“I’d say suspicious men spend too much time thinking,” I said.
A low, rolling laugh tumbled out of his hood. “Maybe,” he said, “but it’s too late for me to get out of the habit now. So, instead, I’ll share some of what I’ve been thinking. I can’t see Kells having you destroy the journal-it’s too valuable for that. Nor can you hide it indefinitely-sooner or later, someone will decide they’d rather it stay lost than end up in an enemy’s hands. The easiest way to accomplish that is to kill you, but if that happened, Kells wouldn’t have an out. Starting a bidding war for the book would be plain suicide. Which leaves you approaching someone on behalf of Kells behind my back.”
“You’ve got me,” I said, forcing sarcasm into my voice. “I’m planning to sell it to the emperor.”
Shadow started laughing again.
We turned left onto a small side street, then right into an even narrower one. Darkness closed in tighter, seeping out of overhangs and recessed doorways. A baby began crying somewhere, its shrieks drifting down from the upper stories of a building. Someone swore sleepily, and a moment later the crying faded to soft whimpers. My nose detected faint hints of cat piss and mildew in the air.
“I don’t like betrayal,” said Shadow finally, his voice going flat. “Not when it’s aimed at me.”
“Who does?” I said. “But it’s the risk you run when you cut deals in the first place. Giving your trust means taking a chance it will be broken.”
“Exactly.”
Something about the way Shadow said the word made me stop in the middle of the street. It was too final; too pleased with itself.
Shadow stopped two paces farther along. He turned to face me.
“You have a choice,” he said.
“What, between you and Kells? You aren’t going to like that answer.”
“No.” The hood shook back and forth. “Between Kells and Baroness Christiana Sephada. Which of their trusts are you willing to betray?”
I felt my heart tighten in my chest. I stared, too shocked to hide it. We’d buried this deeper than deep. Only Ana, Degan, Joseph, and I knew. How…?
“Come,” said Shadow, reading my expression. “You aren’t the only one who knows how to ferret out secrets. You have a history with the woman, Drothe. It’s there to see if you look hard enough and haunt the right shadows…”
Had he followed me sometime in the last week? How do you see, let alone hide, from a shadow?
“And it isn’t something as simple as blackmail,” he continued. “Blackmailers don’t call on their victims the way you call on her. I don’t know if she’s your patron, paramour, or partner, and frankly, I don’t care. What I do care about is that she means something to you. How much, I’m not sure, but we’re about to find out.”
I took a shallow breath even as my mind raced. “Patron, paramour, or partner,” he had said, but not “family.” That meant he didn’t know all of it. There might still be a chance…
“I’ll make this simple for you,” said Shadow. “If I don’t get the journal now, not only will I cripple Kells and his organization-I’ll also take my displeasure out on Baroness Christiana Sephada, widow of Baron Nestor Sephada, of Lythos. But if I do get it, well, then, everyone remains happy, healthy, and whole.” He made a sweeping gesture with his right hand, sending his cloak billowing to one side. “There, that ought to be straightforward enough for you.”
It was. It meant I had only one choice.
Shadow had to die. Now.
Chapter Twenty-four
I slid the knife from the wrist sheath into my left hand and lashed out. At the same time, my right hand yanked Tamas’s rope free, letting it uncoil like a whip.
Shadow was less than a pace from me, but he still managed to sweep the edge of his cloak up as my blade came forward. There was a moment of resistance before I felt my blade bite and bind in the fabric. I quickly drew my arm back to keep it from being caught up in the folds of the cloak. As the knife came back, I swung the rope forward.
I sent it in a wide arc, aiming for his waist. I’d never used the damn thing before, and I wasn’t about to get fancy; I’d just take a shot at the center mass of his body and hope it worked.
