One Man
Page 25
The only thing the intruders did was leave the door to the beetles’ bedroom open.
Her beetle came running back alone.
“There’s fighting downstairs!” the boy said, eyes wide. “And blood! A man is asking where the beetles are hidden!”
Fuck. They knew. Whoever this asshole was working for, they knew. Tin had planned her move so quietly and carefully, but someone had found out that she’d moved her couriers, along with a dozen heavies, to Harl’s secret glitterkind stash. No one was supposed to know that place even existed, but they must have found out. There could be no other explanation for why the asshole was looking for her couriers.
She explained the situation to her brother.
“If they find that place,” Wooden said, “we’re as good as dead.”
He was right. They needed the money from Harl’s glitterkind business to keep all of his thugs in line. Otherwise, the Pails would have to face an entire city with a couple of dozen heavies. They’d be swept away like leaves in a stream. The thought made her stomach feel tight.
There was no choice. She turned to her bodyguard.
“On second thought, that scarred man downstairs? Take the point to him.”
* * *
When the woman suggested Kyrioc head left, he went left. It was clear she wasn’t really one of the dancers. For one thing, she wasn’t sweaty. For another, no one would try to dance in boots with a steel cap on the toe, let alone a hammer tucked into their belt. No, by her boring clothes and hair, he figured her for a petty white tar dealer trying to steer him away from her stash.
Which was fine. He wasn’t interested in tar. All he wanted was to find out where the old woman went and who she was talking to.
There was nothing in the leftmost hall except a storeroom. When he entered it, he could hear a shrill, commanding voice coming through the wallboards.
Kyrioc ran back up the hall, around the bend—the woman with the hammer was gone—and back down the right-hand passage. He did find the women’s indoor privy there, but at the very end, he came to a door that was humming with that same shrill voice.
He turned the latch, found it unlocked, and pushed it open. The old woman in the white robe was there, but she was the only one who didn’t react to his entrance. She just kept droning on about being no stranger to backroom deals before, and what about seeing the merchandise first, considering the price she was expected to pay.
Across the counter from her were two heavies and one long-faced man with sullen eyes. All three gaped at Kyrioc. The loss of their attention finally made the woman lose momentum and stop talking.
Behind the long-faced man was the man with three little braids hanging on his forehead. Kyrioc pointed at him.
“You. Come here.”
The sullen man turned to one of the heavies. “At some point, you’re going to have to do what you’re being paid to do.”
The two men jumped to life and drew their knives. They charged.
A surge of raw emotion welled up within Kyrioc, and his cloak of iron wrapped around him. He lunged toward the charging men, drawing his own knife.
These were not the hapless thugs he’d fought in the alley outside the Pails’ warehouse, but it didn’t matter. He slipped the first man’s charge, caught his wrist, and shoved him into the wall. When the heavy collapsed, his own blade was protruding from just below his right collarbone.
The second feinted low and went high, but before his stroke could fall, Kyrioc’s blade had already pierced his throat and withdrawn. The man dropped his weapon to try to staunch the flow of blood, but by the look in his eyes, he knew the end had come.
The long-faced man sighed and drew back his vest to reveal two hatchets. “I suppose I should have done this when the Pails moved in, so fuck it.”
“The man behind you hurt a friend of mine,” Kyrioc said. His skin was tingling and everything seemed vivid and alive, but he didn’t want to kill anyone he didn’t have to. He was sick of wasting lives. “He’s going to tell me where he put the little girl he kidnapped. That’s all I want. I’m not here for you.”
The man looked around. The wealthy woman had gone. He drew his hatchets and took up a defensive stance. “You have me anyway.”
Kyrioc feinted forward, then jumped back when the sullen man swung at his midsection. When the inevitable overhand right came down, Kyrioc struck the hatchet on the side of the head with the butt of his knife. The weapon spun out of the sullen man’s grip.
When the second came in, Kyrioc caught the blade in his bare hand.
He could feel the impact, and he could feel the carefully honed sharpness of the blade, but it didn’t break his skin, not with his cloak in place.
The sullen man’s look of triumph turned to confusion. Before he could fully understand what had happened, Kyrioc plunged his knife into the side of his neck. He fell to the floor, fumbling at the haft protruding from beneath his ear.
The heavy with three braids was still scrambling over the counter, then landed on both feet and ran for the exit. Kyrioc threw the stolen hatchet, wedging it deep into the jamb and door, pinning it shut. The heavy looked at it with wide, terrified eyes, and then he spun around, knife in hand.
He’d replaced the knife Kyrioc had taken from him with a more expensive one. The blade was serrated and the handle carved from ivory. It would have commanded a good price at the pawnshop.
Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead. When he attacked, fear tightened his swing, and Kyrioc easily caught his wrist and twisted.
He took the heavy’s knife and pressed him against the door. “Where have they moved Riliska? Tell me, and I’ll let you live.”
“Go fu—”
Kyrioc stabbed the blade into his armpit, the steel jamming into his shoulder joint. The heavy screamed, his voice high with pain and terror.
