Somehow, Degan had gone back after his fight with Shadow and retrieved the rope Jelem had made for me. That, or he had actually managed to pick it up without setting it off when he came after me. Either way, it couldn’t have been easy.
Damn, but he was making this hard.
I heard a yell, followed by a flurry of sword strikes so quick they nearly blurred into a single, continuous noise. I looked up, ready to move.
Degan was pushing Iron back with a relentless array of cuts and thrusts, his blade whistling in the air before him. It was stunning; I’d never seen a sword move with that much speed and accuracy at the same time. Every action was precise, every attack flowing into the next with flawless efficiency. There wasn’t a hint of uncertainty in any of it.
And Iron met each attack just as flawlessly, parrying Degan’s blade the exact amount needed to keep it from touching him, but no more. Iron’s defense never faltered, be it blade or body or foot-he was exactly where he needed to be to not get hit. But none of his counters worked, either. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t turn Degan’s attacks back against him.
It was a beautiful, daunting display. The only problem was, it was bringing them right toward me.
I hopped back two paces and was just deciding which way to leap when Iron suddenly stepped off to one side, practically turning his back to Degan even as he thrust his sword toward him. Degan bent his torso back and tried to step off as well, but not before Iron’s blade slid along the top of his right arm. Degan’s free hand slapped the sword away, revealing a long, shallow cut along his right shoulder and biceps.
The two men stepped apart and regarded one another. Then they began circling again.
My stomach lurched at the sight of Degan’s wound even as my head recoiled at the thought of giving the book to him. Hell and damn.
I glanced at the bazaar around me as I coiled the rope and slipped it into my belt. Most of the crowd had dispersed, although there were enough people hanging back on the edges for someone to be making book on the fight. There was even a water seller moving through the crowd with his spouted pot.
I made my way around the edge of the fighting, trying to stay out of range of the degans while keeping my distance from the gawkers as I hurried back toward Mendross’s stall.
The fruit seller had taken up a position before his partly broken-down stall, a solid-looking staff in his hands. Not a single fig was going to go missing if he had anything to say about it. Then I showed up, and his produce was forgotten.
“Degans?” he said, practically sputtering. “Degans are fighting over the book you gave me? The book you said no one would be looking for here?”
“I didn’t think it would come to this,” I said.
Mendross took a step forward, brandishing his staff for emphasis. “I heard the name ‘Shadow,’ Drothe. And ‘Solitude.’ Those are names I don’t like hearing!”
“Join the club,” I said. I stepped into his stall. Mendross hesitated a moment, then moved his staff aside.
“I want that book out of my stall,” said Mendross. “Now.”
“Do I look like I came over here to argue about it?” I said.
Mendross turned on his heel and shoved the curtain aside. “Spyro!” he yelled. The boy’s head popped up from behind an opened sack of dates. His hair was mussed and his eyes only half open.
“Sometimes I think you’d sleep through the Angels’ Descent, boy,” snapped Mendross. “Get out there and make sure no one steals the stall.” Spyro didn’t quite fall over himself on the way out, but it was a close thing.
I followed Mendross through the curtain, glancing over my shoulder as I did. The two degans had come to grips again, each holding the other’s sword arm with his free hand. Iron was pushing Degan backward toward a brass seller’s stall, while Degan was busy trying to shift his weight and spin Iron into the stall instead. The curtain fell to block my view, and an instant later I heard the crash and clatter of a hundred incense burners and lamp holders being knocked to the ground. I wondered who had ended up against the table. Instead of looking, I turned back to Mendross.
The fruit seller was unceremoniously dumping a basket of figs out onto the floor. From the bottom toppled a cloth-wrapped bundle.
“Here.” Mendross unwrapped the journal and held it out to me. “I don’t want to know,” he said as I took it. “Ever. Understand?”
I gave him a wry smile. “Trust me-I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Two days ago, I might have-”
We were interrupted by Spyro thrusting his head around in the edge of the curtain.
