The Viper and the Urchin: A Novel of Steampunk Adventure (Bloodless Assassin Mysteries Book 1)

by Celine Jeanjean

  A particularly strong blow sent her careening all the way back to the wall. Rory frowned. It looked like she had continued staggering back even after she had regained her balance.

  With a shout, she pushed herself from the wall and sprinted towards the giant, who roared and raised his broadsword. At the last moment she threw herself legs-first to the ground, skidding forward so that her momentum propelled her between the man’s legs, his sword missing her by a hair’s breadth. She slashed out twice with her rapier and dagger, and he pitched forward, blood gushing from the back of his heels.

  The Scarred Woman stood up. “See, that’s the thing with tendons, once they’re cut, even a giant like you becomes as useless as a baby.”

  She sheathed the rapier, and swung her dagger lazily so that it cut swirls out of the thick smoke.

  Traeon pushed himself back up to his knees, his feet trailing uselessly behind him. He picked up his broadsword, making a valiant effort to try and fight, but he couldn’t hold himself up.

  “Oh, well,” she said with a shrug, and she slit his throat. It was done quickly and matter-of-factly, as if she was just wringing the neck of a chicken. She wiped her dagger on Traeon’s tunic and returned to her friend, taking a sip from her stein as she sat down.

  Nobody in the tavern moved. A low moan rose up from behind the counter, along with whimpers about mess and guards and cleaning.

  Rory realised that she had been clutching her dagger so tight her knuckles were white and her hand ached. She relaxed her grip a little. The few patrons returned to their table, ignoring the enormous body and quickly spreading pool of blood.

  Rory mustered all her courage and stepped forward, her eyes never leaving the Scarred Woman.

  “Take me with you.”

  The Scarred Woman looked up, surprised. “Pardon me? Oh, you’re that kid from the lane. Very kind of you to warn me.”

  “Aye, it was. And since I saved your life, taking me with you’s the least you can do.”

  The Scarred Woman laughed. “You didn’t save anything, kid. You think I can’t handle a few boys? And anyway, seems to me that if anyone saved anything, it was me who saved you.”

  “I could be your assistant,” said Rory, trying a different tack. “I’d work real hard and I’m dead handy at things.”

  “By that you mean I’d have to act as your nursemaid.”

  “I don’t —”

  “What makes you think I need or want to drag a child around with me?”

  “I would work, I’d earn my way. I could… I’d look after your weapons.”

  “Any warrior worth her kills looks after her own weapons.”

  “I could cook.”

  “Cook my own food.” The Scarred Woman took a sip of beer.

  “I’ll do anything, whatever you want. I’d be useful, I really would.”

  “And if we got into a fight like this one, what would you do? Come crying to me for help? I didn’t see you step in with your little dagger.”

  “I don’t cry,” said Rory, jutting her chin forward.

  “Really?” The blow came before Rory could duck, catching her temple, throwing her to the floor. Her head cracked painfully against the stinking floorboards.

  “Gods girl, you weigh even less than you look,” muttered the Scarred Woman.

  She picked Rory up from the floor, setting her on her feet. She picked up the dagger too, and put it back in Rory’s hand. Rory’s legs swayed, her head dizzy from the blow and the fall. She blinked a few times to clear the spots that danced in front of her eyes.

  “See, I don’t cry. And my name ain’t ‘girl,’ it’s Rory,” she said.

  “Well, Rory, you’ve got nerve, I’ll give you that. More nerve than some men,” the woman added with a sigh.

  “So you’ll take me?”

  “Of course not. I don’t take anything with me that will slow me down. Go back to where you came from. Get some meat on your bones. Eat well. Grow big, grow strong; learn to fight. Learn to kill. If you become a decent fighter, and if we meet again in the land of the living, then maybe I’ll take you with me.”

  Rory nodded but she stayed where she was, worried that she would fall over if she tried to walk.

  “Are you alright, kid? Can you walk?”

  “ ’s alright, I been hit plenty of times before,” Rory replied. “I’ll be fine. But you watch out for me because one day I’m going to be as good a fighter as you are.”

