Chapter 12: The Savant
“Have you ever killed a Savant?”
Excitement washed over Quentin. They wanted him to kill a Savant? “I’m not sure,” he said. “If I have, none of them could do anything big or splashy. I thought there was a specialized executioner for Savants.”
“Yes,” Omar agreed, “and Shapers and Speakers. She handles almost all of the executions for those with the gift. Most Savants aren’t especially dangerous and have quiet abilities that aren’t worth worrying about. For instance, the guard who sounded the alarm can see in the dark. It’s estimated that one percent of the population is a Savant, with most of them having a tiny trick they can do. Seeing in the dark, perfect pitch while whistling, inability to get lost. Parlor tricks. Many people don’t even know they’re a Savant.”
“Some of them,” Amicus took over, “are insanely dangerous. Which brings us to why you’re here, Quintius. Some of them are dangerous enough to be too risky to let fight against someone with no protection against a magical assault. If we put you up against someone who can spit acid or mesmerize you, you’d be dead and they’d be walking free. The audience would love it, but then we’d have to train your replacement.” He laughed, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Omar cleared his throat, and both men turned back to him. “The emperor wishes to see the man who would make an attempt on his life butchered in front of as many people as possible. His words,” Omar added, “not mine. And after consulting with the lead Shadowspeaker, it was determined this would be safe enough.”
“There is,” Amicus interrupted again, standing and moving to the window overlooking the arena, “the problem of your courtesies.”
Quentin swallowed a lump. “What do you mean?”
Amicus let out a harsh, booming laugh. “This man wasn’t working alone. Any kindness you show him, any little favor you try to do could be used against you. The Shadowspeakers decided it would be safe for you to fight him and still have a chance of winning. Now we’re trying to figure out whether or not your ‘courtesies’ are a security risk.”
There it was. Amicus hated his courtesies. He hated anything even resembling mercy for fear it would make for a bad show. It didn’t matter that Quentin’s record was spotless, Amicus thought that any kindness was weakness. It was all about worrying if Quentin was too soft for the job, a decade and hundreds of successful executions later. More than that, he brought the supreme arbiter in on it.
Amicus wanted to stop him from doing them entirely. This was just his way of easing into the idea. Quentin forced himself to relax. “What do I need to do to prove I’m not a risk?”
Amicus opened his mouth, but Omar cut in. “Do you have any reason you might be a security risk?”
Once more, the answer came to Quentin instantly. Thoughts of Razia and her cursed smile as she walked away from him, leaving him with the knowledge that she knew. The words nearly tumbled out of his mouth, admitting to it. But now that time had passed, he was confident that she wasn’t going to say anything. If she was, wouldn’t it have happened by now. The words caught in his throat, coming out as an odd groan.
“Let’s try this again,” Omar said. “Do you want to fight a dangerous Savant?”
“Yes.” That one was easy. That fight was likely to be the most exciting he’d had in years.
“Do you have anything that might interfere with your performance?”
“No.”
“Is there any chance you could be blackmailed or intimidated into helping the prisoner in any way?”
Quentin shook his head. “No. I enjoy giving courtesies to men and women who have made a mistake and are paying for their lives. I don’t give anything to rapists or child murderers. You can add attempted regicide to the list.”
The two looked at each other. They were silent for a few seconds before Omar nodded. Amicus let out a sigh of relief and said, “Then you’re going to be fighting on the last night of winter. We’re going to kick off the Blooming with this fight. We expect to be full to capacity, and then some.”
Finishing off winter with a big execution event to kick off the Blooming? People would be lucky to be able to get near the Colosseum, let alone get a seat. The festival celebrating the start of spring was one of the biggest ones in the country. It celebrated the Pierced Heart, and for a full week Orchrisus came to big, bombastic, hedonistic life. A big execution just minutes before the first day of spring, and a Savant at that. This wasn’t just going to be fun; it was going to be the biggest fight of Quentin’s career.
But for one small hesitation.
“What can this Savant do?” Quentin asks, coming back down to earth.
Once more Amicus and Omar shared a look. Amicus grinned, looking genuinely excited instead of smug for a change. “Why don’t we show you?”
At this hour, the audience and most of the staff had already gone home. Even so, Quentin felt naked walking down the halls with his helmet under his arm. The only people remaining were the guards who watched over the place at all hours, and the slaves scrubbing every square inch clean. “What was his motivation?” Quentin asked.
“Typical Ramali radical,” said Amicus from the front. “Thinks the empire needs to fall and all Ramali should go back to being nomads and living in shit-encrusted huts.”
Quentin looked over to Omar, looking for a reaction. The Arbiter’s expression was completely neutral. “These groups pop up from time to time,” he said. “They’re misguided and destructive, but thankfully not very effective. Save for our assassin, Kassim Nadir. He got closer than anyone else in twenty years. He got as far as the emperor’s quarters before we took him down. Another two minutes and the deed would’ve been done.”
