"Sixty-six."
"Did your former employers retire you, perhaps? Well, in any case, the Palace is not a village shrine for old men to gather at."
"I didn't think it was, but I can guarantee that I would have no difficulty in carrying out the job."
"Ah, but there remains my fourth and final point, which is that we have no use for a headsman in any case. Were the Lord Executioner too old or feeble or ill or lazy to do his own work, or were there a hundred convicts a day to be disposed of, and were you forty years younger, we would still have no use for a headsman; the last beheading in this city was more than thirty years ago, when the first Lord Executioner was still in office and his son too young for breeches. Lord Azrad long ago decided that beheadings were too messy and too reminiscent of the Great War; we hang our criminals here. I had thought that custom had become the fashion almost everywhere by now.
Our own headsman's axe has hung undisturbed on the wall behind me for as long as I can recall. Now, are you satisfied that there's no place for you here? Leave immediately and I won't have you arrested."
Dismayed, Valder stepped back. "A question, though, sir—or two, if I might."
"What are they?"
"Who are you, and what have you got in your hand? How am I to know that what you say is true? I confess I don't really doubt it, but I am curious."
"I am Adagan the Younger, secretary to the Lord Executioner, and incidentally his first cousin. I hold a protective charm—you might have been a madman, after all, and you're obviously armed. As for how you know what I say to be true, ask anyone; it's common knowledge, all of it."
"And you wouldn't know of any place that does need a headsman? This sword I carry is cursed, you see; I can only remove the curse by killing nineteen men with it."
"Perhaps you're a madman after all..."
"No, truly, it's cursed—it happened during the war."
"Well, maybe it did; many strange things happened during the war, I understand. At any rate, I can't help you; I know of no place that still beheads its condemned, let alone with a sword rather than an axe."
Reluctantly, Valder admitted himself defeated. "Thank you, then, sir, for your kindness." He bowed slightly and turned to go.
"Wait, old man; you'll need a safe conduct past the guards on the bridge. Take this." He held out a small red-and-gold disk. Valder accepted it, noting wryly that the man's other hand still held the protective charm.
"Thank you again." He bowed and marched off down the hallway. He heard the clunk of the door closing behind him, but did not look back.
The guard at the inner gate demanded the little enameled disk before allowing him into the tunnel under the bridge and gave him a slip of paper in its place, which was in turn collected by the guard at the outer gate when Valder knocked on the paving and was released into the marketplace once again. It struck him as odd that it was more difficult to get out of the Palace than in, though he could see the logic to the system; after all, someone with legitimate business might be unable to obtain a pass to enter, but anyone who departed without some sign of having had such business could be safely assumed to be a fraud or worse. It still seemed odd, though.
He managed to distract himself with such trivia for the entire trip out of the Palace and across the market square; it was only when seated in a quiet tavern and sipping cold ale that he allowed his thoughts to return to his problem.
One reasonably positive aspect of his situation had occurred to him rather belatedly. If he could not kill himself, but must wait to be murdered, then he might live for a good long time after he had killed all his nineteen victims; he had no intention of being a willing victim, and that meant that his killer might not be able to get at him until he had sunk irretrievably into senility, or blindness, or some other incapacity, by which time he thought he would prefer to die in any case. He would, he thought, be a rich enough victim to attract a cutthroat fairly quickly, once he was known to be helpless, so that he probably would not be left to linger unreasonably long. He might even leave instructions with Tandellin that he was to be killed when he had sunk far enough, without hope of recovery, to make his life miserable.
That was an interesting idea, actually; he rather liked that. The idea of suicide was one that had never really appealed to him, nor had he cared for the idea of allowing some scoundrel to do him in and take possession of Wirikidor. Allowing Tandellin or some other worthy fellow to put him out of his misery, however, was not so bad.
That still left him with the necessity of killing nineteen men. He might yet find a job as a headsman, he supposed, but it would mean travel, extensive travel, to find such a post. He was not at all sure he felt up to any such travel; he felt his age, though perhaps not as much as most men of his years. It would be far more pleasant to find his victims here in Ethshar.
A thought struck him. He was not able legally to dispatch condemned criminals, but if what Adagan had told him was correct, there were neighborhood vigilance committees that didn't always bother with legalities. He might join such a group, perhaps—or perhaps he could simply track down criminals on his own and let their removal be credited to the vigilantes. That was an idea with great promise.
When the taverner came by with a refill, he asked, "What do they do with thieves around here, anyway? One almost got my purse this morning."
"Depends who catches them," replied the taverner, a heavy man of medium height, bristling black beard, and gleaming bald pate. "If it's the city guard, by some miracle, they are hanged—assuming they can't bribe their way out of it. Usually, though, it's just the neighbors, and they'll beat a little honesty into them, even if it means a few broken bones—or broken heads."
"The neighbors, you say?"
"That's right; the landowners have the right to defend their property, old Azrad says."
"Landowners only, huh?"
"Yes, landowners; can't have just anyone enforcing the law, or you'll have riots every time there's a disagreement."
