Sham looked suitably impressed by Hirkin’s threats: that is, not at all. She snorted and smirked around her cut lip. She had learned early that the scent of fear only excited jackals and made them more vicious.
“I’ve heard about that one,” she commented with a jerk of her chin toward the guard that Hirkin had indicated. “Whisper has it that he can’t tie his own shoes without help. Throw me to him and youmight find the pieces of him afterward.”
She was expecting the next blow and turned her head with the strike, averting some of the force. They hadn’t searched her for weapons. Her dagger lay where she had thrown it, but several of her thieving tools were almost as sharp. Scarf’s grip wasn’t as secure as he thought it was—not when he held a wizard. She just had to pick the best time to make her move.
Watching the proceedings, Talbot, the lone Southwoodsman guard, ground his teeth. This was the fourth such beating this night. The first two he’d only heard about. The third one he’d come upon after the victim was already dead. It wasn’t that he had trouble with a beating or two in the name of justice, but this interrogation had nothing to do with the body lying forgotten in the corner of the room—no way a lad that size could rip a door out of the frame that way. Then too, the sight of the Easterners hitting a Southwoodsman brought back an anger he thought long buried.
This was the first steady job he’d found in five years, but he wasn’t going to watch Lord Hirkin beat a boy to death in order to keep it. With a silent apology to his wife, he turned and slipped out the door at a moment when the other’s attention was focused on the little thief.
Once in the silent street, Talbot headed for the nearest thoroughfare at a brisk trot with the vague idea of finding a few other of the Southwoodsman guards. Hirkin’s control wasn’t as strong with them, and he knew of several who wouldn’t mind a chance to kill a few Cybellians, be they guardsmen or nobles.
He toyed briefly with the idea of sending a message to the Shark, but dismissed it. The Shark generally avoided direct contact with the guardsmen; he would avenge the lad’s death, but Talbot hoped to save it instead. Vengeance wasn’t worth losing a steady job.
The nearest busy street was several blocks away. At this time of the night there were fewer people, but Purgatory was never quiet. Once on the busier thoroughfare, Talbot caught his breath and looked around for any of the guardsmen that he knew, but the only one he saw was Cybellian. He swore softly under his breath.
“Trouble?” asked a nearby voice in Southern.
Talbot whirled and found himself face to face with a war stallion. Prudently he backed out of range of the horse’s eager teeth, and tipped his head back to meet the eyes of a man who, by his dress, could only be the Reeve of Southwood.
“Yes, sir.” His voice was steady. He had been a hand on the ship that sailed under the old King’s son. He was used to people of high rank, and the Whisper had it that Lord Kerim wasn’t as high in the mouth as most of his breed. He’d even heard that the Reeve concerned himself withall of the people of Southwood, Easterners and natives alike.
For the first time Talbot felt some hope that he’d get through this night with his job intact. “If ye have a minute, messire, there’s a crime that ye might be interested in.”
“Indeed?” Lord Kerim sat back on his horse and waited for the other man to continue.
Talbot cleared his throat and took a chance. “There’s been a murder, sir. When we came upon the body, there was a boy there with it. Normal procedure, sir, would be having us take him in for questioning and trial. But Lord Hirkin showed up an’ is proceeding with the questioning. I don’t think he intends to hold the lad for trial, if you get my meaning.”
Kerim looked at him a moment before saying softly, “Lead on then, man, and I’ll take care of it.”
With Kerim at his back, Talbot made good speed back to the little cottage. At the entrance, Kerim kicked his feet free of the stirrups and swung one leg forward over the saddle before sliding off his horse. Dropping the reins on the ground to keep the stallion in place, he followed Talbot to the open doorway.
“IF YOU’RE Agood boy, there will be no need to meet the headsman just yet,” purred Lord Hirkin.
He had begun alternating his threats with outright bribery. Sham wasn’t sure why he was hunting the Shark, but it must be a matter of great importance to cause the urgency that he was demonstrating.
