Sworn in Steel (3 page)

I hoped.

I stepped over to the alcove, drew the long knife from my boot, and slipped into the small space as best I could. It was a tight fit, especially with Degan’s sword strapped to my back, but
I wasn’t in a position to complain.

I heard smaller things shifting and scuttling away as I invaded the gap. Something hard poked me in the side, while something soft ran up my shin before deciding to jump off at the knee. My
right leg and part of my hip were left sticking out into the alley.

I settled in and listened and wondered how Fowler and Scratch were faring. Whether they were even alive.

It had been an ugly fight, even by Kin standards. Scratch had dropped two of Petyr’s men at the outset, and Fowler another, but the odds never shifted in our favor. By the time I’d
driven one of the Cutters into the harbor, more of Petyr’s people had begun to arrive. Steel and strategy quickly gave way to fists and fury, with elbows and teeth and worse coming into play
in a vicious blur. When I finally managed to look up from the man who’d tried to lay my back open—I ended up pushing his eye into his head, along with four inches of my rapier’s
cross guard—it was to see Fowler riding the back of another Cutter, her legs wrapped around his waist as she plunged her dagger down and into his chest. Even as I watched, another woman began
to move to flank her, while a dozen yards away Scratch, his left side a study in blood, swung his sword like a scythe as he tried to fend off the three coves who were driving him backward toward a
stack of barrels.

There were too many Cutters: too many on the quay, and too many more on their way. Soggy Petyr owned this corner of Dirty Waters, and he was clearly willing to empty it out to take me down. If
we wanted to survive, we needed to fade.

And seeing as how they’d been sent after me in the first place . . .

I’d made noise when I left—a lot of it. I shouted, stomped my foot, banged my rapier against my dagger and yelled for Fowler and Scratch to run. Then, pausing long enough to gather a
dark glare from Fowler and a handful of not nearly so intimidating looks from the Cutters, I’d bolted.

Three of Petyr’s people had followed, three more had stayed behind. Not the numbers I’d been hoping for, but I wasn’t in a position to be picky. At least this way, Fowler and
Scratch would stand a chance of breaking free and taking to the back ways or rooftops. I hoped.

As it was, I’d heard an ominous yell and a splash as I ran up the street and ducked down an alley. The voice had sounded like Fowler’s, but between the distance and the sound of my
feet, it was hard to be certain. With luck, the sound had been her getting the better of her attacker and throwing them into the harbor, and not the other way around.

The crunch of brittle wood beneath shoe leather brought me back, and I drew farther into my hiding spot. A moment later, I watched as a figure came into view on the far edge of the garbage pile.
A second figure followed. The third man had stumbled over an inopportune stool I’d managed to tip into the road and hit his head on the corner of a horse trough. I knew this because
he’d been close enough to splash me with water—and worse—when he’d gone down. Damn, but that bastard had been fast.

Both of the remaining Cutters were moving slower now, casting their gazes across the shadows and listening for vanished sounds of my flight. I let them pass. Darkness or no, they’d be able
to make out the end of the alley in another dozen steps. Once they did, they’d come about and begin working their way back. And while my hiding spot was good, I didn’t doubt their
chances of finding me once they stopped worrying about the chase and instead began to search.

Which meant I needed to deal with them before they turned around.

I crouched down in my little crevice and counted their steps.

One . . . three . . . five . . .

Far enough.

I crept forward, using my night vision to avoid any bits of garbage or debris that might give me away. In my right hand, I could feel my grip on my knife turning clammy with sweat, and was
suddenly grateful for the wire wrapping on the handle. This was going to be hard enough without having to worry about the weapon slipping at the last moment.

In most instances, when you want to knife someone in an alley and aren’t worried about niceties, you simply step up behind him and do your best Hasty Tailor. But in this case, there were
two very good reasons I couldn’t stitch the Cutter a dozen times in half as many seconds. First, because he was wearing a doublet—and not just any doublet, but one that looked to have
originally been a nobleman’s formal piece. Oh, the fine trim and the buttons had all been pulled off and sold ages ago, but that wasn’t what I was worried about: no, even from here, I
could see that his secondhand brocade was still holding its shape, which meant it was lined and stiffened with either horsehair or wool. Both of those could easily turn, if not stop, a dagger
thrust. Not necessarily a problem if you had the right blade—say, a good stiletto, or even a finely tapered assassin’s spike—but I had neither. Instead, I was holding a broad,
leaf-shaped dagger better suited for street fights than delivering the steel cure.