  The Scarred Woman laughed. “Well, when you are, you and I can become partners.”

  Rory grinned, elated at the idea.

  “Alright, now get out of here,” said the Scarred Woman.

  “Aye aye.”

  Rory headed towards the door on uneasy legs. She felt as though she was on board a lurching ship.

  “Oh, and Rory? Never drop your blade again.”

  Chapter 4

  Rory reached the end of Tinsbury Dock and stepped into a derelict house. It stank of piss, sweat, and the ripeness of unwashed bodies. In the gloom she could make out shapes on the ground: beggars and others of the homeless persuasion were catching a little shut eye before the night shift of begging and stealing began. She had slept amongst them too, once upon a time. Before Jake.

  Rory picked her way up the stairs, nimbly avoiding the rotten planks. The house was a low, squat, two-storey affair. The first floor was practically rotted through, and there was very little to be found there other than a speedy return to the ground floor. Few bothered going up the stairs: the ground floor required no climbing and presented no risk of falling.

  She continued up, all the way to the roof through a hole that may have once been a skylight. The city stretched out in front of her, its thoroughfares crawling with people beneath the low sun that hung like a great bronze gong in the sky.

  Damsport occupied a peninsula, only attached to the mainland by a narrow strip of land aptly called the Bottleneck. In the centre was the Great Bazaar, and from it twelve straight wide roads ran out, arranged and numbered after the hours on a clock face. Squeezed in between Twelve and One was Thirteen, the road that led up to the cemetery.

  Traversals connected the thoroughfares, tracing concentric circles around the Great Bazaar. Rory liked to imagine that if she could fly as high as the seagulls, Damsport would look like a huge spider’s web. The key to the survival game in Damsport was to be a spider, not a fly. And right now she was definitely a fly, and Jake had ripped off her wings.

  “Bastard,” she whispered.

  She turned around and climbed up the roof, towards the chimney against which she liked to sit and watch the activity of the enclosed docks. It was a comforting place, safe and familiar, and exactly what she needed after the day’s events.

  Which was why she was less than impressed to find someone sat in her very spot, nonchalantly leaning back against the chimney. Rory pulled out her dagger. She had no intention of getting into a fight, but she was going to let the lad know that he wasn’t welcome here.

  Approaching from his right, she could see that he was young, somewhere around twenty. His clothes didn’t look like five people had died in them, he was clean, and his dark hair was neat enough to suggest the presence of a comb not too long ago. Although he had the dark skin of a Damsian, his was a few shades lighter than hers, indicating that he didn’t spend his days outdoors. That meant money. Probably the son of a merchant going through the requisite rebellious phase the wealthy young always seemed to indulge in. She had seen plenty of them slumming it in the poorer areas of Damsport for fun — until they got robbed and beaten, that is.

  Rory crept forward carefully. If she was lucky, she might be able to loosen his purse as she kicked him off her roof.

  She was about three arm’s-lengths away when he turned and faced her. His face had an arrogance that begged to be slapped.

  “Well, well. What have we got here?”

  His hands moved with speed and he produced a rapier, its blade gleaming in the sun. If it hadn’t been pointing a
t her, Rory would have found it beautiful. Then again, she thought that about every blade she clapped eyes on.

  “Not very neighbourly to try and kill a man when he is in the middle of deep contemplation.”

  “Who said anything about trying to kill you? I just want you off my roof is all.”

  “Your roof? Forgive me, I thought this was a rundown rat hole beggars slept in. From your immaculate clothing I gather that you are a wealthy property magnate? Delighted to meet you. Rafe’s the name, Mistress Magnate.”

  Rory scowled.

  “In fact,” continued Rafe, “unlike you, I have some knowledge of this place. The owner died a number of years ago, and he had no next of kin. That means the house is now public property. Do you understand what I’m saying? Public property,” he repeated slowly and loudly.

  “I’m not deaf.”

  “I don’t doubt your hearing for a second. It’s the comprehension part I’m dubious about.”

  “I understand you fine. And this roof belongs to me, right, because I’m the only one who comes up here.”

