Ammey McKeaf

by Jane Shoup

  “Ah, listen,” he said. “We even have music.” He rose and went to a wide window. He removed a wooden peg from the handles and opened one side.

  The smile that crossed her face had nothing to do with the strains of mandolin music that floated through the open window. It was because Vincent now had a way in. There was only one door and one window in the room and both had been locked. As Tariq crossed back through and sat down, Ammey listened to the tempo and then began swaying and moving her hips before introducing her arms into a Castilian-style dance.

  “Nice,” Tariq murmured as he fixated on the rotation of her hips. He took a drink, but, moments later, he frowned and looked away. He hunched his shoulders inward and pressed his fingers to the center of his chest. He jerked his head back to her, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Stop!”

  She stopped. He was perspiring and his dark eyes looked murderous. “What’s the matter?”

  “Come here,” he ordered.

  She timidly moved toward him. “What is it?”

  “Sit.”

  She hesitated, but sat.

  He handed her his glass of wine. “Drink.”

  She looked puzzled, but quickly brought it to her mouth to drink. Her confusion and willingness to drink defused his mistrust enough to allow her to smash the glass against the table and propel the jagged edge to the side of his throat, but he seized hold of her wrist and forced her hand back. He squeezed until she cried out and dropped the glass.

  “You bitch!” His hands closed around her throat. He stood, forcing her up along with him. “I’ll choke you senseless and then cut you until you beg for death!”

  She had cut him, but not deeply enough. He still had strength enough to kill her. His hate would sustain him; she could see it in the eyes boring into hers. She had failed. And if he was able to stop the bleeding after he throttled her, and if he hadn’t consumed enough poison, all their work and planning had been for naught. Because of her. She clawed at him as black dots danced before her eyes.

  It was over. She sensed a flash of movement and then he gasped, there was a look of horrified surprise on his face and his grip failed. She yanked away, gasping for air as his expression went vacant. He collapsed, leaving her face to face with Vincent.

  Vincent studied her a moment and then reached down to retrieve his dagger from Tariq’s back. He wiped it off, slid it back in its sheath and went to get her cloak. She looked down at Tariq, and noticed she was splattered with blood and wine. Vincent put the cloak around her and tied it. “You did well,” he said soothingly. “Calm yourself and breathe.”

  She knew better. She’d failed.

  He bent to reach into the pocket in Tariq’s doublet, and came up with the key. “We need to go,” he said. He pulled her hood up.

  She realized he’d been in the room the entire time. “How did you get in?” she stammered, barely able to get the words out.

  He led her to the door, unlocked it and peered out. “Let’s go,” he said quietly.

  She stepped out with him and he locked the door again. As they started forward, he put an arm around her, gripping the front of her cloak with his free hand. His face was near hers, giving the appearance that they were sharing a lovers’ secret.

  “No one knows anything,” he said softly. “And Tariq is dead. That’s the important thing. We did it.”

  Not we, she thought. You.

  He led her to his horse and looked at her warily. He suddenly pulled her close and kissed her.

  After a moment, she pushed him away. “What are you doing?”

  “I saved your life. You owe me. A lot more than a kiss.”

  Before she could say anything back, he lifted her onto his horse. “I can do it myself,” she objected.

  “No, you cannot. You’re a girl, soft and helpless,” he replied in his most cavalier manner as he mounted behind her.

  She drew breath to retort, but then realized his purpose in baiting her. “Hand me your blade and I’ll show you how helpless I am.”

  “That’s more like it,” he said as he kicked his horse into motion.

  Chapter Eight

  “Gotta’ piss,” Graybil said before stumbling toward the front door of the alehouse.

  Able Gilley, known as Gilley the Younger, a title he despised, watched him leave. He’d not laid eyes on him before and this was too small a town to miss a man like that. “He has the feel of a spy to me.”

  “He’s a nobody,” Gilley the elder stated. “You worry too much.”

  “And you drink too much,” his son returned coldly.

