A Sellsword's Valor Page 2

  For her part, his wife rolled her eyes and looked around at the street as if searching for some distraction, and it was then that Allia bent down enough to draw the slim knife secreted at her ankle.

  While everyone’s attention was elsewhere, her hand shot forward, little more than a blur, and cleanly sliced through the knot holding the man’s coin purse to his trousers. The purse fell into her empty, waiting hand, and she disappeared into the crowd a moment later, none of them the wiser.

  At least, that was how she thought it would happen.

  Instead, the small knife didn’t cut the knot in one smooth motion, only scored the leather. “You there,” said the wife, who’d looked back at the worst possible time. “Are you trying to steal that?”

  Allia’s forehead broke into a sudden sweat, and she grabbed the man’s purse with one hand where it was still attached to his waist and pulled it out as far as she could, sawing at the knotted thread with the small knife, her face flushed and feverish.

  The husband, responding to his wife’s tone, rose and turned to Allia only to see her finish cutting the purse free with an audible rip. “What?” the husband asked, a confused look on his face as he no doubt tried to understand how his charms had not worked on her.

  The wife, though, was faster. “Guards!” she screamed. “Thief!”

  Allia turned, her heart hammering a rapid beat in her chest, and pushed her way into the crowd, stumbling and nearly dropping the purse. She risked a quick glance behind her and saw that the wife and the shopkeeper were both screaming now, pointing their fingers at her, and several frowning guards were pushing the gathered people out of the way and coming toward her. The truth was, it wasn’t the first time her hands had betrayed her in a critical moment, but she wasn’t worried. Traitors her hands might be, but her feet were loyal and swift, and she used them then, breaking free of the crowd and sprinting down a nearby alley for all she was worth.

  She ran faster and faster, putting on more and more speed until the angry shouts of the guards and the nobles soon dwindled behind her.

  ***

  “—back here, you ungrateful bitch!”

  A plate shattered on the wall less than a foot from Allia’s head an instant before she threw the door to their house wide and stumbled into the street, slamming it shut behind her. An instant later, there was another crash, and Allia winced. Look at the bright side, she thought as she rubbed at her shoulder where the first of the three volleys had caught her, she’s out of plates now.

  She reminded herself to stop and buy some more as soon as she could. Otherwise, they’d be eating with their hands all because her mother hadn’t wanted to understand that she was out of tamarang, going so far as to accuse Allia of stealing it. Not true, of course. Allia had her sins, but smoking the killing herb was not one of them and never would be.

  She looked up and saw that the moon had risen in full now and darkness had fallen on the city. Allia frowned, troubled. Everyone in the poor quarter knew to avoid going out at night, especially alone. Those who did were either fools or criminals. She considered going back inside, but she could still hear her mother screaming through the door, so she decided against it. They might be out of plates, but there were other things she could throw—if she was able to think enough past the daze in her mind to realize it, of course.

  An hour, two at the most, and her mother would be fast asleep. Not peacefully asleep, never that, for among all of its other side effects, tamarang was known to induce nightmares. Ones so vivid that, in the worst cases, people had clawed their eyes out in their sleep to avoid the terrible sights their dreams conjured.

  She glanced uneasily around the street. It appeared empty, but that didn’t mean much. Those who traveled the darkness of the poor district’s streets waiting for their next victim were rarely kind enough to stand in plain view, as many careless fools had learned to their misfortune. An easy enough thing to say, she thought, but, just now, Allie dear, you’re one of those fools. And the gods know you have more reason than most to fear the night.

  And that was true enough. If the very real threat of being mugged, killed, or worse wasn’t enough to send a shiver of fear up her back, there was always Hector. Hector, the leader of a small gang who had decided he wanted her and cared nothing for her own thoughts on the subject. Hector who, the last time she’d seen him—in a quick glance over her shoulder as she ran away from him and his men—had been bleeding from his broken nose. A nose she had broken when he had ignored her rebuffs and sought to take what he wanted without her consent.

