Sworn in Steel

by Douglas Hulick

  Never mind that it had been luck—the important thing was to rise above it. A handful of hard names from the likes of Petyr weren’t going to bring me down, especially if I sent some of my people to “talk” to him once I was back inside the city. But tonight, in his territory, with only two coves on my blinders, the city gates locked until dawn, and a dangerous rumor running up behind me? This wasn’t the time or place to have a thin skin.

  Unfortunately, it was starting to look like Scratch hadn’t seen it that way.

  “And you took it, right?” I said. “When Petyr showed you his hand, you stood there and you took it, right?”

  Scratch rubbed thoughtfully at the knuckles of his left hand and didn’t answer.

  “Right?”

  “Man hits you, sometimes you don’t think. Sometimes you—”

  “Oh, for the Angels’ sake!” I turned away, not trusting myself to keep from backhanding Scratch myself. I took two steps along the quay, paused for a breath, took two more.

  I could feel the edges of the sword biting into my back through the canvas as I thought of the man who had used to own it. A bloody lip? Not fucking likely. Degan wouldn’t have let Petyr touch him—wouldn’t even have let him start the motion. The fight would have been over before it started. Hell, it wouldn’t have started in the first place. If Degan were here . . .

  No. Stop. Wishes and fishes and all that crap. Besides, I’d already poisoned that pond well and good. There was no going back.

  I turned around. Fowler gave me a warning look as I came back. I nodded in response. Scratch was her man, not mine: any consequences for this would be meted out by her. Raising my hand against him would only get me a face full of Oak Mistress, and not in any way I’d like. That pond had turned sour as well.

  I glared up at Scratch. “How bad was it with Petyr?”

  “Don’t think I broke his jaw, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You don’t think you—?” I took a deep breath, tried again. “How’d you get out of there? By all accounts, Petyr doesn’t travel light.”

  Scratch shrugged. “Threw a table and ran.”

  I opened my mouth to say more, thought better of it, and turned to Fowler instead. “The Thieves’ Gate is out,” I said.

  “You think?” She looked around the wharf. “We can’t stand around here for long. Broken jaw or not, Petyr’s going to have his people all over the Waters looking for us.”

  I nodded. Dirty Waters sat on a narrow strip of shore between Ildrecca’s city wall and the Corsian Passage. It had one main thoroughfare—called either Eel Way or the Slithers, depending on who you talked to—that paralleled the city wall. Down in the Lower Harbor, it was wide enough for three wagons; here in the Waters, it was a good day when two carts could pass each other and only rub wheel hubs. People, barrels, ramshackle huts, and garbage clogged most of the road, leaving a meandering path intersected by the occasional side street or alley. The back ways were even worse.

  The entire place was a warren of hidey-holes and roosting kens, but it wasn’t a warren I knew well. Running would be better than hiding, if we could manage it.

  “We’ll need to stick to the Slithers if we want to get out of here,” I said as I began to move away from the quay.

  “I don’t suppose you have any friends around here, do you?” said Fowler as she fell in beside me.

  “No,” I said, looking up the street. Had that shadow been in that doorway before? “But that’s not the important question.”

  “It isn’t?” said Fowler.

  “No.”

  “Then what is?”

  The shadow, I decided, was definitely new, as were the four that had just slipped around the corner on the opposite side of the street. All were coming our way. Fast.

  “The important question,” I said, drawing my rapier and my fighting dagger, “is how far is it to the end of Soggy Petyr’s territory? Because unless the answer is ‘pretty damn close,’ we’re going to have a long, hard fight ahead of us.”

  Chapter Two

  I took the corner fast—so fast that I slipped in the small pile of fish entrails someone had dumped inside the entrance to the alley. I managed to catch myself against a crate in the process and keep running. The maneuver gained me a palmful of splinters, but it was a hell of a lot better than the alternative being offered by the pair of Petyr’s Cutters running a block behind me.

