Authors: Scott Lynch
“If it would give you pleasure,” said Locke. “I fear that I am not much for celebrations,
but I can set aside my work for a night to attend.”
“You won’t be sorry, Lukas,” said Doña Sofia. “I’m sure we’ll all think back very
fondly on the feast when we begin our voyage.”
IN MANY ways, two was the worst possible number of multiple opponents in a close-quarters
fight; it was nearly impossible to lead them into crowding and interfering with one
another, especially if they were experienced at working together. And if
anyone
in Camorr was any good at fighting in tandem, it was the Berangias sisters.
Jean accounted his scant advantages as he twirled his hatchets and waited for one
of the sisters to make the first move. He’d seen them in action at least a dozen times,
at the Shifting Revel and in the Floating Grave. It might not do him much good, since
he didn’t happen to be a shark, but it was something.
“We’ve heard that you’re
supposed
to be good,” said the sister on his left, and just as she spoke, the one on the right
exploded forward, one knife out in a guard position and the other held low to stab.
Jean sidestepped her lunge, blocked the thrusting knife with his left hatchet, and
whipped the other one toward her eyes. Her second blade was already there; the hatchet
rebounded off the studded handguard. She was as impossibly fast as he’d feared. So
be it; he kicked out at her left knee, an easy trick he’d used to break a dozen kneecaps
over the years.
Somehow, she sensed the blow coming and bent her leg to deflect it. It struck her
calf, pushing her off balance but accomplishing little else. Jean disengaged his hatchets
to swing at where she should be falling, but she turned her sideways fall into a whirlwind
kick; she swiveled on her left hip faster than his eyes could follow, and her right
leg whipped around in a blurred arc. That foot cracked against his forehead, right
above his eyes, and the whole world shuddered.
Chasson
. Of course. He could really learn to hate the art.
He stumbled backward; drilled instinct alone saved him from her follow-up—a straight
thrust that should have punched through his solar plexus and buried her blade to the
hilt. He swung his hatchets down and inward—a maneuver Don Maranzalla had jokingly
referred to as the “crab’s claws”; he hooked her blade with his right-hand hatchet
and yanked it sideways. That actually surprised her—Jean took advantage of her split-second
hesitation to ram the tip of his other hatchet into the base of her neck. He didn’t
have time for an actual swing, but he could give a pretty forceful poke. She stumbled
back, coughing, and he suddenly had a few feet of space once again. He stepped back
another yard. The wall of the warehouse was looming behind him, but at a range of
scant inches those knives were greatly superior to his own weapons. He needed reach
to swing.
The left-hand Berangias dashed forward as the one on the right faded back, and Jean
swore under his breath. With his back to the wall they couldn’t try to take him from
opposite sides, but he couldn’t run—and they could trade off attacks, one falling
back to recover while the other sister continued to wear him down.
His temper rose again. Bellowing, he tossed both of his hatchets at his new opponent.
That
caught her by surprise. She sidestepped with speed that matched her sister, and the
weapons whirled past on either side, one of them catching at her hair. But Jean hadn’t
been in earnest with his gentle throw; he charged at her, hands outstretched—empty
hands would do better against thieves’ teeth when opponents were close enough to kiss.
The sister before him spread her blades again, confident of a quick kill, yet it was
easy to underestimate Jean’s own speed if one hadn’t seen it up close before. His
hands clamped down on her forearms. Putting his strength and mass to good use, he
spread her arms forcefully; as expected, she raised one of her legs to give him a
sharp kick.
Digging his fingers into the hard muscle of her forearms, keeping her blades firmly
to the outside, he
yanked
as hard as he could. She flew
forward, and with a
smack
that echoed in the warehouse, her nose met Jean’s forehead. Hot blood spattered;
it was on his robes, but he hoped Aza Guilla might eventually forgive him that little
indignity. Before his opponent could recover, Jean let her arms go, cupped her entire
face in one of his hands, and pushed from the hip with all of his might, like a shot-putter
at the Therin Throne games of old. She flew into her sister, who barely got her blades
out of the way in time to avoid skewering her sibling, and the Berangias twins toppled
against the tarp-covered pile of corpses.
