In the Shadow of Lightning

42

“Block the road,” Demir told his driver, leaping down from the running board. The carriage came to a stop at an angle behind him to effectively cut off traffic in front of the High Vorcien Club. The angry shouts and swearing began immediately, starting with the carriage coming toward him from the other end of the road. Demir crossed his arms in front of him, palms facing inward, displaying his twin silic sigils. The opposing driver’s mouth snapped shut and he pulled on his reins, parking his own carriage across the street and leaving Demir standing in an empty space perhaps ten yards across.

Pedestrians stopped to look, and riders climbed out of carriages. They were curious at first, craning their heads, shouting questions at Demir and each other, but a wave of frightened silence seemed to pass back along the rows of carriages, leaving helpless consternation in its wake. If a glassdancer wanted a street blocked, a glassdancer was damned well going to get the street blocked. It would, Demir decided, not take them more than a few minutes before someone sent for the Cinders.

“Tell Capric Vorcien to come out and see me,” Demir told the nervous bouncers standing just outside the club. “Tell him to bring his sword. If he slips out the back then I’ll come to his house, and I won’t be nearly as polite.” To emphasize his point, Demir pulled a glassdancer’s egg from his pocket and tossed it up into the air, catching it casually. One of the bouncers took off inside the club at a run.

The minutes passed slowly as Demir waited, pacing back and forth in the space between the two carriages, sword in one hand and glassdancer egg in the other. The heat below his collar had begun to cool and he tried to reason with himself – to get back in his carriage and let this thing go until later. He knew that was the smart thing to do, but every time he tried to turn away from this course of action his head began to pound, blinding him with pain and fury.

He thought about Capric while he waited. They’d been friends since childhood. Not the closest of friends, not like him, Montego, and Kizzie, but friends nonetheless. They’d been tutored together, gone on holiday together, even gone through officer training together. Demir had taken Capric on the Holikan campaign because he’d needed an officer he could trust. That was, it turned out, the greatest mistake of his life.

He could sense a hundred sets of eyes on him, the crowd growing as the traffic grew further backed up and more pedestrians stopped to stare. This was a city that ran on guild-family drama, and everyone from the lowest newsie boy to the richest merchant could sense that some juicy drama was in the making.

He slashed his sword occasionally at the empty air, his thoughts tumultuous, his expression a calm lid on the maelstrom of fury battering on his insides.

“Demir!” a familiar voice finally called from the door to the club. Demir turned to find Capric standing just outside, unarmed, staring at Demir with genuine fear as dozens of club clients poured out around him, taking up a position in the streets. The elite of Ossa were no more immune to the draw of guild-family drama than the lowest citizen. Demir let his eyes wander across those faces, recognizing many, before returning to Capric.

Capric opened his mouth to speak again, only to be shoved to one side by his bullish older brother. Demir had never particularly cared for Sibrial Vorcien. He was boorish, loud, consumed by a dozen different appetites, and even by the standards of the guild-family scions considered a bully. The biggest surprise out of the Vorcien these last twenty years was that Father Vorcien hadn’t quietly arranged an accident for his heir so that one of the more capable siblings could inherit.

“What is the meaning of this?” Sibrial demanded. He was carrying his sword, and he used it to gesture violently at Demir. “Get this traffic moving! Disperse the crowd!”

“Piss off, Sibrial,” Demir called to him calmly. “This isn’t your business.”

“This is my club! I am the Vorcien heir! I don’t care what kind of favor you curry with the Inner Assembly, I won’t have some minor guild-family patriarch pissant interrupting the–”

Demir felt his patience crack. Not enough to lose control entirely, but enough to make a point. He tossed his glassdancer egg underhanded toward Sibrial and put pressure on it mentally. The egg was halfway through its arc when it shattered into six pinkie-sized shards that spread out into a fan shape, their sharp tips all pointed at Sibrial. Sibrial fell silent immediately, his eyes growing wide and his face red. Demir walked across the space between them, the shards of glass moving to hover just over his shoulder like a cannon full of grapeshot waiting to go off.

