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Doctor Kaleda Mard sat in the old garden of kings and read a cracked leather-bound book called On the Movement of Heavens, written by a Teluvan priest, while birds of song made a chorus on the well-tended trees around him. Beautiful sunlight, filtered through green and pale blue leaves, illuminated Mard’s book and behind him they fell on the marble statue of a cupid in the clouds. The fountain around it was broken down by the elements and merciless time and what was once a beautiful marble structure stood as a ruined, albeit frequently cleaned, circle. Blood-red natal plums floated gently on tree branches and occasionally a ripened fruit fell with a soft ‘pop’. Lime-like honeyberries and amber cloudberries hugged the trees in the garden, and yellow-and-white medean bees zipped between them tirelessly. Other critters, in particular the garden’s signature preying mantises blended to the trees and lurked for prey. Kaleda Mard’s trained eye could distinguish the garden’s many assassins easily, even when concentrating on his book. He had the look of a man who cared for nothing but what he held in his hand, and the grey-haired man was a most excellent liar. Colorful birds continued to sing around him, and he knew that other birds would be singing in their place long after he was gone.
There was a footfall on the fountain behind him.
The old doctor stopped reading and straightened. His hand fastened on an untouched glass of red wine. The chorus of birds seemed a little louder, and the tree canopy’s shadows a little brighter. A shadow moved, and then another. Branches swayed and leaves fell, as if guided by the wind. Kaleda Mard felt that he knew better. Somewhere in the garden, invisible undergrowth betrayed movement around it in hushed whispers. Ripened natal plums fell to a red mess. Even in the peaceful garden around him, creatures of every scale went about their bloody business. The doctor suppressed a smile. His looks and voluminous clothing could deceive, but the old man was as tense as a primed crossbow, and he was waiting. The book was safely tucked away in one of his shirt’s clever compartments.
The footfall was followed by another, and then one more.
He instantly turned around, ready to defend himself against his assailant. The fountain’s left side looked empty, devoid of the footfall’s owner. He recognized a thrown stone on the fine marble and, with it, the feint. Certainly commendable, he thought while ducking down to ankle-height to dodge a devastating kick. Still pressing his body to the ground, the doctor turned around with spider-like agility and grasped his assailant by the side of his knee with one hand while he used the other to savagely punch the knee. With the same alien swiftness dodged a tremendous braced fist and turned it around, sending his assailant to the ground with bone-breaking force. The giant of a man on the ground grunted with pain. Aware of the perils of gloating, the doctor delivered a swift kick on the colossal man’s head for good measure. He slumped back, out of consciousness.
The doctor turned back and completely drained his glass of wine. He tossed a number of cloudberries into his mouth while refilling the glass. When he was done refreshing, he was met with six similarly simple-clad people standing by the trees. Nine steps separated the five assassins and the old man. The birdsong faded, and soon stopped. One hand in a pocket, Doctor Kaleda Mard spoke with a voice as deeply cracked as the marble fountain behind him:
“I had expected smaller groups. But I suppose you are working together up until the point of obtaining the book, which I very much doubt, and then you will turn on one another. Good to see proper mantis behavior in youngsters.” He noted two absences in the group, but rejected the idea that they might have been overpowered. More likely was that the two people out of sight were currently working against him. So be it. “But what am I doing? Endless talk is the business of old men and I have many years to go. Let us see if you shits can cut some off.”
A faint rumbling was his only clue and the doctor threw himself to the side as a woman exploded out of the marble fountain behind him, her leap missing him only barely. The other assassins had not stopped to watch, however, and the fastest of them was already upon the recovering doctor. The assassin leapt for a turning punch, the kind that hit with both the fist and the elbow, and the doctor turned the fist away, only for his shoulder to meet the elbow behind it. He spun, braced himself, and met the assailant with his own elbow, hitting him in his ribs hard enough to push him off his feet. The following assailant faltered for the slightest moment and the old man pushed through, first deafening his attacker with two well placed fists and knocking her to the ground with a cutting motion to her throat.
