The price of victory- - Thieves World 13 (16 page)

"This is a very special knife," said a voice at Samlor's shoulder. The Cirdonian turned, face flat. He was almost willing to disbelieve the senses that told him that the stranger was pursuing his attempt to sell a dagger. In this place, a tavern where unwanted persistence generally led

to somebody being killed.

"Get away from me," Samlor said in a clear, clipped voice, "or I'll put

you through a window."

He nodded toward the wall facing the street, where wicker lattices

screened the large openings to either side of the door. The sides of the room were ventilated by high, horizontal slits that opened onto alleys even more fetid than the interior of the tavern.

Samlor meant exactly what he said, though it would cause trouble that

he'd really rather avoid.

Star wasn't the only one whom fatigue had left with a hair trigger. The man wasn't a threatening figure, only an irritating one. He was
Page 172

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

shorter than Samlor by an inch or two and fine-boned to an almost feminine degree. He wore a white linen kilt with a scarlet hem, cinched up on a slant by a belt of gorgeous gold brocade. His thigh-length cape was of a thick, soft, blue fabric, but his torso was bare beneath that garment. The skin was coppery brown, and his chest, though hairless,

was flat-muscled and clearly male.

The stranger blinked above his smile and backed a half step. Samlor caught the beers that the tapster glided to him across the surface of the

bar,

"Here, Star," said the Cirdonian, handing one of the containers down

to his charge. "It's what there is, so don't complain. We'll do better another time, all right?"

The beer was in leathern jacks, and the tar used to seal the leather became a major component of the liquid's flavor. It was an acquired taste

—and not one Samlor, much less his niece, had ever bothered to acquire. At that, the smoky flavor of the tar might be less unpleasant than the way the brew here would taste without it.

Page 173

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

The tapster had crooked a finger toward a dun-colored man at a comer table. Samlor would not have noticed the summons had he not been sure it was coming, but the two men began to talk in low voices at the far end of the bar.

The tavern was lighted by a lantern behind the bar and a trio of lamps hanging from a hoop in the center of the room. The terra-cotta lamps had been molded for good luck into the shape of penises.

There was no sign that the clientele of this place was particularly fortunate, and the gods knew they were not well lighted. The cheap lamp oil gave off as much smoke as flame, so that the tavern drifted in a haze as bitter as the faces of its denizens.

"Really, Master Samlor," said the stranger, "you must look at this dagger."

The Cirdonian's name made time freeze for him, though no one else in the Vulgar Unicorn appeared to take undue notice. The flat of the weapon was toward Samlor. The slim man held the hilt between thumb and forefinger and balanced the lower edge of the blade near the tip of his other forefinger—not even a razor will cut with no more force than gravity driving it.

Samlor's own belt knife was clear of its sheath, drawn by reflex without
Page 174

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

need for his conscious mind to reach to the danger. But the stranger was smiling and immobile, and the dagger he held . . .

The dagger was very interesting at that.

Its pommel was faceted with the ruddy luster of copper. The butt itself was flat and narrow, angling wider for a finger's breadth toward the hilt and narrowing again in a smooth concave arc. The effect was that of a coffin, narrow for the corpse's head and wider for his shoulders until it tapered toward his feet again.

The hilt was unusual and perhaps not attractive, but the true wonder of the weapon was its blade.

Steel becomes more brittle as it becomes harder. The greatest mystery of the swordsmith's art is the tempering that permits blades to strike without shattering while remaining hard enough to cleave armor or an Opponent's weapon.

A way around the problem is to weld a billet of soft iron to a billet of

86

Page 175

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

steel hardened with the highest possible carbon content. The fused bar can then be hammered flat and folded back on itself, the process repeated until iron and steel are intermingled in thousands of layers thinner than

the edge of a razor.

Done correctly, the result is a blade whose hardness is sandwiched within malleable layers that absorb shock and give the whole resilience;

but the operation requires the flats to be cleaned before each refolding, lest oxide scale weaken the core and cause it to split on impact like a wand of whalebone. Few smiths had the skill and patience to forge such blades; few purchasers had the wealth to pay for so much expert labor.

But this stranger seemed to think Samlor fell into the latter category—

as the caravan master indeed did, if he wanted a thing badly enough The blade was beautiful. It was double-edged and a foot long, with the sharpened surfaces describing flat curves instead of being straight tapers like those of the knife in Samlor's hand. The blade sloped toward either edge from the deep keel in the center which gave it stiffness—and all along the flat, the surface danced and shimmered with the polished, acid etched whorls of the dissimilar metals which comprised it.

Because of their multiple hammered refoldings, the join lines between layers of iron and steel were as complex as the sutures of a human skull.
Page 176

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

After the bar had been forged and ground into a blade, the smith pol ished it and dipped it into strong acid which he quickly flushed away.

The steel resisted the biting fluid, but some of the softer iron was eaten by even the brief touch. The iron became a shadow of incredible delicacy against which the ripples of bright steel stood out like sunlight on moun tain rapids. Even without its functional purpose, the watermarked blade would have commanded a high price for its appearance.

Samlor's eyes stung. He blinked, because in the wavering lamplight the

spidery lines of iron against steel looked like writing.

The stranger smiled more broadly.

"Unc—" began Star with a tug on the caravan master's left sleeve.

The iron shadows in the heart of the blade read "He will attack" in Cirdonian script. A moment before they had been only swirls of metal.

