Chapter Three
I move amidst the darkness of the courtyard. Torches flicker, making the shadows dance. I spar with the shadows, running through forms, carta after carta, and then again from the start. Until I'm sweating and it's time for a break.
Arns' attitude is not fair. He's a soldier, I'm a soldier, he should give me more respect. Especially as he's frelled me. Just once, before Mathok and I started. Just walked into the room when no-one else was around and came on real strong. Told me what was expected. And I let him do it to me. He started off with this line about have to show him obeisance as he was the leader of the tribe. Had to make a sacrifice to show my loyalty. Either that or leave. No way I'm going to run.
Show now fear. Face any challenge.
Now he likes to speak to me indirectly, like he's addressing the room when I'm in it. It doesn't bother me. It was a good frell. Really good. But if he frelled me he should like me.
An assignment is pointless if you don't gain from it.
I bury a throwing knife in a post so hard, I struggle and strain to wedge it out.
I am above such petty insults. I am disciplined. I am a professional.
I am in control.
I bury six knives in the post, thrown as fast and as hard as I can. Three right-handed, three from the left. The 'thocks' of impact echo through the night, mixing with the sounds of the city.
What Prod's problem is I do not know and I do not care.
Back to cartas with the side-sword.
Back to the blade. Step, step, feint high, parry the counter attack, cut to thigh, cut to wrist, parry, thrust to body. Low line, invitio guard, parry attack, complex riposte. With one weapon, two weapons, one weapon in off hand.
For two hours I defend myself from imaginary enemies. Poorly disciplined thoughts of Arns fades amidst the perfection of the form.
Training cleanses the spirit.
Duck into a squat, attack low, overhead parry, riposte to abdomen, overhead cut to finish off the shadow.
And I'm done.
A breeze through the deserted courtyard, cooling the sweat upon my skin. Strands of hair that have drifted loose plaster my face. I brush them from my eyes. A shiver runs through me, my sweat soaked tunic plastered to my chest is cool now, becoming icy. I need to stretch and warm down before heading back, otherwise I'll be stiff with muscle burn tomorrow. And worse the next day.
It's late but there are still some citizens on the street. The curfew bell will sound soon. The Inn we're staying at is a five minute walk from the little courtyard. I'm almost back when a shape steps out from the shadows cast by the moonlight. And then more black shapes move behind this first one.
"What do we have here?" it says and steps into the light. An officer of the lancers. I stop, every muscle going tight. The others are more lancers. Three. No, four. They move around behind me.
Relax, these are the good guys.
The Lancer in front of me says, "Hello, baby. Are you lost? All alone?"
This isn't a problem. This is no curfew yet, I'm on legitimate business. They can't touch me.
"Oh, can't we now?" he says and I know my mistake. But I can't draw. Drawing on an Imperial officer is a death warrant. If you survive the fight.
Hands are on my arms, fingers biting into flesh, twisting and holding. The wall of the tavern punches into my back and for a second the dark of the night lights up with a white flash. Then his face is close to mine. I twist in the grip of the other lancers. There's laughter. He tells me I'm disrespectful. He tells me what a woman's place is.
He's making a mistake, the Imperial guards want no trouble with the Guild of Assassins.
He stops talking. We stare into each others eyes. There are no bystanders now. The few outside the tavern have disappeared. We're in a city of thousands, and we're all alone.
"The Assassins Guild?" he says. "The Assassins' Guild would consider it an honour to supply Duke Osgath's 5th Imperial Lancers with whores."
His hand presses on my cheeks, fingers grinding flesh against teeth, pushing back until all I can see is the rooftops. His body is close.
There's the stale smell of alcohol. His hand runs up my hip, my side, breast, squeezing me as I squeeze my eyes shut.
One of the others has undone my sword-belt and there's the clatter of my tools hitting the cobblestones.
The officer's touch moves downward, slips between my legs.
Don't panic. I'm not panicking. Heart is beating like a jack rabbit. Breathe through the nose, long even breaths. Try to think your way out of this. This shouldn't be happening. The Imperial Guard doesn't do this. Try to think.
There's the metallic taste of blood.
He's released me and I feel the ache of blood flowing back into starved flesh. Got to say something that'll make them stop.
Don't do this. We're on the same side.
They all laugh. "Of course," he says, "and you're going to do your bit to boost troop morale."
I'm a licensed hitter. I am allowed to defend myself with lethal force.
"Not against Imperial troops you aren't, girl."
Hands have found my belt. The tight leather band relaxes its grip on my waist.
They can't do this. They're supposed to be the defenders of the people. Brave. Disciplined. Honourable.
They laugh. "We are," he says. "And it's going to be an honour to pleasure you, my lady."
He promises me I'm going to enjoy this. He asks if I've ever had three men in me at once.
"Of course you have, eh, slut?"
