Dangerous Games (8 page)

Not bad for an unarmed, one-handed barbarian against nine street toughs (or toughs and fops), but he couldn’t fight forever. If he could circle, kick, and punch clear to his sword, he’d reckon it a good night’s work.

Then light spilled around the corner like daylight, a half-dozen gasglobes lined with mirrors.

A commanding voice hollered, “Right! Everyone stay where you are! Hands in sight! We’re the city guard!”

In a city of madmen, Sunbright thought, this could be bad.

After the darkness, the glare was blinding, and Sunbright hunched one shoulder and turned away—though he still tracked the mob.

His guesses made in semidarkness proved true. The contrast between the street toughs and the fops was enormous. There were four street toughs: three men and a woman, and five young fops, two of them girls. The toughs wore cast-off clothing, ripped and ragged, work boots and clogs, though two were barefoot. They were tough as rawhide, sharp-boned and skinny as starved wolves after a long winter. They’d probably never had a decent meal in their lives. The fops had brocaded shirts, silk neckerchiefs, small, elegant hats with feathers or pearls, satin capes, tight breeches made of some material with a high sheen, and hand-crafted shoes of red or yellow leather. Perfumed, painted with eye makeup and face powder, with the softness of baby fat still upon them, they looked like mischievous children dressed up and let out to play.

Not everyone was upright. One thug lay on his back, his neck sheared by Harvester’s tip, his life’s blood a pool on the cobblestones. The drunken fop, the poor swordsman, lay groaning and clutching his chest where the girl had accidently punctured him. She squatted to comfort him, then nagged him for getting in her way. Others had walking wounds. Sunbright had scored half a dozen hits.

Yet the tundra dweller still couldn’t understand. Why would privileged brats hang with footpads? Surely they didn’t need the money: their clothing could have bought out a marketplace. Was this some perverted sort of bounty hunt?

The six city guards wore polished lobster-tail helmets, blue-green tabards, and metal breastplates adorned with the fancy K sigil. They carried short swords on their belts and silver-tipped clubs in their hands. Nor did he miss the braided red cords tucked into their belts: lashings for recalcitrant prisoners, no doubt.

“Weapons down, or you’re dead!” the captain of the guards bellowed. Clubs and knives clanked. But as the gasglobes illuminated the street, the officer refined his manner, became almost gentle. “Now, then. What’s all this?”

A fop in a yellow shirt and red cape spoke right up. “This beast attacked us! Look here, he’s stabbed Jules!”

The bald lie stunned Sunbright. He should have run when he had the chance. The guards surveyed the damage, dismissed the dead thug with a sniff, helped stem the bleeding of the punctured boy, and sent a young guard running for a stretcher. The captain stamped a foot on Harvester, studied Sunbright curiously, so much so that the barbarian wondered how many of his kind they saw in Karsus.

“You were just out walking with your friends,” the captain stated as if from memory, “and this rogue jumped you. Is that it?”

“Yes, exactly,” lied the boy. He sniffed, drew his cape closer, which made him sway drunkenly. He added, as if by rote, “We’d be obliged if you’d handle the matter, captain.” With no shame at all, he handed over a fat purse of blue velvet.

“What about these?” asked the captain, nodding at the three remaining thugs.

Another sniff. “Never saw them before. They were probably helping him, lying in wait for us, to rob us.”

“You hired us!” objected a scar-faced footpad. “You needed muscle for your hellraising! You ordered us to kick that bloke to death, and knock down that gnome—”

His words cut off as a silver-tipped club smashed his teeth in. He staggered back and another club crashed above his ear and felled him. Other guards waded in, taking turns smashing him down as if threshing wheat. The thug’s face was pulped to bloody gobbets. A fop turned and puked up her ale.

“Keep your place! Don’t argue with your betters!” chided the captain, though the thug was long dead by then. As he pocketed the purse, the officer addressed the fop. “My apologies, young master….”

“Hurodon,” snapped the lad, “son of Angeni of the House of Dreng in the Street of the Golden Willows.”

“Oh, yes, sir. I know that neighborhood well. Fine people live there. But down here the streets aren’t as safe as they should be, and it’s our fault. We’ll redouble our efforts from now on. Please don’t let this unpleasantness spoil your evening.”

“Certainly not!” laughed the fop. “The night is young, and we’ll have plenty of fun yet! Come on, friends!”

Prepared, the guards yanked the tired thugs’ hands behind their backs, lashed their wrists with the red cords, and shoved them to their knees. Two strong men arrived in light blue tabards that sported red K sigils, and they bundled the stricken Jules off on a stretcher.

