Raindrops plastered the jaunty feather on Vocho’s hat into a tangled mess, ran down his neck, soaked through his heavy cloak and his fancy trousers, was utterly ruining the finish on his best coat and made his hands slip on the little crossbow. He didn’t like crossbows any more than he liked guns, but they had a tendency to backfire less and sometimes you needed one, even if it was a coward’s weapon. Not so long ago they’d have been drummed out of the guild for using one, or the gun, if they hadn’t already been drummed out. He could hear his old sword master now. A projectile weapon is only for those with no class or no balls.
Three months ago he wouldn’t have gone out on a night like this for any money. Three months ago he’d have had that choice. Now he had no money and no choice, so here he was, shrivelling in the rain like a sodding prune. He might be poor, more than poor now, but a man had to make an impression and right now all he was good for was looking like a rat drowned in a water butt.
One insignificant little mistake, and they never let you forget it.
Kacha sat up straight beside him, listening. The rain had soaked through her hat, turning it into a sopping mess, and her blonde hair was dark and lank, but she didn’t seem to mind. Over the whisper of the wind and the rush of the rain came the faintest jingle, as of a horse harness. A vague splashing rumble, as of carriage wheels negotiating a muddy road.
“Kacha…”
She shot him a lopsided grin, but it was wound tight as a bowstring. She always got twitchy before a fight, and always hid it with a grin.
“Mask,” she whispered. He pulled his soaking scarf over his chin and nose and she did the same, making sure it was pulled up far enough to cover the telltale puckered scar under her eye. Between the scarf and hat, he’d have been hard pushed to recognise her if he didn’t know her.
A carriage came in to view around the corner, mud splashing from its wheels. A lumbering coach and four, it looked promising – well kept with fancy harness, and the horses were all matched too, which boded well. The driver was a huddle of clothes bundled up in an overlarge shapeless hat and an oilskin cloak against the weather. One armed and lightly armoured man in front on a springy bay horse that looked like it’d jump out of its skin at the slightest provocation, one to the side on a steadier-looking grey. Both men looked thoroughly miserable even under large hooded cloaks. Vocho could sympathise.
A lamp either side of the driver gave Vocho and Kacha light to work with. They waited till the coach was almost on them, then Kacha dug her heels in and her horse leaped from behind the screen of bushes and in front of the carriage. Vocho wasn’t far behind, aiming his horse to the rear of the carriage to stop it backing up. The bodyguard on the side didn’t have a chance to do more than draw his sword before Vocho’s bolt had his hand pinned to the side of the coach. Which was embarassing because he’d been aiming somewhere else, but he’d take what he could get.
In the hazy darkness at the front of the carriage the driver swore a blue streak and yanked on the horses, which protested at the treatment and managed to get themselves tangled in the traces. The carriage slewed to a stop, making the pinned bodyguard scream before his hand, bolt and all, came free. He knocked his head on the way down into the mud and slumped unconscious. Which at least saved Vocho a job.
By the time the horses had stopped, the fore bodyguard was down and out in the mud thanks to Kacha’s bad-tempered horse lashing out at the bay and an expertly aimed smack in the head from the butt of Kacha’s gun. The bay horse dumped its suddenly unresponsive rider and shot up the road, reins and stirrups flapping, like as not never to be seen again.
Like a well oiled machine, the two of them. When they worked together, nothing and no one could stop them. They hadn’t been the best in the guild for nothing. At least it was earning them some money.
Muffled voices from inside the carriage, most with