Ash and Ambition

by Ari Marmell

  More sniggers. Nycolos ignored them and continued walking. Smim followed, but as he passed, he couldn’t help but comment, “As he clearly hasn’t seen one human worth modeling himself after, perhaps one ought not blame him if he’s elected to give being a goblin a try.”

  Consternation rippled through the small crowd, a low grumble spreading like a spilled chamber pot, as drunken minds processed the insult. They pursued, gathering angrily around the pariah knight and his goblin cohort.

  “Filthy beast!” Tivador spat. “You’ve no right even to be here, much less to eat so well. That food was prepared for Kirresci, for people, not animals!”

  Had he held himself to words alone, he would have been just fine. Had he chosen to knock the bowls from Smim’s grasp, still he would probably have suffered no consequences. In his slightly pickled fury, however, he darted ahead and wildly smacked aside the plates Nycolos had carried, sending boar and juices spraying over the walls, the carpet, and the unwashed and sullen baronet himself.

  Nycolos never could remember snapping, that endless instant where rage and humiliation overwhelmed the near fugue through which he’d trudged for days.

  He saw the world through a sheet of hot white, illuminating the stone and the humans around him more brightly than any torch. He felt flesh giving beneath his knuckles, twisting under his fingertips; lifted men without effort to send them hurtling along the corridor, cracked bones in his grip, pried several dislocated teeth from the meat of his hand.

  Shouts and screams, impacts and footsteps, echoed in his ears, and he failed to recognize that he was in the midst of them, even adding to them. Only a single voice, shrill and inhuman, uttered slow, calming sounds amidst the incomprehensible cries, but he could not, initially, make them out.

  “Master… Master… Sir Nycolos… Master…”

  And then, far, far more softly, so that it was nearly lost in the chaos even to his preternatural hearing, “Tzavalantzaval…”

  Nycolos’s vision gradually cleared. Sir Tivador and his compatriots lay or crouched throughout the hall. Many were curled in tight balls around this injury or that, while others faced him with bloodied jaws, swelling features—and half-naked blades. None were armored or as fully armed as they might have been on duty, but light sabres and the occasional arming sword or heavy dagger would prove deadly enough. None had fully drawn steel, as of yet, but only because Nycolos had halted his own advance.

  And there was a peculiar weight dangling from his fists.

  Smim. The goblin gazed calmly at him, despite the fact that Nycolos’s talons had ripped through his tunic and drawn shallow furrows of blood on his chest, holding him aloft.

  Talons? He had no recollection of sprouting talons. And he realized, with a start, that it was only because Smim blocked their view that the others hadn’t spotted them.

  Carefully he put the goblin down, transforming his fingers back to human with a moment’s effort. “Thank you,” he mumbled gracelessly.

  “You’re welcome, Master. I couldn’t allow you to kill them—”

  “You. Couldn’t allow?”

  Smim winced, clearly aware it had been the wrong thing to say. “Poor choice of words, Master. What I mean is—”

  “You do not allow me to do anything, Smim!”

  “I know. I meant—”

  “Besides, what’s the difference? What matter if they know that—”

  “You’re distraught, Master!” Smim must have been desperate, if he dared interrupt when Nycolos was already irritated. Then, again more softly, “There are still good reasons for keeping your secrets. Besides, I’ve developed a hypothesis as to why you’ve been, well, behaving as you have. You—”

  Nycolos shoved him away in disgust, glaring equally at him and the watching—and often moaning—knights. “You’re so concerned with my behavior, are you? These ladies and gentlemen seem to share your concerns. Why don’t you talk it over with them?”

  He marched through the thick of them, slowly, hoping somebody would attack or try to stop him. When nobody did, he turned the nearest corner without looking back and made for the doors, determined to leave all of this—the knights, the court, Oztyerva, even Smim—behind.

  ___

  He wandered without destination or purpose through the streets of Talocsa, just another tiny segment of first this crowd, then that one. The entire world danced slowly about him, or so it seemed: the people to every side; crisp dead leaves and the hems of kaftans, coats, and skirts below; the lowering autumn clouds, leaning listlessly on the minarets and flagpoles above. Nycolos ignored them all, and the leaves and clouds, at least, politely did him the same courtesy in return.

