“She doesn’t like you,” he informed the agent.
“I know.”
“Don’t come back.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“If I see you again, I’ll smack you ’til you’re unfit in the head then toss you into the street. Understand that?”
Borchus sensed he was one smart reply from having that very threat become reality. Gurga didn’t strike him as a talker, and so he was thankful for the advanced warning.
The agent kept his answer civil. “Only came in for a drink.”
Gurga’s harsh features screwed up into a bear’s snarl. Borchus didn’t wait for a reply or a second warning. He walked past the huge enforcer and into the warm night, leaving the merriment of the alehouse behind. The feeling of being watched came over him, but he didn’t turn around. He selected a direction and walked away, not wanting to give Gurga a reason to strike.
As he strolled along beneath a festive line of glowing lanterns, Borchus concluded that Sindra would require much more effort this time. Hadree’s alehouse could be a wealth of information concerning gladiators and, as such, could not be simply forgotten. And he couldn’t allow Sindra to dissuade him from his goals, even though she’d done exactly that with ease tonight. Annoyance flared within Borchus. The woman kept him on his toes and could disarm or distract him with her wit, charm, and—dare he admit it?—curves.
Still, he had to bring her into the fold. He couldn’t frequent the alehouse every night in hopes of overhearing bits of useful information. Having a person there was far more preferable.
He’d go back. In a couple of nights. When she wasn’t expecting it.
Trouble was, Borchus knew she expected him to return, and when he eventually did, the question would be, what would happen? Would she finally listen to his proposal, or would she release Gurga to make his life considerably more painful?
As a rule, Borchus was adverse to pain.
It was worth the risk, however. Sindra was far too valuable to let slip away. Far too important.
I’m going to die there, the somber thought occurred to him. Sindra knew him better than he knew himself, even after all these years. Stubborn, she’d called him. Yes, he’d prove her right. It would make her happy. He recalled their brief conversation and how she’d kept it entirely vague. That made him smile.
The smells of the city wafted by as he arrived at a side street and turned. Men and women walked or staggered along. Some felt their spirits more than others, talking, giggling, laughing. The garish streamers crossed overhead. Some unattended merchant stalls had been covered with bare planks, while some larger stores had their shutters and doors closed. Sunja, Borchus thought: a city said to be over two thousand years old, which was reason enough for Marrn to say its own history reached back two thousand, five hundred years. He’d traveled that neighboring country on Sunja’s northeastern border but didn’t care for it. The people were far too competitive for his liking, far too convinced of their superiority.
Sindra. Age agreed with her. The thought pleasantly settled into Borchus’s mind as he walked through thinning streams of people. He kept an eye on familiar houses and inns, looking for one in particular where an alleyway would take him through a maze of smaller streets and narrow lanes. The city hadn’t changed much at all since his departure, and he’d only needed to walk a few paces before recognizing the area.
The inn came into view, a towering four-level frame built of sturdy oak and pine. Borchus crossed in front of an embracing couple and stole down the alley, sticking close to the middle to avoid tripping in any refuse along the sides. He got halfway through before he froze as if treading on a squeaky floorboard. An unseen force guided him to turn around and look back the way he’d come.
A man stood just inside the mouth of the alleyway, his form masked in shadow. The appearance of the figure startled him for a heartbeat. Borchus waited, hearing muffled strings and horns through the inn’s walls. The heavy beat of a drum kept pace with his pulse. Borchus didn’t like the way the stranger lingered there, but he forced himself to remain still, wondering what might be afoot. He preferred to avoid the main streets and keep to the back ways to identify any potential followers and lose them.
Or confront them.
The muffled music died away, but the drum pounded on relentlessly. The dark outline of a man lingered for a few steady beats, not moving and raising Borchus’s concern. The thought of dead Strach rotting below the city came to him, but he’d been sure no one had seen that killing. He was certain of it.
