I looked up into the cowl. This was just about how I had figured it would play out: Shadow wasn’t the kind to negotiate when he didn’t have to—after all, he was a Gray Prince. We both knew the only real leverage I had was the book, and once that was out of my hands, all the power reverted to him. At least he was being honest about it.
The only thing that had gone my way so far was the fact that he hadn’t tried to dust me the moment he’d walked into the room. And even that was dubious luck at best.
“I’m not going to offer again,” said Shadow.
I sighed and shifted off the blanket. “I know,” I said. I pulled out the journal and stood up.
Shadow chuckled. “Sitting on it this whole time? No one can say you don’t have balls.” He held out his hand.
“So that’s it, then?” I said as I took a step forward. “For all the posturing and magic and mystery, you end up doing business like a common Cutter on the street? ‘Give me the swag or you bleed!’ I’d hoped for more from a Gray Prince.”
“You get what you deserve,” said Shadow. “For you, little Nose, this is good enough.”
I stopped beside the candle. I looked down at the book in my hands, then up at Shadow. And met his gaze with my own.
He was smiling. It was a smug smile on a full mouth, with a dark spade-shaped beard beneath and a long nose above. An otherwise round face was given a hard edge by high cheekbones. But what struck me the most were the generous laugh lines around his eyes and mouth. Who expected a Gray Prince like Shadow to genuinely laugh enough for it to show on his face?
I smiled in turn and watched Shadow’s grin falter. He could sense something had changed, but he hadn’t figured it out yet. Hadn’t figured out I could see him now; that all the magic in the room had been burned up by Jelem’s candle.
“No,” I said, “I deserve more.” And I tossed the journal at him. My last glimpse of Shadow in the candlelight was of his eyes going wide and his reflexively lunging forward for the book. Then I kicked the candle over, and the room went dark.
Chapter Thirty
I
rolled to my right, getting out of any direct line of fire. The candle flame had been dim, but it was still going to take a moment or two for my night vision to adjust. I didn’t want to be caught standing still, waiting to see my death coming at me.
That was assuming my vision
would
adjust. My stepfather had performed the ritual nearly twenty years ago; with magic that old, Jelem hadn’t been sure what the candle would do to it. Like everything else tonight, it was a risk.
I circled two steps farther to my right in the darkness, silently drawing my rapier as I went, and waited. I could hear Shadow in front of me, muttering under his breath. Then I saw the hint of a gesture—an amber-hued blur several yards away that looked like a hand passing rapidly through the air. And another. And then, rapidly, I saw the image of a cloaked figure, crouched and gesticulating in the darkness, the rectangle of a book lying at his feet, all but forgotten.
The air before Shadow was empty: of power, of light, of threat. I slipped farther to my right, moving to circle behind, even as he reached to his belt and tossed a scattering of coins before him. They clinked on the floorboards, refusing to melt and burn as they had against Degan.
Shadow was no fool. As soon as he saw that his portable glimmer wasn’t going to help him, he turned and raced back the way he had come. I couldn’t blame him; if I were in a dark room with a man who put out the lights, I’d want out, too. People don’t set up situations like that without a plan.
I flicked my left hand, felt the wrist knife drop into it, and let fly. I knew better than to try to hit him—it was dark, he was moving, and I was throwing left-handed. The odds of my even bouncing the pommel off him were negligible. But hitting the wall hard enough so the blade made a loud noise against it, and then again when it fell to the floor—that was another matter entirely.
Shadow skidded to a halt at the sound. In an instant his sword was out, sweeping before, beside, and behind him in a deadly circle. When no one tried to stab him, he began backing slowly away, two steps at a time.
“It was the candle, wasn’t it?” he said to the darkness. “It interfered with the magic somehow.” I could see his cowl searching back and forth for any hint of motion, of sound. His left hand made another pass in the air. Nothing happened. “And I can’t imagine the darkness was an accident, either. Which means you have a way of finding me, yes?”
I stayed silent and adjusted my course so that I would come at his back from an angle.
Shadow swept his blade through the air again and shifted direction. Another cut, another direction, then two more steps, a series of cuts that whistled as they clove the air, then a dodge and a quick thrust across his body.
I couldn’t tell if it was a patterned drill or just a collection of random counters, but whatever it was, it kept him—and more important, his sword—moving in an unpredictable manner. He was doing his best to create a wall of steel around himself; one I would have to breach if I wanted to get this over with quickly.
And it needed to be quick.
I reached down and pulled out my boot dagger. As much as I would have liked to dust him with a single thrust, I knew it didn’t always work out that way. Swords like mine can wound just as easily as they can kill, but get in close with a dagger, and the odds of someone going home dead go way up—especially if one of the people can’t see.
I dropped my sword’s tip so that it just skimmed the floor. I came on.
Shadow was tending left, trying to get to one of the walls. His sword was still moving, his fingers still dancing. I slipped closer. Two steps more now, at most.
“Are you using the night vision?” he said as he cut a circle around himself.
I froze. His face was pointed directly at me. Then he looked away. I let out my breath.
“I’ve heard of it, of course,” said Shadow, “but I’ve never known anyone who had it.” His cowl shook back and forth. “If I’d only known . . . The use I could have made of you.”
I stood up straight. “You used me enough as it was,” I said. Then I dropped.
Shadow immediately threw a cut at where my voice had been. He was good; even crouched low, I felt the breeze of his sword’s passing, telling me he had gone for my body and not my head—bigger target, better odds.
I did the same, only I pushed a thrust from down near the floor, low to high, right at his ribs. My sword connected, stuck and . . . bowed?
I felt the scrape of metal on metal down the length of my rapier, could hear a faint grinding as I twisted the blade in a move that should have stirred up his insides but only managed to pucker and turn the fabric of his doublet. Shadow let out a grunt but didn’t fall or bleed.
