Caine Black Knife

I shook my head, uncomprehending. “I used the bladewand.”

“No. Here it is: a hand and a half blade, polished blue-black, chased with silver runes-”

“I’m telling you, I used the bladewand. It’s the only reason I lived through it- through any kind of material weapon, feedback would have killed me-”

“Apparently not.”

“Let me see that-”

“The original report is at Garthan Hold, of course. But I have read it, and my memory is, I believe, flawless. You came across the blade in the chamber of the Tear of Panchasell-”

“Your memory is fucked.”

She cocked her head. “Though it is a curious coincidence-a black blade with silver runes-Kosall was a silver blade, and were the runes on it not black- ?”

“Will you stop?”

But of course she wouldn’t, and the harder I argued the less sure I got, because pretty soon I discovered that I just couldn’t really remember if I had used the bladewand or if I’d found some motherfucking reversed-color image of Kosall, and my head was pounding like something was alive in there and chipping its way out with a ten-pound hammer and a railroad spike, so I just left.

Which is how I ended up in the foyer of the Pratt amp; Redhorn in a dripping-wet foul mood, jamming my hand down on the service bell like it was the top of t’Passe’s pointy fucking head.

After a moment a thin, pale, tired-looking man with a few scraps of hair plastered sideways over his sweat- dripping scalp slipped around the sign. He was drying his hands on a brown apron, which then went up to mop clean a swath across his face as he came forward, shaking his head. “I wish I could offer you welcome, my friend.” His accent was Ankhanan. “We’re full up for the night, and I’m afraid-”

“Why does everybody around here want to be my friend?”

The thin, pale man stopped, blinking. “Why, I–I don’t mean anything by it, goodman-”

“Forget about it. It’s not goodman, it’s freeman. I’m Dominic Shade. Somebody delivered my trunk.”

The man’s face cleared. “Oh, Freeman Shade! Welcome! I’m Lasser Pratt. Always good to welcome a countryman. Oh, this is fine. I’d become afraid you might’n’t make it. Lord Tarkanen’s order-and your trunk-got here just in time for us to get you into our last room tonight-it’s on the top floor, I hope you don’t-”

“As long as it’s dry.” I nodded toward the raucous dining hall. “Look, I can see you’re busy with the party. You think I can just get a plate of something hot to take up to my room?”

“Oh, not at all, no no no, not at all. Please, Freeman Shade, you’re welcome at the party-”

“I am?”

Pratt gave a nod that was half shake of his head. “Oh, yes, very much so-and not only because you are a guest of Lord Tarkanen. They, ah-customs on the Battleground-are. . well, I’m Ankhanan by birth myself, y’know, from New Bend, d’you know it? Just three days downriver-”

“Yeah, I’ve been there. Skip the blowjob, huh? I just want some dry clothes and a hot meal.”

“I, ah, well. .” Pratt’s grin deflated. He rubbed his eyes. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“Forget it. I know what it’s like to work for a living.”

“But you really are invited to the party-”

“Maybe later. I have to go right out again.”

“On a night like this? You have business that won’t wait till morning?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know if that Tyrkilld character spends his nights in the vigilry, would you?”

“Knight Aedharr?” Pratt nodded toward the smoke billowing through the dining-hall door. “He’s right in there.”

“You’re putting me on.”

“If only I were,” he sighed. “My eldest went Khryllian-he’s an armsman of this very parish, still has hopes of Knighthood some day. One of the fingers in his own fist was killed this morning. Braehew, his name was.”

“Yeah.” My too-empty stomach suddenly knotted, and a phantom stab brought my hand to my right side. “I was there.”

“I know you were.” Pratt made ushering gestures toward the doorway. “That’s why you’re invited.”

I stared.

Pratt spread his palms. “Like I was saying: On the Battleground, customs are. . different.”

I went to the half door and looked in.

The party must have been going on for a while already.

Tables and chairs had been shoved aside from half the dining hall’s floor, to make room for what looked like some cross between square-dancing and jujitsu. Other tables were piled with meats and bread and loaves of cheese, and everywhere were steel cups and tankards and schooners, most lying empty, tumbled and forgotten on tabletop or chair seat or kicked out of the way of the dancers.

“They don’t look too broken up about it.”

Pratt was at my shoulder now, looking past me into the dining hall. “It’s a celebration. A victory party.”

“Come again?”

The hosteler shrugged. “Braehew was killed in battle, discharging the lawful command of his superior. Falling with honor, he goes to join Khryl’s Own. From the Khryllian point of view, what greater victory can he hope for?”

I cocked my head. “Living through it?”

Pratt chuckled. “And that’s why Ankhanans never quite fit in around here. Well, from my angle, I’m told you played no more than the part Khryl wrote for you, if you know what I mean. They’ll be happy to make you welcome.”

“I’ll bet.”

Customs are customs-but the laughter was too loud and too sharp, the singing was too hoarse, and the smiles on too many lips left too many eyes too blank. Looked like there had been too many of these victory parties lately. I stared over the half door and let the loudest and sharpest of the laughter and the hoarsest of the singing draw my eye.

Dimly through the smoke I could make out the barrel shape of Tyrkilld, Knight Aeddhar, seated in the far corner on a vast chair set atop a table like a mockery of a throne. He was out of uniform for the second time that day, wearing only the wool-woven vest-over-belted-sweater, sheepskin breeches and boots of a Jheledi shepherd. In one hand he held a vast bucket of a cup, big enough he could have worn it as a helmet; the other hand was occupied by keeping a giggling twenty-something redheaded girl firmly attached to his knee. She was the only woman in the room not wearing the Khryllian crewcut and armsman colors; she had a slightly-too-short-for-modesty print dress gathered around trim thighs, and a somewhat longer apron belted too tightly around an also-trim waist.

“Pretty waitress. Jheledi?” I said sidelong. “Should know better than to turn her loose around Tyrkilld.”

“As if I have a choice,” Pratt said sourly. “She’s my wife.”

“Really? And you have a kid old enough to be an-oh, I get it. Married the serving girl, huh?” I glanced over my shoulder. “No wonder you look tired.”

The hosteler sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“They all are, buddy.”

Pratt snorted half a laugh. “Now you’re the one who wants to be friends.”

I chuckled. “Fair enough. Listen, I need to talk with Tyrkilld, but I really don’t want to walk into that party. Is there any place here where he and I can sit down and have a quiet drink?”

“Well-” Pratt frowned. “There’s the grill side-I closed it down for the night-”

“Grill side? You serve ogrilloi here?” I blinked. “Is that legal?”

Pratt’s tired face took on a flush of red. “I may live on the Battleground, but I’m still Ankhanan-I’m no damned bigot, and if you-”

“Easy. I’m just asking.”

“I-uh. Sorry.” He passed a hand over his face and used the sweat from his forehead to slick back his thinning