Broken Crossroads (Knights of the Shadows Book 1) (4 page)

The Aeransman cursed. The cut was minor. He was used to fighting in armor, and even a leather jerkin would have turned that blow. His earlier feeling of vulnerability came back with a vengeance.

Although his lunge took his foes by surprise, one of them managed a thrust at his exposed right side. Conn wrenched his point free of the struggling guardsman and swept it down in a parry as he twisted away from his enemy's blade. He leapt back into his former defensive position.

Conn panted with exertion. Sweat ran down his forehead, stinging his eyes. His shoulder burned with pain and bled freely every time he moved his left arm. Three of his foes were down, but another entered from the stairs to join the remaining warriors.

Now, a pair of them stood out of his reach, held their shields before them and slashed and thrust with the tips of their blades, using their reach to advantage. Another lunge would be suicide. Whichever man he attacked, the other would get him.

He cursed again. The bastards were learning. As each man fell, the next changed tactics. Sooner or later, he would die unless Trilisean got that damn door open. Even then, how was he supposed to retreat through? The four men facing him would chase him and cut him down before he could cross the distance. Even a fighting retreat would allow two or three to face him in the wider area in front of the door.

He kept his guard tight, deflecting the probing points of his enemies. He had to make a counter, though. No defense is perfect, and the enemy must fear to press or they'd get him. He studied the two enemies facing him. A thought dawned.

As they jabbed at him, Conn slapped aside the blade of the man to his left with his shield, and stabbed into the attack of the man on the right — not at the body but at the approaching wrist. His sword point slid into the man's forearm and ripped its way towards the elbow, grating on bone. The man dropped his blade as its point scraped across the guard of Conn's sword. He stumbled back, cursing. His companion hacked at the mercenary's leg, but Conn retreated a step. The single guard paused before following a skilled swordsman into close quarters.

Conn grinned through a mask of perspiration. Four down. It was a long time since he'd fought so well, since he'd seen such worried expressions on the faces of an enemy. That was the highest tribute a warrior could receive. He expected to be cut down any second, but now he was fighting in a state of near perfection, sensing attacks and deflecting them before he consciously saw them.

“I'm in.” He heard from behind him. “Get ready.”

Suddenly, the hall was lit by a bright flash behind him. His foes were dazzled.

* * *

She looked Conn straight in the eye. “So, do you say? Ready to be rich? Just a slight chance at a horrible death.”

“Won’t be the first time I risked a horrible death. But it will be my first shot at being rich.” He shrugged. “I think I can give it a try. Partner.”

* * *

“Now! Move!”

He paused to crack the nearest guard on the head with his sword. The man dropped. The helm probably saved his life, Conn reflected, but he wouldn't follow for a while and his body would be an obstacle for his near blinded friends. He turned and sprang through the door.

The instant he was through, Trilisean slammed the door and slid the bolt home. Conn leaned on the wall, his chest heaving.

“How much of that blood is yours?” she asked, her expression serious.

“Just a scratch on the shoulder,” he panted. “I’m fine.”

She tore the gash in his shirt open wider and placed a padded cloth on the wound. It stung.

“It's treated with a powder,” she explained. “It will fight any fever in the wound and help the blood clot. Another useful item from my friend the apothecary. Press on it for a moment.”

“My thanks,” he gasped. “And the flash of light? From the same friend?”

“Yes, but that's an easy one.”

Conn set down his sword and held the dressing. She tore a strip from the ruined left sleeve of his tunic and bound the cloth in place.

“Now, do you know what you're here after?”

“I do. And where it is,” she smiled.

Conn studied the room as she stooped down in front of a small chest. The chamber was small, perhaps five feet on a side, and nearly empty. There were a few wooden boxes stacked in a corner, and one small locked box which his companion was examining. Besides the door they had entered, there was only a wooden trap door in the floor, with an iron ring for a handle.

They heard pounding on the door behind them. Conn looked at it. It was thick, obviously strong, and the bolt was holding. He was glad she hadn't damaged the lock when she opened it. He kept an eye on it in case the guards had a key.

“I assume we leave by the floor.”

“Exactly,” she said somewhat distantly, turning the small chest in her hands.

“Why not come in that way?”

“It leads out to one of the caves by the harbor. Paisleigh is a smuggler as well as a slaver. I don't know which cave. When we follow it out, it won't be hard to find our way back to the city, but I wouldn't know where to start from on that end. Aha!” She turned to him, pulled her scarf over her nose and mouth. “Cover your face.”

