Delilah Dawson - The Damsel and the Daggerman

When she walked up, the subject of her inquiry was pulling a bouquet of knives from a scarred wooden target painted in rings of red and white. She had a moment to study him before he noticed her, and she realized immediately why Emerlie had been so very keen. Marco Taresque was a damn fine specimen of a man, dark and angular and as sharp as his knives, with thick, wavy hair that trailed down his back like brambles, making him seem half wild. She couldn’t help staring, willing him to face her while still enjoying the elegant but powerful movement of his shoulders and arms as he unconsciously went through his routine.

Like most men, he wore a white shirt that had seen better days, but the sleeves were more fitted, while the collar was uncharacteristically loose, especially when so many Bludmen were near to hand. He wasn’t wearing a coat, which was expected for such an unusually warm day. But his midnight-blue waistcoat was of a cut she’d never seen before, thick and tight, with boning similar to that of a lady’s corset and lacing up the back. It sharpened the lines of an already sharp man, setting off the wideness of his shoulders and the way his shirt stretched across well-muscled arms. As he pulled the knives from the wood, he slid them one by one into invisible slots in his vest, where their black handles disappeared against the velvety fabric. She counted twelve, six on each side, before the target was cleared. The daggerman spun around, saw her watching, and froze.

Feeling the full strength of his violet eyes, she froze, too. For a moment, they stood that way, and Jacinda was wildly aware that he could have reached down and stuck her with every knife in his vest before she could spin and run away. She felt like the target, like a solid thing, painted and waiting to be pierced. Despite a leather corset designed to repel attacks, she had never felt so vulnerable, not in seven years of traveling the most removed, dangerous cities of Sang. She imagined a black dagger flipping end over end, as quick as a bird, to strike her directly in the heart with a wooden thunk .

And then he smiled, a quick, wry thing that was gone instantly, replaced by a dark scowl.

“I should have known you’d find me.”

His voice was gravelly but musical, with an accent at once unfamiliar and enticing, and his eyes settled on the notebook and pen held, limp, in her hands. She dipped her head in acknowledgment but not acquiescence.

“You’ve heard of me, then, Mr. Taresque?”

Looking down, he ran a hand through his hair. He walked toward her, every step deliberate, boots crunching on dead grass already trampled. As he passed close enough for her to feel the air stir from his sleeve, he said, “No. But I know your type. You’re not the first. You’ll not be the last.”

He kept walking, and as she’d promised to obey Criminy’s rules, she had no choice but to watch him go. His snug-fitting trousers had fine pinstripes that disappeared into high black boots. The man bristled with so many knives she wasn’t sure how he sat without cutting himself to ribbons.

In her years first as a student, then as a journalist’s assistant, then, most recently, as a solitary adventurer, she’d met thousands of men. Heroes, villains, brigands, jackals, shamans, monsters, soldiers, weak-chinned milksops, and even uncivilized madmen. But the strange push and pull of Marco Taresque was a first for her. Aloof but magnetic. Wild but carefully contained. Dangerous to a fault but in no way overtly threatening. Dark but oh so appealing. As soon as her feet caught up with her heart, she was following at his heels, pen and notebook in hand, hoping Criminy didn’t have spies lurking about.

“Mr. Taresque, would you be willing to tell me your story?”

He didn’t turn. Didn’t break stride. Said nothing.

“It’s not just you, of course. I didn’t come here to find you personally. I’m writing a book on the caravan. With Criminy Stain’s blessing.”

Again, no response. Just steady, confident, angry steps, faster and faster so that she was almost jogging to keep up. She was starting to feel desperate and resorted to a journalist’s last resort: accusation.

“I’ve heard that you’re dangerous. That there was blood everywhere.”

He had reached the clockwork bird she’d recently deactivated. A begoggled artificer and a woman in a frumpy coat were fussing with the wires in an open compartment, arguing over the cause of the automaton’s malfunction as he held a screwdriver and she held a book. Without a word, Marco took two fast steps, planted a boot on the man’s back, and catapulted himself over the bird.

“Dammit, man! These are fragile instruments,” the artificer growled, but Marco ignored him and kept walking.

“Oh, Henry. That’s your best vest,” the woman said, fussing at the bootprint.

Jacinda tried to get around the pair and the collection of tools, books, and wires arrayed on the ground, but there was no clear path, unless she went over, which even she wouldn’t risk in such voluminous skirts.

“Are you hiding something, Marco Taresque?” she shouted at his rapidly disappearing back.

He stopped and turned, hands on hips bristling with knives. Did she imagine the smile tugging at his lips?

“Of course I am!” he shouted back.

And then he was gone.

“So what do you know about Marco Taresque?”

The three girls around the table giggled behind their hands, telling Jacinda exactly what she wanted to know: he’d had absolutely nothing to do with any of them.

“He just showed up one night,” the bearded girl breathed, woolly cheeks in her gloved hands. “Materialized out of the smoke like he was part of the fire.”

“Everything was smoky that night, Abi. He just happened to walk out at exactly the right moment.” Demi rolled her eyes. “And honestly, he showed up that afternoon. Marched across the moor like anyone else who’s vaguely suicidal. You just didn’t see him because you were asleep in your wagon. It was far less dramatic then.” But the girl’s eyes went misty anyway, betraying her feelings about the mysterious stranger.

“Master Crim said he’s dangerous, and that’s good enough for me.” Cherie shook her blond curls, her mouth in a prim line. “Honestly, he looks like a wastrel. Like he did what the papers say he did.”

“Oh, he was in the papers?” Jacinda asked.

Abi leaned close, her beard wagging excitedly and dipping into her oatmeal. “Master Stain don’t like us to read about the cities, but the audience drops a paper every now and then. There was a drawing, and there’s a price on his head.”

“Down south, they call him the Deadly Daggerman,” Cherie whispered.

“I’d like to see that story. Do you have it still?”

Demi blushed. “Crim found us with it and took it away. Said it was just another case of a money-grubbing journalist making a sensation out of hearsay and ruining a man’s life in the process.” She raised her eyebrows and stared at Jacinda as if daring her to continue the line of questioning.

Jacinda knew when an interview was headed downhill. She would find a better time to talk to the girls about their own stories when they weren’t on the offensive—or packed together in a giggling gaggle.

With a warm, professional smile, she stood, tucking her notebook under her arm without a single word written on the page. This interview had been doomed from the start, but she had learned more than she anticipated. Now she knew why Marco wouldn’t talk to her. And she also knew that he hadn’t been breaking hearts among the young and easily breakable. He went up a notch in her estimation, considering how very easily he could have preyed upon these moon-eyed girls. It shouldn’t have mattered, as she was simply a journalist gathering facts. And yet . . . it mattered.