Broken Crossroads (Knights of the Shadows Book 1) (16 page)

“How’d he feel about you not keeping up your end?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not like you’ve given up thievery for honest work,” said Conn.

“I chose to interpret his warning as
‘don’t get caught again.’
and that,” she said, “is a promise I’ve kept.”

* * *

Niath’s smile faded as he left the restaurant. The girl was a criminal, no question, but she had a sense of…well, of
style
if not of honor. There were depths she wouldn’t stoop to. And she wouldn’t run. The city ran through her blood as much as it did his. She’d stay. And she’d probably come around to realizing the danger, and she’d want to stop it.

But she’d want to do it her way. The only damn way she ever did anything.

The sergeant grunted, reluctantly accepting that he couldn’t press those two the way he normally did his sources. Had to keep a light hand and let them work.

While they looked for information he couldn’t find, he had to decide how to keep the city on an even keel. To see the ripples below the surface that told of the jagged rocks and steer around them.

He had to think. Not act.

He really hated that. When every instinct screamed for him to throw some filthy drunken streetrat against a wall and hit him, then keep on hitting far past the point where it was productive, it was hard to maintain his composure, keep his head.

He had to, though. The city really was depending on him this time. Nobody else was committed. The people who could fix this mess were all chasing their own petty goals, ignoring the fact that the whole place was teetering on the edge of the abyss. Letting it slide for short term gain had become so ingrained, so second nature to people that they didn't even think about it.

But it had slid too far. Laimrig didn't have space to slide any more. Once, when it had been high, and there had been room to fall without crashing, the people who should have known better began skimming the till more than minding the store, and they'd never been able to kick the habit. The Baron was focused on his tarts, the Commander of the Watch on currying favor with the palace, trying to edge his way into a title, the merchants were all striving to get contracts to supply the war, because it was easy to overcharge the Crown. All fighting over the top places on a sinking ship and nobody lifting a bucket to bail.

The nobility alone propped up the Baron's rule out of respect for blood, but that could only go on…

…until they felt the sting of misrule. When the nobs saw the Baron failing them, he'd have to go. And now all the manpower of the Watch was off chasing what Niath knew in his bones to be bad leads. Looking for a bit of kidnapped crumpet in the slave districts. Far, far from the noble quarter.

Normally, that wouldn't matter. The nobs all had their own hired swords, and there never was any street crime there.

But now. If the high and mighty felt the sting of disorder, while the Watch was on this doxy hunt…

He swore and spun on his heel, heading toward the Heights. He'd collect Watchmen on the way, the Commander be damned.

* * *

Conn stepped out the front door of his school as the sound of an angry mob rose in the street. Soon, a dozen men came in view, each brandishing a club or staff. He recognized several from his classes.

“Rayl!” he called out, “What's this foolishness?”

Rayl, seeming a bit embarrassed to be singled out managed a belligerent reply. “We had enough o' the Watch ignorin' their duty. We're formin' a militia to take care of this ourselves.”

Conn leaned against the doorpost, carefully looking over the group, a crooked smile on his lips. “So you call this a militia, then, do you?”

“And what would you call it?” asked Rayl, glaring and clutching his staff.

“A flock of lambs to the slaughter,” Conn replied, his tone still light. “What do you think the Baron's going to do when he sees an armed company, however loosely we define it, here in his city? You don't think he'll send in troops to deal with you? I know you think you're just doing this to defend yourselves, but rulers get a bit hasty and unreasonable about armed bands that aren't under their control. Being the only one left standing with an armed band is what made ‘em rulers in the first place.”

“Let him send troops!” shouted a man near the back of the pack. “We're armed.”

It’s always one near the back of the pack,
thought Conn. “Lad, you lot wouldn’t last half a minute.”

Angry muttering ran through the crowd.

“Is that so?” demanded Rayl.

“It is and you know it.” Conn looked at the men and sighed. “Fine. I'll make you a deal. I was a soldier, and despite being the worse for age and drink, I'll meet the best of you. If I win, you go home and I'll work on helping teach you to protect yourselves without bringing the regiments down on you. You win, I'll join your merry band and follow orders like a good soldier.”

Conn watched the challenge work its magic. He saw the emotions play across Rayl's face. The man knew this was a bad idea, but he had the choice of fighting or admitting he was afraid to fight, and what soldier will follow a leader afraid to fight? That was the thing about command. You couldn't just do the smart thing and not answer, because then you'd lose face, and your men wouldn't listen. You had to let the silly dominance dance play out.

“As you like,” said Rayl. “Get yourself a staff.”

Conn grinned as he picked up a staff from the rack inside his studio and walked back out into the street. The crowd had cleared the cobbles to give the fighters room. Rayl held his staff in a close guard, his left hand near the middle of the weapon, his right far back so most of the staff's length was toward his foe. His face was a mask of grim determination. Conn gave him a smile and a wink.

“Just say when, lad.”

“Now's good,” the man replied tersely.

Conn came on guard with his left foot forward, the left hand tip of his staff pointed aggressively forward. He advanced, jabbing the end of his weapon at the man's face. Rayl parried with his own weapon, giving back a step. The mercenary repeated the jab twice more, setting up a pattern. When he thrust for the fourth time, Rayl moved his staff in the expect block, but Conn stepped forward with his right foot, whipping the back end of his staff around to whack Rayl's hand.