Shadow was already stepping away. As the rope came around, he raised his cloak like a shield and spit out a string of sounds that reminded me of a drunk with a mouthful of food. When the rope connected, it felt like I’d swung an iron bar into a brick wall. The cord stiffened along its entire length, sending vibrations up my arm that nearly made me drop it. At the same time, I heard four distinct cracks as the runes went off. Shadow staggered back, nearly falling, and I lunged before I’d realized he’d moved out of range.
“Degan!” I shouted as I recovered and closed on the Gray Prince. “Degan, now!”
Shadow was good. He regained his balance even as I came forward. By the time I was close enough to try for another strike, he had the edge of his cloak snapping and dancing before him, making it hard to find an opening. Shadow backed away and I followed. I needed to stay close, to keep this a knife fight; if I gave him enough room to draw a sword, I’d be in serious trouble, night vision or no.
I pressed hard. I slashed and stabbed with the knife, snapped the rope like a whip, and slashed again. The rope didn’t even come close, but I got a certain amount of satisfaction seeing his cloak smoldering where the knots had hit it the first time.
All I needed was one gash, one deep scratch, and it would be done. The poison on the knife worked fast, and once Shadow was cut, all I had to do was fight defensively and wait for him to fall over. Except he was blocking every move with his cloak, and I was beginning to worry about the venom’s being rubbed off by the fabric.
“You’re a fool,” said Shadow as I feinted right, then shifted left. He twisted and slipped his leg out of the way just before I could connect with the rope.
“Said the man without a weapon,” I grunted as I dropped the rope, took a quick circling step, and grabbed his cloak with my left hand.
I had him.
Shadow laughed. His right hand swept past my face even as I was bringing my dagger around for the final thrust. I caught sight of a small stub of candle in his fingers, saw him crush it as it went past. Then my world erupted in agony.
Light as bright as day ignited in front of my face, shining through my night vision and into my head. Everything else vanished. There was only fire where my eyes had been-twin pools of sharp, merciless pain.
When awareness returned, I was screaming. I felt my hands clenched before my eyes, smelled the filthy pavement as it pushed up against my face. My mouth tasted like blood and sewage, and I spit to clear it out.
That was when I heard it-the sound of metal on metal, sword against sword. Degan and Shadow.
I drew my hands down and blinked experimentally. Bright amber specks and dark blotches floated before me, the whole thing edged with shifting rainbow highlights. The ghostly image of an elegantly gloved hand, fingers holding a bit of wax and taper, kept drifting across my vision.
And pain. Still lots of pain.
From somewhere in front of me came the sounds of shuffling steps, quick breathing, and the rasp and clash of swords. It didn’t seem as fast and furious as I would have expected. Then I heard a soft, fading hiss. Degan cursed. More steps, another cautious pass of blades.
Was this the first clash, or had they been at it for a while? Pain can do funny things with time, but my guess was that I hadn’t been out very long; Degan wasn’t one to dally when it came to killing someone. Still, the longer it went, I suspected, the worse it would be for me.
I shook my head and knuckled my eyes. Spots and darkness.
I’d been blinded when using my night vision before, but never like this-never with glimmer, never this close, never so bright.
I heard another hiss. Degan grunted, and almost immediately there followed the ring of intense swordplay. Someone was pressing someone, but I had no way of knowing who. Worse, I could hear them getting c
loser. I quickly edged back, hoping that if I did inadvertently trip someone up, that someone would be Shadow.
A moment later, I heard Shadow gasp. I held my breath, waiting for the body to fall.
Degan sniffed. “Close,” he said.
“Very,” agreed Shadow.
They resumed.
Damn it! What the hell was going on? This should have been over already, which meant Shadow had pulled something else out of his cloak. But what? What was the damn hissing?
I needed to see. I needed to fix this. Now.
I rolled over onto my stomach and pressed my face to the street. It stank of mud and shit and rotting onions. I wrapped my arms around my head, shutting out the rest of the night. The stench intensified horribly; I nearly gagged, but I needed to keep all the light I could away from my eyes.
