Blood Reckoning

"Tell me again," Marcus said over the rim of his teacup, "why you’re not cooperating."

"I’m not trying to make this difficult, I swear it." Jezrael spread his hands expressively. "I just don’t want the job, Marcus."

Marcus ran a hand through his graying dark hair and scowled at the younger drake over the desktop that separated them. "But—but why, for God’s sake? We’ve been over this, Jezrael, you’re my First Blade, you’re supposed to take over when I retire! And that’s next week!"

"I know that. I just don’t think it’s fair to the Assembly—I’ve only been here five months and you expect them to take orders from me?"

"Confound it," Marcus snapped. "Of course they’ll take orders from you! They take orders from you now." His frown deepened, making it plain to Jezrael that the older drake was decidedly worried. "I’m not going to live forever, my boy. I’ve been leader of the Assembly for nearly ten years now—I’m reaching the age where I’m likely to lose if I’m challenged—"

"Oh, tosh, Marcus, you’re not that far past forty," and Jezrael sipped his tea placidly.

"You beat me once," Marcus reminded him.

"Yes." Jezrael gave him the ghost of a smile. "But that was me."

"All right." Marcus threw up his hands. "All right. Gods, boy, I’ve met stone walls that are easier to reason with." This made Jezrael chuckle and Marcus, for the first time all morning, found himself smiling. "But if you won’t take it—then who?"

"Duke."

Marcus raised his eyebrows. "Are you so sure? Sure you don’t want Falcone, like Halmar?"

"I’m sure," Jezrael answered, though his mouth had thinned tightly at the mention of the foul-tempered raptrin. "Duke’s skilled, Marcus, and he’s popular, and he wants the leadership—have you seen how he’s preened himself ever since he made Second Tier? It’s been hell living with him the last three months—and besides, Falcone’s still Third Tier. Still your apprentice."

"But there’s his age," Marcus protested. "He’s only eighteen, Jezrael, we’ve never had a leader that young."

The brown-feathered drake smiled. "You’ve never had anyone make First Tier at twenty-three before, either."

Marcus nodded; he knew Jezrael was right. "Yes. You’re right...still...." He shook his head and sighed. "It’ll only be for a while, you know. With the temper Duke’s got—no, don’t say anything, you know perfectly well that he’s got one—he won’t last more than a few years."

"So be it." Jezrael shrugged. "A few years will salve his ego and serve our purposes, won’t they?" He toyed with his teacup and set it aside. "Let him have it, Marcus. Let him have his fun. It won’t hurt the Brotherhood any—and when the new wears off and he’s ready to quit, I’ll still be around."

"Aren’t you worried about the new wearing off yourself?" Marcus asked. "About getting...bored?"

A faint frown touched the corners of Jezrael’s mouth. "When I start something, Marcus, I finish it."

"Unlike Duke, I suppose?" Marcus’ smile had worn thin. "All right, Jezrael, we’ll play it your way. You’ve been excellent as my First Blade—I don’t suppose you’d mind repeating the role for Duke? Young as he is, he’s going to need someone around with a good head on his shoulders—and he seems to like you."

"Oh, that," the younger man said diffidently. "We get along."

***

When Jezrael got back to his quarters, Duke was standing in front of the mirror preening; he was wearing black jeans and a white T-shirt, and there was something draped over the foot of his bed that looked suspiciously like a leather jacket.

The gray drake turned from his primping session long enough to cast a cursory glance at his roommate. "Where you been, Jez?"

"Talking to Marcus." Jezrael peeled off his blazer, sat down on the edge of his own bed and began unknotting his tie. "The usual business."

"Yeah, you always dress like that when you talk to Marcus?"

"We were having tea." For some reason Duke’s tone was making Jezrael feel mildly irritable. "What about you, where are you going?"

The younger man grinned widely. "Got a date."

"Oh?" Jezrael tried, half-heartedly, to sound interested—though honestly, with all he had on his mind, he was grateful for a chance at privacy. "Which one is it this time?"

