Beyond Redemption (13 page)

Someday I'll show the grumpy old goat just what kind of friend I am.

“You look like stomped shite, old man,” Wichtig told Bedeckt. The old man opened his mouth to answer and was interrupted by a fit of coughing.

Still, Wichtig hated being told what he was and wasn't allowed to do. It reminded him of childhood and the days before he'd realized power was something he could just take. Words and swords, they were weapons. Weapons in which he was more than proficient.

You can't have sword without word,
mused Wichtig.
Oh! What a lovely phrase. Has anyone said that before?
He thought not.

Wichtig covertly examined Stehlen as she rode in front of him. An expert rider, her hips rolled smoothly with the motion of the horse.

Not an ounce of fat, all lean muscle. What would it be like to bed her from behind so he wouldn't have to see her face?
I'd probably wound myself on her bony arse
. The thought gave him a small chuckle, and when she looked back to see what he was laughing about, he leered and winked at her.

She flared her nostrils and spat at his horse, which shied away. “Moron,” she growled.

Had she blushed? The thought made him laugh all the louder. Once they'd settled in to Selbsthass City, he'd find away to confront the local Swordsmen and kill a few of the better ones.
Who the hells does Bedeckt think he is, telling me what I can't do?

Wichtig had an idea, pulled his horse alongside Stehlen's, and leaned in to whisper to her. “Want to help me kill a few Swordsmen? You might have to steal a few things,” he added to sweeten the deal.

Stehlen glanced at Bedeckt, who rode a few horse lengths ahead of them. The old man's hearing was shot, the result of either too many blows to the head or the fact that his ears had been mangled in past battles. This sickness probably didn't help. She looked back to Wichtig. “Bedeckt will kill you.”

“Not if you're any good,” he challenged.

“I'm good enough to fool the likes of you morons.”

“Good. I'll give you the nod when the time is right.”

Bedeckt heard their muted conversation but not what they talked about. The missing fingers of his left hand itched fiercely and the healthy perfection of the surrounding lands bothered him more
than he wanted to share. They'd think he'd lost his edge. Had he? Had Wichtig's suggestion they find an inn been a veiled insult or a real concern? Knowing the Swordsman, probably the former. He didn't much care. He wanted a bed more than he would ever admit.

Gods, I am too old for this skulking shite.

THE LEICHTES HAUS
inn was so clean as to be intimidating. Bedeckt would have felt guilty for fouling it with his presence were guilt not such a waste. Intricately carved shelves holding a wider assortment of liquors than he'd known existed lined cherry oak walls. The heavy oak chair, cushioned in thick velour, sighed when he sat on it. Stehlen looked ready to kill the first person to point out she didn't belong here, whereas Wichtig slumped easily in his chair, offering the attractive bar staff warm smiles and soft words.

The Swordsman's chameleon-like ability to fit comfortably in any environment never ceased to surprise Bedeckt. He'd watched Wichtig chat up everyone from scullery maids to the daughters of kings with equal aplomb. Even men seemed drawn to his glib companionship. Few understood Wichtig merely used them to achieve some briefly held ambition. The Swordsman was a self-centered arse with the attention span of a high-strung child. How people missed this was a mystery.

Bedeckt, exhausted, weak, and unable to keep his eyes open, retired early, leaving Wichtig with dire warnings to stay out of trouble. Stehlen promised to keep an eye on the Swordsman. No doubt he'd awaken to find half the city dead and the other half baying for his blood. Why did he even bother?

He went to bed alone and slept the fitful sleep of an old man, awoken occasionally by twinges in his knees, fits of coughing, the weight of his snot-filled skull, and the need to pee. If he dreamed, he remembered nothing.

That night Wichtig learned the name of the man widely considered to be the Greatest Swordsman in these parts: GroBe Klinge. All he had to do now was find some way of accidentally causing GroBe to challenge him.

A few hours and three times as many pints later he found himself tangling with a young barmaid from the Leichtes Haus. The girl was indefatigable. When he awoke she was gone, as was a sizable chunk of what remained of his coin. Wichtig laughed uproariously until his hangover silenced him. The girl had more than earned what she'd taken.

It was the wee hours of the morning. A prosperous neighborhood, the streets quiet and lit by distantly spaced lanterns. Come to think of it, every neighborhood Stehlen had seen looked at least comfortably well off. All these clean streets left her uneasy.

