rate. He had no idea whether he was still in the detention complex, or whether he had been removed to the camp hospital; he was alone in a small medical room of unbroken whiteness, with a view of the clouds, and for days he had seen no-one but an orderly, and the doctor himself.
He was vaguely troubled by the doctor, who certainly did not belong to the order which ministered to the swordbearers on Antra. His robes were of a different colour and quality, he had a clipped cosmopolitan manner of speech, and he wore a strange crest on a wide linked chain around his neck.
For some time he could not speak even if he had wanted to ask questions, because his jaw had been set into some kind of restraining cast, and he lay still – heavy and muffled, with pain staved off somewhere in the distance - with no power to move any part of his body. It felt impossible that he should ever get up and walk across the room again, let alone swing a firestaff; but then, he supposed that a hammer was the only thing he would be allowed to swing in future.
The doctor appeared in and out of pain-spiked unconsciousness, often administering oblivion with the click of a silver stick. Once, Jay tried to open his eyes and could not. He thrashed against the darkness and fought to lift his hands to claw at his eyes, but he could feel nothing in his arms and he panicked.
A moment later there was a brief spot of coldness against his neck, and when he emerged again he could see the window once more, framing the stars of a night sky. When drew in air and swallowed, he realised he could also open his mouth and move his head. The restraints had gone.
“Where am I?” he demanded of the doctor, as soon as he put in his morning appearance.
“In the swordbearer camp on Antra, where you were before,” said the doctor, calmly, preparing his instruments.
“Why haven’t I been taken to the civilian hospital? I was being held in the civilian cells.”
The doctor did not reply.
“And you’re not one of the Healers of the Crystal Sea. I don’t recognise your crest at all. What are you doing here?”
“I have no orders to answer questions,” said the doctor, after another pause. “Only to make you well. Now please hold still and don’t talk, I need to check that the bones in your face have knit properly.”
Jay submitted in silence to a detailed and uncomfortable probing, lacking the energy to argue but now convinced that the doctor’s aloof, precise manner belonged to someone who considered himself above this provincial outpost. And he had a medical case of his own, full of instruments which he used in preference to those clearly visible in a cupboard on the wall.
“That seems satisfactory. Now, I would like you to stand.”
What had seemed impossible was only very unpleasant, and when he managed to get up from the bed and walk he found that he was still in one piece and working. Though he lay exhausted afterwards, and ached desperately, he had a sense of relief that was at odds with the reality of the situation.
The next day, he was given a set of clothes by the servant and instructed to dress. The doctor led him out of the ward, and Jay found that there was a guard of two smart-looking swordbearers stationed outside the door who flanked them as they walked, slowly, along a corridor and out through a courtyard.
“How long have they been there?” he asked, glancing back at the warriors then wincing – it hurt to turn his neck.
“For the past six weeks,” said the doctor. “Ever since you were brought here.”
“You must have a comically exaggerated idea of how dangerous I am.”
He caught the doctor giving a dry smile.
It was as much as he could manage to keep moving and walk without limping as they made their way to what Jay suddenly recognised as the command headquarters of the camp. It seemed that he was being taken to General Neveth’s private quarters, which overlooked a courtyard garden.
But it was not Neveth who was standing by the window in his office, looking out at the zalia trees.
The two guards and the doctor saluted, bowed and departed, leaving Jay alone to stare unsteadily at an unfamiliar swordbearer dressed in full traditional robes. His bearing of authority was physically present in the room between them, imperial and forbidding.
“Sit,” said the swordbearer. “Before you fall down.”
Jay sank into the chair indicated.
The swordbearer approached the desk and leaned forward, scrutinising him. “Jhaval. Jhannon. Anything else?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters, because unless you tell me everything – unless you convince me that you’re worth taking into my service – I will throw you back to your clan and the caste elders here. And the Priest Caste elders at the Temple of Rual, who have also asked to deal with you. Now tell me your real name!”
“Jhal. Or Jay.”
“And where did you start out?”
“As a blacksmith’s apprentice in on an outerworld called Anhual. When I was sixteen I ran away and pretended to be a temple novice called Jhannon. I didn’t like the priest caste so I became a swordbearer instead.”
“All right. Now tell me this – how did you get away with it? For so long?”
“Because nobody expects you to be anything other than what you say you are. If you put on a murai’s robes, you become a murai. Dress as a swordbearer, talk like a swordbearer, you’re a swordbearer. It’s easy.”
“For you, evidently. Shall I tell you what you are, Jhal or Jay? Clinically, you’re described as a sociopath - lacking normal inhibitions and prone to deviant behaviour. The condition is untreatable. Fortunately, I’m not interested in treating it. I need people like you for a very particular type of service.” He moved back to the window and looked out. “We have been able to please ourselves in the galaxy for thousands of years. Within living memory there was scarcely an alien race out there which could get beyond its own solar system. Now, we know that we are only the smallest of three empires across the sea-beyond-the-sky. Our way of life has hardly changed since the time of Lonn, but those alien civilisations have changed, rapidly, in that time, and their technology is developing to the point where they are a real threat to the Empire. This is not widely understood, even amongst the swordbearer elders – and many at Court, including the nobles, do not take that threat seriously. They think that Daros is too far away to be a problem, and that Earth and its many worlds pose no danger. They assume the peace signed by the old Empress Methalia will last forever.”
“And you think it won’t?”
The swordbearer frowned, and carried on as if he had not been interrupted. “What is also not fully understood is that we are at a disadvantage when it comes to dealing with these aliens. Humans and Darians are far less spiritually evolved than us. They lie, they cheat, they swindle, they kill each other without compunction – we are not well equipped to understand them. I need agents who can go amongst aliens and gather information, and undertake operations of any sort, when the security of the Empire is at stake – people who are able to lie and deceive as easily as they do. Unfortunately, these recruits must also be capable and loyal, and preferably not actually insane. The reports I’ve had of your work here on Antra and on Car’a’vil sound promising, and I’m prepared to give you a trial.”
“You want me to work for you as a swordbearer?”
“No. As nothing. You will have no status in society, not even that of your own caste. And you will probably die, sooner rather than later. This is not an easy or honourable way of life. You are free to consider the alternative of imprisonment.”
This last was said with such grinding sarcasm that Jay realised he meant it seriously. He felt a compression in his breathing again.
“You are not however free to consider anything else. Fail me, Jhal or Jay, and I’ll throw you back to the wolves. Once you’re fit to do more than hobble you will come back with me to Taysar, and begin your training. You will have no contact with anyone you knew previously – I won’t have the dignity of my caste injured any further.”
“Then you
should do something about Saghat on Car’a’vil - Carral’s wife could be his next victim.”
“Saghat has already been dealt with. As for General Carral, he has more pleasant matters to think about now. Apparently he suffered the indignity of being thought barren for many years – now at last he is to have a child. Remarkable how these things happen sometimes.” He leaned across the desk again, closer. “I repeat – you will have no further contact with anyone you have ever known. You will disappear. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I suggest you learn to control yourself. If anything like this happens once you’re working for me, I will not overlook it.”
He was escorted back to the hospital, but he was no longer locked in his room and nor was the door guarded; he was free to find his way out into the sheltered garden, where he sat for a long time, alone, breathing slowly and feeling the warmth of the sun on his bruises. Everything hurt – the painkillers had seeped away - but at least his mind was clear now, and he understood. Dazil had secured her own position, had put herself beyond harm even if Saghat had remained in Carral’s service, and it was possible that she had intended this from the first. He remembered her expression that night, both fearful and resolute. She had used him, and she had destroyed him.
He needed no admonishment from this mysterious swordbearer elder, someone of such importance that General