  I dodged past barrels and around fallen timbers, unsure whether to be grateful for the detritus or not. It could hide me and foil my trail, but it was also slowing me down. If I lost much more ground to my pursuers, all the switchbacks and trash in the world wouldn’t keep them off my blinders.

  I burst out of the alley and into what passed for a piazza in Dirty Waters—basically an irregular open space set off by a laundry on one side and a tavern on the other. Weak light spilled out of the tavern, illuminating a collection of ramshackle tables and benches, all set on an uneven patio made up of stray boards laid out on the ground. Men sat at the tables. Two of them looked up as I staggered past, my eyes already burning from the faint light. Neither man moved to interfere.

  Small blessings.

  I was most of the way across the piazza, heading for a gap in the buildings on the far side, when I heard a shout of triumph behind me.

  Petyr’s boys. Had to be.

  I redoubled my efforts, pushing tired limbs and battered muscles as best I could. Between the trip up from Barrab and the ambush on the quay, there wasn’t much left to draw on; but given the alternative was to turn and fight and—most likely—lose, I headed into the alley and prayed I wouldn’t stumble over some fresh hazard.

  If I could only find a handy bolt-hole, or a Rabbit Run, or maybe a Thieves’ Ladder to . . .

  There. I came around a turn to find a gift from the Angels themselves: a tall, sloping pile of garbage directly ahead of me. If I could get enough purchase to run up it and leap to the overhanging gutter beyond, I might be able to . . .

  Pain flared along my back as I picked up my pace, reminding me I was doing good to be moving at all. I’d been striped across the back on the quay, just before we’d been forced to rabbit: now a line of fire extended from below my shoulder blade, down across my ribs, to my hip. While I still wasn’t sure if it was a cut or one hell of a bruise—my hand had come back red when I’d reached around to check the wound, but there’d been no way to tell whether the blood was mine or someone else’s—I did know I would have ended up in two pieces if it hadn’t been for Degan’s sword lying across my spine.

  One piece or two, though, there was no way I was going to be making that leap.

  I skirted the garbage pile, tripped over a decaying mound of fur that might have once been a dog or a cat, and fell. My knee landed on something hard and I let out a gasp. Then I was up and running again, but not for long. Thirty paces on, the alley ended in the back of a building.

  I looked around. Dawn, I expect, was pushing itself toward the horizon somewhere to the east, but here in the slums of Dirty Waters, deep under the shadow of the city walls, it was still dark enough for my night vision to function.

  I studied the alley in the red and gold highlights of my sight and felt my heart sink. The wooden wall before me looked weathered and worn, but that didn’t mean it would give way easy. I could still be trying to kick a hole in it when my pursuers arrived. The buildings to either side were brick, tall and without doors. There was a single window high up to my right, but it was boarded over.

  The sounds of voices and stumbling feet—and more ominously, of bared steel scraping up against stone—came to me from back along my path. They were getting closer.

  I took a step toward the garbage. Maybe if I could bury myself in it quickly enough, I could . . .

  No, wait. Even better.

  To call the gap in the wall near the garbage pile an alcove would have been generous. At best, it was a space where two buildings failed to meet, just behind the stinking pile and well in the shadows of the bu
ildings that formed it. That I had initially missed seeing the gap spoke well of its potential; that I had missed it with my night vision was even better. If I couldn’t see it, it would be nearly invisible to the normally sighted Cutters on my tail.

  I hoped.

  I stepped over to the alcove, drew the long knife from my boot, and slipped into the small space as best I could. It was a tight fit, especially with Degan’s sword strapped to my back, but I wasn’t in a position to complain.

  I heard smaller things shifting and scuttling away as I invaded the gap. Something hard poked me in the side, while something soft ran up my shin before deciding to jump off at the knee. My right leg and part of my hip were left sticking out into the alley.

  I settled in and listened and wondered how Fowler and Scratch were faring. Whether they were even alive.