The shadowy stranger lifted a hand to his unseen face as if scratching something. Borchus tensed. The figure took an awkward step, staggered really, before bumping into the inn’s corner and disappearing out of sight.
Borchus let his breath out, relief replacing unease. He waited in case the figure might reappear. The horns and strings joined with the drum once more, rushing to a crescendo and finishing with a happy crash of applause. Voices babbled from the walls.
Replaced with a hurried rush of air.
Danger flashed through Borchus as he spun and slapped away a dagger stabbing for his chest. A huge shadow crashed into him and slammed him to the wall. Garbage nudged and rattled at his feet. He held on to the knife arm as the shadowy presence wrestled for supremacy. Having missed his mark, the attacker jerked his blade back and cocked his arm to stab again.
Borchus kicked the man’s knee, and the figure buckled with a grunt. The agent yanked his hidden belt knife free and barrelled into a torso, forcing the man back on his knees. Borchus punched three hard blows into a chest before jamming the short blade under a chin in a soupy gush of black. The attacker gargled horribly, attempting to draw breath past steel. Borchus withdrew his weapon, and the shadow sagged into a stack of crates.
Chest heaving from the short but intense combat, Borchus looked up to see another shadow walking down the alley—an extended arm ending in a curved dagger.
Borchus freed himself from the corpse. Blood from his buckle knife speckled the ground. He didn’t run. Instead, he faced the approaching newcomer. Beyond the walls, the music started again. The drum pounded out a much faster beat this time, accompanied by an angry fiddle.
The approaching shadow blotted out the light of the distant street. Big. This new shade was much bigger than the dead one. Taking a deep breath, Borchus steadied himself.
The attacker lunged, slashing at Borchus’s face. The dagger split air, whistling back and forth, before jabbing for the eyes. Borchus backed up with every cut, feeling the wind from those vicious slices. He ducked and stabbed, thrusting for a throat, but the larger attacker dodged easily before striking again. Borchus retreated a pace, expecting to hit a wall any moment. He slashed at his foe and heard a surprised hiss.
The man charged him.
A bolt of panic went through Borchus as the shadow bull-rushed into his chest and crushed him against the alley wall. Borchus threw out his left hand as if imploring the man to stop and caught a bulging bicep. Borchus gasped with the effort needed to keep that arm away. He braced his feet and pushed, panting, thighs knotting, and forced the larger man back. A faceless head buckled down, imposing his greater mass. Borchus bared his teeth, his forehead stopping against a muscular shoulder, and felt the surprising lick of a knife cutting, slicing, sawing away at his midsection.
Borchus let loose a short squeal of pain, felt the air biting at long cuts in his guts, and realized his own knife was pinned to his waist.
The cutting ceased for an instant as the killer refilled cavernous lungs. Black eyes narrowed as the man forced his weight upon his trapped quarry once again, long arm working the knife deeper, lighting up the agent’s mind in a whip’s crack of agony.
Borchus fell back, twisting the man and thumping him into the building, where he dropped to a knee. The hateful tip of the knife slipped out of Borchus’s side. The relief was euphoric as the pain lessened by degrees. The killer’s grip on Borchus’ knife hand loosened, and Borchus ripped it f
ree. He slashed a chest then the arm he still held.
A high-pitched huff of pain escaped the killer. He fended off Borchus’s thrusts and slammed into him once again, trapping him against coarse timbers. The unknown attacker jammed a forearm across his chin, pressing Borchus’s cheek to wood. Borchus grabbed the man’s knife arm, slowing the thrust aimed for his neck. Flapping his own weapon arm free, he stabbed his foe’s throat.
The shadow caught the arm at the bicep.
They stood there in that killing, ever-shrinking embrace as their strength burned away, knives poised only fingers away from jugulars. They grunted, the sound out of tune with the inn’s music. Their arms trembled, pushing their blades ever closer to their marks.
The alley disappeared. The darkness deepened. Eyes narrowed. Teeth gleamed.
