‘You’re next. Are you ready?’ Mateo asked.
‘Yes,’ Soren replied, as he removed his cloak. He was wearing the neat black fighting doublet and britches he had on earlier in the day, which were perfectly suited for fighting. They had been purchased while he was still under the patronage of Amero, so were of particularly fine quality, and perfectly tailored for him. They were clearly expensive and Soren could see that questioning expression on Mateo’s face again. It was not uncommon for bored young aristocrats to find their way onto the black carpet in search of a little excitement. It was less common for them to be of a level of skill high enough to win.
Soren drew his sword and dagger and took off his sword belt. He handed the belt and cloak to Mateo. ‘Would you mind holding these for me while I fight?’
‘Not at all,’ Mateo said, taking the items and gesturing for Soren to make his way to the carpet. He focussed his mind on trying to enhance the Gift. This did nothing. He tried to mingle his concentration on his upcoming duel with what he should try next. He stepped onto the black paint, which had some sort of grit mixed through it to increase grip. It would restrict sliding movements, but when he saw the dried blood present on it from the earlier bouts, he realised it was designed to prevent slipping on wet blood. The choice of the colour black was also obvious. It was to hide the bloodstains.
His opponent was much older, with close-cropped grey hair and a few days’ worth of stubble. His clothes were functional but of a lesser quality than Soren’s and his face bore a number of fine pink scars. The man took his guard in a workmanlike fashion and Mateo shouted for them to begin.
His opponent shuffled forward quite smoothly, but from the start Soren could see that his technique was less polished and less disciplined than freshly graduated swordsmen. That did not mean he would not be a dangerous opponent however, perhaps quite the opposite.
He tried to imagine everything in the room covered in the blue glow, hoping that if he pictured it hard enough, it would actually appear. He tried to imagine it enveloping him, filling him with warmth and energy. And then, like a deep breath of cool, fresh air, it appeared. It was around everything, the mage lamps, the crowd, his opponent. Almost as suddenly as it had appeared, it went, but the effect remained. It felt as though his heart had slowed, while his limbs felt light and energized. The noise of the crowd seemed to fade into the distance and his opponent seemed to slow.
He smiled at his success. If he could do it once, he could do it again.
The man attacked with three strikes that followed one another with reasonable fluidity, but which Soren parried with both sword and dagger, their blades clashing and sparking, much to the delight of the on-looking crowd. His counter attack was almost as instantaneous as his decision to make it. Soren countered with a thrust of his sword. It flashed in the lamplight three times, its tip contacting with flesh without interruption from the man’s sword or dagger. The crowd gasped, and Soren stepped back to survey his handiwork. What he saw shocked him.
He had intended to cut the man three times in that attack; just enough to draw blood from three wounds and end the duel, but no more. Unlike in more formal duels, on the black carpet a duel was not re-set after a scoring touch. It continued on uninterrupted until there was a victor. The man had dropped to his knees in an ever increasing pool of his own blood. His clothes were rent in three places, each revealing a perfectly executed killing strike.
Killing the man did not bother him in the least; any man who came before his blade was either there by choice or by necessity. What shocked him was that on this occasion he had only intended to wound the man. His skill was such that his sword should have carried out his intentions perfectly. At what stage had he lost that control? It was the incident with Contanto’s nephew all over again.
A clap on his back pulled him from his thoughts.
‘You certainly like to make a big first impression. Faco there was a fine blade, but you made him look like he’d never held a sword in his life before. You do know that only three draws of blood are needed to win?’ asked Mateo. He paused for a second, but when no response appeared forthcoming, he continued. ‘Your prize purse is ten crowns. If you want to come this way I will settle with you.’
He led Soren over to a table in the corner with a strongbox on it. Two large men stood nearby, and eyed Soren apprehensively. They were clearly there to guard it, but after having seen Soren fight, he could see in their eyes that they doubted their ability to stop him should he choose to take it.
Mateo pulled a stool from under the table and sat. ‘Please, sit. Can I get you a drink?’
Before Soren could answer Mateo had called to the barman to bring a bottle of wine. Soren sat on a stool opposite him. Mateo took a small key from his jacket pocket and opened the strongbox. He took a leather pouch and placed it on the table in front of Soren, the coins within clinking quietly.
‘Ten crowns and your things are just there. One of the boys will clean your blades for you if you wish, but you bannerets always seem to want to take care of that kind of thing for yourselves. Can we expect to see you here again?’ Mateo asked.
Soren took the purse from the table and pocketed it. He thought it would be wise to appear to need the money more than he did; at the very least it would keep Mateo guessing as to his reasons for being there. He didn’t want the man to know more about him than was absolutely necessary.
‘Perhaps,’ Soren replied. ‘But ten crowns is not enough.’
Mateo smiled wolfishly. ‘Well, now that we know what you are capable of, we can weigh the odds accordingly. I can assure you that the purses will only get larger, particularly if you can repeat that kind of performance.’
‘That won’t be a problem,’ Soren replied.
‘Excellent. When can I expect you then?’