  It had been an ugly fight, even by Kin standards. Scratch had dropped two of Petyr’s men at the outset, and Fowler another, but the odds never shifted in our favor. By the time I’d driven one of the Cutters into the harbor, more of Petyr’s people had begun to arrive. Steel and strategy quickly gave way to fists and fury, with elbows and teeth and worse coming into play in a vicious blur. When I finally managed to look up from the man who’d tried to lay my back open—I ended up pushing his eye into his head, along with four inches of my rapier’s cross guard—it was to see Fowler riding the back of another Cutter, her legs wrapped around his waist as she plunged her dagger down and into his chest. Even as I watched, another woman began to move to flank her, while a dozen yards away Scratch, his left side a study in blood, swung his sword like a scythe as he tried to fend off the three coves who were driving him backward toward a stack of barrels.

  There were too many Cutters: too many on the quay, and too many more on their way. Soggy Petyr owned this corner of Dirty Waters, and he was clearly willing to empty it out to take me down. If we wanted to survive, we needed to fade.

  And seeing as how they’d been sent after me in the first place . . .

  I’d made noise when I left—a lot of it. I shouted, stomped my foot, banged my rapier against my dagger and yelled for Fowler and Scratch to run. Then, pausing long enough to gather a dark glare from Fowler and a handful of not nearly so intimidating looks from the Cutters, I’d bolted.

  Three of Petyr’s people had followed, three more had stayed behind. Not the numbers I’d been hoping for, but I wasn’t in a position to be picky. At least this way, Fowler and Scratch would stand a chance of breaking free and taking to the back ways or rooftops. I hoped.

  As it was, I’d heard an ominous yell and a splash as I ran up the street and ducked down an alley. The voice had sounded like Fowler’s, but between the distance and the sound of my feet, it was hard to be certain. With luck, the sound had been her getting the better of her attacker and throwing them into the harbor, and not the other way around.

  The crunch of brittle wood beneath shoe leather brought me back, and I drew farther into my hiding spot. A moment later, I watched as a figure came into view on the far edge of the garbage pile. A second figure followed. The third man had stumbled over an inopportune stool I’d managed to tip into the road and hit his head on the corner of a horse trough. I knew this because he’d been close enough to splash me with water—and worse—when he’d gone down. Damn, but that bastard had been fast.

  Both of the remaining Cutters were moving slower now, casting their gazes across the shadows and listening for vanished sounds of my flight. I let them pass. Darkness or no, they’d be able to make out the end of the alley in another dozen steps. Once they did, they’d come about and begin working their way back. And while my hiding spot was good, I didn’t doubt their chances of finding me once they stopped worrying about the chase and instead began to search.

  Which meant I needed to deal with them before they turned around.

  I crouched down in my little crevice and counted their steps.

  One . . . three . . . five . . .

  Far enough.

  I crept forward, using my night vision to avoid any bits of garbage or debris that might give me away. In my right hand, I could feel my grip on my knife turning clammy with sweat, and was suddenly grateful for the wire wrapping on the handle. This was going to be hard enough without having to worry about the weapon slipping at the last moment.

  In most instances, when you want to knife someone in an alley and aren’t worried about niceties, you simply step up behind him and do your best Hasty Tailor. But in this case, there were two very good reasons I couldn’t stitch the Cutter a dozen times in half as many seconds. First, because he was wearing a doublet—and not just any doublet, but one that looked to have originally been a nobleman’s formal piece. Oh, the fine trim and the buttons had all been pulled off and sold ages ago, but that wasn’t what I was worried about: no, even from here, I could see that his secondhand brocade was still holding its shape, which meant it was lined and stiffened with either horsehair or wool. Both of those could easily turn, if not stop, a dagger thrust. Not necessarily a problem if you had the right blade—say, a good stiletto, or even a finely tapered assassin’s spike—but I had neither. Instead, I was holding a broad, leaf-shaped dagger better suited for street fights than delivering the steel cure.

  And secondly, both men were Cutters. The name wasn’t an accident: they made their living swinging steel. If I took too long dusting one, the other would simply turn around and carve me up before I had a chance to close the distance.