And secondly, both men were Cutters. The name wasn’t an accident: they made their living swinging steel. If I took too long dusting one, the other would simply turn around and carve me up
before I had a chance to close the distance.

No, I needed to do this quiet, and by quiet I meant quick. A fast, definitive thrust to a place I could reach, even when the target was a good two heads taller then me. Say, the soft spot just
behind and below the right ear. Nice and quiet and clean. Which was exactly where I stabbed him.

Almost.

I don’t know if I made a noise or if he had a sudden premonition, but either way, he decided to turn around just as I was thrusting upward. It didn’t save him—it was too late
for that—but it did make for a sloppy job.

Maybe a deep-file Blade could have done it: could have stabbed, caught and lowered the body, all while moving on to the next man. I’ve seen professional assassins do more with less. But I
was no Blade, and in any case, I was in no shape to catch a falling cove taller than I was.

So I simply I let the bastard gasp and drop.

The other Cutter was already turning by the time I had my blade free of his friend. I didn’t hesitate: Screaming so as to not give myself time to think, I launched myself at him, hoping
like hell that my body was faster than his sword.

We collided with a mutual grunt. I felt my dagger bite. I drew it out, brought it forward, then out, then forward. Repeat. Repeat again. And again. And again. Until I finally realized that the
only thing holding him up was my arm, which I didn’t remember wrapping around his back.

I dropped my free arm and stepped away. The Cutter fell to the ground. This one, at least, hadn’t been wearing a doublet.

I bent over, put a bloody hand on my knee, and took a long, shaking breath. Everything hurt. Everything felt heavy.

Angels, but I was tired.

“Not bad,” said a voice from behind me.

I spun around, knife up, teeth bared.

Please,
I thought,
let there only be one of them. I can only handle one.

There were two.

The bigger—and by bigger, I mean vastly wider—of the two held up his hands. He had thick fingers and a curling black beard.

“Ho-ho. Easy, friend. We’re just here to watch.”

“And maybe applaud,” said the other. He was a taller, slimmer version of the first, with the same hooked nose and clipped accent. No beard.

Brothers?

I ran through all the local assassin teams I knew. The only pair of siblings who worked together regularly in Ildrecca were the Knuckle Brothers, and these weren’t them. Not that I’d
ever met the Knuckles, but it was well known on the street that Croy Knuckle preferred farthingales and wigs when he worked, and there wasn’t so much as a chemise between the two men before
me.

So, not the Knuckle Brothers.

Then, who?

“A bit of applause never goes unwanted,” agreed the heavier man. He eyed me up and down, then clapped his hands twice before rubbing them vigorously together. “Two less to
worry about, eh, Ezak?”

“The balance grows in our favor,” said the tall one.

“Only marginally, dear coz. Only marginally.”

“Balance?” I said.

The first man’s smile widened even farther. “Of vengeance, of course.”

I stared at the two men. They were dressed well, if used—that is to say, what they wore was of good, secondhand quality. The few patches I could see were all done carefully, with fabric
that had been selected to match the color or pattern of the original as closely as possible. There wasn’t a weapon visible between them, which disturbed me even more.

Not Cutters, then. Or at least, not Petyr’s, if the two lying on the ground were any indication.

I bent down slowly and wiped first my knife, and then my hand, on the shirt of the man at my feet. I didn’t take my eyes off the pair. Both men nodded approvingly.

“See, Ezak?” said the broader of the two. “Cocksure and wary at once. Oh, how I wish Ambrose were here to see this.”

“He could gain a fortnight’s worth of education in just a few minutes watching this,” agreed Ezak.

“And it’s not as if his
Capitan
doesn’t need the work.”

“’Neath dame Moon’s steely light, I prowl the byways of the night,’” recited Ezak. “Aye.”

Oh. Actors.

I relaxed and stood up.

“Glad I could adjust the balance for you,” I said, not knowing or caring what they meant. I moved to push past them. The last thing I needed was to get distracted by a pair of
Boardsmen.