‘The night after tomorrow,’ Soren said, before getting up and leaving. He felt dirty when he exited out onto the street, but he couldn’t deny the thrill that the duel had given him. Measuring himself and his skill against another man and to prove himself better was addictive. More importantly, he had finally learned how to call on his gift whenever he chose. He was an urchin from the gutter and now he felt as though there was not a man who could stand before him. He pulled his cloak up over his head and walked briskly out into the darkness.
C h a p t e r 4 9
A MAN OF NO MORALS
Tanto dal Trevison was an Elector Count. While Spiro and Contanto were both at least equally as powerful in their own ways, they were self-made men. Dal Trevison had been born to his power and wealth, and while no more powerful or dangerous than the other two men, killing a noble had altogether more dangerous connotations. It was breaking the unwritten rule of the city; only noblemen could kill other noblemen, which they often did in duels of honour. The assassination of any noble would draw attention. The assassination of one so powerful as dal Trevison would draw a great deal of it.
Dal Trevison had visited a brothel on every evening that Soren had followed him. It was not an unusual thing for aristocrats to visit prostitutes and no one would give the fact a second thought, but Soren would have expected a man with dal Trevison’s wealth to keep a mistress, or even a personal harem, rather than to use normal brothels. They were all very high-class brothels, but brothels nonetheless. It made him want to get the job over with quickly, nauseating him to think that some night he might follow the man to Alessandra’s apartments in Oldtown.
As with the others, Tanto dal Trevison kept a personal bodyguard with him. His bodyguards would be of a different calibre to those employed by the others though. A man of dal Trevison’s position attracted a large number of court followers. He would have lesser nobles and the younger sons of greater nobles joining his retinue in the hope of advancement. He would also be a man who would, like Amero dal Moreno, sponsor promising young fighters at the Academy. What it meant was that his bodyguards would certainly be bannerets, and most likely very good ones.
He recalled a tenet fr
om one of his classes at the Academy, that the best way to win a fight is to avoid it altogether. It was not an approach that had ever made sense to him before, but it seemed to be appropriate to his present needs, so he made his plans accordingly. He was quite sure that the bodyguards would not be in the room with dal Trevison when he was with the prostitute. That would be the time to kill him. The only question that remained was how to get in there also.
Soren had always seen the rooftops as being an ally. In a city as old and crowded as Ostenheim, buildings tended to grow upward, the only direction usually available to them. The result was that the roofs of the city were almost as much of a warren of nooks and crannies as the alleyways below. There were half roofs and extensions everywhere, hiding places, forgotten windows and blocked up doorways to balconies that no longer existed.
Soren made his way onto the roof of the brothel and took his bearings. Like most of the buildings in the city the roof was of dark orange, ridged terracotta tiles. The tiles stopped short of the front of the building leaving a small flat roof that had a round table with four chairs around it, and a large plant in a pot with big, wide rubbery looking leaves. The prostitutes must come up here to relax when they are not working, Soren thought. It was actually a nice spot, peaceful high over the city. The building was tall enough that Soren could just glimpse the sea over the roofs of the city, with the sun setting on the horizon. He suddenly felt like an intruder, invading the unfortunate women’s small sanctuary.
There was a trap door in the corner of the roof. He went over to it and knelt down beside it. He listened carefully for several moments before gently lifting it open. There was a flight of rough wooden steps leading down into a darkened corridor. He silently descended the steps and into the corridor. He drew his dagger; the sword would be useless in such a confined environment, and quietly advanced.
The top floor seemed to be small bedrooms, where either the girls or the staff lived, but it was certainly not where business was conducted. The corridor was quite shabby; it had not been decorated for some time and was not nearly luxurious enough for entertaining customers. He made his way down one floor and the décor changed significantly. Instead of unvarnished floorboards, there was deep, plush, scarlet carpet. Expensive looking paintings lined the walls, and there was so much gilt that Soren wondered if it crossed the line from classy to gaudy. From the sounds coming from behind some of the doors he could tell that he had descended to a level on which the brothel’s business was conducted.
Identifying what room dal Trevison was in was the only obstacle left. The working practice of the brothel would help to some extent; the girls placed a red tassel over the door handle of any room that was in use. Only one of the rooms on this floor had a tassel on the door, but Soren knew from a previous scouting visit that the higher profile clients were entertained on the lower floors. They didn’t want to be fatigued from climbing up too many stairs.
He made his way down to the next floor, which was the last one above the ground floor. It was here that he thought it most likely that he would find dal Trevison. There were eight doors lining the corridor, and three of them had tassels on their handles. Taking his chances, he reached for the handle on the first door, and opened it slightly.
‘This one’s taken, can’t you see!’ said a young woman in a state of undress, standing by a bed occupied by a man that was not dal Trevison. He had not opened the door enough to reveal his face and he had decided to wear a mask on this job so he would be unrecognisable if seen. On the other missions, a mask was either inappropriate or not needed, as there would be no witnesses alive to identify him. On this job, there was a likelihood that he would be seen by one, or several of the courtesans. They were innocents, and he had no desire to kill any of them. He hoped the mask would make this possible, but being seen wearing one before completing his task would cause the alarm to be raised and destroy any chance of him successfully carrying it out. He closed the door quickly with a mumbled apology and moved on to the next door. What he saw when he opened the door left him mouth agape in surprise.