"So if I were robbed here—I can see you run an honest place, but just suppose some poor desperate fool wandered in off the street and snatched my purse—what should I do? Call you?"
"That's right; we'd teach him a lesson, depending on what he'd stolen, and from whom, and whether we'd ever caught him before; if he lived through it, that would be the end of it—assuming he gave back your money, of course."
"What if I caught him myself?"
"Well, that's your affair, isn't it? Just so you didn't do it in here."
Valder nodded. "Good enough."
It was, indeed, good enough. If he could contrive to be robbed or attacked, then he would have every right to defend himself. He was an old man, with a fat purse—or fat enough, at any rate. If he were to wear his purse openly, instead of beneath his kilt, and were somehow to make Wirikidor less obvious while still ready at hand, he would be very tempting bait. It would be unpleasant, and he might receive a few injuries, but it seemed the quickest and best solution to his problems.
He thanked the taverner, finished his ale in a gulp, paid his bill, and left. He turned his steps back toward Westgate; he was heading for Wall Street.
Chapter 29
Wall Street had changed in detail since Valder had spent a night there forty years earlier, but not in the essentials. The law still required that no permanent structures be erected between Wall Street and the city wall itself, and that meant that the Hundred-Foot Field was still there and still the last resort for the homeless. Those had been confused veterans when Valder had first seen it, men suddenly displaced from the only life they had known since childhood, but the majority had still been honest men who simply had not yet found their places. Now, however, all such had long since departed, either finding themselves better homes or dying, leaving behind the human detritus of the city and the Hegemony, the beggars, cripples, outcasts, and simpletons. The tents and blankets of the veterans had given way to shacks and lean-tos; where the soldiers had been almost exclusively young men,
the current population came in both sexes and all sizes, shapes, and ages.
And among these derelicts, Valder had heard, hid the worst of the city's criminals. The guard did not willingly come into the Hundred-Foot Field, and there were no land-owning vigilantes, since it was entirely public land, so that it served as a final refuge for scoundrels and blackguards who had been driven from all the more comfortable places.
With that in mind, it was Valder's intention to stroll the length of Wall Street with his purse plain on his belt and Wirikidor serving as a cane. That, he was sure, would attract thieves, and any such lurking along Wall Street might reasonably be assumed to be no great loss to anyone, should he kill them in self-defense. Whether he would be able to lure nineteen of them to their deaths he did not care to guess, but he did expect to make a good start.
He walked south from Westgate Market an hour or so after the sun passed its zenith, a good meal in his belly and feeling reasonably rested. The day was warm but not hot, and a strong wind blew from the east, tugging at his clothes and keeping him cool. He expected the first attack within an hour.
It did not materialize; rather than being attracted by the harmless old man, the people who noticed him at all stared and actively avoided him.
Perhaps, he thought, he was being too obvious about it. Thieves would suspect a trap of some sort. He tucked the purse into a fold of his kilt, as if he were unsuccessfully attempting to hide it, and trudged onward.
Another few minutes brought him to Newgate Market in the city's southwestern corner; although far smaller and less active than Westgate Market, the square was lined with inns and taverns, and he stopped into one for a drink and a rest. He intentionally chose the one that looked worst, in hopes that a drunken brawl might start and provide an opportunity for swordplay. He promised himself he would not be the first to draw a weapon in such a situation and that he would not actively provoke a fight—but should one begin, he was ready and eager to join in, sixty-six or not.
No fight began, and after an hour or two he moved on, heading from Newgate into Southwark. This gave every appearance of being a quiet and respectable residential area, despite its proximity to Wall Street and the Hundred-Foot Field, where Westgate, Westwark, Crookwall, and Newgate had all been more colorful. The population of the Field seemed thinner here, and the shacks and huts fewer and more substantial.
Another hour found him still plodding along unmolested, well on his way to Southgate and inwardly fuming. He had decided that Wirikidor was too obviously a sword, rather than a cane. From what little he knew of the city's geography, he judged himself to be nearing the southern end of the Wizards' Quarter—assuming that district reached the southern wall, which he doubted. He began mulling over the possibility of purchasing a concealment spell or an illusion to hide Wirikidor or make it appear something other than itself.
Although the idea had a certain appeal, he marched onward down Wall Street rather than turning aside; he had no desire to become lost in the city's tangled streets.
It also occurred to him that perhaps he overestimated the boldness of the city's thieves in expecting an attack by daylight; he resolved that the next time he came to a tavern or inn he would settle in, eat an early dinner, and wait until dark.
The next inn, however, did not turn up until almost half an hour later, in Southgate, as he drew near Southgate Market. There he paused, glanced at the sun sinking behind him, down nearly to the rooftops; with a shrug, he stepped inside.
It was indeed well after dark when he stepped out again, and he was slightly the worse for drink, but his belly was full and his feet did not hurt quite so badly as before, whether from the rest or from the liquor he was not sure.
