The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [69]
So Andalus would fail to slay the King of Aglirta here today. It was not the first time that the man plunging through the air with sword stretched forth to slay had disagreed with an employer as to the wisdom of a slaying. And among professional slayers and those who hire them, disagreements have a regrettable habit of ending in sudden deaths…
Velvetfoot's blade plunged deep into the open mouth of an old and arrogant steward who was reputed to be something of a mage-and who, therefore, would serve Aglirta infinitely better as a corpse.
Blood fountained amid frantic garglings, and as Velvetfoot's boots smashed the bearded old body to the floor, shattering ribs like dry twigs, the slayer tore his sword free and swung it in a wild arc around himself, almost casually laying open the throat of the second travel-worn envoy.
Dark blood sprayed forth. As he plunged through it at the king, drawing his sword back to strike, Velvetfoot noticed that his blade was dripping white, green, and gold with the brains of the old steward. Hmm: the colors of Gloit. Interesting. Now, how to keep from killing the Risen King of Aglirta without being obvious about it?
He'd have to stumble, allow the man-who seemed agile enough, leaping back now to gain room to swing the royal sword, and drawing it with swift grace-a chance to flee, and also give him good reason to; in front of his court, at least, this Snowsar seemed to want to play the noble hero. Perhaps maiming his sword arm would suffice…
The royal sword flashed a bright blue-white, and there was a sudden, intense chill in the air. Magic. Velvetfoot sprang to one side as the other messenger from the country made a grim, unarmed grab for him, and then ducked smoothly under the man's outstretched arms and punched him hard up under the ribs.
Winded and staggering, the man from Garthrail stumbled back where Velvetfoot's blow sent him-right into the heart of the flickering web of magic that was fading into visible life around the king. The man stiffened, gasped, and froze-toppling to the floor wild-eyed and helpless, his body immobile in midconvulse.
Failure here would not be difficult in the slightest, after all. Horns and gongs burst into sudden life, and were echoed in the halls behind the throne room, as stewards finally found something useful to do in their diligent service to Aglirta.
Wearing the faintest of smiles behind his mask, the man called Velvetfoot whirled and fled. He doubted this square-jawed royal hero would have gone around this palace rapping and prying on things to find the hidden ways-and he doubted even more that any of these other dolts would think to look for secret passages even if they were hurled bodily into one.
Wherefore lurking to learn things that could enrich should be easy. Boots were already pounding along distant passages as Velvetfoot vaulted over one would-be foe-or, more likely, just a courtier who'd learned how to strike a dramatic pose with his sword, and didn't want to waste a chance to use it in public-put the toe of his boot into the face of another, and whirled out an archway and around a pillar into oblivion, all in a few frantic instants.
It was a handful of frantic instants more before the first shouting guards pelted past the pillar, arriving in haste to aid their king.
They were in time to see an unfortunate courtier stray too close to the royal swordtip, and discover that the king had found a sword somewhere that, when its magics were awake, paralyzed those it touched. Enthusiastically they raced across the polished tiles to hack at the stiff and helpless bodies-only to be waved grimly away by a king who looked profoundly annoyed.
And no wonder. This