7

Do you know how I fall asleep so easily each night?” asked Grandteacher Hurlo.

He sat cross-legged before the candle-lit black stone altar. These last few years, age had prevented him from kneeling. But there was a peaceful smile on his old face, and a gentle look in his filmy eyes.

“No, teacher, I don’t.” Bleak Hope found it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying because she had been sitting in a suspended middle split for the last hour. Her heels balanced on the tops of narrow poles on either side, which kept her raised above a glowing pile of hot coals. But she knew these were the moments when her teacher chose to impart his most important knowledge. He said when the body was strained, the mind was relaxed. So she pressed her palms together, breathed through the ache in her legs and lower back, and focused on the sound of his soft, dusty voice.

“What I do,” said the grandteacher, “is lay down on my mat, close my eyes, and ask myself if I have done something truly worthwhile in my life. I think about everything I have done, and when I come to one deed in particular, I say to myself, ‘Yes, I have done something.’ And then I sleep soundly.”

“The sleep of the righteous, Grandteacher?”

“I suppose. Do you know what deed it was that comforts me?”

Over her years of training, the grandteacher had shared with Hope many of his youthful exploits. As she continued to balance between the two poles, she considered the most impressive ones. “Was it the time you saved the emperor from being assassinated by the Jackal Lords?”

“That was a memorable day,” agreed the grandteacher. “But no, that is not the deed that I consider most worthwhile.”

Hope frowned, her blue eyes lost in thought. “Was it…when you rescued Archlady Maldious from the horde of giant mole rats?”

“Another momentous event. But that is not what sends me peacefully off to sleep each night.”

“It wasn’t when you slew the pirate Dire Bane in the Painted Caves, was it?”

He shook his head. “You are following the wrong path of reasoning. While all of those deeds were important and even courageous, none of them mattered in a way that gives much comfort in my old age.”

“Then…I am sorry, teacher.” She bowed her head. “I don’t know.”

His smile was still gentle and warm, his eyes closed as he said, “In truth, I doubted you would. That was why I asked you the question. No, my child. The thing that gives me tranquility every night is thinking of the day I offered to train you.”

“Me, teacher? But—”

“Despite the risks, I knew I must. And it is that courageous decision which gives me peace. That, and knowing someday this night would come, and when it did, we would be ready.”

“Ready for what, teacher?” asked Hope, her pale face frowning. “Is tonight special?”

“The night itself is like any other. It is the events of tonight which will be special.”

“What will happen tonight?”

The grandteacher opened his eyes, and his smile faded. “Come before me, Bleak Hope.”

“Yes, teacher.” She flexed her legs and pushed herself up so that she flipped over the hot coals and landed on one knee directly in front of the grandteacher.

“Sit with me,” he said.

She nodded and folded her legs in front of her.

“Close your eyes,” he said. “And tell me, what do you hear?”

“The crackle of burning coals, teacher.”

“Beyond that?”

She concentrated for a moment. “I hear the wind blowing strong from the north against the windows near the ceiling of this temple.”

“Good. And beyond that?”

“I hear…” It took her a moment, but as she listened, the sounds grew stronger. Voices. Angry voices outside in the courtyard. Boots stomping on flagstone. Swords sliding from scabbards. Her eyes snapped open. “Teacher! They are coming for us! They mean to harm us!”

“Yes.”

“But your own brothers!”

“Perhaps if I had sent you away a few years ago, we could have avoided it. But I did not have the heart to cut you off from your training just when you were beginning to show your true potential.”

“They know, teacher?”

“Yes.”

Hope pressed her face on the cold, hard stone. “I have failed you, teacher. It was my responsibility to keep my training hidden from them.”

“No, child. It was not failure that showed our hand, but success. I have trained you every night these past eight years in the way of the Vinchen order, knowing that a day would come when your skills would grow so exceptional that even your most casual movements would betray us. You no longer walk through this world like a servant, but like a warrior. And there is no shame in that. However, we have broken one of the oldest laws of our order. There must be consequences.”

The sound of angry voices out in the courtyard grew steadily louder.

Hope snapped up into a crouch. “I will face them, teacher. I am not afraid.”

The truth was, she hungered for it. Eight years she had washed their clothes, cooked their food, oiled their armor, polished their weapons, and done a hundred other stupid, meaningless tasks. Some had treated her courteously. But most had treated her no better than a workhorse, and a few had gone out of their way to be cruel. Those, the world would not miss. If she was to die this night, she would take them with her.

“Not so fast, my most beloved pupil,” Hurlo said. “First you must do something for me.”

“Anything, Grandteacher.”

He reached behind the altar and picked up a sheathed sword.

“Do you know this blade?”