The stranger's hand slid fully onto the hilt he had been pinching to display. He twisted it in a slashing stroke toward Samlor's eyes.

Samlor didn't believe the words written on steel. He didn't even believe he had seen them. But part of his nervous system—"mind" would be too
Page 177

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

formal a term for reflex at so primitive a level—reacted to the strangeness

with explosive activity.

The Cirdonian's left hand shot out and crushed the stranger's fingers

against the grip of his weapon, easily turning the stroke into a harmless upward sweep-The metal that Samlor touched—the copper buttcap and

87

the tang to which scales of dark wood were pinned to complete the hilt—

were cooler than air temperature despite having been carried beneath the stranger's cape.

Samlor's right hand slammed his own dagger up and through the stranger's ribcage till the crosshilt stopped at the breastbone. The cara van master could have disarmed his opponent without putting a foot of steel through his chest, but reflex didn't know that and instinct didn't care.

The stranger—the dead man, now, with steel from his diaphragm to the back of his throat—lifted at the short, powerful blow. His head snapped back—his mouth was still smiling—and hammered the hoop which suspended the lamps. They sloshed and went out as the heavy oil
Page 178

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

doused their wicks.

"Star, keep behind—" Samlor ordered as the light dimmed and his right hand jerked down to clear his weapon from the torso in which he had just imbedded it. The stranger flopped forward loosely, but the blade remained stuck.

Somebody's hurled beer mug smashed the lantern behind the bar. The Vulgar Unicorn was as dark as the bowels of hell.

Samlor ducked and hunched back against the bar while he tugged at his knife hilt with enough strength to have forced a camel to its knees.

There was a grunt and an oak-topped table crashed over. Somebody screamed as if he were being opened from groin to gullet—as may have been the case. Darkness in a place like this was both an opportunity and a source of panic. Either could lead to slaughter.

Samlor's dagger wouldn't come free. He hadn't felt it grate bone as it went in, and it didn't feel now as if the top were caught on ribs or the stranger's vertebrae. The blade didn't flex at all, the way it should have done if it were held at one point. It was more as if Samlor had thrust the steel into fresh concrete and were coming back a day later in a vain attempt to withdraw it.

Page 179

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

One advantage to winning a knife fight is that you have the choice of your opponent's weapon if something's happened to yours. The Cirdoni an's left hand snatched the hilt from the unresisting fingers of the man he had just killed, while his right arm swept behind him to gather up his niece.

A thrown weapon plucked his sleeve much the way the child had done a moment before. The point was too blunt to stick in the bar panel against which it crashed like a crossbow bolt.

Star wasn't there. She wasn't anywhere within the sweep of Samlor's arm, and there was no response when he desperately called the child's name.

88

Steel hit steel across the room with a clang and a shower of angry orange sparks. Someone outside the tavern called a warning, but there was already a murderous scuffle blocking the only door to the street.

That left the door to the alley on the opposite side of the tavern; stairs
Page 180

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

to the upper floor—which Samlor couldn't locate in the dark and which were probably worth his life to attempt anyway; and a third option which was faster and safer than the other two, though it was neither fast nor

safe on any sane scale.

Samlor gripped the body of his victim beneath both armpits and

rushed forward, using the corpse as a shield and a battering ram.

His niece might still be inside the Vulgar Unicorn, but he couldn't find her in the darkness if she didn't—or couldn't—answer his call. Star was a level-headed girl who might have screamed but wouldn't have panicked

to silence when Samlor shouted for her.

He was much more concerned that she had bolted for the door the instant the lights went out, and that she was now in the arms of someone with a good idea of the price a virgin of her age would fetch in this

hellhole Somebody brushed Samlor from the side—backed into him—and

caromed off, wailing in terror. Samlor did not cut with his new dagger at the contact because Star could still be within reach of his blade . . .
Page 181

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

He was willing to be stabbed himself to avoid making that sort of

mistake.

Samlor stumbled on an outstretched limb which gave but did not twitch beneath his boot. Then the corpse hit the screen to the right of the door and the Cirdonian used all the strength of his back and shoulders to

smash the wickerwork out into the street.

The screen was dry with age, and many of the individuals withies were already splitting away from the tiny trenails that pinned them to the frame. The wicker still retained a springy strength greater than that of thin board shutters, and Samlor felt a hint of infuriating backthrust

against his push.

The frame snapped away from the sash, letting the corpse carry the

collapsing wickerwork ahead of it into the street.

There was enough haze to hide the stars and silver moon, but the sky glow was enough to fill the window sash after the lattice had been torn away. Samlor dived over the sill, keeping his body as low as possible. He could have boosted himself with his empty right hand so that he landed feet first instead of slamming the street with his shoulder . . .

Page 182

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

But if he had done that, the knife that flicked through the air above his rolling body would instead have punched between his shoulder blades.

89

Some brawlers, like sharks in a feeding frenzy, don't need a reason to kill;

only a target.

"Star!" the caravan master bellowed as he hit, the shock of impact turning the word into more of a gasp than he had expected. His cloak and shoulder muscles had to break the fall, because his left hand, the downside hand, held the long knife that could be the margin of survival in the next instants.

The door of the tavern beside Samlor was blocked by two men, the larger holding the smaller and stabbing with mindless repetition. The only sound the victim made now was the squelch of his flesh parting before the steel.