“I don’t suppose it’s in the form of a folded piece of paper, is it?” I said.
The man didn’t even blink.
“You were warned,” said the Zakur. “You ignored my lord’s warning, refused to hand over the magic you brought into el-Qaddice, and continue to intrude on his business. You insult him with your very presence.”
“If I’d known it was that easy to insult your boss, I’d have done it sooner.”
The Cutter struck his buckler with the flat of his blade, sending a flat clang echoing up and down the street. “Now you’ll learn what it means to cross the Zakur-Mulaad!” he snapped. He leaned forward and extended both arms for-ward, laying the buckler over the sword guard so they could function as one entity. He looked very comfortable doing it.
I didn’t wait for the others to come on guard; didn’t wait for any commands to be given; didn’t wait for him to start moving forward. I simply turned and ran at the two Cutters behind me.
It stood to reason that the man delivering the message was the best hitter in the crew. That’s how Cutters tend to work, and, more important, how most bosses tend to think: Give the toughest muscle the orders and let him keep the rest in line. If you needed something more complex, you sent someone besides a Cutter—say an Arm, or maybe a Bender.
So, Sword and Buckler was in charge. That meant there was no way in hell I was going to face him in a fair—or even an unfair—fight if I could help it.
The two Cutters in back didn’t seem overly surprised that I’d chosen to close with them. They did, however, widen their eyes when I threw my boot knife from a handful of paces away.
I aimed at the one with the axes—specifically, at his head. I didn’t expect the knife to land, didn’t even throw it well enough to have much of a chance of hitting. All I wanted was for them to see a threat in the moonlight and react. They did.
Axes stepped back and pivoted, moving to let the knife slip by, while his partner dropped down low. Unfortunately for Axes, his movement also caused him to lower his weapons in an attempt to lessen his profile. That left the opening I’d been hoping for.
I lunged toward Axes’ middle with my rapier, then quickly redirected the blade in midmotion as the Cutter with the mace tried to take advantage of my attack and come in on my exposed side.
My rapier’s tip slashed across Mace’s shoulder and upper chest before his momentum drove the blade into the notch below his neck. There was a brief moment of resistance before cartilage gave way to my steel; then I was pulling my blade out and away, opening the side of his neck as I frantically backed away from the ax that was coming at my head.
The man with the axes was faster than I’d expected. The first blade passed so close to my face I suspect I could have seen my reflection in it if it had been daylight out. As for the second, it followed quickly after, arcing down and in from my left.
I raised my sword, but knew it wouldn’t be enough: My guard was weak, my blade pointed the wrong way. Without thinking, I brought my empty left hand up. If I was lucky, I’d only lose a couple of fingers while trying to stop the ax; I wasn’t feeling particularly lucky.
Then the ax jerked to a stop in midswing.
The man’s expression went from elation to confusion in an instant. It was followed almost immediately by a look of pain as his arm jerked back and blood blossomed along his side in one, two, three spots.
He howled. The ax fell.
It was then that I noticed the the blotch of shadow running around his elbow, almost as if someone I couldn’t see had wrapped her arm around the joint and pulled Axes off-balance so she could stab him at leisure.
I would advise you to not rest too easily, she had said in the cellar. You are marked.
Shit. Neyajin.
I leapt back as Axes’ body fell away from me, my eyes searching the street for hints of blurred, oily motion. Back the way I had come, I could see the lead Zakur already down on his knees, sword arm hanging useless at his side, the buckler covered in blood as he held it over the gash in his chest. His partner was halfway up the opposite wall, legs kicking, hands grabbing at the rope that led from his neck to the roof above. I couldn’t see anyone at the other end of the line, but that didn’t stop the man from ascending the wall, one short jerk at a time.
Not just one assassin, then. Wonderful. And here I stood, marked—whatever the hell that meant.
I put my sword before me, paused, then spun, figuring the best place to find an assassin is behind you. They must have known that trick, too, because as soon as I turned, a bag was dropped over my head from what had just been my front.
I swung my rapier across my body, bringing it around so the point faced behind me on my left side, and thrust. All it found was air. I immediately pivoted to my right and swung the elbow of my sword arm back. That met meaty resistance. I smiled as I heard a whuff! of surprise near my ear.
Then a steel edge found my throat, and I froze.
“I told you you were marked, jeffer ani,” hissed a familiar woman’s voice, only slightly ragged from her encounter with my elbow. “Drop your steel.”
I opened my hand and let my sword clatter to the street.
The blade at my neck went away, and was replaced a moment later by something hard to the back of my head. I staggered, found the ground, and stayed there. I wasn’t about to push matters. I just hoped I didn’t throw up with the bag still over my head.
“Bind him and bring him,” said a man’s voice from somewhere above me. It was reedy, but also used to giving commands.
I couldn’t have resisted if I wanted to; things were fuzzing in and out around me. The next thing I remembered was finding my wrists and ankles bound, and having the distinct sensation of being carried. It felt like a short distance, but there were enough lights flickering in my head that I couldn’t be sure whether time and I were still on speaking terms.