Darkness had been my balm that first night, when Sebastian and I had come home. Christiana had lit a lamp and been waiting, had met us as the door to the cabin when we threw it open. Sebastian hadn’t warned me about the light yet, about what it would do to my eyes in the night; I had looked right into it and screamed at the pain.
It had been the darkness of the forest that comforted me, that helped bring my vision back, with Sebastian’s coaching and my own concentration. I only hoped darkness would do it again now.
I blinked in the circle of my arms and stared hard. My eyes began to water from the smell of the street. The pain returned full force, filling my eyes, my head, my awareness.
Steel on steel to my right. A hiss. A yell.
I became aware of a new rhythmic pain, and realized I was hitting my head against the ground. I thought about stopping, but didn’t dare. Each motion, each strike, brought a faint flare of orange to my vision. I dug my fingers into my forearms to keep them from scrabbling at my eyes, and I continued battering the street with my forehead. One more, I kept telling myself, one more. One more strike and I would either see or die-just one more.
And then, suddenly, a wave of color was before me-light and shadows, shapes and textures. I blinked and watched as the lines resolved themselves into an amber-hued sandal print.
Sight! And a raging headache behind my eyes, but, first and foremost, sight.
I unclenched my fingers and pushed myself up from the street, gasping to clear my lungs.
I saw Degan and Shadow almost immediately. They were less than ten feet away, limned in red and gold, blades at the ready as they measured each other anew. Degan held his sword in one hand, his hat in his other. He had the hat by its brim at chest level, slightly out from his body. I’d seen him use his hat once before in a fight to foul his opponent’s blade, but that had been against seven men. That he was using it against just one didn’t bode well.
Shadow, in turn, was holding a silvered piece of the moon in his left hand-light and fast and beautiful. The blade was slightly thinner than Degan’s, and slightly longer. When the steel moved, the moonlight seemed to run along its length in gentle waves, lapping against the blue-black guard. It was Black Isle steel, just like Degan’s, only of an even better temper, if the pattern of light was any indication.
Shadow’s other hand was closed into a loose fist, but I could see tiny glints of metal showing between the fingers. The ends of throwing darts held against the palm? Brass knuckles in case Degan got close?
I squinted for a better look even as I gathered my feet beneath me. The movement caused my vision to blur. When it refocused, Shadow was in motion.
He stepped forward, blade lashing out to meet Degan’s and drive it off-line. At the same time, his right hand came forward and threw two pieces of metal at Degan. I saw with amazement that they were coins-copper owls, by the look of them.
Degan twisted his body, bringing his hat around to meet the coins even as he tried to keep his sword in the line with Shadow’s blade. On anyone else, it would have seemed graceless; on Degan, it looked like a practiced dance.
Their swords met, high and outside. At the same time, Degan scooped the coins from the air with his hat. An instant later, he twisted the hat to one side. Where two bronze owls had gone in, numerous lines and gobbets of molten metal came flying out. The shower of melted bronze sent up tiny spikes of steam where the drops hit the street.
Portable glimmer; the kind that would pass any Rag’s inspection until it was used. And worse, it was the kind you could carry by the handful; which looked to be about as much as Shadow had.
I took a closer look at Degan. Yes, there was at least one set of burn marks running along the sleeve of his sword arm. I also noticed Degan’s hat was pitted and showing wear-many more catches, and it would either catch fire or fall apart.
I scanned the street for my knife, saw it on the other side of the fight. So much for getting in a quick, poisonous slash. Nor was I sure enough of my night vision, or my aim, to try throwing one of my other blades. A wrong step at the wrong time and I could end up hitting Degan as easily as Shadow.
My rope, though, was closer. It lay in a dark puddle well behind Shadow, its knots bubbling and steaming in the water.
Staying low, I drew my rapier and quick-shuffled toward the rope. The world still seemed to fuzz and sharpen at random as I moved.
I stopped and knelt at the edge of the puddle. As my fingers quested out for the rope, my eyes lighted on Shadow’s broad gray-cloaked back less than ten yards away.
