People near us were starting to shout now, some pushing to get away, others struggling to move in and get a better view.
My right hand instinctively went to my rapier even as I skipped two steps back to clear space for the draw. Then I stopped myself.
Who exactly did I want to help here?
Iron was pulling his arm back for another swing when Degan twisted his body, bringing his left hand toward the other degan’s face. Iron bobbed his head back. Degan’s hand sailed past, and I saw Iron begin to smile. That was when Degan’s elbow followed through and hit Iron’s face with an audible crack.
The two men came apart, Iron staggering back from the blow, Degan using the moment to wrench his hand free from the other’s grip. Then the steel came out.
Now the crowd surged as one, trying to get away from the bared blades. Merchants who had started announcing special fight prices now yelled for the Rags instead. Prigs and Palm Getters, who had begun maneuvering in for a choice lift, instead grabbed whatever spoils they could and faded away before things got truly dangerous.
And still I stood, hand on my own steel, unmoving. Try as I might, I couldn’t persuade myself to step into the fight. I didn’t care about Iron per se—he was just muscle, here to make sure I kept my end of the bargain. It was what he represented that gave me pause—my agreement with Solitude, the future of the empire, the security of my sister, and my own safety as well. If I helped cut him down, all of that went away. And, to be honest, I wasn’t ready to break yet another promise so soon after making it—that wound was still too raw.
Except I had a promise to keep with Degan, too. No, not a promise—an Oath. One he took so seriously, he had fought Shadow to keep up his end. Could I do any less? Could I look him in the eye and tell him my word to Solitude was any more valid than his promise to me? Hell, this was Degan—was any promise more important than the one I had made to him?
Son of a bitch. If only it weren’t the journal; if only it weren’t the empire.
And still, damn me, I hesitated.
Degan and Iron moved farther away from each other and began circling, slowly. Degan’s sword was longer than Iron’s by a good hand span, but Iron’s looked to be heavier and had a slight curve to it. Like Degan’s, its guard was chased in the metal of his name, steel wrought with cold iron in a flowing, arabesque pattern.
I took another step back. Until I knew what I was going to do, I wanted to keep well away.
Degan reached up to feel his jaw, shifting it back and forth in his hand. He chuckled and spit blood.
“Did I loosen anything?” asked Iron. Degan’s elbow had split the skin on his cheek. It was ragged and bleeding.
“Just the stones in my head,” said Degan, smiling. “My teeth are all there.”
“You’re slipping, to let me get in that close, lad.”
“Everyone gets one for free—that was yours.”
Iron shrugged and took a small step forward. His blade slid a hand’s breadth to the left. Degan countered by rotating the guard of his sword out and shifting his hips. Iron studied Degan for a heartbeat, then backed away.
“I remember that move from down in Byanthia,” said Iron. “You used it against the duke’s captain of the guard, didn’t you?”
“The duke himself, actually,” said Degan. Then, before the words had fully unfolded in the air, he was moving. Degan’s feet became a blur, his sword a line of silver fire in the dying sunlight. Two quick steps and Degan’s blade was inches from Iron, coming in a furious arc toward his shoulder. At the last moment, Degan compassed a small circle in the air with his sword’s tip, turning the cut into a sudden, rising thrust.
Iron stepped back and dropped to one knee. His sword came up, catching Degan’s blade along its edge. Steel hissed on steel as Degan’s point slid over Iron’s head. Then their guards met with a clang.
They were in close now; perfect dagger range, I noted, except neither of them had one to hand. Instead, Degan rammed his knee into Iron’s chest even as Iron slammed the pommel of his sword down on Degan’s opposite thigh, just above the other knee. Degan yelled, Iron gasped, and both men collapsed to the cobbles.
Degan moved first, rolling onto his hands and knees and levering himself upward. He met my eyes as he did, glanced at the sack he’d been carrying, then at me again.