After a bit, the sounds became closer, telling me we were inside. A door closed. Then I was set down on the floor. Hands ran over me, drawing steel, unbuckling my sword belt, checking the pouch about my neck. I held still as I felt fingers cross over the portion of my doublet where I’d stitched Jelem’s packet into the padding, but they moved on without pause. The bag smelled like apples.
My bonds were cut.
I waited for the lights in my head to fade, then reached up and pulled off the bag.
The room was dark and empty of furnishings: just me in the center and my weapons piled up in the corner. And Angels knew how many assassins I couldn’t see with my night vision.
I sat up slowly and rubbed at the back of my head. My hand came away dry, which was something. I took a couple of deep breaths, let them out, looked around room again. There—the sliver of an outline of someone’s foot, and there—what looked like the faint curve of . . . a scabbard? A bent leg? Hard to tell.
I looked from the foot to the scabbard and back again. Then I threw the empty bag at the foot.
A slippery flash of action, a hint of blurred amber to my eyes, and the foot was gone. More important, the bag changed direction in midair: blocked, or cut down. Either way, it told me what to expect.
I looked back over at my steel. Yes, definitely bait.
I rested my hands on my thighs.
“I’m not stupid,” I said.
“I can see that,” said the man’s thin voice. He was behind me, where I hadn’t seen anything but blank wall, where I still couldn’t see anything but a blank wall when I turned. “But it’s best to be certain.”
“You can be certain I’m not going to go for the blades.”
“I can see that, too.”
Silence.
“Well?” I said. And they came at me.
Not all at once, but in quick succession. Blurs of amber, hints of motion—hands, feet, elbows, knees. I tumbled and stumbled and blocked and voided, flinching away from every movement I saw, real or imagined. Duck a hand here, avoid a body there, fall back from a sweep more by luck than planning, throw in a punch
or two for good measure. One even connected, albeit fleetingly. The grunt of surprise was a reward all its own.
Through it all, I was pushing myself, pushing my night vision to see. It couldn’t just be the motion that helped me make them out: I’d seen the foot before all this had started, had caught sight of the scabbard, or whatever the hell it was, in the stillness. There had to be some way to single them out, to pull them away from the midnight they were wearing. Didn’t there?
I was still straining my eyes when a foot caught me square in the chest. For the briefest instant—the moment between when the kick landed and my body reacted—I saw the shape of the neyajin, leg out, body back, arm thrust toward the floor to add power to the kick. Then she disappeared, and I was falling back. I hit the floor hard, not so much rolling with the blow as crumpling from it.
“Jeffer ani,” she said in the darkness, her voice cold with judgment.
“Aribah . . . ,” said the man, naming my attacker. His voice was equal parts warning and exasperation.
The girl sniffed, not even trying to hide the sound of her steps as she walked away from me.
So, a test. But for me, or for them?
I took a ragged breath. Either way, I didn’t know how much more I could take, but I knew how much more I was willing to accept.
I sat up and rested my hands on my knees.
“Enough,” I said, forcing myself to relax, to not search out the next attack. “I’m not going to dance in the darkness for your entertainment. If you want to knock the hell out of me, have at, but I refuse to be your moving practice target.”
“If this were a ‘dance,’ Imperial, you’d be laid out on the floor by now,” said the man, off to my right now, moving around me. “I just wanted to confirm what I’d been told about you.”
“And that is?”
Silence in the darkness. Then, “Light the lantern.”
I closed my eyes and ducked my head. A moment later flint struck steel, lighting tinder. Shortly after that, I caught the flicker of flame through my eyelids. I opened my eyes slowly, letting the candle light work its way past my night vision until the burning ceased.
There were three of them. It had felt like more in the dark. They stood, waiting, in a tight triangle before me.
For some reason, I’d been expecting the neyajin to be wearing black, but instead they were covered in a deep, almost shimmering indigo. Two wore kaffiyehs, while the third—the woman, judging by the lines of her clothing—favored a tightly wrapped turban. All had the lower parts of their faces covered by the ends of their head cloths. Their feet and hands were bare, yet had the same deep, midnight purple tint as their clothing. Dye, or something else, I wondered?
The figure directly before me crouched down on his haunches. His robes were both finer and more worn that the others’, and covered over by a loose outerrobe of the same material.
He reached up and pulled the tail of his kaffiyeh away, revealing an untinted mouth and jaw. Coarse white stubble covered his chin, and when he smiled, I was put in mind of a jackal baring his teeth. Shaggy white eyebrows—temporarily tinted blue—hung down over a pair of dark, red-rimmed eyes.
“I wanted to know whether or not you had the dark sight, of course,” he said, his voice just as thin and raspy as it had been in the street. “And whether we could steal it from you.”
Chapter Twenty-one
“Steal it?” I said, rearing back despite myself. The two neyajin behind the old man shifted their feet; the man himself merely widened his hunter’s grin.
“Ah,” he said. “So you do have something worth stealing, then. Good to know.”
Son of a . . .
“Not that you need to worry,” said the old assassin, waving a hand. “Were you Favored, or even just Djanese, I’d know where we stood, and so where to begin. For that matter, I’d know how to end this, too. But you being an Imperial?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure how this will play out.”
