Sweep of the Blade (Innkeeper Chronicles 4)

“How bad is it?” Karat asked.

The medic met Maud’s eyes. “You’ll be fine. If you get to me in time, I can heal almost everything. Except stupid. You’re on your own with that one.”

“What are you implying?” Karat demanded.

“Going toe to toe with Ilemina was stupid,” the medic said.

Karat fixed him with her stare. The medic swiped across his harbinger. A huge holographic screen flared in front of them. On it, Ilemina kicked Maud across the lawn. The memory of the foot connecting with her ribs cracked through Maud. She winced.

“Stupid,” the medic said.

Maud sagged against the bed. The cushion cradled her, holding her battered body gently. The bed’s upper left arm pricked her forearm with a small needle. A soothing coolness flooded her.

For some inexplicable reason, she missed her father. She missed him with all of the desperate intensity of a scared lonely child. She would’ve given anything to have him walk through the door. Heat gathered behind her eyes. She was about to cry.

A sedative, she realized. The medic must have given her a mood stabilizer or a mild relaxant with her cocktail of painkillers. It was probably standard practice for vampires. Once the pain was gone, most of them would decide that they were fine now and likely try to dramatically kick free of the medical equipment and destroy the door to finish the fight.

Gerard Demille wasn’t her biological parent, but he was the only father she ever knew. He came from a time when knowing how to use a sword meant the difference between life and death. His wasn’t the modern sword fighting as a sport or an artform, but a brutally efficient skill, a way to survive. When she was six years old, she’d picked up his saber and swung it around. He’d watched her for a couple of minutes, stopped what he was doing, got up, and delivered her first sword lesson. The lessons came every day after that, and when she beat him, he hired others—some human, some not—to teach her.

Maud sighed. Mom always thought it was part of her magic, her particular brand of power. That’s why Mother spent most of Maud’s adolescence worrying that an ad-hal would come to the door.

The ad-hal served as the Innkeeper Assembly’s enforcers. While the innkeepers were bound to their inns, capable of almost unlimited power on the inn’s grounds and able to do almost nothing outside of it, the magic of the ad-hal came from within them. They served the Assembly. Safeguarding the treaty that guaranteed Earth’s protected status, they investigated, apprehended offenders, and punished them. Seeing an ad-hal was never a good thing. The last time she saw one was just a few days ago, when he walked into the battle for her sister’s inn and paralyzed every fighter on that field.

I could have ended up just like that.

There was a time when becoming an ad-hal hadn’t seemed so bad. She didn’t have Klaus’ encyclopedic knowledge of every species and custom in the galaxy. He was exceptional even by innkeeper standards. She didn’t have Dina’s green thumb, either. Her sister could plant a broomstick in the yard, and next summer it would bear lovely apples. All Maud had was an ability to read people and an innate understanding of violence and its degrees and uses. Within seconds of meeting an opponent, she knew exactly how to provoke or calm them and how much force she would have to use to stop, cripple, or kill them. Person or animal, Maud could take its measure and push them to the desired result. That’s what made her so good at navigating vampire politics.

She always thought that Klaus would inherit the inn, and Dina, who always wanted to live a normal life, would end up as a gardener or botanist somewhere, while Maud became an ad-hal. Motherhood and marriage hadn’t been on her radar.

Now her parents were missing, Klaus was lost, Dina was an innkeeper, and Maud lay in a vampire hospital bed after getting the living daylights beat out of her by a prospective mother-in-law.

The door chimed.

Now what?

The medic glanced at the screen to his left. “The Scribe is outside the door,” the medic said. “Do you want to receive him?”

Scribes kept vampire histories. Every genealogical quirk, every victory and defeat, every scheme gone wrong or right, they recorded it all. But she wasn’t a part of House Krahr. There was no reason why he would want to see her.

Delaying wouldn’t accomplish anything and refusing the meeting would be unwise. The Scribe held enough power to force a meeting if he wanted and she had precious few allies as it was. No reason to alienate him.

