“We shall see,” it resolved. It held out its hand for the knife, and the other goblin-after a fractional pause-gave it.
Then the big one on the stairs spoke uncertainly in his own tongue. The knife-wielder replied angrily and perhaps threateningly, and the big goblin responded with guttural hostility. They were arguing. The one with the knife turned to him, spat, and answered in crisp, bitter sounds, thrusting me away as it did so as if to give itself more room to fight. The big goblin glared and took a step down the stairs, brandishing its great cleaver and shrugging aside its heavy black cloak. The one with the knife turned disdainfully and peered at me through its tiny, squinting eyes. The knife, gleaming along its edge slightly, hung in the air.
And then, quite suddenly, the goblin stiffened and sank into a heap. I turned, wildly looking around me, since neither of the other two had stirred. At the far end of the alley was a shadowy figure, one hand outstretched as if pointing to the fallen goblin.
There was a confused struggle behind me and the smaller of the two remaining goblins, with a bestial snarl, took a great bound down the dark passageway toward the figure.
In one hand, a razor which had been concealed in its foul tunic sparkled. The other was stretched out, fingers splayed to grapple with the newcomer. I stepped back cautiously, glancing to the steps where the large, cleaver- wielding goblin was descending awkwardly. There was a startled cry from the alley and I turned just as the razor clattered to the street, the goblin slumping down after it. A slim spike of metal stuck out of its chest, small and delicate as a needle. The big goblin on the stairs had slowed uncertainly. Another moment, I thought, and it would try to flee.
“Hell’s teeth, but you cut that fine!” I exclaimed, too delighted for there to be any real criticism there.
The figure did not move, and his reply was calm, detached, and suave. “Now William,” he said, almost casually, but slow, as if savoring every word, “let us not count our chickens.”
The voice was all wrong: too dry and quietly amused, too knowing. And suddenly, in a wave of chill sweat, I knew he was no savior. He meant to kill me as coolly, precisely, and methodically as he had killed the goblins. In fact, I was pretty sure the goblins had been an inconvenience, a distraction for him. And while being a tad more famous than the other people on stage had once been appealing, I suddenly thought it a very bad thing that though he had dispatched the goblins with ruthless efficiency, it was my name he knew. He had barely moved so far, but now I saw his head tilt microscopically and felt his eyes upon me from within his hood.
“Hold still now,” he breathed almost seductively, as if he was taking a speck of dust from my eye. “The pain will be surprisingly brief.”
For a moment I stood quite motionless, trying to shake off the dread that the ease and elegant restraint of his words sent through me. Stepping back, I looked to the staircase, where the large goblin was now inching out into the alley, cleaver raised, and flung myself backward into the shadows. The stone wall where I had been standing sparked briefly and the tinkling sound of steel rang out, small and musical. I stood up quickly, thought for a desperate second, and ran behind the goblin whose eyes were on the hooded stranger, toward the stairs.
The goblin heard me, made a stumbling turn toward me, bellowing and hewing the air with its cleaver, and caught the needle-dart meant for me in its shoulder. It cried out, sagging fast, and I ran, throwing myself against the stone and climbing the stairs in three-at-a-time leaps.
“Now, William,” said the smooth, quiet, but perfectly audible voice of the hooded figure, “don’t be tiresome.”
I think the goblin took a second dart, but I was up the steps before it fell, and running from the purposeful strides I could hear coming after me. I found myself in another short passage which rejoined the main street. I ran hard, but my pursuer had made it up the stairs by the time I got to the corner.
The goblins had fallen quickly: too quickly. The killer’s darts had to have been tipped with something particularly nasty. Bearing this in mind, I ran still faster, weaving erratically down the street. One deserted block, then another. Then a third. From some ways back came the voice again, raised fractionally, but still barely concerned:
“Till next time, then, William. Soon.”
I ran one more block and then looked back. There was no sign of anyone following, but I only paused for a second to take a long, sucking breath. Then I ran again, waiting for the momentary sting of one of those poisoned needles sliding suddenly into my spine.
SCENE XI Words, Words, Words
It was three o’clock in the morning. It had taken me over an hour to work my way as circuitously as possible back to the palace, hiding at every corner, moving from shadow to shadow: You know the drill. It was, I knew, a complete waste of time. Should I have finished up within a block of my former pursuer, no stealth, speed, or hasty camouflaging would have kept those needle-like daggers out of my body. Before, I had been one of four targets, and the other three had been potentially dangerous to the killer, with their gorilla arms and their cleavers. Now I was by myself and about as dangerous to an assassin like that as a newborn lamb: a very irritated and hostile lamb, no doubt, but a lamb nonetheless. In the quick eyes and lethal hands of my would-be assassin, I could hear the crackle of flames around the roasting spit and smell the mint sauce. So I dashed back to the palace and hoped to God my enemy had opted for an early night.
At the palace, I had alerted the guards and sent them to wake Sorrail and scour the city for my multiple assailants. I woke Garnet and Renthrette myself and bombarded them with a version of my story: a version, perhaps, with a little more stoic composure and a little less bowel-shifting terror than I had felt at the time. But I’m not
The search of the city (surprise, surprise) turned up nothing. The assassin, unlike the goblins who had caught me first, had come and gone with all the noise and fuss of a ground fog, the kind you don’t see forming till you can’t find the floor anymore. I hadn’t expected him to leave any grist for the investigator’s mill: no carelessly dropped letters with names and addresses, no passing witness who felt sure he’d seen him somewhere before, no distinctive jewelry left at the scene. He had vanished from the White City’s immaculate streets like the flame of a quenched candle, and if there hadn’t been a little stack of dead goblins a few blocks from the palace, I doubt Sorrail would have given my tale much credence.
But there was, and he did. He came back to our rooms dressed in his military tunic and his face was grave and pensive.
“Tell me what happened,” he said, running his hand thoughtfully through his hair.
“I already did,” I said.
“Once more, please,” he said. His voice was tired, but his eyes were still keen and alert. I began the story again, casually, bored with it already. Gaspar, apparently one of the king’s closest advisers despite his part-time appearance as a dandified courtly love poet, took notes and looked as gray as his suit. Renthrette sharpened her knife carefully. Garnet yawned.
“And that’s all you remember?” said Sorrail, as I concluded.
“No,” I said. “I forgot to tell you that he said his name was Albert and he came from a village just north of. .”
“Will,” said Renthrette, barely looking up.
“Sorry,” I said. “A joke. Yes, that’s all I remember.”
“What about his voice?” Sorrail continued, ignoring that last piece of stupidity.
“Urbane,” I said. “No accent to speak of. Smooth, you know? Almost oily but not in a bad way. Precise, like the sound of a very finely made crossbow slide. Probably not the voice of a very young man, but I couldn’t say for sure. Not a voice I knew, I’d say. So that ought to really narrow down the possibilities.”
“Would you recognize the man again if you saw him?” said Sorrail.
“No,” I said. “I told you: I didn’t see his face and we really never got that close. Barely on speaking terms really. A nodding acquaintance, you know. Not a
“Will,” Renthrette warned.
