Part 30 (1/2)

Malanek slapped him on the top of the head. 'Will you think?' he demanded. 'I have no sand timer working here. You have time to consider my questions.'

'Is the man alone?'

'Yes.'

'Is he an enemy?'

'Good question. He might be a friend who is angry with you.'

'Then I would try to reason with him.'

'Excellent,' said Malanek. 'But he is not a friend.'

'Is he bigger or stronger than I?'

'He is - for the sake of this discussion - the same as you. Young, strong, and confident.'

'Then I fight him. Reluctantly.'

'Yes, you do, for a man cannot remain a man if he refuses a challenge. He becomes lessened in his own eyes, and the eyes of his comrades. The important word here is reluctantly. You will fight coolly, using your skill to end the fight as swiftly as possible.

Yes?'

'Of course.'

'Now picture this: a man - the same man - has just punched Molaire in the face and knocked her to the ground. He is kicking her as she lies unconscious.'

'I would kill him,' said the youth.

'Now this is what I am talking about, Olek. Who is in charge now? Where is the man who fought coolly and reluctantly, seeking to end the fight as swiftly as possible?'

'If I saw Molaire attacked I would react with anger.'

'Exactly - and this would lessen your effectiveness. Block from your mind all emotion. This will bring you to your true self. When you fight let your body relax, and your mind float clear. Then you will be at your best. I have fought many duels, Olek. Most of the men have lacked my skill. Some of them I managed not to slay. I disarmed them, or wounded them sufficiently seriously to end the fight. Others were almost as skilled. These I had to kill. But a few, Olek, were better than me. One was so far better I should not have survived for more than a few heartbeats. These men should have won. They did not. And why? One died for arrogance. So sure was he of his skill he fought complacently. Another died through stupidity. I managed to make him angry. The one who was infinitely better than I died because he feared my reputation. He was already trembling when we touched blades.

Emotion has no place in combat, Olek. This is why I will teach you the illusion of elsewhere. You will learn to float clear.'

As he walked on through the city Skilgannon began to breathe deeply and easily. No longer irritated, no longer tense, he considered the problem.

The a.s.sa.s.sins knew where he was staying, and therefore could find him. If he tried to hide from them they would continue to seek him, either in the city or on the open road. Better then to seek them. They would have the advantage of numbers, but they would also be expecting to surprise him. The man in the tavern had given directions to the stables owned by Borondel. Therefore the attack would take place either along the route, or at the stables.

The most likely place would be at the stables, where, once inside, the murder could be committed out of sight.

That was the strongest possibility, but they could have men stationed along the way. A knifeman, perhaps, or a bowman. Both? Probably. If he himself were planning an a.s.sa.s.sination - especially that of a known swordsman - he would have at least three units on call. The first would be armed with swords or knives, and would attempt to kill the man as he was on the move through a crowded area. The bowmen would be positioned further back along the route, in case the man escaped the first attempt and ran back the way he had come. The third unit would have been following the victim, some distance back, ready to cut off any line of retreat.

Skilgannon could no longer see the man in the red s.h.i.+rt, and guessed that he had sprinted on ahead to warn the attackers of his arrival.

He strolled on. How many would there be? This was more difficult to estimate. Ten seemed the most likely. Two bowmen, four in the first knife - or sword - attack. Another four following. Emerging from a broad avenue, he crossed the road and entered a small park. There were scores of people here, sitting on the gra.s.s, or standing near the fountains.

They were better dressed than those he had seen in the mob yesterday. Up ahead was a family, a man and a woman, walking with three children. Skilgannon scanned the area.

The park was mostly open ground, with little screening of bushes or trees. There was nowhere for a bowman to hide. Furthermore, the men he could see were dressed in warm weather clothing: tunics, s.h.i.+rts and leggings. None carried weapons. Some way into the park Skilgannon paused on an ornate wooden bridge spanning a stream. He glanced back the way he had come. Three men were strolling some distance back. All wore heavy jerkins, beneath which knives could be hidden.

Three behind.

If the organizer of this attempt believed three could stop him fleeing it was possible that no more than three would be waiting ahead.

According to the directions he had been given the stables of Borondel were beyond the park exit. There was a long alleyway, he had been told, which led on to an area of open ground.

Leaving the park he crossed another road, then cut to the left, avoiding the alleyway.

Walking on swiftly, he ducked down a second side street. Out of sight of the men following he broke into a run. This second street was full of market stalls, though there were few goods displayed on them. Several contained clothing, but the food stalls were bare.

Halfway along the street was a tavern, with tables set outside. Around a dozen men were sitting there, nursing jugs of black beer. Skilgannon moved past them and entered the building. The interior was dark, and no customers were inside. A thin man approached him. 'There is no food today, sir,' he said. 'We have ale and we have wine. The wine is not high quality.'

'A jug of ale then,' said Skilgannon, moving along the room and sitting by an open window.

s.h.i.+fting his chair to hide himself from view he sat in the shadowed tavern and watched the sunlit marketplace. Within moments he saw the three followers moving past the stalls.

They looked tense and angry. One of them approached the group of men sitting outside the inn.

Skilgannon rose from his chair and moved swiftly along the wall of the tavern, halting just beyond the doorway.

'What's it worth?' he heard someone ask.

Skilgannon heard the rasping of metal, and guessed a weapon had been drawn. 'You get to keep your eyes, you slug!'

'No need for that,' said the man, his voice suddenly fearful. 'He just went inside there.'

Shadows flickered across the entrance. Skilgannon's stiffened fingers slammed into the first man's belly. He doubled over, a whoosh of air exploding from his lungs. Before the second could react Skilgannon's fist cracked against his chin, spinning him from his feet.

The third man lunged with his knife. Skilgannon grabbed the knife wrist, stepped inside and hammered a head b.u.t.t to the man's nose, shattering it. Half blinded, the a.s.sa.s.sin dropped his knife and staggered back. Skilgannon followed in with a straight left and a right cross. The man hit the floor and did not move.

Scooping up the fallen knife Skilgannon turned back towards the first man, grabbing him by his long, dark hair and dragging him into the tavern. The innkeeper, Skilgannon's jug of ale in his hand, stood by anxiously. 'Just put it on the table,' said Skilgannon pleasantly.

'You're not going to kill him, are you?'

'I haven't decided yet. Probably.'

'Would you do it outside? Dead bodies tend to upset my customers.'

The man Skilgannon had hauled into the tavern was gasping for breath, his face crimson.

Skilgannon lifted him by his hair into a sitting position. 'Lean forward and breathe slowly,'

said the warrior. 'And while you are doing that think on this. I am going to ask some questions. I am going to ask each one once only. If you do not answer instantly I shall cut your throat. Say my name!'

Drawing back the man's head, he laid the blade of the knife on the a.s.sa.s.sin's jugular.

'Skilgannon,' said the man, between gasps.