She'd asked around for an hour before finding the right house, a squat faded pink stucco bungalow. She'd also paid several street urchins—and they'd been surprisingly difficult to find—to watch the street while she entered the house; it was only fitting the money came from Wichtig. She'd lifted it while he'd been busy with the bar wench. She'd walked right into the room, stood watching for a moment, and helped herself to his coin. She wasn't sure if her Kleptic abilities had even come into play—the two seemed fairly preoccupied. Anyone could have wandered into the room and helped themselves to whatever they found. As it was, all Stehlen wanted was Wichtig's money and a pretty little scarf—which she now wore tied around her neck—the barmaid left balled on the floor while she got balled on the bed.

They say you don't really know who you are until you're tested. This sat well with Stehlen, because she knew who she was.

Studying? Pointless!

Planning? For morons!

Look at the situation, react. Wichtig asked her to help him find and kill a few Swordsmen to spread his reputation and feed his insatiable ego. Bedeckt asked her to help keep Wichtig out of trouble. She'd agreed to both. The fun part would be figuring out how to keep her word—not that it was worth anything—and still ensure neither man got what he wanted. In a perfect world she'd be able to pull this off in a way she also found entertaining. In a perfect world even the repercussions of her actions would be entertaining.

This might be a perfect world,
she mused. She'd help Wichtig and thwart him with his own money at the same time.

Stehlen glanced up and down the street, checking if her urchins for hire remained in their assigned positions.
Can't trust anyone these days
. The two girls were where they should be. If the city watch arrived they'd bark like dogs to let her know.

Stehlen unlocked the front door and slipped inside. She felt good today, like a ghost or one of those savage trickster gods the northern barbarians worshiped. Walls and locked doors offered no obstacle.

The interior of the house stank of jasmine incense struggling to mask a man's body odor. It was the perfunctory clean of a single man doing just enough so that he could bring women home. Dust gathered in corners and behind anything he couldn't be bothered to move, which was just about everything. Weapons collected from a dozen nations decorated the walls. An impressive collection, it represented a sizable investment of time and money. She hunted for interesting weapons but found nothing suiting her style. The single bedroom was located at the rear of the bungalow and she stood at the door for several minutes listening to the heavy breathing within. One person. A man. Large, but not fat.

Stehlen slid into the bedroom and stood at the side of the sleeping man. He was, she had to admit, beautiful in a brutal kind of way. His jaw was strong and square, his black hair cut short. Thick eyebrows framed what she suspected might be well-formed eyes. She cleared her throat to get his attention. He slept on. Then she poked him with a stiletto, just enough to draw blood. The man came awake with a start and froze as he saw Stehlen staring down at him. His face was immediately calm, measuring. His eyes hard. Stehlen liked him even more.

“Yes?” he asked.

“GroBe Klinge?”

He took his time examining her lean body and worn armor. “You're no adoring fan,” he said.

Stehlen read his eyes and body posture. There was a knife under his pillow but he wasn't sure he could reach it without her noticing. She smiled. “No. A half-wit moron wants to challenge you to a duel.”

GroBe shrugged, inching his hand toward the knife. “Are you asking me not to kill this moron?” His eyes caressed her in open appreciation, which caught her off guard. “I could be convinced.”

Stehlen flared her nostrils as she considered bedding this large and well-muscled man. The thought was more than a little appealing. “No. I have to make sure he doesn't kill you.”

GroBe visibly relaxed. “Well then, put down the knife and climb in here.”

“I have a better way,” she said, and drove the stiletto through an eye into his brain.

GroBe said “damn” very clearly and sagged back onto the bed. Stehlen watched as the body figured out what the mind already knew. It took several minutes before the last signs of twitching life faded and GroBe lay still. Amazing how stubbornly some bodies clung to life while others slid off with little more than a
quiet sigh. Gently running a hand through his hair, she leaned forward and kissed his forehead. He was warm.

“I'll see you in the Afterdeath,” she whispered into his ear.

Stehlen selected several of the better-quality weapons from GroBe's collection and gave them—along with a fast lesson in their use—to the two street-urchin girls. She wasn't worried about them reporting her visit with GroBe; people had difficulty remembering her. An aspect, no doubt, of her Kleptic powers and in no way a slight on her appearance or personality. Or so she hoped.

Once she'd paid the girls with Wichtig's coin, she returned to the Leichtes Haus for a few short hours of rest. She slept the sleep of the blissfully innocent and dreamed of GroBe's strong arms and other more interesting parts of his anatomy. In the morning she awoke happy and refreshed and joined Bedeckt and Wichtig in the main room for a breakfast of sausage, stale bread, and fried eggs swimming in pools of pepper-flaked grease.

“That's a lovely scarf,” said Wichtig, nodding toward her while stuffing sausage in his mouth.

Shite
. She'd forgotten about the scarf. “It was my mother's.” Stehlen dug into breakfast with a will, ignoring Wichtig's disbelieving look.