Her mouth set. Her eyes, dark and distended, were fastened blindly to the floor.
Swift as a striking snake, Angel Eyes smashed her in the face, driving her head back against the wall. The shock of it, Gorgo was sure, was worse than any pain it could cause her. Angel Eyes picked up another little instrument from the table. “This has always been one of my favorites.” His fingers caressed it. “It’s not how much force, you see, it’s where you apply it. There has to be an elegance—”
But the wretched sailor was already speaking. “It’s in my father’s house. Under a loose stone beneath the bed.” She added with a half-sobbed whimper, “Don’t hurt him.”
“But why would I want to, Janna? It’s you I want to hurt.”
Gorgo’s blood was running cold through his veins by now. Angel Eyes was remorseless. How long would he himself have stood against the man’s carefully judged applications of terror and pain? Janna had had no chance. Angel Eyes’ manipulations were so skilled that he even knew when to draw back, to give his victim a moment’s space before she fell into incoherent hysterics. As the man did now, watching her carefully. All his methods were tailored to draw out exactly what he wanted from his victim, Gorgo realized. Nothing was unnecessary. It was just business to him. Gorgo forced himself to breathe more slowly, more deeply. He was only here to watch, he reminded himself, then wondered uneasily what the golem was doing, all this time. Was she still standing out in the hall? He had not heard her pass by the doorway behind him, but perhaps she could move so quietly that he wouldn’t hear. Involuntarily Gorgo glanced around, and saw no one in the shadowed room behind him. He pressed his eye back to the crack in the wall.
“And now, Janna,” Angel Eyes said, “What was this crown jewel that made your fortune?”
Her voice came deadened, hopeless. “You won’t believe me.”
“Anything Na•ar would buy for two hundred mountains had better be unbelievable.”
“The Assassin of the Kahlrites. Cockatrice, they call it.”
Angel Eyes’ face changed. Gorgo would swear it was an honest surprise. “The Assassin itself,” Angel Eyes mused. His voice had slipped, not so flat nor so cold. A moment later Angel Eyes regained his level tones. “I had thought we were nearly done, Janna. But now we’ll have to start all over. You’ll have to tell me everything.”
A crack of sound from the hall made Gorgo jump. Wood splintered, and metal hummed and whistled. Angel Eyes wheeled toward the door of his room, which lay out of Gorgo’s angle of sight. Gorgo saw the smuggler’s eyes widen, and his hand dart for his sleeve. The unseen door groaned and crashed as someone kicked it in. In two long strides, Cockatrice came into Gorgo’s view, glistening golden in the lantern light, looming over the room. Her axe whirled in a death circle that hewed off Janna’s head and sent it spinning; before anyone could recover she pivoted and stalked back as she had come, out the broken door. Her soft swift footfalls sounded in the hall as they passed Gorgo’s doorway and receded down the long wooden stairs.
In the breathless, shocked hush that followed, Gorgo saw the three henchmen standing stupefied, defenseless; Angel Eyes alone had a weapon out, a sword with a jagged blade that glowed green in the lantern light. The smuggler recovered in an instant, with a short laugh. The blade snicked away into the hilt, and Angel Eyes tucked the weapon into his sleeve.
In a different voice than any he had used up till now, hard but brisk and amused, the smuggler said, “The assassin doesn’t like its secrets spilled, I see. We’re all marked men. You’ll all leave here by different directions, and go to ground at once. Use your best disguise; don’t take this form again for one moment, not till I say it’s safe. We’ll meet at point Q in two weeks, if any of you are still alive. Go!” The henchmen swarmed from the room like black hornets, speeding down the hall. They too were gone.
In the deserted room, Angel Eyes moved unhurriedly. He stripped off his blood-spattered tunic and tossed it into the corner; his black undershirt was equally nondescript. He gathered up the little instruments of torture and stowed them away in a pouch. Janna’s severed head lay on the floor at his feet. He shook his head, gazing down at her thoughtfully. “Poor creature,” he muttered. “You should know better than to dice with the Devourer.” He picked up the lantern and without the least sign of panic ambled down the hall.