  Allia looked around once more, assuring herself that the street was empty, but the fact that she saw no one gave her little comfort. Her feet might be extraordinary, but her eyes were only average, and such men as might be waiting in the darkness were well-practiced at blending into the shadows.

  Swallowing hard, her hands suddenly damp with sweat, she decided she would visit the Shelter. It was little more than a squat, ugly building that had once been the warehouse of some ambitious—and failing—merchant. He’d hoped to take advantage of the lower property prices the poor district offered by storing his goods in a large warehouse.

  Of course, it had been only a matter of weeks before the entire place had been picked clean by thieves, no matter how many guards the man had hired. Since then, since long before Allia had been born, it had been the home of Nicoliander, an ex-priest of Salen’s death cult who now used what little money he had or was given to offer a meal—a thin, tasteless broth, usually—and a safe place for the night to those who came to him.

  Allia had been forced to make use of the place several times herself, often with her mother, and she considered the old priest a friend. Plus, there was the added benefit that the shelter was only fifteen minutes’ walk away from where she now stood. Fifteen minutes, she thought, you can do that, Allia. After all, what can happen in fifteen minutes? The problem, of course, was that she knew the answer to that question all too well. Anything could happen in such a time. Anything at all.

  She felt eyes on her as she walked, though whether real or imagined she did not know. It’s been a month since you broke his nose, she told herself, surely he’s forgotten you by now. She knew it was a lie even as she thought it. Men like Hector didn’t forget a slight, no matter how small, but kept a tally of each debt owed, each revenge not yet taken, waiting for the moment to extract what they felt was their due.

  Without realizing it, she’d started to walk faster, not jogging, not quite, but close. Just relax, she told herself, everything’s going to be fine. Ten more minutes, no more than that. Just take it easy and walk—don’t run, never that, things that run are chased—but don’t dally either. You’ll be okay.

  The last felt like another lie, but she knew that if she could make it to the Shelter she would be okay. Even if Hector or his men knew she was there, they wouldn’t come in. There were rumors—ones told often enough that most folks tended to believe them—that Nico was a practitioner of some dark, foul magic. Lies, of course, but even so, Hector wouldn’t risk the anger of the entire district by causing trouble in Nico’s shelter. It was one of the few places—possibly the only one—that was, by unspoken mutual accord, off-limits to any of the criminals.

  A drunken, abusive father had shown up once to claim his young son when Allia had been but a girl; he had even gone so far as to strike Nico, leaving a bruise on the side of the old man’s face that lasted for days. Still, bruised or not, the ex-priest had fared much better than the father himself, who’d been found dead in an alley the next day, a total of six knives sticking out of his corpse. It just so happened that there were six major crime gangs in the poor district. The message had been clear enough and since then, no one else had brought violence to Nico’s door.

  She would be safe there, protected. She walked for another few minutes before turning down an alley and breathing a great sigh of relief as she saw the shelter in the distance, the squat, ugly building, just then, the most beautiful thing she’
d ever seen. The rapid beat of her heart in her chest was just beginning to slow when some of the shadows of the alleyway separated themselves from the walls, and five men materialized in front of her. One of them whistled appreciatively, a sound she recognized well enough, and she felt her skin go cold as someone lit a torch to reveal Hector’s face.

  Hector was hardly a man at all, only eighteen years old himself, but he was big for his age, standing a good head and shoulders over even most grown men. He towered over the four men of similar age that stood behind him. Hector’s gang wasn’t a real gang—at least, it wasn’t one of the true powers in the city—but that was little comfort to Allia just then.

  She turned, meaning to retrace her steps, but she found two more men standing at the mouth of the alleyway. Seven then. Real gang or not, seven would be more than enough to do whatever Hector had in mind.

  “My, my,” Hector said in a squeaky, nasally voice that was completely at odds with his normally deep tone, “well, looky here.” His tone was amused and malicious at the same time. “When one of the boys told me they’d seen my lost kitten heading toward that old bastard’s den, I thought surely they must be mistaken. After all, I says, she ain’t been there in years now. Got to where she couldn’t stomach the smell of all that patheticness at once, I figured.”

