forced to jump a half-step back, parrying hard and without precision. His riposte was wild and inaccurate, and Murillio caught it with a high parry of his own, following through with a second attack – the one he had wanted to count from the very first – a fully extended lunge straight for his opponent's chest – heart or lungs, it didn't matter which—
But somehow, impossibly, Gorlas had stepped close, inside and to one side of that lunge – his half-step back had not been accompanied by any shift in weight, simply a repositioning of his upper body, and this time his thrust was not at all wild.
Murillio caught a flash along the length of Daru steel, and then he could not breathe. Something was pouring down the front of his chest, and spurting up into his mouth.
He felt part of his throat tearing from the inside out as Gorlas slashed his blade free and stepped to the right.
Murillio twisted round to track him, but the motion lost all control, and he continued on, legs collapsing under him, and now he was lying on the stony ground.
The world darkened.
He heard Gorlas say something, possibly regretful, but probably not.
Oh, Harllo, I am so sorry. So sorry—
And the darkness closed in.
He was rocked momentarily awake by a kick to his face, but that pain quickly flushed away, along with everything else.
Gorlas Vidikas stood over Murillio's corpse. 'Get that carter to take the body back,' he said to the foreman, bending down to clean his blade on the threadbare silk sleeve of his victim's weapon arm. 'Have him deliver it to the Phoenix Inn, rapier and all.'
From the pit below, people were cheering and clanging their tools like some ragtag mob of barbarians. Gorlas faced them and raised his weapon in salute. The cheering redoubled. He turned back to the foreman. 'An extra tankard of ale for the crews tonight.'
'They will toast your name, Councillor!'
'Oh, and have someone collect the boy for me.'
'It's his shift in the tunnels, I think, but I can send someone to get him.'
'Good, and they don't have to be gentle about it, either. But make sure – nothing so bad he won't recover. If they kill him, I will personally disembowel every one of them – make sure they understand.'
'I will, Councillor.' The foreman hesitated. 'I never seen such skill, I never seen such skill – I thought he had you—'
'I'm sure he thought so, too. Go find that carter, now.'
'On my way, Councillor.'
'Oh, and I'll take that purse, so we're clear.'
The foreman rushed over to deliver it. Feeling the bag's weight for the first time, Gorlas raised his brows – a damned year's wages for this foreman, right here – probably all Murillio had, cleaned right out. Three times as much as the interest this fool owed him. Then again, if the foreman had stopped to count out the right amount, intending to keep the rest, well, Gorlas would have had two bodies to dispose of rather than just one, so maybe the old man wasn't so stupid after all.
It had, Gorlas decided, been a good day.
And so the ox began its long journey back into the city, clumping along the cobbled road, and in the cart's bed lay the body of a man who might have been precipitous, who might indeed have been too old for such deadly ventures, but no one could say that his heart had not been in the right place. Nor could anyone speak of a lack of courage.
Raising a most grave question – if courage and heart are not enough, what is?
The ox could smell blood, and liked it not one bit. It was a smell that came with predators, with hunters, notions stirring the deepest parts of the beast's brain. It could smell death as well, there in its wake, and no matter how many clumping steps it took, that smell did not diminish, and this it could not understand, but was resigned to none the less.
There was no room in the beast for grieving. The only sorrow it knew was for itself. So unlike its two-legged masters.
Flies swarmed, ever unquestioning, and the day's light fell away.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
He is unseen, one in a crowd whom none call
Do not slip past that forgettable face
Crawl not inside to find the unbidden rill
As it flows in dark horror from place to place
He is a common thing, in no way singular
Who lets no one inside the uneven steps
Down those eyes that drown the solitary