“It’s as I told you, Grandfather,” said Aribah. Here, in the light, her voice was as relentless as her gaze. “Like the Lions, but not of them.”
“Be silent, child,” he said, not turning to look at her. “You’re here on sufferance. Let the adults speak.”
I looked up at her. Given what I’d seen in the tunnel—the way she moved, the way she handled a herself—and the timbre of her voice, not to mention the curves I was starting to notice beneath her robes, I had a hard time thinking of her as a “child.” So, apparently, did she, if the sudden rigidity of her back was any indication. Still, she turned her eyes away after a moment and fell silent.
The elder assassin sighed and shifted his weight back onto his heels. “Still, despite her poor manners, my granddaughter is right: You have the dark sight, or something like it. I didn’t think such a thing was possible outside the despot’s court, but . . .” He gestured at the room around us, at the scuffs and scrapes our fight had left in the dirt floor. “I don’t suppose you’d happen to be a sorcerer, would you? That would make things much easier.”
“No, sorry. Just a thief.”
“Ah, well.”
“Have you considered the possibility that maybe my ‘dark vision’ isn’t what you think it is?” I said. “That maybe I’m just that good?”
A snort from behind Aribah’s drape. I ignored her.
“Please,” said the grandfather. “I didn’t save you from Fat Chair’s men so you could lie to me. I know the difference between training and the dark sight, and you, Imperial,” he said, tapping two fingers just below his own eyes, “have the sight.”
“And you don’t. But you know how to hide from it.” I looked up at the woman. “It has something to do with flickering lamps in wine vaults and winds no one feels, doesn’t it?”
Although her eyes grew wide, it was the grandfather who answered.
“What did you see?” he said.
“Depends.” I turned back to him. “What was I supposed to see?”
“Since it didn’t work, does it matter?”
“It seems to me this whole meeting is happening because of what didn’t work; so yes, I’d say it matters.”
The old man held up his hand, had it filled by a water skin that the male neyajin handed him. “Faysal,” said the elder, “make sure we aren’t disturbed.”
The man bowed and left the room. Aribah and the old assassin stayed.
The old man drew the cork from the skin and took a brief pull, then held it out to me. “Drink?”
I wanted to refuse, but my thirst wouldn’t let me. I took the skin and drank. The water almost burned going down, it felt so good.
I handed the skin back. The old man took another short pull, then replaced the cork.
“As far as I can tell,” he said, “you were supposed to see nothing. Or almost nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
A lift of one shoulder. “How can I describe what I’ve never seen? All we know is that the cantrip we recite helps dim both normal and dark sight, making our robes work that much better.”
“Better?” I said. “Better how?”
He stared at me, then turned his head so that he could talk to Aribah without taking his eyes off me. “What think you, granddaughter: How do we answer his question?”
“I think the neyajin hold their secrets tight,” she said—no, recited. “We walk in darkness by respecting the darkness; we possess the night by emulating the night.”
“True,” he said. “But I didn’t ask what you’ve been taught; I asked what you think. If I wanted rules parroted back to me, I’d train a bird. Or ask Faysal.”
A tense pause from his granddaughter, then, “He’s Imperial. Beyond neyajin, beyond even Djanese. He’s an outsider.”
“But he has something we want, and he’s not stupid. What, then?”
“We take it.”
“And how do you take that which you can’t touch and don’t understand?”
No answer.
The old man’s expression sour
ed. “With something this rare, you don’t turn to the blade or the foot, not unless you have to. Think, girl! Sometimes you have to give secrets to get them.” He made a soft, tsking sound, added softly, “Your mother would have understood this without needing to be told.”
I saw Aribah catch the comment, saw her eyes harden and her shoulders droop ever so slightly. An old complaint on his part—and an old wound on hers.
The old man might be a damn good assassin, I decided, but that didn’t stop him from being a bastard of a grandfather.
“When we waken the power of our robes,” he said, “we also dull the power of your dark sight.”
I took another look at his and Aribah’s drapes, as if I could somehow see the magic in them. Clothing that functioned as portable glimmer wasn’t unknown—I’ve seen cloaks stiffen themselves against attacks and a scarf that could unravel and reknit itself into a fine rope—but drapes meant to work against night vision? That was beyond rare: That was fucking personal.
“How’s that possible?” I said. “If you can’t use the . . . ‘dark sight,’ then how do you know how to foul it?”
“I don’t know how a man lives and breathes and makes shit, but I know how to kill him; is it so different?”
“Yes.”
The old man snorted. “Maybe you’re right. But it’s worked for us for generations, so who am I to argue, eh?”
“Generations,” I said. “And in all that time, you’ve never gotten one of the . . .” I waved a hand, pretending to have forgotten the name, pretending to be only mildly interested.
“Lions of Arat,” said Aribah.
“One of the Lions of Arat? You’ve been skulking around for generations, and yet you’ve never managed to capture one and gotten them to tell you about the dark sight?”
“Captured? Of course. We’ve taken many.”
“And none have talked?”
The old man looked away.
I slipped another seed into my mouth. “Tell me about them.”
The old assassin regarded me for a long moment. “What do you know of the neyajin?” he said at last.
Sworn in Steel Page 26
