I Know Not (The Story of Fox Crow) (24 page)

      His arm blurred as he stamped his foot down, bringing the rose sword within a fingerlength of my face. I cursed myself for missing the block, and then being too slow to capitalize with a counterstrike. His sword lashed out again and sliced open my shirt, leaving the thinnest of cuts across my chest. I was tired and wielding by far the heavier blade. Worse, I had already winded myself with exhausting practice and then fought one duel, and then many men already today, to say nothing of hanging out over the window of my cell by fingers and booted toes alone. This had to end quickly for my sake, or it would end finally.

      I tried one last gambit, but to be honest a large part of me was hoping it would fail, “Aelia will be upset with you, Roehm.”

      He shrugged, “You will never compromise the dignity, safety, or ambitions of the Conaill family ever again, vagabond.”

      And his comment hit a nerve. I batted his sword aside, but before he could bring it back to bare, I used my off hand to sweep up a decorative vase off of a side table and hurl it at him. He started, staring at the missile and attempting to block it as if it were an incoming blade. The porcelain shattered on his sword, turning into hundreds of shards that rained against his face and chest.

      And then it struck me: The man was a duelist, and though in command he was not really even a soldier. He was used to regimented, civilized battles with tightly controlled forms and rules and an audience. He wiped dust and sharp bits from his face and came again like a whirlwind of death, but I was not there. I moved around the common table and used my greater reach to thrust playfully at him, daring him to come round to meet me. Come round he did, but he was not ready for me to grab the extinguished lamp off of the wall sconce and slosh the contents in a sloppy slash that collided with him from left leg to right shoulder and face.

      He stumbled back around the table, desperately clawing rancid oil from his eyes as I pursued him. He got the goo from his eyes as I struck, Phantom singing in a tight arc. He blocked, but the bigger, heavier blade slung his aside like a reed in the breeze. But I did not stop there, instead forcing the Phantom into a wicked dance of tight circles that built the killing energy inside the blade and intersected with Roehm several times a second.

      I figured he should appreciate the technique. He seemed like one of those people who go on and on about the art of the blade. I have never seen a man spitted on the end of my sword mention thing one about how pretty it was when it happens.

      It came back around and he blocked again, his sword ringing painfully. Then again, and it was almost tossed to the side. Again he blocked, now fully on the defensive, and he brought both hands to the grip and squeezed tightly to focus more strength. He also transferred far too much of the slippery, smelly animal oil from the hand that had wiped it from his face to the hilt and clean hand. I struck once; swords ringing like bells; then again, sword twisting, vibrations building and rattling his teeth; and then one last time as the rose sword leapt from his oozing grip and skittered across the floor under a random piece of furniture.

      Roehm stood proudly, moustache still dripping with rendered animal fat and twitching with the power of his rage. I knew he felt I had cheated, I knew I had in fact done just that. Of course I had won the fight so it didn’t bother me near as much. But as he stood, tall and unapologetic, there was a moment of utter clarity.

      He had barked his knuckles sometime during the fight, and the blood was moving sluggishly. Sharp little pieces of vase peppered his clothes up and down. The oil was beginning to stink as his body heat warmed it. His hair was lank and drained of color, his face craggy with wrinkles that told of an austere life spent in worry and duty. I had not lied; he and I served the same woman, though from vastly different means and ends. He was a sad, old man who was only standing upright because of the starched discipline of his legs. With another life, I might have become him. May become him still.

      Then the silent appraisal shifted too much weight onto his shoulders and he blurted, “What are you waiting for? Kill me, kna-”

      That is when I kicked him in his fork, and followed up with a vicious elbow to his nose. He collapsed wordlessly and stayed there. Which was good, because I was already regretting not tossing him out a window.

      It took only moments to tie him up, a moment more to throw my gear messily into a bag and hoist it onto my shoulder. I made sure to go into the boy’s room and get my heavy travelling boots. I was sure to need them. I cast a longing look at the clothes and other gear left behind, but I had to travel light and fast. The door outside was unguarded, unsurprising since he would hardly want witnesses to complicate his plan to kill me. Was he planning to cast me as a murderer, saying I struck first? I knew not, but cared not, since I had to quickly find a place to hide.

      Thankfully still wearing my soft boots, I padded through the Grand Sage like a ghost. The morning routine had begun, but suppressed in light of the violence already this morning. Guards in chain armor clinked and clanked as I melded into nooks and crannies as they passed by. No thoughts plagued me, only an animal sense of urgency that pressed on both sides of my head like a set of massive jaws.

      I descended to ground floor unseen. Then I saw a side passage and the genius of Captain O’Loinsigh struck me; hiding so close as the net was thrown far and wide. The next set of stairs came quickly and I took them. I continued past the healer, past the empty guard station at the entrance to the dungeons. I pulled a candle from my pack and lit it on a torch up on the wall, feeling assured that nobody would be on station in this area. The empty cells were relics of the Sage’s old purpose, no need for prisoners at an inn after all. They stood strong and ready but unused for ages. What I was looking for, however, was deeper, darker, and further into the bowels of the rock foundations.

      I found the wide, spiral stair and stood shocked at the numerous footprints that disturbed the light layers of dust leading downward. I strained my ears but heard no voice or scuff of boot, nor sign of ambush. It was absurd, after all, since I hadn’t even known I was heading here until moments ago myself. A gong sounded faintly from above, showing someone had discovered something, and it was likely Roehm which meant they were again after me. I descended the staircase, careful to make as little noise as I could, and painfully aware that the candle in my hand would announce me more effectively than any footstep ever could. Soon my breath clouded the air, and a faint whiff of rot wafted to my nostrils.

