Among Thieves

by Hulick, Douglas

  “Not until I see Larrios,” I said. Thunder rumbled overhead. I allowed myself a small smile at nature’s timing.

  “There are other buyers,” said the smooth voice inside the hood. “Larrios is a popular man right now.”

  Meaning Iron Degan was likely offering a reward as well. “One half now,” I said. “The rest after.”

  “Done.”

  I counted some hawks into his hands. He laughed at the amount. We dickered, finally settling on a price.

  Our walking shadow led us deeper into Ten Ways. The alleys grew steadily narrower as we went, seeming to gather and condense the darkness around us. The buildings on either side went from shoddy to pathetic to practically uninhabitable. Evidence of fires marked several structures, and those that had not collapsed in on themselves looked to be seriously considering the idea. And the stench . . . It almost made me miss the sewers. Waste, rot, decay—and most of it human in origin. Somewhere along the way it began to rain, which at least reduced the smell.

  The worst part, though, was that things were beginning to look familiar.

  “The Barren,” I said to no one in particular.

  The Kin’s cowl turned to face back over his shoulder. “You know it?” he asked.

  “I used to live here,” I said. Live? More like “survive”—that hadn’t been living. “I swore I’d never return.”

  “Oaths are meant to be broken,” said the Kin. Behind me, I heard Degan grumble deep in his throat.

  The more desolate a place, the less it changes. Then again, it wasn’t as if anyone was going to come running into the Barren and start fixing things up. The neighborhood was wide-open—no one ruled here—and people seldom asked, or answered, questions.

  This made it all the more impressive that our guide had managed to find Larrios here, of all places. You didn’t track someone down in the Barren unless you were local, or good, or both. He didn’t strike me as the former, which pointed at the latter. But if he was that good, what was he doing here?

  Sometimes, the best way to get answers is to let a thing play out. I didn’t expect this Kin to tell me what his game was, but that didn’t mean I had to walk into it blind, either. I loosened my rapier in its sheath and let my left hand slide closer to my dagger. Degan noticed and followed suit. If anything happened, I decided, our guide would be the first to go down.

  We stopped at the end of a particularly narrow alley. “There,” said our guide, pointing out of the alley and down the street. “The fourth one on the left. Larrios is on the second floor.”

  I had to squeeze past him just to see where he was pointing. “Which room?” I asked.

  The cowl turned toward me. “How should I know? You’re lucky I found him at all.”

  I studied the building through the rain. It looked to be an old warehouse of some kind, but I couldn’t be sure.

  Rain has always caused problems with my night vision; looking through it is like looking through a curtain of fine beads falling from the sky. I can still make things out, but it gets disorienting now and then. This time it was worse—despite the rest I had gotten, despite all the seeds I was taking, I was still feeling the last several days weighing down on me. Fatigue was doing as much to blur my vision now as the rain.

  “How do we know he’s still in the building?” I asked.

  “Larrios is there,” said the smooth voice. “Don’t worry.”

  “What, you made him promise to stay put?” I said.

  The cowl remained pointed at me for a long moment. I gathered I was being scowled at. “He’s there,” repeated the Kin.

  “Let’s hope so,” I said. “Otherwise, you owe me a fairsized pile of hawks.”

  “Just worry about what you’ll owe me when you’re done,” said the Kin.

  I turned to Degan. “Ready?”

  Degan had pulled his hat lower to keep the rain from his eyes. It made him look ominous. He nodded, and we headed out, leaving the cloaked Kin standing in the alley.

  The top layer of dirt and refuse on the street had softened in the rain. It shifted and slid beneath our feet as we walked to the building. There was no door on the hinges. We went in.

  Puddles were already beginning to form on the first floor. The sound of the water dripping from the ceiling overhead blended with the whisper of the rain to produce a constant noise that was at once both gentle and disturbing. The air was heavy with the smell of mold.

  The lower level was open and empty. A small forest of posts had once held up the entire second floor, although a good third of it had fallen through at some point in the past. We were halfway to the stairway at the back of the building when we heard several loud thumps from somewhere above us.