He grunts as my knee strikes home. Then again as I plant my heel in his stomach and drive him back. I strain and twist in the grip of the other lancers, but there's too many.
I scream, Get the frell off me!
Now he gets up off the dirt and tells me that I'm going to pay for that. He tells me it's going to hurt now. He steps forward, and there's a red explosion in my skull when he slaps me hard across the face.
I sag in their grip as he starts tugging down my breeches. They're off my hips and I push my thighs apart to slow the process.
He tells me there'll be plenty of time to spread my legs later.
My pants are down far enough for him to slip his hand inside and cup my groin. A stranger's hand pressing against my most intimate area, rubbing.
No!
I'm thrashing and writhing against the men holding my arms and legs.
He says, "This is taking too long. Take her out back and stretch her out. I go first."
There's a shadow behind him.
His comrades shout a warning, but he turns too late. The dull smack of Mathok's fist connecting with his jaw echoes through the night. The hands let go and there's shouts and cries. I'm pulling my breeches up. I'm tying my belt, hands fumbling. I don't think about it, my hands just do it. Ruled by instinct. Instinct that screams I need to get this belt tied again. Tied tight.
I adjust my clothing as the screams and cries and smacks of flesh hammering into flesh float around me. Lost in my own little world. Pull tunic down, adjust yourself.
When I look up the fight is over. Three remaining lancers against Mathok, Arns and Altus wasn't a fair fight. Two are unconscious, one is one his back, moaning and holding an eye. I walk to my attacker, wiping my nose and blinking away a tear. He's a captain and he rises as I approach, his hand dropping from his jaw. He draws himself up to his full height and looks down at me. My cheeks ache from where his fingers squeezed tight.
Game face.
His first sentence is, "You will suffer for this, whore." He doesn't get a second sentence. Air explodes out of him as I hit him in the chest, penetrating the thoracic cavity, pleurae and the left lung.
Twist and pull.
His eyes go wide. I hit him again, twist and rip the blade clear.
His eyes go wider still, they lose focus. He sinks to his knees. He touches me once more, but weakly now, hand sliding down me. The strength fades from those fingers and they fall away.
My hand is wet with warm, sticky liquid.
He stares up at me, hands wrapped across his chest, hugging himself, mouth moving. The pneumothorax he's experiencing turns his words into wet coughs.
There's a sound like a dull wet slap, and his head flops, unsupported now by the damaged sternocleidomastoid muscle. He topples over backwards. A warm liquid spray caresses my face, pumped from a severed common carotid artery and internal jugular vein.
I just hit him across the throat.
No-one says a word. My comrades just watch, frozen. The trooper on the ground is staring at me with his one good eye. An eye like a saucer, lit with orange light from the streetside torches. I spit blood onto the ground and walk toward the trooper. He backpedals away, crab-like in the dirt, his high-pitched cry that of a cat.
This will be an easy hit.
Hands grab me from behind, arms encircling my body with a grip like stone. Mathok's voice in my ear says no. No, we can't do this. This is murder.
I'm struggling and twisting and screaming and yelling something about justice and my right and no witnesses and something else, I don't know what. They drag me away and Mathok's voice is telling me that it's alright, that it's over. Mathok half marches me, half carries me through the Inn to our room.
I tell him he's wrong. We can't leave witnesses. We'll be wanted for the murder of an Imperial officer. We have no choice but to hit them all. We have to hit them all!
No witnesses.
We stare at each other. He doesn't move. My breathing begins to slow.
Discipline.
Control.
Mathok runs his hand gently over my cheek, over the hot, raw flesh where I was slapped. He wipes blood from my face. He says, "I would have killed him for you."
I say, It was my hit.
He leans in and kisses me on my wounded cheek.
Only now do I notice that Prod is in the room, pressed up against the wall, wide eyes fixed on me, breathing hard. Useless as always.
I push Mathok away. Altus returns and says we've got to out of here in half an hour. The lancers are unconscious in an alleyway but any passer by could have sounded the alarm. People around this part of the town aren't usually in a hurry to tell the authorities things, but it was only a matter of time. Citizens, upon discovery of a crime, are legally required to raise a Hue and Cry.
And where the frell is Zoë?
Our gear is mostly already packed. We're out of there before any sign of the constabulary or imperials. Arns has to practically carry Prod.
When we come down Zoë is in the tavern talking to the owner. She sees us coming and drains the last of a big mug. I throw Zoë her little backpack.
She wipes a white, cream moustache from her upper lip. "Are you alright?" is the first thing out of her mouth.
I say, Yes, I think so. But there's been some trouble and we really have to rush.
"I know."
Collectively we kind of push Zoë out the door.
Zoë says, "I know. I think we have at least another hour or two before any one misses them. I told people here not to bother shuffling off to squeal. It's too late at night, I told them. And 'sides, who do they want to glum? The Lobsters who hate them anyway, and will be gone in a few days? Or the Fingersmiths' guild, who will be here forever?"