The smuggler’s slow, methodical pace worried Gorgo, suggesting the man would check the building carefully on his way out, like a prudent underworlder. If Angel Eyes stopped in Gorgo’s doorway and shone his lantern in, he would see him at once. Gorgo crept back to the wall that fronted the hallway, and flattened himself against it just inside the open doorframe. His breath trickled through his nose, soundless. The light from Angel Eyes’ lantern crawled across the floor in time with the man’s advancing footfalls, the glow invading Gorgo’s room in an ever-widening swath. The footsteps paused outside the door. Light spilled into the room, a bright cone just beyond Gorgo’s hiding place. Gorgo curled his hand around his knife hilt. His hand slipped sweatily on the haft. Silent moments oozed by.
Faint sound broke the stillness, a scuffle of feet, a snick—Gorgo didn’t even register what it was, only whipped his knife out and whirled toward the door, stepping into the light with his blade raised. His knife slammed against the jagged edge of a glowing green sword. Gorgo was staring straight into Angel Eyes’ slitted eyes, cold as glaciers under a winter moon. The smuggler swept his sword around, diving in for another blow, and Gorgo managed to parry, backing a step to stay clear of Angel Eyes’ blade. Devourer, the man was fast. Gorgo was a fair warrior, but he could tell already that Angel Eyes was better. His knife was no match for the smuggler’s sword, either. Gorgo could not stay alive in a serious swordfight, though he could buy time.
But the smuggler’s blows lacked conviction; they were mere tests of his skill, Gorgo thought. Angel Eyes held off from another strike, blade still raised, measuring Gorgo. He had no doubt made the same assessment of their respective skills that Gorgo had. When he spoke his voice was hard and flat. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
The only thing an underworlder really feared was the police, Gorgo reasoned; as long as the smuggler thought Gorgo a shadow dweller like himself, he might not need to kill him. Gorgo smiled slightly, lifting his lip to bare his teeth. “No one the jacks need know about.”
“You are Nameless?”
A smuggler on the Nameless Market like himself, Angel Eyes meant, and remembering Janna, that was the last thing Gorgo wanted to lay claim to. “Not Nameless. Merely a hunter.”
The criminal’s pale eyes weighed Gorgo, expressionless. “You don’t strike me as a hunter.”
Maybe not, but Angel Eyes would have trouble placing Gorgo as anything else, either. Though a noble, Gorgo had never cared for fine clothes, and was dressed nearly as darkly and plainly as the smuggler himself. He must present a puzzle to the stranger. Gorgo smiled coldly. “I am hunting cockatrices tonight.”
A moment’s silence, then Angel Eyes barked a laugh. “You’re hunting that thing? You’re more foolish than you look. What do you hope to do with it when you catch it?”
“That’s my business—as this matter tonight is your business.” Gorgo stared him down, willing Angel Eyes to believe it, willing the smuggler to believe that Gorgo was both a match for him, and no threat to his business. Gorgo was not conscious of fear, only of his blood singing in his veins, his muscles hot and loose, his feet poised to spring. His head buzzed. He watched every tiny movement of the criminal, waiting for any clue the man would strike.
Angel Eyes smiled, a cold ripple of his lips. “Yahsta’s balls, boy, you’re more of a reckless idiot than that pathetic sailor was. You may be shielded from the eyes of magic, but you have no protection from the hands of magic. The assassin could shred you into fish food without lifting a weapon.”
Did Angel Eyes realize what he’d just given away? The man must be a sorcerer himself, or he would not be able to sense the shield around Gorg
o. Meaning that like the assassin, Angel Eyes could kill Gorgo without raising a weapon. Gorgo betrayed no reaction; it hardly made his position any worse than before. He already knew Angel Eyes could kill him.
The smuggler stepped back a pace, lowering his sword. “Still, I’ve no heart to kill any hunter so foolhardy as to chase prey that deadly. You will meet your fate without my help.” With a click, his glowing blade disappeared back into its hilt. He raised his brows ironically. “Now I’ve saved your life. If you live, you may return the favor someday.”
Angel Eyes turned away. Gorgo stayed tense, every nerve humming. The smuggler wheeled back and lunged for him, his blade whirring out again, cleaving the air in a bright emerald arc. Gorgo swung his knife to meet it, to parry and push aside the blade, stepping toward Angel Eyes, using his strength. He was not as fast as Angel Eyes, but he was stronger. For a moment they were toe to toe and eye to eye, their blades crossed before their faces. The smuggler’s eyes glittered in the lantern light like dirty ice.