“I’d rather meet him than you,” she returned somewhat thickly from her abused lips. “At least he’ll smell of honest work. That’s better than what you’ll smell like when the Shark gets through with you. He doesn’t like people who poke around in his business—they usually end up feeding his brothers in the sea.”
Peripherally she was aware that someone had entered the room from the outside, but she assumed that it was only more guards.
This time the blow bloodied her nose. Eyes watering from the pain, Shamera knew that she needed to find a way to distract him soon. If she didn’t make her move before the pain got too bad, she wouldn’t be able to use her magic safely.
Obvious magic was out, unless her life was threatened. She wasn’t eager to be responsible for one of the periodic witch hunts that even now swept through Purgatory. But there were things that she could do that would even the odds a little.
She glanced at the door and froze, not even listening to Lord Hirkin’s verbal response to her insult. She was too busy staring at the Reeve of Southwood, standing inside the door just ahead of the Southwoodsman guard she’d seen leave a short time ago. When he noticed Sham’s intent stare, Hirkin swung around to see what had caught her attention.
“So,” said Lord Kerim, softly.
When he spoke the guards who had been looking at Sham turned to see the Reeve. She saw one of them take two quick steps forward and turn, standing shoulder to shoulder with the Southwoodsman just behind Lord Kerim—declaring silently where his loyalties lay.
“Lord Kerim, what brings you here?” asked Lord Hirkin.
“Did yousee the boy kill this man?” The Reeve glanced casually down at the still form on the floor.
“No, my lord,” answered Hirkin. “One of the neighbors heard screams and sent his son to the nearest guard station. I happened to be there and joined my men in the investigation of the disturbance. We arrived to find this boy next to the body of the old man.”
Sham wondered at the lack of respect in the young lord’s tones. She had heard that Kerim was more popular among the merchants and lower classes than he was among the nobles, but this was more than she’d expected.
Scarf released her and stepped away, his eyes on the conflict between Hirkin and the Reeve. Sham let herself collapse to her knees and wiped blood out of her right eye, using both movements to shift a sharp little prying tool into her hand. The tool was small, but heavy and relatively well-balanced—almost as good as a throwing knife.
The Reeve shook his head lightly at Hirkin and said in the same dangerously soft voice he had used previously, “I met the young lad out on the docks less than an hour ago. He could not have made it back here in time to inflict this kind of damage.”
“I had no way of knowing that,” defended Lord Hirkin. “It is my duty to question all obvious suspects in a crime. This may be a quieter section, but it is still Purgatory. They wouldn’t tell the truth to their own mother, let alone guardsmen, without a little persuasion.”
“Perhaps.” Kerim nodded thoughtfully. “But from what I overheard just now, it sounds as if you are not overly concerned with the young man’s guilt. Indeed a listener might be excused for believing you are not even concerned with this crime.”
“My lord . . .” Hirkin’s voiced died off when he met the Reeve’s eyes.
“Itsounds as if you are questioning him regarding an entirely different crime. The theft of a logbook perhaps?” Lord Kerim looked at Hirkin with gentle interest and smiled without humor. “I believe that I can help you with that crime as well. Someone left a very interesting present with my pers
onal servant just after dinner this evening.”
Hirkin whitened and slipped his hand down to grip the sword that hung from his belt.
Kerim shook his head with mock sadness. “I haven’t had time to go all the way through it, but someone was most helpful and marked certain entries. The most damaging entry, as far as your fate is concerned, was the kidnapping of Lord Tyber’s daughter and her subsequent sale to a slaver—he was not happy to hear that you were involved. I don’t know that I would return to the Castle if I were you.”
The Reeve’s lips widened into a smile that never touched his eyes and his voice softened further as he continued. “Many of these things had already come to my attention, but I lacked the evidence that someone so generously provided. In light of the fact that Lord Tyber would make certain that you do not live to face a trial, I have already passed sentence with the consent of the council. You are banished from Southwood.”
