“I’ve heard that before.” The Samaritan tossed her thin blade aside and quickly produced another identical one from inside her white coat. “But not everyone hides in the shadows, stalking their prey like Merin does. I often work in broad daylight, in public, with more witnesses than you might believe.”
“Oh, I believe you.” Kella wheezed, her chest aching and her head ringing from the last blitzing. A curious green and purple blot drifted across her vision.
“Thank you, for that.”
“You and Merin work together? Partners?” She blinked, trying to get the blot out of her sight. It looked too much like a rabbit.
“Not precisely, no.” The woman ran a finger along her new knife’s edge. “But we run in the same circles. We’re contracted through the same broker.”
“An assassin’s guild, then?” Kella massaged her chest and arms where she could feel bruises of all sizes forming deep in her skin. “Interesting. Tell me more.” Her head was clearing, but too slowly. I can’t beat her.
The woman laughed. “You think you’re buying her time, don’t you?” She nodded at the closed door through which Jedira had momentarily appeared. “Letting her escape out the back door while you distract me?”
Kella froze, a sharp frost blossoming in her gut. “Yes.”
“Well, that might have worked, but I jammed the back door shut before I came around the front just now, so I’m guessing that, at this moment, she’s down in the basement, pressing up against that door, wondering why it won’t open. Alone, in a dead end. Incredibly convenient for me, really. It’s not the cleverest trick, but it does make the job easier.” The Samaritan spun her knife through the fingers of her uninjured hand, dexterously twirling it back and forth. “Speaking of the job, since Merin didn’t kill you, I suppose I’ll be making a bit extra tonight.”
Kella exhaled slowly, raising her hands to meet the next assault.
The woman assumed a similar fighting stance, then smiled and dashed away toward the baker’s door and kicked it in. The rusty lock popped free of the doorsill and the door swung open. A frightened shriek echoed from within. The Samaritan vanished into the dark opening in a flourish of white coattails.
“Stop!” Kella leapt after her, plunging through the splintered remains of the door and gouging bits of skin from her hands and cheek as she did so. “Don’t touch her! Get back here!” She raced down the narrow hall, spun at the end, and dove down a rickety wooden stair into the cold of the basement where she could hear a lone and terrified voice stammering below. At the bottom, she turned the corner and saw the assassin standing in the center of the room and Jedira Amadi backed up against the cellar door that should have let her up into the alley behind the shop. Jedira’s eyes locked with Kella’s for a moment. Tears streamed down the young woman’s face and a wordless pleading babble tumbled from her pale lips.
“Hey!” Kella lunged at the Samaritan’s back, but the killer whipped around and smashed a small bony fist into Kella’s throat. She stumbled back into the wall, stunned, gasping for air, her brain unable to process the chaotic sensations of pain in her neck.
“I just had a wonderful idea, officer.” The woman spun her long stiletto across her fingers. “What if I kill her and frame you for it? That’s much better than an unexplained body in a basement. There’ll be a scandal in the police department, everyone will lose faith in the government, and there will be fear and chaos in the streets. It’ll be fun.”
“Never…happen,” Kella croaked as she shuffled forward, her eyes darting from the spinning stiletto to the killer’s eyes and back. “Now just listen. No one has to die. I…I’m willing to cut you a deal in exchange for your…testimony against her, against Lady Sade. You’ll have to do time for killing Usem, but we can work something out.” The sheer effort of talking around her throbbing throat was almost unbearable.
The woman shrugged. “Or I could just kill her.”
“No!” Kella dashed forward, only to have a steel-toed boot smash into her belly, slamming her back into the wall and blasting all of the air from her lungs. She fell to all fours, trembling, trying to force herself to inhale and breathe even as she tried to stand back up. Suddenly, she realized that she couldn’t hear Jedira crying anymore.
The detective sat up just as the Samaritan stepped on her wrist and jerked Kella’s broad knife away. A fist drove her head back into the floor and the basement exploded in green and purple lights. In a daze, Kella watched as the woman in white plunged the thick blade into Jedira’s body lying spread-eagled on the steps below the cellar door.
