young men, the current population came in both sexes and all sizes, shapes, and ages.
And among these derelicts, Valder had heard, hid the worst of the city’s criminals. The guard did not willingly come into the Hundred-Foot Field, and there were no land-owning vigilantes, since it was entirely public land, so that it served as a final refuge for scoundrels and blackguards who had been driven from all the more comfortable places.
With that in mind, it was Valder’s intention to stroll the length of Wall Street with his purse plain on his belt and Wirikidor serving as a cane. That, he was sure, would attract thieves, and any such lurking along Wall Street might reasonably be assumed to be no great loss to anyone, should he kill them in self-defense. Whether he would be able to lure nineteen of them to their deaths he did not care to guess, but he did expect to make a good start.
He walked south from Westgate Market an hour or so after the sun passed its zenith, a good meal in his belly and feeling reasonably rested. The day was warm but not hot, and a strong wind blew from the east, tugging at his clothes and keeping him cool. He expected the first attack within an hour.
It did not materialize; rather than being attracted by the harmless old man, the people who noticed him at all stared and actively avoided him.
Perhaps, he thought, he was being too obvious about it. Thieves would suspect a trap of some sort. He tucked the purse into a fold of his kilt, as if he were unsuccessfully attempting to hide it, and trudged onward.
Another few minutes brought him to Newgate Market in the city’s southwestern corner; although far smaller and less active than Westgate Market, the square was lined with inns and taverns, and he stopped into one for a drink and a rest. He intentionally chose the one that looked worst, in hopes that a drunken brawl might start and provide an opportunity for swordplay. He promised himself he would not be the first to draw a weapon in such a situation and that he would not actively provoke a fight — but should one begin, he was ready and eager to join in, sixty-six or not.
No fight began, and after an hour or two he moved on, heading from Newgate into Southwark. This gave every appearance of being a quiet and respectable residential area, despite its proximity to Wall Street and the Hundred-Foot Field, where Westgate, Westwark, Crookwall, and Newgate had all been more colorful. The population of the Field seemed thinner here, and the shacks and huts fewer and more substantial.
Another hour found him still plodding along unmolested, well on his way to Southgate and inwardly fuming. He had decided that Wirikidor was too obviously a sword, rather than a cane. From what little he knew of the city’s geography, he judged himself to be nearing the southern end of the Wizards’ Quarter — assuming that district reached the southern wall, which he doubted. He began mulling over the possibility of purchasing a concealment spell or an illusion to hide Wirikidor or make it appear something other than itself.
Although the idea had a certain appeal, he marched onward down Wall Street rather than turning aside; he had no desire to become lost in the city’s tangled streets.
It also occurred to him that perhaps he overestimated the boldness of the city’s thieves in expecting an attack by daylight; he resolved that the next time he came to a tavern or inn he would settle in, eat an early dinner, and wait until dark.
The next inn, however, did not turn up until almost half an hour later, in Southgate, as he drew near Southgate Market. There he paused, glanced at the sun sinking behind him, down nearly to the rooftops; with a shrug, he stepped inside.
It was indeed well after dark when he stepped out again, and he was slightly the worse for drink, but his belly was full and his feet did not hurt quite so badly as before, whether from the rest or from the liquor he was not sure.
With fresh resolve, he strode onward toward Southgate Market, past innumerable cookfires scattered among the ramshackle shelters in the Field, and beneath the torches that lighted Wall Street.
He had gone perhaps two blocks when a thought suddenly struck him; would a thief approach him on Wall Street itself, where there were torches and campfires lighting the way and any number of possible witnesses in the Hundred-Foot Field who might be bribed into identifying an attacker?
Far more likely, he decided, they would look for their prey in alleys and byways that were uninhabited and not as well lighted. With that in mind, he turned left at the next opportunity, into a narrow unlighted street.
He wanted to remain in the vicinity of Wall Street, however, so he doubled back at the next intersection.
For the next hour or so, he wandered the back streets of Southgate; several times he sensed that he was being watched, though no one was in sight, and once he thought he heard stealthy footsteps, but no one accosted him. Still, he was encouraged.
He was also tired; he sat down on the stoop of a darkened shop and caught his breath.
He reviewed his actions of the day and evening and decided that he had done the right thing so far — save that it had taken him far too long to realize that dark alleys were better places to find cutpurses than Wall Street, even if Wall Street might be their home. He wished he had thought of it sooner, if only for the sake of his poor abused feet and tired legs. He stretched them out, feeling the muscles twinge as he did so, and rubbed his calves.
If he were to be attacked, he thought, he wasn’t certain he would be able to draw Wirikidor fast enough to prevent injury to himself when he was this tired.
It was with that in his mind that he heard a scream, suddenly cut off, and thrashing sounds from around the corner nearest him.
He leaped to his feet with the trained response of a man who had spent much of his life breaking up drunken brawls before they could damage the furnishings; without consciously intending it, he found himself rounding the corner into the alley whence the sounds came.
A smile twitched across his face as he saw what was happening; here he had been roaming the city looking for a robbery, and one had come to him while he rested. The light was poor, coming primarily from torches in a neighboring avenue, and his eyesight was not what it once was, but he could still plainly see that two men were attacking a woman. One held her from behind, one hand holding a knife to her throat and the other clamped over her mouth, while the other man was pawing at her skirt, searching for her purse or other valuables.
Valder had found himself a target and without luring anyone to himself. He drew Wirikidor, dropping the scabbard to the road and hoping that the second man would flee, rather than fight.
Hearing his approach, the man who had been kneeling at the woman’s skirt whirled and lost his balance, tumbling awkwardly to the street. The other released the woman, flinging her aside and whipping a sword from its sheath.
He had time to get a good look at Valder in the flickering torchlight before the two swords met with a clash of steel. “Ho, old man,” he said, starting a jibe of some sort; Valder never heard the rest of it, as Wirikidor whirled back to the side and slid under the thief’s guard so fast that he probably never even saw it coming and certainly had no time to parry. The blade, sharper than any razor, sliced through leather tunic, flesh, and bone with ease, spraying blood in an arc across the entire width of the alley.
Valder could not see the thief’s face; the light was behind him. All he saw was a black outline that slowly crumpled to the ground, the sword still clutched in the dead fingers. He brought Wirikidor up into guard position and looked for the woman’s other assailant.
That man had scrambled to his feet even as his comrade fell and had out his own sword now. Valder watched him warily.
The thief looked down at his dead companion, then back at Valder. “I don’t know how you did that, old man,” he said. “I guess you surprised him. I’m ready for you, though; you won’t take me by surprise. Maybe you’re better than you look, but you’re still old and weak and slow.”
Valder forced a grin. “I’ve killed fourscore better men than you, fool; run while you can.”
“So you can hit me from behind, perhaps? No, I’ve a friend’s death to avenge and avenge it I will!” With that, he lunged forward, sword extended.
Valder stepped back, suddenly realizing just how much trouble he was in as the other’s blade slid past his neck; he was old and slow, just as the man had said, and yes, without Wirikidor’s aid, he was almost defenseless. The sword sagged in his grip as he flailed helplessly, trying to fend off the next attack. He wouldn’t die — the curse assured that — but it looked to him very much as if he were about to be badly cut up, with eighteen men yet to kill. He saw the blade approaching and knew that his parry would not stop it before it drew blood and weakened him
