Swords and Scoundrels Read online

  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 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.”

  “Of course.” The patterns shifted, became scenes of blood and murder, of headless bodies and sightless skulls, of days of glory in the guild sparring arena that led Vocho’s head off into odd, dark dreams. The voice sounded more and more familiar but he was past caring, too wrapped up in what the hands were showing him. The burning on his back grew worse, made sweat pop up all along his lip and his hand slick on the hilt of his blade. Frighteningly familiar, yet he couldn’t remember – and did it matter, when those patterns were drawing him in?

  A shout from outside, a curse from Kacha and then Eggy calling out an odd word, a name perhaps? A plea for help, certainly. The sounds snapped Vocho back to himself, just in time to see the magician dip a pen into a pot of… of blood. Let’s not be shy here, that’s blood… and begin a new pattern on his outstretched palm.

  The magician was quick, but Vocho had made his name being the quickest man in the duelling guild, so fast he could stab a man and put away his sword before anyone had seen him move. Well, almost that quick. Maybe the magician wasn’t expecting him to be so fast, maybe he thought Vocho was still hypnotised by the flowing patterns, maybe he didn’t expect anyone to attack him at all – magicians were renowned for their arrogance. Whichever, he wasn’t expecting a sword to run him through. Even so, he surprised Vocho by almost getting out of the way – so fast he blurred, but the point still caught him. Just not in the neck. Instead, the sword went straight through the meaty top part of the man’s shoulder and pinned him to the side of the carriage.

  The magician let lose a stream of words in a language Vocho didn’t have a hope of understanding. Blood bubbled from the wound – Vocho needed to finish this and quick, before the magician used the blood to finish Vocho. Another thrust, quick as the first, and the magician was too busy grabbing something out of a pocket to move. The blade slid in, right into his windpipe. Cast a spell now, bastard. The magician’s eyes flew wide and one hand scrabbled at his neck, at the blade. The other had hold of… Oh shit.

  Vocho knew less than bugger all about magicians, but even he knew the scrap of paper with bloody shifting patterns on it wasn’t good. A stored spell, that was all it could be, blood marking the paper like written death. There were tales of them that Vocho had never believed, but he did now. A spell to do what? He’d heard of some men vaporised…

  He knew enough to get the fuck out of the way. He whipped his sword free of the man’s neck in a gurgle of breath and blood and dived out of a window head first, rolling as he landed, screaming when the burning on his back caught on his shirt. Straight into the mud, but even he didn’t care about getting mud on his nice coat now.

  When nothing obvious happened, no explosions and he was still all in one piece, he dared a look up. The carriage door flapped open. Inside, the only sign of the mage was blood on the seat and side of the carriage and a now burned and shrivelled piece of paper fluttering to the floor.

  A lucky escape. You’re sitting in the mud, looking like an idiot while Kacha gets all the glory again. He shoved himself up and took stock. He’d ended up on the other side of the carriage from where Kacha and Egimont were fighting. Hadn’t she finished him off by now? When he thought on it, he realised how little time had elapsed from getting into the carriage and his rather i
gnoble exit.

  He wriggled his shoulders – the burning had subsided as suddenly as it started – and made his way around the carriage to watch the show, maybe butt in and finish the job in case Kacha was having second thoughts. Flashy was still flat out in the mud, Berie either out cold next to him or pretending to be. Vocho rather thought the latter, but he wasn’t fighting so that was all right.

  Kacha had Egimont on the back foot – quicker even than Vocho when she was at her best, and against Egimont she would make damn sure she was at her best.

  “Can we hurry up?” Vocho called. “I’m freezing, soaked and pissed off, and the rest are all dealt with. Stop playing with him and get on with it.”

  Egimont was good, but he was never going to be good enough to beat Kacha, who could thrash every man and woman in the duelling guild except Vocho. And it was that “except” that made her so deadly – she was always trying to up her game so she could beat him. Not to mention they weren’t in the guild any more so no guild rules.