  The older man sneered. “The old Greek playrights and philosophers talked about a disease of the mind called paranoia. The belief that others are out to get you.” He cackled. “Sound familiar?”

  “Find out who he is,” the younger ordered the men sitting across from him.

  “The problem with paranoia,” his father continued. “Is it makes you look weak. Foolish.”

  “Go,” Able snapped at the men who had hesitated.

  They rose and went. When Voreskae’s fair-haired man commanded something, it was done.

  Graybil hurried around the side of the building, wrinkling his nose at the stench of urine. Forzenay and Stripe emerged from the shadows, having seen him. “He’s not drinking much,” Graybil reported. “And he’s watching me plenty.”

  Kidder joined them from a different position, treading with a silent step. “How many are there?”

  “Thirteen, not counting the three men who left earlier.”

  “They don’t need to be counted anymore,” Forzenay said. The moon disappeared behind the clouds, leaving them in darkness.

  “What about Luttaz?” Kidder asked.

  Graybil shook his head. “I haven’t seen him.”

  “He enjoys the whores,” Forzenay said. “I’ve got money that says he’s on Prince Street.”

  “I’ll find him,” Stripe offered. “Unless you’d rather I stay.”

  Forzenay considered and then nodded. “Go.”

  Stripe hurried away.

  “Go back and give it awhile longer,” Forzenay said to Graybil. “We need to eliminate Gilley the younger first. Let’s wait for our opportunity.”

  Graybil nodded. “They’re in there discussing matches and fights to the death, boasting their various victories.”

  “Anyone can boast,” Kidder said.

  “They’ve got Corin’s mark to back it up.”

  Vincent joined them. “Are we having another meeting?”

  “Everything go as planned?” Forzenay asked. He knew Ammey was safe since he’d seen the two of them leave.

  “No. Tariq wasn’t drinking fast enough. He got suspicious, so she cut his throat.”

  “Did she really,” Graybil murmured.

  “Only not deep enough,” Vincent added.

  Kidder frowned. “Was she hurt?”

  “He choked her, but she’s alright. She’s shaken.”

  They heard voices and dissolved back into the shadows as two men came nosing around the building. “Looking for me,” Graybil whispered. He started toward the men, staggering drunkenly.

  Gilley’s goons made an unconvincing display of nonchalance until he tried to pass by, and then one of them grabbed and slammed him against the building. “What were you doing back there?” one asked. “You have a shy bladder?”

  “Wha—” Graybil muttered. “Do I know you?”

  “Not yet.” The man punched a fist in Graybil’s gut, doubling him over. “But you will.”

  The other man picked him up and slammed him back against the wall.

  “What is this?” Graybil objected loudly.

  Forzenay, inching closer, noticed a man skulking down the side of the alehouse, but it wasn’t until the man cleared the building that he saw it Gilley the younger.

  “We’ll ask the questions,” one of Graybil’s assailants retorted. “Who are you?”

  “What’s it to you?” Graybil slurred.

  Gilley
withdrew a dagger from its sheath. “We don’t like strangers, especially ones that look like spies.”

  “Strangers are just friends you don’t know yet,” Graybil reasoned nervously.

  “He’s going to cut you wide open,” Graybil’s tormentor breathed into his face.

  “I know your kind,” Graybil slurred to the man. “You want a kiss, don’t you?”

  The man drew back his fist to strike again, but Graybil head-butted him in the face and then used the momentum to go for Gilley’s dagger.

  Forzenay, Kidder and Vincent, who’d been edging closer, jumped in. Kidder lunged at one of the assailants with his dagger as Vincent slammed the bloody nosed one against the wall. He delivered a hard blow to his throat, and the man fell forward, not even able to gasp, clutching his throat with both hands.

  The moon had done a disappearing act again as Forzenay drove his dagger into the base of the Gilley’s skull and twisted. Able Gilley fell face first. “Done,” Forzenay breathed.

  “Done,” Kidder reported as his man was dispatched.

  Vincent’s man was still writhing, so he reached down and cut his throat. “Done,” he echoed.