Jean ran to the center of the warehouse floor, where his hatchets lay on the dirt.
He picked them up, twirled them once, and quickly worked at the little clasp that
held his robe together beneath the collar. While the sisters recovered themselves,
Jean shrugged out of his robe and let it fall to the ground.
The Berangias twins advanced on him again, about ten feet apart, and now they looked
distinctly upset.
Gods
, Jean thought,
most men would take a broken nose as a sign to run like hell
. But the sisters continued to bear down on him, malice gleaming in their dark eyes.
The eerie red-and-white light was at their back, and it seemed to outline them in
eldritch fire as they spread their blades for another pass at him.
At least he had room to maneuver now.
Without a word between them, the Berangias sisters took to their heels and rushed
at him, four knives gleaming. It was their own professionalism that saved Jean this
time. He knew before it happened that one would feint and one would strike home. The
sister on his left, the one with the broken nose, attacked a split second before the
one on his right. With his left-hand hatchet raised as a guard, he stepped directly
into the path of the one on his left. The other sister, eyes wide in surprise, lunged
at the space he’d just slipped out of, and Jean swung his right-hand hatchet in a
backhand arc, ball first, that caught her directly atop her skull. There was a wet
crack, and she hit the floor hard, knives falling from her nerveless fingers.
The remaining sister screamed, and Jean’s own mistake caught up with him at that moment;
a feint can become a killing strike once more with very little effort. Her blades
slashed out just as he was raising his right-hand hatchet once again; he caught and
deflected one with his raised hatchet, but the other slid agonizingly across his ribs
just beneath his right breast, laying open skin and fat and muscle. He gasped, and
she kicked him in the stomach, staggering him. He toppled onto his back.
She was right on top of him, blood streaming down her face and neck, eyes full of
white-hot hate. As she lunged down, he kicked out with both of
his legs. The air exploded out of her lungs and she flew back, but there was a sharp
pain in his right biceps, and a line of fire seemed to erupt on his left thigh. Damn,
she’d had her blades in him when he pushed her back! She’d slashed open a ragged line
along the top of his thigh, with his help. He groaned. This had to end quickly, or
blood loss would do for him as surely as the blades of the surviving sister.
She was back on her feet already;
gods
, she was fast. Jean heaved himself up to his knees, feeling a tearing pain across
his right ribs. He could feel warm wetness cascading down his stomach and his legs;
that wetness was time, running out. She was charging at him again; red light gleamed
on steel, and Jean made his last move.
His right arm didn’t feel strong enough for a proper throw, so he tossed his right-hand
hatchet at her, underhand, directly into her face. It didn’t have the speed to injure,
let alone kill, but she flinched for a second, and that was long enough. Jean whipped
his left-hand hatchet sideways and into her right knee; it broke with the most satisfying
noise Jean could recall hearing in his life. She staggered; a rapid yank and a backhand
whirl, and his blade bit deep into the front of her other knee. Her blades came down
at him then, and he threw himself sideways. Steel whistled just past his ears as its
wielder toppled forward, unable to bear weight on her legs any longer. She screamed
once again.
Jean rolled several times to his right—a wise decision. When he stumbled up to his
feet, clutching at his right side, he saw the surviving sister dragging herself toward
him, one blade still held tightly in her right hand.
“You’re bleeding hard, Tannen. You won’t live out the night, you
fucking bastard
.”
“That’s Gentleman Bastard,” he said. “And there’s a chance I won’t. But you know what?
Calo and Galdo Sanza are
laughing
at you, bitch.”
He wound up with his left arm and let his remaining hatchet fly, a true throw this
time, with all the strength and hatred he could put behind it. The blade struck home
right between the Berangias sister’s eyes. With the most incredible expression of
surprise on her face she fell forward and sprawled like a rag doll.