“Of course, teacher. It is the Song of Sorrows, one of the finest blades in the world.”

Fists pounded on the temple door. Voices shouted, demanding that “the girl” be released to them.

“Swear on the Song of Sorrows that you will not confront our brothers tonight or seek vengeance on them in the future. Instead, you must flee this place and go seek your path in the world. There is a small boat waiting for you at the dock with enough supplies to get you to the nearest port.”

“But teacher, I—”

“Swear it!”

Hope reluctantly laid her hand on top of the grandteacher’s. She looked into his tired gray eyes and said, “I swear it.”

His serene smile returned. “Good. Now, so that you don’t forget, take this sword with you.”

“I can’t take the Song of Sorrows!”

The pounding changed to a slow methodical slam. They were using something to batter down the door.

“This is my final command to you as your teacher,” Hurlo said. “Do you understand?”

She bowed her head. “Yes, Grandteacher.”

He let go of the sword, and it stayed in her hand.

“I have done all I can for you,” he said. “This knowledge gives me peace.”

The sharp crack of wood echoed through the temple as the door gave way.

“Blasphemer!” came a shout from the open doorway as men in the black leather armor of the Vinchen warrior charged into the temple.

“Now, go!” said Hurlo.

His words brought forth a memory of Hope’s father, his face etched in pain as he told her to go, to run. And she didn’t want to. Couldn’t leave him. It was happening all over again. The shouts of warriors mingled in her head with the sounds of men and women dying all around her as the worms of the biomancer burst from them…

“Hope!” Grandteacher Hurlo’s voice cracked like a whip, shaking her out of her memories. “You must go now!”

“Teacher, not again.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Please, don’t make me be the one to survive again.”

He placed his withered hand on her cheek and smiled sadly. “I am sorry, my child. You must endure.”

Bleak Hope blinked back the tears and nodded. She tucked the Song of Sorrows under her arm just as the men began to surround them. She jumped first to one wall, then across to the other, working her way up until she reached the windows near the ceiling of the temple. She broke the glass with the pommel of the sword, and swung out and up onto the roof.

“Follow her!” shouted one of the men.

He leapt after her, but the grandteacher sprang up, grabbed his ankle, and yanked him back down.

“Hurlo! You have disgraced yourself, your title as grandteacher, and this order,” said Racklock, his massive shoulders heaving with exaltation. “You should be given a fair trial before your peers. But if you do not step aside, I will cut you down where you stand.” He pointed his sword forward, and the other monks followed suit until Hurlo was surrounded by a ring of sharp steel.

The old grandteacher stood there, alone, no sword in his hand, with nothing but a smile on his lips.

“You are welcome to try.”

*  *  *

Hope ran along the rooftop, crouched low, her black robes flapping in the cold night air. She heard the shouts of pain and the clash of steel on rock and stopped. She could take down at least three, maybe four, before they overwhelmed her. But the sword weighed heavy in her grasp, and therefore so did her promise. If she returned, the look of disappointment on her teacher’s face would wound her far worse than any blade. She kept moving.

When she reached the edge of the temple roof, she jumped, letting the momentum carry her to a nearby treetop. She dropped from branch to branch with her slippered feet and free hand until she landed softly on the ground. She scanned the courtyard and saw no one, so she left the cover of the trees and sprinted across the open space toward the front gate. She had almost reached it when she heard the hiss of a sword leaving its sheath. She dodged to the side, at the same time bringing up her own still-sheathed sword. The thock of blade on wooden scabbard echoed in the empty courtyard. Hope continued from her dodge into a roll, twisting as she did into a protective crouch, and brought her sheathed sword up to guard herself.

Crunta stood before her, his sword raised, blocking her way to the gate. No doubt he had lagged behind the others, suspecting the grandteacher’s loyalty to Hope went deep enough that he would help her escape. Of all the brothers, he had been one of the most cruel. Because she was a girl? Because she was a servant? It didn’t really matter.

But she had sworn to Grandteacher Hurlo that she would not confront her brothers.

“Let me pass, Crunta.”

“Do not think because you have been playing at battle in the midnight hours with a foolish old man that you are a match for me. Throw down your toy sword and return to the temple for judgment, or I will leave your pretty guts strewn across the flagstones.”

“Toy sword?” Hope slowly straightened from her crouch. “I know it is dark and the moonlight is faint, but do you truly not recognize this blade?” She held it out horizontally, one hand on the sheath, one on the handle.

Crunta’s eyes widened. “No…how could he…” He shook his head. “This only makes your crimes more terrible. Surrender or die.”

Hope nodded. “If that is your choice.” She had obeyed her teacher and sought not to confront this brother. But now he was preventing her from fulfilling the second part of her oath. So he must be removed.