The man let go of the staff with his injured hand, shaking his bruised fingers and backpedaling. Conn sprang forward, slapping down on the weaving end of his enemy's staff. With only one hand to hold it, Rayl couldn't prevent the end of the weapon from being knocked to the ground. Conn advanced, stepping on the end of Rayl's weapon, and thrust his own staff into the man's chest.

It was a gentle push, as such things go, intended to shove the man backwards away from his weapon more than injure him. As he staggered back, Conn kicked the man’s dropped staff up into the air and caught it in his left hand. He spun the staves — one in each hand — before assuming an exotic and threatening stance.

Conn knew quite well that there was no earthly way to wield two staves, at least no way to do it very well, but the important point was that the crowd probably didn't know he couldn't, and it certainly looked flashy and impressive. The more afraid they were of real soldiers, the less chance they take to the streets to get cut down by them.

“So, learned anything today, did you?” he tossed Rayl's staff back to him. “No shame, lad. You go home. If you all come back an hour after sunset I'll teach you enough to keep the pickpockets and footpads at bay. There's not enough hours in a year to teach you how to face armored soldiers.”

* * *

Lady dal'Aran and her companion, the young Viscount dal'Tirel made their way back from the d'Avercs' soiree. She sent the coach home early, choosing to take the romantic starlit stroll through the Emerald Gardens. The ancient park was walled and gated, carefully tended and groomed for the aristocrats of the city. It had been planned centuries ago, when the city was at the height of its prosperity, a major trade port, a cross roads of the kingdom, before war and misfortune had sapped its glory.

The park remained magnificent. The initiates of Lorana, the goddess of growth and fertility, maintained a shrine and an order there, tending the gardens as part of their duties. It was the jewel in the crown of the church, the showpiece for the hierarchy, a place to entice well-born families to donate treasures and send spare offspring to take holy orders in a way the simple but more practical shrines in rural farming villages never could.

Despite the unrest in the lower quarters of the city, the young lovers felt no fear. This was the private reserve of the aristocracy.

So when the men emerged from the shadows of the stately elms, threw her down and tore off her jewels, she was too surprised even to scream. The Viscount, like all young noblemen, was brave and armed, so he reacted instantly, drawing his finely balanced dueling sword and coming
en garde
without recourse to thought. Poised lightly on the balls of his feet, he sized up the lady's assailants, his form flawless.

A fact which the men behind him probably failed to appreciate as they stepped out from hiding and struck simultaneously at his knee and sword arm with rude cudgels.

The young man dropped his blade and fell to his knees. He resolutely reached for his dagger, but one of his attackers deftly circled behind the injured youth and kicked him in the kidney. He fell to the ground, absorbed a few more kicks, then rolled over and vomited.

When he could focus his vision, he saw the young lady weeping, holding her torn gown closed at her breasts, her hair disheveled where the jeweled combs had been roughly torn away. He crawled to her and put an arm around her as she sobbed.

Only then did he notice they had stolen his sword.

* * *

Conn walked back into his school, placed the staff back in its rest.

“Nicely done,” said Trilisean. “More flourish than I’m used to seeing from you, but it sold the point very well.”

“If I was trying to hurt him, I’d have been faster and less showy,” said Conn. “The point was to impress him. Not cripple him and have to impress his replacement.”

“Such forward thinking is so refreshing in a warrior,” she said.

“Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Thank you.”

“Help yourself to some wine,” he said, noting the glass in her hand.

“You could try hiding the bottle,” she said.

“That would stop you?”

“No, but it would make it more fun.”

“So what brings you here tonight? Other than my fine taste in wine.”

“I’ve been thinking about the good sergeant’s problem.”

“Any insights?”

Trilisean put down her glass, ran a hand through her hair and swore.

“It doesn't make sense.”

“What doesn't?”

“I should have seen it.”

“Seen what?”

“All those nice contract jobs I’ve been getting lately? The scores paid too well.”

“Didn't think those words were in your vocabulary.” Conn grinned. “How should they have paid?”

“Let's say you want something that someone else has,” she said.

“And he's bigger than I am, and I can't afford to buy it or seduce the maid into leaving the back door open?”

“Yes. Let's say you want something owned by a big man who employs a lot of guards and a maid with good taste.”

“So I find a nasty, bitter, contrary woman with disreputable skills–”

“Finely honed disreputable skills.”

“Of course.”

“And you agree to pay such an artist to retrieve the item, avoiding the big man and his guards.”

“And the judgmental maid. Let's not forget her.”

“The talented thief probably recognizes the maid's keen eye for true worth and takes her on as an apprentice,” she continued. “But sticking to the point, what you pay the thief should be in proportion to the value of the item.”

“Stands to reason. Of course, the closer it's guarded the more I'd expect to pay.”

“Naturally. That's why those of us who are very good at this can make the big scores. It's why I didn't question the payout.”

“Because you're worth it?”

“Because I'm worth it,” she agreed.

“However…”

“However, on closer examination, the risks and the payouts are far too high for the haul. Once in a while somebody will pay far more than something is worth, generally because it's personal. But not as often as this.”

“It's a shame there are so few grudges in the world.”

“And the attacks make even less sense,” she pressed on, ignoring him. “Look at Moread. Hustling cards is a good, steady income. Not the most money you can make, but it's low risk and you can survive on it. Instead, somebody has convinced him to take up mugging. That never ends well.”

“So who benefits?”

She shook her head. “That's not the way to go after this. Lots of people would like to see a change. Somebody's gone past wishing. Whoever is giving the orders is spending a lot of money to buy chaos.”