"Same one it’s been for the past three weeks. Martine la Dague."

"The redhead in the Third Tier?" Jezrael frowned. "I thought she was seeing Ernie Falcone."

"Well, more or less." Duke gestured with an odd twist of his hand. "One of those off-and-on things, and right now it’s off."

Jezrael loosened his collar, then shrugged and began to unbutton his shirt. He wasn’t going anywhere. "Does he know that?"

"Dunno. He’s awfully mean to her, though." Duke was doing odd things to his hair that seemed to involve large quantities of mousse. "But Martine’s like a bad case of clap, you know—just keeps coming back."

Jezrael got to his feet again, shirt in hand. "Hardly an attractive thing to say about the woman you’re dating."

"Well...." Duke watched his friend hang up his shirt, noticed the grim set of his mouth. "Something wrong, Jez?"

"No." Jezrael stepped out of his loafers and stripped off his trousers, and those too were hung up, creases smoothed; and now, clad in only his boxers, he stared peevishly into the closet. "No, nothing’s wrong. I’ve just had a lot to do today, a lot of people to meet, and with all this running around"—he shook his head and yawned hugely—"I’m fair knackered."

"You should get out more, old man. You hang around here, you let Marcus work you too hard." Duke grinned. "’Course, if you had yourself some arm candy I’d ask you to come with Martine and me, but since you don’t—"

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. The two drakes exchanged glances; and then Jezrael muttered a half-muffled "Dammit," and went to answer it.

It was Marcus. "Are you two busy?"

Duke and Jezrael looked at each other again. Jezrael only sighed, "No, of course not," and Duke, looking dismayed and faintly embarrassed, said, "I was supposed to have a date tonight. But I guess it can wait."

"Good." Marcus didn’t sound the least bit sorry for disrupting their evening. "I’ve got a job for you—no, Jezrael, I won’t come in, thank you, I’ve too much to do. I’m sorry for the short notice, I know you’ve probably both had a long day, but I was going to send Falcone out, and Halmar’s decided he needs him."

He smiled at his protégés, but they only stared back silently; and then Jezrael, his dark gaze baleful, finally managed, "What sort of job, Marcus?"

"How do you feel about robbing a bank?"

***

As it turned out, there were no trains tonight; and so their trip to the Teal River bank had become a fifteen-block walk. As he picked the lock on the main door, Duke said, "I think I know how you feel, buddy. I’m going straight to bed when this is over."

Jezrael groaned as he reached in a pocket for the snips that would disable any cameras. "Oh, God, don’t say that. If I get any more worn out I won’t be able to see straight."

Twenty minutes later he felt no better. Marcus had sent them after a jewel that was in a safe-deposit drawer; but after nearly half an hour of Jezrael’s careful tinkering with the electronic lock, the vault still hadn’t yielded.

"Oh, damn it," he said at last, turning to Duke. "I’ve got all the combination but the last number, and it—"

But Duke had gone rigid, his posture wary.

"Shut up," he said, and drew his saber. "I think someone’s here."

Jezrael started to his feet, but the younger man waved him down. "Nah, I’ll check. You work."

And he took off toward the lobby, but came back quickly, more relaxed. "It’s just Falcone. Guess Marcus needed him for something after all."

Falcone? Jezrael frowned. "Go keep an eye on him."

"But Jez—"

"No buts, Duke!" Jezrael snapped. "If Falcone’s here it means he followed us—Marcus wouldn’t have sent him along. He must be up to no good. No, you’re fresher than I am. You can find out why he’s here and fend him off if you have to, at least till I get this vault cracked."

He watched Duke slip away, then went back to work, shaking his head. That girl, he said to himself. Falcone’s here because of that stupid girl...well, this is one night Duke solves his own problems....

This time when Jezrael punched in the combination code, he was answered with a chirrup and a glowing green light. He let his breath out with a weary smile. About bloody time—

But his pleasure was interrupted by a sudden crash from the lobby, and the sounds of men scuffling. Then a loud, explosive "Hah!" from Falcone—and Duke started screaming.

