The Tattered Banner (Society of the Sword Volume 1) (50 page)

He recalled a tenet from one of his classes at the Academy, that the best way to win a fight is to avoid it altogether. It was not an approach that had ever made sense to him before, but it seemed to be appropriate to his present needs, so he made his plans accordingly. He was quite sure that the bodyguards would not be in the room with dal Trevison when he was with the prostitute. That would be the time to kill him. The only question that remained was how to get in there also.

Soren had always seen the rooftops as being an ally. In a city as old and crowded as Ostenheim, buildings tended to grow upward, the only direction usually available to them. The result was that the roofs of the city were almost as much of a warren of nooks and crannies as the alleyways below. There were half roofs and extensions everywhere, hiding places, forgotten windows and blocked up doorways to balconies that no longer existed.

Soren made his way onto the roof of the brothel and took his bearings. Like most of the buildings in the city the roof was of dark orange, ridged terracotta tiles. The tiles stopped short of the front of the building leaving a small flat roof that had a round table with four chairs around it, and a large plant in a pot with big, wide rubbery looking leaves. The prostitutes must come up here to relax when they are not working, Soren thought. It was actually a nice spot, peaceful high over the city. The building was tall enough that Soren could just glimpse the sea over the roofs of the city, with the sun setting on the horizon. He suddenly felt like an intruder, invading the unfortunate women’s small sanctuary.

There was a trap door in the corner of the roof. He went over to it and knelt down beside it. He listened carefully for several moments before gently lifting it open. There was a flight of rough wooden steps leading down into a darkened corridor. He silently descended the steps and into the corridor. He drew his dagger; the sword would be useless in such a confined environment, and quietly advanced.

The top floor seemed to be small bedrooms, where either the girls or the staff lived, but it was certainly not where business was conducted. The corridor was quite shabby; it had not been decorated for some time and was not nearly luxurious enough for entertaining customers. He made his way down one floor and the décor changed significantly. Instead of unvarnished floorboards, there was deep, plush, scarlet carpet. Expensive looking paintings lined the walls, and there was so much gilt that Soren wondered if it crossed the line from classy to gaudy. From the sounds coming from behind some of the doors he could tell that he had descended to a level on which the brothel’s business was conducted.

Identifying what room dal Trevison was in was the only obstacle left. The working practice of the brothel would help to some extent; the girls placed a red tassel over the door handle of any room that was in use. Only one of the rooms on this floor had a tassel on the door, but Soren knew from a previous scouting visit that the higher profile clients were entertained on the lower floors. They didn’t want to be fatigued from climbing up too many stairs.

He made his way down to the next floor, which was the last one above the ground floor. It was here that he thought it most likely that he would find dal Trevison. There were eight doors lining the corridor, and three of them had tassels on their handles. Taking his chances, he reached for the handle on the first door, and opened it slightly.

‘This one’s taken, can’t you see!’ said a young woman in a state of undress, standing by a bed occupied by a man that was not dal Trevison. He had not opened the door enough to reveal his face and he had decided to wear a mask on this job so he would be unrecognisable if seen. On the other missions, a mask was either inappropriate or not needed, as there would be no witnesses alive to identify him. On this job, there was a likelihood that he would be seen by one, or several of the courtesans. They were innocents, and he had no desire to kill any of them. He hoped the mask would make this possible, but being seen wearing one before completing his task would cause the alarm to be raised and destroy any chance of him successfully carrying it out. He closed the door quickly with a mumbled apology and moved on to the next door. What he saw when he opened the door left him mouth agape in surprise.

Surprise subsided quickly to an uncomfortable amusement. In his investigation he had heard rumours of dal Trevison’s tastes, but the forewarning was still not enough to prepare him for the ridiculous scene before him. Dal Trevison was strapped to a wooden frame, arms and legs outstretched. A courtesan stood next to him with a light whip in her hands. His entry caused her to pause in what she had been doing, and she cast him a stern gaze.

‘What is it? What’s going on?’ said dal Trevison. He was strapped to the frame belly first, and the restraints prevented him from turning his head far enough to see what was going on behind him. He strained at the leather straps and his frustration was evident as he twitched and twisted, the wooden frame creaking in protest.

‘Get out! Can’t you see we’re busy!’ screeched the courtesan.

Soren couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. It was not a very fearsome introduction, but was completely unavoidable, and he hoped his appearance would be menacing enough despite this. He pushed back the folds of his cloak to reveal his blades, which had the desired effect of shutting the courtesan up.

‘If you remain very quiet, you may survive this night,’ Soren said to her, as menacingly as he could, although he felt its effect was diminished by his earlier levity.

‘Who the hell do you think you are bursting in here like this? Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea what I can have done to you for interrupting me like this?’ said dal Trevison furiously. He continued to rage, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth as he twisted and jerked against the leather restraints. The pasty white skin of his back was streaked with pink lines where the courtesan had been flogging him. She had retreated to a corner of the room where she had adopted the foetal position and was whimpering in terror, her earlier bravado now well and truly gone. Soren suppressed another laugh as he returned his stare to dal Trevison, who at that moment was perhaps the most ridiculous looking man he had ever seen. He stepped forward and spoke, interrupting dal Trevison’s stream of vitriol.

