Among Thieves

Chapter Twenty-seven

Iron surged past me, closing the distance between himself and Degan faster than I would have thought possible for such a large man. Degan caught the movement a fraction of a second later and began to draw his sword, but I could already see it was going to be too late. Damn, I had distracted him. Degan’s blade still wasn’t clear of its scabbard when Iron reached him.

Iron had come on empty-handed, opting for speed over carnage. Now, his left hand clamped on to Degan’s right, stopping the draw in midmotion. At the same time, Iron’s right fist connected with Degan’s jaw, sending his head rocking back. Three more savage punches followed with smooth, precise rhythm-head, throat, stomach. Degan rolled with them as best he could, bending his body and shifting his shoulders and hips. This moved him enough to make the last two punches go wide, so that they skidded along his shoulder and ribs instead of crippling him.

People near us were starting to shout now, some pushing to get away, others struggling to move in and get a better view.

My right hand instinctively went to my rapier even as I skipped two steps back to clear space for the draw. Then I stopped myself.

Who exactly did I want to help here?

Iron was pulling his arm back for another swing when Degan twisted his body, bringing his left hand toward the other degan’s face. Iron bobbed his head back. Degan’s hand sailed past, and I saw Iron begin to smile. That was when Degan’s elbow followed through and hit Iron’s face with an audible crack.

The two men came apart, Iron staggering back from the blow, Degan using the moment to wrench his hand free from the other’s grip. Then the steel came out.

Now the crowd surged as one, trying to get away from the bared blades. Merchants who had started announcing special fight prices now yelled for the Rags instead. Prigs and Palm Getters, who had begun maneuvering in for a choice lift, instead grabbed whatever spoils they could and faded away before things got truly dangerous.

And still I stood, hand on my own steel, unmoving. Try as I might, I couldn’t persuade myself to step into the fight. I didn’t care about Iron per se-he was just muscle, here to make sure I kept my end of the bargain. It was what he represented that gave me pause-my agreement with Solitude, the future of the empire, the security of my sister, and my own safety as well. If I helped cut him down, all of that went away. And, to be honest, I wasn’t ready to break yet another promise so soon after making it-that wound was still too raw.

Except I had a promise to keep with Degan, too. No, not a promise-an Oath. One he took so seriously, he had fought Shadow to keep up his end. Could I do any less? Could I look him in the eye and tell him my word to Solitude was any more valid than his promise to me? Hell, this was Degan-was any promise more important than the one I had made to him?

Son of a bitch. If only it weren’t the journal; if only it weren’t the empire.

And still, damn me, I hesitated.

Degan and Iron moved farther away from each other and began circling, slowly. Degan’s sword was longer than Iron’s by a good hand span, but Iron’s looked to be heavier and had a slight curve to it. Like Degan’s, its guard was chased in the metal of his name, steel wrought with cold iron in a flowing, arabesque pattern.

I took another step back. Until I knew what I was going to do, I wanted to keep well away.

Degan reached up to feel his jaw, shifting it back and forth in his hand. He chuckled and spit blood.

“Did I loosen anything?” asked Iron. Degan’s elbow had split the skin on his cheek. It was ragged and bleeding.

“Just the stones in my head,” said Degan, smiling. “My teeth are all there.”

“You’re slipping, to let me get in that close, lad.”

“Everyone gets one for free-that was yours.”

Iron shrugged and took a small step forward. His blade slid a hand’s breadth to the left. Degan countered by rotating the guard of his sword out and shifting his hips. Iron studied Degan for a heartbeat, then backed away.

“I remember that move from down in Byanthia,” said Iron. “You used it against the duke’s captain of the guard, didn’t you?”

“The duke himself, actually,” said Degan. Then, before the words had fully unfolded in the air, he was moving. Degan’s feet became a blur, his sword a line of silver fire in the dying sunlight. Two quick steps and Degan’s blade was inches from Iron, coming in a furious arc toward his shoulder. At the last moment, Degan compassed a small circle in the air with his sword’s tip, turning the cut into a sudden, rising thrust.

Iron stepped back and dropped to one knee. His sword came up, catching Degan’s blade along its edge. Steel hissed on steel as Degan’s point slid over Iron’s head. Then their guards met with a clang.

They were in close now; perfect dagger range, I noted, except neither of them had one to hand. Instead, Degan rammed his knee into Iron’s chest even as Iron slammed the pommel of his sword down on Degan’s opposite thigh, just above the other knee. Degan yelled, Iron gasped, and both men collapsed to the cobbles.

