He abandoned all pretense of skill and gripped his weapon with both hands as I went to one knee. He smashed against the fragile steel wall I hoisted in my defense, over and over, each blow ringing deeply in my soul. Even through the gloves my hands were weakened and stinging. Then, without warning his downward blow reversed and the upstroke cast the sword from my hand. It sparkled and sang goodbye to me as it fluttered into the open air of the dark night.
But his victory was not without cost. Steam erupted from him in bright clouds, highlighted by the distant moon. His breath, like mine, came in ragged gasps and his eyes boiled with rivers of molten hate as they cooked me.
“What now, fool?” he spat through clenched teeth.
“Now that the guards have their bows?” He spun, in a circle, every direction bristling with steel headed death as I lunged leftward for the rope I had secreted at this corner, “Escape.”
When the bards tell this story I will swing gracefully from the rooftop as guards pierce the assassin with a rain of arrows. Don’t get me wrong, twenty shafts left bows with the sound of a cloud of oncoming hornets, and at least fourteen penetrated the frail flesh of the assassin with ease. Using the age old soldier’s adage of ‘if it needs killed, it can’t be killed too much’ the shafts were followed by another volley. Many more skipped off the roof, but the shooters continued to nock and fire until the hired killer topped off of his feet. All that will be told in gory detail, and be absolutely correct. No, the error would be once I left the roof assuming that I’m at all safe or graceful.
I plunged a man length before the rope became taut in my grip. Even worse, rolling off the roof had given me some lateral momentum that carried me away from the wall, only now to be slammed back against it. The gloriously torturous yank slowed my fall, but threatened to pop my shoulder from its socket. I continued to descend, dragged upright by a stubborn fist forged in a thousand sword fights. I squeezed for my life, feeling quickly building heat of the rough rope speeding through the cage of fingers and heavy leather. The ground came up too quickly, but I hit it with bent legs as two arrows shattered against the stone above me.
Right plucked the short sword from the ground and slid it into the sheathe without help from my eyes. Beaten and tortured, Left grabbed rags from around my face, unknotted trick ties around every limb, and left fluttering cloths falling like forgotten sins behind me. I sprinted like a madman into the first open door and into the bowels of the inn. As far as anyone would be concerned, I was an assassin, and would take whatever measures required to make me dead.
This is when everything else stopped going my way.
The spiral staircase ahead boiled over with guards from above. Covered in snow, fresh nicks in my sword, rope burns on my glove, there would be no time for explanation before execution. Instead I bolted down a side hall. Behind me three guards sang in unison, booming voices making up in volume what the missed in melody, “WEST CORRIDOR, NORTH END, SOUTHWARD.”
And then there were a lot more soldiers.
Cute trick. And my feet beat the floor like they resented it, but thought I made strides on the heavily laden soldiers, behind me they sung, “WEST CORRIDOR, SOUTH END, SOUTHWARD.”
Guards sprang into the hallway from all sides, forcing me into the next doorway without even a bit of consideration. Steam and smoke slapped the lingering fingers of cold from my body as cooks gasped and cried out as I slammed the heavy door on the hand of an erstwhile apprehender.
A voice shouted out of the Fog, almost lost in the bustle of a far away marketplace, The trick to losing people in a busy place is to make it busier. Pick the holes in the crowd and run there. Just make damn sure they close behind you.
That is why I dove over a table and reached up and yanked down the metal racks holding the cookware down behind me. Food of all types went flying as I toppled baskets, bowls, cauldrons, and pots in my wake. Boiling mush, iced fruit preserves, slippery dollops of fat, and hard dried vegetables slowed my pursuit, but hope, all hope, hinged on the door ahead leading somewhere, anywhere I could disappear.