The doctor leapt back, grasped the glass of wine and flung it at one of the attackers. Another assailant crashed into him, knocked the breath out of the old man and almost drove him to the ground. A wild growl escaping his lips, the old man blurred in a flash of grey and black, and instead drove his attacker to the ground, face first. With a knee to the side of his head, he ceased his attacker’s protests and turned to deflect another kick while a punch found him on the back of his head. He rolled away from another strike and considered the odds.
Four out of seven were down, the remaining three were looking at him quite menacingly. Coincidentally, these three were the best fighters of the nine. Two more were out of sight. He did not like his odds, and did what any other sensible man would: He turned the tables.
The greediest in the crowd was Ulus, the only one who had truly scored on him. Standing next to Ulus was Ela, who was almost as good a fighter as Ulus and more than able to hold her own against him. Behind the two was Tommen, sprinting with light-borne speed. The doctor flung his book at Ela. Ulus tried to intercept, but was rapidly punched in the guts and the groin and he also received a precise kick to his temple before hitting the ground. The book bounced off the otherwise busy Ela and fell to the ground. By this time, Tommen had reached them and he ducked low to snatch the book away, but the doctor had reached him. Turning his own speed against him, the doctor slid down and locked Tommen’s legs between his own, smashing the helpless boy to the earth. The doctor turned, kicked away the book and took two of Ela’s punches on his shoulder.
Moving faster than a striking snake, the doctor pushed himself sideways, blurred again and appeared behind Ela. He kicked her in the side of her knee and almost brought down an elbow that would have surely knocked her out. Instead, she twisted on one leg and shot her palm up at the doctor’s chin. The doctor was sent back by the impact, staggering and trying to get his bearings. Ela was at an obvious mobility disadvantage and cried out: “Ossin, now!”
Tree roots came to life and burrowed through the earth to the old man’s feet, trying to bind him. At the same time a young man sprinted at the doctor, his sprint as fast as Tommen’s light-borne speed, and his strides strangely long. Alarmed, the old man swiftly recovered and leaped at the fallen book. Mard was there moments before him, and the book once again in his grasp. At the same time, Ossin crashed into Doctor Mard like a rushing bull, lifting him off his feet and sending him away. The doctor twisted in the air and managed to land more or less softly. His strides normal once again, Ossin reached the recovering old man and grappled him by the shoulder, bending his arm painfully. Doctor Mard punched and pushed, but it was impossible to break the young man’s grip. He glanced around and saw the last member of the group rise through the marble of the fountain like a swimmer leaving the sea. Mard was running out of time. He jumped off his feet but pivoted around his shoulder, as his arm still in Ossin’s grasp. Mard grunted as his right shoulder dislocated. He then reached back, twisted, and pulled Ossin’s rough-shaped head down to his oncoming knee. The spray of blood was instantaneous with Mard’s release, and he found himself face-to-face with the deadliest assassin in the group.
Riva advanced mercilessly, her fists coming on like stones while her nimble feet sought to hit, trap or otherwise unbalance Mard’s legs. He danced along with her for a few seconds, retreating and barely deflecting her attacks with one functioning arm and occasionally kept her advances at bay with kicks of his own. Then the old man abruptly tore off his shirt and threw it at Riva. Blinded, she tried a jab but Mard turned it away and elbowed her jaw. He ducked under Riva’s wild punch and kicked upwards at her chin. She was unconscious before she hit the ground.
Old man Kaleda Mard was, once again, the last man standing. He savored the fact until he caught his breath. Then he got up and started inspecting each student, giving a noncommittal grunt each time he saw that they were still living. Last was Ela, and the old man produced an ointment to help lessen the swelling on her knee. She accepted it and soon Ela was dutifully helping the doctor to get the students back on their feet. “Attend to them.” Mard said and tried to tend to his own arm. Ela approached and pushed his hand away, saying: “You will hurt yourself, sir. Let me help.”
Then, without a moment’s notice, Ela tugged hard at Mard’s arm and rotated his shoulder-blade viciously. Mard cried out, but Ela had been precise in her work and his shoulder was back to functionality.
