.”

  “Saker Micawater, what the rich fuck do I care about Awia now?”

  Serein Wrenn, in his fyrd fatigues, hurried into view down the corridor. He made as if to enter the room but Lightning spread his blond wings across the doorway. The youth blinked at him, bewildered.

  At the sight of Wrenn, Gio leapt to his feet, the foil loose in his right hand. Wrenn swept his rapier from its scabbard. Great. Now I was trapped between the best and second-best swordsmen in the world.

  “No!” said Lightning. “You may not fight.”

  I took the knife from my boot and pressed the button for the blade.

  Gio eyed me. “Nice. A Rhydanne with a flick-knife.”

  Lightning said, “Put it away, Jant.”

  “If you think I’m afraid to keep dueling, you’re wrong,” Wrenn called.

  “Every single year until one of us is dead,” Gio spat.

  “You were wide open with that moulinet. You bloody deserved it!”

  Lightning repeated, “You may meet in twelve months. You may not fight now.”

  “Step aside, Archer.”

  Lightning stared at Gio, arms folded and wings spread.

  Wrenn stretched out in a broad ward stance, an action that seemed to say: come on, stab me in the chest.

  Gio shook with fury. “I swear, Archer, get out of my way! Or I’ll cut every tendon in your bow arm! I’ll have my title back within an hour!”

  “Honor demands a respite.”

  “I’m mortal, I’m going to die anyway! Where’s the honor in that? I’ve nothing to lose!”

  Wrenn watched guardedly through the gap between Lightning and myself. He was calm, in control, just as I am aware of every centimeter of my body when I prepare to fly.

  Gio flourished the foil. “I’ll die famous by running you both through!”

  “Jant,” Lightning said eventually. “It looks like we need Tornado’s help to close this situation. Go to his room and fetch him; quickly, please.”

  I hesitated.

  “I can skewer you all on one blade!”

  I nodded, ducked past and sprinted away. Gio watched until I reached the stairs and then he threw his foil aside. He pushed past Lightning and Wrenn, head up and haughty eyes averted. I stepped out of his way; he descended the staircase and walked out swinging his arms, across the wet grass of the quadrangle toward the Dace Gate and the Castle’s stables.

  Lightning exhaled and rubbed his forehead. “God,” he said. “Such a worthy adversary.”

  MEMO

  To: Tern

  From: Jant. You know, your husband. Tall, cheekbones, black wings…Yes, that one.

  Tern, darling

  Where are you? I wanted to say goodbye. The Stormy Petrel sails Friday-Mist has ordered us straight to Awndyn and I doubt I will be coming back. It is bound to sink, and I shall drown. Or be lost, becalmed, and starve. Besides, the sea nourishes monsters far worse than Insects. If you feel the Circle break, think of me, and open the letter I left with Rayne.

  NB I borrowed a thousand pounds from the Wrought Restoration Fund. Hope you don’t mind. If we return in six months’ time, I’ll make enough money to pay it back with curios from “Ata’s Island.” Love you. Goodbye.

  Jant.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A shower of sleet fell at dawn, covering the stable courtyard with lumpy, slushy ice. Shallow puddles in its gutters looked gray as laundry water. Darker clouds smeared in the overcast sky above the large square forecourt. The sparrows that infested the eaves and stalls shouted out a dawn chorus. Warm air steamed from three pairs of thoroughbred horses harnessed to a gleaming coach. Lightning’s carriage was waiting to carry him and Wrenn to Awndyn. It would take them three days to reach the coast, so they had planned to spend the first night at Eske manor, enjoying the hospitality of Cariama Eske.

  There was a clock tower on an arch above the main gate. I landed in front of its peacock-blue dial, which showed eight A.M., and watched Wrenn and Lightning sheltering from the rain inside the nearest stable while their belongings were loaded onto the coach. Mist had said we could bring no more than one sea chest each, but my rucksack and Wrenn’s small knapsack were so meager-since I travel light and Wrenn was poor-that Lightning allowed himself more luggage.

