The Company of Glass

by Tricia Sullivan

Genres: Fantasy; Genetic Engineering; Hard Science Fiction

Synopsis

Tarquin the Free finds himself forced to risk everything in Jai Khalar, the otherworldly home of the Knowledge, when his homeland Everien is threatened by the Sekk - an army almost too large to comprehend.

Release date: July 30, 2015

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 386

Sample

Men are animals. It is no slander to say so, for only by skilful application of all his faculties can a mere human evoke that creature within whose senses are sharper than his, whose heart is truer, whose mind is wiser. A Clan warrior at the height of his powers is never more than a hand’s breadth from his own animal nature – it is from this proximity to his primal spirit that he derives a joy unknown to others.

Yet it was not joy that polished the bare skins of the Snake and the Bear who faced each other in the ring – it was hard sweat. By the time Queen Ysse entered the training ground, the two combatants had whipped each other up into a froth of hatred that aroused their animal natures to savage violence. The metamorphosis was not magical – there were no scales or tails. It was chemical. Transfigured by emotion, the contenders moved in communion with the wild creatures whose fighting skills their ancestral traditions had taught them to emulate. They had become more than human.

Ysse smiled. The Company were too absorbed in watching the test match to notice the old woman come limping in, but Quintar the Captain of the Guard picked up her movement in his peripheral vision and glanced in her direction. A tall, rather homely man with claws of Seahawk paint decorating his face, he was lounging against the far wall of the arena, apart from his charges. He might have been handsome once, but his countenance had known so many fights it was impossible to be sure what features he had been born with. As Ysse made her way towards him, he acknowledged her arrival with a slight wave, but his gaze never left the ring.

The Snake was bleeding. The yellow stripes of Clan paint rendered his swarthy face anonymous, hiding the signs of pain that would otherwise be evident; his nose was gushing scarlet and there was no mistaking the fact it had just been broken. The Bear wore no family ornament beyond the silver earring that showed his rank in the Queen’s Guard – lieutenant – and his exposed visage showed satisfaction at the hit he had just landed on the Snake’s face; yet he could not stop himself shaking his bare right hand, trying to disperse the pain in the knuckles. He had failed to capitalize on the strike, for the injured Snake had slipped out of his reach, leaving red footprints on the bleached white wood of the arena. Both men were stripped for the fight, and the Bear’s ribs heaved; his relentless pursuit of the elusive Snake had winded him.

‘Come on, Vorse!’ called the Company from the perimeter, clapping their hands in encouragement for the injured Snake. The Snake was lean and sinuous as befitted his family name, and he had managed to stay just out of range of his heavier opponent until the Bear had countertimed his feint and scored the lucky hook. Ysse’s body twisted slightly as she followed the Snake’s movement. Even through the frailty of her illness she could feel what it was like to be the Snake. She could feel the fight coming alive in him. Mouth open, red-toothed and angry, the Snake now wove back and forth before the larger man, who aimed a series of kicks at him, attempting to compound the damage he’d inflicted already.

Ysse tensed as the Bear went in. But the attack was too slow, and the Snake slipped into the gap in his opponent’s timing and wound himself around the Bear like a snare drawn suddenly taut, destroying the Bear’s balance and dragging him to the ground. A shout went up from the observers as the Bear managed to twist on the way down and land on top of the Snake.

‘Stay cool, Vorse,’ said the Captain of the Guard as the scramble continued on the ground. ‘It’s only a nose. We’ll get Hanji to knit you another one.’

He edged along the wall, head tilted as he watched the opponents wrestle. The floor of the ring shuddered when they slammed against each other. As Ysse reached his side, Quintar murmured, ‘They’re fighting for the twelfth place in the Company, the one left by Ajiko when he broke his leg.’

‘Why not take them both and have thirteen?’ Ysse asked.

‘Because that would be a compromise. It’s better for them to fight for it. I’m going to take them to clear the Sekk out of Bear Country next month, and this contest will motivate the whole Company. Yesterday they all climbed the North Face. I made Vorse and Lerien race ten miles this morning before the fight. They hate my guts.’

