The Shattered Mask Page 16

  The bargewoman’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want him for?”

  “There was a boating accident,” Thamalon said. It was the story he and Shamur had agreed upon. “My master’s daughter would have drowned if this fellow hadn’t happened to be passing by on another vessel and fished her out of the drink. Lord Baerent wants to reward him, and if you help us find him, there are a few fivestars in it for you as well.”

  The bargewoman shook her head. “I don’t know the man.”

  “Well, thank you anyway,” Thamalon sighed. “We’ll walk on through, then.”

  The nobles asked their questions on all the vessels tied up at the dock, then moved on to those farther offshore. As they made their way through the floating city, Thamalon was affable when addressing the watermen and taciturn otherwise.

  Shamur hadn’t much minded his sullenness all afternoon, but now, perhaps because he’d finally relaxed for just a moment, it grated on her. At last, as they walked from the bow to the stern of an old trawler, with nets and setlines hanging on every side, she said, “I truly don’t blame you for separating me from the things I loved. I realize it was my choice to don the mask I wore.”

  “Yes, it was,” he answered, “but I believe you blame me nonetheless. Why else would you grow so cold?”

  “You had your doxies to console you,” she said, then winced at the venom in her voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t begin this conversation to find an excuse for a quarrel. Perhaps, unjust as it was, I did resent you to some extent, simply because I was so unhappy.”

  “Unhappy in your life of luxury and privilege.”

  “It wasn’t what I wanted!”

  “Apparently not.” They reached the rear of the vessel, and he called down to the sleek, narrow passenger skiff moored underneath, to the family of rowers taking their ease on the seats. “Ahoy!”

  The nobles inquired about for another hour, still meeting with no success. Shamur became increasingly convinced that they must already have spoken to someone who knew their quarry, but that suspicious individual had been loath to give up a fellow waterman to a pair of outsiders.

  Eventually, as they crossed the deck of a barge that had yet to unload its cargo of bins of iron ore, Thamalon said, “I could wish that you’d played your role with greater skill.”

  Shamur eyed him quizzically. “I did my best.”

  “And I must admit, you hoodwinked everyone, but still, when I think about it now, your impersonation was less than impeccable. At first, you did seem like the sweet, gladsome girl I loved. You had to until after the wedding, I suppose. But soon enough, you petrified into the stiff, imperious creature you are now, as your grand-niece never would have done.”

  She shrugged. “I suppose I felt that if I couldn’t be the rogue anymore, I might as well be the most dignified noblewoman Selgaunt has ever seen. It certainly kept me from slipping up and revealing any hint of the old Shamur.”

  “To my mind, it’s almost as if you were punishing yourself for abandoning the life you cherished by making sure you’d be as lonely and divorced from your true nature as possible.”

  She frowned, not liking his conjecture but unable to dismiss it out of hand. She was still mulling it over when he grabbed her by the shoulder.

  “Look!” he said, pointing.

  She peered ahead and saw two figures talking on the deck of a gaily painted galley, the kind that pleasure seekers chartered for an outing on the bay. Beneath the mast, illuminated by the glow of a yellow lantern, huddled a tattooed boy and the man she and Thamalon were seeking. She surmised that one of the watermen to whom they’d spoken had indeed been acquainted with the bravo, and had dispatched the youth to warn him.

  “Let’s go,” she murmured, and at that moment, the bully peered out across the expanse of gently bobbing decks that separated them, spotted them, and bolted, vanishing over the opposite side of the galley.

  Shamur’s eyes took in the lay of the land, or whatever you called it when you were out on an aggregation of boats.

  “Circle that way,” she said, pointing. “Cut him off if he makes for the docks.” Should the rogue succeed in reaching the shore, he could lose himself in the teeming streets beyond.

  Evidently Thamalon understood her concern, for he set off as she’d bade him without question, leaving her with her longer legs to pursue their prey directly. Springing into motion, her cape streaming out behind her and her scabbard bumping at her hip, she began the chase.