“I don’t let anyone on the Inner Assembly talk down to me, just like my mother didn’t,” Demir said to Sibrial. “So what makes you think I’ll let you do it?” He shook his head, barely able to keep his voice calm and measured. “I’m not here for you. Capric, if you don’t have your own sword with you, I suggest you borrow your brother’s.”

Someone else suddenly pushed their way to the front of the crowd. It was Veterixi, the Marnish concierge of the club. She studied Demir’s face for a moment, then whispered something in Sibrial’s ear before saying loudly, “Whatever is going on, I’m sure we can settle it with cigars and cognac. Master Grappo, please come inside.”

Demir admired Veterixi. Like Breenen, she was a common citizen who’d worked her way up to a position of extreme importance and was respected throughout the city. Her intervention almost made him lose his nerve. This was, a little voice in the back of his head reminded him, his last chance. Let it go. None of this was as important as the ongoing war. It could be settled later. But he’d already tipped his hand, and the rage in his breast was too furious to be quelled by the offers of cigars and cognac, even from Veterixi.

“Sorry, Vet,” Demir said, giving her a stiff smile. He pointed his sword at Capric. “This is about my friend Capric.” He turned his attention back to the fourth Vorcien sibling and took a deep breath, hoping his voice would remain steady. “Here.” He dug into his pocket until he found the shackleglass by feel, and then tossed it to Capric. Capric caught it. “Put that on.”

“Don’t do it,” Sibrial hissed. “You have no right!” he shouted at Demir. Veterixi took half a step back. Capric himself held the shackleglass up to the afternoon light, staring at it unblinkingly. His face had gone ghostly pale.

“Put that on,” Demir commanded, “or I will kill you and Sibrial where you stand.”

“You–” Sibrial began.

“Another word and I will nail your feet to the ground with glass and then laugh while you scream!” Demir could feel himself cracking, the seams of his sanity coming apart. The shouting tore up his throat, bringing stinging tears to his eyes. His whole life seemed to march across his mind’s eye, showing him all that he had gained in his youth and then all that he had lost at Holikan and in the years following. He had never felt anything like this, not at his lowest or his highest, and all he could do was ride it. “Put it on, Capric,” he said in a softer voice.

A collective gasp had gone through the crowd – through the elites from the club, the watching pedestrians, and the stalled traffic. It was followed by deathly silence. Everyone was now asking themselves whether a lone glassdancer had ever publicly called out a powerful guild-family before, and how it had turned out. Demir himself was curious as well. He did not know.

Slowly, Capric threaded the hooked end of the shackleglass into one ear.

“I have in my pocket,” Demir said loudly, practically shouting so that everyone watching could hear, “a missive sent to my private secretary from the night of the sacking of Holikan. It is signed by Capric Vorcien, and it orders the sack of the city – a bloody event that has been covered up for nine years, and that was practically – if not legally – blamed on me. Now tell me, Capric. Did you sign those orders?”

Capric stared back at him. He wore no expression, made no sound. His arms hung limply at his sides, the tips of his fingers trembling slightly.

“If this is all a mistake,” Demir continued loudly, “if this missive is a forgery, then I will embrace you as a friend and kiss your feet, begging for your forgiveness. I hope that is the case. I pray that is the case. So tell me, Capric. Did you order the sack of Holikan and falsely blame me for it?”

No one spoke. No one even seemed to breathe. Demir wondered how many people in the crowd of pedestrians knew what the piss he was talking about. Most of them had probably heard of the sack of Holikan. Most wouldn’t have associated his name with it. The elites that had poured out with Capric and Sibrial, though? They definitely knew, and most were taking Veterixi’s cue and shuffling away from Capric. Only his brother remained next to him, glaring at Demir with the kind of arrogance only a guild-family heir would summon in the face of a glassdancer.

Capric lifted one hand, touching the shackleglass at his ear. He looked … oddly relieved? He said, “Yes. Yes, I did it.”