The ramp led down to the main entrance. They continued on in a long loop, past the guards who parted for them, down to the holding cells. “How many people did he take out during the attack again?” Amicus asked.
Omar grimaced. “Ten guards, a maid, and the emperor’s pet dunewalla. Using his abilities, he slipped in unseen and killed silently, sticking to the shadows. It was bad luck on his part that the guard was also a Savant. Saw him and called in the alarm. It took five men fighting him at once to bring him down without killing him.”
They arrived at the holding cells. The guard must’ve been inside. “So, what’s his ability?” Quentin asked again.
Amicus opened the peephole and gestured for Quentin to look. In the cage in the corner, the prisoner was laying down in the straw, seemingly asleep. A second later the air in front of the cage shimmered and there stood a short, wiry man. His skin was dark and he was lean and hungry looking, with furious, half-mad eyes and black hair that was short and wild. He bared white teeth at Quentin.
“What now? Another damned soul, ready to be sent to their death?” Kassim’s voice was high, nasally, and breathy. “Come then, and prepare to taste my steel!” He stomped towards the door, eyes growing wider and madder with each step.” Quentin closed the peephole.
“He’s loose,” he said, moving away from the door. Quentin pushed Omar back, but the man held his ground and shook his head.
“It’s an illusion,” said the arbiter. “He can create an illusory double of himself. He used that to trick and overwhelm the guards. He’s got a mouth on him and between that and the copies, it’s very disorienting.”
Amicus burst out laughing. “Oh, you should’ve seen your face, Quintius. Do you really think we’d allow the prisoner to get loose? He paces outside his own cell all day, just to be irritating. Come on, let’s get you introduced.” Amicus got out his keys and let them in.
Quentin stepped in first, looking around the room. His stomach was in knots. Sure enough, there was the thin, whip-like man pacing back and forth in front of his cell like a trapped animal. He stopped and faced Quentin, snarling silently as he got closer.
That snarl turned into a satisfied smirk. Quentin’s stomach twisted. Something wasn’t right. Where was the guard? He took a good look at the figure in the cell. He whirled around, “He’s loose!” he cried, just in time for Kassim to slam the door.
Both men turned. There he stood, very much not in his cell, armed with the fallen guard’s sword. He grinned, and both men tripped over themselves to get away. Then he attacked.
The air around the Savant shimmered like the ground on a hot summer day. His form shifted and split into two, charging forward with their swords raised. One for each Amicus and Omar. Quentin didn’t hesitate. He flung his helmet at the one going after Amicus and threw himself at the arbiter. He crashed into the older man just in time to take the hit for him.
He’d guessed correctly. The Savant’s sword crashed down on his armor, splitting the chitin and making Quentin’s teeth rattle. It stopped at the layer of padding underneath. The Savant yanked it out of the armor as Quentin shoved the arbiter further away.
“Guards, guards!” Amicus shrieked as he booked it for the door.
Cursing, Kassim turned from Quentin and ran Amicus down. He got there as the heavyset man got his hands on the handle. His sword lashed out, taking Amicus in the back of the leg. He crumpled to the ground and only after let out a sharp, agonized scream. Kassim turned back towards Quentin.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Out of the way, moonkissed filth,” Kassim hissed. “This doesn’t concern you. Get out of the way and you may live. This imperial traitor must die.”
Quentin got to his feet, eyes darting around for a weapon. All he had was his knife and though it was larger than most knives seen in the city, it wasn’t going to do much against the stolen sword. The Savant had reach and his magic trick to use against him. Just the same, he drew it and shook his head. “Not a chance. Drop the weapon and get back in your cell.”
Kassim shrugged. “I offered,” he said. Then the air shimmered once more and two of him came at Quentin.
They moved as one, mirroring each other as they split up and pincered him. His heart jumped up into his throat as he realized he had absolutely no clue which one of them was the real one. Quentin took a chance on the one moving to his left. Kassim’s mad eyes gleamed as the blade came down. Quentin went in low and slashed up, the knife hitting air as the copy disappeared.
The real attack bit into armor and flesh and hacked off a chunk at his shoulder, along with some skin. Quentin sucked in air through his teeth as he moved with it, whirling away from Kassim and buying some distance.
Kassim was no amateur. He didn’t stop and gawk at his blow. He operated as if any hit he made wasn’t good enough and needed a follow up. The momentum from the swing turned into a lunge, forcing Quentin to twist away from it.
“You’re going to die,” Kassim’s voice hissed from behind him while the man himself swung again. “Give in! Watch out! Behind you!” the voice came from every direction, layered over itself as a copy sprang into existence just long enough to whisper before fading into another. The air was thick and wavy, like being in the middle of an armed mirage.
