“How about a private dance, my lovely?” a powerfully built mercenary said.
“I do not perform private dances,” Cricket replied. “Please, let go.”
“Come on, now, I’ve already paid for the room.”
“Then ask one of the other girls,” said Cricket. “Now let me go.”
“You’re the one I want,” the mercenary insisted. “Now get down here.” And he yanked her right off the stage onto the floor.
At once, two bouncers moved in, but without letting go of Cricket’s wrist, the mercenary kicked out at the first one, breaking his knee, and smashed the second one in the jaw. Both men went down, the first one screaming with pain, the second unconscious.
Sorak started to rise from his stool, but felt Tajik’s hand on him. “Keep out of it,” the ferry captain said. “Turin pays these men well for their pains, and they know their business.”
Indeed, they seemed to, for even as Tajik spoke, Sorak saw three more bouncers move in, this time with three-foot agafari fighting sticks.
The brawny mercenary knew his business, too. He released Cricket, shoving her against the stage behind him and turned to meet the bouncers. As the first one came in with an overhanded blow of the fighting stick, the mercenary took it on crossed forearms, catching it on the muscle rather than bone, and then deftly wrenched the stick out of the bouncer’s grasp while kicking him in the groin. Without pause, he pivoted, sidestepped a blow from the second bouncer, and cracked the stick against the side of his head.
As the second bouncer went down, the mercenary quickly dropped to the floor and swept the third bouncer’s legs out from under him. He, too, fell, and the mercenary brought the heel of his booted foot down hard on the man’s throat, collapsing his larynx and trachea. The bouncer made a horrible gargling sound and thrashed several times, then choked on his own blood.
Moving swiftly and smoothly, the big mercenary got back to his feet, snatching up the third bouncer’s fighting stick as well, so that he now had one in each hand. Cricket tried to crawl away, but he saw her and hooked a stool with his foot, sending it crashing against the stage, just missing her. She cried out and stayed huddled where she was. Two more bouncers moved in, and by now the crowd had gathered round, watching and cheering the combatants.
The fighting sticks whirled in the mercenary’s hands as he met the two remaining bouncers and, moments later, both were lying senseless and bleeding on the floor.
The crowed cheered, and the mercenary dropped the sticks and turned back to Cricket. He grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.
Sorak got up off his stool, shaking off Tajik’s hand, and Ryana rose beside him.
“I’d say I’ve earned a lot more than just a private dance,” the big mercenary said. And as he turned to drag her upstairs, he found Kieran blocking his way, standing there with his arms folded across his chest.
Sorak paused, holding out his arm in front of Ryana. The crowd fell silent.
“You’re in my way,” the big mercenary said to Kieran.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” Kieran replied.
“Move.”
“I don’t believe I will.”
“Well, well,” the big mercenary said, derisively. “So you want to play the gallant, eh? You think the whore is worth it?”
“Oh, I’m not doing it for her,” said Kieran, casually. “I’m doing it for you.”
The big mercenary stared at him. “What?”
“It’s for the benefit of your education. You require a lesson in manners. You seem pretty good with those sticks. You want to find out just how good you are?”
The big mercenary grinned unpleasantly and shoved Cricket back to the floor, then picked up the two fighting sticks he’d dropped. “You’re the one who’s going to get a lesson,” he said with a sneer, as he twirled die fighting sticks in his hands.
Kieran bent to pick up one of the fighting sticks, but before he could grab a second one, the big mercenary moved quickly and kicked it away into the crowd.
“Kieran!” someone in the crowd shouted, and in the next instant, a fighting stick came sailing toward him.
Kieran snatched it out of the air and glanced to see who had thrown it. He spotted the man and nodded his thanks, then smiled.
“It’s been a few years,” he said. “The war with Urik, wasn’t it?”
Sorak saw Drom break out in a surprised grin.
Kieran looked down and experimentally hefted the sticks. “These really aren’t balanced very well,” he said, and in that moment, the big mercenary struck. Kieran raised his sticks, almost casually, without even seeming to look, and they moved in a rapid blur, with an accompanying rat-a-tat-tat of wood as he blocked the mercenary’s blows. The big man retreated quickly, and Kieran looked up, as if with surprise. “Oh, have we started?”
The big mercenary snarled and came back at him. The sticks moved so quickly it was almost impossible to make out the individual blows as both men struck and parried, crossing their arms in front of them as it they were batting away insects, and the clatter of the sticks against each other sounded like a rapid drum roll. Then they sprang apart as the crowd cheered in approval of the display.
“You’re good, I’ll give you that,” the big mercenary said grudgingly.
Kieran shrugged. “I’m a little out of practice.”
With a growl, the mercenary came at him again. There was a blur of sticks, a clattering tattoo of wood on wood, and then one of the mercenary’s sticks flew from his grasp. The big man sprang back, shaking his hand with pain.
“You dropped something,” Kieran said. He pointed with one of his sticks. “It’s over there. Go on, pick it up. I’ll wait.”
The mercenary stared at him with loathing, then went to pick up the dropped stick.
Kieran shrugged his shoulders several times, rolling them as if working out some kinks.