Ysse warmed with affection for him: she could see the bonds between Quintar and his men as if there were lines drawn in the air between them. He had handpicked the members of the Company from across Everien, then spent eight years teaching them to destroy the monsters that the Sekk called down from the mountain wilds on the Clan villages. He spared no effort with them: elite bands like the Company were Everien’s best hope of survival against the Sekk scourge, which could appear anywhere and at any time – from beneath the hills themselves, sometimes. He had pushed his men to their limits until their limits stretched and broke, and they got better than they’d thought themselves capable – and none of them could ever have been called modest. The men of the Company were a strong-willed bunch, each a warrior of note within his original animal Clan, conditioned from birth to fight. Left to their own devices, they would have fought each other: no Clan warrior needed an excuse to challenge a man of another Clan. Yet Quintar managed them with a mysterious blend of intelligence and coercion that kept him always one step ahead of them. They hated him for his harshness and occasional brutality, but they also learned to trust each other, until the esprit de corps of the Company overcame their Clan rivalries. All became tougher and smarter and faster, and Quintar’s reputation grew. Only Ysse knew how he fretted over his charges like a grandmother, losing sleep over their failures and endlessly searching for ways to get more out of each of them. Only Ysse could see how every one of their triumphs and failures was felt doubly by Quintar, who affected aloofness for the sake of maintaining authority. Yes, the men hated Quintar, but she suspected that by now they also adored him. For his part, Quintar had come to have no existence independent of the warriors he led to victory over victory.

She knew how he felt, for she was the monarch of a country that she had struggled to build against heavy opposition from Clan chieftains who would as soon kill one another as unite against the Sekk; a fragile country built on the ruins of ancient Everien; a country that had never known a king, much less a queen. Her existence was the very definition of solitude. She only ever felt slightly less alone when she was with Quintar, her protégé. She wondered if he knew this and decided that he probably didn’t: he was too self-contained, utterly focused on the work at hand. Like all her subjects, Quintar could not help but view the queen through the legends that had grown around her. Ysse sometimes wished it could be otherwise. She shifted her weight unobtrusively to her right hip, for the pain in her legs made it hard to stand, though she tried not to show it.

The Bear and the Snake were tangled on the floor, breathing hard. It did not look good for the Snake. The Bear was sitting on his chest and beating at his head with huge fists; the Snake covered what was left of his face with his elbows and forearms. Blood flew like flower petals in a wind.

‘Just say when you’ve had enough!’ roared the Bear, enjoying himself. The rest of the Company screamed encouragement, some to Vorse, some to Lerien, who rode on top.

A lifetime of fighting the Sekk had left Ysse no stranger to violence, but now she began to cast reproachful looks in Quintar’s direction. He ought to stop the fight. It was clear that the Bear was dominating, and what was to be gained by letting him rip the Snake to pieces? Both men had lost all self-control.

Quintar had moved off to get a better look at the action. Angrily the queen dragged herself to his side. ‘Stop the match,’ she whispered.

He didn’t look at her. ‘Who will be there to stop the fight when a Sekk monster is trying to eat them? Will it be fair when their own brothers attack them, consumed with madness under the Slaving of the Sekk?’

‘This is training,’ Ysse snapped, grabbing his arm. ‘You abuse Vorse. He’ll be killed.’

The Snake was virtually invisible beneath the mass of the Bear. He appeared limp, possibly lifeless. Ysse drew breath to command a halt, but some premonition checked her. Her nails bit into Quintar’s forearm as the Snake made his move. Seemingly boneless, he writhed, pressed his right shoulder against the ground and with a lightning jerk that seemed to ripple through his entire body, suddenly upended the Bear, wrapped his left leg over the Bear’s shoulder, and snapped his pelvis up to trap the neck between his thighs. In the same fluid movement he caught a wrist and locked the arm at the elbow. The Bear screamed. The joint snapped audibly, and then before the crowd could react, the Bear was choking in the grasp of the Snake’s legs and the Snake, throwing all of his slight weight into the movement, levered the Bear’s back off the ground, almost breaking it at the neck.

Quintar had already leaped in to intervene, and now the surrounding Company fell on the pair, separating them. Spitting teeth, Vorse stood up and was enveloped in a buffeting of congratulatory slaps. Quintar emerged from the crowd and beckoned his comrades to attend the defeated Bear, who got to his feet more slowly, head down, broken arm dangling.

