Douglas Hulick - Sworn in Steel

None of which was helping me find Fowler, dammit.

I took the next turn and headed down Scrivener’s Way. Secondhand booksellers and binders’ shops ran in uneven rows on either side of me, jumbled and jostled together like an ill-kept bookshelf. Here was Facheltrager’s, known for his collection, variously, of Second Regency erotica and Fourth Reform philosophy; there Falconetto’s, the best closet in town for ancient fighting manuals; off to my left, Lazarus’s Bindery, specializing in false gildings and tooled covers. They, and the rest, were the main reason I’d moved here: to be close to the purveyors of secondhand knowledge and their musty wares. That I didn’t get to frequent them as much as I liked didn’t detract from the allure. Their mere presence made the climb home worth it. Most days.

I ran a finger under my rope-cum-baldric and winced. The weight of Degan’s sword had been digging the cord into my shoulder all day, and now it was beginning to chafe. I swung the canvas-wrapped blade off my shoulder and sighed. Even with the rope tied north of the guard and down near the tip, it still looked more like a long bundle of cloth than a sword.

I weighed the weapon in my hands as I walked. Now what?

It wasn’t as if I was going to be giving it back to Degan. He’d made his feelings clear when he tossed his sword to the floor and walked out of the burning warehouse three months ago. Nor could I ask him if he’d reconsider. In true Degan fashion, he’d vanished from the streets-disappearing like so many times in the past, only this time it wasn’t for a dodge or a contract he’d taken on. This time, I knew, it was forever.

I’d wanted to go looking, of course-to track him down and find him, if only for my own peace of mind. But I hadn’t. Instead, I’d respected his wishes and kept my nose to myself. Given everything I’d cost him, it seemed the least I could do.

And it had seemed to be working-right up until Crook Eye had pulled out Degan’s sword and waved it under my nose, that is.

Damn that lazy-eyed bastard, anyhow.

I moved Degan’s legacy to my left hand and picked up the pace. Five more blocks to home. Five more blocks until I could catch my breath and sleep and, maybe, think.

I’d gone all of two of those blocks when I felt a hand land on the back of my neck, take hold, and steer me into a doorway. It wouldn’t have been so bad, except the door was closed.

“Wha-?” I said, but was interrupted by my head rebounding off the wood before me. I staggered back, then was shoved up against the door again. This time, the hand on my neck held me in place while its partner grabbed my right arm and pinned it behind my back. My shoulder turned to fire. Degan’s sword fell to the ground with a thump.

“Who is it?” yelled someone on the other side of the door.

“Hello, Drothe,” said a voice close to my ear. A woman’s voice. “Not as hard to find as you thought you were, eh, Nose?”

I was still trying to figure out what the hell was going on when the hands yanked me back and spun me around. I half expected a blade at my throat, but felt myself pushed up against the stone wall beside the door.

I had my wrist knife in my hand in an instant.

It got slapped out just as quickly.

“Ah, ah,” said the woman as she took a step back. “No steel.”

From the other side of the door, the sounds of movement and cursing. “Dammit, Cyril,” called the voice, “is that you?” Neither the woman nor I answered.

I blinked, my vision still recovering from my encounter with the door. The figure before me was an uneven shadow, silhouetted against the daylit street behind her. One of Crook Eye’s people? A cove from Shadow’s old organization who hadn’t heard the vendetta was over? Someone else entirely?

Did it really matter?

I lunged forward.

The woman before me shifted, causing the light to glint off the copper-chased sword guard at her side.

I knew that sword-had one of its sisters lying on the ground, wrapped in canvas, not four feet away. A degan’s sword.

Crap. This was going to hurt.

Copper Degan slipped my attack with almost casual ease, stepping aside as the flat of her dark hand connected with the side of my head. I staggered, flailed my arms, and went down.

Behind me, I heard the door open.

“By the reborn Emperor, Cyril, I told you to. . oh.”

“Go away,” said Copper Degan. “Now.”

The door slammed shut, followed almost immediately by the sound of a bolt being thrown. I wished I was on the other side of that bolt.

I climbed to my feet and turned around. Copper Degan was standing above me, arms folded, a look of mild disdain on her face. Or maybe it was boredom. I didn’t know her well enough to distinguish between the two.

Street traffic was already rerouting itself, giving us a wide, cautious berth.

“Not a social call, then?” I said as I wiped my nose. No blood. I ran the back of my hand across my forehead. Blood, but not much. Still.

“Come with me.”

Copper turned and headed down the street, not bothering to see if I followed, not worrying about showing me her back. And why should she? She was a member of one of the best mercenary Orders in the empire: My trying for her would only result in more blood being spilled-all of it mine. As for running, well, it would end the same way, only with more sweat thrown into the mix.

I retrieved my knife, made sure Degan’s sword was still hidden within its wrapping, and hurried after her.

Copper turned down a nearby side street. Five doors along, she stepped into a gap between an ink seller’s shop and a salve maker. I joined her.

“Just so you know,” I said, wiping at my forehead again and holding out the bloody palm for her to see. “This doesn’t come free. Not even for a degan.”

“If you think you can collect, you’re welcome to try.”

I ran my gaze up and down her, more for show than anything else. I knew I couldn’t take her. Taller than me but not tall, with a narrower build than you might expect and dark, tightly braided hair, Copper didn’t look like a swords-woman. Aside from the heavily basketed sword at her side-chased in copper, of course, with the guard looking like a cascade of carved fish scales protecting the handle-the only thing that hinted at her skill was the slight broadening at her shoulders. That, and her eyes. They were good eyes for someone in her trade: cold and hard and distant-the kind of eyes you needed if your business was swinging steel for other people’s causes. The kind that said their owner didn’t give a damn about much, especially not you.

I met those eyes, then looked away. Damn degans.

“Another time,” I said.

“Mm-hmm.” She didn’t sound worried. “We need to talk.”

“About?”

“What do you think?”

I sighed. “Look, I already told your Order-”

“I’m not here on behalf of the Order. I’m here on my own.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “Because you lied.”

I snapped my gaze back to her and held my ground. “Lied?” I said. “I was the only non-degan in a room filled with degans, answering questions about a dead degan and a missing degan. I can’t think of many worse places to lie than that. How stupid do you think I am?”

“Just as much as you need to be.” Her finger found my chest and poked it. Hard. “We both know the tale you spun to the Order was garbage. A member of the Kin killing a degan?” She shook her head. “How stupid do you think I am?”

“I don’t know you well enough to say. Care to give me a hint?”

Her finger thrust again, with less give than if she’d used her sword. I winced and took a step back.

“What happened to Iron, Kin?”