“The others,” Mard said, catching his breath. “Tend to the others.” And he sat back down, resting his eyes for but a moment. When he reopened one of them, the whole class minus one was standing in front of him. He grunted and closed his eye again. A steady pulse emanated from his lower chin, pointing to an obvious swelling.
When doctor Mard reopened his eyes, the birds were singing again. The students were still at attention.
“You have failed, all ten of you-” Managed Mard before looking over the group once again. “Where is the southern beggar?”
Several students snickered, a difficult thing to do with so much pain and swelling. They all sported at least a bad bruise or a cut, while some of them were in bandages and clearly in excessive pain. None of them showed it. Every young mantis had long since learned that showing pain was showing blood. Theirs was shaping up to be a merciless life.
“Ukina was feeling ill the last few days.” Ela offered, acutely aware that no excuse could sway Doctor Kaleda Mard.
“Never mind the child, someone will be sent after him.” Mard said. He had not made it clear, however, what would be done to Ukina when he was found. Continuing, he eyed Ela for any reaction. “In any event, he has failed this test. It’s a shame he took so much of our time before running away. And a wonder he managed to fail every test from the test of wit to the test of masks. A useless beggar, that one.” The red-haired girl’s mask never swayed, showing only indifference to words that would otherwise send someone astray. Well, Mard thought, let’s not dwell on it.
Kaleda Mard stood up. He was looking rather tall, and was no less formidable for his old age. “I have decided to let you pass with the lowest accolades possible. Now I will have to write reports to the palace. Expect to spend your first years bundled up in a farmhouse.” He bent forward and clapped his hands, and shooed the students. “Off you go, you rats, you are imperial mantis agents now. Leave bugging me to the recruits, they seem eager. See quartermaster Huron on your way out. You have much to learn and much to see.” The old man was muttered to himself.
The first one to leave was Ossin, and he made too much noise for a boy who could blend in to the foliage without trying. One by one, the newly graduated agents left the old doctor to his reading. He did not seem to note their departure, sitting contentedly on the bench by the statue, and the graduates were none too keen to have a hug and say goodbye. When the doctor snapped his head up to sneeze, he noticed that the last agent to remain was Ela. She looked unsure, as if debating whether to say something. Mard frowned.
“I never knew you to be daft, girl. Stubborn and reckless, yes, but not daft.” He waved her off and turned his gaze back to On the Movement of Heavens. “Leave this man be.”
The old man did not hear the red-haired woman go. He kept reading the book until it was well past afternoon and the sun was diving behind distant mountains. The shadows inside the garden were lengthening and it was getting rather chilly. The birdsong had stopped. He closed the finished book and looked at the sun for some time. Then, ever so carefully, he eyed the garden ad sought for any watching eyes. He heard a distant wind and the green-blue shadows of the trees seemed brighter. He scratched his face absent-mindedly and put the book back inside his shirt. Doctor Kaleda Mard smiled. From inside his shirt the old man produced a number of purses, four rings, two earrings and one necklace. The necklace was the only plain piece of jewelry in his hands. Somehow, he also produced an envelope and put the necklace inside it. He would have to hide it carefully. Then his gaze met the remaining jewelry and numerous purses. He upended the purses with child-like glee and coins of every kind clattered on the cobblestones underneath. He looked at them, at the small pile of coins and the necklaces and rings, and he laughed. It was a long laugh, one could think, especially considering that he was alone and it was rather strange. What exactly was strange with him might have evaded even the experienced observer. Most people would have thought that he was going senile or insane. He was none of those things. His strangeness might have been caused by the fact that the old man did not have a single drop of sweat on his skin, but perhaps it was simply too cold for that. His cracked skin around a swollen chin seemed almost stretched, and his mouth was somewhat off-center. But perhaps it was none of these things. Maybe the simplest explanation lay in the laughter itself: It was young, full of vigor and far too carefree for any old man to carry. It was the blooming of a young flower, challenging the sky and celebrating life. The laughter faded away, gone in sound but still gleaming in the man’s eyes. He gathered the coins and the trinkets, stuffing them into pockets in his breeches. He stood silent, then softly spoke.
“Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, and cry ‘content’ to that which grieves my heart. I will wet my cheeks with artificial tears, and frame my face for all occasions. All for you, brother. All for you.”
When he looked again at the blood-red setting sun, the old man was gone. In his place and in his clothes stood a young man that looked little like a boy and less like a full man. Fey and alien, his was the visage that eluded all expectations and fascinated the spectators. He looked not unlike a man, but more the way a song could be heard.
The song rose high and the man looked west, and in moments only the wind stood in his place.
There was a footfall on the fountain behind him.
The old doctor stopped reading and straightened. His hand fastened on an untouched glass of red wine. The chorus of birds seemed a little louder, and the tree canopy’s shadows a little brighter. A shadow moved, and then another. Branches swayed and leaves fell, as if guided by the wind. Kaleda Mard felt that he knew better. Somewhere in the garden, invisible undergrowth betrayed movement around it in hushed whispers. Ripened natal plums fell to a red mess. Even in the peaceful garden around him, creatures of every scale went about their bloody business. The doctor suppressed a smile. His looks and voluminous clothing could deceive, but the old man was as tense as a primed crossbow, and he was waiting. The book was safely tucked away in one of his shirt’s clever compartments.
The footfall was followed by another, and then one more.
He instantly turned around, ready to defend himself against his assailant. The fountain’s left side looked empty, devoid of the footfall’s owner. He recognized a thrown stone on the fine marble and, with it, the feint. Certainly commendable, he thought while ducking down to ankle-height to dodge a devastating kick. Still pressing his body to the ground, the doctor turned around with spider-like agility and grasped his assailant by the side of his knee with one hand while he used the other to savagely punch the knee. With the same alien swiftness dodged a tremendous braced fist and turned it around, sending his assailant to the ground with bone-breaking force. The giant of a man on the ground grunted with pain. Aware of the perils of gloating, the doctor delivered a swift kick on the colossal man’s head for good measure. He slumped back, out of consciousness.
The doctor turned back and completely drained his glass of wine. He tossed a number of cloudberries into his mouth while refilling the glass. When he was done refreshing, he was met with six similarly simple-clad people standing by the trees. Nine steps separated the five assassins and the old man. The birdsong faded, and soon stopped. One hand in a pocket, Doctor Kaleda Mard spoke with a voice as deeply cracked as the marble fountain behind him:
“I had expected smaller groups. But I suppose you are working together up until the point of obtaining the book, which I very much doubt, and then you will turn on one another. Good to see proper mantis behavior in youngsters.” He noted two absences in the group, but rejected the idea that they might have been overpowered. More likely was that the two people out of sight were currently working against him. So be it. “But what am I doing? Endless talk is the business of old men and I have many years to go. Let us see if you shits can cut some off.”
A faint rumbling was his only clue and the doctor threw himself to the side as a woman exploded out of the marble fountain behind him, her leap missing him only barely. The other assassins had not stopped to watch, however, and the fastest of them was already upon the recovering doctor. The assassin leapt for a turning punch, the kind that hit with both the fist and the elbow, and the doctor turned the fist away, only for his shoulder to meet the elbow behind it. He spun, braced himself, and met the assailant with his own elbow, hitting him in his ribs hard enough to push him off his feet. The following assailant faltered for the slightest moment and the old man pushed through, first deafening his attacker with two well placed fists and knocking her to the ground with a cutting motion to her throat.
The doctor leapt back, grasped the glass of wine and flung it at one of the attackers. Another assailant crashed into him, knocked the breath out of the old man and almost drove him to the ground. A wild growl escaping his lips, the old man blurred in a flash of grey and black, and instead drove his attacker to the ground, face first. With a knee to the side of his head, he ceased his attacker’s protests and turned to deflect another kick while a punch found him on the back of his head. He rolled away from another strike and considered the odds.
Four out of seven were down, the remaining three were looking at him quite menacingly. Coincidentally, these three were the best fighters of the nine. Two more were out of sight. He did not like his odds, and did what any other sensible man would: He turned the tables.