Hirkin’s face whitened with rage. “Youwould banish me? I am the second son of the Lord of the Marshlands! Our oldest title goes back eight hundred years. You arenothing ! Do you hear me? Nothing but the bastard son of a high-bred whore.”
Kerim shook his head, managing to look regretful as he drew his sword from the sheath on his back. His voice abruptly iced over as he said, “High-bred whore she might be, but it is not your judgment to give. I cry challenge.”
The sight of the Reeve’s sword distracted Sham momentarily. She had heard that the Leopard fought with a blue sword, but she had assumed that it was painted blue—a custom that was fairly prevalent among the Easterners.
Instead it wasblued as was sometimes done with steel intended for decorative use. She’d never heard of true bluing done on the scale of the Reeve’s massive blade. A lesser process was occasionally used to prevent rust on swords, but the blades came out more black than blue.
The Reeve’s sword was a dark indigo that glittered evilly in the dim light of the little cottage. It was edged in silver where the bluing had been honed away. Thin marks where other blades had marred the finish bore mute testimony that this was no ceremonial tool but an instrument of death.
Hirkin smiled and drew his own sword. “You make this too easy, my lord Reeve. Once you might have bested me, but I hear that two days out of three you can’t even lift that sword. You have no one to help you here—these are my men.”
Apparently he didn’t count Sham, who was definitely opposed to Hirkin—but she was surprised that he didn’t notice that two of his guardsmen were also backing the Reeve, leaving only Scarf and the cadaver still loyal.
Kerim smiled gently. “The order of banishment has already been listed in the temple and with the council. My death will not nullify that.” He twisted the sword around in a shimmering curtain of lethal sharpness, then smiled ferally and said, “We are in luck, it also appears that this is the one day of three I am able to fight.”
Apparently tiring of the posturing, Hirkin growled abruptly and sprang at Kerim, sweeping his sword low and hard. Without visible effort, Kerim caught the smaller blade on his own and turned it aside, destroying a table that stood against the wall.
As Sham winced away from the destruction, her attention was caught by a slight movement on her left. Without turning her head further from the flashing swords, she glimpsed Scarf edging slowly forward, a large, wicked knife in his hands. She frowned in disparagement at his choice of weapons—in the right hands a small dagger killed as surely and it was much easier to hide.
Knowing what little she did about Scarf, she would have thought he would wait to see who was winning before committing himself firmly to either side, but perhaps he had a greater interest in Lord Hirkin than she knew. She flinched again when Hirkin’s sword crashed into one of the cheap little pots that lined the crude wooden shelf set into the wall.
Sham knew she should take advantage of the fight and leave. The back door of the cottage was behind her, and no one was watching.
She waited until Scarf chose his position before selecting her own. Judging the distance with an experienced eye, she took a two-fingered grip on the handle of her thieving tool, careful to keep it out of sight in the length of sleeve that dangled below her hand. Then she settled in to wait for Scarf to make his move.
She missed most of the fight, though she could hear. The clash of metal on metal was overshadowed by Hirkin’s full-throated cries: Her father had done the same in battle. Kerim fought silently.
Slowly, Lord Hirkin backed to the corner where Scarf waited and for the first time since the initial strike, Sham got a clear view of the fight.
Time after time the blades struck and sparks flashed in the flickering torchlight. Lord Kerim moved with the lethal grace of one of the great hunting cats—unusual in a man so large. Sham no longer wondered how such a burly man had won the title of Leopard. Though Hirkin was without a doubt a tremendous swordsman, it was obvious he was no match for the Reeve. Hirkin stumbled to his left and Kerim followed him, leaving the vulnerable side of his throat an easy target for Scarf’s knife.
Sham waited until the guardsman pulled his arm back before sending her tool spinning through the air. It slid noiselessly into Scarf’s good eye at the same time that a knife buried itself to its haft in his neck.
Startled, Sham raised her eyes to meet those of her fellow Southwoodsman, who raised his hand in formal salute. Near him the Cybellian who had supported Kerim was wrestling on the floor with Hirkin’s remaining henchman. Satisfied that the situation was under control she turned to watch the sword fight.