  His fellow pedestrians were often another matter altogether.

  Oh, many paid him no mind, seeing—if they noticed him at all—just another passerby, perhaps a holiday reveler or one of the many citizens who, for reasons of obligation or necessity, could not afford to take the day away from his labors. Quite a few others, however, couldn’t help but note the rich cut and fabrics of his wardrobe, marking him as the upper class. Of course, as soon as he drew even remotely near, his overall slovenly appearance, unshaven and unwashed whiskers, and the rank stench of those clothes—which was grotesquely mixed with, and not remotely masked by, the fresher odor of pork greases and gravies—conflicted wildly with that initial impression. Thus did the people who took any notice of him swiftly draw away in confusion and distaste, all of which suited Nycolos’s mood well enough.

  Still, the open revulsion and accompanying whispers grew to irritate him. They were unwanted attention, and an even more unwanted reminder of the universal disdain under which he’d been crushed throughout Oztyerva Palace. Without conscious intent, then, and despite lacking any real sense of the city’s layout, Nycolos made his way toward poorer, rougher parts of town by moving in the direction of least overt disapproval.

  The clothes grew less refined, more elegant fabrics giving way to meanly dyed wools and worn leathers, their colors drab compared to what had come before. Gaps appeared in the paving stones, and entire side streets were nothing but dirt. The buildings grew smaller, more dilapidated, the whitewash filthy and peeling where it wasn’t entirely absent. More and more of the passersby were laborers, and those who were celebrants appeared more frequently drunk, reeking of cheap wines and beers. The ubiquitous stench of refuse left to rot, chamber pots emptied from upper story windows, and unwashed laundry permeated the wood, the earth, the people, so that even the fiercest storms could never wash it away.

  And Nycolos, as he’d hoped, looked—and smelled—far less out of place, though his garb still attracted the occasional wandering glance.

  Perhaps, despite his filth, someone would take those clothes as impetus to try to rob him. Wouldn’t that be fun? He found himself rather looking forward to the prospect.

  When he did find some trouble—after hours of random wandering, as the sun grew sleepy and faint, and the wind began spreading flower petals of a frosty chill across the path of the coming night—it wasn’t actually directed his way.

  The thumps and cries, rattles and threats, emerged from a gap between two slumping, wood-walled shops that would have had to raise its standing in the world to qualify as an alleyway. Almost too narrow to traverse without turning sideways, it led, to judge by the echoes and the shadows visible beyond, into a small and otherwise isolated courtyard.

  Enticed by no genuine concern or even much curiosity, but simple boredom, Nycolos went to take a look. He squeezed through the opening, stepping over a splintered crate and a puddle of half-dried mud that smelled to have been formed of drunkards’ urine rather than water.

  The courtyard, too, was full of garbage and other refuse. Broken barrels, old pans, shattered bottles, and heaps of rot that had once probably been the leftovers of various butchered cuts of meat lay strewn about, creating a repulsive and possibly even injurious carpet. Crows and other scavengers squawked overhead, circling low in the overcast sky or perched ato
p nearby buildings, watching and waiting that they might return to their meals.

  Meals they’d abandoned because various portions of said garbage were trying to kill one another.

  Nycolos couldn’t begin to guess what the grudge might have been about. He watched, leaning against a filth-encrusted wall, as five greasy, sloppily dressed men cursed, laughed, and spat while pounding a sixth bloody. Even though he could see that at least a couple of them wore long knives under their coats, none had drawn them. Instead they wielded rusty chains, broken boards, or—in one instance—a jagged rock. He might have thought that they were only looking to beat their victim, rather than kill him, except that the blows they landed were brutal, savage.

  Oh, they meant to kill. They just meant for it to take some time.

  The sixth man, who didn’t look too different save for the fresh blood staining his beard and his clothes, writhed on the ground, arms wrapped over his head. His own weapon, a sharply curved knife, lay in a heap of filthy rags just beyond his reach. Not, at this stage, that it would do him any good even if he could reach it.

