Chapter 12

Swords were not allowed at parties.

Something about it not being polite to bring weapons to a social occasion. A remarkably durable social convention, perhaps the only one the sword had seen unchanged in his long existence.

But his wielders did usually end up being important people, the kind of people who got invited to royal balls and holy festivals. As a result, the sword had spent any number of nights sheathed, often secured with extra ties to further restrain any would-be wielders, stacked or hung in neat rows along with the weapons of other guests. Listening to the hum of the party, never seeing it.

Based on what the sword had seen so far, he vastly preferred that experience to actually going to a party.

The partiegoers were huddled together in a little cluster of trees that bordered the dirt practice field. Some of the students with light making abilities had hung little globes of light amongst the branches, partially illuminating the space. There was a large crowd around a faded plastic table, on which were a number of red plastic cups. The people not at the table were holding those cups, huddled in groups of twos or threes.

It was cold, the night was damp, and the sword’s feet had already slipped on wet leaves a few times. He could see the breath of many of the other people as they exhaled, and in addition to those clouds of air, the grey clouds of smoke from various students puffing on cigarettes, or, in the case of one short boy with glasses, a hand-carved wooden pipe.

The sword looked around again, then looked back at Arthur. “This is it? Parties are just people talking?”

“Talking and drinking,” Arthur agreed cheerfully, pulling them along to the table with all the drinks. The sword wrinkled his nose at the unfamiliar smell wafting from them. There was a boy with blond hair and a face full of red pimples on the other side of the table. As they approached he turned to the banged up plastic barrel behind him, dipped two more cups into the barrel, and placed them on the table in front of them.

The sword took the offered cup, and followed Arthur a little ways away. “Isn’t there supposed to be music or something? Dancing?”

The sword had not heard any music since he had returned to Earth. It wasn’t that he had any particular interest in it, but he didn’t mind music now and then. It’s lack, in this cold, damp wood, seemed palpable.

Dancing, of course, was not something the sword wanted to do either, but he had thought it was a key part of a party. Everyone just seemed to be standing. It was like a meal, but without the tables and chairs. And colder.

He was shivering.

What a nuisance.

“Well sure, if it’s a dance, or an adult party,” Arthur said when the sword asked about the lack of dancing. “Sad to say, whatever people are on the inside, we’ve all been slotted back into the role of teenagers on Earth. And teenagers just stand around and talk wherever they can’t be found by adults, and drink stolen beer.” Arthur took another immoderate swig.

The sword stared into his cup at the bubbling brown liquid. He was really quite skeptical of the smell. “This is beer?”

“Oh yes,” Arthur said. “Come on, give it a try.”

The sword, after another dubious glance, took a long sip from his flimsy cold cup.

For some of the sword’s wielders, nearly every hour of the day involved drinking beer. It must, the sword had concluded long ago, be the most delicious flavor imaginable. He’d been a boy when he’d left Earth, too young for beer, and swords, obviouslly, couldn’t taste.

Since he had returned to Earth, and especially since he had been seconded to Cadmarius, the sword had had any number of chances to try food. None of it had done very much for him, but when he could tell the difference between kinds of food, the sensation was often so foreign that even if he had wanted to explain his opinion on the difference, he would be totally incapable of doing so.

Beer wasn’t like that.

Beer just sucked.

The sword srunched his face as he forced himself to swallow, flinching as the bubbles hit the back of his throat.

Arthur burst out laughing.

The sword moved his tongue around, trying to get the taste out of his mouth. “Are you sure that’s beer?” The sword asked. It just seemed impossible. How could so many of his wielders have spent every single day drinking the stuff? Not just drinking, but talking about how they were soon going to be drinking it. It was probably the most common conversation topic he had overheard, after treasure and sex.

Were humans all just insane?

This seemed like the most plausible explanation for the tableau he was witnessing tonight.

“I don’t like it,” the sword said.

“Really? I had no idea,” Arthur said. The sword had known the [Demon Lord] long enough now to recognize this for sarcasm.

“I don’t like parties,” the sword said. “I want to go back to my room.”

“Oh don’t say that, you’ve only just arrived,” a bright, cheerful voice said.

Much to the sword’s surprise, he recognized her. It was the girl from the dining hall the sword had pulled out of the way. She was still in her school uniform, but she’d curled the ends of her hair so that it flowed around her shoulders, and added a pair of bright blue earings that glinted even in the dim lights floating above them.

The sword nodded to her. He still didn’t remember her name. “I’ve seen enough.”

“Parties take time to get going, and it’s rude to leave before greeting the hostess,” the girl said pleasantly. “Besides, I’m very curious about you. You keep behaving in ways that don’t make any sense.”

“I tell him that every day,” Arthur butted in. “Thanks for hosting this delightful gathering. I haven’t had beer in months.”

The girl smiled pleasantly at Arthur. “It’s entirely my pleasure.” The two of them started the sort of boring human conversation the sword had seen play out between his classmates, although he at least learned the girl’s name was Alice Bouchard.

“I’m going to go,” he said again, interrupting some kind of comparison of different beer flavors, none of which were available to drink at this party, which made the conversation even more useless than usual.

To his great surprise, Alice actually reached out and grabbed his arm, bringing him to her in an assured motion that left their sides barely touching. It was both comforting and alarming at the same time. “Oh please, not yet,” Alice breathed, “I really am trying to pay you back for saving me the other night. I see you watching the class all the time. You must have questions. Ask me something. I can help.”

The sword blinked, and took another look at the girl holding him so confidently. She had an extremely upright posture, but while her grip was firm, there was no great strength behind it. She had never touched a sword in her whole life, nor did she have the aptitude for it.

But she was very close to the girl with the amber eyes. And perhaps there was a reason for that.

“You are a repeater as well,” the sword said, which caused both Alice and Arthur to look at him in surprise.

“How can you tell?” Alice asked, lowering her voice. Around them conversational buzz was growing louder, so that the sword had to bend his head down to hear her properly.

“You were not surprised by death,” the sword said. Her hand had not shaken when he’d grabbed her in the dining hall and dragged her away. “It’s happened to you before.”

The girl nodded her head. “Forty three times,” she said, shaking her head. “I really was quite foolish at the beginning. And the Duke, my executioner, he had a quick trigger finger. But seriously, what do you want to know?”

The sword thought about it for a moment, but couldn’t think of anything.

He must have taken too long, because Alice started talking again.

“Alright,” she said, “So, can I be your wielder?”