  Degan and I stopped and looked at each other. We listened. Drip drip, splash splash. Then the sounds came again. Footsteps.

  “Shit!” I said. “He’s moving!”

  Degan and I raced for the stairs. I scrambled up as fast as I could, Degan vaulting along beside me, clearing two steps at a time. The stairs creaked and groaned, but didn’t collapse beneath us.

  The second floor consisted of a big main room with several large doorways to our left and right. A good half of the roof was gone up here, covering the floor with its remains. I noticed that the rain was now coming down harder. A path had been cleared in the debris, leading from the stairs to one of the doorways under the surviving portion of roof. A curtain hung across the doorway, and a feeble flicker of light showed around its edges.

  We ran for the curtain without a word. I wondered if the cloaked Kin outside would stop Larrios if he made it out of the building before us. More likely he’d let the Whipjack run so he could follow him and charge me for his location all over again.

  When I tossed the curtain aside, I had my rapier in one hand, dagger in the other, and Degan at my back. Larrios was empty-handed. Even better, the two men who were busy beating the crap out of him hadn’t drawn their weapons.

  I smiled.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to insist you stop kicking that Whipjack’s ass—that’s my job.”

  The man closest to us looked up almost casually from where he was kneeling, while the other didn’t even pause in dealing out his punishment. Both were wearing dark, water-laden cloaks.

  “Get out,” said the first man. “Now.”

  I stepped through the doorway so Degan could come in behind me. The room was wide and deep. Toward the back, near Larrios and the men, a trio of candles flickered on the floor. My eyes ached a moment, then adjusted. I put my rapier through a small circle in the air to make sure it caught what little light there was.

  “Just what I was going to suggest to you,” I said.

  The first man got slowly to his feet. The other slowed in his work but still kept up a rhythmic pounding of Larrios’s face and body, alternating fists with each strike. Degan and I moved a step closer.

  The first man studied me for a moment, then moved his shoulders forward and back, shifting his cloak so that it hung behind him.

  “Mistake,” he said.

  I didn’t answer. I was too busy staring at the white sash wrapped around his waist and the golden imperial hawk emblazoned on his breastplate.

  Chapter Seventeen

  White Sashes!

  I froze, all my bravado gone in an instant. What the hell were two of the emperor’s elites doing here, working over Larrios? Why did they want him? What the hell had I just walked into?

  I opened my mouth to say . . . What? What do you say to men whose predecessors had nearly wiped out the Kin? Men who, if we weren’t lucky, might very well try to do it again? Not a lot, I decided, especially when there were two of them and two of us.

  Lousy, lousy odds.

  I began to put up my sword and back away, hoping to make it out of the room in one piece. They could have Larrios; I’d find some other angle on all this. Confer with Kells, maybe even dust Rambles or Iron Degan. As long as I steered clear of the Sashes, I would be
ahead.

  Then Degan rushed past me and changed everything.

  I watched in horror as he charged the closest Sash, his sword low, a snarl on his lips. The Sash, for his part, barely adjusted his stance. He didn’t even bother to draw his sword.

  Shit. Shit. Oh shit.

  At the last possible moment, Degan launched himself in the air, changing his low attack into a high one. The Sash twisted and tried to pivot sideways off his front foot. The maneuver didn’t quite clear him from the path of Degan’s cut, but it was enough to cause Degan’s blade to skip off the Sash’s breastplate and strike him across the shoulder instead.

  The Sash yelled out in pain even as Degan landed and planted the elbow of his free arm in the Sash’s face. The Sash staggered back, blood gushing from his nose, and managed to draw his own sword and parry Degan’s next thrust.

  “Take this one!” yelled Degan as he stepped back, putting both Sashes in his field of vision. The second was already on his feet, his own blade out and moving, threatening Degan. There was no way Degan could finish off the first Sash without opening himself up to an attack from the second.