The moment stretched. Then the criminal chuckled, the warmest sound Gorgo had yet heard from him. Angel Eyes stepped back and sheathed his strange sword again. The smuggler presented his back to Gorgo without fear, picked up the lantern and sauntered away. Yahsta’s blood, the bastard had been testing Gorgo again.
Gorgo stayed frozen, knife ready, until Angel Eyes’ footsteps had receded down the hall and the long stairs, and Gorgo heard the door at the bottom. Then he sank to the floor, breathing heavily. His stomach twisted, and for a moment he thought he might vomit. Slowly the feeling passed. He swallowed several times. His hands trembled, and his heart thudded fast against his ribs. Minutes crept by before Gorgo regained control of his body. Finally he could sheathe his knife without his hand shaking.
He climbed to his feet, steadying himself with his hands against his thighs before he straightened up. He needed to get out of this building before jacks arrived, or Cockatrice returned. Gorgo saw no one on his way out, or in the alleys clogged with shadow, but he did not relax until he was on a main street among a crowd. He wiped sweat from his brow and gulped the freezing night air, wishing it could cleanse him of the murder he had witnessed. He still saw the sweep of Cockatrice’s axe, and Janna’s head flying. Pity crawled through him for the dead sailor. She had been weak, and the wolves of Wyverna killed the weak. Would he also meet Janna’s fate? He was baiting the wolves too—Angel Eyes, Morbid, Cockatrice. Why had Angel Eyes let him live tonight? He could not count on such luck again. If Gorgo wasn’t careful he would be just another corpse in a cold Wyverna night.
Gorgo tried to shake off these thoughts; they did him no good. He needed to think, to understand the implications of what he had just seen. None of it made sense to him. Why, by the Devourer, hadn’t Cockatrice killed Angel Eyes and his henchmen at the same time as she’d eliminated Janna? And come to that, she had killed Janna too late—after the woman had spilled the fact of Cockatrice’s existence. It made no sense any way he looked at it. Obviously he was not looking at it correctly.
Gorgo tried again. Who had sent out the golem? Was it Na•ar, or did Morbid have it already? It must be Na•ar, eliminating witnesses to his crime. Morbid didn’t know about Janna’s involvement, so it couldn’t be her. So Na•ar had released Cockatrice tonight to kill Janna. Maybe that explained what had happened. Cockatrice had been waiting for Janna, outside that tavern, before the woman was ever abducted. Cockatrice had killed Janna not because the sailor had talked, but because she had been told to kill her. She had not killed the others because she had no instructions concerning them. But when she reported this night’s doings, then they too must be killed. A new respect for Angel Eyes’ intelligence struck Gorgo. The man had realized all this in a flash. “We’re all marked men...” To survive life in the underworld, one would have to react as quickly as that. Gorgo wondered if it would be enough to save Angel Eyes and his henchmen from the beast.
Turning it over in his head, calmer now that his mind was engaged, Gorgo wondered how much intellect Cockatrice had. Was she only as effective as the intelligence of the one who commanded her, merely a weapon to be aimed? But Gorgo remembered her long wait outside the door, listening just as he had been, gathering information. That was not the action of a mindless killer. How much had been orders, and how much her own choices? At any rate, leaving witnesses behind had been foolish. Gorgo guessed that mistake had been an oversight by the golem’s master, neglecting to specify that any observers must be killed. Gorgo suddenly doubted that Na•ar had sent her out; he had seemed a careful, methodical man. In which case—could Morbid have bought Cockatrice already? The thought chilled Gorgo down to his bones. If so, he had no time left.
5: Claws
It was now less than four hours till sunrise. Gorgo was too keyed up to feel tired, but he knew he needed rest. He rented a room at a little inn on a side street, where he caught two hours of sleep. He woke in the grey murk of pre-dawn and headed to the wharves to catch the ferry to Storm Point for his rendezvous with Six & Seven. There was no need now to visit Plunder House, since Janna had revealed what he wanted to know last night.
He had more fellow travelers than he expected. Storm Point was a popular spot to watch the sunrise, particularly for couples. There were a few of them on the boat with Gorgo, too absorbed in each other to pay any attention to him. If anyone had asked, Gorgo was prepared to play the role of the young playboy, out drinking all night and now capping it off with sunrise at Storm Point, but apparently that role was already assumed for him, and he need do nothing but enjoy the morning air.
