Ричард Морган - The Cold Commands

She left shortly after that, ushered out by the jailer who brought the afternoon meal. She promised she’d carry a message to Imrana, but in the end Egar wasn’t very sure what he should tell her to say. He was unreasonably angry with Imrana, an anger that was all the worse for the clear understanding that he was the one who had failed to grasp the ground rules of the game they’d been playing. That he had been deluding himself about what they had.

You can’t crawl back inside what you once had, Eg . Facing him in the cooling bathwater. You have to live with now .

It hadn’t seemed like a warning at the time, but now, too late, he wondered.

Tell her not to worry , he settled for in the end, and Archeth nodded, carefully noncommittal, and left him alone with his thoughts.

He ate without much enthusiasm, left half of the platter untouched. Limped about the cell a bit, leaned at the window and watched the dark. Used the chamber pot. Scooped up the rag doll from where Archeth had left it—threw it irritably at the wall. Dropped onto the bed he’d taken to thinking of as his own, and watched bandlight paint itself cool and blue-white across the stone ceiling.

You have to live with now .

Yeah, problem is, Eg—not a lot of now left .

Come on, Gil. Get your faggot arse in the saddle . He held the rind of a smile against a thin but rising fear. Don’t send me to a shit death, man. Not like this .

They came to take his plate and chamber pot away, which was unusual at this time of night. He propped himself up on the bed and grinned sourly at the jailer.

“No effort spared for His Radiance’s guests, eh?”

The man stared at him. It wasn’t the face he’d gotten used to over the last couple of days, wasn’t in fact—

Oh, no…

He saw it in the other man’s eyes an instant before the knife came out. He came clumsily up off the bed, threw himself aside as the man lunged at him.

“For the blood of clan Ashant!”

It was a triumphant shout—and far too early. The knife missed Egar’s shoulder by inches, buried itself in the mattress. Egar twisted out from under and punched the man savagely in the kidney. He fell to the floor, injured leg trailing, caught under his attacker’s sprawled weight. Saw the second assassin at the door, the downed body of the jailer laid out on the flagstones beyond.

“Two of you,” he spat. “Well, that figures.”

He yanked his foot free, scrabbled backward across the cell on his hands. The second killer came at him, but got tangled up as his comrade tried to get up off the bed at the same time. It gave Egar the split second he needed to get back on his feet. He yelled in their faces, high, steppe nomad shriek, grabbed the desk chair, swung it up and into the air, brought it smashing across both men. It was heavy, he didn’t get anything like the swing he wanted, but it hit with bruising force, upward against arms and faces. He saw the first of his attackers go to his knees again.

The second man just shook himself, growled, and backed up. The way he held the knife, he looked to be Egar’s major problem. Not a shit death! Not a shit death!

Like a chant, like a pulse through his head. It came up through the soles of his feet and he seized it like a new weapon. Dropped into a crouch, feinted with his empty right hand grabbing. The assassin smiled grimly, floated back unfazed. He knew what he was doing, he had the only knife. Had the time and would make it work for him. He waited for his companion to get up.

“Come on then,” Egar snarled at them. “Want to see what a Majak soul costs? Fucking pussies !”

He went for the chair again, but the smarter assassin read the move and leapt in to block it. A tangled moment—Egar lashed out with his injured leg, grunted as he felt stitches tear and the wound reopen. The man danced clear, Eg punched at him, got a burly shoulder and no real effect, felt the hot lick of the knife blade across his ribs in trade. He recoiled sideways. For a brief moment, he thought he might make the open cell door, but the other killer—Eg saw now he was younger, barely out of his teens—scrambled shakily to block it.

“That’s it, lad.” The older one grinned tightly. “Keep him penned.”

The three of them stood panting for a moment. The more experienced assassin raised his blade at Egar, almost like a toast.

“Kadral told me to make this last,” he said, mastering his breathing. “Fatal but slow, he’s asked for. You got pain coming, steppe scum.”

“You,” Egar grabbed breath of his own, “talk too much for a killer.”

Have to get to the boy .

He saw how it might be done.

“Two on one, with knives.” He spat on the floor. “And you’ve brought a fucking child with you.”

The boy surged forward, flushed with fury.

“My clan is Ashant!” he cried. “Bright is the name! For my cous—” Egar darted in, bent-kneed. He scooped the doll from the floor in his left hand, grabbed at the boy’s knife. The boy misread it, thought he was going for the wrist. Egar’s fist closed over rag doll and blade alike, and snapped tight.

Not a shit death!

The steel was keen—he felt it go deep into his palm, even through the rags. He roared in the boy’s face, gripped harder, wrenched. The boy recoiled, the knife slipped free. Stuck deep in the flesh of his clenched fist, no time to use it. He hooked the boy in the face with an elbow, spun about, grinning at the pain.

Not a—

The senior assassin was there. He snagged Egar’s unharmed right arm, twisted it away. He stepped in, his blade slugged home. They stood close as lovers.

“For Saril Ashant,” the man hissed in his face. “Bright is the name!”

Egar tottered backward, suddenly stupid. The killer let him go. He looked down at his wound, tried to let go of the knife in his left hand, but his fingers refused to open. He pressed with his right hand at the sudden spike of fire in his belly. Turned his palm up and saw the blood. Looked at the man who’d done the damage.

“Oh, that’s not fatal,” the assassin assured him. He raised the knife. “That’s for pain. When I promise slow, slow is what you get.”

Egar summoned strength. Fell backward onto the bed instead. The back of his head thumped the wall and he bit his tongue.

Oddly, it hurt worse than the wound in his belly.

“Yeah, you have a seat. This is going to take a little while.”

The killer advanced on him slowly, grinning. Egar floundered, could not get off the bed.

“Better come and watch this, Jadge,” the assassin told the boy. “Get your knife back as well. We won’t talk about how you fucked that one up,

eh?”

The boy made an unhealthy, strangled noise in his throat. The killer rolled his eyes.

“Oh, come on . Don’t get sick on me now. This is your fucking jo—”

“This is treason , boys.”

Egar’s head snapped up at the voice. The assassin whirled away from him, turning to the door. Staggered backward with a weird, high scream, pawing at something in his eye.

Egar stared, trying to make sense.

Archeth—at the open cell door—still holding up the boy for cover, while his slashed throat bled out over the left forearm she had hugged across his chest. Her face was cuddled up close to his, her right arm was still out from the throw. There was another knife held, blade sideways, in her left hand.

Her eyes were wide in the lamplight, glittering with krinzanz fire. Egar thought vaguely that he’d never seen a more beautiful woman in his life.

SHE LET GO OF THE BOY, AND HE CRUMPLED BONELESSLY.

She stepped across his body, knelt and cut the other assassin’s throat just to be certain, though from the way he lay twitching on the stone floor, it looked to be unnecessary. She retrieved her knife from his eye socket and glanced up at the Dragonbane.