  “I’m …done,” Graybil said. His voice was odd, guttural, and they all looked at him as the moon broke free of its cloud cover. His shirtfront was sliced and wet with blood.

  Kidder stepped closer and lifted Graybil’s shirt.

  Graybil grunted. “What is it with men today?”

  “It’s not good,” Kidder said looking at Forzenay.

  “Get him to Ulima,” Forzenay ordered.

  “No,” Graybil objected.

  “Go!”

  Kidder put an arm around Graybil and helped him away.

  “Shall we move the bodies?” Vincent asked.

  Forzenay nodded. “It may buy us a little time. Someone will come to check what’s happened, but they won’t be alarmed yet.”

  “Let’s hope they keep coming two by two.”

  “Have we ever been that fortunate?” Forzenay replied grimly.

  ~~~

  Jorge Luttaz was with two whores, bragging at his expertise at using blow darts. “I’m so good,” he explained, slurring his words so badly they were nearly incomprehensible, “I can hit your ass from across the room while she blows my dart. Go on. Stand over there. I’ll show you.”

  “No. It’ll hurt!”

  “Put a pillow back there,” he laughed. “Go on.”

  “I don’t want my ass poked. Not that way.”

  Stripe listened at the door, disgusted with the man’s drunkenness, especially when he needed to get back to help the others. He slipped into the room noticed only by the naked woman stretched out next to Luttaz. Luttaz was reclined against the headboard, a goblet in one hand, a blowdart in the other. Stripe took hold of his head and twisted hard, breaking his neck. The garishly painted whores were too astonished to utter a sound.

  “He’s got more money in his purse than he would have ever paid you. It’s all yours, but I was never here. Right?” He held a finger to his lips and backed out, shutting the door behind him.

  ~~~

  The tavern was closed for the night, so Ammey and Ulima sat alone sipping tea and awaiting word. Ammey felt calmer aftter washing and changing into a fresh gown. She’d finally stopped trembling, in part because a shawl was wrapped around her, but she still saw Tariq dead on the floor in her mind’s eye, and her lips still tingled from Vincent’s kiss. She jumped as the door was flung open and Kidder assisted a bloody Graybil into the room. Ulima and Ammey sprang to their feet and hurried to help. They got him into a chair and Ulima peered at the wound.

  “Fix him, Ulima,” Kidder begged.

  “I will,” Ulima replied. “Never you worry.”

  Kidder turned to go.

  “Kidder,” Ammey cried. “What’s happening?”

  “We got Gilley the younger and he got us,” he said, nodding to Graybil. “I’ve got to go,” he said as he started for the door. “There’s still too many of them left.”

  “Wait! I’m coming, too. Ulima, I need a sword.”

  “Oh, no,” Kidder argued. “I am not—”

  “It’s mounted behind the bar,” Ulima replied, cutting him off.

  “Take mine,” Graybil bit out.

  “Just for tonight,” Ammey said. She slipped it from its sheath and then bent to kiss him on the cheek. “For luck.”

  “Yours or mine?”

