The Swordbearer - By Glen Cook Page 0,71

some way to make the Red Order look responsible.

He ran into the street, toward the gangster's home. He overtook Alfeld four blocks from his destination. The royal cousin was strolling along whistling. The sack he bore had, mysteriously, lightened by half. Gathrid cut him down and took what was left.

Despite the cumulative gruesomeness of this night's work, he chuckled. It was a sound as fell as any ever to issue from the mouth of Theis Rogala. He was changing. There were moments when he enjoyed his role.

He was delighted with what he learned from the dead man. Neither Kimach nor Alfeld had been honest with his cohort. Kimach had used Alfeld so he would have a convenient scapegoat. He had had no intention of delivering the promised crown. Or the Con-tessa, whom he had earmarked for a favored son.

Alfeld had had his separate arrangement with Gerdes Mulenex. It had promised him kingdom and Contessa in exchange for the life of his cousin.

Gathrid's loathing of politics grew stronger.

There was Suftko yet. The gangster had tried murder, yet seemed clean by comparison. Maybe he could be manipulated.

Again the dogs did not challenge the youth. He eased to Suftko's door, gave the knock the pseudo-derelict had used.

The guard within sensed trouble. He opened the door a crack, then shouted.

Gathrid drove his blade through wood and flesh, withdrew it, hacked at the chain holding the door. As he entered, attacking in a whirlwind of steel, he realized that he had made a tactical blunder. The house was dark. He could not see his foes. They could see him silhouetted in the doorway.

His weapon knew where they were though. In seconds it was over. Three lives had been devoured. Gathrid pushed on to a lighted room from which panic sounds came.

He found another three men. One was Suftko, another was a bodyguard. The third was a renegade Brother. Gathrid slew the bodyguard and was closing with Suftko when the magnitude of his peril struck Aarant. "Behind you!"

Once again he dodged the aim of a golden rod. A beam sliced furniture and scarred walls. Gathrid ducked and dove forward.

The sorcerer was nimble. His weapon was one the younger sword could not negate. It took all the youth's borrowed skill to survive the next minute.

The sorcerer died.

"A Blue!" Gathrid said. "And owned by Mulenex . . . . " But no more. He had fled, had enlisted with Suftko. A man in Suftko's business could find a thousand uses for a competent sorcerer.

The man was overdue for death, Gathrid reflected. He had murdered Honsa Eldracher and betrayed Katich. No punishment was adequate . . . .

Suftko had been hiding him from both Yedon Hildreth and Mulenex, each of whom wanted him desperately.

"Watch the other one," Aarant whispered.

Gathrid whirled. Suftko was opening the door as he had been fighting. "Stop right there! Or you'll die."

The gangster turned, raised his hands. He was a small, hard man. Gathrid guessed him to be as shrewd and pragmatic as Hildreth or Ahlert. No doubt he was aware of the dead wizard's entire history.

"There'll be hell to pay tomorrow. Unless somebody does one good cleanup job."

Suftko said nothing.

"You've got one chance to buy your life." Gathrid told the man the true story behind his hiring. "I want the trail covered. For both our sakes."

"All right. I don't have much choice, do I?"

"Not much. I'll be back if you don't deliver."

The hard little man nodded.

"Good luck, then." Gathrid went away admiring the gangster. The man had shown no fear.

He returned to the inn before dawn more than tainted the eastern sky. The scullery help were about, but did not notice him slipping into the cellar. The body in the alley was absent. The fish in the Blackstun would feed well today.

Rogala still snored. So did Gacioch. The corpses in their room had not been disturbed. Gathrid left them lie. He placed his weapon near Daubendiek and slipped into bed. The Sword moaned softly, evilly, jealously.

"Be careful," Aarant whispered.

"I plan to."

He was adrift on the twilight edge of sleep when he suddenly realized that he had been away from Daubendiek for hours, and by miles. Well might the Sword be jealous. His hand stole toward the new blade. He yanked it back. Suppose? . . .

There were always levels to Nieroda's schemes. This might be one to seduce him away from the blade he hated, then leave him powerless. He lay back. "Tureck, mull that one over."

"I am already."

Gathrid bolted up again, horrified.

He had