The Shadow at the Gate (28 page)

“Why, oh why?” moaned Ronan’s neighbor. “And I promised the wife, I did. Oh, she has me now.”

A bald man, pate shining in the sunlight, clambered up onto the platform. He pulled a slate from the front of his apron, consulted it and then motioned for quiet.

“All right then,” he called. “We’ve got a Vigdis up next. Vigdis?”

The crowd near the platform parted and a man vaulted up onto the planking.

“Ah,” said Ronan. He nudged his neighbor. “If you have a coin or two, put it on this fellow, regardless of who challenges.”

The man looked at him suspiciously.

“What do you know?”

“It’d be a sure thing. There are only two men in Hearne his better with the sword.”

“And what if one of ‘em challenge him?” The man drank from his tankard and winked blearily at him. “What then, eh?—then I’d be out my gold, what’s left of it. That’s no sure thing in my mind.”

“It’s a certainty,” said Ronan shortly. “One of the two is the Lord Captain of the Guard, and he’d never fight in a place as this.”

“What about the other, hey? You said two, din’ja?”

“The other’s myself.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he silently cursed himself for a fool. A drunken sot was no reason for irritation, even one breathing sour ale fumes into his face at such close quarters.

“Right then,” called the innkeeper from down on the platform. “Who’ll we have to challenge? Who’ll we have? Choice of weapons to the challenger!”

The crowd shuffled their feet and glanced around, but no one spoke up. Even the group of nobles lounging on the steps in the far corner kept their silence. The man called Vigdis was too well known for his swordsmanship, among both the common folk and the nobility. Formerly a Guardsman and, therefore, schooled under the eye of Owain Gawinn and his sergeants, he had disgraced himself with the daughter of a particularly grouchy lord. He had drifted into the ranks of the Guild after being kicked out of the Guard. If there was to be another Knife after Ronan, this man would be the logical successor.

“Come on now,” yelled Vigdis. “You lazy bunch of cowards! Whoever challenges—I’ll cover his wager three to one!”

People grinned uneasily, but still no one responded. Ronan flexed his hands. He hadn’t planned on challenging so early on in the day. Larger sums of money were wagered as the hours passed and the ale flowed more freely.

But then the decision was made for him.

“Hi you! Here’s your fellow!”

It was his tipsy neighbor. The man was waving his hands over his head and pointing at Ronan. Ale sloshed out of his tankard onto Ronan’s shoulder.

“He’ll fight! He’ll fight y’all!”

Faces turned. The innkeeper squinted up into the sunlight. Vigdis shaded his eyes with one hand. Then, somebody called out from the crowd.

“It’s the Knife!”

Ronan sighed.

“All right, my loudmouthed friend,” he said. “Put your coin on me.”

The man beamed.

The crowd parted around him as he walked down the steps. He heard muttering in his wake. Faces stared at him—some merely curious and some malicious.

“The Knife. . . that’s the Knife there.”

“Who’s this fellow, then?” he heard someone say.

“He’s the Thieves Guild killer, he is. Got a history bloodier than all the dead kings of Hearne. Stole the crown right off the regent’s head—honest. Wizard with a sword. Sooner hold up the tide then kill him dead.”

“He ain’t the bleedin’ Knife no longer, that’s what I heard.”

A man spat loudly as Ronan passed, but he ignored him. The sun was just up over the peak of the warehouse standing on the east boundary of the yard. It was nearing noon. He jumped up onto the platform. From there, past the lower wall of the tavern, a stretch of sea was visible. It looked like a hammered sheet of silver, hot to the sight with light and shimmering blue as if it were a mirror of the sky.

“Well, Vigdis,” he said. “Is that three to one still good?”

Vigdis grinned and then shrugged.

“Why not?”