“Father!” he nearly shouted. His eyes were fully open. The significance of this fact was not lost on either of us. “You have to come out here!”
It was then I noticed the silence. There were no sounds of combat.
I dashed through the curtain, nearly knocking Spyro down in the process. I took two steps toward the street and stopped.
Degan and Iron were both standing in the middle of the square, weapons drawn, breathing heavily. Brass ware of every imaginable shape lay scattered about them, dully reflecting the day’s last light.
Neither man was paying much attention to the other; instead, they were staring out at what was left of the surrounding crowd. Or, to be more specific, at the dozen or more men and women who had stepped out of the crowd, their weapons drawn.
At first, I thought they were Rags come to settle the disturbance. Then I noticed that the nearest one wasn’t wearing a red sash; instead, she had a barely visible, dirty gold strip of cloth tied about her arm.
War colors. Nicco’s war colors. Oh, damn.
I was taking a reflexive step back when a deep bass voice I recognized boomed out across the street. It still had the power to freeze me in my tracks.
“I’ve got you now, you crossing little bastard!” thundered Nicco. Off to my right, the crowd parted, and the Upright Man stepped into the open space before the stalls.
At first I thought the war had been taking its toll on Nicco, what with his puffy eyes, tangled hair, and unkempt clothes-he looked as if he’d been dragged out of bed. Then I noticed Rall’ad standing behind him, and realized it was very likely the case.
The fish vendor saw me looking at him, smirked, and slipped back a little farther into the crowd.
Crossing little bastard; I’d sear his face on his own grill if I got out of this.
“It’s going to be painful for you, Drothe,” said Nicco, opening and closing his fists at his side. “So painful.” He looked away before I could reply and addressed the degans.
“I’ve no quarrel with either of you,” said Nicco, pointing to the two degans. “You want to fight in my territory, I’ll overlook it. Hell, you can take this bazaar apart for all I care. My Arms won’t lift a finger against you.” He gestured at me. “But if you try to come between me and that, then we have a problem.”
I took another look at the men and women Nicco had brought with him. All their steel was quality; all their faces were grim. More than one of them were wearing at least some sort of protection as well. Four sported steel gorgets; another two had leather jack coats; most had some sort of helmet; one even wore a well-oiled steel cuirass strapped to his chest. Armor wasn’t usually worn on the street-that they had come this decked-out meant they had come ready for trouble.
I recognized some of the faces among them, too: Mythias, Seri Razor Edge, Gutter Janos, the Hell-and-Fury twins, the Cretin… Some of Nicco’s best muscle was here.
In a strange way, I almost felt honored at the talent he’d assembled, even though I knew it wasn’t meant for me directly. What worried me, though, was that there might actually be enough deadly skill among the Arms to take both degans.
Iron took a slow, calculating look at the men and women surrounding him. Degan simply stared at Nicco.
“Well?” said Iron to Degan.
Degan didn’t respond. He stood in the middle of the street, sword in hand, blood runn
ing down his arm. The silence radiated out from him, infecting the crowd until even the Purse Cutters and the water hawkers grew still.
Nicco met Degan’s gaze. “Don’t be stupid,” said the Upright Man, his voice sounding like a shout in the stillness. “He’s not worth it.”
“Shows what the hell you know,” said Degan. Then he moved, and the Cretin, who’d been a good four paces away from him, was falling over, Degan’s sword already on its way back out of the Cretin’s left eye.
In an instant, everything went from stillness to chaos. Knowing a bad situation when they saw it, the last of the crowd surged away from the imminent bloodshed. Two of the Arms got caught in the panicked tide and were swept away; the rest rushed forward to engage the degans. Iron laughed and waded in to meet three of the Arms outright, killing the front man with frightening casualness. When the remaining two shifted to keep him from joining up with Degan, Iron laughed again and waved them on with his free hand.
Degan hadn’t even paused in his assault. Without looking down, he’d caught the guard of the Cretin’s sword with his boot, kicked it up, and grabbed the weapon out of the air with his left hand. Now, with a sword in each hand, he was rushing Nicco.