Blood and sweat dripped off Borchus as he pushed with all his remaining might. The tip of his blade crept forward, closer with every crashing heartbeat, closing with the shadow’s exposed neck.
The man’s eyes widened.
Though the stranger was larger, it became all too clear Borchus was stronger.
The shadow attempted a scream as his strength finally left him. Borchus’s knife punched into his neck, right up to the bloody knuckles. A grunt escaped the man’s lips, and he collapsed, suddenly boneless. Borchus kicked the carcass back and leaned heavily against the wall. He struggled for breath. He pressed a hand to his side and winced. Black motes filled his vision before he squeezed his eyes shut. Borchus gasped, sucked in air, and looked for other attackers.
Only then did he notice the music inside the inn had ceased.
Bandages. He needed something to slow the bleeding.
Grimacing, Borchus stooped. He released pressure on his wound to cut away a wad of dry cloth from the dead man’s shirt. His breathing deepened. Blood seeped past his waist and down his leg. He focused on folding the cloth into a thick compress and applied it to the cut. The pressure almost brought him to his knees. He groaned, and hearing his own voice prompted him to check the alley once again.
Who were they? He regarded the unmoving lumps in the dark. The urge to examine them closer tempted him, but his bleeding side would have none of it. He needed a healer.
Placing a hand against the wall, Borchus moved at the best speed he could manage, exiting the alley from the far end.
Leaving a sprinkle of blood in his wake.
*
The third gang member sat upon the steps of a merchant’s store. To passersby, he was a drunken reveller from the nearby inn, getting some fresh air before staggering back into a musical fray. He had an excellent view of the alley across the street, waiting for the deed to be done. Whenever Jaro took on a killing, he always sent packs of three: two to do the job and one standing back to watch and ensure the work was done.
Or to report back to Jaro if the attempt failed.
When Borchus staggered from the alley, the gang member expertly concealed his alarm. He watched the smaller man go, noting how the agent pressed a hand to his side. The agent was alive. That meant Jaro’s killers were dead or dying.
Having worked the trade for a very long time, the gang member allowed Borchus to place some distance between him and the alley. A short time later, he stood, not as drunk as he’d seemed. He dusted off his behind and followed the agent toward whatever rat hole he might scurry into.
*
Halfway to dawn, Borchus nearly collapsed on the cellar door where he and Garl stayed through the nights. The stitches in his wound tugged uncomfortably. The healer he’d visited was the same long-bearded, rabbit-eating man he, Garl, and Halm had found days ago. Though well past closing time, the man still allowed Borchus into his workplace and treated him with the same stoicism as before. That kind of professionalism demanded right and proper compensation, and Borchus had paid the healer well.
With his side burning, Borchus paused before the cellar door and regarded the alley. He’d been careful walking home, circling the area twice before deciding it was safe. Even then, he glanced over his shoulder far more often than he should. The only people in the streets lay out of harm’s way, sleeping off the night’s drinking. At one point, he saw the torches of the patrolling street watch but avoided them.
Home, his wretched home, had beckoned.
Facing the planks, Borchus winced as he bent over and scratched his fingernails on the wood three times. A dull clump sounded from below, prompting Borchus to scan the alleys’ shadows again. Above the darkened peaks and spires, the night sky glittered.
The cellar door opened a crack.
“Garl.”
“Borchus?”
“Let me in, quickly.”
“What?”
“Let me in.”
A scraping followed as Garl undid a pair of inner hooks. The one-legged man lifted the top of the lid high enough for Borchus to slip his fingers into the crack. He lifted, weak from blood loss and effort. He expecting his stitches to burst, but they held. As quietly as he could, Borchus descended to the cellar, making note to pay the cobbler for use of the space below his house. The sum was due at week’s end.
To his credit, Garl held his tongue until Borchus was below ground and the door closed and hooked.
