Deadhouse Landing

Hurst offered his companion a knowing look, tapped a finger to his temple. ‘Okay … An’ why would I do that?’

The Dal Hon took a long hard breath, raised his own gaze to the purpling sky. ‘Because I’m the Sword of Hood.’

‘Really?’ Hurst said, offering an exaggerated frown. ‘C’n you prove it?’

Now the Dal Hon frowned, puzzled. ‘Prove it? How?’

Hurst shrugged. ‘I don’t know … Kill something, maybe?’

Raf choked on his pear, laughing and snorting; he slapped his thigh, swallowing with difficulty. ‘Kill something,’ he chortled. ‘That’s a good one.’

The Dal Hon lad looked from one to the other and sighed, his shoulders falling. He rubbed his forehead. ‘I see,’ he murmured aloud, as if speaking to himself. ‘My mistake.’ He rummaged at his belt and withdrew a small bag, opened it, and held out two coins that glinted gold in the rising light.

Hurst and his companion crowded forward, studied the coins, then withdrew, heads together. ‘Whaddya think?’ Hurst whispered.

‘Two more.’

Hurst nodded. ‘Right.’ He returned to the lad. ‘Two more.’

Sighing again, the lad pulled out two more coins. Hurst held out his hand and the lad let them fall into his palm. Hurst turned to Raf, but froze suddenly, setting his hands on his hips. ‘Is that a breeze I’m feelin’ there? Did you go ’n’ leave the gate open again? Dammit, man. How many times do I have to tell you? Were you born in a barn or somethin’?’

Raf took one last bite of the pear then threw the core aside. ‘Sorry there, Hurst. Guess I was distracted by the carnival and such – let’s go have a look.’

The guards withdrew into the gate tunnel. Dassem took hold of the jesses of one horse and led it after them. When he reached the outer gate, one side of the huge double doors hung a touch ajar. He pushed the hulking great thing open further and led the cart on. The guards were standing outside.

‘I am the Sword of Hood, you know,’ Dassem told Hurst.

‘Oh, sure. An’ I’m the nephew of Burn.’

Dassem took breath to speak, only to realize that there really wasn’t anything he could possibly say. He shut his mouth and moved on, shaking his head. The wooden wheels of the cart bumped and grated on the uneven cobbles.

Behind, at the gate, he heard Raf complain to his companion, ‘You know, come to think of it, I was

born in a barn.’

He turned his attention to the south and the much abused and littered road that led that way – the very road King Chulalorn’s army marched up only to fall back upon last year, leaving behind the wreckage of shattered equipment, abandoned tools and weapons, and broken sandals.

Nara lay within the cart, hidden under its closed top of stiffened canvas, wrapped in blankets. She was still sweaty, but he was no longer worried that she would succumb to the fever, as the Grey Walker himself had assured him that he would withhold his hand until she was delivered to safety. Just what form this safety would take he had no idea. He had only the name.

Deadhouse.

Chapter 6

Dancer sat at a table in Smiley’s, sharpening all his knives. It was morning and the place was quiet, but then it was always quiet. Amiss sat with him. She was leaning back in her chair, a heeled shoe against a table leg, rocking. Tea lay before him in a chipped stoneware cup, cold and forgotten. He was working on his seventh blade and had finished with the whetstone before moving on to his finer grit dry-stone. After finishing both edges to his satisfaction he polished them with a few final draws across leather, turning the knife absent-mindedly; he found it a very contemplative ritual.

Amiss eyed him for a time, then ventured, ‘Don’t worry. He’ll show up.’

He drew down his mouth, shot her a glance. ‘Who?’

‘Your partner – he always shows up eventually.’

He tested the edge of the blade and sheathed it. ‘Whatever. I’m not worried.’

‘Course not. You’re just grinding your blades down to nothing.’

‘Don’t you have duties or something?’

She stretched her long lean arms overhead, grinning at him. ‘I’m off right now.’

He glowered, drew yet another thin blade from an ankle sheath, tested its edge and set to brushing it over the whetstone. ‘What’s the word on Geffen?’

‘Withdrawn. Hunkered down. As if they’re waiting for us to storm them in their stronghold.’

‘Not likely,’ Dancer answered without looking up.

‘Funny. That’s what Surly said: no need.’

He grunted at that.

‘How ’bout those lessons you promised?’

He looked up. ‘Like what?’

‘Like close-in fighting.’

He shrugged, sheathed the knife. ‘Sure. Out back, I suppose.’

Hawl entered, spotted him, and headed over. She looked as she always did: dishevelled, with tangled hair and tattered mud-smeared skirts. He wondered whether she ever washed or changed her clothes. Mages! The strangest sort. Still, Grinner didn’t seem to mind.

‘That ship,’ she announced, ‘the Twisted. It’s up for sale. We’re buying it, right? That’s the plan?’

Amiss screwed up her face. ‘That cursed scow?’