‘The last three days – I figured we’d see you after I did for Gilchrist.’
‘What was he going to tell me?’
‘I assume he was going to tell you that I stopped by the night before Rhaine died, got him to put us in touch. Don’t think too badly of him – he didn’t know what I intended.’
‘I guess he paid for it, either way.’
‘He did indeed.’
‘Did you miss with that bolt?’ I asked. ‘Or did you just prefer your backup silent?’
He shrugged, head bobbling on broad shoulders. ‘I guess I wasn’t so careful as I could have been.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Pretories’ man. I went to see the commander about Rhaine, make sure he understood what needed to be done. Commander insisted on detailing one of his thugs to follow along after me.’
‘The commander’s dead, you know.’
‘Pretories never meant nothing to me – I only follow one commander,’ he said proudly. ‘Only ever did.’
‘You willing to die for him?’
‘Willing to kill.’
‘You certain that’s how this ends?’
‘It’s how it always has.’
‘For me too.’
He smiled and pulled his weapon out from the bundle, an heirloom flamberge, two-handed with a wavy blade, treated metal glittering.
‘You did her yourself, didn’t you Botha?’ I asked, watching him wrap his hands around the pommel.
‘Pretories said he’d send a man, but I waved him off – the mistress was a stupid whore,’ the Vaalan said blankly. ‘She got what was coming.’
‘Like her brother?’
‘Roland was worse.’ Botha spat a wad of gunk on the floor. It was distinctly unbutler-like behavior, but I supposed we were past that. ‘Never appreciated what he had, spent his whole life trying to screw the man who gave it to him.’
‘I was worried you might end up being one of those people I have to murder because they’re standing in the way – and I sometimes feel bad about that afterward. It’s kind of you to make this personal.’
‘My weapon is half a millennium old,’ Botha said, holding it so the light scintillated off the edge. ‘It’s been bathed in the blood of far better men than you.’
‘It’ll fetch four ochre at a Pritt Street pawnshop,’ I said, pulling my trench blade from my belt. ‘And I’ll spend the money on drugs.’
Botha wasn’t big on chatter, nor one to cower at a cruel word. He widened his stance slightly, then motioned me to come forward.
I let the throwing knife ease out of the cuff of my shirt and into my palm, then brought my hand up casually – but either he saw what I was going for or he was stone-cold, because the square bulk of his body shifted downward, and the throw went high.
Not for the first time I wished I was as tough as I talked.
But it was too late for second-guessing, and I double-timed an advance, his reach being an advantage I knew I could only compensate for with speed. He knew the same thing and back-pedaled, meeting my advance with a swing of his weapon that I barely dodged.
Botha was stronger than me, and his earlier endeavors had given him a wide field to play with. The mismatch between our weapons meant that I couldn’t risk a straight parry, had to duck and flit out of his reach. But the downside to swinging a weapon four feet in length is that you have to keep swinging it, and that takes a lot out of a fellow, a lot out and quick. On the other hand he had not spent the last two days getting the shit kicked out of him, and thus had more by way of reserves.
All the same it wasn’t long before the both of us were feeling our exertions, the steady tango slowing to an uneven rhythm, punctuated by moments of pause. ‘Getting tired?’ I asked. ‘Feeling out of breath? Ain’t as easy as strangling a girl to death, is it?’
He sneered and made a fancy little play, feigning retreat then swiveling forward. I about half fell for it, not so far as to make myself cadaverous, but enough to get a chunk of flesh nicked out of my stomach.
I made like it didn’t hurt, made like I didn’t notice it, that part of my body which was no longer there. ‘Was it the money, Botha? Did you think with his children dead, the general would make you his heir?’
‘Never gave a shit about money,’ Botha said, his chest heaving, the tip of his sword following me as I circled around him.
I pulled my second knife from my belt. ‘Course not, you just wanted the pat on the head. What’s the matter, Daddy didn’t love you enough? You figured the general was a good substitute?’
I managed to survive this next exchange without losing any more flesh, but it was close. Botha held his flamberge down by his side, ready for the killing stroke.
‘Don’t matter how many of his kids you murder,’ I said, hoping to push him into it. ‘You won’t ever be his kin.’
He screamed in rage and brought his weapon up to halve me. I took a knee, felt the force of his swing sweep over the top of my skull, brought the knife in my left hand down into the bridge of his foot. He screamed again, in pain this time, and I rolled out of his reach.
It was over, though he was slow to realize it. I played it careful, circling him slowly, watching the hole I’d made flood crimson onto the floorboards. After a moment his eyes started to get that dull look that arrives when the head isn’t getting its requisite amount of ichor. I feinted forward and he went in with everything he had – but his movements were sluggish, and it was easy to dodge. He lacked the strength to halt the force of his stroke, and I countered with my own, taking his arm off at the elbow. The stump doused me with blood. His severed fist stayed clenched on the hilt of his weapon, along with its still functioning twin. Botha watched me like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening, open-mouthed, life draining out of his injured limb.
Ain’t right to play with a dying man, don’t matter who he is. Botha’s end wasn’t long in coming, nor any more painful than it had to be.
I pulled my trench blade out of his skull, cleaned it against the Kiren rug and looped it into my belt. Then I fell backward onto the grand piano, its cacophony echoing around me. The injury Botha had done me was ugly but not fatal. Added to everything else I’d suffered, however, I found I was having a hard time with it. I propped one fist firm against the wound and forced myself into the next room.
The general looked close enough to the end to make this whole errand seem awfully superfluous. He had remained at his desk despite the fighting, and he wouldn’t quite look at me.
I gave him a sharp salute with the hand that wasn’t holding in my intestines. It was a bit melodramatic, but I blame it on the blood loss.
He shriveled into his seat.
‘Forgive me for coming unannounced, General, and in such inappropriate attire.’
It took him a long time to answer. ‘I suppose Botha is lying dead in the parlor?’
‘I wouldn’t expect to have your bed turned down.’
‘You’re here to kill me as well?’
‘Something like that.’
‘That suit you, murdering an old man?’
My legs were starting to buckle. I set my hand on the desk to steady myself. ‘After the last few days? A few more drops of blood won’t make any kind of difference.’
He met my eyes finally, and under different circumstances I might have admired his coolness. ‘Best get to it, then.’
‘We’ve got time,’ I said, though it wasn’t true. My wound needed looking at, and the general – well, the general didn’t have long to go either. ‘When you first sent for me, did you know about my part in Roland’s end?’
‘You did what you had to,’ he turned his withered head back down to the desk. ‘My son was mad – the war drove him mad. He’d have set the whole country to flame.’
‘That slips us both off the hook pretty easy, doesn’t it? Was I ever supposed to bring Rhaine home? Or did