‘He’ll be all right,’ Quintar told her, clicking his tongue as he swung his head from side to side in disparagement. He reminded Ysse of an auntie fretting over a pair of recalcitrant children. ‘Stubborn! Lerien should have conceded quicker. Vorse might have got carried away and broken his neck.’

Ysse sighed. Quintar was still young – and like all the young, he didn’t know what that meant. Standing beside him, the queen felt weary, and she remembered now why she had come down here. She drew herself erect and said: ‘The White Road has opened. Jai Pendu draws nigh. Are your men ready?’

Quintar reacted as one well accustomed to Ysse’s style of leadership; he had learned long ago that when she had something of moment to say, she always said it casually, without warning or preamble. He was startled, and for a second his brown eyes fixed on her face; then he shrugged. He gestured towards the sand arena at the far end of the training ground. ‘My archers are practising target-shooting right now. Do they look ready to you?’

Four black horses flowed across the sand each in a different rhythm, changing direction suddenly at invisible signals from their riders’ legs, for the Wasp archers rode without aid of rein. On the ground among them was a small man wearing only a loincloth and elaborate Wasp Clan tattoos. Unarmed, he was engaged in evading the arrows of the four Wasps who ferociously attacked him.

‘What can you be thinking?’ the queen rebuked Quintar, and forgetting the pain in her ankles she took several long strides closer to the fence. A stray arrow flew by her, which she ignored. She snapped, ‘Get Chyko out of there before he’s killed.’

Chyko darted and changed direction like a crazed fly. When one of the horses braked suddenly he disappeared into the white arc of sand that spat from its hooves. He reappeared momentarily, then slipped beneath one of the other horses. There was a flash of metal in his hand before he whirled away from the slashing hooves, waving his arms and shouting taunts at the riders, the nearest of whom toppled when the saddle slid off his mount: the girth had been cut.

‘I can’t control Chyko,’ Quintar said, admiration colouring his tone. ‘Maybe he’ll listen to you. He likes women.’

‘If you can’t control him, you shouldn’t have him in your Company,’ Ysse reproached, unsettled by the display. ‘You have worked too hard on these men to spoil their discipline with a wild creature such as this.’

Quintar said, ‘He brings up their ability. And he’s worth twenty of the rest. Look!’

Chyko, surrounded by the snorting horses and cocked bows of his fellow Wasp Clansmen, stuck out a hand and caught an arrow. He ducked another shot, spinning at the same time and sliding on to the back of the loose horse, to which he clung like a flea. The horse took two strides, jumped the fence, and roared past Quintar and the queen like a hurricane.

Stunned, she said, ‘That one cannot be a man. He must be something else.’

‘To answer your question,’ Quintar said, smiling, ‘they are ready. We will set Vorse’s nose in a splint; the discomfort will help him to concentrate. Maybe he’ll make fewer mistakes the next time he takes a bigger opponent to the ground.’

‘What about the Bear who lost the match? Lerien? He fought well.’

‘His arm is broken. I leave him to you. You will need someone to command the Guard while I am gone.’

These words hurt. For a moment she had been caught up in watching the Company train, and she had forgotten that they would ride away without her. They would ride off to Jai Pendu as she had once done, when she was as young as Quintar was now. Even from far away she swore she could feel the floating city approaching on the tide; she could feel the pull of its Knowledge and she wanted badly to go with them, to witness Jai Pendu’s wonders once again. She ached for the glory of holding the Fire of Glass in her bare hands and knowing that she, Ysse, a mortal creature, had touched the transcendent Artifact of the ancient Everiens.

But her time was past. This was Quintar’s age, and Ysse must stand aside. Her hand was on the sword she carried – even in Jai Khalar, her own castle; even in her illness and age. She drew the blade. Quintar stepped back a pace, his eyes holding hers with the empty quality that meant he still took her seriously as a fighter; he was prepared for the possibility that she would attack him. Lowering her blade, she slid off her sword belt and extended the scabbard to him. He looked surprised for only the briefest instant; then he took the scabbard and ran his hands over the incisions that were Ysse’s personal signs. Years ago, when she had gone to Jai Pendu, she had acquired the three symbols she had worn on her blade ever since. She had never discussed them with anyone, much less explained them. Emotion made her throat tight as she now passed on to Quintar the scabbard bearing the signs of the Eye, the Sun, and the Rose. Her voice was hoarse.