She fiddled with the box, then slid her pick into the keyhole, turned the chest at an angle and twisted the pick.

Conn heard a faint click. A puff of dust spurted from a carving on the box's corner, toward the wall.

“Nice try,” she said. He could see the smile in her eyes, even though the rest of her face was hidden. “But not good enough.” She opened the lid and took out a large blue stone.

He whistled. “Must be worth quite a bit.”

“More than you'd think,” she replied, dropping it into her pouch. “If my client can be believed, there are memories sealed in this jewel. A skilled seer can read them. Or maybe not. They believe the story enough to pay more than market value. By the way, the dust should settle soon, but keep your face covered until we get out, just in case.”

Conn grasped the iron ring and raised his eyebrows. She nodded.

The trapdoor lifted smoothly and they descended a ladder to a rough stone passage. Surf sounded from the far end. Trilisean lowered her scarf and smiled. “Care for a walk along the beach?”

“Delighted,” he replied.

They hurried along the passage. It was fairly wide and mostly natural, although it appeared that it had been smoothed or widened in places. It descended gently. Light trickled from the far end.

After a short while, they saw the bright light of the moon reflected off the stone ahead.
The entrance must be around this final turn,
Conn thought gratefully.

They rounded the corner and saw the waves gently lapping the narrow strip of sand below the cliffs.

Stark against this backdrop were four men. One was tying off a boat, and three strode toward them with heavy bundles.

Both parties stopped in shock for a moment.

“Get them!” bellowed the man near the boat. He was dressed in the finery of a well-to-do merchant. The others dropped their burdens and reached for the weapons at their belts.

Just as there is a time for defense, thought Conn, there is a time for offense. He rushed the three, tearing his sword and dirk from their sheaths as he did so, shouting a battle cry.

He drove his left shoulder into the first man before the fellow could clear steel, then ripped his dirk across the man's body. With his sword he knocked aside the hatchet the second man held and hacked him across the skull. The third sailor had a club and a long knife ready. Conn rushed him, feigned a cut at his head, then whipped his blade around with a twist of the wrist and slashed the man's side open as he raised his club to guard his head.

Conn took three steps toward the last man, who raised an empty hand and shouted something.

Conn felt his muscles turn to water. His body ceased to obey him. He fell in mid stride, rolling down the passage. He felt the wound in his shoulder open on the rough stones as he slid to a halt just beyond the last man. He landed on his side, looking back up the passage. He could see the merchant's boots just a few feet away and Trilisean in the distance, her face white. Her hands were raised in plain view above her head.

“Now, then,” said a voice from above him. “You keep those hands where I can see them. Your friend here cut three of my men pretty bad just now. I may have to hire new guards. And you probably weren't doing any good back the way you came. He may make a decent slave, and I'll recoup some of my cost. I'll probably need to cut his tongue out to keep this night a secret, but that's no problem.”

Conn tried to move, but his body would not respond. His dirk lay just beyond his reach. It may as well have been on the moon. He couldn't even turn his head. He dreaded that this man would use his magic on Trilisean and he would have to watch, powerless to help.

“You, my dear,” the man continued, “would fetch a pretty penny. If you don't want to suffer, you'll cooperate. If not, we have ways of breaking the rebellious.”

Conn struggled, but could not even blink. He felt as if he would burst a blood vessel in frustration.

“What do you say, lassie? The easy way, or the hard one?”

“You leave me no choice.” She seemed to droop.

“Very goo–”

There was a flicker of movement and a knife appeared in Trilisean's hand. Her arm snapped down and she rolled forward like an acrobat, coming up to her knees with another dagger reversed for a throw.

There was no need. Conn heard the meaty
thwack
as her first throw hit home. The expensive boots toppled and the owner fell first to his knees, then flopped onto his side. At the edge of his vision, Conn could see the hilt of a dagger standing out of his throat, just above his breastbone. The slaver's expression was the same one he'd seen on the Jarving all those years ago.

Never underestimate your opponent,
he thought.

“Conn! Conn!” She was on her knees beside him, cradling his head. “Are you alright?”

He could feel control returning, first to his face and spreading to his body. He nodded weakly.

“Ahhmaahriigh',” he managed.

“Oh, thank Kerra,” she hugged him to her chest. He wished for a moment he had just a little more command of his muscles, but it was nice just the same.

Slowly he recovered enough to sit up.