Of course that’s when I burst forth into the Grand Central Hallway, skidding to a halt in front of a crowd of people who’s whim could separate my head from my shoulders. The first to notice was the quartet of musicians who broke off their songs and uncovered the muffled calls of pursuit. Given the honored head of the table, the dwarves looked on curiously. Next to them, storm clouds gathered over the gaily painted face of Horatio O’Riagáin. Further down the table, flanked by Jon and Miller and escorted by Gelia, Aelia watched me with wide eyes. She paled visibly. Guards all around the room tensed and practiced killing me in their minds. I did the only thing I could think of, and made the most intricate, respectful low bow I was capable of.
Horatio stood and demanded, “What is the meaning of this?”
I fluttered through a hundred mental costumes but they all frayed into dust in my hands. I smiled, but my mouth opened and closed without even a hint of an explanation. And that was when my pursuers burst into the Hall and tackled me to the floor. I hit my chin on the stone and stars blossomed before my eyes. Under the press of a dozen bodies they stripped me of half a dozen weapons (leaving a goodly number behind) and hauled me to my feet.
But at the exasperated, lilting repetition of, “What is the meaning of this?” had them forcing me to one knee as they all prostrated themselves as a group. Several were shooed out by the ranking man, leaving four to keep their hands on me.
“Sire, we apprehended this assassin.”
Miller and Jon, stationed at her side, stood shocked and mute as Aelia bounced to her feet, cheeks flushing as she shouted, “That is not an assassin! That is my manservant!”
Someone took the obvious shot, “Your manservant is an assassin?”
“The assassin is dead on the roof, along with all his weapons of murder. I interrupted him as he sought to slay one of your good and Lordly number.” I said. Or I would have if right after the word ‘interrupted’ I hadn’t caught a mailed fist to the back of the head, making the world spin drunkenly. My heart began to thunder in my chest, clouding my ears with its infernal beat. The Animal wanted out, tugging and pulling at me to let it free to kill. Not yet, damn it!
I shook my ears clear of the ringing as Horatio was saying, “…to understand that there is an assassin on the roof of this very inn, Lieutenant Palmer?”
Again I piped up, “There is, with all his equipment and articles of death, Your Grand Lordship.”
Or that is what I would have said if there hadn’t been a quick “Shut up, you!” and a fist to the side of my face right after the word ‘is’ passed my lips.
I stared into the glassy, bloodshot eyes of the abusive guard, noticing several days worth of beard, the rotting teeth from too much drink, and cruel set to his lips. A flood of jumbled memories erupted from the Fog and I was filled with such raw hate that only divine providence kept him from bursting into flames under heat of my stare. He saw the fire inside me, and was not afraid.
What I missed was Horatio asking, “How is it this man,” indicating me, “managed to discover a plot against one of us when all of you did not?”
But the guard that had hit me decided to hawk a quick gobbet onto my cheek. And then the Beast burst forth and for the life of me I could not catch him.
The loose, thin outer shirt had a dozen uses. One of the most popular was: If you are held, it is much easier to give guards the shake if the shirt rips when you pull back violently. The shirt sleeve parts, leaving one arm free and the right man can do a lot of damage with one hand.
My thumb found the face of the man who hit me, nail biting into an eyeball and causing him to let go of the other arm. The remaining guards fought to get closer and put hands on me, tripping over one another as I rolled away and slipped the thick, steel rods out of the fronts of my boots. One guard had his hands on my collar until one rod whipped into his temple and dropped him like a sack of shit. The one behind me closed his hands around m
y neck, but before he could press the advantage I thrust the needle sharp point of a rod into his kneecap, shattering it. The next got his sword out, but then a thrown rod pierced his forearm, paralyzing the muscles and causing him to drop his weapon. Lieutenant Palmer got his sword out to en garde, but instead of attacking he backed off before my fury.
Of course to the audience of aristocrats, he appeared to fear my shin length rod. Somewhere in the room, one of the nobles was clapping. A few others giggled. A couple tossed coins to show appreciation at the wonderful show.