The greediest in the crowd was Ulus, the only one who had truly scored on him. Standing next to Ulus was Ela, who was almost as good a fighter as Ulus and more than able to hold her own against him. Behind the two was Tommen, sprinting with light-borne speed. The doctor flung his book at Ela. Ulus tried to intercept, but was rapidly punched in the guts and the groin and he also received a precise kick to his temple before hitting the ground. The book bounced off the otherwise busy Ela and fell to the ground. By this time, Tommen had reached them and he ducked low to snatch the book away, but the doctor had reached him. Turning his own speed against him, the doctor slid down and locked Tommen’s legs between his own, smashing the helpless boy to the earth. The doctor turned, kicked away the book and took two of Ela’s punches on his shoulder.
Moving faster than a striking snake, the doctor pushed himself sideways, blurred again and appeared behind Ela. He kicked her in the side of her knee and almost brought down an elbow that would have surely knocked her out. Instead, she twisted on one leg and shot her palm up at the doctor’s chin. The doctor was sent back by the impact, staggering and trying to get his bearings. Ela was at an obvious mobility disadvantage and cried out: “Ossin, now!”
Tree roots came to life and burrowed through the earth to the old man’s feet, trying to bind him. At the same time a young man sprinted at the doctor, his sprint as fast as Tommen’s light-borne speed, and his strides strangely long. Alarmed, the old man swiftly recovered and leaped at the fallen book. Mard was there moments before him, and the book once again in his grasp. At the same time, Ossin crashed into Doctor Mard like a rushing bull, lifting him off his feet and sending him away. The doctor twisted in the air and managed to land more or less softly. His strides normal once again, Ossin reached the recovering old man and grappled him by the shoulder, bending his arm painfully. Doctor Mard punched and pushed, but it was impossible to break the young man’s grip. He glanced around and saw the last member of the group rise through the marble of the fountain like a swimmer leaving the sea. Mard was running out of time. He jumped off his feet but pivoted around his shoulder, as his arm still in Ossin’s grasp. Mard grunted as his right shoulder dislocated. He then reached back, twisted, and pulled Ossin’s rough-shaped head down to his oncoming knee. The spray of blood was instantaneous with Mard’s release, and he found himself face-to-face with the deadliest assassin in the group.
Riva advanced mercilessly, her fists coming on like stones while her nimble feet sought to hit, trap or otherwise unbalance Mard’s legs. He danced along with her for a few seconds, retreating and barely deflecting her attacks with one functioning arm and occasionally kept her advances at bay with kicks of his own. Then the old man abruptly tore off his shirt and threw it at Riva. Blinded, she tried a jab but Mard turned it away and elbowed her jaw. He ducked under Riva’s wild punch and kicked upwards at her chin. She was unconscious before she hit the ground.
Old man Kaleda Mard was, once again, the last man standing. He savored the fact until he caught his breath. Then he got up and started inspecting each student, giving a noncommittal grunt each time he saw that they were still living. Last was Ela, and the old man produced an ointment to help lessen the swelling on her knee. She accepted it and soon Ela was dutifully helping the doctor to get the students back on their feet. “Attend to them.” Mard said and tried to tend to his own arm. Ela approached and pushed his hand away, saying: “You will hurt yourself, sir. Let me help.”
Then, without a moment’s notice, Ela tugged hard at Mard’s arm and rotated his shoulder-blade viciously. Mard cried out, but Ela had been precise in her work and his shoulder was back to functionality.
“The others,” Mard said, catching his breath. “Tend to the others.” And he sat back down, resting his eyes for but a moment. When he reopened one of them, the whole class minus one was standing in front of him. He grunted and closed his eye again. A steady pulse emanated from his lower chin, pointing to an obvious swelling.
When doctor Mard reopened his eyes, the birds were singing again. The students were still at attention.
“You have failed, all ten of you-” Managed Mard before looking over the group once again. “Where is the southern beggar?”
