The Last Page

They stared up at him from a hallway strewn with papers, dirty mattresses and junk.

“Mister,” said the girl. “Are you 4-A?”

“Yes. I don’t want the paper.”

“I’m not selling papers.” She blinked at him, doe-like and matter-of-fact. “There’s a mister in the lobby wants to talk with you.”

Zane scowled and motioned at their treats.

“And he gave you those if you delivered the message?”

“Yes. He’s nice.”

Her brother nodded his head and grinned ridiculously, showing little rotten teeth.

“It’s a little past your bedtime, isn’t it? What does this nice man look like?”

“He’s uhm . . . don’t have no hair,” said the boy suddenly, patting his head with the treat. Little gobs of goo clung like lice nits to his wispy scalp, making it stand up in places like bundled thatch.

“He’s bald?” Zane looked to the girl for confirmation.

She made the hand sign that it was so, giving away that she had ties to the south.

Zane knew no one by that description. He didn’t unlock the door. “What are your names?”

“I’m Dotty and he’s Moo.”

“Those are pretty names. I tell you what. I have some treats right here in my flat. I’ll give them to you if you do something for me. Okay?”

“Okay,” they said in unison.

“Moo, go downstairs and tell the man I’ll be right there. Go now. Hurry along.” The boy took off on stubby legs. “Dotty, I want you to stand outside the door and if the man comes up the stairs, I want you to knock as hard as you can. Then I’ll give you some treats. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Vhortghast smiled and closed the door. He had no idea who could have found him here. One thing was certain. He had to get out—fast. He turned to finish destroying his documents and noticed suddenly that one of his windows was open.

He spun with his knife.

“Ah-ah-ah.” Another voice in the room warned him against trying anything daring.

A man in dark simple clothing stood across the room holding a strange southern weapon aimed generally at his chest.

“Who are you?” asked Mr. Vhortghast, quickly mastering his fear.

“Just an old man passing through.” The voice was a raspy haggard tenor. He looked a year or two past fifty. He had bright steel-gray eyes that never left the spymaster’s face and a shaven head that revealed early liver spots and wrinkles behind his ears. A thick, exquisitely trimmed goatee of powder gray bunched around his mouth and when he talked, the man with the weapon moved his face in an almost kindly way . . . as though speaking to grandchildren seated on his knee.

Mr. Vhortghast said nothing. Already he was bored.

“Name’s Alani.”

Zane became un-bored again. His eyes grew wide for an instant as the name registered against the brief list of those he feared.

“Alani out of Ironwall?”

The old man shrugged. “I’m not from Ironwall. Like I said, just passing through.”

Zane’s mind slid the pieces into place. “Are you working for Saergaeth?”

Alani smiled. “Nonsense. Saergaeth Brindlestrm is a fool.”

Zane slowly set his knife down and reached for a chair. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Yes. Yes I do.”

Zane stopped and turned ever so carefully. “What’s that you’ve got there? A nidus?”

The weapon’s mouth was like a box without a lid. Inside, a honeycomb of tubules housed several hundred darts fashioned from surgical steel. Like a hive of metal wasps, waiting to take flight.

The stock was made of wood and cradled a canister filled with compressed gas. Several switches determined whether pulling the trigger released one, ten, twenty or all the darts at a time. Vhortghast knew from the casual way Alani aimed the box that they were set to unload en masse.

“I heard you were in business for yourself these days,” said Alani, ignoring the other man’s question.

Zane shrugged. “You know how it goes. Catch as catch can.”

“Catching quite a bit from what these old ears can hear.”

“I’m not a traitor,” said Zane.

Alani almost seemed to snicker. He made a symbol briefly with the hand that held the stock, something only men of their profession would understand. “That’s like saying there’s only one shade of blue. What did you do? Set that kid up with a buyer?”

“Why? Can’t you figure it out?” Zane was growing tense. “Or did you just decide you wanted a cut? You’re like a fucking sarchal hound stealing a carcass from a pack of poor defenseless wolves.”

“Actually, since you’ve effectively put yourself out of business up here I thought I might give my résumé to the High King.”

Zane Vhortghast couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding. If you came back to this town—” His laughter dribbled off. The possibilities, the real possibilities formed moving pictures in his mind. “Mother of Emolus, it’d be like a god walking into town—wouldn’t it? Former grandmaster of the Long Nine playing spymaster to the most controversial High King in the history of the Duchy? But I still can’t see it. From the stories they tell, you were never one to get so comfortable. What’s in it for you?”

“I’m an old man now. I’d like to settle down I suppose.”

There was knocking at the door.

“It’s the kids,” said Zane. “They can’t find you in the lobby. I promised them treats.”

Alani nodded toward the door. “Unchain it and you die.” His voice was so matter-of-fact the meaning of the words seemed hard to recognize—a threat like poison dissolved in wine.

Zane understood.

This was someone on par with his level of thinking, his level of planning. A peer. He almost felt flattered to be entertaining a guest like this. He opened the door and looked down into Dotty’s face.

“Mister—”

“Get out of here,” said Zane. “If you knock again, I’ll take a kitchen knife and cut your little hand off.” He shut the door. When he turned around he saw Alani going through the stack of papers on his table, nidus still aimed in his direction.

In the same instant, several things happened all at once.

Zane dove and grabbed a chair. He lifted it like a body shield and charged his adversary. The nidus went off with a concussive hiss and multiple popping sounds.

Heavy pointed pins of steel filled the air, tearing through wood and fabric and plaster.

Zane Vhortghast screamed.

The nidus fell to the floor.

One of the chair legs caught Alani in the chest.

Knives flashed.

The older man moved with astonishing speed. Though aching and winded from the blow to his ribs, he quickly divested Mr. Vhortghast of his knife.

The spymaster was in no condition to fight. Already torn where the nidus’s scores of missiles had caught him in the shins and elbows and shoulders, perforating his flesh wherever the chair had been unable to protect him, Zane hurled himself toward the open window. He rolled out onto the fire escape and slid down the metal steps, fumbling in his own blood.

Alani winced the moment he tried to follow. The chair had bruised something inside. He stopped and watched the former spymaster stumble into an alley and peal away through the slums of Gorbür Dyn.

The old assassin paused to catch his breath. He had suffered many similar injuries during his long career. He knew how to wrap his ribs. He picked up the papers on the table and left the stolen nidus behind.

Now, he thought, we’ll see if Caliph Howl was worth all this trouble.