Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [62]
“I know many people in Airspur, though they don’t know me. It’s why my ‘rumors’ so often prove accurate. Like I said before, thief, step away, or everyone’s going to know your name, not just me.”
Riltana hesitated. Her persona as a lowly messenger for the Airstepper’s Guild was a facade she depended on for her livelihood. This Inakin, if that was even his real name, was threatening to strip it from her.
That pissed her off.
“You think you can make me do what you want?” she said. “Then you don’t know me at all.”
She advanced, short sword at the ready. She whirled the tip, trying to draw Inakin’s eye as her other hand smoothly drew and flung a dagger.
Inakin jumped back, and the spinning blade only clipped him instead of finding the meat of his shoulder.
She said, “Chant, help me!”
The pawnbroker grimaced, and said in a defeated voice, “If we hurt Inakin, someone close to me will pay. Don’t attack him.”
Understanding hit her like a bucket of cold water. This man, or someone Inakin worked for, was holding a hostage against Chant’s good behavior.
“Well, shit,” she said.
Inakin laughed. “Now you see, dear Riltana. So step aside. I have business with your overweight friend.”
She ground her teeth, and considered stabbing the condescending bastard in the stomach regardless of the consequences.
She said, “Chant says he doesn’t have whatever you’re looking for. If you want to get to him, you’ll come through me.”
“Riltana!” said the pawnbroker in a kind of panic.
Inakin grinned. A spark of electricity blazed under the man’s hat brim, tracing his szuldar and sparking in his eyes. He was no windsoul, as he’d been trying to project; Inakin’s heritage was the storm!
“Don’t worry, Chant,” said the man. “I don’t mind disposing of this garbage before we talk about your account. Don’t interfere, and Jaul won’t come to any harm. The wench, on the other hand …”
Wench! She decided that Inakin would have to die.
Inakin raised a hand and a thunderbolt flashed out, quick as thought, and struck her. She cried out within the discharge of nerve-burning power, and fell onto the cobbles, but thankfully behind the cover of a rain catchment barrel. The wooden vessel stank of stagnant water.
Her clothes were smoking, and she couldn’t feel the right half of her body. She retained her sword, but only because she couldn’t make her hand unclench itself; her arm flopped nearly uselessly.
She regretted her bravado. Inakin was obviously more of a player than she’d recognized. Carmenere always said that Riltana’s temper would be the death of her.
“Where are you hiding, little birdie?” sang Inakin.
She blew out a breath, palmed a dagger, and waited.
Inakin came up, just a little too close, as she’d hoped he would. Blowhards were usually alike in their overconfidence. She’d made the same mistake herself.
He opened his mouth, probably intending to brag about how easily he’d taken her down. Riltana scissored her legs and spun onto her back. Then she drew both legs to her chest, kicked upward, and caught the rumormonger square under his jaw. He grunted and stumbled back several paces as she rolled to her feet.
The dagger she’d palmed was already in flight, but the pain of her wound fouled the aim. Instead of burying itself in his throat, the dagger skittered along Inakin’s ribs.
He raised his hand, as if preparing to loose another bolt.
Riltana’s eyes were drawn from Inakin by movement in the darkness beyond him.
Something else was in the alley.
A shadow—no. A man made of shadow wielding a sword studded with faint gleams. His eyes were pits, his nose a cruel slash, and his face a mask that might well frighten a demon.
The shadowy man took a step into darkness, and reappeared a dozen paces closer, right behind Inakin.
The man … was Demascus! Even as she recognized him, the film of dimness slipped away, as Demascus cast the Veil in a nooselike loop around Inakin’s neck.
Inakin’s confident expression shattered as his eyes popped with surprise.
Demascus whispered into Inakin