“Where have you been?” Garl blustered. “What’s wrong? Has something happened? Why are you––”
Borchus waved a hand, indicating he wanted a moment to settle in. He walked into the deeper section of the cellar, rounded a corner, and eventually sat down on his cot with a sigh of relief. A second candle burned in a metal holder with a thick crown of melted wax at the base. An anxious Garl appeared on his crutches a beat later.
“Well?”
“A pair of dogs tried to kill me.” Borchus gently laid himself down.
“What?” Garl’s face bleached in the candlelight, and his breath quickened. “What?”
“I’d been visiting people when they came upon me in an alleyway. Tried to stick me with daggers. Two very eager bastards.”
“Who were you visiting?”
“That’s not important.”
“It is if someone tried to kill you shortly after.”
“No one who would want me dead.”
“All right. All right, so who tried to kill you?”
Borchus stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know. It was dark. I happened to be bleeding, so I wasn’t so concerned with finding out who was holding the blades. I was concerned about finding a healer, which is why I’m taking my time walking around, and you’re no doubt smelling something akin to onions. I swear that healer slapped me with an entire––”
“Were you followed?”
The alarm in his tone made Borchus hesitate. “What makes you think I was followed?”
“Borchus, we killed Strach only yesterday night. We killed him. I include myself because the Sons won’t care. We killed Strach last night, and tonight someone tried to kill you. I think it’s obvious. They know.”
This time, Borchus’s eyes narrowed. “The Sons? You think the Sons tried to have me killed?”
“If they did, then someone saw us kill Strach. They know what we look like. Oh, dying Seddon, dying Seddon.”
“Be quiet, there’s a family above us.”
“A family that lives on a level above the level above us.” But Garl glanced nervously in the direction of the cellar door.
“No one followed me,” Borchus said.
“So you said, but obviously someone had been following you.”
“The whole thing might have been a chance occurrence.”
“A chance occurrence? Do you really believe that? In our work? After what we’ve done?”
Borchus mulled on that as Garl’s infectious worry spread to him. “You have a point.”
“Oh, dear Seddon above. Oh, dear Seddon.” Garl rubbed his face. “Someone saw us last night. They found the body and started hunting for us.”
“They could have, but one day seems quick to me.”
“I’ve got one leg!�
�� Garl blinked at his outburst and attempted better control. “And you’re not exactly forgettable. The Sons have eyes everywhere. Everywhere. They could find us easily enough.”
“Listen to me. Listen. We’re in a city of tens of thousands. It’s wartime. There are several men around missing legs. You aren’t the only one.”
“What are you saying? They’ll never find me? Pah!”
“All right.” Borchus patted the air. “Calm yourself. We must think clearly.”
Garl quieted and glanced back at the cellar door, his haunted eyes widening. He held up a hand. The sight raised Borchus’s own alarm. He pulled himself to a sitting position, wincing at his wound’s protests.
For long moments, the two men waited. Listened.
“It’s nothing,” Borchus said, but he whispered all the same.
“Thought I heard something.”
“The cellar door is hooked.”
“Are you unfit? If the Sons are out there, and they suspect we’re in here, a cellar door isn’t going to stop them.”
“Then there you have it. They aren’t out there. Calm yourself.”
That point made Garl look back at the cellar entrance. His expression softened, and he started breathing again.
“It’s the Sons. I know it,” he whispered, terror rising to his face. “And they know about us. And if they know, we’re dead men. The Sons won’t stop until they find us. And being stabbed in an alleyway would be a blessed kiss from Seddon compared to what they could do.”
Borchus clapped his hands over his forehead and forced his brain to work while Garl fidgeted. “Will you stop moving. Let me think. First, you don’t know exactly if Strach really belonged to the Sons, correct? Only rumors, you said.”
“I said that to relax you.”
Borchus balked at that revelation.
“We should leave the city,” Garl said in an urgent whisper, “at once. It’s the only way to save our miserable hides. And our eyes. Oh, sweet… our eyes.”
Garl set his jaw, trying with all his might to control the raw terror crackling through his person. Just watching him placed Borchus on edge.
131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges Page 14