Authors: Kelly McCullough
Broken Blade (9 page)
“Sensitive enough,” answered Erk. “I’ve a favor to ask.”
I cocked an eyebrow at that. Favors were not a common item of trade in the shadow world, and I doubted very much that he meant that word in the traditional way.
“It’s like this; see those three gentlemen at the second table past the door, the one right by the corner of the bar? They’re planning on causing you some harm, and they’re planning on making their move soon. I really don’t like that sort of thing happening inside the Spinnerfish. So if you’d do me the favor of stepping outside before you ghost them, I’d really appreciate it.”
I flicked a glance around the room, making sure not to spend too much eye time on the table in question. I didn’t for a moment doubt what Erk was telling me though I did idly wonder how he knew. The trio in question looked more like Kadeshi mercenaries than the bravos I’d have expected. They sported two swords, an axe, a mail shirt, and couple of breastplates between them. I’d noticed them when they came in but hadn’t really paid any attention at the time.
Apparently, Devin had decided not to give me the full two days though why he hadn’t come for me himself I didn’t know. But that was a puzzle for later. In the meantime, I had a more pressing concern, two really. Erk’s request had set a small worm of icy cold to stirring itself in the pit of my stomach.
“Why is it,” I asked, keeping my voice as casual as I could, “that you’re so certain about
me
ghosting
them
? I’m just a jack, and not exactly dressed for a fight.” I tapped one of the long daggers that were my only visible weapons, then adjusted the collar of my light leather jerkin. “And those are hard men armed and armored for war.”
me
ghosting
them
? I’m just a jack, and not exactly dressed for a fight.” I tapped one of the long daggers that were my only visible weapons, then adjusted the collar of my light leather jerkin. “And those are hard men armed and armored for war.”
One man with knives against a trio of veteran mercenaries doesn’t a fight make, more like a massacre. If you bought my jack face, those were fool’s odds.
Erk leaned back in his seat. “I was running a skip in the court of the Magearch when Lord Baskin met his much deserved and ever so timely end.”
“Oh.” Triss squeezed my shoulders hard but didn’t make any more obvious moves.
Not that it mattered. Baskin was one of the very few jobs I’d ever been forced to perform in front of witnesses. The first thrust had glanced off a magical chest piece I hadn’t known about. He’d managed to get out the door of his rooms and halfway to the great hall before I caught up and finished him.
“Hell of a sprinter, Baskin,” said Erk.
“He was that, though I thought all the eyes in that hallway belonged to servants.”
“That was certainly how I was faced at the time.”
“You do know what my head’s worth?”
“Of course,” replied Erk. “But that’s not my problem. When I left Oen behind, I left all the skips and plays with it. My world is this bar, and as long as nothing bad happens in here, my clients’ business is entirely their own.”
And that was as nice a threat as anyone had ever made me. Even if Erk didn’t choose to sell me directly, he possessed something that a number of people would pay very highly for; a postgoddess view of my face. In the days when Namara still lived she had prevented the making of any likenesses of her Blades, jostling the elbows of artists who tried to capture images of our features and twisting the tongues and memories of those who might otherwise have described us. Now that she was gone, and Erk had refreshed his memory of me, he could make himself a tidy sum simply by having a good sketch done.
“I’d better see that I take care of my little problem outside then, hadn’t I?” I said.
“I
would
appreciate it.”
would
appreciate it.”
I downed the last of my second glass and looked regretfully at the tucker holding what would have been my third and fourth, then rolled my shoulders to loosen them.
Erk recorked the small bottle. “I’ll have this kept aside for the next time you stop in if it comes soon enough.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He picked up the bottle, then reached for the drum-ringer, pausing in the instant before he lifted the bell as though just remembering something. “One last thing; going forward I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t trail that sort of stupid trash in here in your wake ever again. I don’t appreciate having to step in like this.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
I stood and headed toward the counter, holding my empty glass in front of me as though I wanted a refill. That took me straight toward the trio of Kadeshis, who looked quite pleased and started oh-so-subtly loosening weapons and sliding their chairs back. It also put me on a line to pass within ten feet of the door. As I hit the closest point to the exit, I set my glass on the nearest table and bolted out into the night and a light drizzle.
When I hit the street, they were less than three yards behind me and had already drawn steel though they had to pause briefly to open the small magelantern the leader carried. I could still have lost them if I’d wanted to. Between the dark and the rain, I wouldn’t have even needed Triss’s help, but I wanted to send Devin a message, written in blood. Besides, I desperately needed a break from running and hiding, even if only for one night. I sprinted just far enough down the street to put a polite distance between me and the Spinnerfish before pivoting to face my attackers and drawing my daggers.
As I did so, Triss gave a questioning squeeze, offering to enshroud me or take a more direct hand in eliminating my attackers. I shook my head. I preferred not to reveal my nature to any third-party watchers if I could avoid it, and vanishing into shadow or having one kill for me would have made for a pretty unmistakable calling card.
Then they were on top of me. They were actually very good, attacking all together in a coordinated rush. The axeman, who also held the lantern, charged me head-on, while the other two slid forward to his left and right so they could come in on my sides. It was smart tactics and a sign of good training and plenty of combat experience.
Someone was going to miss these boys.
I waited for the axeman to make the overhand swing that was his best bet, then slipped forward, moving inside his guard and blocking his descending arm with my own. At the same time, I jammed my right-hand dagger up under his chin and through the roof of his mouth, driving it deep into his brain. I felt something like the sudden electrical shock of magelightning as the coppery smell of blood feathered the air.
That was one.