“Wha' happen'?”

“That was Paisleigh,” she said. “He's the slaver whose house we just robbed. I didn't know he knew any magic. Never seen it really used like that, just herbal powders and such. He did something that took your will away, so you couldn't even move. I guess that's one way he controls his slaves. Oh,” she started. “Your shoulder's bleeding again.”

Conn studied the dead slaver while Trilisean rummaged for another bandage. It was an impressive throw. Right in the throat at twenty paces. He supposed that with an opponent who could do what this one could, the first shot had best count.

“Wonder what they were smuggling,” he said.

“I looked,” she replied. “I don't know. Just bags of some black powder. Must be valuable. Probably a narcotic, or something for the apothecaries. There are some long heavy boxes in the boat. Must be full of something heavy and metal. You can smell packing grease.”

“Odd,” he muttered. His legs seemed able to hold him now. “Wonder what he was up to. I guess we could use my late friend's axe and open the crates.”

“Why bother?” she asked. “I'm usually curious, but the sooner we get out of here, the better. Besides, the best treasure comes in wee sparkly packages, not made of iron in packing grease. Whatever it is, it's too heavy to lug back to town. You need to see a flesh tailor.”

“I've had worse,” he grinned. “But you're probably right about the chests.”

They started hiking along the shore, looking for a path up the cliffs that Conn could manage. He had no doubt she could scale them at any point. She nudged his good arm.

“Thank you for your help,” she said. “I couldn't have managed alone.”

“Thank you for that throw. I didn't like the idea of having my tongue cut out.”

“I’m sure the news would have broken hearts across the continent,” she smirked.

“It’s what I tell myself, anyway.”

“What do you plan to do now. Your half of this job will give you the money to travel most anywhere.” She looked into his eyes, waiting for the answer.

“That depends,” he answered with his most charming smile. “What's our next job, partner?”

The Slumbering Crystal

TRILISEAN DRIFTED THROUGH the marketplace crowd, as invisible as an attractive woman could be.

Stealth was not always slow, deliberate and cautious. Stealth was not being noticed.

The secret was to sense the currents of the crowd. Like the sea or the air, a crowd had mass and inertia and momentum, a flow as predictable to one trained in such things as the tides are to a ship's pilot. She moved with the crowd, adjusting her pace to its mood. Decisive, rapid, purposeful movement in a throng which browsed aimlessly would stick out.

She projected indifference. Moving casually from stall to packed stall, glancing over the gaudy heaps of bright silks, the delicate vials of scented oils, and the glittering offerings of the jewelry stalls. The right amount of interest was vital. Too much and the merchants would perk up like wolves scenting prey, too little and people would wonder why she were here. She needed to be simple background.

Most thieves knew that it was difficult to steal from merchants. Merchants are good at reading the intent of customers, and are very aware of their wares. What the best thieves knew, she thought with pride, was that it was difficult to steal near merchants. The mark must not notice, but neither could an observer, and no good merchant would fail to observe his clientele.

She had chosen her quarry with care. A fat, middle aged man, dressed in expensive and fashionable silks and ruffles of a courtier with a strikingly beautiful – and far younger – woman on his arm. The man should be shopping in a market nearer to the wealthy side of town. He surely would be if the woman were his wife. The couple was a perfect target, Trilisean felt. Both would be distracted, she by the gifts being lavished upon her, and he by the youth and vibrance of his companion.

Trilisean also knew that the best way to catch prey was not to follow, but to be where the prey were headed. Observing the general direction of their progress, she guessed they were headed for one of the better jewelry stalls. She set a meandering course towards it.

She arrived just as the woman pointed out an expensive necklace. The man dug in his purse as he haggled with the merchant. Just a bit. Out of habit, Trilisean felt. He was clearly a man who felt he should haggle, but didn't want to appear stingy to his new partner. She smiled to herself as she saw the fat man struggle to play both the generous and adoring lover and the tough, savvy customer to two audiences in the same place.
He must be a courtier,
she thought.

The woman smiled at her escort as he accepted the jewelry from the seller. With an expression of carefully practiced innocence, she brushed back her blonde ringlets, opened her collar and tilted her chin up to him, the easier for him to fasten the piece around her neck. Coincidentally, the pose accentuated the swell of her young, pert breasts, and gave him an excellent vantage.