  She discovered at once how tricky it was to scramble or leap headlong from one deck to the next, particularly when the two surfaces were at different heights above the water, just as she realized that, although she knew how to swim, a slip and a fall into the frigid bay could easily kill her. She knew she mustn’t slow down, else the man with the ring in his lip would elude her.

  She leaped over a six-foot expanse of open water, caught hold of the pleasure galley’s rail, and started to scramble aboard. Her own momentum nearly carried her onto the point of the boat hook that the lad whom she’d spotted moments before was tentatively poking at her face.

  She clung to her perch with one hand and grabbed the tool with the other, ripped it from her assailant’s grasp, and tossed it into the water.

  “Scat!” she roared, and the boy flinched back, giving her room to vault onto the deck and race to the other side. To her relief, the bully was still visible in full flight several boats away. Leaping to the next vessel in line, she continued the pursuit.

  It soon became apparent that the lad with the boat hook wasn’t the only waterman who wanted to hinder her. When she bounded onto an old hulk that some entrepreneur had converted into a floating tavern, where fish filets were grilling on wrought-iron braziers, several of the patrons surged forward to attack her. She snatched out her broadsword, dropped the man in the lead with a cut to the thigh, sent another reeling with a gashed arm, and the rest faltered. She ran at them, slashing wildly, and they gave way, though that wasn’t the end of the harassment. Topers who hadn’t been bold enough to attempt to lay hands on her pelted her with crockery, tankards, and even hunks of bread.

  Thereafter, she ran with her sword in hand, and no one attacked her face to face. Some of the watermen tried their best to hinder her in other ways.

  As she dashed from the bow to the stern of a skipjack, silently cursing the clutter on the deck, the boom suddenly spun around. It would have swept her into the water had she not instantly dropped flat.

  Onboard another barge, she heard a creak, looked around, and spotted the arm of a crane pivoting to drop a net full of crates on her head. She put on a burst of speed, and the boxes crashed down behind her. The crane operator cursed.

  Frequently she suffered a stinging bombardment of belaying pins, fishing tackle, and any other missiles the watermen found ready to hand.

  Shamur wondered whether they’d be so keen to protect her quarry if they realized he was a hired killer. She supposed she’d never know, for she couldn’t spare the time or the breath to tell them.

  Perhaps she wouldn’t even if she could, for as she ran, leaped, and dodged, testing her instincts and agility, risking calamity with every stride, she felt the old exhilaration. Perhaps she was mad, but this was the kind of perilous sport she needed to be happy. Delighting in the play of her muscles, at each obstacle overcome, at the kiss of the icy air on her face, she grinned fiercely.

  She bounded onto a ketch amidships. The only person on deck was a small, bald, wizened man wrapped in a voluminous black robe. He was perched in the stern, well away from her and not blocking the direction she needed to go, and she assumed that he at least had no intention of interfering with her. Then, from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed him sweeping his hands and mystic passes as he chanted rhyming words of power.

  The spellcaster tossed sparkling powder into the air, and beams of multi-colored light sizzled from his fingers in a fan-shaped burst. Shamur wrenched herself behind the cover of the mainmast, but a shaft of scarlet radiance gr
azed her shoulder even so. She felt dizzy and weak for a moment, and then the sensation passed.

  She darted from her place of concealment, intent on distancing herself from the warlock as rapidly as possible, but he was already jabbering and twirling his arms again. Magic moaned and crackled through the air.

  Suddenly, she had no idea why she’d been in such a rush to get away. The wizard seemed such a nice fellow, she ought to stay and make friends, see if she could oblige him in some way—

  “No!” she shouted, and the enchantment lost its grip on her mind.

  Shamur decided she couldn’t just run and give him the chance to hurl yet another spell at her retreating form. She noticed a bucket—a bait bucket, judging from the fishy smell—sitting near the foot of the mainmast, snatched it up, and threw it.

  The missile bashed the bald man on the temple, and, dazed, he collapsed to his knees. Grinning, she headed for the other side of the ketch, and then something struck her calf, stuck there, and yanked her off her feet.