Quentin barely got his arms up in time to stop the next swing. The metal bit into his bracers and then some. The impact shot straight up to his shoulders, just as jarring as the voices. Another cut added to his growing list of injuries. He grimaced; this wasn’t looking good.
Kassim knew it too. Without realizing it, Quentin had his back to the cells and nowhere to go. To his right, Omar was crouched in the corner. They made eye contact, and his eyes were wide with fear and shock. Quentin was right there with him. Kassim laughed, the sound echoing with itself as two copies appeared on either side of him, pinning the executioner in.
Three swords came at him from three different angles. A wrong guess and he was dead. Hell, a right guess and he could still take a bad blow. There wasn’t time for much. Quentin trusted his gut. He dropped to the floor and all three swords passed above him. He lashed out with a wild kick. One, then the other copy disappeared.
The real one let out a cry and thrust. Quentin rolled to the side and kicked again, sweeping the Savant off his feet. His sword clattered to the floor. Quentin wasted no time in scrambling to his hands and knees and pouncing on Kassim. It was a good move that served him well in the past, salvaging a near loss and turning it into a victory.
Kassim turned his momentum against him and Quentin found himself slamming hard on his back, the Savant sitting on his chest. He swung his knife but Kassim caught the blow and pushed down with all of his strength. The blade hovered between them as the men struggled.
“Let go. This is already over,” Kassim whispered in his breathy, hungry voice. “Just let go and it’ll be quick.” He laughed and once more it echoed.
Quentin was bigger and stronger, but he was tired and his wrist burned from the cut. The knife hung there, not moving but his arms trembled. It was only a matter of time before his strength lost out against Kassim’s weight. The double edged blade crept closer down to his face. This was it. It was either win or die.
It wasn’t a hard choice. Quentin slammed his head into Kassim’s nose. His own blade bit into his cheek, but Kassim’s assault faltered and that’s all he needed. Quentin yanked the knife to the side and headbutt the ramali assassin again. Stars exploded behind his vision, but they didn’t matter. He needed to win.
He shoved Kassim off of him and followed through. He dropped the knife and grabbed a fistfull of oily black hair. Kassim opened his mouth as if to say something. That was when the executioner slammed his face into the ground.
And again. And again. His skin was on fire where the cuts stung and lightning filled his veins. Kassim went limp and the executioner still slammed the man’s face against the ground.
“Quentin. Quentin, stop! He’s done, STOP!” Omar’s voice cried out.
Dimly, he realized he should listen. He held Kassim’s limp form up by his hair. The man was out, but not dead. Not yet. His blood called for him to finish the job. Quentin bit back on that. He took a deep, shuddering breath and let him go. Blood pooled on the ground from where Kassim’s nose broke. But he’d live. Probably.
“Apologies, Arbiter,” Quentin grounded out. He stood on shaky legs. Adrenaline ruled him now, screaming that the fight wasn’t over. Danger was everywhere, he needed to keep going, keep fighting. He swallowed it down. “Are you okay?”
Omar nodded, looking how Quentin felt. “I’m...I’m fine. Amicus, you okay?”
A low, weak sob escaped the man at the door. “I can’t stand,” he wailed, trying to get to his feet and collapsing as soon as he tried.
“Then don’t,” the arbiter returned. “We’ll get you out of here. Quentin,” he nodded towards the Savant’s unconscious form.
Quentin nodded back. He grabbed Kassim by the ankles and dragged him back to his cell. He dumped him there, pulling the guard’s corpse out before he closed it. The keys were still on him. “He was waiting for you,” Quentin said, pointing at them. “He could’ve gotten out if he wanted to.”
“I fear you’re right,” Omar said, going pale. His hands shook as he rubbed his smooth head, seemingly a nervous habit. Quentin couldn’t blame him. Even sitting in the empire’s highest court, he didn’t imagine there were many direct attempts on his life. Not ones that got this close.
“C’mon,” said Quentin. “I can’t get Amicus alone.”
The aftermath of a fight, even an unexpected, deadly fight like that, was always a blur. The little details didn’t seem important and rushed by as all the aches and pains finally caught up to Quentin and paid him back with interest. Dragging his overweight manager up the ramps until they found a guard might as well have happened to someone else.
Naturally, no one heard the screams or any commotion. The night’s skeleton crew was equipped to handle most condemned prisoners and trespassers, but it was likely the first time a Savant had been held there. They wouldn’t make that mistake again. Not with the way Amicus screamed and berated the guards, who took over dragging him to the infirmary.
Salim, who lived on site, took over from there, leaving Quentin to patch himself up for the second time that night. His cuts and bruises added up to a constant throbbing pulse of pain and exhaustion. The hangover of a fight was rarely this all encompassing. He was too wiped to feel self conscious as he stripped his armor off.