Hirkin’s sword moved with the same power that Kerim’s did, but without the Reeve’s fine control. Again and again, Hirkin’s sword hit wood and plaster while the blue sword touched only Hirkin’s blade.
Both men were breathing hard and the smell of sweat joined the smell of death that lingered cloyingly in the air. The blades moved more slowly now, with short resting periods breaking up the pace before the furious clash began again.
Abruptly, when it seemed that Hirkin was certain to lose, the tide of the fight changed. The Reeve stumbled over one of the old man’s slippers, falling to one knee. Hirkin stepped in to take advantage of Lord Kerim’s misfortune, bringing his sword down overhand angled to intersect the Reeve’s vulnerable neck.
Kerim made no attempt to come to his feet. Instead, he braced himself on both knees and brought the silver-edged blade up with impossible speed. Hirkin’s sword hit the Reeve’s with the full weight of its wielder behind the blow.
With only the strength of his upper body, the Reeve took the force of Hirkin’s blow and redirected it, slightly twisting as he did so. Hirkin’s sword sliced a hole in the Reeve’s surcoat before embedding itself in the floorboards.
Still on his knees, Kerim stabbed upward as if he held a knife rather than a sword. The tip hit Hirkin just below his rib cage and slid smoothly upward. Hirkin was dead before his body touched the floor.
The Reeve wiped the blade on Hirkin’s velvet surcoat. Showing little of the litheness he had displayed in the battle, he slowly regained his feet.
“Thought you might be slowing down, Captain.” The Eastern guard who’d supported Kerim spoke casually from his position on top of the man he’d been wrestling. He held the cadaver’s twisted legs under one knee and used both hands to secure an arm he’d pulled up and back. The position looked uncomfortable for both men to Sham, but she seldom indulged in such sport.
Kerim narrowed his eyes at the man who addressed him and then grinned. “It’s good to see you again, Lirn. What is an archer of your caliber doing working in Purgatory?”
The guardsman shrugged. “Have to take what work’s offered, Captain.”
“I could use you, training the Castle guards,” offered the Reeve, “but I have to warn you that the last man to hold the post of captain quit.”
The guard’s eyebrows rose. “I wouldn’t have thought that Castle guards would be that difficult.”
“They’re not,” returned Kerim. “My lady mother, ho
weveris .”
The guard laughed and shook his head. “I’ll do it. What do you want me to do with this one?” He gave the captive’s wrist a twitch and the man beneath him yelped.
“What was he doing when you caught him?” asked Kerim.
“Running.”
The Reeve shrugged. “Let him go. There is no law against running, and he is no worse than most of the guards around here.”
The Easterner untangled himself, letting his prisoner scramble out the door.
“What is your name, sir?” asked the Reeve turning to the Southwoodsman guard.
“Talbot, messire.” Sham saw the older man straighten a little at the respect that Lord Kerim had shown him.
“How long have you been a guard in Purgatory?” Kerim asked.
“Five years, sir. I was a seaman on the ship that served the son of the last king. Since then I’ve worked as a mate on several cargo ships, but the merchants like to change crew after each voyage. I have a wife and family and needed steady work.”
“Hmm,” said Kerim, and smiled with sudden mischief that animated his broad features to surprising attractiveness. “That will mean that you are used to proving yourself to those that you command. Good. My health problems have kept me from attending to Lord Hirkin as he should have been. I have need of someone who can keep an eye on such as he, without being subject to the consideration of politics. I would be pleased if you would accept the post of Master of Security—Hirkin’s recently vacated post plus a few extra duties.”
Lord Kerim raised his hand to forestall what Talbot would have said. “I warn you that it will mean traveling to the outlying area and keeping an eye on the way that the nobles are running their estates as well as managing the city guards. You’ll will be the target of a lot of hostility—both because of your nationality and your common birth. I will outfit you with horse, clothing, and arms, provide living quarters for you and your family, and pay you five gold pieces each quarter. I tell you now that you will earn every copper.”