The killer paused. “You know, I’d love to leave your own knife in your arm or leg, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t make much sense to the police when they find you, and I would hate to confuse them.” She plunged the blade up into a thick wooden beam overhead. “This won’t make much sense either, but that will just add to the mystery of your raging bloodlust, won’t it?”
Kella staggered up. She took a moment to stare at the dead woman at the other end of the room. Jedira stared blindly up at the ceiling, her throat slit from ear to ear. She’d still be alive if I hadn’t gone to see Lady Sade tonight. “Do you even know why Lady Sade wanted her dead?”
“I do, actually. Not that she told me, but after a while you pick things up here and there.” The woman smiled as she wiped her stiletto on a rag. “She’s an ambitious woman. You’d think with all she has, she couldn’t possibly want more, but she does. A woman after my own heart. And she’ll probably do a better job than that old cow of a queen you have now, so you should be grateful, actually. Until they hang you, of course.” A white boot swung up and kicked Kella back into the wall. The air left her lungs again and for a moment all she could do was try to stay on her feet as she gasped.
“Stop…you.” Kella’s vision went white for a second but her mind was racing. How? How exactly are you going to stop her, detective? You’ve lost. The girl is dead and you’re barely breathing. Some police officer you turned out to be…
“I doubt that.” The Samaritan slipped her long knife away into her coat. “When they come for you, I suppose you’ll try to say that it was me, and not you who did this. A Samaritan woman dressed in white.” She laughed. “They won’t believe you, of course, but it should add a bit to my mystique. You know, for the newspapers. Perhaps I’ll start doing this on all my jobs. I’ll become a legend in my own time!”
“A real professional wouldn’t want the attention.”
“I never claimed to be a professional. I’m just very, very good at this.” Her hand flew out in a blur and Kella had one instant of pain in her forehead before the world vanished into oblivion.
Chapter 26. Sade
As she sat alone in her study with her cold tea cup beside her, Sade leaned back in her chair and rested her eyes. Such a long day. So much done but so much still to do.
Supper had been the highlight, without question. The barbarian princess couldn’t have provided a better performance if she had been coached to it. Still, the night was young. Sade rang the bell on the side table.
Izza entered promptly. “Yes, madam?”
“Is the steam carriage back yet?”
“Yes, madam. It only just returned from taking your dinner guests home.”
“I need to run a little errand in the morning. Very early. I want the carriage ready to leave at four-thirty. And have a couple of the porters ready to accompany me.” She paused as something hideous assaulted her nose. “What is that stench?”
Izza shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, my lady. It was the Samaritan woman. I believe she spent some time in the sewers just before she arrived.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, madam.”
Of course she was serious. Izza was always serious. Sade sighed. “Well, it’s on you too. Please change your clothes. Burn them if you have to. Oh, and you did tell Shifrah that she is not to do any more tasks for Barika?”
“Yes, madam. Although I don’t know that you can
trust her not to. She’s quite opportunistic, in my opinion.”
“No, you’re probably right. That’s fine. She’s proven far less than perfect today. She’ll be no great loss when this is over,” Sade said. “See to the carriage and porters, and then go to bed. Four-thirty, Izza.”
“Yes, madam. Good night.”
Day Three
Chapter 27. Syfax
The ancient fortress city of Meknes was a dead end. Syfax found the empty stage coach at a hotel in an older part of town and the driver at the hotel restaurant said, with her mouth full of her very late supper, that she had no idea where any of her passengers had gone. Syfax gave the hotel manager a long, tired look before walking into the street, mounting his rented horse, and trotting back out onto the road to Arafez.
With Meknes a mere twinkle of gaslight in the distance behind him, the major reined in his horse at the top of a hill to stare at the long dark road ahead. Clouds hid the moon, but he guessed it was past midnight. There were no other travelers, mounted or otherwise, at least none that he could see or hear. The road itself was marred by irregular shallow depressions and the deeper ruts made by wagon wheels. But he could hear no engines, no horses, and no padding feet out in the night. Only the wind in the pines and the creaking echoes of the cicadas filled the mountain forest.
