Ah, shit. She's a foot-boxer — a bloody chassoneur, Locke thought, stumbling to his feet. Jean hates that. Locke twitched his coat-sleeves and a stiletto fell into each hand. Moving warily, he skipped across the stones toward Jean's attacker, who was kicking Jean in the ribs as the big man attempted to roll away. Locke was within three paces of the chassoneur when the slap of boot-leather against the ground warned of a presence close behind him. He raised the stiletto in his right hand as though to strike Jean's assailant, then ducked and whirled, lunging blindly to his rear with the left-hand blade.
Locke was instantly glad he'd ducked: something whirled past his head close enough to tear painfully at his hair. His new attacker was another "beggar", a man close to his own stature, and he'd just missed a swing with a long iron chain that would have opened Locke's skull like an egg. The force of the man's attack helped carry him onto the point of Locke's stiletto, which plunged in up to the hilt just beneath the man's right armpit. The man gasped and Locke pressed his advantage ruthlessly, bringing his other blade down overhand and burying it in the man's left clavicle.
Locke wrenched both of his blades as savagely as he could, and the man moaned. The chain slipped from his fingers and hit the stones with a clatter; a second later Locke worked his blades out of the man's body as though he was pulling skewers from meat, and let the poor fellow slump to the ground. He raised his bloody stilettos, turned and, with a sudden burst of ill-advised self-confidence, charged Jean's assailant.
She kicked out from the hip, barely sparing him a glance. Her foot struck his sternum; it felt like walking into a brick wall. He stumbled back, and she took the opportunity to step away from Jean (who looked to have been rather pummelled) and advance on Locke.
Her rags were discarded. Locke saw that she was a young woman, probably younger than he was, wearing loose, dark clothing and a thin, well-fashioned ribbed leather vest. She was Therin, relatively dark-skinned, with tightly braided black hair that circled her head like a crown. She had a poise that said she'd killed before.
No problem, thought Locke as he moved backwards, so have I, and that's when he tripped over the body of the man he'd just stabbed.
She took instant advantage of his misstep. Just as he regained his balance, she snapped out in an arc with her right leg. Her foot landed like a hammer against Locke's left forearm, and he swore as his stiletto flew from suddenly nerveless fingers. Incensed, he lunged with his right-hand blade.
Moving as deftly as Jean ever had, she grabbed Locke's right wrist with her left hand, pulled him irresistibly forward and slammed the heel of her right hand into his chin. His remaining stiletto whirled into the darkness like a man diving from a tall building, and suddenly the dark sky above him with was replaced with looming grey stones. He made their acquaintance hard enough to rattle his teeth like dice in a cup.
She kicked him once to roll him over onto his back, then planted a foot on his chest to pin him down. She'd caught one of his blades, and he watched in a daze as she bent forward to put it to use. His hands were numb, traitorously slow, and he felt an unbearable itching sensation on his unprotected neck as his own stiletto dipped toward it.
Locke didn't hear Jean's hatchet sink into her back, but he saw its effect and guessed the cause. The woman jerked upright, arched backwards and let the stiletto slip. It clattered against the ground just beside Locke's face, and he flinched. His assailant sank down to her knees just beside him, breathing in swift, shallow gasps, and then twisted away. He could see one of Jean's Wicked Sisters buried in a spreading dark stain on her lower back, just to the right of her spine.
Jean stepped over Locke, reached down and yanked the hatchet from the woman's back. She gasped, fell forward and was viciously yanked back upright by Jean, who stood behind her and placed the blade of his hatchet against her throat. "Lo… Leo! Leocanto. Are you all right?" "With this much pain," Locke gasped, "I know I can't be dead."
"Good enough." Jean applied more force to the hatchet, which he was holding just behind its head, like a barber wielding a beard-scraper. "Start talking. I can help you die without further pain, or I can even help you live. You're no simple bandit. Who put you here?"
"My back," sobbed the woman, her voice trembling and utterly without threat. "Please, please, it hurts." "It's supposed to. Who put you here? Who hired you?"
"Gold," said Locke, coughing. "White iron. We can pay you. Double. Just give us a name." "Oh, gods, it hurts…"
Jean seized her by the hair with his free hand and pulled; she cried out and straightened up. Locke blinked as he saw what appeared to be a dark, feathered shape burst out of her chest; the wet thud of the crossbow quarrel's impact didn't register until a split second later. Jean leapt back, dumbfounded, and dropped the woman to the ground. A moment later, he looked past Locke and gestured threateningly with his hatchet. "You!" "At your service, Master de Ferra."
Locke craned his head back far enough to catch an upside-down glimpse of the woman who'd stolen them off the street and delivered them to the Archon a few nights before. Her dark hair fluttered freely behind her in the breeze. She wore a tight black jacket over a grey waistcoat and a grey skirt, and held a discharged crossbow in her left hand. She was walking toward them at a leisurely pace, from the direction thed'r come. Locke groaned and rolled over until she was rightside-up. Beside him, the beggar-chassoneur gave one last wet cough and died.
"Gods damn it," cried Jean, "I was about to get some answers from her!"
"No, you weren't," said the Archon's agent. "Take a look at her right hand."
Locke (climbing shakily to his feet) and Jean both did so: a slender knife with a curved blade glistened there by the faint light of the moons and the few dockside lamps.
"I was assigned to watch over you two," the woman said as she stepped up beside Locke, beaming contentedly. "Fine fucking job," said Jean, rubbing his ribs with his left hand.
"You seemed to be doing well enough until the end." She looked down at the little knife and nodded. "Look, this knife has an extra groove right alongside the cutting edge. That usually means something nasty on the blade. She was buying time to slip it out and stick you with it."
"I know what a groove along the blade means," mumbled Jean, petulantly. "Do you know who the hell these two work for?" "I have some theories, yes." "And would you mind sharing them?" asked Locke. "If I were given orders to that effect," she said sweetly.
"Gods damn all Verrari, and give them more sores on their privates than hairs on their heads," muttered Locke. "I was born in Vel Virazzo," said the woman. "Do you have a name?" asked Jean.
"Lots. All of them lovely and none of them true," she replied. "You two can call me Merrain."
"Merrain. Ow." Locke winced and massaged his left forearm with his right hand. Jean set a hand on his shoulder. "Anything broken, Leo?
"Not much. Perhaps my dignity and my previous presumptions of divine benevolence." Locke sighed. "We've seen people following us for the past few nights, Merrain. I suppose we must have seen you."
"I doubt it. You gentlemen should collect your things and start walking. Same direction you were moving before. There'll be constables here soon enough, and the constables don't take orders from my employer."
Locke retrieved his wet stilettos and wiped them on the trousers of the man he'd killed before returning them to his sleeves. Now that the anger of the fight had run cold, Locke felt his gorge rising at the sight of the corpse, and he scuttled away as fast as he could.