I looked at the sack. It was amorphous enough to be anything. Had he already gotten what I’d come to fetch, to make sure I’d keep my end of the bargain? Was the journal in the bag, lying out in the middle of the street?
Unfortunately, there was only one way to be sure.
Iron was up and in an easy crouch as I began to move forward. Despite his gasping for air, his sword assumed a rock-solid high guard almost of its own accord. He glanced at me, then turned his full attention to Degan. Degan was on his feet now, obviously favoring the leg Iron had struck.
The sack lay directly between them.
“Leave it for now, little Nose,” said Iron. Deep breath. “Plenty of time later.”
“It’s his property,” said Degan.
Iron chuckled and took another breath. “That sure of your hold on him, are you?” he said. “He’s given his word twice over, now, brother—both to you and to Solitude. Which one do you think he’ll favor?”
Degan frowned. “Take the sack, Drothe,” he said.
I have to admit, I was mildly surprised. It was good to know Degan had that much faith in me; that, or he figured he could just take it back again if he changed his mind.
“Leave it be,” said Iron more forcefully. “Let it distract him.”
I looked from one degan to another. “The hell with this,” I said. I took my hand off my rapier and strode forward.
That was my first mistake.
Degan sprang to his left and stepped forward, using my body to shield himself from Iron’s view. It would only provide a moment of cover, but for a degan, that would likely be enough.
Iron, for his part, shot to his feet, spinning in the opposite direction. As he turned, he switched his sword to his left hand, so that when he faced me again, he was able to redirect the momentum into a full-out lunge, blade already extended.
I started to back away from the lunge, when I felt a hand in the middle of my back. “Don’t,” said Degan in my ear. Then Iron’s blade was arcing around my arm, its curve letting it slide past and come in at Degan at the same time.
I heard a grunt and the scrape of metal on metal behind me. Iron’s face was less then three feet from my own, and I saw him clench his jaw. Then he was lurching forward into me.
To say I bounced off him would be putting it mildly. His body connected with mine and propelled me away as if I’d been thrown. At the same time, I felt Degan’s hand shoving me, so that when I came to rest on the street, I was a good three to four paces away from them.
I rolled over and saw Degan with his free hand locked on Iron’s wrist. He must have reached around me and grabbed it when Iron lunged. Iron was turning, trying to keep Degan’s body between himself and the other’s sword, even as Degan twisted and levered down on his wrist.
I looked away, scanning the street. There, five feet to my left, was the sack.
I practically fell over myself in my haste to get to it. I wanted to ask Degan how he had gotten the journal, ask Mendross what had possessed him to give it to Degan in the first place, but all that could wait. Right now, I just wanted to get my hands on the damn thing so I could get rid of it.
Except when I picked up the sack, I knew the journal wasn’t in there. The heft was all wrong, and the mass inside too malleable when I lifted the canvas. Whatever was in there wasn’t a book.
I reached in and gingerly pulled out a coil of knotted rope. Each knot had a small scrap of paper tied into it, and around each knot, I knew, though I couldn’t see them, was tied a single strand of my hair.
Somehow, Degan had gone back after his fight with Shadow and retrieved the rope Jelem had made for me. That, or he had actually managed
to pick it up without setting it off when he came after me. Either way, it couldn’t have been easy.
Damn, but he was making this hard.
I heard a yell, followed by a flurry of sword strikes so quick they nearly blurred into a single, continuous noise. I looked up, ready to move.
Degan was pushing Iron back with a relentless array of cuts and thrusts, his blade whistling in the air before him. It was stunning; I’d never seen a sword move with that much speed and accuracy at the same time. Every action was precise, every attack flowing into the next with flawless efficiency. There wasn’t a hint of uncertainty in any of it.
And Iron met each attack just as flawlessly, parrying Degan’s blade the exact amount needed to keep it from touching him, but no more. Iron’s defense never faltered, be it blade or body or foot—he was exactly where he needed to be to not get hit. But none of his counters worked, either. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t turn Degan’s attacks back against him.
