by Джеффри Лорд
The stab that should have gone deep into the victim’s flesh barely cut through the robe. The point grated on metal and stopped abruptly, caught in what could only be the links of a shirt of chain mail. Before the would-be murderer could react to this unexpected development, Richard Blade was charging down on him.
If it had been simply an ordinary purse-snatching, Blade wouldn’t have interfered. There were a hundred of those a day in Dahaura, in spite of the best efforts of the Baran’s soldiers. Furthermore, this man looked as if he wouldn’t miss a single meal even if his purse did vanish.
An open attempt at murder in the public streets was something else. That was rare enough to be a surprise. The Baran kept most of his subjects unmurdered by savage punishments for convicted murderers, and for those who refused to help catch them. Blade was the only armed man within striking distance. If he didn’t interfere, he’d be doing well to get off with five years in the salt flats.
As the knifeman drew back from Blade’s charge, the merchant went into action on his own. With surprising agility, he flung himself to one side, throwing the beggar down with him. The merchant rolled, broke the beggar’s hold on his belt, and came up with his own dagger drawn. The beggar sprang backward, practically into Blade’s path. A moment later he was sprawling on his back, struck down by the flat of Blade’s sword.
Blade leaped over the body and faced the knifeman. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the merchant getting to his feet. The man sheathed his dagger, then scurried off down the street. Blade wasn’t sure whether to laugh or swear. The man was so obviously willing to leave the rest of the affair to Blade, now that he could be sure of getting out of it with a whole skin.
That was more than Blade could be sure of. His sword was longer than the bushy-haired man’s knife, but the man moved like an expert fighter. The two men froze for a moment, then began a slow, cautious circling around each other, each looking for an opening.
They made two complete circles that way, while Esseta shouted for one of the servant girls to run and bring some soldiers. Blade couldn’t help wondering why the man was staying to fight instead of making every effort to break away and get clear. Perhaps he was expecting some help, and in that case-Blade’s anticipation saved his life. He saw a sudden flurry of movement in the back of a booth a few yards down the street, and a silhouette suddenly appearing in a doorway a few yards in the opposite direction. Blade dove, rolling to get out of reach of the knifeman. A crossbow went spung and the bolt flashed across the street, cutting through the air where Blade had been a heartbeat ago. The bolt flew on to smash the brazier of a man capping bottles and scatter hot oil and live coals over several booths.
Out of the shadowed doorway burst a tall man, swinging a two-handed sword. Blade sprang to his feet, just in time to see Esseta snatch a bronze censer on a gilded chain from a table. Gripping the chain, she swung the censer like an Olymplc hammer thrower winding up. The heavy censer whipped through a half-circle and smashed into the swordsman’s chest, knocking him backward into a booth. Before he could rise, several people were all around him and all over him, snatching his sword from him and punching and kicking him until he stopped moving.
The archer tried to leap out into the street from the booth where he’d been hiding. His foot caught on the table and it fell over, spilling more bottles and vials. The man crashed face down into the street, nearly impaling himself on his own crossbow. He let out a scream as if he was being flayed with dull knives. He still tried to get up, until Blade ran up to him and kicked him in the side of the head.
Now there was complete confusion in the Street of the Perfumers, with people running in all directions. Some ran for water to put out the spreading fire, others ran to help Esseta and the women, some simply ran around in circles. Blade grabbed the first man to come within reach and shouted in his ear.
«Where did the big one go, the one with the bushy hair?»
The man jerked himself free of Blade’s grip and waved down the street toward the canal. Blade broke into a run. He reached the end of the street just in time to see a tall man leap onto the stern of a gaily decorated barge moored alongside the quay. The man was not totally bald, but a knife gleamed in one hand and a thick red-brown wig flapped in the other. As Blade dashed toward him, the man dropped the wig into the canal and ran toward the bow of the barge.
Blade leaped onto the stern of the barge as the other man reached the bow. The man looked around desperately, as he realized that he was trapped. Then he turned, his lips creeping back from his teeth in a wolf-like snarl.
