Edge of Destiny (14 page)

“It was a problem with marketing, not design,” the asura said despondently. “A
shower
washer!”

“Excuse me—the
nearest gate
?”

The asura scowled. “Did Master Drup put you up to this? Is he taunting me again?”

“Come on,” Logan said to Caithe, taking her arm and leading her away.

The three companions strolled onward through the wonderland of strange goods—silken scarves, pewter chalices, clockwork toys, rundlets and hogsheads of ale, sheaves of spice, parchment, linens, fish, nails. Every needful thing and needless thing piled on tabletops beneath the luffing blue canvas. Here was a cart selling sausages and there a booth filled with blades. A stall selling ice cream stood beside a stall selling torture implements. And these varied wares were hawked by a varied group of merchants—humans and sylvari, charr and norn, asura and ogre.

“Why aren’t they
killing
each other?” Rytlock wondered sourly.

“That’s Lion’s Arch for you. Live and let live,” replied Logan. “Just don’t mention the E-word.”

“What E-word?”

“The place I was leading a caravan to. The place you wish didn’t exist.”

Rytlock hawked and spit. “
That
E-word.”

“I don’t feel well,” Caithe murmured, leaning against Logan.

He caught her. “You look white.”

“That’s her color.”

“All except your neck. There are little black lines—”

“I’m fine,” Caithe interrupted, straightening. “Just a little out of breath.”

Logan guided her to a half-wall out of the traffic of the main road and helped her sit. “Here. Just take a moment.”

Caithe nodded, staring emptily ahead.

“What is it?” Rytlock rumbled.

Caithe shook her head weakly. “All these lives—all intersecting.”

“Just ignore them,” Logan advised. “You can be alone in a big city. Loneliest place in the world.”

“That young man there.” Caithe pointed to a teenage boy leaning sullenly beside a set of wooden stairs.

“Yeah? What
about
him?” Rytlock asked.

“He’s trying to get up the courage to go upstairs and knock on the door and see if the girl is home.”

The man and the charr looked at the nondescript kid, long hair veiling his eyes. Rytlock said, “How could you possibly know that?”

Caithe stared at them, amazed. “Don’t you see the rose behind him?”

As she pointed it out, the flower seemed obvious.

“Good luck to him,” Logan said.

“He needs more than luck. Look in the window.” Caithe pointed to the head of the stairs, where a curtain waved in the breeze.

Rytlock stared. “So what? A curtain.”

“See the hand on the sill beneath the curtain? The young man’s hand?”

“What about it?”

“Why would a curtain be drawn at this time of day? And why would a young man be sitting beside it, watching another young man in the street?”

Rytlock’s jaw dropped. “Seriously? Is this what you do? You watch, put things together, figure them out?”

“That man in the marketplace,” Caithe said, nodding toward a swaggering fellow in a red greatcoat and black boots, “he’s pretending to be a pirate for fear that he will be robbed, and the man beside him in the sackcloth shirt is pretending not to be a pirate so that he can pick his pocket.”

“How could you possibly—,” Rytlock began, but broke off as the man in sackcloth slid his hand, branded with the pirate’s
P,
into the other man’s waistcoat. “Impressive.”

“This could be good,” Logan said. “This could be very good.”

“This could be bad,” Caithe echoed. “Very bad.”

“What?” her comrades chorused, but Caithe was gone.

“Where did she—?” Rytlock began.

Logan pointed. “Up there!” She was about a block ahead of them, her lithe figure slipping easily through the jostling throng. Logan strode out after her, dodging through the steady flow of traffic. “Excuse me. Pardon me. Look out!”

Rytlock followed, his scowl clearing the way—that is, until another charr approached. The two locked eyes and traded fuming expressions as they marched into each other. They crashed like a pair of bulls, horns clacking and shoulders shoving.

“Out of my way,” Rytlock thundered, hurling the other charr aside.

The other staggered a moment, dug his claws in, and drew a sword. “Says who?”

Sohothin leaped up, and Rytlock smiled. “Says he.”

The fool eyed the epic blade, clamped his teeth together, and swung his own sword.

Sohothin cracked through the fool’s weapon, cutting it in half and dropping the tip in the dirt.

The attacker stared down at his suddenly short sword, turned, and ran.