Surprise subsided quickly to an uncomfortable amusement. In his investigation he had heard rumours of dal Trevison’s tastes, but the forewarning was still not enough to prepare him for the ridiculous scene before him. Dal Trevison was strapped to a wooden frame, arms and legs outstretched. A courtesan stood next to him with a light whip in her hands. His entry caused her to pause in what she had been doing, and she cast him a stern gaze.
‘What is it? What’s going on?’ said dal Trevison. He was strapped to the frame belly first, and the restraints prevented him from turning his head far enough to see what was going on behind him. He strained at the leather straps and his frustration was evident as he twitched and twisted, the wooden frame creaking in protest.
‘Get out! Can’t you see we’re busy!’ screeched the courtesan.
Soren couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. It was not a very fearsome introduction, but was completely unavoidable, and he hoped his appearance would be menacing enough despite this. He pushed back the folds of his cloak to reveal his blades, which had the desired effect of shutting the courtesan up.
‘If you remain very quiet, you may survive this night,’ Soren said to her, as menacingly as he could, although he felt its effect was diminished by his earlier levity.
‘Who the hell do you think you are bursting in here like this? Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea what I can have done to you for interrupting me like this?’ said dal Trevison furiously. He continued to rage, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth as he twisted and jerked against the leather restraints. The pasty white skin of his back was streaked with pink lines where the courtesan had been flogging him. She had retreated to a corner of the room where she had adopted the foetal position and was whimpering in terror, her earlier bravado now well and truly gone. Soren suppressed another laugh as he returned his stare to dal Trevison, who at that moment was perhaps the most ridiculous looking man he had ever seen. He stepped forward and spoke, interrupting dal Trevison’s stream of vitriol.
‘I know who you are,’ said Soren, in a low throaty voice, ‘and that is the reason I am here.’ In a smooth movement he stabbed dal Trevison through the ribs, just where the blade would puncture the heart and cause a swift death, more than he deserved. From what he had heard, dal Trevison liked to reciprocate the treatment he was receiving, but with far more vigour.
‘You can start screaming in five minutes,’ Soren said to the cowering woman, ‘any sooner than that and I will be back for you.’ As an afterthought he threw her a purse containing five crowns, more than she would have earned from dal Trevison, before turning and leaving the room.
C h a p t e r 5 0
A SLIPPERY SLOPE?
‘Welcome back, sir. Mister Mateo told me to keep an eye out for you tonight!’ said the doorman. He beckoned for Soren to enter the club from the doorway. ‘Good luck with your duel, sir,’ he added as Soren passed him.
The doorman’s obsequiousness sickened Soren almost as much as his bad teeth. He went down the stairs and quickly spotted Mateo standing by the table with the strongbox, talking to two men in particularly fine clothing. Now that he thought of it, there were a number of notably well dressed people there, even more so than on the last night. Soren hoped they were not there on the back of word of his duel on the previous occasion. Mateo spotted him and hurried over.
‘You’re here! Excellent! I was beginning to worry that you would not come. Your purse for tonight will be fifty crowns. As I’m sure you can see, word of your duel has generated quite a bit of interest in high society.’ He seemed a little nervous tonight in contrast to his relaxed and confident manner on the previous night. ‘There will be a few duels before yours, but yours is the main event of the evening. Needless to say there are some very important people here; this night could prove very beneficial to both of us. I hope you’ve brought your best.’
‘You don’t need to worry about that,’ S
oren replied. He was slightly irked at having to wait for his duel again. Ever since leaving his apartment he had been anticipating the action like a hungry man awaiting a gourmet meal. ‘Is there somewhere private that I can wait?’
‘Yes, of course, this way,’ Mateo said. He led Soren to a small room behind the bar. It was far from luxurious, being little more than a storage closet containing a single stool, but it suited Soren. His primary concern was to be away from the gawking looks of the people that had gathered in the cellar that night. The room was damp, musty and dark, so he sat back and closed his eyes. His mind drifted to Alessandra. It always did when the darkness came. He tried to force his mind to other thoughts, but it was impossible to blot her out, or the hurt and anger that thoughts of her brought.
A knock on the door brought him back to his senses. He had no idea how long he had been resting in the small room, but apparently it had been long enough. The barman peered in and Soren followed him out into the cellar that played host to the duelling club.
The previously rowdy crowd quieted as he walked toward the black carpet, led out by Mateo. It made him uncomfortable to know that every eye in the room was on him, but he maintained as blank a face as he could, something that resembled a scowl, but not so much that it would seem forced. He was uncertain how much people would know about him, but the crowd was larger, and a significant percentage looked very wealthy. As with all things in the city, the underground duelling dens varied in their level of sophistication and class. This one would only have been somewhere in the middle of the scale. It was better than the rougher places that had little more than brawls calling themselves duels and would rarely if ever see a true swordsman, but it was not a top tier venue that attracted the wealthiest of citizens. This evening, many of the spectators looked decidedly out of place in their finery. He tried to ignore them as he took his place at the end of the carpet, but it made him wonder how Amero had coped with the thousands of spectators in the Amphitheatre.
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