‘I know who you are,’ said Soren, in a low throaty voice, ‘and that is the reason I am here.’ In a smooth movement he stabbed dal Trevison through the ribs, just where the blade would puncture the heart and cause a swift death, more than he deserved. From what he had heard, dal Trevison liked to reciprocate the treatment he was receiving, but with far more vigour.

‘You can start screaming in five minutes,’ Soren said to the cowering woman, ‘any sooner than that and I will be back for you.’ As an afterthought he threw her a purse containing five crowns, more than she would have earned from dal Trevison, before turning and leaving the room.

C h a p t e r   5 0

A SLIPPERY SLOPE?

‘W
elcome back, sir. Mister Mateo told me to keep an eye out for you tonight!’ said the doorman. He beckoned for Soren to enter the club from the doorway. ‘Good luck with your duel, sir,’ he added as Soren passed him.

The doorman’s obsequiousness sickened Soren almost as much as his bad teeth. He went down the stairs and quickly spotted Mateo standing by the table with the strongbox, talking to two men in particularly fine clothing. Now that he thought of it, there were a number of notably well dressed people there, even more so than on the last night. Soren hoped they were not there on the back of word of his duel on the previous occasion. Mateo spotted him and hurried over.

‘You’re here! Excellent! I was beginning to worry that you would not come. Your purse for tonight will be fifty crowns. As I’m sure you can see, word of your duel has generated quite a bit of interest in high society.’ He seemed a little nervous tonight in contrast to his relaxed and confident manner on the previous night. ‘There will be a few duels before yours, but yours is the main event of the evening. Needless to say there are some very important people here; this night could prove very beneficial to both of us. I hope you’ve brought your best.’

‘You don’t need to worry about that,’ Soren replied. He was slightly irked at having to wait for his duel again. Ever since leaving his apartment he had been anticipating the action like a hungry man awaiting a gourmet meal. ‘Is there somewhere private that I can wait?’

‘Yes, of course, this way,’ Mateo said. He led Soren to a small room behind the bar. It was far from luxurious, being little more than a storage closet containing a single stool, but it suited Soren. His primary concern was to be away from the gawking looks of the people that had gathered in the cellar that night. The room was damp, musty and dark, so he sat back and closed his eyes. His mind drifted to Alessandra. It always did when the darkness came. He tried to force his mind to other thoughts, but it was impossible to blot her out, or the hurt and anger that thoughts of her brought.

A knock on the door brought him back to his senses. He had no idea how long he had been resting in the small room, but apparently it had been long enough. The barman peered in and Soren followed him out into the cellar that played host to the duelling club.

The previously rowdy crowd quieted as he walked toward the black carpet, led out by Mateo. It made him uncomfortable to know that every eye in the room was on him, but he maintained as blank a face as he could, something that resembled a scowl, but not so much that it would seem forced. He was uncertain how much people would know about him, but the crowd was larger, and a significant percentage looked very wealthy. As with all things in the city, the underground duelling dens varied in their level of sophistication and class. This one would only have been somewhere in the middle of the scale. It was better than the rougher places that had little more than brawls calling themselves duels and would rarely if ever see a true swordsman, but it was not a top tier venue that attracted the wealthiest of citizens. This evening, many of the spectators looked decidedly out of place in their finery. He tried to ignore them as he took his place at the end of the carpet, but it made him wonder how Amero had coped with the thousands of spectators in the Amphitheatre.

Mateo launched into a speech that Soren didn’t pay any attention to. He looked at the man at the other end of the black carpet. After the last night, there would be no element of surprise available to Soren. After that display, he wondered what kind of man would put himself forward for this duel. Was he there by choice? It didn’t matter. It was not Soren’s intention to kill this man, although that had also been the case on the last night when he had killed. The fact unnerved him a little, but he was aware of it and forewarned was forearmed.

The man was again much older than Soren. This club seemed to attract a certain down on their luck type of swordsman. He was dressed in worn but well fitted duelling clothes, and his blades looked well maintained with a keen edge. The condition of a banneret’s weapons was often a better indicator of his mettle than his appearance. His face was firm and his eyes showed no fear. He looked like a man that had faced many hard fights, but had come through them on top. What would bring a man like that to a club like this? Could it have been the thrill of combat? The same thing that had brought Soren there?

Mateo had finished his introductions, so it was time to begin. They both saluted and it began. Soren fought off his initial urge to try to tap into the energy in the room. He was hesitant as a result of the death of his previous opponent. The killing had been uncontrollable, as though his body were entirely detached from his mind and was operating purely on instinct. Some detachment made for the best swordplay though. While the mind commanded the body, it was separated from the pain and fatigue signals that the body would ordinarily send back. The Gift seemed to have prevented him from sending a stop command back to his body though, and this bothered Soren.

Without any effort on his part, the Gift of Grace gave him an almost constant advantage in speed and strength. He reasoned that his perception of time was probably affected when he was in this state, although for him this was what was normal, and if there was any effect on how he saw things, it was not enough for him to notice. He had come to think of this as his ‘state of grace’. He could not forget however, the occasion when he fought dal Dardi and the state of grace had seemed to desert him completely, something he still had no explanation for.