  “Evidence to the contrary, since I’m here too. But the roof is large enough for two, so why don’t we leave the blades out of it? You sit at one end, me at the other, and everybody’s happy.” As he spoke, Rafe sheathed his rapier, although he kept his hand on the hilt. “I’m not in the mood for a fight, although by the looks of you it wouldn’t be a fight so much as me beating you bloody, which I have to admit isn’t something I’m particularly fond of doing. Especially not when my opponent is a scrawny girl. I hear it’s ungentlemanly.”

  Rory ground her teeth. She was completely and infuriatingly outmatched now that she had lost the element of surprise.

  “The roof may be big enough for two, but you’re in my spot.” And now, to top it all, she sounded like a child whining after a stolen toy.

  “Ah, then I refer you to the ancient rule of finders keepers. If you want to keep your spot you have to get there before everyone else. But feel free to come and sit next to me if this spot is so important to you. No need to fear me, my preferences run towards girls of the less…fragrant variety.”

  He patted the space next to him, raising an eyebrow. For the second time that day, Rory saw red. Before she knew what she was doing, she was hurtling at him, blade cutting through the air.

  Unfortunately, air was all it cut.

  He caught her wrist with one hand, her throat with the other. He crushed her wrist and she let go of her dagger with a squeal of pain. It clattered on the tiles and slid along the roof, landing on the stones below with a faint clang. She felt it in her bones as clearly as if she herself had fallen off the roof, and she gasped.

  Rafe released her. “Well, that was uncalled for. I was being so polite, too. If I wasn’t a gentleman, what a good thrashing I’d give you. Now, if I were you I’d run along and fetch that dagger of yours. Talegian steel, if I’m not mistaken. Nice blade, for an urchin. You obviously take good care of it and it would be a shame to lose it.” A lazy smile spread across his face.

  Rory didn’t answer, shaking from anger and humiliation, and from worry for her dagger below. She hurried down, feeling a rush of relief when she spotted it, reflecting the late-afternoon sun.

  She picked it up, carefully inspecting the blade for any sign that the fall had damaged it, but it was fine. She tenderly ran a finger along it and returned it to her belt, where it belonged.

  What little adrenaline she had left evaporated and she sagged, drained. Everything was going wrong. Everything. She wanted to crawl into a hole and sleep until it was all behind her. But she’d be damned if she would sleep with the beggars, where that smug bastard could see her. Nor would she return to the shack she had shared with Jake.

  She turned to the lanes between Six and Seven and walked listlessly until she found a house that was derelict enough for her to climb up to its roof. Damsport's rooftops were her domain, no one knew them as well as she. Up on the rooftops, she was as powerful as the Marchioness herself, or at least she liked to think so.

  By the time the sun began to set she had found a place to spend the night, above a narrow and obviously rarely frequented lane. She made herself comfortable, leaning against a chimney stack, and watched the iron-grey clouds in the distance, the fading sunlight turning them pretty and pink. She wasn’t fooled — she knew what the arrival of the clouds meant. Summer storm was brewing, and no mistake about it.

  Chapter 5

  The night was hot and still, pregnant with anticipation, as it awaited the Viper’s next kill. Longinus felt the soup-like air part on either side of his face as he moved forward. The humidity was palpable, as though the air was thick with invisible spider’s threads.

  Summer storm won’t be long.

  He pulled his silk handkerchief over his mouth and nose, the vial of poison topped with a small atomiser ready in his other hand. The target had been most uncooperative in sticking to the thoroughfares and busier roads, but at last he had turned into a narrow and deserted lane. Houses loomed up on either side, four or five stories high, with narrow shuttered windows.

  Tonight’s target was a man with a neck wider than his head. He walked with a swagger, overly confident in the power of his guard’s uniform. The rapier at his side clinked against his left leg, making his gait sound uneven. Longinus held back at the lane’s entrance at first, then saw the guard’s purpose. He had wandered halfway into the lane, and was now leaning a hand against the wall as he contributed to the alleyway’s stink of urine.

  There really is nothing as inelegant as a guard.