Jean wasted no time in reflection. He gathered his hatchets and threw on one of the
sisters’ oilcloaks, putting up the hood. His head was swimming; he recognized all
the signs of blood loss, which he’d had the misfortune to experience before. Leaving
the bodies of the Berangias sisters in the light of the fallen glow-globes, he stumbled
back out into the night. He would avoid the Cauldron, where some sort of trouble was
sure to lurk,
and make a straight run across the north of the Wooden Waste. If he could just make
it to the Ashfall hovel, Ibelius would be there, and Ibelius would have some trick
up his sleeves.
If the dog-leech attempted to use a poultice on him, however, Jean was likely to break
his fingers.
IN HER solarium atop Amberglass tower, Doña Vorchenza spent the midnight hour in her
favorite chair, peering at the evening’s notes. There were reports of the ongoing
strife from the Gray King’s ascension to Barsavi’s seat; more thieves found lying
in abandoned buildings with their throats slashed. Vorchenza shook her head; this
mess was really the last thing she needed with the affair of the Thorn finally coming
to a head. Raza had identified and exiled half a dozen of her spies among the gangs;
that in itself was deeply troubling. None of them had been aware of one another, as
agents. So either all of her agents were clumsier than she’d suspected, or Raza was
fantastically observant. Or there was a breach in her trust at some level above the
spies on the street.
Damnation. And why had the man exiled them, rather than slaying them outright? Was
he trying to avoid antagonizing her? He’d certainly not succeeded. It was time to
send him a very clear message of her own—to summon this Capa Raza to a meeting with
Stephen, with forty or fifty blackjackets to emphasize her points.
The elaborate locks to her solarium door clicked, and the door slid open. She hadn’t
been expecting Stephen to return this evening; what a fortunate coincidence. She could
give him her thoughts on the Raza situation.…
The man that entered her solarium wasn’t Stephen Reynart.
He was a rugged man, lean-cheeked and dark-eyed; his black hair was slashed with gray
at his temples, and he strolled into her most private chamber as though he belonged
there. He wore a gray coat, gray breeches, gray hose, and gray shoes; his gloves and
vest were gray, and only the silk neck-cloths tied casually above his chest had color;
they were bloodred.
Doña Vorchenza’s heart hammered; she put a hand to her chest and stared in disbelief.
Not only had the intruder managed to open the door, and done so without taking a crossbow
bolt in the back, but there was another man behind him—a younger man, bright-eyed
and balding, dressed
in a similar gray fashion, with only the bright scarlet cuffs of his coat to set him
apart.
“Who the hell are you?” she bellowed, and for a moment that age-weakened voice rose
to something like its old power. She rose from her seat, fists clenched. “How did
you get up here?”
“We are your servants, my lady Vorchenza; your servants come to pay you our proper
respects at last. You must forgive us our previous discourtesy; things have been so
busy of late in my little kingdom.”
“You speak as though I should know you, sir. I asked your name.”
“I have several,” said the older man, “but now I am called Capa Raza. This is my associate,
who styles himself the Falconer. And as for how we came to your truly lovely solarium …”
He gestured to the Falconer, who held up his left hand, palm spread toward Doña Vorchenza.
The coat sleeve fell away, revealing three thick black lines tattooed at his wrist.
“Gods,” Vorchenza whispered. “A Bondsmage.”
“Indeed,” said Capa Raza, “for which, forgive me, but his arts seemed the only way
to ensure that your servants would haul us up here, and the only way to ensure we
could enter your sanctum without disturbing you beforehand.”
“I am disturbed
now
,” she spat. “What is your meaning here?”
“It is past time,” said Raza, “for my associate and I to have a conversation with
the duke’s Spider.”
“What are you speaking of? This is
my
tower; other than my servants, there is no one else here.”
“True,” said Capa Raza, “so there is no need to maintain your little fiction before
us, my lady.”
“You,” said Doña Vorchenza coldly and levelly, “are greatly mistaken.”
“Those files behind you, what are they? Recipes? Those notes beside your chair—does
Stephen Reynart give you regular reports on the cuts and colors of this year’s new
dresses, fresh off the docks? Come, my lady. I have very unusual means of gathering
information, and I am no dullard. I would construe any further dissembling on your
part as a deliberate insult.”