She pulled the Song of Sorrows from its sheath, and the blade sang as it moved through the air. Crunta lifted his own sword to parry, but not quickly enough. It was a short song, and by the time it ended, it was his guts that lay strewn on the flagstones.

Hope stood for a moment, sword extended past her body as she watched Crunta drop heavily to his knees and try to stuff his intestines back into his body for a moment before finally toppling over. Her blade gleamed red in the moonlight. This was the first blood she had ever spilled. She had expected to feel something. Satisfaction. Regret. But all she felt was the same old darkness. Except now it did not frighten her. It strengthened her.

*  *  *

Grandteacher Hurlo had taught Bleak Hope many things. Unfortunately, long-distance sea navigation had mostly been theoretical training, with very little practical application. She had never sailed more than a few miles from Galemoor. She had studied maps, of course. She knew the general layout of the surrounding islands, and theoretically, she knew the course she would need to keep in order to reach the closest port before the supplies on her little boat ran out. But after two days at sea with no land in sight and less than a day’s rations remaining, she had to admit that she was lost.

She scanned the empty horizon, sunlight sparkling so hard on the surface of the water that she had to squint. A cold wind whipped through her long blond hair, giving some relief from the heat that was turning her pale skin into an angry red.

She should be less than a half day from port, but the whole world seemed empty—of land, of humanity, of anything. The only indication of life was an odd cluster of bubbles that rose to the surface now and then.

She opened the bag that contained the remaining food and water. The grandteacher had not packed a map. That might have helped. Or perhaps not. The sunlight beat down hard directly above, and she couldn’t even be certain she was traveling in the right direction. A compass would have been helpful, she decided. But he hadn’t packed one of those either.

What the grandteacher had packed was a suit of the black leather armor worn by Vinchen warriors. The boots, leggings, and jacket were thick enough to slow down an arrow or bullet but not so heavy that they impeded movement. They had straps with buckles evenly spaced up the arms and legs, which could be used to hold additional weapons or as tourniquets if the warrior were seriously wounded.

When Hope had discovered the armor on the first morning, she hadn’t immediately understood that it was hers. After all, only a true brother of the order was allowed to don the black armor. It was something that she had assumed, even in the deepest part of her training, would always be beyond her reach. Yet here was the smallest armor she had ever seen. She remembered a night when the grandteacher had taken careful measurements of her. He had not given a reason, and it would have been presumptuous of her to ask. He must have cut and bound the armor himself, since the tanner would have been suspicious of the size. The grandteacher must have also oiled and polished it himself. She held it up to the sun and watched admiringly as the light gleamed off the black creases. She imagined him working the polish slowly into the leather with his wrinkled old hands, just for her.

She wished she hadn’t left him there to be murdered by his own brothers, promises and duty be damned. But of course now it was too late. And she had sworn not to take vengeance on them, so she did not even have that comfort. She hugged the armor to her chest and swore that she would wear it with honor in his name. It was all she had.

Hope pulled off her soft monk’s robes and stuffed them into the sack with the food. She paused a moment, staring at the water. Another cluster of bubbles rose to the surface. She wondered what made them. A gust of wind blew past, chilling her skin beneath her thin undergarments. She shivered and pulled on the black leather armor. It fit perfectly.

She was ready for battle.

Or so she thought at the time. It was now a day later, and she was lost and alone. She had one of the greatest blades ever forged and some of the finest armor ever crafted by one of the wisest men who ever lived. But in this battle, there was no one to fight but the sea.

What now? Hope didn’t know where she was going. And that was true not just in terms of navigating this stretch of water. She could just as easily have asked What now? of her whole life. Hurlo had told her she must endure. But why?

There was one reason she knew. Somewhere out there was a man who had murdered her parents and her village. She would have vengeance on that man. But she didn’t know who he was, only that he was a biomancer. Now she was on her own in a world she knew almost nothing about other than what she had read in books. How could she possibly find one man?

As she stared at the horizon, she realized there was something out there. At first, it was little more than a black dot and she thought it might be a small island. But it grew rapidly larger, and she understood that it was moving toward her. Before long, she could make out the details of a merchant ship. Sails billowed from the two tall masts, and the sun gleamed wetly from the feminine figurehead on the bow. She caught a flash near the top of the front mast and realized someone had a spyglass trained on her. There were faint shouts as the sailors called to each other. The sails went slack and the ship slowed as it neared her.

A tall man with a broad blue hat and a wool sea coat leaned over the rail. What little of his face could be seen behind his curly black and gray beard was a darker brown than she had ever seen.