The rules at the Queen’s Head for fighting were simple. First man to be forced off the platform, or no longer able to lift his weapon, was the loser. No deliberately killing blows. Slightly blunted weapons were provided by the establishment. The innkeeper could stop the fighting at any time. Men were sometimes killed on the platform, though that was a rare occurrence. Everyone knew that Owain Gawinn kept an eye on such entertainment—his own Guardsmen frequently fought on the platform—and he would shut the tavern down fast enough if he deemed it slipping out of bounds.

“What’ll it be?” intoned the innkeeper.

“Swords do for you?” said Ronan.

“Might as well.”

“Swords!” bellowed the innkeeper. A small boy emerged from the crowd clutching a long wooden box. The innkeeper opened it to reveal two matched blades. They were scarred, nicked, and ugly. Ronan weighed one in his hand. He shrugged.

“It’ll do,” he said.

“One minute more for wagers!”

The crowd buzzed with excitement. The oddsmakers were mobbed with bettors. Ronan could see his one-time neighbor grinning at him from the top step and waving his tankard. On the other side of the yards, the young nobles were clustered around Arodilac, listening to him and eyeing Ronan.

“All right, then!” yelled the innkeeper. “You know the rules!”

He hopped off the platform and disappeared into the crowd.

The two men circled each other. Vigdis feinted at his shoulder and then lunged low. Ronan batted the attempt away and sighed.

“Did Gawinn teach you anything?”

Vigdis laughed. Pivoted and tested another approach.

“Not going to fall asleep up here, are you?” he said.

“I’ve often wondered exactly how good he is.”

Another lunge, parry. Sunlight flashed on steel.

“Oh, he’s good. He never stinted on teaching—drilled us like the terror he is—but he could take any of his Guards, dagger to our swords.”

Their swords clashed, clattered, and fell apart.

“That good?”

“Aye. Told us he learned the craft as a lad from two masters. His father, the old captain before him.”

The sun was overhead. Underfoot, their shadows sprang together and then whirled away, circling on the wood planking.

“Who was the other? Some graybeard sergeant?”

“No. Man named Cullan Farrow. Head of a horse-thieving clan. The regent buys his horses from that lot, he does. You heard of ‘em?”

“A bit here and there. Best thieves in all Tormay.”

“Wonder we’ve never had ‘em in the Guild,” said Vigdis. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. His blade swept up.

Absentmindedly, Ronan parried, his body sliding through the countless rhythms of the sword. Countless, lad—that’s what his father had always said. All to be worked into your body’s memory; you’ll never cease learning them. The countless rhythms of the sword, just as there are countless rhythms to the way of the hawk on the air, the snake on the rock, and the deer on the plain. And then there’s your mother, he’d sometimes say, smiling—you think learning swordplay’s hard? Try learning the ways of a woman.

“Heard tell you might be back on the ups with the Guild.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

A breeze blew across his face and, for a moment, the sweat stink of the crowd was gone and there was only the salt of the sea. He ducked a blow and watched his blade drift through the air, almost as if it were being wielded by another arm then his own. The edge touched Vigdis’ shoulder and then drifted away. The crowd whooped and hollered in amusement.

Touch—you’re dead. He heard his father’s voice whisper in his mind.

“Dammit, Ronan!”

Vigdis scowled and brought his blade down in a reckless, whistling arc. A stupid blow, as it gave plenty of time for another to duck under and bury their blade in the attacker’s ribs. Ronan merely blocked and winced as the shock of the blow rattled his arm.

“Are you even trying?”

“Sorry.”

He blinked, shook his head, and then advanced on Vigdis. It was over in a matter of moments. The blade in his hand became a living, darting thing—a steel snake striking repeatedly, lancing past Vigdis’ frantic guard. For every rhythm there is a counter rhythm. For man, there is woman. For the day, there is the night. For the sea, there is the land. For the light, there is the darkness, and with each pairing there is a constant ebb and flow, a tide that ceaselessly washes back and forth.

Only the end of time will see where the ebb lands. Perhaps the place is appointed, but who are we to know?

His father’s words whispered in his mind.