Armor. Chain mail, by the feel of it, under his clothes.
Bastard.
I pushed my rapier’s point deeper into Shadow’s chain mail and lifted the guard above my head even as I lashed out at his leg with my dagger. Our blades connected at the same instant—my dagger with his leg; his sword with my rapier. It didn’t go well for either of us. While I managed to lay open a sloppy gash above his boot, Shadow brought his sword down hard enough on mine to snap it in two. I’d been hoping the force of his cut would act like a hammer on a nail and drive my rapier’s point through his armor, but, instead, my bracing the blade had simply made it easier for him to break.
Damn Shadow and his Black Isle steel blade, anyhow.
I leapt back, barely avoiding a blind follow-up, and scrambled away.
“Nice try,” said Shadow. His voice was tighter than it had been a moment ago. “Lucky for me I’m not the trusting sort, eh?”
“What, you mean the armor?” I said as I slipped back across the room toward the satchel. “That just means I’m going to have to take you apart a bit at a time, starting at the edges.” I tossed the remains of my rapier noisily off to my right.
Shadow’s cowl swiveled toward the sound of the rapier’s hilt hitting the floor, then came back in my direction. The fingers of his left hand were dancing again. He was favoring his right leg.
“You think so?” he said. He began cutting at the air around him, forming the deadly circle once more. “Considering you just lost your sword to someone who can’t see in the dark, I’d say you have your work cut out for you.”
I grinned darkly from across the room as I knelt down beside the bag and reached inside. “You got lucky,” I said as my hand closed on the handle of Iron Degan’s sword. I drew it out softly and stood up, hefting it. Iron’s Black Isle steel practically danced in my hand. It was a heavier blade than I was used to, weighted more for the cut than the thrust, and slightly curved, but it would do. “I don’t think I need anything more than a dagger to take care of you,” I said. “Not in the dark.”
Smiling, I turned toward Shadow and took a step. Then my smile faded.
There. A spark of light on the tips of his fingers, so faint it was barely visible even with my night vision.
I blinked. Had I imagined it? And if not, had
he
noticed it?
Shadow’s fingers moved slowly, carefully. A flicker of ghostly light slithered along them, faded. Shadow chuckled, soft and low.
He’d noticed.
The magic was coming back.
Jelem hadn’t been able to tell me how long the effects of the candle would last. It all came down to how long it burned and how much magic it ate up. The longer, the better. I’d been hoping to get a good three hours off it, but Shadow’s early arrival had barely given me one. Which, it seemed, translated into less than five minutes of no magic.
I sprang forward, Iron’s sword high, my dagger low, and ran at him. There wasn’t time for quiet anymore—no knives in the dark, no circling for the perfect shot, no trying to make the bastard sweat like he deserved. It had become a simple matter of me getting to Shadow before the magic got to him. If I beat it, I had a chance—the darkness was still on my side, after all; if I didn’t, well, like I said, I’d seen the bastard fight.
I was still three steps away when the fire bloomed in Shadow’s hand. My heart sank and my eyes burned at the sudden light, but I kept coming. I yelled, just for the hell of it.
I don’t know if it was the yell or the surprise of suddenly seeing me nearly on top of him, but Shadow staggered back. This was a good thing, since it meant that the whiplike tendril of flame he sent arcing out passed over my left shoulder, instead of hitting me square in the face. The bad thing was that I could still feel the heat of the fire’s passage as it went by my ear and cheek.
I flinched, and that was enough to throw off my cut. Instead of coming down where Shadow’s neck met his shoulder, the heavy blade dipped low, sloping toward his left leg. Shadow caught my sword on his own and used the impact to bring his own tip over and around, ready for a cut of his own.
I closed in fast, rushing to put myself inside the arc of his attack. Swords have more power near the point when swung, and getting past it would keep me safer. At the same time, I struck with my dagger, over and over, using short, underhand thrusts. I kept meeting chain mail with the point, but I didn’t care; I just needed to stay in close, where my size and the dagger gave me an advantage. Even if I wasn’t separating any links, I was driving the mail into him—hard. With luck, I’d break a couple of ribs and maybe even rupture something.
Shadow pivoted, trying to shift with my attack. I could feel the pommel of his sword hitting me in the back, but he didn’t have the right angle to put any real force behind it. I pressed forward even harder and alternated my dagger thrusts—now low, now high, now from the side—to make it harder for him to catch my arm with his free hand. If I could get the blade under his arm, or even up along the side of his head . . .
Then I saw his left hand come up and begin to pass before my face, just like before.
I turned and dropped away. An instant later, my shadow was projected on the floor in front of me by a brilliant flash of light from behind.
I felt burning—in my eyes, not on my face—as I stumbled away. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been in the alley; I could still see the floor, still make out my hand in front of me, although everything seemed to be shifting. Amber mixed with yellow in my vision and ran across everything in waves, rather than the constant highlighting I was used to. It looked almost like . . .
Oh.
I raised my eyes. The back wall of the room was on fire. Shadow’s arc of flame must have continued past me and hit the old wood and plaster and lathe. It was no roaring inferno yet, but, judging by how quickly things were spreading, it wouldn’t take too long to get there.
I spun around. Shadow was maybe ten paces away, bent over slightly, his left forearm pressed against his side. His sword sat ready in his right hand; in his left, near his chest, I saw the glint of coins.
“No darkness anymore, Drothe,” he said in the glowing, growing light of the fire. “No glimmered candles.” He straightened slowly and squared his shoulders. “My turn.”
He took a step and I ran, not toward the doorway, but to the blanket I’d been using as a pad. At this point, only one of us was going to get out of here; heading for the door would only get me a sword—or something worse—in the back.