  A wink from Kacha above her mask, a thrust that would have killed a lesser duellist. Egimont was quick though, Vocho had to give him that. He slipped in the mud as he parried, recovered like a guildsman, used the movement to come up under Kacha’s guard in a classic action in the Ruffelo style that caught her off guard and made Vocho wonder whether she was going easy on him, then startled them both by not going for the thrust. He hesitated just a fraction, staring at Kacha like he’d never see her again, like all he wanted to see was her.

  “Please, Kass.”

  This was not good. Nor was the way Kacha hesitated at that “please”, the way she shook her head as though trying to shake some traitorous notion out of it. She’d lost her head over Petri bloody Egimont once before and got burned. Vocho wasn’t going to let it happen again.

  “Kass, we need to finish this. Right now.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, we do.”

  With that, she spun behind Eggy, so quick he hadn’t a hope. Took him out with a well practised wallop to the base of the neck that rolled his eyes up into his head before her other arm came up between his legs with an audible whump, a move that the gallant Ruffelo probably never even considered. Vocho caught Eggy before he fell into the mud with the rest – he’d some nice clothes on him, no sense ruining them.

  Kacha blew out a ragged breath, wiped a hand across what he could see of her face and picked up the gun. “Bloody things. Never will get the hang of them. Coward’s thing, really. A good blade is where it’s at, right?”

  She threw the gun into the bushes by the side of the road. And good riddance.

  “Better off sticking with swords,” Vocho agreed, knowing exactly why the subject had changed. “Know where you are with a sword. Guns have no style anyway. No, no panache.”

  She rolled her eyes but laughed anyway, a bit shaky but back to herself again. For now.

  A peculiar noise reminded them of the driver, still up on his seat. Only just though, because he was bent over and wheezing like an old man, oilskin cloak flapping in the sodden wind like bat wings. On closer inspection, it seemed he was laughing fit to piss himself.

  “Oh, that was a good one. Nice shot there.” He went off into gales of more laughter.

  Kacha raised an eyebrow his way. “Oh, do be quiet, Cospel. I didn’t want to kill the stupid sod, just rob him. Now come and help me get his boots off.”

  “Only good nob is a dead one, I always say, so it’s all good to me.” Cospel wiped at his eyes, allowed himself one last chuckle and jumped down from the seat.

  “You might have mentioned Petri was in the coach,” Kacha said.

  “You might have mentioned the magician as well.” Vocho kept his voice light, but he could still feel the pained thud of his heart at the sight of that piece of paper, still remember the way the markings on the man’s hands had tried to lead his brain astray.

  “Magician?” Kacha asked in a weak voice.

  “I tried!” Cospel said. “Only couldn’t say anything, could I? Not unless I want everyone to know I’m helping the robbers of Fusta Wood. Only turned up last minute. Didn’t have a chance to let you know. Knew you two could deal with them though.”

  Vocho yanked Eggy’s boots off. A good make, soft leather to the knee, polished to a high shine under the mud. Probably even the right size. “That’s what the eyebrows were all about? Maybe you should teach them to do semaphore, then next time I’ll have a hope of understanding. Though I don’t want there to be a next time, not to meet a magician.” Vocho shuddered.

  Kacha looked down thoughtfully at Egimont and if there was a wistful look it soon vanished. “What’s he doing with a magician? He’s only a clerk at the prelate’s office. Not even a very important one. He’s got some money as ex-nobles go, but not enough for that. Above that, his family has no power any more, and that’s what I hear magicians crave. When I hear of them, which is just about never. Are you sure he was one?”

  “Good question.” No, he wasn’t sure, in fact he really hoped he was wrong, but if there was even a hint that it had been a magician they could all be very dead. It was probably just him being paranoid. He’d been twitchy ever since the whole thing with the priest. That must be it. Magicians were long gone. Paranoid. “The answer is, I don’t care as long as he isn’t here. Now come on. Time we were on our way. Time to get paid.”

  Between the three of them, they soon had everything of value off the men. Not a bad haul as things went. As well as the five purses, each of which would keep them fed and warm and drunk for a week or more, Vocho had a fine new pair of boots that didn’t pinch too much, a splendid crimson silk jacket and matching short cape from Flashy that he would probably never wear, not in that crap sack of a village they were living in, and Berie’s gilt and glitter sword, which looked good but on closer inspection bent like tallow when pressure was applied. Ah well, he could sell it anyway. Kacha made sure she got Eggy’s sword – far better than Flashy’s for all it was gilt-free – and stripped them of all their jewels.

