Hope and Red (47 page)

“Not really,” Kacha said. Vocho didn't like the way her finger was twitching on the what-d'you-call-it – trigger, was it? The thing that made the gun go bang anyway. “Everything, that's what we're going for. Now out, all of you. And anyone looks like they're trying anything, this gun tends to go off at a moment's notice. So do I. And blood is such a trial to get out of silk, isn't it?”

Egimont sighed as though he was suffering a great trial for a mere triviality and feigned defeat, though knowing the preening mountebank Vocho didn't believe it for a moment. The door opened and they trooped out. Three men, one so drunk he could hardly stand, but not so drunk he couldn't be sick, which he managed to do all over the pale-haired fellow, who was pretty damned drunk himself. Two women not, how could Vocho put this? Not of the same class. Underfed, underdressed. Women who were most certainly of his own original station – wretched and plebeian, just trying to earn enough to eat the only way they could. Vocho leaned over the pommel of his saddle, sword out and ready in case these fools weren't as drunk as they looked.

“You ladies may go. If you're quick, the inn'll still be open.”

They didn't need telling twice – a quick glance of agreement between them and they hared up the muddy road without a backwards glance. Pale Hair looked after them forlornly. “But I already
paid
!” he wailed to no one, or no one who cared anyway.

Kacha looked up at the driver, who silently spread his hands as if to say,
These posh sods deserve everything they get
. He was still waggling his eyebrows and mouthing something, but what with the dark and the rain, Vocho couldn't catch it.

“You keep an eye on him,” Kacha said to Vocho with a nod to the driver. Her horse grabbed at the ruffles on the front of Egimont's shirt and started to munch with much apparent delight and flashing of big teeth. Vocho would have sworn it understood the concept of intimidation, though good luck to it trying to get a rise out of the imperturbable Eggy.

“And now, gentlemen, if you'd like to empty your pockets.” Kacha was enjoying this, Vocho could tell by the undertone in her voice even as she tried to disguise it. Payback for whatever had happened between her and Eggy, which had left her bad-tempered or alternately silent and dreaming for weeks.

A gun waved in front of them seemed to get them going. Eggy threw two purses into the mud, both clinking heavily. “Go on, Berie,” he said. “And get Flashy's too.”

Three more purses, all full. Not bad, not bad at all. At a signal from Kacha, Vocho leaped down from his horse, and that's where it all went wrong.

Kacha's evil sod of a horse took exception to Eggy's face and made a grab for it. Eggy wasn't as drunk as he looked, jumped back half a pace and snatched at the sword at his waist. Kacha wasn't drunk at all, but the horse's sudden lunge caught her off guard. The gun fired, there was a bang that seemed like it might take Vocho's ears off, followed by a brief, gurgling moan. Flashy held up a hand with a hole in it, and promptly stopped being drunk and started being passed out at about the same time he fell into the mud.

“Aw, shit,” Kacha said, but she didn't get any further. Eggy had his sword out – despite the rest of his foppish appearance, it was a good if plain sword, well used – and went for her, smooth as well-oiled gears, looking as effortless as ever. Berie tried the same with his flash and glitter sword, got it tangled up in his scabbard, tripped over his own feet and ended up face first in the mud next to Flashy, only less passed out.

Then things got really bad. A tinny feel to the air. The smell of burned blood. The two things together seemed very familiar, but Vocho couldn't place from where. The hairs on his neck and arms rose. Burned blood… what did that remind him of? And then it came to him that he was deep in the shit. Who burned blood? Magicians, that's who. What the hells was one doing here? There hadn't been one in the kingdom for years, not since the prelate gained power and had them killed or chased out for being against his careful, orderly new clockwork plan for the country. Which didn't explain why the smell seemed familiar.

Time for that later. He had to take out these men before the suspected magician still in the carriage caused carnage. He planted one foot on Berie's prone back, with a softish kick to the head to keep him there, and swivelled.

Kacha was off the horse by now – was it Vocho or was that evil thing grinning? – and stood, ready and waiting for Eggy to come on. The stupid gun was still in her off hand, and as Vocho turned she flung it at Eggy, catching him a great crack across the forehead that made him stagger back, feet slipping in the mud.

Even Vocho had to admit that Egimont was a fine duellist, but Kacha had the measure of him and a grudge besides. Vocho took half a heartbeat to see her slip under his guard and then left her to it. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that his sister could take care of herself.

He wasn't so sure he could, not against a magician. About as rare as rocking-horse shit they were, or had been. Now they were non-existent in Reyes. Just about all he knew was that they were as powerful as kings, which is perhaps why the prelate hated them so much. He'd heard of a man fried where he stood, turned to ash with not even the chance to flinch. Time to be seriously careful, but Vocho had never been a careful man. When he won, which was always, however he could, he did it with speed and above all
style
.

Only he'd never actually faced a magician. He'd never even seen one, only heard tales. Fuck it, you only lived once.

The inside of the carriage smelled of burned blood and infamy. It was no wonder Kacha hadn't seen the man, magician or not – he was in the far corner, dressed in flowing midnight blue, cloak, robe and hood fading into the shifting shadows of a dark and rainy night. His face was a pale, scarred smudge against the window and naggingly familiar. The faint suggestion of blood on his hands was the only new clue to what he was. Vocho's scant consolation was that if he was a magician, he needed blood to draw on to power his spells and there wasn't any handy. Except his own or Vocho's, but he had no intention of letting anyone get blood on his clothes.

During all the business outside – Vocho could hear the click and clang of blades, and Kacha flinging barbed insults that the stoic and ever-so-noble Egimont wouldn't deign to answer – the magician would have had time to prepare. He didn't seem drunk like the rest; in fact he seemed distressingly alert.

Vocho approached, blade ready in the Icthian style. Free form and ready for anything seemed best at this point, and besides it was his favourite. He advanced slowly but not especially carefully – his forte was the sudden, impulsive move that was frowned on in the guild but would also catch his opponent off guard.

The magician, if that's what he truly was, held up his bloodstained hands in a gesture that looked like a yield. Vocho didn't trust it for a second. Another step forward and his blade hovered over the man's throat.

“My money or a hole in my head, I understand,” the man said. Odd sort of accent, sort of hard and sibilant at the same time, the voice soft but with a crackling undertone that shivered all the hairs on Vocho's neck.

“That's the idea,” Vocho said and arranged his feet so he'd have the perfect balance should he need to thrust. He'd never been one for killing for killing's sake, but he'd not shy away if it was necessary. And a magician – it could be
very
necessary, if he wanted to live out the night. “What have you got? No, no dipping in your own pockets, thanks. I'm a thief not an idiot.”

The magician inclined his head in agreement. “So I see. I have nothing that would be of any value to you, I assure you. A few papers, the clothes I wear. Quills and pens and scalpels for my work, you understand.”

A quick movement of his hand that drew Vocho's eye, a hand scarred beyond belief but in a bizarrely beautiful sort of way. Dark patterns flowed across knuckles, symbols etched there by who-knew-what sorcery. They seemed to move on their own, those patterns, a flow that took the eye and caught the brain, made him follow them like a starving dog following its master. An itch started between Vocho's shoulder blades, familiar and yet not, and turned to a burn.

“Nothing for you,” the magician said. “Except I may have to kill you. With the utmost regret, of course.”

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