  Nycolos observed for a moment, turned to go back the way he’d come, and stopped. He had no business here, no reason to care what was happening or why. But… He burned within, roiling with fury and frustration. Hadn’t he just been hoping for an excuse to lash out? Why shouldn’t this suffice just as well as if the attack had been launched against him personally?

  Furthermore, something about the beating, about the deliberate cruelty of the thugs with their clubs and chains, reminded him of the overseers in the Norbenus mines. It was not a memory, or a comparison, likely to endear these men to him.

  Grinning broadly and rolling his shoulders, once more letting his innate magics flow through him to firm up flesh and strengthen his limbs, Nycolos stepped openly into the courtyard.

  The nearest brigand turned his way, mouth opening—no doubt to utter some threat, some command to leave and to forget what he’d seen. Nycolos never knew, because he gave the fool no chance to speak.

  A massive leap launched him across the courtyard, over a dozen feet from a standing start. Detritus shattered and mud spattered beneath his boots as he landed, nose to nose with the astonished thug. The knight’s fist struck with the force of a battering ram, fragmenting ribs and driving pieces of bone deep into the softer organs beneath. Gasping, choking as one lung grew fat and bloated with blood while the other deflated, the first of Nycolos’s prey dropped to a thrashing heap.

  The dying man’s nearest companions charged, one swinging his makeshift club, the other dropping his chain to scrabble for the dagger at his belt. Nycolos stepped in, blindingly fast, and caught the wooden board halfway in its arc toward his head. Wood crunched in his grip. With his other hand he stabbed outward, stiff-fingered, snapping the weapon in two, and then plunged the broken end deep into his attacker’s shoulder. The man toppled, shrieking wordlessly as he clutched at the thing now protruding from his flesh.

  The third brigand’s dagger came in low, thrusting at Nycolos’s stomach. He should have been able to dodge aside, more than fast enough to avoid the strike, but his anger and the sheer exultation of letting loose had him preoccupied, less alert than he ought to be.

  It didn’t matter.

  He hadn’t strengthened his skin to the point of sprouting scales, so it wasn’t the armor it could be. It was tough enough, however, that, combined with his last-second twist, the blade merely traced a shallow line of blood through fabric and filth, rather than plunging into his guts.

  Nycolos pounced, almost cat-like, hands landing on his attacker’s chest with his full weight behind them. Both went down, hard, but after a series of sharp cracks, only one returned to his feet.

  The remaining three men—two standing, corpse-white and shaking, the third peering up through a mask of drying blood—seemed paralyzed. Nycolos could have walked over and slaughtered them with no more effort than pulling a book or a dish off a waiting shelf.

  But what fun was that?

  “Run.”

  The upright pair obeyed. Not wholly mindless from shock and terror, they broke in opposite directions around the courtyard, clearly thinking that, in the time it took their hideous assailant to chase down and maul one of them, the other might escape into Talocsa’s busy streets.

  Nycolos laughed, long and loud; crouched and sprang backwards, a leap more impossible even than the one that had started the fray.

  He all but soared, spreading his hands and allowing reptilian talons to sprout from his fingertips. He struck the wall beside the narrow alleyway, nearly fifteen feet above the ground, and lodged there, claws dug in behind him so that he clung to the building like some impossible lizard.

  The faster of the two thugs, who had nearly made it to the mouth of the alley, froze beneath him, staring upward. The sound he made was low, primal, somewhere between a sob and hysterical laughter.

  Withdrawing his grip and shifting his fingers back to human, Nycolos dropped before him, hefted him with both hands around the man’s neck, and hurled him into the path of the other fleeing brigand. Both went down in a clatter of limbs, and Nycolos dove after them.

  Again he was the only one to rise.

  He looked long and hard at the injured survivor, the victim of the other five, wondered if it would be wiser to kill him, too, then shrugged. Let the man talk. What did it matter? He started to turn away.

  “Thank… thank you, stranger.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Name’s Xi… Xilmos.”

