Master Of The Hashomi

Chapter 15

It promised to be a hot day even for Dahaura. The only air moving was a faint breeze from the river that seemed to be passing over the tanneries on its way. The foul reek of curing leather surrounded the little party as they left the House of the Night's Tale.

Blade was the escort for a party that included Esseta, two of the other women of the house, and three servant girls to carry the purchases. They were going to walk, as their destination was the Street of the Perfumers on the bank of a canal less than half a mile away.

They walked swiftly, Blade in the lead and Esseta bringing up the rear. Blade's size and appearance cleared a path, and few of the beggars and street boys even bothered to shout at them. They were a slave and six Women Beyond the Law, but the sashes they wore showed that they were also under the protection of Kubin Ben Sarif.

They passed donkey carts and sedan chairs, fruit juice vendors, porters and puppet shows, a squad of the Baran's soldiers, and three mounted noblemen. At last they made their way into the Street of the Perfumers. It was oven-hot in the narrow street, but the delicate scents drifting out of the shops and booths drove out the stink of the tanneries.

Esseta was bargaining vigorously over a jar of mint-scented green lotion when Blade noticed an odd trio moving toward him from the far end of the street. Down the middle of the street a small pudgy man was walking with slow precise steps. He wore the turban of a tribal chief from the mountains in the north of the Baranate, but he wore the robes and ankle boots of a high-class merchant of Dahaura. He also wore a purse and an ornamental dagger on his belt. Blade had seen men in the same mixture of clothing before. They were usually men of mixed blood, acting as traders and agents for their fathers' tribes.

Moving parallel to the merchant and almost level with him were two other men. One wore nothing but a breechcloth stiff with filth, and his matted hair and beard did not conceal his thinness or his scars. One of Dahaura's beggars, with nothing unusual about him-except the purposeful way he was keeping pace with the robed man.

On the other side of the street was a man in a workman's breeches and full-sleeved tunic. He had a full beard and a surprisingly bushy head of red-brown hair. The color of his hair was not unusual, but the sheer mass of it drew Blade's eye.

Blade was shifting his glance back to the beggar, when suddenly the man ran out into the middle of the street and threw himself on his knees in front of the merchant. «Alms, alms, for the love of Junah,» the man cried. «Alms, that my children may eat. Alms, alms, and my prayers will be with you in all your wakings and sleepings. Alms, alms. alms!»

The skinny arms reached out, pressing long-fingered hands with black nails against the front of the merchant's robes. «Peace, my friend,» he replied. «Alms shall be yours, and bread in the mouths of your children.» He reached for his purse.

As he did, the beggar's hands clamped hard on the man's belt. With surprising strength, the beggar jerked the merchant forward, off balance. At the same time the bushy-haired man broke out of the crowd and came running up to the merchant from behind. As he ran one hand darted up inside the other sleeve and came out holding a short knife. With both speed and grace, he stabbed at the merchant's exposed back.

The stab that should have gone deep into the victim's flesh barely cut through the robe. The point grated on metal and stopped abruptly, caught in what could only be the links of a shirt of chain mail. Before the would-be murderer could react to this unexpected development, Richard Blade was charging down on him.

If it had been simply an ordinary purse-snatching, Blade wouldn't have interfered. There were a hundred of those a day in Dahaura, in spite of the best efforts of the Baran's soldiers. Furthermore, this man looked as if he wouldn't miss a single meal even if his purse did vanish.

An open attempt at murder in the public streets was something else. That was rare enough to be a surprise. The Baran kept most of his subjects unmurdered by savage punishments for convicted murderers, and for those who refused to help catch them. Blade was the only armed man within striking distance. If he didn't interfere, he'd be doing well to get off with five years in the salt flats.

As the knifeman drew back from Blade's charge, the merchant went into action on his own. With surprising agility, he flung himself to one side, throwing the beggar down with him. The merchant rolled, broke the beggar's hold on his belt, and came up with his own dagger drawn. The beggar sprang backward, practically into Blade's path. A moment later he was sprawling on his back, struck down by the flat of Blade's sword.

Blade leaped over the body and faced the knifeman. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the merchant getting to his feet. The man sheathed his dagger, then scurried off down the street. Blade wasn't sure whether to laugh or swear. The man was so obviously willing to leave the rest of the affair to Blade, now that he could be sure of getting out of it with a whole skin.

That was more than Blade could be sure of. His sword was longer than the bushy-haired man's knife, but the man moved like an expert fighter. The two men froze for a moment, then began a slow, cautious circling around each other, each looking for an opening.

They made two complete circles that way, while Esseta shouted for one of the servant girls to run and bring some soldiers. Blade couldn't help wondering why the man was staying to fight instead of making every effort to break away and get clear. Perhaps he was expecting some help, and in that case-

Blade's anticipation saved his life. He saw a sudden flurry of movement in the back of a booth a few yards down the street, and a silhouette suddenly appearing in a doorway a few yards in the opposite direction. Blade dove, rolling to get out of reach of the knifeman. A crossbow went spung and the bolt flashed across the street, cutting through the air where Blade had been a heartbeat ago. The bolt flew on to smash the brazier of a man capping bottles and scatter hot oil and live coals over several booths.