  As she slammed down on the deck, she saw that it was a long, sticky tongue that had caught her, and at the other end was a goggle-eyed frog as big as a man. The spellcaster’s pet or familiar, she supposed. Despite its size, with its natural ability to change color to match its surroundings, she hadn’t noticed it crouching in the gloom, and now its tongue dragged her closer, its huge mouth gaping to swallow her whole.

  She wrenched herself around into position to cut at the creature’s tongue. One swing gashed it deeply and a second hacked it in two to lash about, showering blood.

  The frog croaked, hopped into distance, and tried to bite her. Gripping her sword with both hands, she thrust at the creature’s throat. The blade plunged in almost to the hilt, and the amphibian collapsed.

  Shamur scrambled to her feet, took hold of the weapon, and tried to pull it from the carcass. But even when she tugged with all her might, the broadsword wouldn’t slide free.

  She knew she had no more time to fool with it, not with the bravo racing farther away every second. Grimacing, she abandoned the weapon, drew her dagger, and ran on.

  She finally caught up with the tattooed man at the very edge of the floating city, where the clustered vessels gave way to open water. Naturally, the crafts farther in were unable to move until their assembly dissolved at dawn, but those here at the verge could depart at will, and, standing aboard a small sloop, using a boat hook to push off from the vessel next to it, the bravo was endeavoring to do so.

  Another waterman, the rightful master of the vessel, presumably, lay motionless on the deck. Shamur assumed that he at least hadn’t been interested in helping her quarry escape, and so the bravo had found it necessary to subdue him in order to commandeer the sloop. And thank Mask for that, because if something hadn’t delayed the wretch, she never would have caught up with him in time.

  One final leap across the black water landed her on the sloop, which rocked as it took her weight. The tattooed man pivoted to face her, his neck bruised where she’d struck him the night before. His eyes widened in surprise, and he smiled.

  “Where’s your friend?” he rasped. Apparently the blow to the throat had roughened his voice as well.

  “On his way.”

  “But too late to help you,” he said, and Shamur realized he was right. The sloop was still drifting away from its neighbor, and the gap was now too wide for Thamalon to jump. “And you, baggage, have lost your sword.”

  She expected him to reach for his short swords, but he whipped out a dagger with a curved blade instead.

  Shamur doubted it was chivalry prompting him to opt for a shorter blade like her own. He was probably proud of his skill with a dagger, proud enough to rely on it whenever practical. Whereas, though she had some experience with all the white arms, as bladed weapons were called, she was most confident with the sword. She knew the basics of knife fighting, but no more.

  Well, she told herself, that would just make it more interesting, as would the fact that while he would have no compunction about killing her, she must take care not to give him a mortal wound. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to interrogate him afterward.

  She assumed a stance similar to the one she employed when fighting with a sword, her weapon hand in the lead. Smiling, knees slightly bent the bravo minced toward her with his empty hand leading, and poised to guard his abdomen, his dagger hand cocked back. He sucked in his midsection to make it less of a target.

  Shamur retreated, using her longer reach to threaten him and slow his advance, meanwhile studying his technique. She knew she couldn’t keep evading him for long, not in the cramped arena of the deck, but she hoped that if she figured out his style before he closed, she could turn that understanding to good advantage.

  The bravo glided forward with stylized steps reminiscent of an allemande, sometimes tossing his weapon from one hand to the other. Once he twirled, momentarily giving her his back, then snapped back around with a cut that would likely have taken her in the throat, had she accepted the invitation to attack.

  He did indeed appear to be a master of the dagger, tricky and sufficiently confident of his skill to be flamboyant. Shamur reckoned that she might be in even more trouble than she’d thought.

  In the few seconds she’d spent studying him, he’d nearly backed her up into the very end of the bow. Unwilling to let herself be cornered, she sidestepped, and that was the instant the bravo attacked in earnest.