  “Patheticness isn’t a word,” Allia said, forcing what confidence she could into her voice, “and even if it were, I can hardly understand you for all the squeaking your nose is doing.” She smiled viciously, “What happened? Did someone break it?”

  One of the other boys sniggered at that, and the fake smile that had been on Hector’s face vanished as his expression twisted with anger. “Shut the fuck up,” he growled, and the boy did, swallowing hard. Hector turned back to her. “Oh, you’ve got a mouth on you, kitty cat. You always have. It’s one of the things I’ve always loved about you. The nose though … well, even good pets have to be punished when they get out of line, and you’ve got some punishment coming your way, Allie girl. You surely do.”

  Hector and the others started forward, and Allia backed away slowly, cursing herself for a fool. And had she actually been offended when the tailor had called her “little miss” earlier in the day? A woman, she’d thought herself, a woman grown. Not a woman at all. Just another fool in a city full of them. Her mother had always told her that her pride would be her downfall; usually such a lecture came at about the time when Allia told her she’d had enough wine or tamarang for the day. Allia hissed a curse that this, of all things, would be the one thing her mother’s drug-addled mind would get right.

  She shot a look behind her and saw the two shadowy forms of the boys moving closer to her, though she could barely make them out for the darkness of the alleyway. In another thirty seconds or so, they would all be on her, and she would have no more options. Think, Allie, she said to herself. You have a mind so use it. Then she realized something, and felt a faint glimmer of hope. If she could barely see those behind her, then they could barely see her, too. A slim chance, not much of one at all, not really, but if life in the poor district had taught her anything, it was that little was better than nothing every time.

  Decided, she took a step or two toward Hector. “Hector, I’m sorry,” she said in her most pitiful, terrified voice—it wasn’t a particularly hard one to summon just then—“I really didn’t mean to…to do what I did. Please, please don’t hurt me.”

  There was some laughter from the gathered boys at that, and Hector opened his mouth to speak. “Now, kitty cat, the th—” but Allia didn’t hear what else he said because she was already turning and running, sprinting on the right side of the alleyway toward the two waiting boys. Someone cried out in surprise, and she saw vague motion in the darkness ahead of her as the boys moved to intercept her darting form but, at the last minute, she pivoted and leapt to the left, slamming into the wall of the alleyway hard enough to elicit a gasp of pain as her shoulder struck. Then she was running again, darting past the two boys as one of them reached out, his hands missing her by inches.

  Allia allowed herself a smile as she ran toward the mouth of the alleyway and, as always when she ran, she felt freer than she ever did. The wind was in her hair, not a real wind but the wind she made herself with her speed, and all the better for it. Her feet seemed to glide across the cobbled stone of the alleyway, barely touching it at all. It was, she thought, as close as a person might ever get to feeling the way birds must feel, knowing that at any time they could flap their wings and leave everything, leave their entire world behind.

  She was grinning wider, exulting in the knowledge that she’d made it away once more, but as she was coming out of the alleyway opening, a shadow shot in front of her. She tried to dodge it but it was too late, and she let out a cry of pain and fear as she hit someone’s arm and her feet flew out from under her. Her back struck the cobbled path hard enough to knock the wind from her, and she was still lying there, gasping for air, as Hector and the rest of his crew gathered around her, staring down at where she lay, their faces red and demonic in the torchlight.

  “Oh, kitty cat,” Hector said, shaking his head slowly, “you’ve got away from me too many times before. You didn’t really think I’d let you do it again, did you?”

  “Hector…please,” she gasped, the fear all too real this time, “I don’t…” She made to rise, but his thick hand lashed out and struck her in the face.

  She screamed in pain and terror and collapsed back onto the ground, still struggling to get a breath, one of her hands going to her face and feeling the blood leaking from the corner of her mouth.