Blade picked up one of the barge’s oars. Holding it like a quarterstaff, he advanced toward his opponent. The man sprang toward Blade with a howl, but he was just a trifle too slow. Blade swung the oar, catching the man in mid-leap. Both the oar and the man’s ribs cracked. He smashed down across the railing of the barge, legs inside, head and chest outside. His legs flailed wildly for a moment, then he slipped over the side and into the canal. Blade stepped to the side and looked down. The man was gone, leaving behind nothing but a spreading circle of ripples and a spreading stain of blood on the dark water of the canal.
Blade sheathed his knife and walked back up the street. By now a squad of soldiers and two officers had arrived. The fire was almost out, although three booths had been reduced to ashes. Esseta was being questioned by one of the officers; while the other women and the servants huddled behind her like a flock of chickens.
As Blade strode up, the men and women in the booths and shop windows began cheering, stamping their feet, and waving their hands. Of course, this enthusiasm wouldn’t keep the perfumers from submitting a large bill for all the damage done in the fight. Blade knew the merchants of Dahaura far too well to expect anything else. At least the bill would wind up on Kubin Ben Sarif’s desk, and he could certainly afford it!
The officers made a good impression on Blade. They were brisk, professional, knew what questions to ask, and kept the perfumers from interfering until Blade had finished his story. Then they interviewed the rest of the witnesses in turn, taking careful notes. By this time another squad of soldiers had arrived, with a donkey cart for the three prisoners. The archer and the beggar were unconscious. The swordsman was wide awake, and the Baran’s interrogators would be at work on him before sunset. He did not look very happy at the prospect.
Bit by bit, all the loose ends were tied up except one. What had happened to the intended victim, the merchant with the mail shirt under his robes? Nobody seemed to know.
Blade cleared his throat, in the deferential manner it was always wise for slaves to use with officers of the Baran’s army. «Honored sirs, I ask if we should perhaps consider-was the merchant also in disguise, like the man with the knife?»
«Why do you say that?» said one of the officers.
«Would a genuine merchant have worn a coat of mail under his robes-particularly in this quarter of the city, on a day like this?»
One of the officers shrugged. «We shall certainly consider it. But I can’t see anything coming of it. I doubt we’ll ever see the merchant or the knifeman again. Dahaura can swallow a man who doesn’t want to be found as thoroughly as the canals can swallow a body.»
He smiled. «However, there’s better news for you-Blade, you said?»
«Yes, sir.»
«Odd name. Anyway, I’d be surprised if the judge doesn’t send around a writ of freedom for you after this. You’re in Kubin’s service? Well, that old tight-purse won’t have any complaint. The treasury will handle any claims these merchants may put in, and also your purchase price.»
Esseta laughed. «That will reconcile Kubin Ben Sarif to almost anything.»
«So I thought,» the officer said. «Farewell and good custom, night sisters.» He climbed up beside the driver of the donkey cart and shouted orders. In a minute the last of the soldiers were out of sight, and Blade and Esseta were free to return to the House of the Night’s Tale.
Chapter 16
Blade didn’t
get back to the House of the Night’s Tale until nearly sunset. It had been a hot, windless day, and now they were facing the same kind of night.
Kubin Ben Sarif seldom came into the city itself to deal with this kind of affair. He left that to a handful of trusted personal agents, and one of them was on hand when Blade returned. He was a grayhaired man and looked like someone with many years of experience as a soldier or as one of Kubin’s fighting men.
Without even giving his name, the man began giving orders. It was Kubin’s wish that both Blade and Esseta be properly rewarded-how and in what amount would be decided later. For tonight the House of the Night’s Tale would do no business, but both Hashid and Blade would stand guard at the main door nonetheless. All other doors would be locked, and no one permitted through them. He himself would arrange to relieve Blade and Hashid at intervals, so that one of them could get some sleep and still leave two men on guard.