Degan moved first, rolling onto his hands and knees and levering himself upward. He met my eyes as he did, glanced at the sack he’d been carrying, then at me again.

I looked at the sack. It was amorphous enough to be anything. Had he already gotten what I’d come to fetch, to make sure I’d keep my end of the bargain? Was the journal in the bag, lying out in the middle of the street?

Unfortunately, there was only one way to be sure.

Iron was up and in an easy crouch as I began to move forward. Despite his gasping for air, his sword assumed a rock-solid high guard almost of its own accord. He glanced at me, then turned his full attention to Degan. Degan was on his feet now, obviously favoring the leg Iron had struck.

The sack lay directly between them.

“Leave it for now, little Nose,” said Iron. Deep breath. “Plenty of time later.”

“It’s his property,” said Degan.

Iron chuckled and took another breath. “That sure of your hold on him, are you?” he said. “He’s given his word twice over, now, brother-both to you and to Solitude. Which one do you think he’ll favor?”

Degan frowned. “Take the sack, Drothe,” he said.

I have to admit, I was mildly surprised. It was good to know Degan had that much faith in me; that, or he figured he could just take it back again if he changed his mind.

“Leave it be,” said Iron more forcefully. “Let it distract him.”

I looked from one degan to another. “The hell with this,” I said. I took my hand off my rapier and strode forward.

That was my first mistake.

Degan sprang to his left and stepped forward, using my body to shield himself from Iron’s view. It would only provide a moment of cover, but for a degan, that would likely be enough.

Iron, for his part, shot to his feet, spinning in the opposite direction. As he turned, he switched his sword to his left hand, so that when he faced me again, he was able to redirect the momentum into a full-out lunge, blade already extended.

I started to back away from the lunge, when I felt a hand in the middle of my back. “Don’t,” said Degan in my ear. Then Iron’s blade was arcing around my arm, its curve letting it slide past and come in at Degan at the same time.

I heard a grunt and the scrape of metal on metal behind me. Iron’s face was less then three feet from my own, and I saw him clench his jaw. Then he was lurching forward into me.

To say I bounced off him would be putting it mildly. His body connected with mine and propelled me away as if I’d been thrown. At the same time, I felt Degan’s hand shoving me, so that when I came to rest on the street, I was a good three to four paces away from them.

I rolled over and saw Degan with his free hand locked on Iron’s wrist. He must have reached around me and grabbed it when Iron lunged. Iron was turning, trying to keep Degan’s body between himself and the other’s sword, even as Degan twisted and levered down on his wrist.

I looked away, scanning the street. There, five feet to my left, was the sack.

I practically fell over myself in my haste to get to it. I wanted to ask Degan how he had gotten the journal, ask Mendross what had possessed him to give it to Degan in the first place, but all that could wait. Right now, I just wanted to get my hands on the damn thing so I could get rid of it.

Except when I picked up the sack, I knew the journal wasn’t in there. The heft was all wrong, and the mass inside too malleable when I lifted the canvas. Whatever was in there wasn’t a book.

I reached in and gingerly pulled out a coil of knotted rope. Each knot had a small scrap of paper tied into it, and around each knot, I knew, though I couldn’t see them, was tied a single strand of my hair.

Somehow, Degan had gone back after his fight with Shadow and retrieved the rope Jelem had made for me. That, or he had actually managed to pick it up without setting it off when he came after me. Either way, it couldn’t have been easy.

Damn, but he was making this hard.

I heard a yell, followed by a flurry of sword strikes so quick they nearly blurred into a single, continuous noise. I looked up, ready to move.

Degan was pushing Iron back with a relentless array of cuts and thrusts, his blade whistling in the air before him. It was stunning; I’d never seen a sword move with that much speed and accuracy at the same time. Every action was precise, every attack flowing into the next with flawless efficiency. There wasn’t a hint of uncertainty in any of it.

And Iron met each attack just as flawlessly, parrying Degan’s blade the exact amount needed to keep it from touching him, but no more. Iron’s defense never faltered, be it blade or body or foot-he was exactly where he needed to be to not get hit. But none of his counters worked, either. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t turn Degan’s attacks back against him.

It was a beautiful, daunting display. The only problem was, it was bringing them right toward me.