  They took all the clothes they didn’t want and bundled them into a sack, leaving three almost naked gentlemen and two nearly naked guards. Who wouldn’t care nearly so much as the gentlemen when they all arrived wherever they were headed, wearing nothing but underwear, with some rather suspicious damp staining around the crotch area in Berie’s case.

  On to the carriage, and their spy – Cospel – had been right. Under a seat was a trunk big enough to stash a dead body in, secured with no less than five impressive locks. Vocho almost drooled just looking at it. Whatever was in this chest, it was very valuable to someone – bodyguards, locks and a possible magician to guard it, a thought that made sweat prickle on Vocho’s scalp. But they’d made it out of the debacle alive, the winners, and they had this too. That was the important thing.

  He could hardly wait to open it. If they got away before that magician recovered from a sword through the throat, whoever owned it would never find it.

  It took the three of them to get the chest up onto the back of Vocho’s horse, which sank into the mud and groaned under the weight. Vocho gave him a pat and decided that seeing as his boots were covered in mud already, he could probably walk back. It wasn’t like he wasn’t already soaked.

  Once they were done, Cospel too stripped off. Vocho tied him up on the driver’s seat and left him to a shivering wet drive, with a “We’ll leave your share in the usual place.” He thought for a moment. “Where were you headed anyway?”

  Cospel shrugged. “A town just along the valley – that’s as far as this coach goes.”

  Hmm. A long way from Reyes and Egimont’s usual stamping grounds. Never mind, he could think on that later. Vocho and Kacha manhandled the limp and muddy men into the carriage and Cospel clucked the horses on.

  They watched the carriage until it disappeared around a bend and all they could make out was a faint light through the rain. Kacha forced a laugh and took Vocho’s arm as they led the horses off the road and into the dar
kness of the woods. Vocho wasn’t fooled. Her hand shook, ever so slightly. He knew why too – she’d almost killed Flashy, and it had been a miracle she hadn’t. She’d never say it, but she didn’t like the killing part. Things happened in the heat of the moment, it was true – a slip, a stray thrust, an unexpected movement and she couldn’t avoid that – but she avoided killing if she could. Too merciful, without that ruthless instinct. It was her one weakness as a duellist, as far as Vocho could make out, which meant obviously it was the one he ragged her about as often as he could. A duellist might have to kill, to protect whoever he was guarding, to finish the job, though they were expected to refrain whenever possible. Just as well he managed for them both when it was necessary, mostly.

  That’s what was making her edgy perhaps; not that Petri had popped up, like a bloody jack-in-the-box, just at the worst possible moment.

  He sidled a look her way. No, it was Petri that had her rattled with that “please”, damn the suave bastard.

  They stopped to watch the carriage light disappear behind another line of trees.

  “The respected Egimont sent off in his drawers, displaying the only jewels he has left,” she said with a satisfied smile. “Well, if that doesn’t make you your precious new name, nothing will.”

  “Bugger.”

  “What?”

  “I forgot to tell him our new names.”

  Chapter Two

  The next morning was cold still, though the rain had let up. This was small comfort to Vocho as he squelched across the yard.

  Nights out robbing were all well and good, but the days were grey and boring lately. Ever since that accident with the priest, after which no one wanted to employ them. Not to mention the arrest warrant. He supposed they would have been unemployed sooner or later anyway – guns were the coming thing, no matter how long the guild tried to hold out against them. It’d taken a while for them to gain popularity because for a long time only the very rich or the clockers, men and women who owned the clockwork factories, could afford them. Then something – he didn’t know what because he didn’t pay much attention – had happened, and all of a sudden almost everyone in the capital, Reyes, had one. He’d heard all the guards, employed by the prelate’s council and otherwise, used them now. Mostly they were cheap things, liable to spring apart into a thousand pieces the moment anyone tried to fire them, probably knocked up by some clocker looking to make a quick bull or ten, but still.