Trilisean was almost as grateful as the middle aged lover. Her prey's hands trembled with nervous energy as he draped the necklace over the soft white skin and struggled to fasten the clasp with chubby fingers. He had to lean close and put his arms around her to work behind her neck. Trilisean noted his breathing accelerate.

She leaned toward the counter, brushing lightly against the wealthy man, gave a covetous glance at the necklace to stroke the ego of his companion, and examined a cheap amulet, lifting it with her left hand. The merchant, who, like all good merchants, seemed to have nerve endings connected to every piece of his stock, diverted a fraction of attention to the piece Trilisean turned over, examining it with the lip-biting concentration of one whose aspirations outreach her funds, and is all too conscious of the fact.

The stage set, all the pieces in play where she wanted, she made her move. The courtier hadn't noticed the brush of her hip against him, which both served as a final test of his awareness and pushed open the lips of his purse. Her slender, dextrous right hand slid into the purse, seizing coins, sorting them for value by touch long honed for the purpose, and drew them forth, clutching them separately between her fingers to keep them from jingling. She then put the hand, much less subtly, into her own pouch.

“How much is this?” she asked the merchant, dropping three gold crowns and a heavy, five mark silver coin into her purse.

“Ah, your eyes are not only beautiful, but are sharp for quality,” he replied. “Four marks. I should charge more, but seeing its beauty near yours is compensation enough for an old man.”

She gave him her best crestfallen look and started to put it down.

“Wait. I could let it go for three and sixpence,” he wheedled. “It's of the finest Redanyan craftsmanship. Pure silver from Thyta.”

Trilisean smiled to herself. The piece was at least half tin, made within a mile of where they stood. The forger had even gotten the Redanyan characters wrong. It should sell for a single silver mark, and that to the husband of an illiterate washerwoman, trying to buy forgiveness for a late drunken evening.

“It's so beautiful,” she lied, “but I just started a job here in the city. I can't spend more than two marks.”
Let him rob you,
she thought,
just not much.

The merchant gave an elaborate pantomime of inner struggle, during which the happy couple departed, the woman's head on the fat man's shoulder. With luck, he'd be too distracted to count his money any time soon. Eventually, the merchant, in an act of what he made sound like financial suicide for the simple pleasure of looking upon her, settled for two mark sixpence.

Trilisean counted out the money, selecting one silver mark and painstakingly counting out eighteen pennies as though each were a drop of her blood. She accepted the amulet on its leather thong with childlike delight and skipped off.

Sixty five marks for the outlay of two and a half,
she thought
. Not a bad haul.
She looked at the cheap amulet. It was pretty, if misspelled, and the metal was nice and shiny.

She slipped the cord over her head. The piece wasn't worth the effort of selling, but she decided to keep it as a trophy of the hunt.

* * *

Conn retreated a half step and parried the nobleman's sword thrust.

The younger man advanced quickly but not recklessly, following with a quick cut at Conn's head. The Aeransman fell back, parried and riposted with a thrust, but the noble deflected his blade and continued forward. Conn was impressed, the young man controlled his enthusiasm well and stayed focused. He kept his guard tight, and he varied his thrusts with short, rapid cuts with the tip of the weapon. The mercenary continued to concentrate on his defense and fell back, one step at a time, hoping for a mistake.

He spotted his chance as the young man overextended a lunge, then cocked his wrist back just a bit too far for a cut. Conn snapped his point forward.

The blunted tip of the practice blade cracked against the bony edge of the young man's wrist. He cried out and dropped his own blunted weapon as his hand spasmed in pain.

“Better, lad. Better.” Conn stepped forward and shook the man's good hand. “Just watch your guard. Keep your point toward your enemy and the quillons will protect your hand.” In truth the wrist was hard to hit and not very vital, so would be less of a target in battle, but that was the best way to reinforce the need to keep the guard tight. A few painful bruises taught better than hours of lecture. “Get cleaned up. We'll work with the long blades again next week.”

The young man saluted and left.

“How's his highness coming along?” asked Conn's young apprentice.

“Slowly but surely,” Conn answered. Of humble birth himself, he ignored the young man's derision of the customer. So long as it was out of earshot of paying customers, Conn was all for taking jabs at the nobility.

“What do you want to work on tonight?”

“Shortsword and shield?” asked Ioresh, hopefully.

“What the bloody hell for? That's only good for soldierin'. No money in that. Learn the long blades, you can get good coin off the nobs to teach their bairns how to duel.”

“You're teaching Bevar to be a soldier.”