  Take him? I thought. How? With what? I was a fucking Nose, for Angel’s sake!

  I looked over at Larrios. Maybe between the two of us . . . But no, he was an unmoving lump on the floor. No help there.

  The second Sash advanced on Degan, his sword dancing in the candlelight. The first had regained his balance now and was wiping away the tears caused by his broken nose. He’d be back in the fight any moment.

  “Drothe!” said Degan, a desperate tone creeping into his voice. “Take the wounded one, damn it!”

  Well, fuck.

  I ran into the room with a yell. The first Sash took another swipe at the blood on his face, then turned to face me. I was still a handful of paces away when he stepped forward and threw an incredibly fast lunge at me while I was still coming into range. I barely got my dagger up in time to parry the blow.

  Damn, he was fast!

  I backed off and brought my rapier back while extending my dagger forward so the tips of the two weapons nearly touched before me. The small triangle of steel was supposed to give me better protection, but I didn’t feel particularly safe.

  My Sash didn’t look to be in great shape, what with one arm hanging limp and blood running from his nose, but neither did he seem terribly bothered by this. I decided that, barring evidence to the contrary, I was still outclassed and in trouble.

  We both paused to measure each other up. He had a heavier rapier, closer to Degan’s than my own, but it looked light in his hand. The breastplate would be a problem, too; the armor meant I would have to aim for extremities and his head—smaller, harder to hit targets. I wasn’t used to fighting people in any kind of armor, since very few Kin or Lighters bothered with it, let alone owned it. Unless you knew you were going into a fight, it was just too uncomfortable and heavy to wear day in and day out in a crowded city. Plus, it drew far too much interest from the Rags.

  Behind my opponent, I caught glimpses of furious swordplay. While I dared not follow Degan and his Sash in detail, what little I did see looked frighteningly good: blindingly fast attacks, parries that left barely a hairbreadth of room for error, body slips, and the occasional attempts at a grab or a punch with a free hand. Moves, in short, that would have left me quartered and sorted on the floor in a matter of seconds.

  And if that weren’t enough, Degan and the other Sash were smiling at each other. Smiling!

  Idiots.

  As for the wounded Sash, he didn’t even crack a grin as he stepped forward and flicked a cut at my left hand. I moved the hand, trying to block with my dagger, and suddenly saw his sword coming right at my chest. He’d feinted and gotten me to open myself up.

  I brought my sword up and across my chest even as I tried to leap back out of range. He must have been expecting that, too, since he immediately redirected his sword and buried its tip in my left thigh.

  The sword had an amazingly fine edge—I hardly felt it go in. It wasn’t until the Sash pulled it back out, twisting and cutting down slightly as he went, that I felt the steel dragging against my flesh. That was when I screamed.

  It wasn’t the pain that ripped the howl from me—it was the sheer frustration of being stabbed so easily. Five seconds into the fight and I was already being carved up like one of Prospo’s roast ducks. At this rate, Degan would be facing the both of them in less than a minute—not that I would be in a position to worry about it by then.

  I backed away quickly, putting my left leg behind me, drawing my body into profile. My rapier went out before me while my dagger stayed in close to my body. I couldn’t threaten with the shorter blade this way, but I could—hopefully—have a bit more time to defend with it.

  I was outclassed, wounded, and on the defensive, and I let it show. If I was lucky, it could work to my advantage.

  The Sash came on almost casually. I managed to parry his next three attacks—a cut, a thrust, another thrust, all in quick succession—but it was a close thing every time. I didn’t even try to counterattack. The Sash grimaced at my hesitancy, rolled his bloody shoulder, and came in again. This time, I reacted.

  As he thrust, I slipped my right leg back and extended my dagger out to catch his sword. I wanted to catch his blade and bind it with my dagger, even for a second, so I could follow it up with a thrust from my rapier. With his sword bound up and his left arm useless, I figured it was the best chance I’d get to put steel into him, preferably in the neighborhood of his head.

