going. Eggy threw two purses into the mud, both clinking heavily. “Go on, Berie,” he said. “And get Flashy’s too.”
Three more purses, all full. Not bad, not bad at all. At a signal from Kacha, Vocho leaped down from his horse, and that’s where it all went wrong.
Kacha’s evil sod of a horse took exception to Eggy’s face and made a grab for it. Eggy wasn’t as drunk as he looked, jumped back half a pace and snatched at the sword at his waist. Kacha wasn’t drunk at all, but the horse’s sudden lunge caught her off guard. The gun fired, there was a bang that seemed like it might take Vocho’s ears off, followed by a brief, gurgling moan. Flashy held up a hand with a hole in it, and promptly stopped being drunk and started being passed out at about the same time he fell into the mud.
“Aw, shit,” Kacha said but she didn’t get any further. Eggy had his sword out – despite the rest of his foppish appearance, it was a good if plain sword, well used – and went for her, smooth as well oiled gears, looking as effortless as ever. Berie tried the same with his flash and glitter sword, got it tangled up in his scabbard, tripped over his own feet and ended up face first in the mud next to Flashy, only less passed out.
Then things got really bad. A tinny feel to the air. The smell of burned blood. The two things together seemed very familiar, but Vocho couldn’t place from where. The hairs on his neck and arms rose. Burned blood… what did that remind him of? And then it came to him that he was deep in the shit. Who burned blood? Magicians, that’s who. What the hells was one doing here? There hadn’t been one in the kingdom for years, not since the prelate gained power and had them killed or chased out for being against his careful, orderly new clockwork plan for the country. Which didn’t explain why the smell seemed familiar.
Time for that later. He had to take out these men before the suspected magician still in the carriage caused carnage. He planted one foot on Berie’s prone back, with a softish kick to the head to keep him there, and swivelled.
Kacha was off the horse by now – was it Vocho or was that evil thing grinning? – and stood, ready and waiting for Eggy to come on. The stupid gun was still in her off hand, and as Vocho turned she flung it at Eggy, catching him a great crack across the forehead that made him stagger back, feet slipping in the mud.
Even Vocho had to admit that Egimont was a fine duellist, but Kacha had the measure of him and a grudge besides. Vocho took half a heartbeat to see her slip under his guard and then left her to it. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that his sister could take care of herself.
He wasn’t so sure he could, not against a magician. About as rare as rocking-horse shit they were, or had been. Now they were non-existent in Reyes. Just about all he knew was that they were as powerful as kings, which is perhaps why the prelate hated them so much. He’d heard of a man fried where he stood, turned to ash with not even the chance to flinch. Time to be seriously careful, but Vocho had never been a careful man. When he won, which was always, however he could, he did it with speed and above all style.
Only he’d never actually faced a magician. He’d never even seen one, only heard tales. Fuck it, you only lived once.
The inside of the carriage smelled of burned blood and infamy. It was no wonder Kacha hadn’t seen the man, magician or not – he was in the far corner, dressed in flowing midnight blue, cloak, robe and hood fading into the shifting shadows of a dark and rainy night. His face was a pale, scarred smudge against the window and naggingly familiar. The faint suggestion of blood on his hands was the only new clue to what he was. Vocho’s scant consolation was that if he was a magician, he needed blood to draw on to power his spells and there wasn’t any handy. Except his own or Vocho’s, but he had no intention of letting anyone get blood on his clothes.