A thick hand settled down on my shoulder. “Hold, now, friend,” said the first man. “I think we might be able to do each other a favor here.”

I stopped and stared at his hand. After a moment, it crept back from my doublet and returned to his side.

“I don’t need any favors,” I said. “And I’m not inclined to do any, either.”

“Of course, of course. Nothing’s free, after all. But I was merely thinking—”

“Don’t think.”

The thicker man smiled. “Yes, of course. You’re a busy man. I can see that.”

I was four paces along when he spoke to Ezak, his voice pitched perfectly to reach me.

“Mind you, coz,” he said, “I’d give a night’s share of the box to see how he makes it through the city gates looking like a slaughterhouse.”

“Especially with Soggy Petyr’s men scouring the streets between here and Low Harbor,” returned Ezak, his voice finding me with equal ease. “Too bad we weren’t the
only ones to see him run past the tavern. I fear some of the others back there might sell him out.”

“Aye, it’s a risk. But what am I saying? Any man who can handle two such desperate coves as these can find his way across the Waters and through the Gate.” He snapped his
fingers. “Why, it’s a good thing I didn’t offer a change of drapes and a sly walk into the city: I’d like as not have insulted the fellow!”

“Never insult a Kindred cousin,” advised Ezak.

“From your mouth to the Angels’ ears, dear coz.” I could almost hear the theatrical nod of his head.

I took two more steps before I came to a stop. I flexed my hand and felt the fingers stick against the palm from the Cutters’ blood; felt the throb of the splinters in my other hand; felt
my legs trembling beneath me whenever I stopped moving. I knew my pants were covered in a mixture of mud and blood, that my doublet and jerkin were stained with the same. I could strip to my shirt,
but I expected there would be some of my own along the back even then.

With a cloak, at night, I might be able to make it past a patrol of Rags like this, but in broad daylight, at a port gate? Forged passport or no, my appearance would get me a seat in the rattle
box—or worse. And I didn’t have time to wait for night again; not if I wanted to get ahead of the news, let alone start people looking for Fowler and Scratch.

As for Petyr’s men . . . that gauntlet didn’t exactly appeal.

I turned around. The broad man feigned surprise; Ezak smiled outright.

“Fine,” I said. “Get me clean drapes and a way into the city, and I’ll consider your proposal.”

“You’ll agree to the proposal, sir, or get nothing. No payment, no performance.”

I looked pointedly back the way I’d come. “If we stay here much longer, the only performance we’ll be doing is for more of Petyr’s people. Get me off the street and
something in my belly, and we can talk.”

“Done!” His beard split with a wide grin. “‘And so away, ’neath stars’ sparkling light, lest misfortune claim us in the night.’”

Actors. Angels help me.

We Kin are nothing if not a particular lot. Even before Isidore had formed us into a more-or-less cohesive body-criminal two centuries ago, the darker elements of the Empire
had been naming and defining themselves for ages. Every con, every tool, every target and kind of criminal has a specific term associated with it. Just as a carpenter or a fisherman has his jargon
of the trade, so we Kin have our
cant
: our gutter shorthand that lets us talk business quick and easy and on the sly. If you hear talk of a
Capper foisting
the
langrets
,
know that false dice are being palmed and switched about on the board. Should a fellow be referred to as a
boman Talker
, walk the other way before you are “talked” out of every
hawk you own.
Customs
are marks,
Magsmen
the cardsharps and professional nobles who prey on them, and a
cross drum
, the tavern where they meet to split their loot.

Actors, by contrast, fall somewhere between the well-lit world of the Lighters and the darker realm of the Kin. Entertainers to nobles and the mob alike, Boardsmen are nevertheless not part of
proper society: they have no set address, produce nothing tangible, live and work at odd hours and in strange ways. They are never who they seem onstage, speak in a strange, almost canting tongue
at times, and frequent both the highest and lowest circles at once. Most have, at one time or another, done Kindred work, be it something as simple as a bit of cardsharping or swag shifting
(traveling troupes can take on stolen goods as “props” in one town and sell them off in another without notice), or as involved as playing an extended part in a local gang’s
“production” of Barnard’s Law. But one thing is certain: Actors are not Kin proper. They can be charming and clever, demanding and egocentric, resourceful and restless, but above
all, they are unreliable.