The Steel Remains

Darby slid the cudgel clear like it was a sword, but it wasn’t. It was rough and blunt and the watchman’s weight was folded over it. In the moment the difference cost him, a second club wielder slammed him across the shoulders. It was a mistake—not trying for the head. Darby staggered and snarled, but he didn’t go down. The watchman tried to hook his feet out from under him and Darby stabbed backward with the cudgel, got the man in the face. Blood splashed in the sunlit air. Darby whooped at the sight of it, leapt the clerks’ bodies, and landed cat-like between two of the other watchmen before they could register what was happening. The cudgel whirled about him in a blur. The crowd swayed back with a fairground chorus of excited yells. The cudgel caught one of the Watch about the head and sent him staggering, but either it missed the other or the man was a cannier fighter than his fellows.

This much Ringil saw as he came through the door, this much he’d more or less assumed—the coat was its own prophecy of how the fight would go. But now the untouched watchman nearest to Darby waded in, club held in a two-handed sword grip, feinting and blocking, bellowing hoarse and low to those of his comrades still on their feet.

“Get in behind him! Bring this fuck down, will you!”

He was younger than Darby by a generation, and faster. He blocked Darby’s cudgel, looped it away, and got in a savage blow to the older man’s elbow. Darby howled obscenities, gave up no fucking inch of ground, swung back. Something in Ringil cheered at the sight. The young watchman skipped outside the swing, then rushed in with his club braced baton-style. He pinned Darby’s arm to his body, pinned the cudgel, and shoved him back a solid pace. A second watchman saw his chance and jumped in behind. He hooked his day-club over Darby’s head, took it back hard at the throat, and dragged his victim backward and down, a couple of yards away from where the two law clerks were finally sitting up and taking notice. Darby choked and thrashed and, finally, went to the ground over his attacker’s bent knee. The young watchman stepped up, dodging Darby’s flailing feet, and swung a long hard kick into the downed fighter’s groin. Darby squawked and convulsed.

The others closed in. The clubs rose and fell.

“That’s enough! He’s down.”

But now the Watch’s blood was up. The shout alone was never going to be enough and Ringil, clear in the knowledge, was moving forward even as the words left his lips. He reached up left-handed, grabbed a day-club as it came up, and yanked hard on it. The surprised watchman lost his grip and stumbled. Ringil got a grip on the man’s collar with his other hand, manhandled him impatiently out of the way. Then he waded in and used the commandeered club to break up the fun.

Jolt into belly, smash knuckles on an opposing club, tangle legs—block! shove! hurt! It was awhile since he’d fought with a stick—some village commons contest Jhesh had inveigled him into a few years back when Ringil’s finances were at low ebb and the storytelling wouldn’t cut it for his tab—but the dynamics never really went away. He’d trained extensively with mocked-up Majak staff lances in the Academy, before they let him loose on the real thing, and then there were Yhelteth empty-hand techniques that spilled out into a form using a simple bamboo pole . . . The watchmen were trained as well, of course, but not with much care, and this new attack was the last thing they’d looked for. It took Ringil a scant few seconds to drive them off the man on the ground, and then he had them repelled into a wary circle similar to the one they’d approached Darby with in the first place. Difference was, this time two of them were already down on the cobbles and out of it, courtesy of Darby’s earlier efforts, and the other four, nursing a host of minor injuries, did not know what to make of this newcomer, I mean, look, man: moss-soft cloak of blue that quite visibly would have cost them a year’s wages, clothes beneath of equally fine embroidered cloth, a sword on his back, a killing calm in his eyes, and the stolen day-club, held out one-handed and pointing as if it were a bladed weapon.

Ringil turned very slowly, marking each man along the shaft of the leveled club, daring them to come back at him.

“I think you made your arrest,” he said evenly. “Let’s call it a day, shall we?”

“You’re interfering with Watch business,” blustered the young, fast one who’d pinned Darby up in the fight. “That man’s a known public nuisance.”

“Maybe so.” Ringil sidestepped, eyes still on the circling watchmen, and prodded Darby’s prone form with his boot. Darby groaned. “But I don’t see him in a state to make much mischief now, do you?”

“He assaulted people. He’s got a history of it.”

“Well, we’re none of us historians here. Where are the injured parties?”