«Does the lord Kubin suspect someone of wishing this house ill?» asked Hashid. He tried to make the question sound completely casual, but didn’t succeed. Blade detected something that shouldn’t have been there in Hashid’s voice. Eagerness, fear, suspicion? He couldn’t be sure. He could only be sure that Hashid would bear watching until this affair had blown over.
«Kubin is not worried about people’s wishes,» said the older man. «He is worried about the Thieves’ families who might feel called on to pay us a visit. He will seek them out, in time, and make arrangements with them.»
Blade couldn’t help wondering what those «arrangements» would be. Bribery or murder? Kubin could afford the first, but had no scruples about applying the second if the first failed. Scruples were one thing he could not afford.
It was really Kubin’s decision, in any case, and none of Blade’s business. His own suspicions of Hashid were another matter-he had to mention them. He did so in the first moment he was alone with Kubin’s agent.,
The man looked at him skeptically. «You feel that Hashid is not to be trusted?»
«Not in matters that can mean life or death to lord Kubin’s servants, I think.»
«Yet you feel this only because of what you hear in his voice?»
«That, and also because he is an ambitious man. He hopes to rise high, but fears that Kubin has turned against him. He thinks that I have caused this, and so he is my enemy.»
«How do you know so well what is in Hashid’s mind, Blade?»
Blade kept face and voice expressionless. «One may learn much from the women.»
The agent laughed harshly. «So one may. Perhaps I also would do well to speak to the women. But not tonight. I cannot imagine that our friend Hashid has any way of doing us harm tonight.»
The first hours of the night passed quietly. It was not common for such a prosperous brothel as the House of the Night’s Tale to be unexpectedly closed, but it was not unknown either. Most of the customers who were turned away took it quietly, and Blade had to raise his voice only once. The customers of the House of the Night’s Tale knew who owned it, and none wanted to give offense to Kubin Ben Sarif. If he wanted to close down one of his most profitable businesses on any night for any reason, it was not for them to ask why.
An hour after midnight, Kubin’s agent came down to relieve Blade on guard duty. Blade did not return to the sleeping loft, but went to a mattress he’d spread on the floor at the foot of the stairs. That way he could sleep within earshot of anything that might happen at the door, weapons at hand. Blade ate some bread and cheese, drank a mug of beer, and lay down fully clothed. No one had come to the door in nearly an hour, so he found it easy to drift off to sleep.
He was sleeping lightly, though, so he awoke at the first banging of the door knocker. He rolled over and looked toward the door. In the dim light of the hall he saw Kubin’s agent standing with one hand on the bar of the door and the other holding open the speaking hole just above the latch.
«I am sorry, but it is Kubin’s wish that the house be closed tonight. We value your custom, and certainly we will welcome you on another night. But not this one.»
«Will there be free beer if we come back on another night?» came faintly through the speaking hole. The voice was high-pitched, like a boy’s. Probably some youngster who’s scraped together the money and the nerve to try his first woman and come to us for her, thought Blade. Too bad he’s going to have to be disappointed.
«Free beer?» said the agent, confused. Then behind him Hadish rose from the bench where he’d been sitting.
«Of course, there will be free beer,» he said. «Give us your name, and we shall-«
«What do you think-?» snapped the agent, turning to face Hadish. He never completed the turn. Halfway through it, Hadish’s right hand swept up to meet him, driving a knife into his throat. With his left hand Hadish gripped the bar and heaved it out of its brackets. The bar and the body of Kubin’s agent hit the floor at the same moment. Then Hadish gripped the handle of the door and heaved it open. That took both hands and all his attention, so he did not see Blade leap to his feet.
Blade ran down the hall and gripped one end of the heavy wooden bench. He put all his strength and weight into a tremendous shove. The bench seemed to fly down the hall ahead of him. Hadish let go of the handle as the door swung open and started to turn. The bench caught him and smashed him against the edge of the door, two hundred pounds of iron-hard wood with Blade behind it. The sword he’d started to draw fell from lifeless fingers. He toppled to one side as Blade heaved the bench back, then drove it forward again.