“This is a good knife,” Kyrioc said. “I’ll bet I could flense your arm to the bone with a blade like this. You could spend a week dying under my care, maybe more if your heart is strong. You know the girl I’m looking for. Tell me where I can find her.”
A single sliding footfall was Kyrioc’s only warning. He pivoted to the left just as a blade thrust through the space where he’d been standing.
It plunged into the heavy’s back, splitting the wooden door from top to bottom.
The red-haired Katr had just tried to skewer Kyrioc with his ghostkind weapon. He looked astonished to have missed.
The heavy’s head lolled back. His mouth gaped and his eyes fell shut. The Katr had killed him.
Which meant Kyrioc would have to get the information from someone else. He turned to face the northerner.
* * *
Since the day in the Fiurniss Valley when Killer of Devils accepted the gift of Asca, he had not missed a single stroke and he had not been surprised by another human being. He had surprised himself occasionally, but the celestial magic of the gods—what the Salashi sometimes called godkind—meant that he would never misjudge an enemy again.
So, when he thrust his glaive at the back of the pawnshop broker, he had every expectation that the strike would hit home.
Instead, his target had heard his approach and dodged the attack. The decision and action came so quickly that Killer had no time to alter his thrust.
His gift told him the broker was about to grab the haft of his polearm, so Killer yanked it back, freeing it from both the man he had inadvertently killed and the door. Still, the broker was almost quick enough to catch hold. He had to draw back his hand at the last moment to avoid the edge.
An enemy who could move so quickly from decision to completed action—an enemy who could actually surprise him—was not someone to be toyed with. This was not a time for play or posturing. Killer fell back into a fighting stance, his blade held low.
The broker feinted left and went hard to the right. Killer’s gift told him the move was a feint even before the man started to move, but the glaive barely clipped his forearm.
The broke
r fell into a roll and came to his feet with a hatchet. In one, smooth quick motion, he threw it.
Too slow. Killer swept upward with his blade, striking the head of the hatchet and slicing through it. The thick steel head split in two and the pieces flew behind him. His counterstroke…missed again.
His enemy disarmed, Killer tried to bring his glaive to bear, but the haft struck the wall behind him.
The broker took advantage, and it was clear—as if it had not been before—that the man was more than a shop clerk. He slipped inside the length of the glaive and fought with open hand, elbows, knees, and feet. His attacks had real power behind them. Killer had to drop his long weapon to defend himself.
Grim excitement made Killer’s skin prickle as he pushed himself to respond. It had been years since an enemy had truly challenged him. An enemy who could dodge his stroke. An enemy who could actually land a blow against him. This one, perhaps, would be the one who would free him from this shameful bondage.
But he was going to have to earn it.
The man was fast, but he could not match Killer’s strength and mass. They traded blows, nearly one for one, but Killer believed his strikes took a higher toll. They must have, although the broker did not show it.
Then he caught his enemy’s wrist and twisted. The broker, knocked off balance for just a moment, fell against the counter. Before Killer could bring his weight to bear, the man reversed the grip and slammed Killer’s forehead against the wood. The world turned bright with pain.
His own knife. His gift working even with spots swirling in his vision, Killer slapped this hand over the knife in his belt, catching it before the broker could clear the sheath. In the struggle, the blade clattered to the floor. Killer threw an elbow that knocked the broker backward. He stumbled over the body of one of the men he had already killed, and in that moment of free movement, Killer fought through his daze and went for his ghostkind weapon.
He caught hold of the haft just as the broker stamped down on the flat of the blade, pinning it to the floor. With a quick twist, Killer released the haft and thrust the blunt end into the broker’s gut.
The man staggered, and Killer leaped forward and threw a hard left.
He drove the broker into the corner to hem him in, but before he got close, the broker kicked Killer hard in the stomach. The attack came too quickly to block or dodge. He could only twist slightly to weaken it. Killer fell backward over the same body, but his free hand fell on the other half of his glaive, and when he rolled to his feet, he held both halves in a ready posture.
The broker, crouching unarmed in the corner, glanced at the knife embedded in Paper’s body, then took a long, slow breath. Killer realized he was about to see magic. Darkness seemed to billow from him like heavy smoke, and within moments, he was hidden inside a cloud of shadow.
“I knew it had to be so,” Killer said to the darkness. “You are like me, blessed with a gift from the gods. Not the paltry gifts of Suloh, so weak that none bother to flaunt them, or the false vitality that comes from the berries of Yth, but something deadly and powerful. Yes?” From the shadow, there was no answer. “And it must have been a god who lies dead within ghostkind lands, because you fight like them. Some godkind in the west, yes? Even after a millennium, there are still celestial corpses lying undiscovered in the world. Which is it? Weyen? Heyest? Not Indib, with that cloud of darkness. Certainly not the god of war.”
Killer of Devils realized he was enjoying himself. For the first time in years, he had found a worthy enemy, one whose magic came from a source as powerful as his, and who could give him a real fight. Now, to make everything perfect, Killer was going to cut his guts out or die trying.
Killer said, “I know what you are.”
From the depths of the shadow came the stranger’s voice. “I know what you are, too.”