  His hand streaked at her, and she made a cut intended to intercept it. But his thrust stopped short, her counterattack missed, and she saw at that same instant that his fist was empty. Somehow, without her seeing it, he’d transferred his dagger to his other hand, and now she glimpsed it plunging toward her abdomen.

  She twisted, wrenching herself aside, and the thrust missed by a hair. With her left hand, she grabbed for his wrist, seeking to immobilize his weapon, but in one graceful blur of motion, he spun his arm away and danced back safely out of distance.

  Shamur pursued him back toward the stern. She stepped and thrust, stepped and thrust, accustoming him to the pace at which she was advancing, then sprang forward with a sudden burst of acceleration which she hoped would catch him by surprise.

  It didn’t. He instantly dropped to one knee, and her dagger and outstretched arm flew over his head. Meanwhile, his blade drove up at her stomach.

  With her own impetus driving her toward his point, she had no time to parry, but could only attempt to dodge. Once again, she was fortunate, for the dagger missed her flesh, though it snagged in her cloak and yanked her off balance before it ripped free. She grabbed one of the lines to steady herself, heard his noisy breathing coming up behind her, and spun back around to face him.

  The dagger leaped back and forth between his hands. She sensed that he wanted her to attack at that instant when the blade was in flight, and refused to respond to the invitation. After a few seconds, he suddenly abandoned the ploy and lunged to stab her in the chest.

  She attempted an evasive movement of her own, pivoting on her front leg to avoid his point while thrusting at his throat. His initial attack missed, but he blocked with his left arm and took her weapon out of line as well. To her surprise, he sprang closer, seizing her with his unweaponed hand and lifting his knife arm high.

  With his black-bearded features only inches from her own, blocking out everything else, she couldn’t see his right hand performing its next manipulation, but she didn’t have to. She understood very well what it must be doing. Spinning the knife, reversing his grip so he could drive the point into her spine.

  Her own weapon was passé and out of position for an instantaneous stab at his back, nor did she think she could break free of his hold in the split second remaining. So she butted him in the face.

  His nose broke with a crack, his body jerked, and, thanks be to Mask, his dagger didn’t slam down into her flesh. She instantly followed up with a second head butt, a stomp to the foot, and a knee to the groin.

  His grip slack
ened. Shoving him back, she tore herself free, gave him a snap kick to the knee, and, seeing that he was staggering, too hurt and dazed for the moment to wield his dagger, stepped in and slammed the pommel of her own weapon against his forehead.

  The bravo fell, and she grinned in satisfaction. Many would say she’d been lucky to defeat such an opponent, but she preferred to think that while he had been the better dagger fighter, she was the stronger combatant in general, and that was what had yielded her the victory.

  “Ho!”

  Shamur turned. Thamalon was standing aboard a catboat at the edge of the floating city. He had his buckler in his left hand and his throwing knife in his right, and although the watermen who inhabited the craft were regarding him sourly, they weren’t making any hostile moves.

  “By the time the ruffian reached this part of the cluster,” Thamalon said, “it was obvious he didn’t intend to make for the docks. So I followed after you.”

  “Good,” she replied. “Bide there a moment.”

  Shamur scrutinized the bravo. Whimpering, he seemed to be conscious, but incapacitated nonetheless. She dropped his dagger and short swords over the side, and, keeping a wary eye on him, found a sweep and rowed the sloop up to the catboat. The two hulls banged together, and one of the watermen cursed.

  “Sorry,” she told him, then turned to Thamalon. “Climb aboard. We might as well chat with our friend here privately, without any other misguided boaters attempting to interfere with us.”

  “Good idea.” Thamalon stepped onto the sloop, and she pushed off with the oar.

  Once she was sure they were drifting away, Shamur glanced around to catch Thamalon staring at her with a strange expression on her face, and for some reason, his regard made her feel self-conscious. “What?” she demanded.

  The nobleman blinked. “Nothing.” He stooped to examine the waterman from whom the bravo had attempted to steal the sloop. “This fellow should be all right. It looks as if our friend just knocked him out.”