  Longinus hurried forward silently, hugging the opposite wall. The poison he had prepared for tonight’s job was fast acting, so that a spray in the vicinity of the man’s face was enough for him to drop dead after a few breaths. Tonight was not about theatrics, it was about getting the job done. He was looking forward to returning home so he could work on his pamphlets.

  As he got closer, he was startled to find that the guard had a red handkerchief around the base of his neck. It brought to mind the terrible, bloody picture Mistress White Apron had painted and, distracted, he stepped into something soft.

  It squelched.

  The guard swung around, spraying an arc of urine. He smacked the vial out of Longinus’ hand and sent it crashing against the wall. Not bothering to put his tackle away, the guard pulled out his sword, the scratching sound of the blade against the scabbard setting Longinus’ teeth on edge. His sword was wide and heavy looking — a mean, crude weapon.

  Longinus opened his mouth to suggest the guard take a minute to put himself away before they crossed blades, but the man lunged at him before he could utter a word. Longinus ducked just in time, his reflexes slowed by his bewilderment at being attacked by a man hanging out loose like that.

  Realising that the code of gentlemanly conduct was of no importance to his opponent, Longinus was left with no alternative but to draw his own rapier, the leather-lined scabbard making little more than a whisper. The two blades clashed, screeching into the night.

  Longinus immediately launched into Ayre’s attack, footwork precise, movements a blur of speed. A good assassin should be versed in every method of killing, even something as distasteful as sword fighting, and Longinus was unrivalled with a rapier. All the same, he wished he had worn his boiled leather armour to protect himself from any cuts. He knew he was at a serious disadvantage: should first blood be drawn, he would be unable to continue fighting. He needed to disarm his opponent, and fast.

  The guard traced a vicious arc with his blade and Longinus used Sandercock’s defence to parry, the force of the impact vibrating in his arm.

  Lithe as a snake, nimble as a fly, lithe as a snake, nimble as a fly.

  The guard’s tendons stood out on his neck as he hacked with his sword, but Longinus danced around him, dodging and parrying every attack. His hand and wrist were already aching from absorbing the impact of his opponent’s formidable strength. He kept this up until he noticed that t
he guard’s thrusts were becoming clumsy.

  Time to use my signature envelopment, and his sword will be mine.

  Longinus didn’t have time to launch into the attack. The guard locked blades, closing in quickly, and punched him square in the face. Longinus staggered back, dizzy from the pain, and he tripped on a loose cobblestone. He fell flat on his back and the guard charged with a roar. Longinus’ reflexes kicked in. He stabbed out with his rapier.

  The roar abruptly turned to a gurgle that wasn’t enough to hide a wet, tearing sound, and the guard’s sword fell to the floor with a clang. Longinus released his rapier at once, leaving it protruding from the guard’s belly, and he scrambled away. The guard swayed on his feet, his mouth an ‘o’ of surprise. A dark stain spread out where the blade was embedded in his abdomen, and Longinus’ stomach contracted at the sight.

  He vomited.

  Oh gods, the blood, the blood!

  From the corner of his eye he saw the guard stagger towards him. The fabric of his uniform was saturated with blood and some of it dripped to the ground, the sound impossibly loud in Longinus’ ringing ears. He could smell it, sickly and salty.

  He vomited again, so violently that it spouted out of both his mouth and nose. His head swam and sick dribbled on his chin.

  The guard put a heavy hand on Longinus’ shoulder and spun him around, smacking a fist into his temple. Pain exploded in Longinus’ head. He tried to retaliate, throwing a clumsy punch, but he couldn’t focus. He missed, and the momentum had him lurching forward against the guard. His hand felt something wet through his silk glove.

  Longinus made a strangled sound and froze, unable to react as the guard’s hands closed around his throat, crushing his windpipe. Longinus could feel pressure building up in his head, his eyes bulging as though they wanted to abandon their sockets before things got worse.

  Suddenly the guard fell to the ground, dragging Longinus down with him. A little shadow rose up, picked up the loose cobblestone, and brought it crashing into the guard’s skull.