The ferry wound its way through the islands. With no wind this morning, a team of rowers worked in leisurely fashion, the steady plash of their oars the only sound in the hush. The cold was piercing out on the water. Icy rivulets of dew ran down the sides of the little ship and wet the tips of Gorgo’s boots, and his breath came out as steam. Mist-cloaked islands loomed up and slid by again on all sides, dim, shaggy grey bulks. Past the islands the open sea stretched unbroken and formless into the east, a rippling grey curtain. Gorgo felt bracingly alive, every nerve in his flesh singing, every breath he took sweet in his lungs. He let his mind clear of all plans, all worries. This moment was enough.
The boat bumped up against a tiny quay built onto the hard rock beneath Storm Point. Narrow stone steps, slippery with dew and moss, were cut into the steep cliff. Gorgo bounded up them sure-footed, leaving the lovers to trail in his wake. The bluff was desolate save for a few tough plants clinging to the rocks, their rubbery shoots colored orange and ochre and russet. The dim forms of mansions bulked in the dark west. A scattering of people already stood on the cliff, watching the eastern horizon turn to peach and pink. Gorgo kept his distance, strolling alone to the tip of Storm Point. He watched the grey water roil about the base of the cliff, sending up white sheets of foam.
“Well, hello, cousin! I haven’t seen you in ages. Fancy meeting you here.” An insouciant figure wearing a gaudy orange and gold tunic sauntered over, his fawn-colored hair blowing about under a matching cap with a jaunty feather.
“You’re overdoing it, Six & Seven,” Gorgo gritted as he came near.
“Nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor. How much of a hoard did you want me to win last night? I practically broke the casino. I hope there’ll be a little left over for celebrating.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. I need you to take some of it over to Three Queens Drowned right away this morning. Water has a box there. Leave four gryffons for me—and a note asking what her price is for the second week.”
Six & Seven shook his head slowly, not in negation but in wonderment. “And they call me the crazy one.”
“I’m starting to think Water’s protection is cheap at the price,” Gorgo muttered darkly, thinking of Cockatrice and Angel Eyes. Thanks to Water’s cloak, now that he was out of their sight neither one should be able to track him down.
“Look, Gorgo. Odd thing happened yesterday. Someone did show up at th
e compound looking for you. Said he’d come to collect a gambling debt. Your mother called me over to ask about it, and I said you weren’t owing anyone, but I didn’t know where you were. Then the stranger got all apologetic and said he was afraid he had the wrong man—wanted to know what you looked like. Your mother described you and then the fellow apologized for disturbing us and left. Said it had to be a different Gorgo of the Oribuls.”
“Demon hells, Gorgo’s not a common name, not in the Oribuls or any other family. Armida picked it out for me, and Devourer knows where she got it. Bloody poor story. How’d he look, this stranger? Was he a man of medium build, light brown hair, short nose, strong jaw, and close-set eyes?”
“Face’s all right, but he had blond hair and a beard.”
“Two to one it’s the same man in a sloppy disguise. It’s Na•ar’s man, Korl; he’s seen me. Now he knows for sure where I live, and who my family are.” Gorgo remembered again the swing of the golem’s blade, the spray of blood. Fear lanced through him, thinking of his parents, his cousins. “Listen, no one at home has seen me or heard from me since the other night, no one knows a bloody thing about where I am or what I’m up to, all right? That thing is loose. I’ve seen it in action. I don’t know who’s controlling it, but it’s killed already.”
“Cockatrice itself? You’ve really seen it?” The sun was just rising in the sky behind Six & Seven. It made a bright halo of his hair and cast his face into shadow. Though Gorgo couldn’t see his features, he could hear in his voice the wonderment, the half-suppressed excitement of a Wyvernyr faced with danger and magic. Six & Seven knew no fear. Gorgo suddenly felt old. He told his cousin the tale of last night, wondering if even that would sober him.
It did make Six & Seven thoughtful, at least. “You’re walking pretty close to the edge, Gorgo. Do you have a plan? What shall we do?”
“You shall give me your money and go pay the next four gryffons at Three Queens Drowned. I’m going to the Catsclaw to see a Pirate named Strace.”
The Copper Assassin Page 7