Four Arms stepped forward to meet him. Degan cut with the left blade, parried with the right, feinted, and flicked the tip of his left sword. A gash appeared in the tallest Arm’s throat, pulsing red as he crumpled toward the ground. Another cut, a thrust, a stab with each blade, and another Arm fell.
It looked like Degan was going to wade his way to Nicco without much effort. I smiled at the thought. Then another Arm rushed in from the side, forcing Degan to shift his guard and work against two fronts. His advance stopped.
Nicco had blanched at the sight of Degan bearing down on him, but now he had enough breathing room to think. He thought of me.
“Get the damn Nose!” Nicco yelled to the square in general. He began circling toward me.
I didn’t need to hear him twice. Staying here only made me a target. If I wanted to do anyone any good, I needed to get out of this stall, preferably in a less than obvious fashion. The fewer people who knew where I was, the more damage I could do.
I drew my rapier and turned to duck back behind the curtain. That was when I saw Seri Razor Edge vaulting into the stall over a pile of crates, a nasty grin on her skeletal face.
Seri didn’t say anything when she landed-couldn’t, for that matter; she’d had her tongue cut out years ago. Rumor had it that her then-husband had done it because she had lied to him. Once she’d recovered, Seri had used the brace of long barber’s razors she still wielded to carve him up and sell him for pig fodder.
Seri clicked the razors open and closed, open and closed, in a blur of silver steel. Even though I had reach with my sword, I thought twice about attacking her-I’d seen her take apart better swordsmen than I in a matter of seconds.
“Go ahead, try her,” said a voice. I glanced right and saw another Arm, named Leander, standing outside the stall. He had a broad-bladed infantry sword resting across his shoulder-a souvenir from his days in the Imperial legions.
Two Arms versus me-I’d seen better odds at a fixed cockfight. If Ioclaudia’s journal hadn’t been filling up my left hand, I would have tried a drop-and-throw with my wrist dagger.
I saw the curtain shift slightly behind Seri, even though there was no breeze. I resisted the urge to smile.
I looked over at Leander. “How much?” I demanded.
His eyes narrowed. “How much what?”
“How much to let me go?”
Leander looked at me, dumbfounded for a moment, then laughed. “You mean how much to cross Nicco? I’m not-”
That was when Mendross’s staff thrust out through the gap in the curtain. It caught Seri behind the ear with an audible crack. Her knees buckled.
By then, I was already throwing the journal at Leander. I wasn’t happy about it, and my gut tightened as I did it, but it was either throw that or my sword, and I needed the sword more just now.
The motion caught Leander by surprise. Instinct made him block the book with his sword, which meant he missed the rapier thrust I sent immediately after it. My blade caught him at the base of the jaw. The tip bit deep, his head snapped back, and he was dead.
I was still recovering from my lunge and turning to thank Mendross when something collided with the side of my head. My first thought was, What the hell are you doing, Mendross? but as I staggered and fell, I saw Mendross still standing in the curtained doorway, a look of surprise on his face. Then I saw Nicco step over me, and I knew who had clicked me.
Mendross jabbed and swung with his staff, but the stall was too narrow for him to be able to use it effectively. Nicco reached out and took the weapon away from the Ear almost absentmindedly. He then grabbed Mendross by the throat and began to beat him with his own staff.
I pushed myself up off the ground. It bucked and swayed beneath me, but I didn’t have time to worry about that right now. I reached for where my rapier had fallen, missed once, twice, then got it on the third try. It felt clumsy and heavy in my hand all of a sudden. That couldn’t be a good sign.
Being this close to Nicco summoned a riot of emotions within me: fear, anxiety, hatred, panic, despair, even, oddly enough, elation. But underneath it all was a dark, seething need for vengeance-vengeance for Kells and his men; vengeance for the beatings I’d suffered; vengeance for what Mendross was suffering; vengeance for Eppyris and Cosima and their girls. I wanted vengeance for everything this bastard had put me through for the last seven years, for everything I had had to take because it was my job. Well, that job was done now, and it was time to take back my pride and pay him back.
