B
afion hesitated
before deciding where to strike, annoyed that it had come to this. Some people were too stupid to be left in charge of their own affairs. The man opposite him was one such person. Bafion chose the left shoulder. Not fatal, but hopefully enough to satisfy his obligations without killing. He thrust his rapier quickly, accurately, and to the man’s surprise.

‘Ow,’ the man said. ‘Why in hells did you have to go an’ do that?’

Bafion stood a few paces from the shabby little man. They were in the living room of the man’s small apartment, which was just as shabby as he was. The man’s reaction was dictated by shock, and Bafion knew it would take a few moments before the fact that he had been stabbed with a sword took hold.

Bafion didn’t like having to do it, but he was supposed to maim the man; something visible, something gruesome, something that would send a message. This cut was far less than he would have received were someone else meting out the punishment. Bafion’s instructions stated that if the man died, it would be of little consequence. Bafion’s employer seemed to have given up hope of ever being paid. As it was, Bafion had directed his blade through the fleshy part of the man’s arm and it would heal well enough.

‘You know bloody well why I did it,’ Bafion said. ‘You had your chance. You brought it on yourself. You still owe the boss five crowns. I’ll be back to finish the job if you don’t pay by the end of the week.’

The man clutched at his left shoulder with a look of sullen indignation that irritated Bafion. The man
had
brought this on himself; everyone that Bafion visited did, and yet somehow he still believed that Bafion had wronged him. If anything, Bafion had done him a favour, but he would get no credit for it. When he went to get paid he would have to explain why the man was not missing his nose, an ear, or an assortment of fingers. He wondered which of them was the bigger fool.

‘Go and see a physician,’ Bafion said, ‘before the wound goes bad. And pay up. Soon, or I’ll be back.’

The man stared dumbly at Bafion but said nothing. Bafion turned to leave and noticed a small child peering around the edge of the doorway. The man’s child? Debt collection always left him feeling sullied, but having a child stare at him and wonder why he had hurt her father made him want to vomit. He had to eat, though. Sometimes he wondered if it would be better if he didn’t bother. It was a fine existence for a gentleman, a banneret, and a leading blade. In reality however, he knew that he was no longer any of those things.

J
acco Nozza was a busy man
. Tanosa was not a big city, but a city it was, and he liked to think of it as his city. His rivals were long since crushed, and those who remained were small and of no threat. He had as much influence in running it as the Count or any of his ministers. He also reckoned he was more worthy to run it; he had come to his position on ruthless merit, while they had come to theirs by happenstance of birth.

Despite the demands on his time, there were some things that deserved his absolute attention, and some moments that he refused to share with anyone. The subject of those moments had varied over the years, but that day it was a letter that had just arrived. It came from Ostenheim, which could only mean one thing. He rarely had any dealings in Ostenheim. He was not so vain or conceited to think his influence extended there, and he was smart enough to realise that any of the larger figures of Ostenheim’s underworld could crush him with little effort. Nozza was a big fish in a middling sized pond, and he was content with that.

Nozza broke the black wax seal on the letter with a sensation verging on glee. He had been waiting for the information contained within for some time. His anticipation was such that his hands shook as he unfolded the paper. He held his breath as he read the contents. A name and an address. He put it down on his desk and leaned back into his leather chair with a sense of satisfaction that he knew was only going to grow in coming days. The letter heralded that a man was going to die; a man who had wronged Nozza. His name was Nicolo dal Sason, and his violent death was now a certainty. Nozza allowed himself enjoy the feeling for a few moments before returning to the day to day business of managing his little empire.

B
afion walked into his apartment
, almost passing by the note that had been pushed under the door without spotting it. He stopped and looked at it for a moment, but knew who it was from—there was only one person who sent him messages. He was surprised that his act of mercy had been discovered so quickly, but the man was stupid, indiscreet. Instead of lying low he was probably spending what little coin he had—coin that he owed—in a tavern trying to drown the pain in his shoulder and telling anyone who would listen of how he escaped death, of how Jacco Nozza and his henchmen weren’t as merciless as they might have you believe. Like as not, Bafion would have to pay him another visit the next morning. There would be no mercy then.