“Ahoy!” he called. “I’m Captain Carmichael, and this is my ship. Maritime law expects any captain registered under imperial trade to assist a ship in distress. Do you require assistance?”

“I’m lost,” she called up. “Can you point me in the direction of the nearest port?”

“Aye, but in a vessel like that it’s many days off.”

“Many? I only have rations for another day or so.”

Another sailor with a long mustache said something to the captain that she couldn’t hear. The captain turned to him, regarding him without expression. Then he turned back to her.

“I could spare you some rations,” he said. “But you’re in deep waters and in a little boat like that, like as not the oarfish will get you.”

“Oarfish?”

“Great big sea serpents,” called the man with the long mustache. “They swim vertical beneath the surface, gazing up at the dark shadows above them until they see or smell something that looks like prey. And, as everyone knows, sea serpents of all kinds are drawn to the scent of womenfolk. They’re probably tracking you as we speak.” He turned to the rest of the crew. “We shouldn’t have even stopped. Now she’s put us all in danger.”

“You best shut your mouth, Ranking,” said Captain Carmichael calmly.

“Or what?” retorted Ranking. “You’ve already doomed us with this showy bit of sentimentality.” He eyed the surface of the water warily. “I tell you, they could be on us at any time.” Then he turned back to the other sailors. “And don’t think we’re safe up here! Oarfish can—”

Hope’s small sailboat vibrated beneath her feet, and the water surrounding her began to bubble, then boil. She vaulted into the air and landed on the larger ship’s rail, balancing on the balls of her feet. A moment later, the smaller boat smashed to pieces as a mouth with teeth as long as her forearm shot up from beneath it. The oarfish rose ten feet into the air with no sign of where it ended. Its snakelike body was as thick around as a man’s chest and a dark mottled green. It curved its head around and fixed her with its black glassy eyes, then dropped back below the surface.

The sailors ran to the cabins and the rigging, shouts, curses, and prayers filling the air.

“He ain’t done yet,” Captain Carmichael said as he looked up at Hope, who was still balanced on the rail. “You might want to get down from there.”

She smiled slightly as she looked down at him from her perch. “You might want to clear to one side.”

The oarfish burst from the water again, this time angled so that it came directly at Hope. At the last instant, she darted to one side and the oarfish blew past her. The Song of Sorrows slid from its sheath, sunlight glinting on the blade as it hummed through the air and came down just past the gills, slicing cleanly through. The head continued on its trajectory, the gaping maw still open, until it slammed into the main mast, the teeth embedding into the wood. The headless body slammed onto the deck, spraying blood and seawater as it slid to the starboard rail before coming to a halt. Only then did Bleak Hope jump from the port rail to land soundlessly beside the captain.

“You see?” shouted Ranking. “She brought in an oarfish as sure as anything. I was right!”

“Whether she brought it in or not,” said Carmichael, “she sure as piss took it out.” He turned to her. “Are you retained?”

“Retained?” she asked.

“Do you swear loyalty to anyone? Does someone pay you?”

She shook her head.

“You aren’t thinking of bringing her on board, Captain?” said Ranking. “A woman? That’s the worst kind of luck!”

Carmichael looked from Ranking to Hope, then to the headless oarfish. Finally, he addressed the whole crew. “Man, woman. Don’t see how that makes a whole lot of difference. What I do see is a warrior, the like of which you don’t come across too often in your life.” He turned back to Hope. “How about it? Care to join my crew for a spell?”

Hope considered it. The captain had stopped to offer her assistance. He had called her a warrior. He seemed to be a somewhat honorable man. “Do you travel a great deal? All over the empire?”

“We do.”

She looked around at the ship. It was true she didn’t know much about the world. But she couldn’t think of a better place to learn.

“Very well, Captain,” she said. “You have my sword for a time. Until I feel I must move on.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Doubt I could keep you from going anyway.”

“Captain, no—” Ranking stepped toward them, but he jerked to a halt when Hope whipped her blade around, setting the point an inch from his throat.

“Contradicting the captain could be considered mutiny, punishable by death,” she said quietly.

“She has the right of it,” Carmichael said. “So you want to tell me how you planned to end that sentence?”

“Uh…” Sweat trickled down Ranking’s temple as he eyed the blade that was still wet with the dark blood of the oarfish. “I was saying, Captain, no, please let me be the first to welcome her aboard, seeing as how I was so rude to her at first.”

Carmichael grinned, showing yellow teeth in his black beard. “Anyone else with an objection?”

The ship was silent.

Captain Carmichael nodded approvingly, then turned back to Hope. “What’s your name, warrior?”

“My name is Bleak Hope.”

“Well, Hope, welcome aboard the Lady’s Gambit.”