The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [59]
I stood there for a moment, frozen, not having expected an attack within a block of the inn.
“I said, hand it over!”
I smiled, moving the staff up into a defensive posture. “I think you have the wrong person.” I hoped my voice didn’t shake the way my knees threatened to.
“Ha!” His blade whistled out. “Now! Let’s have that pack!”
All I dared to do was wait. The sword edge glittered even in the cloudy light of the morning.
“Be a shame to carve you up, outlander…”
I would have liked to shrug, but I didn’t, instead watching his eyes.
Clunk. I blocked the short blade, knocking it away.
“You do know how to use that staff a little, but not enough…”
…clunk…clink…clunk…
The responses were nearly automatic as I concentrated on anticipating his moves.
…clunk…clink…clunk…
He wasn’t nearly so good as Krystal or even Demorsal. So I waited, parrying, turning the blade rather than meeting it edge-on.
…clink…clink…clunk…
Sweat was pouring from his face, and he was breathing hard.
…clink…clunk…
Crack!…Whsssttt…
“Aiiieee…!”
Clank…
Suddenly, it was over. The small man, not much above my shoulder, I realized, backed away from me, leaving the sword on the dusty stones, clutching the back of his wrist where I had struck to disarm him.
“Black bastard…witch spawn…” He did not move, but stayed well beyond the reach of the staff.
I didn’t really know what to do. I didn’t want the sword. I really didn’t want to hurt the man. He was more hungry than evil, but I couldn’t exactly turn my back on him.
“So…up to trouble already, Lerris?”
I recognized the voice, took a quick glance over my shoulder to see Myrten strolling toward me. Even as I glanced back, the man who attacked me was darting away down the street and twisting into an alleyway on the right.
“That was stupid, youngster.”
“What?” Still holding my staff with one hand, I reached down and picked up the fallen sword. Just a plain blade.
“Looking away from him. Good thing he didn’t have a throwing knife.” Myrten wore a bright green tunic and dark green trousers. His cloak was heavy dark-gray leather. Like me he carried a pack, but his was half-slung over his left shoulder. He looked more like a clean-shaven minstrel or a bard than the thief I felt he innately was. Two large knives hung from his belt, but I could sense the small pistol under the left-hand false knife.
I looked up the street. No one else had followed us out of the inn. Myrten was right. I shrugged. “I didn’t expect something quite so soon.”
“What you expect isn’t what happens, particularly when you get close to chaos.” He half-laughed.
I shrugged. “Want the blade?”
“You could sell it,” he suggested.
“Me?”
Myrten laughed again, a short bark. “You’re right. That would be more than a little out of character. I’ll sell it and split the profit.”
That seemed more than fair. “Fine. But where?”
“Let’s just keep walking. There’s bound to be something.” Myrten seemed much more at ease on the streets of Freetown than in Nylan.
“What about—”
“We’re not traveling together, and we’ll certainly leave Freetown separately.”
At the next cross-street, Myrten stopped. With dirt and clay packed over the paving stones and squarish mud-holes where some stones were missing entirely, the street looked more like an alley frequented by thieves or worse. Myrten nodded toward the left.
I frowned.
“It’s early. Too early for the real professionals.” Myrten stretched his legs out, moving quickly, especially for a man so short.
“What about our friend?”
“Him? He was just hoping for an easy mark.”
Most of the doors we passed were shut and barred with cold iron. Iron doesn’t have any magical power, despite the rumors. It’s effective because it takes so damned much chaos to break through it that doing it isn’t worth the effort. That was what Magistra Trehonna had said.