  No, I needed to do this quiet, and by quiet I meant quick. A fast, definitive thrust to a place I could reach, even when the target was a good two heads taller then me. Say, the soft spot just behind and below the right ear. Nice and quiet and clean. Which was exactly where I stabbed him.

  Almost.

  I don’t know if I made a noise or if he had a sudden premonition, but either way, he decided to turn around just as I was thrusting upward. It didn’t save him—it was too late for that—but it did make for a sloppy job.

  Maybe a deep-file Blade could have done it: could have stabbed, caught and lowered the body, all while moving on to the next man. I’ve seen professional assassins do more with less. But I was no Blade, and in any case, I was in no shape to catch a falling cove taller than I was.

  So I simply I let the bastard gasp and drop.

  The other Cutter was already turning by the time I had my blade free of his friend. I didn’t hesitate: Screaming so as to not give myself time to think, I launched myself at him, hoping like hell that my body was faster than his sword.

  We collided with a mutual grunt. I felt my dagger bite. I drew it out, brought it forward, then out, then forward. Repeat. Repeat again. And again. And again. Until I finally realized that the only thing holding him up was my arm, which I didn’t remember wrapping around his back.

  I dropped my free arm and stepped away. The Cutter fell to the ground. This one, at least, hadn’t been wearing a doublet.

  I bent over, put a bloody hand on my knee, and took a long, shaking breath. Everything hurt. Everything felt heavy.

  Angels, but I was tired.

  “Not bad,” said a voice from behind me.

  I spun around, knife up, teeth bared.

  Please, I thought, let there only be one of them. I can only handle one.

  There were two.

  The bigger—and by bigger, I mean vastly wider—of the two held up his hands. He had thick fingers and a curling black beard.

  “Ho-ho. Easy, friend. We’re just here to watch.”

  “And maybe applaud,” said the other. He was a taller, slimmer version of the first, with the same hooked nose and clipped accent. No beard.

  Brothers?

  I ran through all the local assassin teams I knew. The only pair of siblings who worked together regularly in Ildrecca were the Knuckle Brothers, and these weren’t them. Not that I’d ever met the Knuckles, but it was well known on the street that Croy Knuckle preferred farthingales and wigs when he worked, and there wasn’t so
much as a chemise between the two men before me.

  So, not the Knuckle Brothers.

  Then, who?

  “A bit of applause never goes unwanted,” agreed the heavier man. He eyed me up and down, then clapped his hands twice before rubbing them vigorously together. “Two less to worry about, eh, Ezak?”

  “The balance grows in our favor,” said the tall one.

  “Only marginally, dear coz. Only marginally.”

  “Balance?” I said.

  The first man’s smile widened even farther. “Of vengeance, of course.”

  I stared at the two men. They were dressed well, if used—that is to say, what they wore was of good, secondhand quality. The few patches I could see were all done carefully, with fabric that had been selected to match the color or pattern of the original as closely as possible. There wasn’t a weapon visible between them, which disturbed me even more.

  Not Cutters, then. Or at least, not Petyr’s, if the two lying on the ground were any indication.

  I bent down slowly and wiped first my knife, and then my hand, on the shirt of the man at my feet. I didn’t take my eyes off the pair. Both men nodded approvingly.

  “See, Ezak?” said the broader of the two. “Cocksure and wary at once. Oh, how I wish Ambrose were here to see this.”

  “He could gain a fortnight’s worth of education in just a few minutes watching this,” agreed Ezak.

  “And it’s not as if his Capitan doesn’t need the work.”

  “’Neath dame Moon’s steely light, I prowl the byways of the night,’” recited Ezak. “Aye.”

  Oh. Actors.

  I relaxed and stood up.

  “Glad I could adjust the balance for you,” I said, not knowing or caring what they meant. I moved to push past them. The last thing I needed was to get distracted by a pair of Boardsmen.