‘I will not see you again before you go. Hanji will bring you my standard and help you find the White Road. Go tonight.’

Quintar nodded assent, his usually sober face lighting with anticipation. Yes, he was young. She reached out and touched his shoulder, aware that the gesture was too weak, too feminine, for such a martial occasion. Yet when she thought of Jai Pendu, she could not bring herself to pretend she felt powerful.

‘Farewell,’ she said, and turned away, trying not to hunch with the ache in her spine as she reached for the door. The clash of weapons answered her but she didn’t look back at the men in whose prowess she placed all her hope. These were men who loved the fight above all. They lived for it. Her heart swelled with pride and she began to laugh. They would succeed at Jai Pendu. She could feel it.

The door closed behind her. It was the last she would ever see of the Company.

The clatter of fast-flying hooves on stone jarred the youngest blacksmith of the Deer Clan at A-vi-Khalar from exhausted sleep. A thin, runny light intimated the place where dawn would crack the northern sky; the time couldn’t be much more than an hour past midnight. The blacksmith rolled over, groping for his wife. As the hoofbeats passed by his window, a voice bellowed in an army accent. ‘A horse! Bring out the king’s horse!’

Another messenger. He moaned softly. He ached all over. Yesterday he had worked a brutal double shift in the Fire Houses forging weapons for the defenders in the mountains; he needed more sleep, a reprieve for both mind and muscles. But it was not to be. Duty to one’s Clan always came first, and he was the youngest; he would have to go down to the stables and get the royal courier horse ready … in his mind he was rolling out of bed, gliding outside to open the stall, checking the hooves, and—

The rider passed again going the other way, still shouting for a horse at the top of his lungs. The blacksmith started from his dreamlet and groaned.

‘Dzani, get up before the whole Clan’s disturbed,’ his wife chided sleepily, shoving him. The blacksmith grabbed his shirt and staggered into the street. The brightly coloured tiles that paved the road were dulled with fine ash from the Fire Houses, which had burned all night for months: the cones of the ancient structures could be seen presiding over the village, their blackened shapes resisting the onset of dawn. Geese were running to and fro in the grey light, flapping their wings and generally adding to the cacophony.

From the noise being made, the blacksmith had expected a restive horse, prancing and rearing, and a royal messenger wearing red and sporting elaborate face-paint showing both Clan affiliation and rank within King Lerien’s house at Jai Khalar. But the coat of the black horse was soaked with lather and sending up clouds of steam, the harness and saddle skirts were mud-caked, and the animal’s head sagged towards the ground in weariness. The rider was dressed in scarred leather battle gear and the hood of his stained green cloak was cast back so that the dew settled on ragged, uncombed brown hair. He was not young. His beard had grown at least three days, and when he dismounted, he stumbled before catching the reins and steadying himself.

‘I’m sorry to wake you.’ His soldier’s accent was even more pronounced when he wasn’t shouting. ‘I need your fastest horse, and’ – his mount strained towards the blacksmith’s trough, and the stranger swayed and almost lost his balance again – ‘and please fetch your boy to walk this one until she is cool. I hope I have not misused her.’

Dzani had begun unsaddling the horse even as the stranger spoke; now he gave a sharp whistle. His older daughter scurried out of the house barefoot to prise the reins from the soldier’s fingers. Before the man was aware of it, she had, looped a rope around the animal’s neck and led it away. The blacksmith hoisted the warm, damp saddle on to his shoulder and motioned for the stranger to follow him to the stable. He took a good look at the saddle. The king’s crest was embossed on the leather, but he could see no similar mark on the man’s clothing. He wore no Clan paint at all, nor any ornament that would identify him. Dzani noticed the messenger’s bloodshot eyes and his pallor. The blacksmith paused outside the kitchen door.

‘Go inside and get something to eat while I tack the horse. It won’t hold you up but a minute.’

‘The mare – she’s been going hard,’ said the stranger weakly, looking guilty. ‘She must be walked for a time and if you crack an egg in her mash—’

‘My daughter will take care of her,’ Dzani interrupted, amused. Before the other could protest, he added caustically, ‘Now, get some breakfast. Fine lot of good will be done if the mount arrives at the Citadel bearing a dead man.’