Several students snickered, a difficult thing to do with so much pain and swelling. They all sported at least a bad bruise or a cut, while some of them were in bandages and clearly in excessive pain. None of them showed it. Every young mantis had long since learned that showing pain was showing blood. Theirs was shaping up to be a merciless life.
“Ukina was feeling ill the last few days.” Ela offered, acutely aware that no excuse could sway Doctor Kaleda Mard.
“Never mind the child, someone will be sent after him.” Mard said. He had not made it clear, however, what would be done to Ukina when he was found. Continuing, he eyed Ela for any reaction. “In any event, he has failed this test. It’s a shame he took so much of our time before running away. And a wonder he managed to fail every test from the test of wit to the test of masks. A useless beggar, that one.” The red-haired girl’s mask never swayed, showing only indifference to words that would otherwise send someone astray. Well, Mard thought, let’s not dwell on it.
Kaleda Mard stood up. He was looking rather tall, and was no less formidable for his old age. “I have decided to let you pass with the lowest accolades possible. Now I will have to write reports to the palace. Expect to spend your first years bundled up in a farmhouse.” He bent forward and clapped his hands, and shooed the students. “Off you go, you rats, you are imperial mantis agents now. Leave bugging me to the recruits, they seem eager. See quartermaster Huron on your way out. You have much to learn and much to see.” The old man was muttered to himself.
The first one to leave was Ossin, and he made too much noise for a boy who could blend in to the foliage without trying. One by one, the newly graduated agents left the old doctor to his reading. He did not seem to note their departure, sitting contentedly on the bench by the statue, and the graduates were none too keen to have a hug and say goodbye. When the doctor snapped his head up to sneeze, he noticed that the last agent to remain was Ela. She looked unsure, as if debating whether to say something. Mard frowned.
“I never knew you to be daft, girl. Stubborn and reckless, yes, but not daft.” He waved her off and turned his gaze back to On the Movement of Heavens. “Leave this man be.”
The old man did not hear the red-haired woman go. He kept reading the book until it was well past afternoon and the sun was diving behind distant mountains. The shadows inside the garden were lengthening and it was getting rather chilly. The birdsong had stopped. He closed the finished book and looked at the sun for some time. Then, ever so carefully, he eyed the garden ad sought for any watching eyes. He heard a distant wind and the green-blue shadows of the trees seemed brighter. He scratched his face absent-mindedly and put the book back inside his shirt. Doctor Kaleda Mard smiled. From inside his shirt the old man produced a number of purses, four rings, two earrings and one necklace. The necklace was the only plain piece of jewelry in his hands. Somehow, he also produced an envelope and put the necklace inside it. He would have to hide it carefully. Then his gaze met the remaining jewelry and numerous purses. He upended the purses with child-like glee and coins of every kind clattered on the cobblestones underneath. He looked at them, at the small pile of coins and the necklaces and rings, and he laughed. It was a long laugh, one could think, especially considering that he was alone and it was rather strange. What exactly was strange with him might have evaded even the experienced observer. Most people would have thought that he was going senile or insane. He was none of those things. His strangeness might have been caused by the fact that the old man did not have a single drop of sweat on his skin, but perhaps it was simply too cold for that. His cracked skin around a swollen chin seemed almost stretched, and his mouth was somewhat off-center. But perhaps it was none of these things. Maybe the simplest explanation lay in the laughter itself: It was young, full of vigor and far too carefree for any old man to carry. It was the blooming of a young flower, challenging the sky and celebrating life. The laughter faded away, gone in sound but still gleaming in the man’s eyes. He gathered the coins and the trinkets, stuffing them into pockets in his breeches. He stood silent, then softly spoke.
“Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, and cry ‘content’ to that which grieves my heart. I will wet my cheeks with artificial tears, and frame my face for all occasions. All for you, brother. All for you.”
When he looked again at the blood-red setting sun, the old man was gone. In his place and in his clothes stood a young man that looked little like a boy and less like a full man. Fey and alien, his was the visage that eluded all expectations and fascinated the spectators. He looked not unlike a man, but more the way a song could be heard.
The song rose high and the man looked west, and in moments only the wind stood in his place.