Maud fought through the relaxant’s fog. “Yes.”

The door hissed open, and the Scribe walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a mane of chestnut brown hair, he was older than Arland, but not by much. He had a long intelligent face and his eyes, pale green under a sweep of thick eyebrows, were sharp.

“Lady Maud,” he said. “My name is Lord Erast.”

“To what do we owe the honor?” Karat asked.

“It seems Lady Maud and I have gotten off on the wrong foot,” the Scribe said.

“That’s impossible, my lord,” Maud said. “We haven’t met.”

“Precisely. I labored under the assumption that as a human, you would be exempt from our traditions.” Erast nodded at the recording playing on the screen. “I was in error. We know exactly nothing about you, which makes it awkward at formal functions.”

He flicked his fingers at his crest. “This session is now being recorded. What is your lifetime kill count?”

“I don’t know.”

Erast’s eyes bulged. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I haven’t kept track.”

“You were the wife of a Marshal’s son. Was the importance of keeping a personal record not impressed upon you?”

Maud sighed. “In the three years I was with House Ervan, they had no major conflicts. I had several personal bouts, but none of them were to the death. Afterward, on Karhari, it didn’t seem important.”

“Did you have any titles?” Karat asked.

“Maud the Eloquent.”

Karat and Erast looked at each other.

“House Ervan put great emphasis on the knowledge of ancient sagas,” Maud explained.

“Can she use that?” Karat asked.

Erast pinched the bridge of his nose. “Technically, no. They struck her from their records, so any titles or honors earned while with House Ervan are forfeit. They are subjective, bestowed upon an individual by others to highlight certain deeds. The kill count is different because taking a life is an irrefutable fact.”

“What about Maud the Exile?” Karat asked. “Could we do something with that?”

Erast frowned. “My lady, answer honestly. What was the most important duty in your life before your exile?”

“Taking care of Helen.”

“What about on Karhari?”

“Taking care of Helen.”

“And now?”

“Helen.”

“Do you desire revenge on House Ervan?”

“I wouldn’t mind punching a couple of them, but no. I was mad at my husband, and I buried him long ago.”

Erast sighed. “The Exile won’t work. A title like that implies an element of rebirth. Lady Maud hasn’t permitted the act of being exiled to affect her worldview. There was no seismic shift in her personality as the result of being sent to Karhari.”

The two vampires stared at her. The frustration on Erast’s face was almost comical.

“They did call me something on Karhari.”

“What was it?”

“Maud the Sariv.”

“What does that mean?” Karat asked.

“On Karhari there is a summer wind that comes from the wastes. Nobody knows how it forms, but it comes out of nowhere and it picks up thorny spores from local weeds. When you inhale sariv’s breath, the spores enter your lungs and cut you from the inside. There is no escape from this storm. If you are caught in it without protective gear, it will kill you. They called me that because I paid the blood debt I owed to my husband’s killers.”

Erast perked up. “Do you have any proof of that, my lady?”

“Would you hand me my crest?”

Erast picked up her breastplate. His eyes widened at the mess of red. He offered it to her, and she pulled the crest off. She’d transferred all of her recordings to it as soon as Arland gave it to her.

“Play all files tagged Melizard’s Death in chronological order,” she said.

The crest lit with red, projecting onto a wall. She knew every frame of the recording by heart. It played in her head for months. The view of a fortified town from a dusty hilltop. A crowd dragging Melizard through the street, faces contorted with fury and glee, rabid. Melizard’s bloody face as they took turns punching him, while he stumbled, caught in the ring of striking arms and legs. Him crawling on the ground while they kicked him. The stone bench they dragged out of the nearest house. The flash of a rising axe. Melizard’s head rolling as they cut him apart. The greasy smoke rising from his burned body. Melizard’s head on a pike rising above the gates, his empty dead eyes staring into the distance.

Silence claimed the room.

A light ring singled out a face in the crowd and zoomed in. A huge dark-haired male vampire with a scar across his face. A caption appeared. Rumbolt of House Gyr.