He half expected the stranger to take offence – the king’s men could be very touchy about being tendered respect – but the man laughed hoarsely and said, ‘Thanks, friend – you’re right.’

Dzani entered the dim stable, whose occupants were still dozing.

‘Wake up, you lazy sods,’ he called, and emitted a huge yawn.

In the kitchen, the blacksmith’s wife had quickly heated soup and carved the stale crusts from yesterday’s bread. The messenger came in, bowed to her, and sank on to the bench. When she turned from the oven, he had fallen asleep with his face on the table. She finished preparing the food and set it on the boards, but he didn’t stir. She hesitated, unsure whether she should wake him – and then the scabbard of his sword caught her eye. It bore no Clan marking. It was dark blue, and the insignia was an eye, a stylized sun, and a rose. Recognizing it, she felt herself flush and stood there frozen for a moment – then, without making a conscious decision, she quickly reached out and shook his shoulder. He sat bolt upright; the soup slopped on the table. He favoured her with a broken-toothed smile and a nod of thanks before falling to. The blacksmith’s wife hovered.

‘Please … sir …’ she ventured, clasping her hands behind her back because suddenly she didn’t know what to do with them. She deliberately averted her eyes from the scabbard. ‘These tidings you carry to the king … is battle to come even here?’

He drained the soup bowl and set it down. He stared at the wood, and it seemed as though he was gripped in some inner struggle. Suddenly he slammed his palm down on the table; crumbs leaped into the air. She jumped in her skin.

‘My message can only be given to the king himself.’

She had already slid back fearfully, bumping into the hot stove and then recoiling. ‘I see. Of course. I’m sorry—’

He was shaking himself like a wet dog, blinking rapidly as he brushed dishevelled locks back from his face. His gaze fixed on her and he seemed to take her measure for a moment. His eyes were bloodshot. She relaxed slightly as she realized he had only slapped the table in an effort to wake himself. Emboldened, she searched his face, expecting to find tragedy there – but she only saw exhaustion.

‘Are you all right?’ she whispered. ‘Do you want me to brew some sita for you?’

Still looking at her, he reached for a handful of bread and cheese and surged to his feet. ‘I am sorry,’ he said as he passed her on the way out. ‘Battle is coming to this whole land, even to the Citadel. Prepare yourselves!’

By the time Dzani had a fresh horse ready, a handful of children and old women had straggled into the courtyard to see the messenger. They looked small and dull among the soaring, brightly frescoed Everien houses, and their hands were work-reddened. The blacksmith thought, not for the first time, that more of the Deer Clan’s men ought to have stayed behind, for there would be little for the soldiers to come home to at the rate things were going. Sometimes he even thought of leading his family off into the western hills, where they might eat only berries and rabbits, but where the Sekk might not find them to Enslave and torture them. Not that the greybeards of the Deer Clan would ever accede to such a plan. They still dreamed of Everien as one great country ruled from Jai Khalar, its ancient cities bright with jewelled flame as of old. He wondered if the Knowledge that the elders wrought in the Fire Houses had turned their minds.

Dzani gave the messenger a leg up, fearing that otherwise he would be too weak to mount the tall grey gelding – an older animal, but the best horse this branch of the Clan possessed.

‘The bridge four miles from here was washed out last month,’ he offered. ‘In case you’re new in these parts. You don’t look like the king’s messengers we usually see.’

Still chewing voraciously, the stranger gathered the reins and looked down on the blacksmith. A flash of humour crossed his tired face as he swallowed.

‘I’m not the king’s messenger, nor even one of his subjects,’ he replied, and expertly turned the animal towards the street. ‘But his horses will have to suffice me in my need. Thanks for your hospitality.’

The grey horse dipped its head slightly and shot off like a yearling. There were a number of protests and startled cries, and Dzani fell back a pace, dismayed. The faces of his people turned to him for explanation.

‘Did you just give the king’s horse to some brigand?’ someone called.

‘If I did, so did Geiri at the next station up the line,’ Dzani said defensively. ‘That’s a royal horse he rode in on.’

‘What Clan was he then, eh? He’s not of the Deer Clan, that’s certain.’

An argument began, with several children running down the street after the horse and the old women speculating colourfully as to Dzani’s fate when his mistake was discovered.

