Promise of Blood

Adamat managed to free his knife arm. The man with whom he grappled tried to push forward, razor in hand. Adamat’s heart leapt and he stabbed with all his strength, praying the strike would fall true. He pulled back and stabbed again, and again, until the man cried out for mercy and slumped to the floor.

Adamat fell against his back door and surveyed the hallway, watching for any movement. He tried to control his ragged breathing, listening for any sign of assassins in the rest of the house.

“All of ’em?” SouSmith mumbled.

Adamat took a few more breaths before he answered. “I think so. One dead on the stairs, two down here. You hurt?”

“Shot,” SouSmith said. “Twice. You?”

Adamat grimaced. “I don’t know.”

He nudged the figure at his feet with his toe. The man gave a low moan. Adamat stumbled into the study, pain blossoming on his chest. He put one hand to it, felt it slick with blood. He bent down, every inch agony, until he got ahold of the hooded lantern where it had fallen. Somehow the candle had remained lit. He removed the hood.

The hallway was a mess. There was broken plaster on the floor in pools of blood. Three bodies. Adamat ignored them all and crossed to SouSmith. The old boxer sat on the bottom step, one hand shoved inside his shirt. His front was covered in blood.

Adamat swallowed a lump in his throat. “Let me get more light.”

He lit the hallway lanterns and removed SouSmith’s shirt, borrowing a razor for the job from one of the dead attackers. A bullet had grazed SouSmith’s left arm, taking a finger-sized chunk of flesh from it. The other had entered his belly, and Adamat nearly choked when he saw the wound.

“It’s bad?” SouSmith let his head rest against the wall. Sweat beaded across his brow and cheeks. He’d tried to wipe it away at some point, leaving a smear of blood across his face.

“You were hit in the stomach. No way to tell whether the ball hit any organs. We need a surgeon. Keep your hand here, try to staunch the blood. I’ll try to find help.”

He didn’t have far to go. A number of his neighbors had heard the shots and stood in the street holding lanterns and pistols. They gaped at Adamat and tried to peer past him into his house.

“Someone get a surgeon,” he said weakly. “And send a boy to the House of Nobles. A message for Field Marshal Tamas. Make sure he gets it. Tell him… tell him Adamat has been attacked by the Black Street Barbers.” No one ran down the street, or went to fetch a coach. Some of them moved back nervously, frightened by the mere mention of a street gang. “Please,” Adamat said. He heard the desperation in his voice.

One of his neighbors stepped forward. He was an older gentleman, a veteran of the Gurlish wars, with long gray muttonchops and a black coat pulled on over his nightclothes. He clutched an old blunderbuss in his hands. Adamat recalled his name was Tulward.

“I’ve some surgery experience. From the field,” Tulward said. He turned around, shouted toward his house, “Millie! Send the boy out here. Now!” He turned to the group of onlookers. “Get back to your homes, folks. Go!”

Adamat nodded his thanks as Tulward stepped into his house.

“Are you hurt?” Tulward asked. Adamat pointed to SouSmith. “He’s worse. Took a bullet to the stomach.”

Tulward grimaced and ran an experienced eye over the bodies. He stepped across them, making his way toward SouSmith.

Adamat sighed, slumping against the wall. He took a moment to look long at the carnage. One of the men was still hanging on to life, lying in the entrance to the study. Adamat ignored the pleading look in his eyes. The second body was at the top of the stairs. He lay on his side, shot by his own comrade in an attempt to get Adamat. The bullet had entered his cheek and killed him instantly, and a pool of blood trickled down the stairs.

The last body still stood upright, his head lodged in the wall. Adamat stumbled over to examine him closer. It was the one who’d been holding the lantern. SouSmith had grabbed him by the face, shoving his entire head through plaster and brick.

Tulward crouched over SouSmith, talking to him quietly, fingers feeling along his belly. Adamat moved over to the surviving assassin. He removed the man’s coat, trying not to cause untoward pain. The man moaned.

“I’m trying to help…” Adamat froze. He looked at the man’s face again—really looked, for the first time. “Coel,” he said. Ricard’s scrawny assistant from the docks. Adamat took a shaky breath.

He finished removing Coel’s coat. In his panic, he’d stabbed Coel at least ten times in the chest with the penknife. The wounds were not deep, but he would bleed out quickly. He rolled up Coel’s shirtsleeve, just to be sure. There it was, as he’d expected: a black tattoo of a barber’s razor on his forearm.