Out of the shadowed doorway burst a tall man, swinging a two-handed sword. Blade sprang to his feet, just in time to see Esseta snatch a bronze censer on a gilded chain from a table. Gripping the chain, she swung the censer like an Olymplc hammer thrower winding up. The heavy censer whipped through a half-circle and smashed into the swordsman's chest, knocking him backward into a booth. Before he could rise, several people were all around him and all over him, snatching his sword from him and punching and kicking him until he stopped moving.

The archer tried to leap out into the street from the booth where he'd been hiding. His foot caught on the table and it fell over, spilling more bottles and vials. The man crashed face down into the street, nearly impaling himself on his own crossbow. He let out a scream as if he was being flayed with dull knives. He still tried to get up, until Blade ran up to him and kicked him in the side of the head.

Now there was complete confusion in the Street of the Perfumers, with people running in all directions. Some ran for water to put out the spreading fire, others ran to help Esseta and the women, some simply ran around in circles. Blade grabbed the first man to come within reach and shouted in his ear.

«Where did the big one go, the one with the bushy hair?»

The man jerked himself free of Blade's grip and waved down the street toward the canal. Blade broke into a run. He reached the end of the street just in time to see a tall man leap onto the stern of a gaily decorated barge moored alongside the quay. The man was not totally bald, but a knife gleamed in one hand and a thick red-brown wig flapped in the other. As Blade dashed toward him, the man dropped the wig into the canal and ran toward the bow of the barge.

Blade leaped onto the stern of the barge as the other man reached the bow. The man looked around desperately, as he realized that he was trapped. Then he turned, his lips creeping back from his teeth in a wolf-like snarl.

Blade picked up one of the barge's oars. Holding it like a quarterstaff, he advanced toward his opponent. The man sprang toward Blade with a howl, but he was just a trifle too slow. Blade swung the oar, catching the man in mid-leap. Both the oar and the man's ribs cracked. He smashed down across the railing of the barge, legs inside, head and chest outside. His legs flailed wildly for a moment, then he slipped over the side and into the canal. Blade stepped to the side and looked down. The man was gone, leaving behind nothing but a spreading circle of ripples and a spreading stain of blood on the dark water of the canal.

Blade sheathed his knife and walked back up the street. By now a squad of soldiers and two officers had arrived. The fire was almost out, although three booths had been reduced to ashes. Esseta was being questioned by one of the officers; while the other women and the servants huddled behind her like a flock of chickens.

As Blade strode up, the men and women in the booths and shop windows began cheering, stamping their feet, and waving their hands. Of course, this enthusiasm wouldn't keep the perfumers from submitting a large bill for all the damage done in the fight. Blade knew the merchants of Dahaura far too well to expect anything else. At least the bill would wind up on Kubin Ben Sarif's desk, and he could certainly afford it!

The officers made a good impression on Blade. They were brisk, professional, knew what questions to ask, and kept the perfumers from interfering until Blade had finished his story. Then they interviewed the rest of the witnesses in turn, taking careful notes. By this time another squad of soldiers had arrived, with a donkey cart for the three prisoners. The archer and the beggar were unconscious. The swordsman was wide awake, and the Baran's interrogators would be at work on him before sunset. He did not look very happy at the prospect.

Bit by bit, all the loose ends were tied up except one. What had happened to the intended victim, the merchant with the mail shirt under his robes? Nobody seemed to know.

Blade cleared his throat, in the deferential manner it was always wise for slaves to use with officers of the Baran's army. «Honored sirs, I ask if we should perhaps consider-was the merchant also in disguise, like the man with the knife?»

«Why do you say that?» said one of the officers.

«Would a genuine merchant have worn a coat of mail under his robes-particularly in this quarter of the city, on a day like this?»

One of the officers shrugged. «We shall certainly consider it. But I can't see anything coming of it. I doubt we'll ever see the merchant or the knifeman again. Dahaura can swallow a man who doesn't want to be found as thoroughly as the canals can swallow a body.»

He smiled. «However, there's better news for you-Blade, you said?»

«Yes, sir.»

«Odd name. Anyway, I'd be surprised if the judge doesn't send around a writ of freedom for you after this. You're in Kubin's service? Well, that old tight-purse won't have any complaint. The treasury will handle any claims these merchants may put in, and also your purchase price.»

Esseta laughed. «That will reconcile Kubin Ben Sarif to almost anything.»

«So I thought,» the officer said. «Farewell and good custom, night sisters.» He climbed up beside the driver of the donkey cart and shouted orders. In a minute the last of the soldiers were out of sight, and Blade and Esseta were free to return to the House of the Night's Tale.