His new boots pinched his toes and his heels and stabbed at his arches. They were, without question, the most hateful boots in the entire world. They hadn’t seemed nearly so bad when he paid for them six hours ago in Khemisset.
One day I’m going to write a book about this case, about how I ended up walking across the entire country, alone, destroying my aching feet, to find an old woman with a lightning rod in her hand. I’ll have to make it sound funnier, though.
After an hour on the road to Arafez, he was convinced that he would see no one until he reached the city. There were no houses either near the road or farther out in the woods, and not a flicker of firelight to be seen. The forest walled him in with towering alders and elms that reached across the road to each other far overhead, obscuring the clouds and any hope of starlight. The droning of the cicadas rose and fell as though the forest itself was breathing, loudly, through its mouth. Little else seemed to be awake or even alive. The occasional rustle in the bushes or distant crack of a breaking branch always came suddenly in the quiet.
A low whistle drew his eyes sharply to the right.
Syfax paused. The whistle was too steady and too subtle to be a bird, too solitary and too near to be a monkey. He peered into the shadows on all sides and saw nothing, heard nothing. Instinct drew his hand back to his hip, but it found only an empty holster. Reaching down farther, he yanked his hunting knife out of his boot and then nudged his horse to continue down the middle of the road.
The men stepped out of the leafy shadows calmly and casually, one of them mostly concerned with brushing the dirt off his knees. All of them wore dark scarves wrapped across their mouths and noses. Seeing no guns or blades in their hands, Syfax grinned as he reined up and rested his knife on the pommel of his saddle. “Can I help you fellas?”
One of them, as nondescript as any other, answered in a soft, almost reluctant voice. “Your money, all you have. Jewelry, watch, knife. Anything and everything, on the ground, right now. The horse, too. We don’t want to hurt you. Just leave it all right there, and go.”
“Hey!” A second one leaned toward the first. “He doesn’t even have a saddle bag!” And he made a jerk of his head back toward the woods, and then glanced at the others and repeated the gesture.
“No, wait.” The first one extended an open hand toward Syfax. “Please, anything you have. We just need some food. Please?”
“Who are you guys?” Syfax tried to catch a bit more detail of them in the shadows, something about their hair or clothes, anything at all. Too dark, but who cares? These poor idiots have no idea what they’re doing. “Help me out here. Are you beggars or bandits? I can’t tell.”
“We’re just travelers,” the second one said, fading back just a little more into the darkness. “We’re just trying to get to the border.”
“Don’t tell him anything!” A third one threw his arms up in the air. “How stupid are you? No one’s supposed to know!”
“Why?” The major kept his eyes darting among them, waiting for the first attack, but most of the nine men stayed at least four or five yards away, hands in pockets, eyes on the ground. The first one’s calm, the second one’s scared, and the third one’s angry. The rest just look tired. “Who are you running from? The law?”
“He’s a damned Redcoat!” Scared Man hissed, slinking even farther away. “Look at the coat. He’s the law.”
Calm Man edged forward a bit to look at him. “You’re a marshal?”
“Major Syfax Zidane.”
“Oh, that’s just perfect!” Angry Man kicked a stone across the road and shoved the fellow beside him. “A Redcoat!”
“Where’s your partner?” Scared Man’s voice shook as his footsteps drifted into the brush beside the road. “Marshals always go in twos. Where is she? Where’s the other one?”
“I’m alone.” Syfax slowly opened his coat. “No gun. And I don’t wanna hurt any of you guys, unless you do something stupid. I’m just riding through.”
“Don’t you believe it.” Angry Man grabbed Calm Man’s arm. “He’s one of them. He works for them. He’ll have the police on us in no time if we let him go!”
A general mumbling broke out among them as the men expressed their varying levels of discomfort with being anywhere near an officer of the law. Some of them stepped away, but most just shuffled and wavered in place and looked to Calm Man for a decision. He glanced around himself and cleared his throat. “You really don’t have any money? Nothing at all?”