It was a beautiful, daunting display. The only problem was, it was bringing them right toward me.
I hopped back two paces and was just deciding which way to leap when Iron suddenly stepped off to one side, practically turning his back to Degan even as he thrust his sword toward him. Degan bent his torso back and tried to step off as well, but not before Iron’s blade slid along the top of his right arm. Degan’s free hand slapped the sword away, revealing a long, shallow cut along his right shoulder and biceps.
The two men stepped apart and regarded one another. Then they began circling again.
My stomach lurched at the sight of Degan’s wound even as my head recoiled at the thought of giving the book to him. Hell and damn.
I glanced at the bazaar around me as I coiled the rope and slipped it into my belt. Most of the crowd had dispersed, although there were enough people hanging back on the edges for someone to be making book on the fight. There was even a water seller moving through the crowd with his spouted pot.
I made my way around the edge of the fighting, trying to stay out of range of the degans while keeping my distance from the gawkers as I hurried back toward Mendross’s stall.
The fruit seller had taken up a position before his partly broken-down stall, a solid-looking staff in his hands. Not a single fig was going to go missing if he had anything to say about it. Then I showed up, and his produce was forgotten.
“Degans?” he said, practically sputtering. “Degans are fighting over the book you gave me? The book you said no one would be looking for here?”
“I didn’t think it would come to this,” I said.
Mendross took a step forward, brandishing his staff for emphasis. “I heard the name ‘Shadow,’ Drothe. And ‘Solitude.’ Those are names I don’t like hearing!”
“Join the club,” I said. I stepped into his stall. Mendross hesitated a moment, then moved his staff aside.
“I want that book out of my stall,” said Mendross. “Now.”
“Do I look like I came over here to argue about it?” I said.
Mendross turned on his heel and shoved the curtain aside. “Spyro!” he yelled. The boy’s head popped up from behind an opened sack of dates. His hair was mussed and his eyes only half open.
“Sometimes I think you’d sleep through the Angels’ Descent, boy,” snapped Mendross. “Get out there and make sure no one steals the stall.” Spyro didn’t quite fall over himself on the way out, but it was a close thing.
I followed Mendross through the curtain, glancing over my shoulder as I did. The two degans had come to grips again, each holding the other’s sword arm with his free hand. Iron was pushing Degan backward toward a brass seller’s stall, while Degan was busy trying to shift his weight and spin Iron into the stall instead. The curtain fell to block my view, and an instant later I heard the crash and clatter of a hundred incense burners and lamp holders being knocked to the ground. I wondered who had ended up against the table. Instead of looking, I turned back to Mendross.
The fruit seller was unceremoniously dumping a basket of figs out onto the floor. From the bottom toppled a cloth-wrapped bundle.
“Here.” Mendross unwrapped the journal and held it out to me. “I don’t want to know,” he said as I took it. “Ever. Understand?”
I gave him a wry smile. “Trust me—I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Two days ago, I might have—”
We were interrupted by Spyro thrusting his head around in the edge of the curtain.
“Father!” he nearly shouted. His eyes were fully open. The significance of this fact was not lost on either of us. “You have to come out here!”
It was then I noticed the silence. There were no sounds of combat.
I dashed through the curtain, nearly knocking Spyro down in the process. I took two steps toward the street and stopped.
Degan and Iron were both standing in the middle of the square, weapons drawn, breathing heavily. Brass ware of every imaginable shape lay scattered about them, dully reflecting the day’s last light.
Neither man was paying much attention to the other; instead, they were staring out at what was left of the surrounding crowd. Or, to be more specific, at the dozen or more men and women who had stepped out of the crowd, their weapons drawn.
At first, I thought they were Rags come to settle the disturbance. Then I noticed that the nearest one wasn’t wearing a red sash; instead, she had a barely visible, dirty gold strip of cloth tied about her arm.
War colors. Nicco’s war colors. Oh, damn.