I hopped back two paces and was just deciding which way to leap when Iron suddenly stepped off to one side, practically turning his back to Degan even as he thrust his sword toward him. Degan bent his torso back and tried to step off as well, but not before Iron’s blade slid along the top of his right arm. Degan’s free hand slapped the sword away, revealing a long, shallow cut along his right shoulder and biceps.

The two men stepped apart and regarded one another. Then they began circling again.

My stomach lurched at the sight of Degan’s wound even as my head recoiled at the thought of giving the book to him. Hell and damn.

I glanced at the bazaar around me as I coiled the rope and slipped it into my belt. Most of the crowd had dispersed, although there were enough people hanging back on the edges for someone to be making book on the fight. There was even a water seller moving through the crowd with his spouted pot.

I made my way around the edge of the fighting, trying to stay out of range of the degans while keeping my distance from the gawkers as I hurried back toward Mendross’s stall.

The fruit seller had taken up a position before his partly broken-down stall, a solid-looking staff in his hands. Not a single fig was going to go missing if he had anything to say about it. Then I showed up, and his produce was forgotten.

“Degans?” he said, practically sputtering. “Degans are fighting over the book you gave me? The book you said no one would be looking for here?”

“I didn’t think it would come to this,” I said.

Mendross took a step forward, brandishing his staff for emphasis. “I heard the name ‘Shadow,’ Drothe. And ‘Solitude.’ Those are names I don’t like hearing!”

“Join the club,” I said. I stepped into his stall. Mendross hesitated a moment, then moved his staff aside.

“I want that book out of my stall,” said Mendross. “Now.”

“Do I look like I came over here to argue about it?” I said.

Mendross turned on his heel and shoved the curtain aside. “Spyro!” he yelled. The boy’s head popped up from behind an opened sack of dates. His hair was mussed and his eyes only half open.

“Sometimes I think you’d sleep through the Angels’ Descent, boy,” snapped Mendross. “Get out there and make sure no one steals the stall.” Spyro didn’t quite fall over himself on the way out, but it was a close thing.

I followed Mendross through the curtain, glancing over my shoulder as I did. The two degans had come to grips again, each holding the other’s sword arm with his free hand. Iron was pushing Degan backward toward a brass seller’s stall, while Degan was busy trying to shift his weight and spin Iron into the stall instead. The curtain fell to block my view, and an instant later I heard the crash and clatter of a hundred incense burners and lamp holders being knocked to the ground. I wondered who had ended up against the table. Instead of looking, I turned back to Mendross.

The fruit seller was unceremoniously dumping a basket of figs out onto the floor. From the bottom toppled a cloth-wrapped bundle.

“Here.” Mendross unwrapped the journal and held it out to me. “I don’t want to know,” he said as I took it. “Ever. Understand?”

I gave him a wry smile. “Trust me-I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Hmm,” he said. “Two days ago, I might have-”

We were interrupted by Spyro thrusting his head around in the edge of the curtain.

“Father!” he nearly shouted. His eyes were fully open. The significance of this fact was not lost on either of us. “You have to come out here!”

It was then I noticed the silence. There were no sounds of combat.

I dashed through the curtain, nearly knocking Spyro down in the process. I took two steps toward the street and stopped.

Degan and Iron were both standing in the middle of the square, weapons drawn, breathing heavily. Brass ware of every imaginable shape lay scattered about them, dully reflecting the day’s last light.

Neither man was paying much attention to the other; instead, they were staring out at what was left of the surrounding crowd. Or, to be more specific, at the dozen or more men and women who had stepped out of the crowd, their weapons drawn.

At first, I thought they were Rags come to settle the disturbance. Then I noticed that the nearest one wasn’t wearing a red sash; instead, she had a barely visible, dirty gold strip of cloth tied about her arm.

War colors. Nicco’s war colors. Oh, damn.

I was taking a reflexive step back when a deep bass voice I recognized boomed out across the street. It still had the power to freeze me in my tracks.

“I’ve got you now, you crossing little bastard!” thundered Nicco. Off to my right, the crowd parted, and the Upright Man stepped into the open space before the stalls.

At first I thought the war had been taking its toll on Nicco, what with his puffy eyes, tangled hair, and unkempt clothes-he looked as if he’d been dragged out of bed. Then I noticed Rall’ad standing behind him, and realized it was very likely the case.

The fish vendor saw me looking at him, smirked, and slipped back a little farther into the crowd.

Crossing little bastard; I’d sear his face on his own grill if I got out of this.

“It’s going to be painful for you, Drothe,” said Nicco, opening and closing his fists at his side. “So painful.” He looked away before I could reply and addressed the degans.