Jezrael lunged to his feet. In the lobby he found Duke writhing on the floor, hands clasping his bloodied face; but Falcone was nowhere in sight.

***

"Well?" Jezrael asked.

"Puncture wound to the right eye." The Brotherhood’s resident physician was Jericho de l’Ombre, a tall thin bespectacled corvin known for his sense of humor; but right now he wasn’t smiling. "Considering that it was Falcone, it could have been a lot worse."

Marcus, too, was worried. He was trying not to look at the infirmary bed where Duke lay, pale and still. "But it’s still bad."

"Yes." De l’Ombre sighed. "It was done with something thin, like a lock pick, so the eye’s still intact. But there’s a lot of internal damage nonetheless—he’ll never have sight in that eye again."

"And if it had been a blade, he’d be dead," Marcus said, and shook his head. "Still a lot to bear, someone this young." He shifted uncomfortably. "I don’t suppose there’s anything else to do, Jericho?"

"No, he’s been sedated, he won’t be awake for a while. It’s just a matter of keeping him comfortable." The corvin took his glasses off, wiped them on his lab coat, put them back on. "You can sit with him, though, if you like—now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got other patients to tend to."

He walked out; and Marcus said, "You don’t know where Falcone went?"

"No. When I got to Duke, Falcone was gone—and by then I didn’t care." Jezrael sighed. "It wasn’t a chance thing, Marcus. Falcone came looking for Duke."

"You think so?" Marcus frowned. "I thought Duke and Falcone were friends—you have any idea what this could be about?"

Jezrael was leaning against the wall by Duke’s bed, his eyes half-closed. For a moment Marcus thought he was dozing; then Jezrael muttered, "Martine la Dague."

Marcus was mystified. "What about her?"

"Duke’s been dating her. But—" The younger drake yawned and swayed. "But she’s Falcone’s girlfriend."

"Oh, God," Marcus groaned, "that makes it personal."

Jezrael raised his eyebrows wearily. "Is that a problem?"

"It’s going to be damned hard to punish Falcone—I’ve been telling the Elders that we need to take a bit more interest in everyone’s private business, just for practicality, but they don’t like getting mixed up in relationships. They won’t want to make a ruling." Marcus fixed his First Blade with a piercing stare. "I’m going to sit with Duke a while—you should go up and go to bed."

"I’m fine," Jezrael protested.

"No you’re not, you’re practically falling asleep on your feet," Marcus told him. "Go, Jezrael. Run up and lock up the office for me—then go."

***

Sleep. Jezrael rattled his keys as he walked, trying not to think of how tired he was. Marcus is right. That's just what I need....

He’d come to Marcus’ office, and was about to just lock the door and walk on when he noticed that, just down the hall to his right, the door of the Elders’ Council president’s office was ajar, and there was light within.

Jezrael frowned fuzzily. Strange. It’s not like Lazarus to be up at this time of night. Maybe I’d better have a look in.

He’d just put fingertips to the doorknob when a voice from within said, "What did you think you were doing?"

Jezrael jerked his hand away, almost stumbling backward. The voice was clearly that of Halmar Sharpwing; and in answer there was an indistinct mutter that most certainly belonged to Ernie Falcone—and suddenly Jezrael was wide awake.

I knew it, he told himself. I knew it wasn’t Marcus who sent Falcone after us. He flattened himself against the door as best he could. Let’s see what this is all about.....

Halmar was angry. "Why did you even bother with l’Orange?"

"Martine—"

"Martine?" There was the sound of a drawer being slammed, and Jezrael jumped. "Don’t tell me you fouled up because of that stupid girl!"

Again Falcone’s reply was indistinct, though his tone was urgent; and Halmar answered with a bark of laughter.

"Idiot! Can’t you even take a simple order? L’Orange is no threat to you—it’s Swordfeather we need out of the way!"