“Louder,” Demir said. Despite expecting this exact answer, he felt his jaw tighten and his eyes begin to cloud.

“Yes!” Capric declared. “I did. Damn you, I did!” He removed the shackle-glass and flung it back at Demir.

Demir caught it in one outstretched hand and put it in his pocket. His sword remained half raised, pointing at the ground before Capric. “Borrow your brother’s sword, Capric. We duel here. Now.” He raised his voice. “My name is Demir Grappo, and two days ago I won a great victory against Grent’s mercenary lapdog, the supposedly invincible Devia Kerite. Who will be my second?”

No one from the High Vorcien Club came forward. Why would they? Seconding him would only get them a lifetime ban from the club and the enmity of the Vorcien. Several offers came from the watching pedestrians, however, and soon a well-dressed young woman with a sword at her hip and expensive forgeglass buttons on her travel coat came forward. She introduced herself as Lazza, and gave a brief oath on Demir’s shackleglass to serve as his second. Sibrial, of course, seconded his younger brother.

The formalities were quick and cold. The seconds searched their opponents for hidden godglass, checked the dueling swords for the same. “If you live to see tomorrow,” Sibrial hissed in his ear as he checked beneath Demir’s armpits and groin, “you will regret it.”

“I’ve regretted living for a new sunrise for nine years. Why should tomorrow be any different?” Demir stepped away from Sibrial and gave his sword an experimental swing. Duels were not technically legal within the Empire, but they happened all the time. The rules were simple: Two willing participants. No godglass. No glassdancer sorcery. No interference. Capric certainly didn’t look willing, but he took up his brother’s sword nonetheless. A formal cordon was made by the club bouncers, keeping the onlookers at a distance.

Demir tested his footing on the cobbles. Smooth dirt would be better, but he felt confident in his movement. Capric did the same, the two men staring at each other until their seconds joined them. Sibrial wore a deep scowl, directing it first at Demir and then at Lazza. The young woman didn’t seem to notice. She was, if Demir had to guess, cut out of the same cloth as Tirana: a soldier, or soldier of fortune, not easily cowed by guild-family politics. She probably wouldn’t even be in Ossa come tomorrow.

“What are the terms of the duel?” Sibrial asked Demir.

Demir nodded at Capric. “What do you think they should be, my old friend?”

“To the death,” Capric responded in a monotone. He sniffed. “What point is there in first blood?”

“Do you agree?” Lazza asked.

“I do,” Demir answered. He was surprised. He’d expected Capric to take the easy way – to first blood – and live to fight another day. Demir had even hoped it. He didn’t necessarily want to kill his onetime friend. He would far rather grind him to dust over many years. Perhaps that was exactly what Capric hoped to avoid. This would be a decisive ending. If Capric won, no one would ever mention Holikan to him again. If Demir won … well, it wouldn’t matter.

“Then,” Sibrial proclaimed, “the duel begins when both fighters are ready!”

“Make your peace with whatever god you wish,” Lazza said quietly, and then followed Sibrial to the other side of the cordon.

Demir and Capric faced each other at sword length, smallswords raised. Demir dug inside himself to try and feel something. Regret. Anger. There was nothing in the pit of his stomach but cold, dead fury. “You caused the death of tens of thousands of people,” Demir said.

Capric shrugged.

“You destroyed me.”

“I didn’t mean to, if it’s any consolation,” Capric said. “It was just politics. To put you in your place.”

“Putting me in my place at the expense of so many lives?” Demir asked, tapping the tip of his sword against Capric’s.

Capric shrugged again, and Demir suddenly felt like he was looking at a stranger. They’d known each other since they were children, yet how could he not see the typical guild-family callousness? Capric seemed like he might regret breaking Demir’s mind. He did not regret murdering a city. “I had a heavy lunch,” he said, tapping Demir’s sword back.

“I haven’t eaten for days,” Demir answered.