  “I told you you’d pay for what you did, bitch,” he said, but what was scarier than the words themselves was the smile he still wore, the smile that never touched his eyes. “Nowhere left for you to run a—” His words turned to a choked gargle and warm blood splattered across Allia’s face. She recoiled with a cry and stared in frozen shock as Hector’s head slowly slipped from his neck, carried to the cobbles on a river of blood. The torch he’d been holding fell to the ground in a shower of sparks, the orange, ruddy light illuminating the blood pooled on the cobbles, making it appear almost black. She meant to scream, wanted to scream, but the only sound that came out of her throat was a dry, rasping croak.

  The men gathered around her, though, didn’t seem to have the same problem. They shouted in surprised anger, a chorus of it, but another that stood above her—Alec, Allia thought his name was—hadn’t even managed to turn before his head, too, came flying from his shoulders, rolling to a stop only inches away from Hector’s. Allia managed the scream this time, her voice joining in the chorus of them that now filled the alleyway. She scooted across the ground, backing away unnoticed, the men who, moments before, had been intending her violence now preoccupied with scanning the alleyway in search of the killer.

  Allia, too, was staring with wide, terrified eyes, and thought she saw a vague, shadowy outline of someone standing at the opposite end of the alleyway. The remaining men had apparently noticed it also as they’d turned and started toward the figure at a run.

  The man, if it was a man, didn’t seem daunted in the least by their approach, standing there in an almost casual way. Then there was a blur of something—it was too fast for Allia to make out exactly what—and two more of Hector’s men collapsed to the ground mid-stride, flashes of dark blood splattering against the alley walls as they did.

  What is it? Allia thought. Gods what is it? Nothing’s that fast. She was on her feet before she realized she’d moved and then she turned and was running, the shouts and agonized wails of Hector’s men fading behind her as terror lent strength and speed to her legs, and she ran faster than she had ever run before. Her heart hammered in her chest, her breath came in great, whooping gasps, and she realized distractedly that the sounds of the fight—no, that wasn’t right, not a fight at all but a massacre—had abruptly cut off.

  She turned the corner of the alleyway, then screamed as a figure stood waiti
ng for her. She skidded to a halt, stumbling and almost falling. “Excuse me, sir, I didn’t—” Her voice broke as she really took in the figure standing in front of her by the lights of the unevenly-spaced street lanterns. The figure was short, a few inches shorter than her, and it wore a dark, hooded cloak that covered most of its face. By some trick of the light, the part that showed, its chin, mostly, looked impossibly stretched and thin.

  Allia gasped as she noted the strangest, scariest thing about the man standing before her. The thick cloak it wore did much to disguise its form, though she could still tell that it was thin, terribly so. What the cloak didn’t manage to hide, however, were the long arms that protruded from its sleeves, so pale as to be almost white, with deep scars seeming to cover every surface of skin. Something was wrong about those arms, and it took Allia’s mind several panicked moments to realize what it was; when she finally did her breath caught in her throat. Despite the fact that the man—if a man it was—was standing straight, its left arm was impossibly long, ending at a slim, tapered hand that hung halfway down its calves.

  The creature held a long blade in its right hand, angled up and behind it, pointed at the dark sky. The blade was at least five feet long and thinner than any Allia had ever seen. The steel was coated in blood that dripped from it, and in the preternatural silence, Allia was able to make out each plop of blood that dripped onto the cobblestones of the city street.

  For a moment, neither of them moved. Allia was frozen in shock and terror, and the creature remained unnaturally still, as if it were some gruesome statue erected in the middle of the street by some demented sculptor. Looking closer at it—unable to make her eyes do anything else—Allia thought she could see the muscles and tendons beneath the creature’s chalk-pale skin twisting and writhing like dozens of snakes. She swallowed hard, fighting down the urge to vomit, and turned to run. She called on all of the speed she could muster as she took the corner back down the alleyway she’d come from, depending on her swiftness to get her out of this trouble as it had so many times before.