Emmis tried to think what he could do. Charging the man here in the open street, the way he had in the entryway of the house on Through Street, wouldn't work; there was plenty of room for him to dodge, and he would be charging directly onto the point of that sword-stick.
He could turn and run, yelling; he might be able to outrun the man, and shouting might rouse someone to his aid. His attacker was tall, though, and those long legs might mean speed. Emmis had eluded him before, but the circumstances had been rather different.
Still, flight seemed like the best choice – but then he heard a sound behind him. He turned to see a man in a brown tunic emerging from Coronet Street, a man who held a dagger in each hand.
The other assassin. He was trapped between them.
Emmis drew his belt-knife; at the very least he didn't intend to make this easy for them. He turned his back to the wall of the nearest shop, glancing quickly back and forth between his two foes.
The tall one with the stick was moving in quickly, blade raised to strike; Emmis readied his own knife to attempt a parry.
And then the stick suddenly snapped in two, and the attacker stopped in mid-lunge in an utterly unnatural fashion. The piece of stick with the blade went spinning harmlessly aside, and the handle was ripped from its owner's grasp.
"Honey!" a hideous voice growled. "He has promised honey! No harm must come to him until he has kept his vow!"
The tall man staggered back, stunned; on the other side the man in the brown tunic said, "Magic!" and turned to run.
Emmis hesitated for only an instant, then stepped forward and grabbed the disarmed man's tunic with one hand, while his other held his belt-knife to the man's throat. Behind him, he heard running footsteps fading as the other man fled.
"Keep your hands well away," Emmis snapped, pressing his blade hard enough to indent his foe's skin, but not to draw blood. "Don't try anything – and if your friend doubles back, you're a dead man."
"All right," the tall man said. "All right!"
"The thing that broke your stick is called Fendel's Assassin," Emmis growled, pushing his face up close to his attacker's. "It's still here, watching and listening, and it can rip a man's head off with its claws."
"I believe you!" He clapped a hand to his face, and Emmis noticed for the first time that he had a fresh gash on his cheek, half-hidden by his beard. The creature's claws must have slashed him there.
Emmis shuddered. "Now, who are you, and why did you attack me?" he demanded.
"Kelder of Newgate – I swear, my name's really Kelder. Some foreigner was in the Hundred-Foot Field looking for someone who could kill this Vondish ambassador, and Tithi and I, we've been trying to make a name as bonebreakers, so we volunteered for the job, but then you turned up instead of the target and stirred up the neighbors and we ran for it before the guards showed their faces."
"So why are you here?"
"You cost us a job! The foreigner in the robe wouldn't pay us, or give us another chance – he even tried to demand the earnest money back, said he'd hire a wizard instead, that magic was more reliable than a pair like us. We've got our reputation to think of; we had to kill you and the Vondishman, and anyone else who got in the way, or no one would ever take us seriously again. So Tithi followed you to Lower Street, then fetched me, and we were trying to pick you all off one by one. We followed that guard to see what he was up to and then ambushed him on his way back, and then you came out next and we…"
Emmis suddenly felt sick. "What guard?"
"The one who was at the door earlier."
"You mean Zhol?"
"How would I know his name? He was a guardsman. Breastplate, red kilt – he had a sword as well as his club, but he didn't have time to draw it, I got him in the throat from behind while Tithi had him distracted."
"You killed a guardsman?"
"I told you, we were trying to make a name for ourselves!"
The sick shock Emmis had felt at the news of Zhol's murder was turning to fury. "Oh, there's a name for people who kill guards, all right! The name is idiot! You kill a guardsman, you've made ten thousand sworn enemies who won't rest until they see you hanged!" He pressed his knife harder, and drew a thin line of blood. "Where'd you leave him? You're sure he's dead?"
The man's terrified expression suddenly changed, and the hand that had been held to his cheek suddenly dropped to Emmis's wrist; the other hand, which Emmis had stopped watching, came up in a fist and slammed into his belly.
Kelder, if that was really his name, was strong for someone so thin, but six years working on the docks had made Emmis strong by any standard; the punch to the gut hurt, but he did not double over, and the grip on his wrist was not enough to loosen his hold on his belt-knife. He pulled with his left hand and pushed with his right, trying to force the blade into the man's neck.
But then something else moved. As Kelder drew his fist back for another blow, his arm twisted unnaturally to the side, and Emmis heard bone snap. Kelder gasped in agony.
"No harm must come to him until he has kept his vow!" the creature's voice repeated.
Kelder let out a sob of pain and rage and tried to step back, but Emmis was still clutching his tunic. He released his hold on Emmis's wrist.
"Please," he said.
"Where is he?" Emmis hissed, still holding his knife to the other man's throat.
"What's going on here?" a new voice demanded. Emmis turned his head – not far enough to take his eyes entirely off Kelder, but enough to see who was speaking.
It was a guardsman, not one he recognized, in the familiar red kilt and gray breastplate; he had his truncheon in hand. He carried no sword, but a small tin lantern hung from his belt, the mark of a night watchman.
It wasn't lit, though – Merchant Street had enough torches that it wasn't needed.
"This man says he killed a guard," Emmis said. "I'm trying to get him to lead me to the body."
"What's wrong with his arm?" the guardsman said, eyeing the pair warily.
"I broke it," Emmis said.
"He didn't break it!" Kelder said. "His invisible monster did!"
Emmis glared. "Does that matter? Guardsman, he says he killed one of Lord Ildirin's elite guards, a man named Zhol, and I want him to lead me to the body. Zhol may not be dead; he might need help!"
"I didn't kill anyone!" Kelder announced. "This man attacked me!"
Emmis sighed. Kelder's instinct for self-preservation had obviously kicked in, and he had realized that if he admitted to killing Zhol he would indeed be hanged.
"He slashed my cheek and broke my arm and held a knife to my throat!" Kelder embellished.
"Guardsman, he attacked me," Emmis said. "And I'll be happy to accompany you to a magistrate and let him and his hired magicians sort it out."
"I don't have time for that," Kelder insisted. "I'm a respectable citizen of Ethshar, and this ruffian broke my arm! I need a witch!"
"A witch can tell who's telling the truth," Emmis suggested.
For a moment Kelder's expression slipped from pain and righteous anger to guilty terror; then he caught himself. "I'm sure," he said. "But right now I need someone to set my bones, or heal my arm. Perhaps a warlock or a wizard would do?"
"What was that about an invisible monster?" the guardsman asked.
"It's called Fendel's Assassin," Emmis said. "It's a long story, and Zhol might be lying somewhere bleeding to death."
"This Zhol's a guardsman?"
It finally registered with Emmis that this particular guardsman was not exactly quick-witted, or at any rate would never qualify for Lord Ildirin's escort. "Yes," he said, "and this man knows where he is." He turned to Kelder. "And he had really better tell us now where Zhol is, or I'll tell the invisible monster to break his other arm."