  It wasn’t the introduction that arrested Nycolos’s exit, but the fact that the man had forced himself not merely to rise, but to stagger near enough to stretch out his hand. That, after what he’d just seen, was an act of courage if nothing else.

  Imitating the human greetings he’d seen, Nycolos clasped Xilmos’s forearm. “Nycos.” He’d never grown used to that shortened version of the name he’d adopted, but he wanted no chance, however small, of being recognized for who he was. Or rather, who he had recently pretended to be.

  “I’m not sure what I saw back there, Nycos, but I owe you. They’d have killed me, and not clean.”

  “So I noticed.” Then, as he had nothing better to say, “What was their grudge with you?”

  “Those bastards were Fletcher Street Wolves. I’m White Knife.” He seemed to expect Nycolos to know what those names meant, so the disgraced knight just nodded.

  “They jumped me on the street, shoved me back here,” Xilmos continued. “If you hadn’t showed up—”

  “Yes, we’ve established that part already. Well, Xilmos, if that’s—”

  “Come with me.” The criminal—for Nycolos had put together that much, if nothing else—wiped away a gobbet of blood currently matting his thick mustache. “Let me introduce you to the guys. Maybe you want to work with us some? Fighter like you could turn this whole thing around for us, and I wager Samsa could more than make it worth your while.”

  Again he’d started to turn away, and again he halted. Why not? Oh, he didn’t see himself joining Xilmos’s little gaggle, but it was growing late. He’d exerted himself a lot today, his chest wound ached… It wouldn’t hurt to find a place to bed down for the night, take a fresh look at his options in the morning.

  “Very well, then, Xilmos, I’ll hear your Samsa out. Lead the way.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Well, Master Tzav—that is, Master Nycolos had really made a right steaming heap of mountain goat scat out of this whole situation, hadn’t he?

  Smim sat tucked against the cushions that formed one corner of the divan, long spindly arms wrapped about his knees. He managed somehow both to sulk and skulk while so seated, as only a goblin could, and had anyone in Oztyerva seen the bestial twist to his jaw, the jagged teeth bared in frustration or the jaundiced, homicidal slits through which he glared about the suite, they’d most certainly have killed him on the spot, the protection and parole of Sir Nycolos notwithstanding.

  He would, hone
stly, have almost welcomed the attempt. The snap of a tendon between his teeth or the spongy collapse of a windpipe beneath his deceptively powerful fingers might cheer him up.

  Right until someone shoved something sharp and cold and generally unpleasant through his belly, of course. Which might just happen anyway, if the master didn’t pull himself together and stop trying to make an enemy of every man, woman, and child in the palace.

  Nor did it help that Smim hadn’t the faintest notion of where the master had gone, or when—if—he might return.

  Gods of the deep, what a disaster.

  The goblin unfolded, almost uncoiled, from against the furniture and scuttled across the room toward the table. He found the various fruit brandies so popular among the humans of Kirresc to be the pinnacle of revolting, enough to bring bile to the back of his throat—give him well fermented cave lizard squeezings any day!—but just at this moment, the notion of getting blackout drunk was so enticing that he’d gladly choke down an entire decanter of the vile stuff.

  Master wasn’t here to object, and it wasn’t as if he’d anything better to—

  He twitched and froze, all but canted sideways, one shoulder tensed far higher than the other, at the sudden tapping on the chamber door.

  His first crazed thought—some might have called it paranoid, but as a goblin currently stuck dwelling within a hive of humans, paranoia was hardly unwise—was that his earlier worries had manifested, that they’d come to murder him while Nycolos was away. Just as swiftly, though, he calmed. Rather unlikely that such an endeavor would begin with a polite knock, and anyway, they shouldn’t yet be aware that Nycolos was missing. It wasn’t as though the man had spent a great deal of time in public lately.

  Just ignore it. They’ll go away.

  More tapping, more insistent than before.

  They’ll go. Any minute now.

  Tap tap.

  Go away!

  “Open this door!” Margravine Mariscal somehow made herself heard through the heavy wood despite scarcely raising her voice above a whisper. “You open this door right this instant or I’ll have the guards break it down!”