Out of the way.... Jezrael sucked in a breath. What the hell!

"But Marcus—" Falcone began.

"Yes, yes, I know!" his teacher snapped. "Everything with Marcus, it’s Duke this and Duke that, he’s proud of his little brat!" His voice dropped dangerously. "But he didn’t make l’Orange his First Blade, did he? Oh, I tried to talk sense into him—you can’t say I didn’t do that for you! But Marcus is a fool; and Lazarus Fellblade is a bigger one, and they wanted Swordfeather, so they got Swordfeather."

He laughed bitterly. "Don’t you get it? Duke is nothing. Swordfeather is everything. He has power. He’s dangerous. He’s the only thing standing between you and the leadership...." The drake’s mounting anger was becoming evident. "I’ve worked my ass off to give you a chance to make good, to get him out of your way—I practically put it in your lap, and then you—you blow it because of a whore?"

"I can do it." Falcone’s voice was thin and high. "If you’ll just let me—"

"No!" Halmar shouted. "You had your chance, boy, and you blew it. There won’t be another—oh, never mind, just get out!"

Jezrael stumbled away from the door, bolted into Marcus’ office. He fell into the chair behind the desk, heart pounding painfully, and put his face in his hands.

But he knew he had. It wasn’t Duke that Falcone was after, it wasn’t Duke at all. It was me. Halmar sent Falcone after me....

He didn’t get any further with the thought. The door opened—and suddenly Jezrael was face-to-face with Halmar himself.

Neither of them spoke. Jezrael could only imagine how he himself looked, but Halmar had turned quite white, obviously struggling to compose himself.

"Oh, it’s you, Swordfeather," he said at last. "Didn’t know you were back."

"Only just," Jezrael answered, stunned at how calm his own voice sounded. "Thought I’d come in and tidy up a bit."

Halmar narrowed his eyes; he had his composure back. "Did you get what you went after?"

"No." Jezrael returned his frown. "But then you know all about that, don’t you?"

Halmar’s look of puzzlement was reasonably convincing. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Don’t you?" Bastard. Cold-hearted bastard—Jezrael’s vision was suddenly filmed with red. He wanted to shout, to rage, to—to kill—

No, he told himself. Calm down—otherwise you’re playing right into his hands.

And in the calmest voice he could muster he said, "Don’t trifle with me, Halmar. I have power. I’m dangerous."

He said no more; he didn’t have to. The color drained from Halmar’s face again—then he whirled and was gone.

Jezrael sat back in the chair and broke into laughter—bitter, ringing laughter that quickly dissolved into tears.

***

It wasn't quite two hours later that Marcus learned everything.

He'd left the still-unconscious Duke at last, his mood considerably blacker than it had been this morning; and he'd thought that perhaps an hour of quiet paperwork would calm his jangling nerves.

When he got to his office, however, Marcus wasn't the least bit surprised to find the door unlocked and the light on within. Drat that boy. He smiled paternally. I tell him to lock up and he insists on doing my work for me....

He pushed the door open; and sure enough, there was Jezrael—his elbows on the desk, his head pillowed on his folded arms. He was quite asleep.

Marcus’ smile widened. As carefully as he could, he pushed the door shut behind him; but the click of the bolt sliding home was enough to bring Jezrael to his feet in wild-eyed wakefulness.

"Wait a minute, what do you think—" He recognized the older drake and stopped abruptly, sinking back into his chair. "Oh, thank God, it’s you, Marcus—I thought Halmar or Falcone had—" He went white.

"What about them?" Marcus frowned. "Jezrael—"

"Sit down," Jezrael answered shakily. "There’s something you must know."

***

"My God," Marcus said at last, and fell silent.

Jezrael studied him. "You don’t believe me."

"My boy, I don’t disbelieve you," Marcus answered. "It’s just that Halmar—Jezrael, I’ve known him for ages, he’s my best friend—and now this happens."