Conn sighed. He motioned the young man to a table. He fetched two mugs, then filled them from the barrel in the corner.

“I've told you. I'm teaching him to be an officer. His family can buy him a commission.”

“I can enlist.”

“That you can. But that would be stupid.”

“You did.”

Conn took a deep drink. “Your point being?”

“Well– “

“Look. Here's the facts. If young Bevar becomes an officer, he gets a good shirt of mail and a decent blade from his dad. He has a whole rank of men between him and the enemy. He's got a horse to get away on, and he gets a share of plunder. A real share. If he wins a few battles, he may get a title and lands out of it. If he gets wounded and loses an arm or leg or eye, he'll return with loot and glory for his family, and be given some estate to oversee for his sacrifice. You join, being just another warm body, you get the scrapings of the barrel for gear, you get to march in the rain, sleep in the mud, stand sentry in the cold. You get to be the front line in a quilted gambeson stopping Jarving pikes. Your pay is low, your share of plunder lower. If you get crippled, you get to starve on the street, beggin' for spare farthings. Best you can hope for is to retire and, since you'll have no other skills to speak of, earn your bread instructing spoiled nobles and fat merchants with delusions how to fight duels. I'm offerin' you that now.”

The young man seemed unconvinced. He sullenly sipped at his beer. Conn saw the look in his eyes, the certainty he could win glory if given the chance.

“Look, lad, a dozen years in the Free Companies, and this,” he swept his free hand to indicate the room with its whitewashed walls, scuffed wooden floor, racks of weapons, masks and sweat stained padded jackets. “This is my Barony,” he finished with an ironic smirk.

* * *

Trilisean bought a pastry and ate it in the shade of an alley, watching the passing crowd. She felt pleased with her haul, but restless. Sixty five marks was a good day’s work. It would keep her fed and dry for a month, but jobs were scarce again. Picking pockets was high in risk and low in reward. She longed for another contract job.

She noticed a tall, thin man moving quickly through the crowd. She recognized him as Vaigh, a small time break and entry man. His clothes were tattered and disheveled, his eyes darted furtively, and he clutched his satchel closer to his body than seemed necessary.

All of which indicated to a job completed. He was clearly on his way to meet with a client and deliver his goods.

Trilisean was intrigued. He must have contacts she did not, and that was state of affairs that simply could not be allowed to stand. She watched him proceed past her, and when she was confident he hadn't spotted her, she began to follow.

Holding the remains of her pastry in her teeth, she sprang to a low windowsill on one side of the alley, kicked off to the other side, then finding two toeholds through her soft boots, pushed off again to catch the edge of the opposite roof and swing up.

She sat for a moment, watching Vaigh's progress and munching her pastry. Years of poverty had ingrained in her an almost unconscious inability to throw away good food.

She decided to follow via rooftop for several reasons. First, she was too short to have any hope of keeping sight of her quarry through the crowd. Second, she had learned that, in Laimrig at least, people didn't look up. People looked down to avoid treading on broken cobbles or offal or the insensate forms of the downtrodden. They looked furtively from side to side, avoiding the eyes of their fellows while scanning for threats. They bent with the weariness of their bleak struggle for existence. Mostly, they avoided any view of the Sollych.

Whatever the reason, she used the fact to her advantage. It was easy, if one were light of foot and of frame, to travel by rooftop across the city. Wide streets or tall buildings could be problems, but wide streets were few in this neighborhood, and most buildings were three hunched stories, not daring to strive higher.

She also had the luxury of not having to struggle through obstacles or crowds, as did Vaigh. She could keep pace and still have time to speculate on his destination. A growing suspicion as to where that might be was confirmed when he entered the shop of Fayl, known widely as a pawnbroker and narrowly as a fence.

She paused for a moment, a small frown creasing her forehead. This same fence had told her there were no contract jobs at the moment. Unless Vaigh had decided to spontaneously steal a large, bulky, difficult to conceal and likely easy to recognize object, it would seem that Fayl had lied to her. The fact that he wasn't honest with her bothered Trilisean only a little. She didn't expect honesty in her profession. The fact that she missed it bothered her a great deal.

She dropped lightly into an abandoned alley. She brushed herself off, straightened her cloak and walked around to the front of the shop. She waited for a moment then glided in behind another customer. She drifted among the shelves in the shadows near the back of the store while the other customers browsed. Vaigh stood impatiently near the counter, waiting for a chance to speak to Fayl alone.