He dropped the light as he died, but it stayed open, which was too bad since I didn’t have time to do anything more direct about it. Using the embedded dagger as a push-off point, I shoved myself downward. Letting go of the hilt as I dropped, I balanced on the ball of my right foot and the knuckles of my left fist and pivoted backward in a sweeping kick. The dead man’s left-side swordsman was exactly where I had planned for him to be, and my spinning calf caught him across the shins. He went down in a heap, while the falling corpse of the leader protected me from the right-side swordsman.
Which put me in the clear again.
As I came back upright, I flicked my right wrist, dropping the much shorter knife I kept in a sheath there into my hand. The right-side swordsman was turning around, but his companion had only gotten back up onto hands and knees, hampered perhaps by the water lightly slicking the cobbles. I sank both my blades deep into his spine, one above his breastplate, one below. Again, I felt a sort of electric charge at the kill.
That was two.
I used the hilts sticking out of his back like the handles of a pommel horse, pivoting and launching myself through the air feetfirst. I hit the last man in the side of the knee, shattering the joint. It was a calculated risk but necessary given our relative positions. He was damned good and had come around faster than I’d hoped.
Two and a half.
He managed one solid swing at me as he went down. I blocked his blade with the inside of my left forearm, where I had a second wrist sheath. His sword broke the knife and tore the sheath loose. The straps burned across my skin, drawing blood. Then I was rolling away, and the second swing of his sword struck the wet cobblestones behind me.
That marked the effective end of the game.
Flipping myself to my feet, I drew my second-to-last blade from the top of my right boot and walked back toward the fallen man. He rolled onto his back, bringing the sword up between the two of us and pointing it at my chest.
“This doesn’t have to end this way,” he said desperately.
“Just tell me what you want. Anything. I’ll do it.”
I kicked the lantern shut, plunging the street into deep darkness. Then I reversed my grip so that I was holding the dagger by the blade.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
I snapped my arm down and forward, throwing the knife. Master Kelos would
not
have approved, and he’d probably have been right—throwing a weapon was always a risky bet and usually a dumb move against a better-armed opponent, no matter what the barroom toughs claimed. Of course, that risk was small here. My enemy could move neither far nor fast, and I had another knife. Besides, as the blade’s sinking deep into the Kadeshi’s throat proved, sometimes a risk paid off nicely.
not
have approved, and he’d probably have been right—throwing a weapon was always a risky bet and usually a dumb move against a better-armed opponent, no matter what the barroom toughs claimed. Of course, that risk was small here. My enemy could move neither far nor fast, and I had another knife. Besides, as the blade’s sinking deep into the Kadeshi’s throat proved, sometimes a risk paid off nicely.
And sometimes it didn’t.
As he died, the dagger flashed blindingly bright—a burst of magelightning arcing from its pommel to my right hand. More lines of lightning shot from there to the other two corpses, centering me in a web of burning light and pain. My view of the world exploded into a wild rainbow cascade of nonsense shapes, and for just a second, I could both taste and hear the colors.
I’d been deathsparked, and I was an idiot.
I slumped to my knees in a filthy puddle. I’d never seen it coming. Because, you see, Blades are immune to death-sparking. The goddess protects us. But the goddess was dead. If I’d ever needed more proof of that, I had it now.
That hurt more than the deathspark, and the pain carried me into darkness.
5
The
world tasted of blue, which in turn tasted rather a lot like badly burned bacon, and it smelled like magelightning. The world also hurt, especially my head. Oh, and I had a powerful urge to vomit. Sadly, waking up feeling like I did just then was no more than a strange new variation on an old, familiar theme. I automatically reached for the skin of small beer that sat at the top of my pallet. Or, tried to, actually.
world tasted of blue, which in turn tasted rather a lot like badly burned bacon, and it smelled like magelightning. The world also hurt, especially my head. Oh, and I had a powerful urge to vomit. Sadly, waking up feeling like I did just then was no more than a strange new variation on an old, familiar theme. I automatically reached for the skin of small beer that sat at the top of my pallet. Or, tried to, actually.
That was when I discovered I couldn’t move my arms or much of anything else. I was bound. Then I remembered the deathspark, and that explained the pain and my situation and tasting colors.
Thank you, Devin, you shit-eating bastard.
Rather than fight my bonds, I stopped moving completely as routines that had been carved into my bones came to the fore. I could almost hear old Master Kelos drilling me on what to do when captured.
Thank you, Devin, you shit-eating bastard.
Rather than fight my bonds, I stopped moving completely as routines that had been carved into my bones came to the fore. I could almost hear old Master Kelos drilling me on what to do when captured.
Hide your strength.
I cracked an eye the tiniest margin and found . . . myself severely disorientated and once more fighting hard against the impulse to throw up. In part because of the eye-jabbingly bright magelight hanging a few feet in front of my face. But also because of my sudden mental change of orientation. Rather than lying on my back as I’d initially believed, I was upright and facing a basement room that just screamed dungeon.
Count the opposition, locate the exits, catalog your assets.
I forced down the nausea. In addition to me and whatever I was hanging from, the dungeon contained various implements of torture—many of which I could use as weapons if I could get my hands on them. A quartet of rough-looking men played at dice in a corner. One of them had a few faint glimmers of magic about him—poorly crafted spells probably. Above them was a barred window laced over with some sort of minor spell that blurred what lay beyond. That and a door off to my left provided the only exits I could see without moving.
The place stank of mold and piss and old blood. Especially that last. A lot of blood had been spilled in this room, and not just as a side effect of torture. Not with a bleeding-table standing just a few feet off to my left. The angled marble slab had deep gutters cut into it to direct the blood into the basin at its foot. Though not magical in itself, an exsanguination table was a tool used for some of the darker magics and one more reason to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.
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