“Wait!” Sunbright had been rendered speechless by this calumny, by so obvious a bribe, such a callous abuse of privilege by this fop, and such a barbarous beating, the most brutal he’d ever seen, on or off the battlefield. Now the objection was ripped from him. “You’d let these rich snots go free after they hired these thugs to kill people? What kind of blasphemous, decadent hole is this city—”

Words were useless. The fops pranced off, laughing with excitement and the joy of buying justice. The guards encircled Sunbright slowly, clubs bobbing in the air. Harvester lay in the street behind them. Sunbright had only a warhammer in his off hand, and a wounded right that throbbed as if a badger had gnawed it. The captain intoned, “Keep your place. Don’t argue with your betters,” platitudes to distract him. Clearly, they intended to beat him to death.

Just as clearly, he couldn’t defeat these canny killers in uniform. His brain raced for a defense. Instinctively, he grasped what he’d seen succeed moments before, when the fop invoked privilege.

“Captain, know that I’m a guest of Karsus.”

One guard snorted, but the captain paused. Obviously he didn’t know who Sunbright was. He spat, “Prove it, then.”

Gritting his teeth, Sunbright played the game. “I and another wizard named Candlemas were brought here from Castle Delia, by Karsus’s command, because we unearthed a shooting star. Karsus needs it for his experiments. We’re to give him information on finding the star. I’ve talked with one Seda, in his workshops. You can ask anyone there.”

“I know Seda,” muttered a guard. “From the House of Zee. She does work in Karsus’s close circle.”

Still unsure, the captain frowned. But the magical name had worked. He nodded toward the wider street beyond. “Very well, good sir. Go, and good luck to you. We apologize for any inconvenience.”

Wary as a cornered lion, Sunbright slid along the wall until clear of their semicircle. Slipping the warhammer into its holster, he watched the guards as he picked up Harvester and backed into the main street.

His precautions were unnecessary. The guards had already forgotten him and had fallen to other work. As the captain divvied up the bribe, two guards slipped the braided cords over the heads of the two surviving thugs. Their bleats were cut off as the garrotes snuggled tight. Bug-eyed, the unlucky street toughs strangled.

Sunbright cursed as he sped off down the street, bloody sword in hand, after a certain foppish wretch.

He had debts to pay.

Hurodon and his well-dressed friends whooped with delight, carolled songs, and hurled jokes as they cut through a park lined with trees and gasglobes. They aimed for a brightly-lit ale shop at the opposite corner, but were interrupted.

A thick bush at Hurodon’s elbow split open as if from a charging lion. A girl yelped, a boy cried out.

Sunbright Steelshanks burst from the foliage to grab Hurodon by the throat. The fop gargled as he was whipped off his feet and slammed against a rough-barked oak tree. His gang of friends dithered, drew their toy swords, yelled.

The barbarian’s harsh cough cut them off. “Attack me, or call out, and I’ll snap his neck!” He was panting from his quick run around vast blocks to get ahead of the party. His right hand, still numb, was tucked in his belt. He only needed one hand to tame this bunch.

Yet looking at them, he couldn’t follow through on his plan, which was to kill them all. Certainly they deserved to die for their casual cruelty. They’d killed their hired thugs as surely as the guards had. But they were young and raised wrong, like puppies let loose to become wild dogs. Perhaps they could learn.

Hurodon hissed, “Let me go, you filthy muckraker, or I’ll have you—”A squeeze cut off his wind.

In the lout’s face, Sunbright rasped, “You sneaking milk-sucker! You nest-robber! You cache-thief!” Sunbright’s tundra-born insults were lost on the boy, but not the berserker’s intent. “You were born wrapped in sable! You think you can buy people’s lives with your filthy coin?”

“I’ll buy your death!” gasped the boy. “You’ll be roasted over—”

Sunbright let go just long enough to backhand the boy, whose head snapped around so hard his ear was torn by rough bark. Then he was clamped and throttled again.

“You’ll need to buy a new nose once I slice yours off and throw it to the dogs!” Sunbright assured him.

Never before manhandled, and always given what he wanted immediately, the boy blundered on, “You’re a ghost, underling! My family will see you—”

This time Sunbright smashed him in the mouth hard enough to knock out a front tooth. Choking him again, so blood and makeup ran from the boy’s mouth onto the barbarian’s wrist, Sunbright shouted, “I’ll knock out every tooth and then cut out your lying tongue!”