Rytlock humphed. He now had an open lane, especially since Sohothin still flamed in his grip. He strode down the vacated street between buildings fashioned of boats, heading toward a large circular theater in timber and plaster. Judging from the roar of the crowd, a show was going on within—a show that had drawn Caithe and Logan. Striding up to them, Rytlock sheathed his sword and said, “What is it?”

Caithe turned to him, eyes wide. “An atrocity.”

“Bearbaiting,” Logan said ruefully.

“Bear what?” Rytlock craned to peer through the archway into the triple-decked theater within.

A circling throng surrounded a patch of sand where a grizzly bear stood on its hind legs. A spiked collar was cinched around its neck, and a chain bound it to a stout post. Within its black coat ran rivulets of blood.

The same blood painted a spiked mace in the hand of a muscular brute. The man wore a grimacing grin and breathed excitedly as he circled just outside the reach of the bear’s claws. “Want this? Want this?” the man asked, swiping the mace at the creature.

The bear roared and batted the weapon away. The crowd, their enthusiasm strengthened by the rows of bottles along the walls, roared back.

The man spun about, swinging the mace in a full arc and bringing it back to smash the bear’s face. Spikes pierced the muzzle and cracked fangs. The bear reeled back, blood spraying from its jowls. A mad cheer rang from the crowd as the beast staggered against the post and almost fell.

But it didn’t fall. Someone was holding it up with slender arms.

“I will stand with you, brother,” Caithe said.

The crowd’s bloodthirsty cheer faltered.

At the back of the crowd, Rytlock wondered, “How’d she get up there?”

“She’s going to get herself killed,” Logan said, pressing forward.

The bear could have bitten her throat or torn out her stomach, but it didn’t. It seemed to know by touch that she was a friend.

The man with the mace thought otherwise. “Get away! I paid for five licks, and I’ll get them.”

“Yes, you will,” Caithe replied, drawing her white stiletto and spinning it before her.

The man eyed the dagger and then his gory mace. He cocked a grin. “Seems you got a problem with reach, girl.” He swung the mace at her head.

Caithe ducked, the spiked ball scraping along her shoulder. Lunging, she rammed her dagger into the man’s hand and split his middle finger from his ring finger. Blood gushed, and the mace tumbled to the sand.

The man staggered back, cradling his bleeding hand. “She stabbed me! Get her!”

Six of the man’s mates leaped over the half-wall that kept back the crowd. Swords rose from scabbards and cudgels from belts. The men grinned, and the crowd cheered.

Until Logan and Rytlock stepped up beside their friend.

Caithe smiled. “You love bears?”

Rytlock scowled. “I hate bullies.”

“I thought you hated sylvari.”

“I hate bullies more.”

Logan muttered, “There’s six of them and three of us.”

“Hardly fair,” Rytlock agreed, “for them.”

One of the thugs snapped a whip, which lashed around Rytlock’s neck. He reared back, yanked the man off his feet and into the air, and head-butted him. The man crumpled in a heap at the charr’s feet.

“Now there’s five.”

A thug swung his sword at Logan. He bashed the blade down, stepped on the end, and smashed his hammer into the man’s shoulder. The thug staggered sideways into one of his comrades. Both men spilled to the ground.

Meanwhile, Caithe deftly danced away from a morning star. The man who wielded it shrieked in frustration and swung at her face. Caithe dodged back and jabbed her dagger into the morning star’s chains, fouling them. She wrenched the weapon from the man’s hand and grabbed his throat. “You’ll be getting sleepy,” she warned as he went limp in her grip. She dropped him to the ground.

Beside the man fell two smoldering clubs, shorn off by Sohothin. The men who had held them moments before turned to run, but Rytlock kicked one into the other, and they crashed together to the ground.

“Anyone else?” the charr roared. “We got licks for all of you!”

The crowd stared back in terrified silence.

“Well, then, how about this?” Rytlock rammed Sohothin into the chain that bound the bear to the pole. Twisting, the charr shattered the chain, and the tormented grizzly was loose.

The onetime bravado of the crowd melted to terror. Screaming, they climbed over each other to get out the gate. The bear charged along the back of the crowd, snapping at them.

“We have to make sure he gets out of the city alive,” Caithe said.

Rytlock’s jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“What’s a grizzly going to do in a city?”