We run.
A narrowing crack of light between the doors of the town gates isn't a welcome sight. Everyone increases their pace without a word being spoken. Now there's just a solid black hole blocking our exit. The gates are closed every night at the tenth bell and we just missed the deadline.
We attempt to reason with the constabulary at the gate. The Chief Constable looks us up and down. He looks at the way our gear is packed, untidy, with bits sticking out of bags. He looks at our heavy breathing. He looks at our glances behind us.
I look at his worn, lined face. The long, thinning hair with grey streaks. There's a few small scars, an ancient tattoo on his forearm. This guy's been around. This guy's seen it all.
Where is a young, inexperienced commander of the watch when you need him?
There's a quiet consultation with another constable, who disappears into the darkness, heading back into town. The sound of a single pair of running feet fades away and the remaining constables stare at us.
We need to hit them. Quick, silent, clean. Hands drop to my tools and I'm about to take the first step when Mathok's arm wraps around my waist. Gentle but firm. I try to make eye contact but he's staring at something off to his side, away from me.
Arns looks at me then returns his attention to the constables.
No hitting it is then.
Now we're lead into a room at the base of one of the two towers aside the main gate. Altus tries to reason with the constables. They listen and nod and agree and do not take one step toward opening the gate. Arns starts to make rumbling noises in the back of his throat. Zoë stands with Altus, expanding on his arguments, smiling her biggest smile. The constables start to smile back at Zoë, but that's all. Mathok just stands near me. I stand with hands behind my back, so that the constables won't notices the dark scum under my fingernails. My hands rub together and tiny flakes of dried blood drop to the floor.
The phrase you're looking for is Caught Red-handed.
Shouts and cries sound outside. There's the pounding of many feet coming to a halt. Now the pounding is on the door. Cries sound, demanding we open up. A constable opens the heavy, wooden rectangle. There's lancers outside. They're demanding that we be handed over. We have to face Imperial justice. We have to be found tried, found guilty and executed by a proper court.
The crimson mob pushes forward, trying to get at us. The constables are driven back. The surge stops, at the chimes of metal against metal, blade on scabbard.
We stand, swords drawn and backs to the wall, and stare the mob down. The torchlight reflects off the shiny metal of their sabres, glinting and dancing as the steel moves. Instructions are passed among our group. Who is to watch who. Don't mind the wounded, keep fighting when someone goes down. Try to push them back, bottleneck them at the door. My hand is locked upon my sword, and I breathe through my nose to relax stiffened muscles.
Now the lancers pause and voices sound behind them. There's a loud debate. One voice rises above the others, demanding attention. A new constable strides into the room, shouldering lancers aside. His eyes run over the situation. Us, weapons drawn, facing a half-circle of the Empire's finest. Two groups eyeballing each other. Faces locked in animal snarls. Weapons changing guard positions. Individuals making small movements in and out, daring the other to attack.
"Master Constable?" says one of his men.
Voices on the verge of descending into animal howls try to explain their side of the story to him. The newcomer takes maybe five seconds before he acts. He marches straight between the two lines of sharpened steel and grabs me by the forearm.
What?! Hey, you can't just...
He says, "Katrin Dvor, I am hereby arresting you on suspicion of the murder of one of his Imperial Majesty's officers. You, and the rest of your group, will accompany me to the Keep. For questioning."
First thought amongst the chaos is, how does he know my name? Have I met this guy somewhere before? There's a flash of pain from shoulder to neck. My arm just about leaves its socket as he drags me toward the door. I stumble and try and get the breath back into my lungs. This guy is dragging off a suspect while she's still holding a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. And if he knows my name then he presumably knows what I am trained to do. My body moves with him and my mind tries to catch up.
Mathok yells out to me, my name turned into a distorted howl. The constable turns and repeats that we're going to the keep for questioning. "You're all under arrest."
There's heated debate outside with the growing circle of lancers. Black-clad constables face off with a red line of Imperials. Cries and shouts and demands for vengeance smother the senses. Spectators have gathered. The passion in the air tingles over my skin. My arm is pulled through the crowd and I follow it, trying hard to not stumble and cut the constable. That would be a bad look right now. The wall of coloured jackets parts for us, unsure of quite what to do in the face of the assured actions of the Master Constable.
Can't blame them, I don't know what to do either. Someone doesn't just step up and grab an Imperial hitter about to start working. They just don't.
The noise has died away. There almost silence as we're loaded into a wagon. A wagon with wooden walls and bars over the windows. The smell is of urine, sweet and cloying, and of the stale straw used to soak it up. Behind us the throng has mixed together, no longer black and red lines. A multi-coloured blob robbed of purpose, getting smaller and less distinct.
Continued in Chapter Four
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