Finally, the boy was scared. Before, Hurodon couldn’t imagine anyone hurting him, and now he realized that Sunbright was going to kill him then and there. But it was too late for Sunbright to kill him now, for the barbarian had decided to talk instead. Maybe he could teach this petty thug a lesson in honor. “Now, fish guts, for once in your miserable life you’ll listen!”

Hurodon got the message. Mouth swollen and bleeding, he whimpered, “All right. But don’t hit me again.”

Sunbright was sickened both by his own actions and this poor excuse for a human. Yet he bore down. “You—and you lot too—you get yourselves back to the Street of the Golden Willows and you stay there! You’re worse than those backstabbing blackguards you hired for your hellraising and left to die. They’ve been punished—at your behest—while you’ve gone on to more mischief. But you’re lower than they, for you betrayed them, and that’s the worse crime!”

Hurodon wiggled, and Sunbright shook him like a rat. Some of his friends couldn’t meet Sunbright’s glare.

The barbarian continued, “No longer. If I ever see any of you out after sunset again, I’ll slit your throats and drop you off this mountain. Understand?”

“Yes,” some of them murmured. Hurodon dripped warm blood on Sunbright’s hand. He dropped the stripling onto the tree roots and, without another word, stalked off into the darkness.

His words were bluster, of course. He had no intention of tracking these dung beetles. But they’d sleep uneasily for a while, and might curb their ruthless hellraising in the future.

But not all. From far behind came Hurodon’s mushy wail. “I’ll get you! I’ll see you dead! And all your family dead! I’ll buy the finest assassins in the empire!”

Sunbright only shook his head. “Karsus’s finest assassins and its finest youth,” he said to himself. “This empire is naught but a rotten melon infested with insects. One good kick would crush it. And will.”

He was more angry with himself than with the spoiled brats. This city life was infecting him, making him grow soft, for he’d committed the second-worst crime a barbarian knew.

He’d left an enemy alive.

Passing the narrow street where he’d fought, Sunbright paused a moment in curiosity.

The city guards had been efficient, at least. They’d laid the four bodies of the thugs at the head of the street, neatly in a line, heads out, even the pulped head of the man they’d beaten to death.

A bony mule hauling a longsided wagon clomped to a stop near them. An old man and woman, both wearing gasglobe helmets, got out. Together they dragged the bodies and heaped them in the cart. The red lamp of the alehouse glowed as bloodily as before, and the noise from inside it was just as loud.

“What are you doing?” Sunbright asked.

“Eh?” The old man tilted his head. Sunbright asked again, louder. “Oh. Cleanup crew, milord. The local waste buckets are too small to swallow a body. We have ‘ta take ‘em to a locked room and drop ‘em down there.”

“Waste buckets? Locked room?”

The old man peered, as if to ask: where are you from? But he minded his betters. “Yes, milord. The city guard don’t want no one stuffin’ folks down the garbage chutes. So we take ‘em to a locked stoneroom and slide ‘em down there. The magic eats ‘em up, makes more magic. Nothing left.”

Sunbright still didn’t understand how magic “ate one up,” but it didn’t surprise him the empire would feed on magic generated by its dead. A form of cannibalism, he reckoned it.

“Do you do this every night?”

“Eh? Oh, yes, milord. All night, every night. But we gotta be off the streets by sunrise or the straw bosses scream. But me and Mandisa, we’re slow, but steady. Still, we gotta be off soon…”

“Why soon?”

“Oh,” the man avoided his eyes, fussed with the dead men and woman in the cart. The old woman shuffled slowly, helmet lamp making a white blob bounce on the ground, and sorted through the trash on the street for anything valuable. “Some nights the city’s more boisterous than others, is all. There’s what, nineteen cleanup crews, all told. We’re busy, but glad for the work.”

Sunbright supposed they were. This man looked as starved as the bodies he’d loaded onto his cart. He didn’t understand what “boisterous” might mean, but a casual comment had arrested his attention. “Nineteen teams work all night, every night, just to pick up corpses?”

“Aye, milord. ‘Course, that’s just the poor ‘uns, you understand. Strangers or folks no one cares to give a funeral to. Good families take care of their own, of course. Some of ‘em are even buried down on the ground, I hear tell. Now look at that, ain’t that curious?” He took hold of a white object suspended around one tough’s neck and broke the thong. Peering, waggling his head lamp, he still couldn’t see, so he handed it to the barbarian. “What is that, good sir?”