“I understand, master. Rest assured I shall exercise the utmost discretion in this regard. None shall hear of your path from me.”
Teron tipped his head respectfully. “Thank you, Jeffers.”
For a while there was only the sound of Praxle snoring and the cat noisily cleaning his fur. Then Jeffers got up and began gathering the teapot, cup and spoon to return them to the proprietor.
“Jeffers?” asked Teron.
“Yes, Teron?”
“What’s your real name?”
“Whatever makes you ask, my good man?” asked Jeffers, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
Teron looked at him and realized that the half-orc didn’t know. “I just figured that it wasn’t the name you were born with.”
Jeffers smiled. “You are correct, master, though Master d’Sivis has insisted on using ‘Jeffers’ from the day he hired me. He did not treat my cousin well when she used my real name, and I have not mentioned it to anyone else since.”
“You don’t have to worry on my account,” said Teron.
“You don’t know master d’Sivis,” said Jeffers as he let himself out the door.
“Where are you going, old man?” asked a sniggering voice that slithered from the shadows of the alley behind the Coal Scuttle.
“What?”
The mugger stepped out of the shadows of the alley. He slid one arm out from beneath his cloak, turning his short sword so it caught the light. “I said, where are you going, one-eye?”
“Home,” he stammered, desperately wishing he’d brought his mace from beneath the service counter. “I’m no trouble to you.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would be. Too old and timid. You sound like a foreigner, too. Where are you from?”
“C —Cyre. At least, that’s where I was born.” Without the comfort of the familiar establishment and several Cyran compatriots nearby, Squints found his courage utterly void.
“Ohh,” mocked the mugger, in an exaggerated show of grief. “Poor Cyre. Where the weak of soul let their whole country just die in one short day. No wonder you’re such a coward.” He waved his blade slightly, and held out his left hand. “Come now, grampa, unload your saddlebags. I know you’ve got coin, and I’ll take it from your hand now. Its up to you whether your hand is still attached to your arm.”
A tear rolled down from the old man’s good eye as he slowly extended his hand and, by an act of will, forced it to open and release the gold. Clink clink. It fell into the mugger’s hand. Clink. As the last coin fell, the old man bowed his head in defeat.
The mugger spun his short sword once, sheathed it, and jingled the gold in his hand. “Thank you so much,” he said with another snigger. “You have a nice evening.”
He turned to go but found his path blocked by a woman in a hooded cloak. She stood, her weight all on her right foot and her hip thrown to that side. Her cloak was thrown back on the left, showing that her left hand was balanced lightly on her thigh.
“You have my money,” she said simply.
“What are you blathering about, woman?”
“You have my money. I gave it to him, and you took it from him. Give it back.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said the mugger, chuckling.
The woman started stepping forward, slowly, her hips swaying gently like a great cat on the prowl. “I don’t care what you think,” she said. “Give. My money. Back.”
“You listen here, lady—”
The Shadow Fox stepped right up to the mugger, her face still concealed by her hood. “Draw steel,” she demanded.
“You’re asking for big—”
Smack! Her left hand darted out and struck him full across the face. “Air that sword and start fighting, boy. I’m only a weaksouled Cyran. You said it yourself.”
His eyes widened and rolled like a panicked horse. He wavered for a moment, then he drew his blade and swung a mighty chop at the Fox.
She stepped forward and ducked, sliding neatly under his initial flailing blow. She turned to face him again, flipping her cloak off her right arm. She concealed both her hands behind her back. “Try it again, boy.”
Angered and nervous, he slashed at the Shadow Fox again. She stepped to the side and extended one arm to deflect the blow. The mugger’s blade landed a glancing blow, shuddering and sparking as it traveled the length of her arm.
Stupefied, he paused for a moment. The Shadow Fox chose to give him his answer. She revealed the weapon in her hands: in her right a kama, a small weapon shaped like a miniature scythe. A chain led from the butt of the kama’s haft up to her neck. With a casual shrug, she let the links drop. She held the other end of the chain in her left hand; she’d had it pulled taut over her shoulder and down the arm to protect against an overhead slash.
“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve never seen a woman with a weapon before.” She slung the kama toward him, then yanked on the chain. The horn-shaped blade snapped like the tip of a whip, drawing a gash across the hack of the mugger’s calf. With another snap, the Fox slung the kama back to her hand.
Trembling with rage and fear, the mugger attacked again, swinging for her neck. The Fox deflected the first strike, stepped back from the second, and at the third she stepped in and locked his hilt with the haft of her kama. There was a brief pause, and she flicked their weapons apart.
He yelped and stared at a second gash across his wrist, just starting to well blood.
“You fight like you learned how to swing a cleaver from your mother,” said the Fox. “Didn’t your father teach you anything?”
He charged and thrust. She gave ground quickly, raising her kama just in time to steer his point away from her abdomen. He pressed the attack, and she parried, her chain jingling with every move. Then, as he drew back his blade for a third thrust, she yanked her arms up and out, pulling on the chain. It had looped around his ankle as he’d pressed forward, and her sudden move made him lose his balance on his injured leg. He dropped to one knee. Quick as a cat she lunged forward, pressing her blade into the flesh under his chin, ready to slash his jugular from the rear. The kama’s razor tip drew a bead of blood from the soft skin.
He froze in place, mortal fear in his eyes.
“Drop your blade.” The short sword first dangled, then dropped and embedded its point in the packed-dirt alley. “Give him back my money.” The mugger’s left hand extended, and the old man came out from hiding to recover his wealth.
With a quick sneer, the Shadow Fox drew her blade across the mugger’s throat. He clapped his hands to his jugular, his eyes wide with panic. He rose and turned to run, but the Fox slung the weighted tip of her chain around his ankle and tripped him up. He rolled on the ground and she stepped on his chest to hold him in place.
“Your throat will heal,” she said. “But I want you to remember this, and tell all your little friends; I work for the Shadow Fox, and he’s very protective of his fellow Cyran. If anyone harms a Cyran, the Shadow Fox will find them. Do you understand?”
The mugger nodded with as small a motion as possible.
The Fox cleaned her blades on his cloak, concealed the chain beneath her cloak, and walked away.
“And crawl home on your hands and knees,” she called over her shoulder. “You never know: I might be watching.”
Praxle groaned and pulled the blanket over his head. “Wake me after you’ve broken your fast,” he mumbled.
“I already have,” said Teron.
“I also partook,” added Jeffers. “And, if history is to be a guide, master, we should be just in time for midday meal.”
Praxle moaned again and rolled over, trying to curl into as small a ball as possible.
Teron stepped over to Praxle’s bed, grabbed it firmly, and heaved it onto its side just as Jeffers blurted out, “Wait!”
With a yelp, the sleeping gnome tumbled to the floor, pulling the blanket off with him. He ended up on his stomach, the blanket beneath him, wearing naught but his underclothes. “Who—this—” he sputtered, as he pushed himself up. He rolled onto his back, reclining on his elbows. “You vicious little bastard!” he spat.