The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,37
and perhaps he’d never been more than a pawn. He wondered this in the time it took for the men to reappear.
“No rope,” said the one who’d originally gone looking. Behind him the other two nodded their agreement. One of them held a tar-dipped torch that guttered and smoked so the search hadn’t been entirely worthless.
“We could impale them,” growled the man who’d rubbed his thumb across Amelia’s face. His scowl said he needed to get some self-respect back. “That’s what they do round here, isn’t it?”
“That’s the Seljuks.”
“So what? It’s not like we’ve impaled anyone before, is it? We’ve hung lots. We’re always hanging people.” He looked round for support.
“You’re full of shit,” the archer said.
“You wouldn’t say that if you weren’t holding a bow.”
“Well, I am,” the archer said. “And you’re full of shit. Everyone knows you’re full of shit. Heathens impale people. Are we heathens?”
“Two pretty boys. It would be justice.”
“She’s not a boy,” Tycho said.
The archer and the other man stopped glaring at each other and turned to Tycho, who got a split second of their attention before they both turned to examine Amelia, as did every other soldier in the room. “He’s wearing a doublet,” the archer protested.
“And trews,” the man he’d been arguing with said. “And men’s boots. And that’s not a woman’s knife.” Dipping forward, he drew Amelia’s ankle dagger and stepped quickly back. “Toledo steel, no less.”
“Stolen most like.”
“Her name’s Amelia,” Tycho said swiftly.
“Prove it.”
“How can I prove a name?”
A jab of the sword was his answer. A trickle of blood rolled down his throat. “Don’t get clever.”
“Too late,” Amelia said.
Her voice was light enough to be a girl’s. Alternatively, it could belong to someone not yet a man. Tycho watched their captain realise this. Behind him, his men were beginning to look restless. “Show them,” Tycho said. The eyes that met his were hard and flat and impassive in the way only someone fighting for self-control and finding it can manage. He expected Amelia to reveal her teats because that’s what most women would have done. Instead she unlaced her trews and dropped them, revealing smoothness beneath. To make the point, she turned a circle.
The ugly-faced archer still had his fingers hooked round the end of his arrow but his bow was only half drawn and pointed nearly floorwards. Even their captain seemed more interested in examining Amelia than keeping his sword level.
One problem had turned into another. Everyone knew that.
“She’s better than any hanging.” Unnotching his arrow, the archer unstrung his bow and returned his arrow to its quiver without being ordered. Those keeping out of his way pushed forward into the gap.
“Captain goes first,” the blond-haired man said.
“Meaning you go second,” the archer muttered. This was when Tycho realised the man who’d checked Amelia’s cheek was their sergeant. A sergeant who hated their bowman could be useful.
“Boys . . .” the captain sighed. “There’ll be plenty for everyone.”
“No,” Amelia said. “There won’t.”
Turning to glare at her, the sergeant said, “Yes, there will . . . A woman dressed in a man’s clothes. That’s a hanging offence.”
“Burning,” the archer said.
“So you’d better to be nice to us . . .”
“Yeah,” said the archer. “You can begin by unbuttoning your doublet.” He glared at the sergeant, daring him to disagree. “In fact, why don’t we just take everything off and you can crawl back into bed?” Ignoring the sergeant’s barked order to wait his turn, the archer took a step closer and reached for Amelia’s buttons.
Two things happened.
She grabbed the man, spun him round and slammed her heel into the back of his knee, dropping him to the floor. A split second later, as she tightened the string of his bow around his neck, Tycho used his elbow to knock up the captain’s sword, twist its handle from his grip and bring its point to rest under the man’s chin. Amelia scowled and twisted her home-made garrotte a little tighter.
“Nicely done . . .”
She glared, as if asking if he really expected a compliment that thin to make up for what had gone before.
“What’s your name?” Tycho demanded of the captain.
“Towler.”
“And the name of your company?”
“Towler’s Company.”
“How original. Amelia, I really think . . .”
She loosened her bowstring slightly and the archer slumped forward, gasping hideously and purple-black in the face. He’d live, most likely. Although he’d be voiceless for a week.
“What’s a fine company like yours doing here in the middle of winter?”