Rytlock watched the bear swipe at screaming spectators. “He knows exactly what to do.”

“He’s our responsibility, now,” Caithe said.

The charr’s claws slashed that idea from the air. “I’m not responsible for anybody but myself. I’m going to find a gate to the Black Citadel.”

Logan blocked his path. “About that gate—”

“What!” Rytlock roared.

“You can go through it, but you can’t take Rurik’s sword with you.”

“Here we go,” Rytlock said. Sohothin ripped through the air before Logan. “Just try to stop me.”

Logan flung out his hands, and a blue ball of energy deflected the blade. Wreathed in flame, the legendary blade swung back behind Rytlock. Logan smiled tightly. “We’ll see who stops whom.”

Caithe shook her head, stepping back.

Rytlock spread his arms and let Sohothin blaze above him. “We fight to the death after all!”

Logan stood his ground. “I don’t want to kill you. I don’t even want to hurt you. But, you can’t take that sword with you.”

“It’s my sword!”

“It’s
Rurik’s
sword! A
human
sword! You stole it from us just like you stole
Ascalon.
”

“You’re deluded.”

Blue aura erupted from Logan’s hands and swarmed across his hammer. He hauled it overhead to smash into the sand. A profound boom shook the bearbaiting den, flinging Rytlock backward against the half-wall. He smashed it to the ground.

“What are you doing?” Caithe shouted at Logan.

Rytlock roared as he climbed to his feet. “What he’s doing is picking out his burial plot.” He charged, and Sohothin fell like lightning.

Logan rolled away, flinging sand from his heels. Some of the grains flared like tiny meteors in Sohothin’s mantle. The sword chopped through another half-wall, igniting years’ worth of spilled spirits. Flames raced around the pit and leaped to the stands.

Scrambling along the base of the wall, Logan climbed to his feet and spun about, panting. “You’re as slow as an ettin.”

“You’re as thick as one.” Rytlock charged again.

Logan’s hand painted an arc of blue energy in the air before him. He staggered back as Rytlock thudded into the magical shield.

Arcane energy sparked across the charr’s front, but Sohothin cleaved through. It swept down at Logan.

Logan lunged to one side as the sword sliced past him. He whirled around and smashed his hammer into Rytlock’s wrist.

“Ah!” the charr shouted.

The blow sent Sohothin flying through the air. It spun just over Caithe’s head and embedded in one of the support beams for the upper boxes. Flames clambered up the wood.

As Logan’s mystic shield dissipated, Rytlock charged through it, gripping his broken wrist. “You’ll pay for that!”

Logan struggled to get his hammer between him and the charr, but Rytlock backhanded the weapon. It flew through the air, crashing through the back wall of the theater. Rytlock then grabbed Logan and hoisted him in the air, ramming his back against the bearbaiting post.

“You have some nerve!” Rytlock roared.

Logan grabbed the chains hanging from the post and hurled them at Rytlock’s face. The charr winced back, and Logan wormed from his grip. Dropping to the ground, Logan scuttled free and ran for the burning pillar where Sohothin was embedded.

Rytlock followed, roaring.

The gathered crowd roared, too, delighted to see the man and the charr battle in the burning theater. It truly was burning: walls of flame sent smoke and sparks high into the air.

Logan reached the pillar and started to shimmy up.

“No, you don’t,” Rytlock growled. His good hand pried Logan off the beam, hurled him into nearby seats, and reached up to snag the sword.

“No,
you
don’t,” said another voice—a deep voice accompanied by a cutlass grip ramming into Rytlock’s throat.

He looked to see his attacker—a norn with a tanned, dreadlocked, piratical face. “Who’re you?”

“Magnus, one of the Captains of the Ship’s Council of Lion’s Arch, head of the Lionguard,” the man said grandiloquently.

“That’s a lot to remember,” Rytlock replied.

“Then just remember my nickname—the Bloody Handed.” Magnus nodded at the brute squad around him. “You, my destructive friend, are under arrest.”

Rytlock’s shoulders tensed, bracing for another fight.

“You have no weapon,” Magnus pointed out with a steely voice, “your wrist looks broken, and you’re more than surrounded.”

Rytlock shot a look over his shoulder, where more of the brute squad were dragging Logan from the wreck of seats. Two other Lionguard flanked Caithe.

“It’s off to jail for the three of you.”