I smiled. I didn’t need perfect night vision or the steadiest feet or even the surest hands to deal with him this time. All I needed was to take a few quick paces and swing the rope. That much, I knew, I could do.
I was just closing my fingers around the rope when a boot stepped down on my wrist.
“Ah-ah-ah,” scolded a man’s voice softly. “No time to play, Drothe-you’re wanted elsewhere.”
I didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
“You have crap timing,” I told Rambles.
“All part of my charm,” he said. The boot shifted on my wrist. I winced. Something cool and hard laid itself across the back of my neck.
“Drop the tail,” said Rambles. I let my rapier fall to the street. “Now,” he continued, “leave the rope where it is and stand up. Slowly.”
His boot lifted, and I brought my hand in toward me. I cradled it against my thigh as if he had hurt it more than he had.
I twisted my head to look up at him. The coolness on my neck was the forward edge of a short-bladed sword. A dark, self-satisfied smile was on his face. That was when it hit me.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” I said. “You’re the one who told Nicco I was working for Kells.”
His smile widened. “It was either you or me. Lucky for me, you’ve been screwing up enough that I was able to make the story believable. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re still alive.”
Lucky? Believable? Rambles hadn’t actually known I was working for Kells?
He thought he’d made it all up!
Oh, I was going to enjoy dusting this bastard.
The ring of steel on steel sounded behind me.
“We need to go,” said Rambles, pressing harder against my neck with the sword. “Get up.”
I started to comply, holding my left hand, seemingly limp and hurting, against my body. As I rose, Rambles took a step back to give me room. In the moment of his step, I felt the pressure of the sword ease off. That was what I’d been waiting for.
I lunged off the ground with both feet, driving myself upward. At the same time, I thrust my left elbow out. His eyes grew wide at my movement. They got even wider when my elbow drove into his crotch with the full force of my body behind it.
I ducked my head as I came up, but still felt a light cut slide across the back of my neck. It was worth it, though, to see Rambles collapse on the street next to me. I drew my boot dagger and gathered up the rope as he began to vomit on himself.
“I wish I could make this linger,” I said. “Angels know you’ve screwed me over enough to deserve it, but I have more important business than you.”
He blinked the tears from his eyes and rolled on the ground, drawn up into himself. Rambles looked at me, then past me. “Kill the fucker,” he grated through his teeth.
“Kill him yourself,” said a voice behind me. “I have orders.”
Damn! Since when did Rambles run with a partner?
I rose and spun, lashing out with the rope. The woman was standing just beyond its reach. As the end passed by her, she slipped in neatly and punched me in the face. I staggered, brought my dagger up, felt it taken away. Then I noticed the white sash around her waist.
What the hell was a Sash doing here? Where were Nicco’s people? Or even Iron Degan? If Rambles was going to have backup…
She hit me again. Between her and what Shadow had done to my night vision, my head wanted to fall off.
I tried to back away. She grabbed my doublet, holding me in place, and brought her fist back yet again.
“Stop!” I said, dropping the rope. I held my palms out toward her. “Enough!”
The White Sash glared at me. “Hardly,” she said, “but it’ll have to do for now.”
I looked up at her and felt a stirring in my memory… A savage smile, cloak streaming out in midleap, her blade brushing me aside in the rain…
“The Barren,” I said. “You’re the Sash who ambushed us in the Barren.”
“And you’re the fuck who helped kill two of my brothers,” she grated. “Now, let’s go.”
She yanked on my doublet, pulling me toward her. She was tall, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and a hard presence-lots of muscle, lots of reflexes there. Her eyes were a pair of copper coins on a winter’s morning, while her mouth seemed most comfortable set in a stern line of displeasure. The only thing remotely soft about her was her hair-a long auburn braid, the hair interwoven with a white ribbon edged in fine lace.
I remembered I’d thought her beautiful in the Barren, and she was. But it was the beauty of a finely swung sword, or a freshly frozen lake at morning. It was a beauty you knew better than to touch.
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