“I’ve no quarrel with either of you,” said Nicco, pointing to the two degans. “You want to fight in my territory, I’ll overlook it. Hell, you can take this bazaar apart for all I care. My Arms won’t lift a finger against you.” He gestured at me. “But if you try to come between me and that, then we have a problem.”

I took another look at the men and women Nicco had brought with him. All their steel was quality; all their faces were grim. More than one of them were wearing at least some sort of protection as well. Four sported steel gorgets; another two had leather jack coats; most had some sort of helmet; one even wore a well-oiled steel cuirass strapped to his chest. Armor wasn’t usually worn on the street-that they had come this decked-out meant they had come ready for trouble.

I recognized some of the faces among them, too: Mythias, Seri Razor Edge, Gutter Janos, the Hell-and-Fury twins, the Cretin… Some of Nicco’s best muscle was here.

In a strange way, I almost felt honored at the talent he’d assembled, even though I knew it wasn’t meant for me directly. What worried me, though, was that there might actually be enough deadly skill among the Arms to take both degans.

Iron took a slow, calculating look at the men and women surrounding him. Degan simply stared at Nicco.

“Well?” said Iron to Degan.

Degan didn’t respond. He stood in the middle of the street, sword in hand, blood running down his arm. The silence radiated out from him, infecting the crowd until even the Purse Cutters and the water hawkers grew still.

Nicco met Degan’s gaze. “Don’t be stupid,” said the Upright Man, his voice sounding like a shout in the stillness. “He’s not worth it.”

“Shows what the hell you know,” said Degan. Then he moved, and the Cretin, who’d been a good four paces away from him, was falling over, Degan’s sword already on its way back out of the Cretin’s left eye.

In an instant, everything went from stillness to chaos. Knowing a bad situation when they saw it, the last of the crowd surged away from the imminent bloodshed. Two of the Arms got caught in the panicked tide and were swept away; the rest rushed forward to engage the degans. Iron laughed and waded in to meet three of the Arms outright, killing the front man with frightening casualness. When the remaining two shifted to keep him from joining up with Degan, Iron laughed again and waved them on with his free hand.

Degan hadn’t even paused in his assault. Without looking down, he’d caught the guard of the Cretin’s sword with his boot, kicked it up, and grabbed the weapon out of the air with his left hand. Now, with a sword in each hand, he was rushing Nicco.

Four Arms stepped forward to meet him. Degan cut with the left blade, parried with the right, feinted, and flicked the tip of his left sword. A gash appeared in the tallest Arm’s throat, pulsing red as he crumpled toward the ground. Another cut, a thrust, a stab with each blade, and another Arm fell.

It looked like Degan was going to wade his way to Nicco without much effort. I smiled at the thought. Then another Arm rushed in from the side, forcing Degan to shift his guard and work against two fronts. His advance stopped.

Nicco had blanched at the sight of Degan bearing down on him, but now he had enough breathing room to think. He thought of me.

“Get the damn Nose!” Nicco yelled to the square in general. He began circling toward me.

I didn’t need to hear him twice. Staying here only made me a target. If I wanted to do anyone any good, I needed to get out of this stall, preferably in a less than obvious fashion. The fewer people who knew where I was, the more damage I could do.

I drew my rapier and turned to duck back behind the curtain. That was when I saw Seri Razor Edge vaulting into the stall over a pile of crates, a nasty grin on her skeletal face.

Seri didn’t say anything when she landed-couldn’t, for that matter; she’d had her tongue cut out years ago. Rumor had it that her then-husband had done it because she had lied to him. Once she’d recovered, Seri had used the brace of long barber’s razors she still wielded to carve him up and sell him for pig fodder.

Seri clicked the razors open and closed, open and closed, in a blur of silver steel. Even though I had reach with my sword, I thought twice about attacking her-I’d seen her take apart better swordsmen than I in a matter of seconds.

“Go ahead, try her,” said a voice. I glanced right and saw another Arm, named Leander, standing outside the stall. He had a broad-bladed infantry sword resting across his shoulder-a souvenir from his days in the Imperial legions.

Two Arms versus me-I’d seen better odds at a fixed cockfight. If Ioclaudia’s journal hadn’t been filling up my left hand, I would have tried a drop-and-throw with my wrist dagger.

I saw the curtain shift slightly behind Seri, even though there was no breeze. I resisted the urge to smile.

I looked over at Leander. “How much?” I demanded.

