The Lost Pathfinder

by Unknown

  My epithet rippled over her face. With a snarl, the assassin turned the crossbow toward me. Only then did I realize the stakes. Even when I was in his good books, the boss wouldn’t have paid the small fortune it would take to resuscitate me. He’d have to sell one of his precious orchards or an entire farm, assuming I was only dead and not destroyed. I didn’t really know how it went with black lotus. The thought made me flinch, and I dove low to knock the legs out from under the assassin.

  The killer was smarter than she’d looked. As I flew toward her knees, she leaped straight up and set one foot on either rail, deft as a bird on a line. I hit the iron platform hard. All I could do was hope the impact would throw off her aim, but the assassin’s knees bent to absorb the shock. Steady as a veteran sailor on the crow’s nest, she held the stock of the crossbow against her cheek and drew a bead on her target.

  Something she saw made her frown and hesitate again. I grabbed her ankle and wrenched her down from her perch.

  She twisted as she fell, hitting me dead in the sternum with the butt of her crossbow. The blow took away my breath and wet my eyes. She was even heavier than she looked, with muscles hard as cobblestones. I thrust an arm through the open wedge of the bow but couldn’t get a grip on the bolt. My other hand clutched at her face, fingers seeking her eyes.

  She cracked my chin with an elbow and struck me again in the throat. I turned to avoid the third shot, which caught me on the thick of my neck, and she caught my arm in a wrestler’s grip and bent it painfully, forcing me onto my face.

  Through the grille of the catwalk, I looked down at the singers. Their voices barely smothered the sound of our fight above, but a lone chorus boy stared up at us as he sang, his mouth an O of astonishment as he sustained his note. Despite my predicament, I threw the kid an apologetic grimace.

  Using my opponent’s strength against her, I tried twisting in the direction she was forcing me, but she planted a knee between my thighs to stop my escape. If she had kneed me a little harder, she’d have discovered the surprise I wore for those who go for the cheap shot. Maybe she knew I wore a spiked cup. If she’d asked for such detail about her target’s bodyguard, she was even more dangerous than I already understood.

  She let go of the crossbow I had tangled with my arm, and I finally caught hold of the haft and threw it away. The weapon clattered across the catwalk and came to a stop beside the railing. I half wished it had fallen onto the stage, summoning help. If that arrived in the form of local guards, it’d go a lot worse for the assassin than it would for me. But if someone called the Hellknights, it’d go badly for both of us. It was better to wrap things up and get the hell out of here.

  I whipped my head back and cracked her on the face. It wasn’t much of a blow, but it threw her off balance enough that I twisted out from under her. We lay side by side on the catwalk, and that’s where you don’t want to be if I’m mad at you. My spur caught her high on the chest, and I felt more than heard the crack of her breastbone. The strength evaporated from her arms as she reached for me, and I gave her another shot to the shoulder for good measure. We scrabbled over the catwalk for a few more seconds, but it was all over save for the rap on the head.

  When she lay still, I glanced out where she had aimed her weapon, but all I saw was one of those tiny balconies. It was empty.

  I collected her crossbow and dragged the assassin to the end of the catwalk. At the base of the ladder, four beefy stagehands awaited us. After removing the bolt and loosening the crossbow string, I lowered her unconscious body and dropped her into their arms. When I climbed down after her, the big boys blocked my path.

  “What’s all this, then?” asked the smallest of them. He must have been their boss.

  I thrust the crossbow into his chest. “You work it out,” I told him. When one of his boys reached for my arm, I menaced him with the poisoned crossbow bolt. He stepped back and looked to his boss for direction, and by the time he looked back I was out the door and into the hall.

  A cluster of guards stood over their unconscious comrades where I’d left them. One of them was just coming to, and his rescuers eyed me with suspicion. Their boss asked the obvious question, but I ignored it and answered the important one.

  “These knuckleheads let an assassin bribe her way into your playhouse,” I said, thrusting the crossbow bolt into his reluctant hands. His eyes widened as he recognized the poison on the tip. I pushed past him.

  “Wait,” he demanded.

  I turned to face him. The fight had taken it out of me, and I was too tired to run. “My boss is waiting,” I said. “If you have something to say, make it quick.”

  He hesitated, looking down at the bolt and considering his culpability in the matter. After a moment’s consideration, he looked me up and down and said, “Nice jacket.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  My opera cloak was scant comfort against the chill I felt upon emerging from the opera. However fine the weather, a cold wind blew in on me from the direction of all my peers. I was beginning to understand at last, after decades of effort to integrate myself fully into the human society of my mother, that I had never been one of them—not truly, not at all. I was born before House Thrune ascended the throne on the backs of devils and men sworn and damned. We did not like it, my mother and I, but since her death I had been ever loyal to the throne, answering each summons to war, spilling my coffers when taxed and overtaxed, and yet still turning the course of my wealth to the comfort of those least buoyed by the national triumphs, employing halflings not as slaves but as servants, elevating a hellspawn street thug as my bodyguard, and bending my considerable talents to the advantage of my peers who wished their personal injuries and indiscretions to be soothed privately…

  It was intolerable ingratitude. That one misfortune—in a career of hundreds of favors rendered discreetly and without a single instance of advantage taken over those whose secrets I had uncovered and recovered and kept safe—should result in such a bestial display…

  I had endured such abuse as only the lowliest of criminals deserve, and from the very crust of the scab that has formed over the wound left by the death of Aroden, usurped by the infection praised in my homeland as the Prince of Law. That we citizens of an empire should come to serve at the foot of Asmodeus, better described by our foreign foes and rivals as the Prince of Lies, master of all us damned Chelaxians who think nothing of exploiting the generosity of a peer only to…

  “Boss?”

  I had thought I was alone, but Radovan has a most distasteful habit of creeping up on me.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Why should I be otherwise?” I said.

  “You made a sound,” he said. “And, you know, you left the opera.”

  I did not wish a description of this “sound” Radovan had heard, nor did I wish to discuss the matter of my early departure. Still, it was an unexpected comfort to hear the voice of one I could trust, no matter how rude his manners. My headache had dissolved into a maelstrom of indecision. I felt as though I were on the brink of an abyss, capable of surrendering myself to the void or else turning to leap… I knew not where.

  “You look like you could use a drink,” said Radovan.

  The surrender in his voice was more damning than any chastisement. It was Radovan, among all my servants, who had most blatantly hinted that I had been drinking too much since the unfortunate affair of the Henderthanes. That he would encourage me to seek the solace that he believed diminished me made me feel more poignantly ashamed than any admonishment my mother had ever gently delivered.

  “No,” I said. “That is the last thing I need.”

  “All right,” he said. To his credit, he kept most of the relief from his tone. “Then maybe it’s time to get you home.”

  The comforts of Greensteeples were plentiful, and no lord of Egorian had grown more accustomed to his house than I, who had resided in mine, apart from the occasional tour or campaign, for nearly a century. Yet I knew I would find n
o solace in Egorian, even if I were to close my doors to visitors and mingle exclusively among the society formed by my books, my gardens, and my memories. As I came to this realization, it was the image of the whispering lilies, drooped and wilting in the solarium, which sprang foremost to my mind—a symbol of all that had gone wrong.

  And which might yet be set right.

  “No, Radovan,” I said. “It is time to depart.”