The tone of the broker’s voice was not new. Killer felt that same contempt for the man he had become, and for the circumstances that forced him to serve these masters in this doomed city.
“I thought you might be the one,” he said. “I thought you might be the one to free me from my obligation to these criminals, these priests of Heyest, although they do not seem to understand that they are such. But no. I think it will have to be another.”
The sound of tiny running feet echoed from the hall outside. It was one of the Pails’ beetles.
“Good sir,” the child blurted breathlessly, “the cosh are coming. We have to go. Orders, good sir.”
Killer cursed silently. He could have killed every constable, soldier, and marshal they sent after him, but he could not protect his employers at the same time. “Yes,” he said.
To the shadow, he said, “Another time.”
Then Killer’s gift revealed that the broker was about to lunge at him. The darkness might have obscured his vision, but it could not fool his magic. Killer threw the handle into the cloud of shadow at head level and, in almost the same movement, swept his sword low through the darkness. The handle rebounded off the walls and rolled at his feet, but the blade came out of the darkness with blood on the tip.
“Good sir!” the child insisted. “Orders!” Killer snatched the handle off the floor and hurried away. He had sworn an oath and could not ignore orders.
* * *
Kyrioc fell back against the wall, clutching the cut on his left side. His cloak of shadows dissipated.
He’d taken deadlier wounds than this. The cut was shallow and cleaner than any razor could have made. It was about as long as his middle finger, and he thought it had missed his internal organs.
If he was lucky. And, usually, he wasn’t. Still, his blood was flowing.
Riliska…
Kyrioc stumbled to the body of Paper Mouse and yanked the blade from his armpit. It wasn’t much use against a polearm, especially one that could cut through steel like threshing wheat, but it didn’t matter. The people who could have told him where to find Riliska were right here, and he had fucked it up.
Clutching at his bloody side, Kyrioc lurched after the barbarian and the messenger boy. Someone was going to tell him what he wanted to know if he had to cut it out of them.
Kyrioc staggered as fast as he could to the stairs at the far end of the hall. Behind him he could hear constables shouting. They were close. He hurried up the stairs and found the musicians milling around on the stage. One cried, “Oh, shit!” when she saw the bloody knife, and Kyrioc suddenly had a clear path to the dance-floor rail.
Far down the street, a cart passed a lantern, and Kyrioc saw the barbarian sitting in the back, staring at him. Opposite him was a woman talking to one of the beetles. She snapped her fingers. The beetle leaped from the cart. She turned. It was the woman with the hammer in her belt.
That was Tin Pail. By the fallen gods, the woman who’d taken Riliska had been right beside him.
Kyrioc staggered into the street, sprinting as hard as he could to catch up, but he was still bleeding and the cart was a two-horse rig. It vanished into the city.
His chance to take them by surprise was gone, their boss knew his face, and he’d let himself be injured. He’d wasted his best chance to find Riliska.
The constables came boiling out of the platform-hall stage, roughly grabbing the musicians and the other employees. The last few patrons fled in terror, drawing the ironshirts’ attention.
Except for one slender Carrig in bureaucratic gray. Kyrioc recognized him from the south tower.
The beetle ran toward him. “The Pails have a question—”
Kyrioc leaped at the boy and gathered him up in his right arm. Shouts from the platform hall drowned the boy’s protests. He raced down the nearest alley while the boy struggled and kicked.
Laying the flat of the bloody knife against the boy’s cheek, Kyrioc said, “Behave.”
It was nearly dawn, and the alleys were empty. The thieves and pickpockets had already left to sell the goods they stole overnight, and the tar heads had slipped away with their scores.
Kyrioc didn’t know High Apricot well, but somewhere to the west was a broad, sloping road that connected to Woodgarden and other districts below. He reached the end of the alley, crossed the street, and entered another. At this time of day, it should be full of vendors making early deliveries to shops all over Koh-Salash. Once he put enough distance between himself and the ironshirts, he had one last chance to find out what he needed to know.
Finally, woozy and desperate, he came to the edge of the High Apricot deck and saw the broad road just below him. The Freightway. But aside from one horse-drawn cart loaded with sheets of tanned leather, the street was still empty. It was too early.
Kyrioc palmed his knife. “Going to Woodgarden?”
The woman driving the cart was gray-haired and narrow-eyed, but what looked at first like a suspicious nature turned out to be poor vision. She moved over on the cart to allow him to sit beside her.
“You don’t look so good, son.”
The boy sneered. He couldn’t have been older than seven. “He’s gonna look worse soon. Real soon.” To Kyrioc, “I’m going to kill you.”
The old woman clicked her tongue in disapproval, but Kyrioc simply said, “I thought you had a message.”
“My boss wants to make you an offer. If you tell me who you’re working for, she will let you live. If you don’t, she will kill you and everyone in your family.”
Kyrioc sighed. “I’m not working for anyone. Your boss kidnapped a little girl. I want her back.”
The boy smirked. “My boss said to tell you that if you answer with anything other than a name, she’ll take the point to you and yours.”
The boy reached for the knife at his belt, but Kyrioc plucked it from its little sheath and tossed it into the road.