I blinked, vision clearing of the red, murderous haze. Though the royals might have been impressed and amused, their personal guards had drawn in close. Everyone had been caught off balance by the viciousness of my attack, but now they were ready, simply weighing the odds of killing me in one shot. Everywhere I looked I saw spring guns, throwing daggers, darts, and all other manner of missile. They were all ready to dance in front of their respective charge, dying in their stead while hurling my own death back. Only then could I call back the Animal and put him in his cage.
Gelia shot from Aelia’s side and ran to me, covering shoulders with her light cloak in a display of modesty so extreme as to be comical. She tutted and produced a plain, functional kerchief and pressed it into my cut chin. I started to recoil, but she handled me roughly, eyes beseeching me to simply play along. Even before I realized I was trusting her an awful lot, I did letting her minister to my hurts as if I was a child back from the fields. The sight of the old woman without fear, ministering like a grandmother, sent a titter amongst the great and the good and relaxed the room slightly. I tossed the rod to the pile of crying men at my feet. I spoke around her, gasping, “I found the assassin because I was looking for him, Your Grand Lordship.”
Horatio O’Riagáin, Grand Duke of The Sorrow Wood and Golden Hills stared at me with a mix of awe and terror. “You are indeed a man of great skill, Crow.”
“You are too kind, Your Grand Lordship.” Gelia backed away to her place by Aelia and I bowed again, “Does that mean I can examine the body?”
For the record, that’s how you keep from being arrested as an assassin. I’m not sure how you prep the princess, the cleric, and the fop before hand to make sure it all goes off at the right time, but the theory is sound.
You see, I asked to see the body and was immediately denied. Horatio wanted his own men to go over the corpse. It was fine with me, I just needed an uncomfortable excuse to be dismissed. Requesting the body was easy enough, the adamant denial immediate enough, that suspicions were raised. Nobles began asking uncomfortable questions about where the guards had been, and why the mulled wine had been handed out to guards on duty instead of waiting in the barracks for when they were off duty as was customary. In fact, nobody could really see anything wrong with a warm, spiced drink on a cold night, but service all at once- distracting the guards all at once- cried out for answers. Nobles do not like being made to search for answers by their peers. They like less being forced to find answers in front of their inferiors (namely me).
I was dismissed, and even graciously helped pick up the men I had beaten senseless not minutes before. I took care to wind up holding up the poor bastard who’s knee was even now swelling angrily as it bled profusely. Voices behind were becoming more clipped and measured as we ushered ourselves out, a sure sign that the friendly façade of the feast was collapsing fast. I did hear one name, intoned as a shield against the incoming glares by Horatio O’Riagáin. It was Captain O’Loinsigh.
We were moving as a knot toward the healer’s quarters, past the dispersing guards in the hallways. I got a few hard stares, but nobody was willing to move against the servant of one of the Grand Duke’s guests just yet. We made a staircase and descended below ground level. The smell of herbs became overwhelming, and a lot of banging on a great oak door brought a small wizened man out of hiding. The injured were brought inside, and the leader of this little gang and I made to leave. I let the little twerp get to the base of the stairs before I tripped him face down and planted my boot into his groin with all the force I could muster.
It took several minutes before he could speak, and when he could nothing he said would be considered printable in a civilized society. My shirt was torn, sleeves missing, and Gelia had pinned on a white modesty cloak to what remained, an overall effect that was quite ridicules. Yet I needed to be taken seriously by the young Lieutenant. A sharp knife pressed gently into the lower lid of his left eye focused him on the benefits of civil discourse.
When I asked, “Captain O’Loinsigh. Where is his room?”
“I will kill you, assassin.” Was not the answer I wanted.
“What? You figure that the four guys you had with you the first time was too much of a handicap?” I removed the knife and sat back on the stair, my posterior inches from his face. I made as if cleaning my nails with the blade, “A compromise Lieutenant: You tell me where O’Loinsigh is and I promise that the next time you unsheathe a sword near me, I will gladly turn you into meat where you stand.”
The young man staggered to his feet, his hands twitching for the grip of his sword, but I was so very close, and the dagger in my hand was so very sharp.
“He should be in his quarters.”
“And those are?”