With fresh resolve, he strode onward toward Southgate Market, past innumerable cookfires scattered among the ramshackle shelters in the Field, and beneath the torches that lighted Wall Street.
He had gone perhaps two blocks when a thought suddenly struck him; would a thief approach him on Wall Street itself, where there were torches and campfires lighting the way and any number of possible witnesses in the Hundred-Foot Field who might be bribed into identifying an attacker?
Far more likely, he decided, they would look for their prey in alleys and byways that were uninhabited and not as well lighted. With that in mind, he turned left at the next opportunity, into a narrow unlighted street.
He wanted to remain in the vicinity of Wall Street, however, so he doubled back at the next intersection.
For the next hour or so, he wandered the back streets of Southgate; several times he sensed that he was being watched, though no one was in sight, and once he thought he heard stealthy footsteps, but no one accosted him. Still, he was encouraged.
He was also tired; he sat down on the stoop of a darkened shop and caught his breath.
He reviewed his actions of the day and evening and decided that he had done the right thing so far—save that it had taken him far too long to realize that dark alleys were better places to find cutpurses than Wall Street, even if Wall Street might be their home. He wished he had thought of it sooner, if only for the sake of his poor abused feet and tired legs. He stretched them out, feeling the muscles twinge as he did so, and rubbed his calves.
If he were to be attacked, he thought, he wasn't certain he would be able to draw Wirikidor fast enough to prevent injury to himself when he was this tired.
It was with that in his mind that he heard a scream, suddenly cut off, and thrashing sounds from around the corner nearest him.
He leaped to his feet with the trained response of a man who had spent much of his life breaking up drunken brawls before they could damage the furnishings; without consciously intending it, he found himself rounding the corner into the alley whence the sounds came.
A smile twitched across his face as he saw what was happening; here he had been roaming the city looking for a robbery, and one had come to him while he rested. The light was poor, coming primarily from torches in a neighboring avenue, and his eyesight was not what it once was, but he could still plainly see that two men were attacking a woman. One held her from behind, one hand holding a knife to her throat and the other clamped over her mouth, while the other man was pawing at her skirt, searching for her purse or other valuables.
Valder had found himself a target and without luring anyone to himself. He drew Wirikidor, dropping the scabbard to the road and hoping that the second man would flee, rather than fight.
Hearing his approach, the man who had been kneeling at the woman's skirt whirled and lost his balance, tumbling awkwardly to the street. The other released the woman, flinging her aside and whipping a sword from its sheath.
He had time to get a good look at Valder in the flickering torchlight before the two swords met with a clash of steel. "Ho, old man," he said, starting a jibe of some sort; Valder never heard the rest of it, as Wirikidor whirled back to the side and slid under the thief's guard so fast that he probably never even saw it coming and certainly had no time to parry. The blade, sharper than any razor, sliced through leather tunic, flesh, and bone with ease, spraying blood in an arc across the entire width of the alley.
Valder could not see the thief's face; the light was behind him. All he saw was a black outline that slowly crumpled to the ground, the sword still clutched in the dead fingers. He brought Wirikidor up into guard position and looked for the woman's other assailant.
That man had scrambled to his feet even as his comrade fell and had out his own sword now. Valder watched him warily.
The thief looked down at his dead companion, then back at Valder. "I don't know how you did that, old man," he said. "I guess you surprised him. I'm ready for you, though; you won't take me by surprise. Maybe you're better than you look, but you're still old and weak and slow."
Valder forced a grin. "I've killed fourscore better men than you, fool; run while you can."
"So you can hit me from behind, perhaps? No, I've a friend's death to avenge and avenge it I will!" With that, h
e lunged forward, sword extended.
Valder stepped back, suddenly realizing just how much trouble he was in as the other's blade slid past his neck; he was old and slow, just as the man had said, and yes, without Wirikidor's aid, he was almost defenseless. The sword sagged in his grip as he flailed helplessly, trying to fend off the next attack. He wouldn't die—the curse assured that—but it looked to him very much as if he were about to be badly cut up, with eighteen men yet to kill. He saw the blade approaching and knew that his parry would not stop it before it drew blood and weakened him further; he tried to duck and felt himself losing his balance.
Then everything vanished in a sudden violent blaze of intense golden light; he staggered and fell, dazed, to the street.
He lay there for a long moment on his back, staring up at the polychrome aftereffects of the flash, streaks and stars of every color superimposed on the smoke-stained night sky of the city; then a shadow slid over him.
"Are you all right?" a woman's voice asked.
"I'm not sure," he managed to reply.
"Can you move?"
Valder tried and discovered he could; he forced himself up on his elbows. "I think so. What happened to the man I was fighting?"
The woman gestured. "I took care of him."
Valder sat up and looked where she indicated, but could distinguish nothing but a vague black shape. "I don't understand," he said.
"Here, let me give you some more light." She gestured again, this time not pointing at anything, but making a curious pass in mid-air with her hand. A white glow appeared in her palm, lighting the whole alleyway.
The Misenchanted Sword Page 25