“Then this will be interesting.” Capric turned, presenting a smaller target to Demir and raising his sword parallel to the ground. Demir mimicked the move, lifting his sword slightly higher and then fending off a sudden lunge from Capric. The duel was then engaged, their swords sliding up and down the lengths of each other’s blades. The contact allowed them both to feel the other’s movements, and they remained that way, edging back and forth, before Demir felt Capric push slightly on his sword and attempt a thrust.

Demir parried with his open hand, pushing Capric’s blade off to one side with a quick movement and coming in with a riposte aimed at Capric’s heart. Capric slid to the right and Demir’s blade caught his shirt, slicing just below Capric’s ear, his sword coming back with blood.

Capric disengaged quickly, and the two were once again at length. Demir watched his opponent carefully, resisting his urges. He wanted to be reckless. He wanted to attack with the fury of a whole brigade. But a formal duel like this could not be won with fury. Capric might not be the best duelist in the Empire, but he was too well-trained to be overwhelmed in such a manner.

“You’re better than you were,” Capric said. “I did not expect that. You learn this out in the provinces?”

Demir did not answer. He’d said his piece already. There was nothing more but blood, and he scored it three more times before Capric managed to return the favor, slicing a painful furrow across the outside of Demir’s right thigh. Demir took another cut across his left arm using an open-handed parry, and then a nick on his right shoulder. Capric, he realized, was drawing his measure and adjusting after his earlier surprise. It was Demir’s turn to disengage.

He could hear little but his own ragged breaths now, his heart beating hard, and he wondered whether he’d be dead in a few moments. It was certainly possible.

They reengaged, and their swords crossed six times before Capric suddenly went for a low lunge, his entire body uncoiling into a long, powerful thrust made even deadlier by his greater height – and range. Demir felt the blade score across his belly and snatched Capric’s sword by the guard with his off hand. He followed the grapple smoothly, stabbing downward at an angle for Capric’s exposed collarbone.

Capric twisted slightly, and Demir’s sword buried itself in the meat of the other man’s shoulder. Demir pulled back once more in frustration, twisting his sword as he did, while Capric stumbled to the cobbles.

“He is injured,” Sibrial barked, “too injured to continue the fight. You will have to take your satisfaction at a later date!”

Demir shook his head and took a step forward. This was a fight to the death, and respectability meant little. If he allowed it to end, Father Vorcien would never permit another duel to follow. It was either administer justice now, or Demir would watch the whole Vorcien guild-family constrict around Capric, protecting him from personal or legal recourse. “I’ll give you ten seconds to get up,” he told Capric.

He regretted the promise a moment later, for angry shouts suddenly broke the silence, and the crowd split as brightly clad Cinders converged upon them from all sides. It took Demir only a slight push with his sorcery to feel that the Cinders had multiple glassdancers with them. Within moments he found himself staring down the pink razorglass blade of a Cinder halberd. He let his shoulders fall and dropped his sword to hang from the guard on his forefinger. Every sense crashed upon him as if released from a box where he’d stored them all while he focused.

A Cinder snatched his sword from him, and he sensed his glassdancer egg taken from his pocket by sorcerous force. One of the Cinders – an officer with massive, flowing purple epaulets – pushed his way through his companions and spat at the ground between Demir and Capric. “By the authority of the Inner Assembly, you are both under arrest!”

“That man there is a Vorcien!” Sibrial declared.

“I don’t give a shit what he is,” the Cinder snapped back. “Both are under arrest.”

Demir felt a strong hand grab him by the back of the neck. He was turned away, heavy irons clasped over his wrists. He watched as the driver of his carriage abandoned the vehicle and fled on foot, sprinting back to the Hyacinth to tell Breenen and Montego what had happened. All the feelings that Demir had tried to feel before the duel seemed now to press on the inside of his chest – anger, regret, indignity. He’d come back to Ossa to declare his victory, and now he would have to do so from a cell beneath the Maerhorn.

He was a fool. A damned fool.