“His is the first door west past the barracks.” Palmer said, somewhat churlishly I thought. After all, I could have just cut out his eye and listened to him scream the answer.
“Take me.” I said in a voice that stated very clearly that even though it looked like I was putting the knife away, it would forever be in my hand.
Thankfully, he behaved himself as we traveled upwards and trough the halls to the outer courtyard. This was fine by me, because I was working the painful knots left out of my left shoulder by the rooftop rope escape. I still had little doubt I could maintain control of the idiot until we turned the blind corner to the rear side of the Grand Sage. Furthest away from the gate the barracks sat next to the stables, the drafty, yet perversely unventilated wooden structures virtual twins. the reason they were back here was simple: Vital to life and security they may be, it would be awful for the nobility to have to see where the horses shat or the dirty soldiers slept. It also, and I am not certain that this was by accident, allowed guards to mount up out of sight of the street and any guests to quickly respond to any threat. And by threat I mean something big enough that simply shutting the door to what amounted to a castle wouldn’t do it on its own.
Apparently this was one such time. Guards, shucked of heavy mail and shield and armed only with swords, worked alongside stable boys to sling saddles onto the backs of trembling horses, only to mount them the very instant the cinches were tight. They left in waves of five or six, necessitating the Lieutenant and I hug the castle wall as they rode forth like a rushing wall of thunder.
Palmer forgot himself for a moment and asked, “Where are they going?”
“To search the roads for the good Captain.” I said, moving again.
“Why would the Captain be on the road?”
I sighed, because I needed Palmer along to give me the illusion of being escorted, but I’d much prefer him tongueless, “Let’s say if you arrange for all the guards to be busy at the time an assassin tries to sneak into the castle, it is probably wise to be elsewhere no matter what else you had planned for the evening.”
The good lieutenant reacted like a upper crust matron walking in on country boys swimming nude in a city fountain, “The Captain would never do such a thing! He is the most loyal man in the barracks.”
“I would bet he’s the one that ordered the servants to bring the drinks to the roof.”
My opposite frowned at me, “What proof do you have, cur?”
In response I just motioned to the chaos all around. Another officer called out to the next group of soldiers mounting up, “Sorrow Road, boys! Keep your lamps bright and your edges sharp!”
And then they stormed off, giving me enough cover in the confusio
n to loop around the crowd even in the comical cloak. The doors to the long building for the enlisted men was open and soldiers were constantly coming in and out. Beyond, there were five doors to much smaller buildings, apartments for the officers. The first one, belonging to the Captain, had been messily kicked open. With no guard, and all the commotion behind us, it was simplicity itself to just walk in.
“The Captain is an honest man. I’d stake my life on it.”
“And if someone gave him a waterweight of gold?”
“Never!”
Behind him another officer was rallying his hunting crew, “His Grand Lordship only needs the head back, gents. Gold coins to those that carry it!”
Meanwhile I fixed the Lieutenant with a hard stare, “How about three waterweights?”
At least that shut him up. The sparse room had the luxury of privacy, and little else. Snow was tracked over the floor where the door kicker had come in, looked under the bed and in the wardrobe, and then left. I opened drawers as the Lieutenant made mute protest, and fingered through his wardrobe and chest. So much had been left behind, as if the Captain would be back any second. I poked around, and found what was missing almost as telling as what was left behind: Every bit of heraldry or military equipment for sure.
Finally, lost in thought, I sat on the edge of the bed and considered the facts as I knew them. The heels of my light, climbing boots clunked against something under the blanket and I lifted it, exposing large, reinforced boots not unlike those I had worn all through the Sorrow Wood. These, however, were made of leather dyed in Horatio’s colors, like those worn by all armed men in his employ. Boots like those would take a man across the kingdom and not give up when the average street boots would have your feet covered in blisters and splitting at the seams after six days cross-country. Heavy boots were worth more than two months wages to any guard, even an officer, and it usually took days to cobble a fresh set.
I Know Not: The Legacy of Fox Crow Page 16