Douglas Hulick - Sworn in Steel

His head rolled with the blow, lessening the impact, and his right hand came up. There was an expensive-looking, finely honed dagger in it. The dagger started to come up. And stopped.

The end of my skewer had found his throat first. I could feel the vein in his neck pushing gently against the tip of the wooden spike. There were still two pieces of lamb on it.

We sat there, his leg pinned beneath me, his body against the wall, my wooden skewer pressed to his neck, and glared at one another.

“Be smart,” I said.

He took a breath, swallowed, and lowered his steel. I let up on the kebob but didn’t remove it completely.

“All right,” I said, my own breath sounding ragged. “Here’s the tale: I don’t want trouble with you, let alone your brothers and sisters-”

“Too late.”

“-but I’ll take it if it means I have to go hard to get some answers. I’m not asking for your best whisperers or looking to hunt them down. All I want to know is where you heard the mumble, and where your mumblers heard it.”

“Why?”

“Because most days, I’m still called Drothe.”

The beggar’s eyes went wide.

“Now you know who to set your guild after if you want me,” I said. “The last thing I need right now is trouble with Ildrecca’s Masters of the Black Arts, but you can understand my position. I have to find out how far this has spread, and who started it.”

He nodded.

“Where’d you hear it?” I said.

“Came out of Rustwater, from what I can tell. There, and maybe Stone Arch.”

I scowled. I used to operate out of Stone Arch, back when it had been near the heart of Nicco’s old territory. Now it was split up among a couple of bosses. One of those bosses also owned Rustwater.

Rambles.

Rambles and I had never gotten along, even when we’d both worked under Nicco, which was ironic when you considered we’d both ended up betraying the Upright Man. The last time I’d seen him, Rambles had been rolling around on the street, puking his guts up-mainly because I’d kicked him in the groin. It was only fair, though: He’d had a sword to my throat moments before.

Since then, he’d managed to carve out enough territory and get enough coves under him to become an Upright Man in his own right. True, I was even higher among the Kin now, but there comes a point where simply dusting someone because he annoys you as a person isn’t a reason enough for the act. Unfortunately, Rambles had reached that point. For now.

I pulled the skewer away from the beggar’s throat. He didn’t raise his dagger as I leaned back and stood up-only rubbed at his leg and stared at me. I adjusted Degan’s canvas-wrapped sword across my back, then dropped a gold falcon in the beggar’s bowl.

“My apologies, good Master,” I said. “I didn’t intend to use you so roughly.”

“And I didn’t intend to tell a Gray Prince to fuck off,” he said. “Consider us even.” I noticed that the coin I’d dropped had already vanished. I hadn’t even seen him move.

I was just turning away when he spoke up again.

“Did you do it?”

I stopped. “Does it matter at this point?”

“Maybe. For me. For us.”

I considered his choice of words for a moment before I said, “I was there, but I didn’t dust him. If anything, he was the one trying to put the cross on me.”

The beggar’s eyes narrowed. “You can prove this?”

“As much as Crook Eye’s people can prove the opposite. But that doesn’t mean I’m lying.”

The beggar scratched absently at his clothing, his fingers chasing something unseen across his chest. “Crook Eye was always a bastard when it came to the students of the Begging Law,” he said at last. “Tight with his ready, even when he was coming up. Had a quick boot for us, too. I’ll pass your side along to my family. Can’t say it’ll help, but. .” He lifted a shoulder.

I nodded my thanks and headed back into the street.

I’d known I’d been set up, but not like this. To put out word of a Gray Prince’s death before it could even be confirmed? Before they could get word back from the assassin? That took more than balls. If Crook Eye had survived and come walking back into the city after he was proclaimed dead, he would have become a legend. And if I’d returned having cut a deal with him? Well, whoever had started the rumor would have had two unhappy Gray Princes to deal with. Never a wise idea.

I shook my head in disbelief. No, if even one part of this scheme had gone wrong, everything would have collapsed. That meant the people behind this hadn’t just planned it; they’d been sure of it. Positive. Failure hadn’t not only not been an option; it hadn’t even been a consideration. No matter what happened at the meeting in Barrab-angels, had they arranged that, too? — Crook Eye had been destined to turn up dead, just as I’d been destined to be made the Cull.

It was well done. Hell, it was more than that: It was damn near perfect. Which meant it sure as hell hadn’t been pulled off by Rambles.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t know anything about it. Not by a long shot.

The sun was just beginning to flirt with the western horizon when I finally reached the top of Blackpot Street. The winding lane lay just below the crest of one of Ildrecca’s five Old Hills, near what had once had been the center of the city but was now little more than a minor cordon with more history than prestige. When I first moved here after becoming a Prince, I’d thought I might enjoy the breezes that came with the elevation; now, as I paused to wipe my face and catch my breath, I remembered why I’d chosen to live down in Stone Arch cordon in the first place. My former neighborhood might have had its share of dangers and a stagnant stink, but I hadn’t had to worry about climbing up a hill every time I wanted to come home-especially not after a full day of working the streets.

I’d spent the remainder of the morning and most of the afternoon making my way across Ildrecca. Normally, it wouldn’t have taken this long, but it was a minor festival day-the Celebration of the Muster of the Lesser Host had fallen on the same day as the Feast of Tzemicles, angelic patron of alchemists-and the streets of the central cordons were filled with revelers and guild parades and those legionnaires lucky enough to draw a black bean and get the day off. Even the alleys had been busy. Between the Morts doing their trade up against the walls, the drunks spewing their festivities back out onto the cobbles, and the Tapsmen ambushing and robbing the lost and unwary, it had sometimes seemed there was hardly room to move.

That had also made it harder to nose for information, which was the other thing I’d been doing-or, at least, trying to do-on my way home. News of Fowler? None. Had anyone heard where the news about Crook Eye had surfaced? Not a soul. Nothing but quick shrugs, ducked heads, and vague mumblings that sounded like answers but told me nothing. The street, it seemed, had little to share.

Not that it was eager in any case. I was a Gray Prince now, and the Kin preferred to talk about their princes rather than to them. Street wisdom held that Princes were everywhere, that they had their hands in everything: To attract their attention was to become their unwitting tool. As reputations went, it had its appeal: No one would bother you, and few would cross you. But in practice? It made street life damn annoying, especially if you were used to working on it.

Part of me had been hoping I might prove to be the exception, that my recent pre-Prince status would let me bridge the gap between cove and crime lord. But it didn’t work that way, and most Kin weren’t willing to take the chance. I might have been of the street a few months ago, but that history counted for naught after my rise. There were no easy mumbles or loose whispers to be had-not by me. Not anymore.