  The problem was, I had to put all of my weight on my left leg to do this. I steeled myself and shifted my weight.

  Fire shot through me, from leg to groin to body. I gasped at the pain, trying to ignore it as I brought my dagger and rapier forward. The dagger met his sword, but weakly and at the wrong angle—a twist of his wrist pried it out of my hand and sent it spinning off into the room. At the same time, he slipped his back leg behind him, turning his body out of the way at the last instant.

  I cursed and took two quick, stumbling steps back. The Sash smiled.

  “That’s the best you have?” he asked. “You should’ve left when you had the chance.”

  Behind him, I caught a glimpse of Degan and his Sash—all whirling steel and blurring arms. No help from that front any time soon.

  “I suppose it’s too late to take you up on that now?” I said as I let my empty left hand drift back behind me. I turned my torso sideways again, trying to provide the smallest possible target.

  “It was too late when you walked into the room,” said the Sash.

  So, Degan had been right in attacking—score another one for him.

  The Sash moved forward and angled his blade across my own. I retreated, adjusting my own guard to block his line of attack. He advanced and angled again, and I responded in kind. Then a thought occurred to me.

  It was risky and open to failure in any number of ways, but, at this point, I was dead no matter what I did.

  I felt my left leg begin to tremble beneath me. I gritted my teeth and took another step back. Just a bit longer, I told myself. Either the Sash would fall for this or he would kill me; one way or another, it would be settled soon.

  The Sash stepped forward and placed his blade over mine, just as before. As he moved, I snapped my left hand down. My wrist knife fell into my palm, the action blocked from the Sash’s view by my own body. He didn’t seem to notice.

  I resisted the urge to smile.

  I drew my body back, seemingly ready to retreat yet again. Then I let my back leg begin to fold. I yelled out in pain as my rapier’s tip sank toward the floor. I was collapsing, my leg for all intents failing from the agony of the wound, and it wasn’t terribly far off. In fact, I realized as the Sash grinned and began to step forward, his sword rising up for a final cut, I didn’t know if I could get back up at all.

  Except I didn’t have a choice.

  I pushed forward hard off my left leg, through th
e pain and the burning and the weakness, to turn my collapse into something resembling a forward lunge. At the same time, I brought my rapier up above my head, point aimed at the Sash’s face, the length of the blade between me and his descending sword.

  I saw his eyes go wide, saw him begin to shift his weight as he turned the cut into a parry. Let him. I didn’t care about the swords, anyhow. While he was busy knocking my blade aside and saving his face, I was busy bringing my left hand around and driving my wrist knife up into him.

  I felt the knife hit home just as his sword met my own. The impact of the two weapons ran down along my arm, gathering at my shoulder like a punch. Then the Sash ran into me.

  The collision sent me tumbling over backward, the Sash on top of me. I screamed as both his weight and my own came down on my left leg in the tangle. Then everything went black.

  I was with my late stepfather, Sebastian, standing in the clearing in front of our home in the Balsturan Forest. He was holding his sword and showing me how to false a retreat and then follow it with a counterthrust. Mother was in the doorway, watching, while Christiana sat on the ground, stacking wooden blocks. Christiana was full grown and wearing a court dress. I thought it strange that my little sister was suddenly older than I and getting her good clothes so dirty. She always got away with everything.

  Sebastian called my name and tapped his sword on the ground. I nodded and tried to do what he had done, but my fingers wouldn’t close on my wooden practice sword properly. I looked down to find the handle slippery with blood. I looked back up, but everyone was dead except Christiana, who was now seven. She was crying. . . .

  The pain returned with a rush, and I was suddenly conscious again. I felt the Sash on top of me, trying to push himself away. His knee was in my left thigh and he was cursing, but softly. I returned the favor and tried to push him away as well. He rose up and rolled to my right; I immediately rolled left—onto my leg.

  “Shit!” I yelled, and kept rolling. It was tricky with my rapier in my right hand, but I managed to get onto my back, sit up, and extend the sword toward the Sash.