      The stair finally splashed into a cold chamber deep in the ground, silent and dark. When this was the Duke’s seat this was where the royal family would have lay in state waiting for heirs to gather for contention of the throne. It was deep in the earth, farther than light or warmth would reach. Stone sarcophagi laid on shelves carved from the ancient rock, marching onward into the darkness, but this is not what I wanted. Near the entrance there was a rather small, unassuming room with dust covered implements for preparing the dead for a dignified state burial. Silver bowls carried stale herbs that had long since given up their fragrances. Large mirrors reflected my candle and my face stared out of it accusingly, eyes more hollow than I can ever remember them. Most importantly, there were stone tables carved out of the wall for the corpses to lay as they were prepared. Most disturbingly, four were occupied with the bodies of the assassins, Palmer, and O’Loinsigh.

      Normally these would have been hung from the walls of the castle, or the city, as a warning to assassins and traitors. Then again at least Palmer deserved some kind of burial and should have been sent to a local church for preparation. Next to him sat the blood stained letter he had flourished at me. I set down my equipment, perched the candle in one of the mirrored holders, and slit open the parchment with a thick nail.

      In pursuant to the Law of the Grand Duke Horatio O’Riagáin, Lord of the Sorrow Wood, Sovereign of the Folded Hills, Warden of the… I skipped ahead, and the peace needing to be kept within the walls of Carolaughan, and this peace being declared by the Sheriffs, the Grand Duke, and King Ryan… I skipped more, Lieutenant Patrick Palmer shall be granted the rights, immunities, and dignity of a state champion…
garbage, garbage, garbage
… and be authorized to carry arms to keep the King’s good peace in the name of the…

      Nothing. The letter went on and on and on, and constantly mentioned special permissions, rights and immunities, and the names of many powerful people, but it never actually said anything. It was a piece of puffery, the kind of thing you can wave in front of a drunk boy and send him off to murder an inconvenient person. If he succeeds, you can blame or back him as you like, if he fails you can execute his opponent for dueling. And at the bottom was the signature and seal of Grand Duke’s Horatio O’Riagáin.

      I tossed the bit of evidence aside disdainfully, knowing it to be as useful as a glass of water to a drowning man. The Great and the Good would ignore it in course, like everything else. I slipped off the sliced shirt, dabbing at the dried blood from the scratch on my chest. A quick flash of moment behind me had me spun around with a dagger in my hand, but there was nothing but me in the distorted mirror behind the candle.

      I turned back to my business, but saw a dark shadow again. I spun back, wondering if one of my victims here was shamming, or their uneasy spirit coming back for revenge, but nothing appeared. I set the dagger down slowly, turning away from the light only be degrees as I scanned left-right-up-down, looking, searching for…

      As I turned my back was reflected to own my eyes, and for just a second I saw a twisted pattern, something not quite drawn on the skin as drawn in the flesh, something that looked at me even as I looked at it. Then a pair of dark, haunted eyes appeared in the mirror.

      Shaven headed, sunken cheeked, the ghost that had followed me in reflections across the Kingdom appeared and silently screamed. I grabbed my sword, but he was gone.

      Then my back started to burn, to twist as if the skin was being molded into new and hideously wonderful shapes. I fought past the pain and reached back with a hand that found no dagger or pin, no arrow or stinger, only slightly rough flesh that even now was bypassing misery and heading toward agony.

      Palmer had said,
I know what you are, killer. I have seen your mark.

      I stumbled to Palmer’s corpse. I twisted his stiffening form onto his front and pulled aside his shirt - but there was nothing there.
Wrestling, assassin. Wrestling you to the ground, I saw it.

      Pain building against the walls of my tolerance, I lunged at the female assassin, who I had cut down in the apartment. Death had ripped away all sexual connotations of her naked body. I turned her over, dismissing flaccid muscles and icy blue skin. Across her back a huge gouge - provided by myself - interrupted her flesh and bone to the middle of her chest. Coming from back to front, it cleft the area between her shoulder blades messily. The area was ravaged, but there were clearly lines of ink that formed some kind of intricate pattern. My eyes followed the lines, familiarity blowing the Fog in my head until it became frustratingly thin. I was breathing heavily, nostrils flaring as my heart thudded as the only noise for a dozen paces in any direction. I dropped her carelessly to the stone,
It watches you, slave. It sees you
.

      Then I dove to the last assassin. Bearing a hundred ugly kisses of bloodthirsty arrows, he still oozed fluid as I twisted him up and used the angry swipe of a knife to split his rag-adorned clothing. What I saw there saw me back, an ornate tattoo that twisted over and over to the mind, folding in upon itself like an unknowable maze, on top of which was drawn a lifelike eye that stared into the depths of my very soul. I cried out and dropped the body, but I felt it stare into me, still.

      I glanced at movement in the concave mirror behind a dead candle and saw that same sunken eyed demon that had chased me since I had woken on the Northern Ridge. He was smiling.
You are damned. Doomed
.

      I lifted another mirror from an unlit bracket and angled it over my shoulder remembering the tortured words gurgling past Palmer’s bloody lips,
I saw it on your back.

      The mirror showed me the intricate knot work, sacrilegious ink stabbed into the flesh to mark it for all time. The all seeing eye that watched me back as it steamed angrily in the cold air. I looked back to the strange, crazy man in the mirror across the room and I recognized him. It was my face. The demon, it was me. Then the pain came in thundering waves that dragged me under, the calling of crows was everywhere.