I climbed to my feet.
As I rose, Nicco turned and let go of Mendross. Without the Upright Man to support him, Mendross collapsed to the floor. He was bleeding freely from more places than I could count, most of them on his head. When he fell, he didn’t move. Nicco dropped the staff across him without a second thought.
I brought my rapier’s tip up and got into the best stance I could. The world seemed to be leveling out a little bit, for which I was grateful.
Nicco grinned and slid into a wrestler’s crouch, his hands out before him. He was wearing a pair of Meat and Greets-leather gladiator’s gloves, their backs studded with iron, their palms and inner fingers lined with fine chain mail for grabbing blades. Looking at them, at him, I was surprised I was still conscious.
“Just us, little man,” rumbled Nicco. “No degans, no Oaks, no Arms, and no fruit peddlers.” He smacked his hands together, making them thump and ring at the same time. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I said, and I lunged. Nicco must have been counting on his intimidation to work on me like it had in the past, since he seemed genuinely surprised when I attacked. He jerked his body back from the thrust and barely got a hand up in time to knock the blade away. I advanced, pressing hard with two more thrusts and a low slash in quick succession. Nicco blocked them all, retreating until he felt one of Mendross’s tables behind him. He blocked another cut, then lowered his head and hunched his shoulders. His eyes narrowed.
I knew that look. It meant I was about to be in trouble.
Before he could charge and use his greater mass to run me down, I stepped back and dropped to the ground. Two quick rolls and I was under a table and out in the square.
Nicco swore and came after me, throwing crates and baskets out of his way.
I glanced quickly around the square. Degan was backed up against the base of Elirokos’s statue, holding off multiple Arms with his two blades. Iron had taken his fight on the run and was ducking in and out of stalls and behind tent backs, using the terrain to keep his attackers off-balance and in pursuit. There were more bodies on the ground than there had been last time I looked, but both degans also seemed to be sporting fresh blood themselves.
More important, there were no Arms in my immediate vicinity.
I
gave a quick scan of the ground for Ioclaudia’s journal. It was off to my left, not far from Leander’s feet. Not in easy reach, but not too far, either. Then a crate landed between it and me, and I was forced to turn my full attention back to Nicco.
He was in the square before me, pawing at the air softly, waiting for his moment. I closed up my guard and reached for the fighting dagger at my belt. If Nicco got in past my rapier’s tip, I’d need something to keep him at bay. The fingers of my left hand were just brushing the dagger’s handle when Nicco made his move.
He reached out for my blade, trying to grab it and push it high as he came in low, his fist at the ready. My hand fell away from the dagger, and I danced back, pulling my rapier in and then thrusting it back out at his eye. Nicco had changed up the timing of his attack, though, slowing himself down after his initial reach. That meant I was backing faster than he was advancing. My tip fell short, waving weakly in the air. Nicco batted at the blade and came on.
I’d forgotten how long his arms were, how fast he was with his hands. Rapiers aren’t very good for blocking punches in the first place, and with Nicco’s being so adept at protecting himself, I was quickly finding myself on the defensive. It wasn’t supposed to work that way; most times, three-plus feet of steel were enough to keep a brawler like Nicco at bay. Today, though, he seemed more worried about getting his hands on me than collecting a few stray stabs or cuts.
Worse, he was pressing me so hard, I couldn’t find time to draw my dagger. If he got in before I got it out, I was done for.
Something needed to change.
Degan would have doubtlessly done something deadly and flawless; me, I leapt back a pace and squatted down in the street. I thrust my sword out in front of me, ducked my head, and laid my left arm over myself for protection. A second later, I felt an impact along my rapier’s length. Then Nicco collided with me.
I was knocked sprawling on the cobbles. A sharp pain lanced down my right arm, running from elbow to fingertips and back. My rapier slipped from my hand with a clatter.
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