With one last swing he drove Vigdis off the edge of the planking. He did not hear the mocking cheers of the crowd, for his eyes were blank, his ears dumb. Thirteen years spent silencing that voice, and here it was back again in precise intonation and word.

“Right, then,” said the innkeeper. “You want to hold your place?”

Ronan nodded.

“Any challengers?” called the innkeeper. He stood with fists planted at his waist and surveyed the crowd. The faces around them blurred together into one mass in the sunshine. A murmur rose and grew into an angry roar.

“We ain’t stupid!” yelled someone. “As if there’s anyone could take the Knife!”

“Aye!”

“He ain’t the Knife no more!”

“Who cares! He can still fight! Let’s see you get up there if you're so brave!”

“Kick him off and let normal folks get back at it!”

“Any challengers?” bellowed the innkeeper.

The crowd fell silent, eyes glaring and shifting restlessly about. The innkeeper turned to Ronan and shrugged.

“I’ll challenge!”

Ronan knew the voice immediately. He sighed.

“My lord Bridd,” he said, bowing. The lad stood below the edge of the platform, face flushed red.

“I’ll challenge,” repeated the regent’s nephew. He scrambled up and stood in front of Ronan. They were of the same height.

“You’ve fought already. Perhaps you should rest and—”

“I said, I’ll challenge!” Arodilac spoke through clenched teeth.

“Anger and swordplay is a poor mix,” said Ronan.

“Swords, innkeeper!”

“Swords!” yelled the innkeeper.

Arodilac fought with a fury and passion that seemed scarcely possible for someone of his age. His initial attack drove Ronan to the edge of the platform, so surprised was he. The crowd bellowed with approval. A hand grabbed his ankle and yanked, but he kicked back and felt his boot connect with someone’s face.

How old was the lad? Sixteen—perhaps seventeen. Surely he himself hadn’t been able to summon up such anger at that age. But he had. He had been just the same.

“What did you do to her?” said Arodilac. The roar of the crowd and the clangor of their swords was so loud that Ronan had to strain to hear him.

“Who?”

But he knew who.

“She won’t see me! She returns my letters!”

“Perhaps she’s no longer interested in you,” said Ronan.

Their swords whirled, inscribing twin arcs in the air, and met with a resounding clang. Shadows, but the boy had strong wrists. Given enough time and discipline, he’d make an excellent swordsman.

“What did you say to her, you scoundrel!”

Ronan flushed.

“You forget. Your uncle hired me for a job. I cleaned up your mess—that’s what I did—so don’t press me. I don’t take kindly to playing nursemaid for spoiled brats.”

Arodilac turned an even brighter shade of red at that. His teeth snapped together with a click audible even over the clangor of their blades.

“Maybe it was just a job to you!” he spat. “And maybe I’m a just child to you—but what of her? Did the job include trampling her heart? What did you say—what did you tell her, damn you! She won’t see me!”

“Does Owain Gawinn teach the sword or the art of conversation? In either case, he’s failed.”

The lad snarled at that and threw himself forward in such a wild flurry of strokes that the onlookers at the platform’s edge were forced to dodge the swinging blade.

“Enough,” said Ronan.

He reached out and caught the other’s sword wrist. His hand moved so quickly that scarcely a person among the onlookers saw the motion. The sword fell free from Arodilac’s hand and the boy struggled in the merciless grip—face white with outrage, his mouth gaping, and gone mute. In one quick jerk, Ronan spun him around and ran him right off the platform, heaving him into the air at the edge so that he fell hard, arms and legs sprawling onto the people below. The boy let out a yell as he flew through the air, echoed by those misfortunate enough to be in his path, but they were instantly drowned out by the roar of laughter that erupted from the yard.

The innkeeper clambered up onto the platform.

“Second win for Ronan!” he called aloud. He turned and spoke quietly. “Though not a single bet taken for that round. You’ll get no cut from the house and you’ll not get another idiot up here soon.”