“Sorry. Spent it all on this horse, and I need her to get to Arafez. You’re not eating her.”
Calm Man hesitated, glancing back toward the darkness where Scared Man had vanished. “Then I guess we’re going to have to tie you up. We can’t let you go and tell the police about us. We’ll leave you in the road so someone will find you tomorrow after we’re gone. You’ll be all right.” He cleared his throat and motioned at the others. “Go on, tie him up.”
For a moment, none of them moved. Then Angry Man stepped forward and the others began moving, arms raised to grab the marshal. Syfax paused, wondering what clever thing he might say to stop this before it started. They were obviously divided, nervous, unwilling, inexperienced. But they were shuffling forward and some of them had rocks in their hands.
A good marshal would know what to say to play them against each other, to get information from them, to control the situation. And as he groped for an idea, Syfax suddenly realized: This is why I’m stuck at major. This is why the marshals don’t know what to do with me. I’m not a good marshal.
He frowned as his ego swirled downward, but the dark moment brought yet another revelation into focus, and he grinned.
But I am a good soldier.
Syfax rolled out of the saddle and brought his fist down on the closest head. He grabbed the stunned man’s shirt and hurled him into the two men on the right. With his knife held blade down in his right hand, Syfax bulled into the closing knot of men and rocks and sticks. There was a brief second of fear, a cold panic in the back of his mind as he felt, really felt, that he was hopelessly outnumbered and utterly alone. But it was only a second. A hot wave of wild rage roared up his spine and down his arms, and he smashed his knife-hand into face after face. The rocks and sticks wailed on his back and legs, and bony hands bit into his arms, but Syfax just kept lunging back and forth, left and right, throwing men off balance all around as he went on shattering noses, splitting lips, and knocking out teeth. And with almost every blow, the blade of his knife sliced a shallow cut across a brow here and a cheek there.
Within half a minute, every bandit’s face was painted in blood and a broken chorus of frightened wails rose over the marshal�
�s roaring battle cries and the panicked whinnies of the horse in their midst.
“Oh God, my eye! My eye!”
“My nose! I can’t breathe!”
“I’m bleeding! I’m bleeding!”
Syfax shoved the last man down to the ground and surveyed his handiwork. Nine men sitting with hands pressed to their faces, or crawling away from the road, or staggering into the woods. He waited a moment to catch his own breath and wipe his knife clean on a nearby bandit’s shirt, and then Syfax said, “Oh, shut up, you big babies. You’re all fine. They’re just little cuts. No one’s dying, no one’s lost any eyes. And no one’s head is sliced open. Just settle down.”
It took a few moments for the moaning and hyperventilating to subside as the men calmed down enough to inspect the wounds on each other’s faces and pronounce them all superficial.
“Yeah, that’s a little trick I picked up from a gal in Carthage. You cut up the face and everybody panics. You can’t see how bad you’re hurt, and lots of blood in your eyes.” He exhaled and sheathed his knife, suddenly feeling much less pleased with himself. Stupid dirty trick.
To his left, one of the men was sobbing and muttering over and over, “I thought I was going to die, I thought I was going to die.”
“Come on, guys, no one’s dying. You’re all gonna be fine, and hopefully a little wiser in how you go about fund raising.” Syfax thumbed his nose and crossed his arms, waiting.
“You bastard.” Angry Man was on his feet, blood smeared across his forehead and down the side of his face. He raised his fists and slid forward gracefully on the balls of his feet, rocking lightly on his toes. Syfax shrugged. The bandit punched, the marshal parried, he punched again and Syfax caught his wrist, yanked him off balance and landed two sharp blows to his ribs. The bandit grunted and spun, kicking him in the stomach, but Syfax hugged the foot and pulled back, yanking him off balance again and dropping him to the ground. As Angry Man scrambled to stand, Syfax swept one crooked leg out from under him and shot his fist down into the man’s jaw. Angry Man’s head snapped to the side and he fell flat on his back, his head rolling.
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