I was taking a reflexive step back when a deep bass voice I recognized boomed out across the street. It still had the power to freeze me in my tracks.
“I’ve got you now, you crossing little bastard!” thundered Nicco. Off to my right, the crowd parted, and the Upright Man stepped into the open space before the stalls.
At first I thought the war had been taking its toll on Nicco, what with his puffy eyes, tangled hair, and unkempt clothes—he looked as if he’d been dragged out of bed. Then I noticed Rall’ad standing behind him, and realized it was very likely the case.
The fish vendor saw me looking at him, smirked, and slipped back a little farther into the crowd.
Crossing little bastard; I’d sear his face on his own grill if I got out of this.
“It’s going to be painful for you, Drothe,” said Nicco, opening and closing his fists at his side. “So painful.” He looked away before I could reply and addressed the degans.
“I’ve no quarrel with either of you,” said Nicco, pointing to the two degans. “You want to fight in my territory, I’ll overlook it. Hell, you can take this bazaar apart for all I care. My Arms won’t lift a finger against you.” He gestured at me. “But if you try to come between me and that, then we have a problem.”
I took another look at the men and women Nicco had brought with him. All their steel was quality; all their faces were grim. More than one of them were wearing at least some sort of protection as well. Four sported steel gorgets; another two had leather jack coats; most had some sort of helmet; one even wore a well-oiled steel cuirass strapped to his chest. Armor wasn’t usually worn on the street—that they had come this decked-out meant they had come ready for trouble.
I recognized some of the faces among them, too: Mythias, Seri Razor Edge, Gutter Janos, the Hell-and-Fury twins, the Cretin . . . Some of Nicco’s best muscle was here.
In a strange way, I almost felt honored at the talent he’d assembled, even though I knew it wasn’t meant for me directly. What worried me, though, was that there might actually be enough deadly skill among the Arms to take both degans.
Iron took a slow, calculating look at the men and women surrounding him. Degan simply stared at Nicco.
“Well?” said Iron to Degan.
Degan didn’t respond. He stood in the middle of the street, sword in hand, blood running down his arm. The silence radiated out from him, infecting the crowd until even the Purse Cutters and the water hawkers grew still.
“Shows what the hell you know,” said Degan. Then he moved, and the Cretin, who’d been a good four paces away from him, was falling over, Degan’s sword already on its way back out of the Cretin’s left eye.
In an instant, everything went from stillness to chaos. Knowing a bad situation when they saw it, the last of the crowd surged away from the imminent bloodshed. Two of the Arms got caught in the panicked tide and were swept away; the rest rushed forward to engage the degans. Iron laughed and waded in to meet three of the Arms outright, killing the front man with frightening casualness. When the remaining two shifted to keep him from joining up with Degan, Iron laughed again and waved them on with his free hand.
Degan hadn’t even paused in his assault. Without looking down, he’d caught the guard of the Cretin’s sword with his boot, kicked it up, and grabbed the weapon out of the air with his left hand. Now, with a sword in each hand, he was rushing Nicco.
Four Arms stepped forward to meet him. Degan cut with the left blade, parried with the right, feinted, and flicked the tip of his left sword. A gash appeared in the tallest Arm’s throat, pulsing red as he crumpled toward the ground. Another cut, a thrust, a stab with each blade, and another Arm fell.
It looked like Degan was going to wade his way to Nicco without much effort. I smiled at the thought. Then another Arm rushed in from the side, forcing Degan to shift his guard and work against two fronts. His advance stopped.
Nicco had blanched at the sight of Degan bearing down on him, but now he had enough breathing room to think. He thought of me.
“Get the damn Nose!” Nicco yelled to the square in general. He began circling toward me.
I didn’t need to hear him twice. Staying here only made me a target. If I wanted to do anyone any good, I needed to get out of this stall, preferably in a less than obvious fashion. The fewer people who knew where I was, the more damage I could do.
Among Thieves: A Tale of the Kin Page 35