His eyes narrowed. “How much what?”

“How much to let me go?”

Leander looked at me, dumbfounded for a moment, then laughed. “You mean how much to cross Nicco? I’m not-”

That was when Mendross’s staff thrust out through the gap in the curtain. It caught Seri behind the ear with an audible crack. Her knees buckled.

By then, I was already throwing the journal at Leander. I wasn’t happy about it, and my gut tightened as I did it, but it was either throw that or my sword, and I needed the sword more just now.

The motion caught Leander by surprise. Instinct made him block the book with his sword, which meant he missed the rapier thrust I sent immediately after it. My blade caught him at the base of the jaw. The tip bit deep, his head snapped back, and he was dead.

I was still recovering from my lunge and turning to thank Mendross when something collided with the side of my head. My first thought was, What the hell are you doing, Mendross? but as I staggered and fell, I saw Mendross still standing in the curtained doorway, a look of surprise on his face. Then I saw Nicco step over me, and I knew who had clicked me.

Mendross jabbed and swung with his staff, but the stall was too narrow for him to be able to use it effectively. Nicco reached out and took the weapon away from the Ear almost absentmindedly. He then grabbed Mendross by the throat and began to beat him with his own staff.

I pushed myself up off the ground. It bucked and swayed beneath me, but I didn’t have time to worry about that right now. I reached for where my rapier had fallen, missed once, twice, then got it on the third try. It felt clumsy and heavy in my hand all of a sudden. That couldn’t be a good sign.

Being this close to Nicco summoned a riot of emotions within me: fear, anxiety, hatred, panic, despair, even, oddly enough, elation. But underneath it all was a dark, seething need for vengeance-vengeance for Kells and his men; vengeance for the beatings I’d suffered; vengeance for what Mendross was suffering; vengeance for Eppyris and Cosima and their girls. I wanted vengeance for everything this bastard had put me through for the last seven years, for everything I had had to take because it was my job. Well, that job was done now, and it was time to take back my pride and pay him back.

I climbed to my feet.

As I rose, Nicco turned and let go of Mendross. Without the Upright Man to support him, Mendross collapsed to the floor. He was bleeding freely from more places than I could count, most of them on his head. When he fell, he didn’t move. Nicco dropped the staff across him without a second thought.

I brought my rapier’s tip up and got into the best stance I could. The world seemed to be leveling out a little bit, for which I was grateful.

Nicco grinned and slid into a wrestler’s crouch, his hands out before him. He was wearing a pair of Meat and Greets-leather gladiator’s gloves, their backs studded with iron, their palms and inner fingers lined with fine chain mail for grabbing blades. Looking at them, at him, I was surprised I was still conscious.

“Just us, little man,” rumbled Nicco. “No degans, no Oaks, no Arms, and no fruit peddlers.” He smacked his hands together, making them thump and ring at the same time. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

“My thoughts exactly,” I said, and I lunged. Nicco must have been counting on his intimidation to work on me like it had in the past, since he seemed genuinely surprised when I attacked. He jerked his body back from the thrust and barely got a hand up in time to knock the blade away. I advanced, pressing hard with two more thrusts and a low slash in quick succession. Nicco blocked them all, retreating until he felt one of Mendross’s tables behind him. He blocked another cut, then lowered his head and hunched his shoulders. His eyes narrowed.

I knew that look. It meant I was about to be in trouble.

Before he could charge and use his greater mass to run me down, I stepped back and dropped to the ground. Two quick rolls and I was under a table and out in the square.

Nicco swore and came after me, throwing crates and baskets out of his way.

I glanced quickly around the square. Degan was backed up against the base of Elirokos’s statue, holding off multiple Arms with his two blades. Iron had taken his fight on the run and was ducking in and out of stalls and behind tent backs, using the terrain to keep his attackers off-balance and in pursuit. There were more bodies on the ground than there had been last time I looked, but both degans also seemed to be sporting fresh blood themselves.

More important, there were no Arms in my immediate vicinity.

I gave a quick scan of the ground for Ioclaudia’s journal. It was off to my left, not far from Leander’s feet. Not in easy reach, but not too far, either. Then a crate landed between it and me, and I was forced to turn my full attention back to Nicco.

He was in the square before me, pawing at the air softly, waiting for his moment. I closed up my guard and reached for the fighting dagger at my belt. If Nicco got in past my rapier’s tip, I’d need something to keep him at bay. The fingers of my left hand were just brushing the dagger’s handle when Nicco made his move.