“You saved my life,” said Omar. The Arbiter had made sure Amicus was okay and receiving treatment, then came back to Quentin. “If you hadn’t been quick to act, I fear he would’ve cut me down before I could’ve blinked. Thank you.”
Quentin wasn’t used to being thanked or acknowledged at the best of times. Now that it happened, he found himself at a loss. He settled for a respectful nod as he wiped away blood from his face, wincing at the thin cut there. It wasn’t bad enough to even need stitches, but it stung and would likely be yet another scar. It wasn’t as if he could get much uglier.
“You don’t speak much, do you?” Omar asked.
“I’m not good at it,” Quentin replied. “No one tends to care what I have to say, and that’s fine. I do my job and keep my head down.” He looked over where Amicus was being treated, still making noise and cursing at the nearest guard.
“It could be worse,” said Omar, following Quentin’s gaze. “You could yap endlessly to fill the silence. Tell me. What do you think of Amicus over there?”
Maybe he was too tired to care, but once more he didn’t hesitate. “I loathe him. He has to get into everyone’s business and it always makes things worse. The Colosseum would run better if he just stuck to funding it and commentating on the matches. We’ve got the rest covered.”
Omar nodded, deep in thought. He let Quentin work, cleaning half a dozen new cuts one by one. They sat in a companionable sort of silence until the next question came. “Having seen what he can do, do you still want to fight him?”
Quentin shrugged. “Yes. I beat him once already, didn’t I?” In all honesty, he was looking forward to it even more. Kassim was dangerous. It would make for an excellent show.
Omar laughed gently. “You did. And I owe you a lot for it. I warned Amicus to make sure the guards knew of the danger, but it wasn’t enough. That’s my responsibility. I should’ve known better and insisted.”
What was Quentin supposed to say to that? He shrugged and ran the numbing gel over his shoulder. The cessation of pain was a relief like no other. He was almost down to the normal aches and pains after a fight. “Now we’ll know. Amicus will have to pay the guard’s family for the death, and we’ll do better.”
“I’ll pay it. I should’ve known better.” Omar's lips thinned as he battled with something internally. “I’m a Savant myself,” he finally said, voice barely above a whisper. “Only a handful of people know.”
Quentin paused. He believed him, but... “Why are you telling me?” he asked.
“Respect,” answered Omar. “In the nearly ten years you’ve worked for me, we’ve only met a handful of times. We’ve never needed to meet more, as you did your job well and I had no complaints. Amicus has been a bigger issue than you. You saved my life, and I fear I’ve done you a disservice.”
“It’s fine,” said Quentin. “I get banged up all the time. It’s part of the job.
“No, not that.” Omar almost sounded embarrassed. “My gift. When I ask someone a question, they are compelled to tell me the truth. It’s how I’ve gotten where I am. It’s made my job as an Arbiter smoother, if not simpler. And I’m afraid I’ve coerced some answers from you tonight.”
Quentin frowned, but the more he thought about it the more he made sense. It had almost been like someone else was answering for him. Omar saw the realization in Quentin’s eyes as soon as he felt it.
“Yes,” Omar said, “if I wanted I could destroy your privacy and get any secret I wanted from you. I don’t do that. Just the same, I regret the need for questioning you tonight. As you can see, security for this upcoming execution is critical. I had to be sure you were the right man for the job.”
“...And am I?”
Omar laughed. “I wouldn’t be telling you all of this if you weren’t. We were going to offer five percent of the night’s take as a bonus. But I think we’ll make that ten percent. As a thank you for saving my and Amicus’ lives. Really, it’s compensation for saving his. I don’t think he’s likely to thank you himself.”
It was Quentin’s turn to laugh. “No, I think you’re right about that. You don’t need to thank me. It’s just...Not part of the job, I guess. But it’s not like I could just stand by and let him kill you. Don’t worry about it.”
“But I do,” Omar insisted. “You saved my life, and I won’t forget that. If you need something of me, you have but to ask.”
Quentin thought about it. “I would love to not have to walk home tonight,” he said.
Omar’s carriage was a smoother ride than a beetle cart, and it had the benefit of not having to share with anyone other than Omar himself. The arbiter was mercifully quiet on the ride to Quentin’s home, and it let the executioner lean against the door and drift off to a pleasant doze for most of it.
They dropped him off on the Boulevard, which suited him just fine. Carriages couldn’t fit in the streets leading to his house anyway. The walk was pleasant enough. Tired as he was, Quentin needed some food and to double check his injuries before he allowed himself any real rest.
He was deciding on what to make when he walked up to his gate. He fished his keys off his belt, and that’s when he heard a voice from behind him.
“There you are. I was about ready to give up and try again tomorrow.”
There, sitting on a bench in front of the fountain, was Razia Rashid.