"Yes," Jezrael agreed. "Now this happens. Now what do we do?"

"I don’t know." Marcus was at a loss. "The Elders won’t want to touch Halmar—he is one of theirs. And Falcone—it’s all over the Brotherhood that he attacked Duke because of that girl. Personal disputes aren’t Brotherhood business." He shook his head in bewilderment.

"I should have known—Halmar’s always been this way. Ambitious as hell, but not man enough to act on it himself, so he foists his ambitions off on his students." He sighed. "But if your safety’s at stake, Jezrael, if you think you’re in danger—"

"I’m not." Jezrael smiled mirthlessly. "I heard Halmar tell Falcone himself, there wouldn’t be another chance...." He stopped, cocked his head to one side. "I’d say someone’s at the door, Marcus."

There was the faintest of knocks. Marcus got up to answer it—and found himself staring at Ernie Falcone.

"You!" he roared. "You miserable little spineless—"

The raptrin winced, but kept his gaze fixed steadily on his leader. "I want a word with Swordfeather, sir."

"No! Absolutely not!" Marcus quivered with rage. "Get out! Get out this—"

"Marcus," Jezrael said gently, beckoning to the raptrin. "What brings you back, Falcone?"

For a long moment Marcus watched as the two young men eyed each other levelly; then Falcone said, "I suppose you’re wondering why I didn’t kill you."

Jezrael chuckled. "It crossed my mind."

"Those were my orders," the raptrin said stiffly. "But...I have nothing against you, Swordfeather. You’ve done nothing to me." He looked briefly at Marcus. "I just want that made plain—I’ve nothing against you."

He nodded respectfully to Jezrael, then to the dumbfounded Marcus, and was halfway out the door when Jezrael called, "Falcone."

The raptrin turned. "Yes."

"You say you’ve nothing against me." Suddenly Jezrael’s blue gaze was unreadable. "What about Duke?"

"Duke?" Falcone smiled nastily. "My good man, Duke is another matter altogether."

And he was gone.

***

Something was wrong with his eye.

He couldn’t see, tried to blink and failed. With a dazed groan he lifted a lead-weight hand to his face, encountered an odd stiff thickness. "Oh, Gods...."

"Don’t touch." A familiar voice. "How do you feel?"

Duke considered this. The strange weight remained on the right side of his face; but he opened his left eye reluctantly, and with equal reluctance the haze around him coalesced with painful clarity into the face of Jezrael.

"Like I’m half-dead," the gray drake answered hoarsely, "instead of half-blind."

Jezrael frowned. "Then you do know what happened to you."

Duke tried to smile, but the effort brought up the ghost of a searing white-hot pain that had been his last awareness. "I’ve sort of got an idea." He winced. "How long have I been like this?"

"Maybe a day and a half," Jezrael answered. "Let me go find Jericho—he needs to know that you’re awake."

***

"Six weeks," Jezrael said.

Marcus scowled at him. "That long?"

"At least. Jericho wants to watch him for...." Jezrael paused thoughtfully. "Neurological trauma."

"No. That’s too long. Dammit," Marcus said, "Duke’s got to be back on his feet sooner than that."

Jezrael found himself smiling at his superior. "Are you so eager to retire?"

"I’m eager to see you in your rightful place while you’re still alive," Marcus snapped. "For God’s sake, boy, six weeks is plenty of time for Halmar to do you in—all of his students aren’t blunderers like Falcone."

"And we’ve already found the Elders will do nothing?" The younger drake sighed. "Duke’s going to have enough on his hands when he takes over the leadership, Marcus. Don’t give him the responsibility of—of cosseting me."

"But you’re going to be his First Blade, Jezrael, he’s got to look out for you." For a long moment Marcus stared gloomily at the floor; then he looked up, his eyes considerably brighter. "I know. You could swear the Pact with him."

"The Pact?" Jezrael’s eyes narrowed in distaste.