  The coachman stooped to check the bits in the mouths of the dapple gray mares and ran the reins through brass rings on the center bar. His scarf and thick buttoned coat made him look portly. He held the coach door open; Wrenn jumped up and struggled inside. Wrenn obviously didn’t know about the steps, which Lightning kicked out from under the polished splashboard. Wrenn settled himself on the seat and removed his woolly liripipe hat. He was obviously feeling self-conscious; I doubted that he had ever been in a coach before. He had changed his clothes-the ones he wore in the ceremony were discarded to show his entrance to a new life. The coachman slammed the door and pulled a leather strap to lower the window. He leaned in, exchanged some words with Lightning, then climbed up to his bench, took the whip in his left hand and flicked the reins. “Hoh!”

  The whole heavy rig rolled forward with the clop of clean hooves, a hiss of water from the wheels. The mares with braided manes shook their heads trying to see around their blinkers. They walked to the gates; I saw their six broad backs, then the dark red shining lacquer of the coach’s roof loaded with wooden chests pass beneath me under the arch. The wheels sucked up sleet from the ground, spraying it into the air above them, leaving two tracks of paving clear from slush.

  Wrenn twisted around to stare at me through the back window, one elbow on the tan leather. I wished that I could hear their conversation on the journey. Lightning paid Wrenn more attention than he paid me, offering the same time-refined advice. But I wanted to reach Awndyn before the coach did. I jumped off the clock tower.

  My wings’ muscular biceps, as thick as thighs bunched together, creasing the middle of my back, then separated as I pulled my wings down in the laborious effort of sustained beating. My long wings are pointed and fairly narrow, good for gliding but taking off is as hard as sprinting. I can usually settle into a rhythm that uses less energy but it’s still like running a marathon.

  I love long-distance journeys; I can stretch out along the route. I relaxed and leaned into the first of the long kilometers. The coach-and-six sounded hollow over the stable’s wide drawbridge across the second moat and out of the Castle’s complex. They passed the paddocks with steaming dung heaps and soggy plowed fields, joined the Eske Road and entered the oak forest that comprised most of that manor.

  I flexed my wings in and rolled once, twice, risked a third although I fell fifty meters each time. I opened my wings hard against the rushing air. High above the coach I rolled wing over wing, watching the even horizon turn a full three hundred and sixty degrees.

  Then I set out for the coast. Diagonal lines of sunlight slanted down, patchily highlighting the
level, loamy fields of the plains around the Moren. When flying from manor to manor I find it useful to follow one of the straight military roads that the Castle commanded to be built between towns for the movement of troops. But to fly cross-country I pick a point on the horizon, a notch or a hummock, and head directly toward it. The notches become vales, the hummocks turn into hillsides. When I become tired I fly a more convoluted route to find and climb onto thermals to rest.

  At a height of two hundred meters I don’t see individual tree tops, just a mass of twigs and pine needles. The slate roofs of the towns are scaly patches that look flat among the forest’s green-brown froth. The houses built from local stone were camouflaged in the landscape, and I passed over hunting lodges without seeing them. Towns all seemed the same from the air; I hardly distinguished between them. My travels have taught me that people everywhere are intrinsically the same: well-disposed to me as Comet.

  The same would not be true for Tris. I considered the events of the last two days as I flew. No one could predict what the Trisian people would make of us; I hoped that I could communicate with them. I was terrified of the hated uncharted ocean. The things that swam and slapped suckers on ships’ sides beggared any description-behemoth serpents and sentient giants amassed from the rotting bodies of drowned sailors.

  I wondered what to do about Tern. At this very moment she could be stroking Tornado’s wingless back, hewn muscles, shorn head, and I had to leave on some damn godforgotten ship! I imagined her sitting on the palm of his hand and he lifts her up to kiss her. Away at sea I was powerless to stop this latest outbreak of her infidelity; it might deepen and then what would I find on my return? Tern married into the Circle through Tornado, myself divorced and having to live next door to my beautiful ex-wife for all eternity?