I drew my hands down and blinked experimentally. Bright amber specks and dark blotches floated before me, the whole thing edged with shifting rainbow highlights. The ghostly image of an elegantly gloved hand, fingers holding a bit of wax and taper, kept drifting across my vision.
And pain. Still lots of pain.
From somewhere in front of me came the sounds of shuffling steps, quick breathing, and the rasp and clash of swords. It didn’t seem as fast and furious as I would have expected. Then I heard a soft, fading hiss. Degan cursed. More steps, another cautious pass of blades.
Was this the first clash, or had they been at it for a while? Pain can do funny things with time, but my guess was that I hadn’t been out very long; Degan wasn’t one to dally when it came to killing someone. Still, the longer it went, I suspected, the worse it would be for me.
I shook my head and knuckled my eyes. Spots and darkness.
I’d been blinded when using my night vision before, but never like this-never with glimmer, never this close, never so bright.
I heard another hiss. Degan grunted, and almost immediately there followed the ring of intense swordplay. Someone was pressing someone, but I had no way of knowing who. Worse, I could hear them getting closer. I quickly edged back, hoping that if I did inadvertently trip someone up, that someone would be Shadow.
A moment later, I heard Shadow gasp. I held my breath, waiting for the body to fall.
Degan sniffed. “Close,” he said.
“Very,” agreed Shadow.
They resumed.
Damn it! What the hell was going on? This should have been over already, which meant Shadow had pulled something else out of his cloak. But what? What was the damn hissing?
I needed to see. I needed to fix this. Now.
I rolled over onto my stomach and pressed my face to the street. It stank of mud and shit and rotting onions. I wrapped my arms around my head, shutting out the rest of the night. The stench intensified horribly; I nearly gagged, but I needed to keep all the light I could away from my eyes.
Darkness had been my balm that first night, when Sebastian and I had come home. Christiana had lit a lamp and been waiting, had met us as the door to the cabin when we threw it open. Sebastian hadn’t warned me about the light yet, about what it would do to my eyes in the night; I had looked right into it and screamed at the pain.
It had been the darkness of the forest that comforted me, that helped bring my vision back, with Sebastian’s coaching and my own concentration. I only hoped darkness would do it again now.
I blinked in the circle of my arms and stared hard. My eyes began to water from the smell of the street. The pain returned full force, filling my eyes, my head, my awareness.
Steel on steel to my right. A hiss. A yell.
I became aware of a new rhythmic pain, and realized I was hitting my head against the ground. I thought about stopping, but didn’t dare. Each motion, each strike, brought a faint flare of orange to my vision. I dug my fingers into my forearms to keep them from scrabbling at my eyes, and I continued battering the street with my forehead. One more, I kept telling myself, one more. One more strike and I would either see or die-just one more.
And then, suddenly, a wave of color was before me-light and shadows, shapes and textures. I blinked and watched as the lines resolved themselves into an amber-hued sandal print.
Sight! And a raging headache behind my eyes, but, first and foremost, sight.
I unclenched my fingers and pushed myself up from the street, gasping to clear my lungs.
I saw Degan and Shadow almost immediately. They were less than ten feet away, limned in red and gold, blades at the ready as they measured each other anew. Degan held his sword in one hand, his hat in his other. He had the hat by its brim at chest level, slightly out from his body. I’d seen him use his hat once before in a fight to foul his opponent’s blade, but that had been against seven men. That he was using it against just one didn’t bode well.
Shadow, in turn, was holding a silvered piece of the moon in his left hand-light and fast and beautiful. The blade was slightly thinner than Degan’s, and slightly longer. When the steel moved, the moonlight seemed to run along its length in gentle waves, lapping against the blue-black guard. It was Black Isle steel, just like Degan’s, only of an even better temper, if the pattern of light was any indication.
Shadow’s other hand was closed into a loose fist, but I could see tiny glints of metal showing between the fingers. The ends of throwing darts held against the palm? Brass knuckles in case Degan got close?
I squinted for a better look even as I gathered my feet beneath me. The movement caused my vision to blur. When it refocused, Shadow was in motion.
He stepped forward, blade lashing out to meet Degan’s and drive it off-line. At the same time, his right hand came forward and threw two pieces of metal at Degan. I saw with amazement that they were coins-copper owls, by the look of them.
Degan twisted his body, bringing his hat around to meet the coins even as he tried to keep his sword in the line with Shadow’s blade. On anyone else, it would have seemed graceless; on Degan, it looked like a practiced dance.
Their swords met, high and outside. At the same time, Degan scooped the coins from the air with his hat. An instant later, he twisted the hat to one side. Where two bronze owls had gone in, numerous lines and gobbets of molten metal came flying out. The shower of melted bronze sent up tiny spikes of steam where the drops hit the street.
Portable glimmer; the kind that would pass any Rag’s inspection until it was used. And worse, it was the kind you could carry by the handful; which looked to be about as much as Shadow had.
I took a closer look at Degan. Yes, there was at least one set of burn marks running along the sleeve of his sword arm. I also noticed Degan’s hat was pitted and showing wear-many more catches, and it would either catch fire or fall apart.
I scanned the street for my knife, saw it on the other side of the fight. So much for getting in a quick, poisonous slash. Nor was I sure enough of my night vision, or my aim, to try throwing one of my other blades. A wrong step at the wrong time and I could end up hitting Degan as easily as Shadow.
My rope, though, was closer. It lay in a dark puddle well behind Shadow, its knots bubbling and steaming in the water.
Staying low, I drew my rapier and quick-shuffled toward the rope. The world still seemed to fuzz and sharpen at random as I moved.
I stopped and knelt at the edge of the puddle. As my fingers quested out for the rope, my eyes lighted on Shadow’s broad gray-cloaked back less than ten yards away.
I smiled. I didn’t need perfect night vision or the steadiest feet or even the surest hands to deal with him this time. All I needed was to take a few quick paces and swing the rope. That much, I knew, I could do.
I was just closing my fingers around the rope when a boot stepped down on my wrist.
“Ah-ah-ah,” scolded a man’s voice softly. “No time to play, Drothe-you’re wanted elsewhere.”
I didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
“You have crap timing,” I told Rambles.
“All part of my charm,” he said. The boot shifted on my wrist. I winced. Something cool and hard laid itself across the back of my neck.
“Drop the tail,” said Rambles. I let my rapier fall to the street. “Now,” he continued, “leave the rope where it is and stand up. Slowly.”
His boot lifted, and I brought my hand in toward me. I cradled it against my thigh as if he had hurt it more than he had.
I twisted my head to look up at him. The coolness on my neck was the forward edge of a short-bladed sword. A dark, self-satisfied smile was on his face. That was when it hit me.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” I said. “You’re the one who told Nicco I was working for Kells.”
His smile widened. “It was either you or me. Lucky for me, you’ve been screwing up enough that I was able to make the story believable. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re still alive.”