He reached out for my blade, trying to grab it and push it high as he came in low, his fist at the ready. My hand fell away from the dagger, and I danced back, pulling my rapier in and then thrusting it back out at his eye. Nicco had changed up the timing of his attack, though, slowing himself down after his initial reach. That meant I was backing faster than he was advancing. My tip fell short, waving weakly in the air. Nicco batted at the blade and came on.

I’d forgotten how long his arms were, how fast he was with his hands. Rapiers aren’t very good for blocking punches in the first place, and with Nicco’s being so adept at protecting himself, I was quickly finding myself on the defensive. It wasn’t supposed to work that way; most times, three-plus feet of steel were enough to keep a brawler like Nicco at bay. Today, though, he seemed more worried about getting his hands on me than collecting a few stray stabs or cuts.

Worse, he was pressing me so hard, I couldn’t find time to draw my dagger. If he got in before I got it out, I was done for.

Something needed to change.

Degan would have doubtlessly done something deadly and flawless; me, I leapt back a pace and squatted down in the street. I thrust my sword out in front of me, ducked my head, and laid my left arm over myself for protection. A second later, I felt an impact along my rapier’s length. Then Nicco collided with me.

I was knocked sprawling on the cobbles. A sharp pain lanced down my right arm, running from elbow to fingertips and back. My rapier slipped from my hand with a clatter.

I sat up to find Nicco getting to his knees beside me. One hand was pressed against his right side. There was blood flowing out around his glove.

My left hand went for the dagger on my belt. Nicco leaned over and backhanded me. I fell back, sprawling, the dagger skittering away. I felt the knife taken from my boot, then a painfully heavy weight settle across my left arm just above the wrist sheath. I could feel the texture of the street pressing into my muscles.

Nicco leaned over from where he was kneeling on my arm. He was grimacing in pain, but still managed to summon up a nasty smile. “Out of toys, Drothe?” he said. “I know you too well-know where you keep all your sharps.” He reached down and punched my right leg, driving the knuckle studs on his gloves deep. “Boot,” he said. Then he punched my stomach. “Belt.” He rocked his knees back and forth on my arm. “Wrist. Did I miss any?”

I gasped at each new torment but didn’t cry out; I didn’t have the strength.

The rage was gone. I was hollow inside now, empty of everything, save a growing sense of despair. Eppyris and Cosima, Christiana, Degan, Kells, even Solitude-I’d failed to keep my word to them, failed to deliver on even one promise. I had thought that as long as I was out in the street, as long as I had the journal, I could outmaneuver everyone. That, even when cutting my deal with Solitude, I could somehow sidestep the costs.

It was arrogance, pure and simple. I only had to look around the square to see the consequences others were suffering because of me: Mendross, beaten and bloodied in his own stall; Degan fighting for his life against not only half a dozen Arms but against Iron as well; Nicco systematically crushing or damaging those people or things I had said I would serve; and all the others. I had been gambling with other people’s lives, and I hadn’t even noticed.

Fucking Nose.

Nicco shifted his weight, releasing some of the pressure on my left arm. Blood rushed in, pricking and searing the new bruises. “We’re going to have a nice, long talk, you and I,” he said. “Very long.”

He looked around the square, making sure neither degan was in a position to interfere, and then stood up. My blade had caught him in the side near the hip, doing little more than cutting flesh and maybe scraping the bone. So much for the hope of taking him with me.

Nicco reached down, gathered the front of my jerkin in his fist, and hoisted me to my feet. I hugged my sore left arm with my partially numbed right one. The action caused my hand to brush against my belt and the coiled roughness that resided there.

I felt a sudden surge of something. Not hope-not then, not yet-but maybe desperation; that, and a bit of darkest guile.

It was enough, though.

I let the fingers of my right hand trail slowly downward.

“Come on,” said Nicco. He leaned his face close into mine, smelling of oil and olives. My fingers found their goal and closed around it as best they could. “I have three Brothers of Agony waiting to meet you,” he snarled. “Each one ready to work eight hours at a stretch; each one ready to keep at it until I say it’s over.”

I looked Nicco dead in the eyes, then. I don’t know what he saw, but it was enough to make him draw his face away from mine. I smiled a jagged smile.

Now. Now I could feel it coursing through me. Hope. And hate.

“I hope you paid them in advance,” I said. Then I brought Jelem’s coiled rope up between Nicco’s legs. Hard.