  “Both,” she called as she took off after Kidder.

  ~~~

  “Where’s my son?” Gilley the elder asked loudly. “And the others?”

  It was a good question. Besides Able Gilley, four of their number had gone out and not come back. It was strange enough that several men got to their feet and moved toward the door. Xavier, who sat slumped at a back table, stiffened. He took a breath to steady his nerves and his eyes narrowed at the elder in loathing.

  There was a moment of chaos at the door as five burly men tried to file out at the same time a pair of highly vocal drunks attempted to come in. It took Xavier a moment to realize the drunks were a disheveled looking Vincent and Stripe. He’d no sooner adjusted to that fact then the fighting began. He jumped to his feet.

  Stripe went at the few men still at the table. One fell easily, caught by surprise, but the other had a chance to get to his feet and draw his blade. He was an enormous man with a chest the size of a barrel. Vincent went back out the door attacking the men who’d just stepped out while Forzenay attacked the same group from the front. Both were able to dispatch the first man they came to, but the others posed more of a challenge.

  Stripe’s opponent beat down Stripe’s blade with incredible strength, backing him up and wearing him down. Xavier drew his blade and moved toward Gilley the elder, but the man whirled around to face him with a vicious looking double dagger in each hand, his eyes aglow with excitement. “Come on,” the elder taunted. “Come on!”

  Kidder and Ammey could scarcely believe their eyes as they arrived at the alehouse. Forzenay was up against two men, losing ground and close to being pinned against the building. Vincent was bleeding, and his opponent, a lean bald man with a tattoed head and bloodlust in his eyes, was advancing on him. With only the illumination from a streetlamp, the mounted torch at the door and a devilishly fickle moon, the scene had a nightmarish quality to it.

  Kidder and Ammey hit the ground running, Ammey toward Vincent’s attacker, although the bald man adjusted to ward off her assault. Kidder drew off one of Forzenay’s attackers and was immediately dismayed by the man’s strength. How had it come to this? Outnumbered, outmatched, this was not how they worked.

  Ammey realized the bald man had maneuvered them exactly where he wanted. Vincent had taken more than one blow and was bleeding steadily. Think, she commanded herself. What had Anthony always drilled into her? Thinking won a match. You must outthink your opponent. Do the unexpected when possible, but stay in control. She made a calculated risk, jumping out and forcing her blade against the bald man’s. Unless she was wrong, he wanted Vincent dead, but not necessarily her. Not immediately, anyway.

  Vincent was forced to withdraw in order not to strike her, and in that strange, timeless instant, he saw Kidder’s blade go flying, knocked out of his hand by his opponent. He forced himself into motion as the man withdrew to run Kidder through. Vincent’s blade cut through the man’s back, just as his blade made contact with Kidder’s mid-section. Fortunately, Kidder was already jumping back in avoidance, so the cut was not deep.

  Forzenay rushed his man and delivered a fatal slash across his lower body, laying open his intestines.

  The tide had turned.

  Inside, the big man advanced on Stripe with a sneering half smile on his face.

  Xavier, also backing up, called to his townsmen to assist, but no one moved. They were frozen with fear. Xavier’s sword was longer, but the elder had the advantage of insanity. When Xavier reached a wall, he had no choice but to attack. The elder knew it was coming
and hurled one of his daggers. It struck Xavier’s arm, slicing it open. Xavier lunged, despite the searing pain, and his blade cut below Gilley’s left shoulder. The old man screamed and swung with his other dagger, but Xavier twisted the sword, bringing the elder to his knees. Xavier withdrew the blade and stabbed again, lower, through the heart.

  As the elder gasped his last, Xavier hurled his sword at Stripe’s opponent. It hit the man’s buttock, serving only to distract the hulk for a moment. Stripe used that split second for his last stand. Using both hands and all that remained of his strength; he hefted his blade up under the chin of his foe. The man’s eyes grew wide and his sword clanked to the floor. Seconds passed and then he fell forward with a loud crash. Stripe dropped to his knees, too exhausted to continue standing.

  “I’m not going to kill you yet,” the bald man taunted as he advanced on Ammey. “Do you know why?”

  She grunted between parries. “You’re going to die first?”

  He drew breath to laugh, but he never did. Vincent decapitated him from behind. Forzenay saw it done and then hurried inside, followed by Kidder.

  Ammey couldn’t do anything but stand there and recover her breath.

  Vincent doubled over, doing the same. “What are you doing here?” he finally managed.

  The question seemed conversational, which struck her as so ridiculous, she began to laugh. Her laugher made Vincent laugh, which made her laugh even harder. She laughed until she cried, which was madness. There was a headless corpse on the ground between them belonging to a man who had wanted to kill them both and who’d been fully capable of doing just that. Vincent was wounded, and they’d all nearly died that night. And they couldn’t stop laughing.

  “These were the hated wolves of Bellux-Abry,” Xavier bellowed. Now that it was over, he was enraged that no one had come to their aid when they’d been so close to perishing. “And you stand there and do nothing?”