"Yes. It’s an old ritual between a leader and his First Blade," Marcus explained. "Back when we didn’t trust each other so much, you know. It’s a pledge of mutual loyalty—Duke would have to stand up for you."

"And I’d have to make a career of saving his arse?" Jezrael countered dryly. "I think not, Marcus. I seem to be doing that often enough already."

"I’m not saying the boy’s not going to have to learn to look after himself. It’s just"—he smiled at Jezrael—"there’s power in the Pact, for both of you. It’s a formidable thing, and you won’t be so easily trifled with."

"Besides," Marcus continued, his tone now soft and coaxing, "Duke won’t be in power forever, Jezrael. With the protection of the Pact you could—amass his authority bit by bit, if you will. I do think it would be for the best."

Jezrael pondered this, and then answered slowly, "I think it’s going to be a long six weeks."

***

Duke had been advanced to the First Tier last night, and sworn in this morning. Now, in the crypt below the Assembly Hall, he looked across the great altar at his new First Blade, his blind eye now hidden behind a black patch that matched his new uniform.

Jezrael had to fight the urge to frown. Marcus had coached them on the little ceremony and the responses, and most of all on the magnitude of the oath they were taking; but Jezrael couldn’t help feeling foolish, finding the solemnity rather silly—so many flowery words in a language no longer spoken—even as Marcus approached them with the Sword of War in hand and told them to bare their wrists.

There was a moment of cold as the flat of the blade touched Jezrael’s wrist, just at the pulse point…and then sudden stinging ache as the blade drew across his wrist and blood welled crimson in its wake. He wanted to cry out with the pain, the exquisiteness of it, but he didn’t dare. Across from him, Duke also steeled himself; the gray drake’s mouth tightened as the cut was made, but otherwise he never flinched.

They both bled freely, dripping patterns of red circles on the stone floor, as Marcus spoke; and though Jezrael didn’t speak the Anatin of St. Silverwing’s day, they had all rehearsed enough that he knew what was being said: "Witness, my brethren, this Pact of Brotherhood. By their blood and by their honor these do swear themselves bound, of one heart and one mind, unbroken and unbreakable, from this day forward. For as it is written, ‘By thy sword shalt thou live, and shalt serve thy brother.’"

Marcus then took their hands, and clasped them, so that each pressed his palm to the other’s bloodied wrist. He then took a long narrow strip of white cloth, held out to him by Lazarus Fellblade, and began to wind it around the whole bloody mess. As he wound, he continued speaking.

"Thou, Duke l’Orange, thou hast pledged thyself to be this man’s brother. As leader of this Assembly, and as the sword is ever God, dost thou so swear?"

Duke froze painfully for a fraction of a second, and he seemed to be forcing himself to meet Jezrael’s gaze as he voiced a shaky response.

"By my blood, and by my honor, and by my blade which is in thy service, I am thy brother. As leader of this Assembly, and as the sword is ever God, I do so swear."

He was quite pale; and Jezrael held his breath.

But he could say nothing. Amid murmurs of approval from the gathered Elders, Marcus finished winding the cloth that now bound Duke and Jezrael. He stepped back and continued the ritual.

"And thou, Jezrael Swordfeather, thou hast pledged thyself to be this man’s brother. As First Blade, and as the sword is ever God, dost thou so swear?"

Jezrael looked at Duke and their gazes, black and blue, met and locked as he, too, spoke the vow.

"By my blood, and by my honor, and by my blade which is in thy service, I am thy brother. As First Blade, and as the sword is ever God, I do so swear."

They bowed their heads then, as they had been instructed, and Marcus put a hand on the back of each drake’s neck, under the hair.

"Ye have spoken and we have heard," he said. "From this day forward are ye Pact Brothers, bound in honor, trust, and friendship; and to the end of your days shall ye serve each other. As it has been sworn, so let it be."

"So let it be," Duke echoed. He blinked then, and his good eye held the briefest hint of frightened tears; and Jezrael swallowed.

"So let it be," he whispered; and the thing was done.