It shot into the open doorway as three masked men started to come through. The bench caught two of them with the force of a battering ram. Blade heard the sickening crunch of a man’s kneecap disintegrating, and an agonized scream that he hoped would wake the entire house.
The two men struck by the bench went backward down the front stairs, taking several of their comrades with them. The third man was more agile. He leaped up on the bench and struck at Blade with his sword. Blade had to back clear before he could get his own sword into action. Then there was a brief flurry of sword cuts, ending when Blade got under his opponent’s guard and laid open his stomach and thigh.
The man was dying, but he’d driven Blade back far enough to open a path for his comrades into the House of the Night’s Tale. Several more now charged through the doorway, pushing the bench back so violently that Blade had to jump out of its path.
As he did, one of the girls appeared at the foot of the stairs. She took one look at the scene in the hallway, then screamed loudly enough to nearly deafen Blade. If that didn’t wake up the rest of the house, they must all be dead! He had time to shout to her, «Get back upstairs and warn them! Tell them to close all the-!» and then his opponents seemed to be swarming all over him like hungry wolves.
Blade’s sword whirled and danced, slicing flesh and chopping bone. He was stronger and faster and could reach farther than any of the men facing him. He was also facing them in the cramped hallway, where none of these things gave him the edge he needed against such odds. Once more he had to give ground to avoid being surrounded and cut down. Some of his opponents had long knives, better for work at close quarters than Blade’s sword.
None of the masked men seemed to be Hashomi. They screamed when his sword tore their flesh, and when they took crippling wounds they fell or drew back. The hallway rapidly became a shambles, with screams ringing in Blade’s ears and the well-scrubbed wooden floor under him slippery with blood and half-buried under writhing bodies.
It seemed that for every man who fell two more took his place. Blade gave up the hallway a foot at a time, backing slowly toward the stairs. He would have to hold the stairway until the end, otherwise these people would have an easy route up to the women’s rooms.
Blade swore. It was ludicrous, to realize that he was quite possibly going to die here in the bloody, body-strewn hallway, defending a whorehouse from enemies in masks. He didn’t know who they were or why they were attacking. He didn’t even hav
e time to make a good guess!
Anger at this ridiculous fate flowed through Blade, twisting his face into a mask so terrible that several of his opponents drew back. It filled him with a terrible speed and strength, so that he went over to the offensive and killed three men with four sword strokes. Then the hallway was clear around him, and he was facing a bandy-legged man with a long knife in each hand.
The man came at Blade with a rush, his movements sure and fluid. Blade had plenty of room to swing his sword, and aimed a cut at the man’s head. The man brought up one knife fast enough to deflect the sword to one side, thrusting with the other knife at Blade’s groin. Blade twisted to one side and slashed down again. His sword bit into the man’s right shoulder. The man blinked, but didn’t make a sound. Blade knew he was facing one of the Hashomi.
The Hashom took a step backward. Then he raised his right arm, which should have been impossible. With more strength than Blade could believe, he hurled the knife from his right hand at Blade. Blade had to leap aside to avoid taking the knife in his chest. The Hashom charged, whipping his other knife around in a wide arc and stabbing upward. Blade’s sword came down, but he’d misjudged the Hashom’s speed. Instead of splitting the man’s skull, Blade only mangled his right shoulder again. This left the Hashom on his feet, charging past Blade toward the foot of the stairs.
Blade had to move quickly, to catch the Hashom without turning his back on the other men. As his sword came up for the killing blow, a chair came flying down the stairs from above. It caught the Hashom squarely in the chest, hurling him across the hallway. He held onto his knife, but couldn’t do anything with it before Blade’s sword came down. This time the stroke split the Hashom’s head neatly in two. Before the body struck the floor Blade was turning back to face his other opponents.
He did so just in time. Seeing Blade distracted by the Hashom, the other attackers had regained their courage. Eight of them were in the hallway now, moving forward one step at a time, stepping over the bodies, leaving the bloody footprints, but coming on as steadily as a glacier and in overwhelming strength. Blade picked up the chair and set it. in front of him to block part of the hallway, without taking his eyes off the men coming at him.