Then the blacksmith’s wife laughed.

‘You’re all fools. Did you not see the sword he carried? Did you not see the scabbard?’

They looked at her as if she were mad.

‘He wears the sign of the Eye, the Sun, and the Rose.’

In the growing daylight she saw their faces change.

‘That was Tarquin the Free.’

She flushed again when she said it.

He had been riding forever; his legs, his tailbone, his back would never forgive him. Days without sleep becoming nights of the winding road pale as a river under moonlight, and always the horse’s gait like a second heartbeat – they wove into a continuity that flattened and dimmed his perceptions and his thoughts. The excitement of the first day’s ride from the mountains above Ristale was long gone, and since then he had done all he could to keep his spirits up. He’d rehearsed his speech to King Lerien a thousand times; he had strategized and considered every angle on the news he brought, every tactical and political consequence. These ruminations led his mind back eighteen years, to a time when he himself had been at the centre of the war against the Sekk and the doings of Jai Khalar had meant everything to him. The decisions he had made in those days seemed now dim and somehow misguided. Flashes of regret and despair and most of all confusion, all vestiges of a long-abandoned self, had ridden with him day after day towards the Citadel.

Now, as the sun blazed free of the peaks and rose towards noon and the road unravelled through the last fields below the walls of the Citadel of Jai Khalar, there seemed to be nothing left in his mind. He passed one caravan bringing goods commandeered from the farms; a handful of fresh soldiers marching away from the Citadel to their postings in the hills; and the dead returning in slow carts driven by old men. Otherwise the road was deserted. He was too tired to initiate greetings and unaware of the grey, resolute lines carving his own face that discouraged approach from any but the boldest. He was half dreaming in the saddle, and the landscape took on an indistinct, surreal quality. He might well have been travelling back in time: eighteen years of self-imposed exile were wiped away as the familiar features of the mountains rose to either side like the legacy of another lifetime.

The topography had changed during the course of his journey south. Even in the north whence he had travelled, the mountains that bounded Everien stood dramatic and steep-sided. At the southern end of Everien their angles intensified and the valley became a tapering canyon. Sheer white cliffs rose to either side of the road, which followed the course of a small river upstream, traversing a strip of flat farmland only a few miles wide. The very depths of the valley would be untouched by light in the depths of winter, a lake of shadowed snow passable only by sled; but it was high summer and the shores of the river burgeoned with ripening grain. The canyon deepened as its floor sank towards sea level, until the cliffs rose many thousands of feet to either side, finally converging to frame a natural gate through which was revealed a hazy view of the tidal plain to the south. The main road led this way, over the border of Everien and into the flatlands beyond, coming eventually to the Floating Lands and the sea itself; but Tarquin had no wish to go that way, not ever again. Not in this lifetime.

It was a strange thing, though, how he could not keep his head from turning that way. Even as he took the fork in the road that followed the river to its source in the foot of the cliffs beneath Jai Khalar, he found himself glancing to the right, where a snatch of softness marked the termination of Everien in a gauzy mist of sea light. Between the stark cliffs the gates of Everien left a gap like a milky gem polished to dream smoothness. He shivered and made himself think of swords rending flesh. It was the only way to clear his mind.

Often he had imagined how easy it would be for an army to sweep in from the plains and take the entire land of Everien, which was otherwise protected by natural barriers. It seemed ironic that the safest part of the land should be here, at this apparently open door on the very edge of the wild country. The rest of Everien, though sheltered by mountains, contended with attack by the Sekk and their minions – human and otherwise – almost daily. Yet here where the valley was most vulnerable, no troops or garrison were to be seen. Queen Ysse had laid claim to this part of the valley in Tarquin’s youth, beating back the ghostly Sekk and awakening the Knowledge that had opened Jai Khalar, which had become the shelter of her people. For it was the Citadel that defended Everien against enemies old and new – the Citadel hidden up in the white cliffs, standing guard over the passage to the sea.

The invisible Citadel.

Tarquin had acquired the ability to see Jai Khalar, but only at a great price. To everyone else it was undetectable from outside. Though the Clans had lived under its protection for many years now, the Citadel and much of the Knowledge it contained remained mysterious to them. Carved from the mountain’s flanks by the art of the vanished Ev