Bafion felt a flutter of anxiety when it occurred to him that the note might be summoning him to his death, but it faded when he remembered that if it did, he didn’t care. The anxiety was a primal instinct for survival rising above self-loathing and despair for an instant. It passed quickly. His disobedience that day was hardly enough to warrant such severe punishment. For that release, he would have to do something far more recalcitrant.

With little mystery attached to the note, he shut the door and made his way to the cupboard over his water basin. There was a piece of bread there that was a day or two beyond its best, but when coupled with a cup of warm water it wasn’t so bad.

He sat on a chair and stared at the note as he ate. He wondered what his boss might want of him this time. Someone else cut, or simply frightened? Nozza liked to inject a touch of the theatrical into his dealings; fear was as effective a tool as violence, he always said. Dead men couldn’t pay their debts.

Bafion’s jaw ached as he finished the tough bread. It would probably have been better left to the mice. He stood and picked up the note, not seeing any reason to put it off any longer. He broke the black wax seal—Nozza and his men always used black wax, clichéd and trite though it was—and opened the note. A place, a time; nothing more. As he expected. He crumpled it in one hand and threw it at the rubbish bin beside the water basin. He swore when it bounced off the wall and away in the wrong direction, a metaphor for his life.

N
ozza had been looking forward
to his last meeting all day. Bafion might be broken, disgraced, and drunk as often as not, but none of that had managed to dull his blade, or his skill with it. Irritating crises of conscience aside, he was useful. Indeed, Nozza felt genuinely lucky to have such a man at his disposal. All the more so when he came so cheap.

Nozza had done a little research into Bafion when he had first come to his attention. Bafion had introduced himself simply as that, Bafion, and described himself as a banneret; seemingly the only thing about himself that he viewed as having worth. That he was a banneret could not be in doubt. Only a man who had been trained at Ostenheim’s great Academy could use a sword the way Bafion did. He also had the bearing and accent of an aristocrat, although the years in which Nozza had known him had worn some of that polish off.

Nozza often wondered what brought a man like Bafion to the life he now had, living in a dingy apartment in a regional city, working for a fraction of what he was worth for an employer most men of his ilk would consider too far beneath them to even acknowledge. He had demonstrated skill that quite astonished Nozza, and on one occasion even managed to save Nozza’s life when it looked as though his reign in Tanosa’s underworld was about to be brought to a premature end. Bafion had far more ability than a man in his situation ought to. It was enough to lift him back out of the cesspit if he chose, but he seemed to have lost all will for life. Nozza was not one to complain; he was glad to have him. Still, he was curious. It was a broken heart most likely—aristocratic types had foolish notions about such things, although Nozza found himself in a position where he could empathise, for his own heart bore an open wound.

Nozza had a daughter, Constanza. She was the light of his life. When she was old enough, he had sent her away to Ostenheim to be educated in literature, music, art, and all the finer things in life. He intended for her to be a governess or a tutor; some such respectable position in life that would keep her away from the filth that he had to deal with every day.

During her years in the city, she had mixed in society, with Lord dal this and Lady dal that and Nozza could not have been more proud. He had expected that she would marry a gentleman—a man of minor title and substance—and have gentle children. Their proud grandfather could watch on as they enjoyed a life he could not even have begun to imagine when he was a child.

That dream had been destroyed however; through her carelessness and a randy nobleman who couldn’t keep his prick in his britches. Now she was back in Tanosa, with a child and a scandal that not even his influence could erase. Back in the filth and there to stay. The poor child would never know who his father was, would never know the privileged life that Nozza had intended for his grandson.

Nozza had not entertained many dreams in his life. There was never the time for them when fighting one’s way up through a mire. To dream was to hope and hope rarely ended with anything other than disappointment. His dream for Constanza was perhaps the only one he had ever allowed himself. And a whoreson nobleman had robbed him of it. She was an obstinate girl, however, and refused to reveal who had put her in the family way. He wondered if she genuinely believed that would stop him from finding out. It had taken a little while, and a lot of money, but the arrival of the note that morning proved that where there was a will, there was a way. Nozza had never met Nicolo dal Sason, but he would order his death and not lose a moment’s sleep over it.

B
afion shambled
into Nozza’s office wearing worn out fighting clothes that once were fine and well tailored, but now made him look like any other down on his luck mercenary. It had been several days since he last shaved. His tunic stank of the previous night’s dinner—a bottle of something the vendor had sworn was whisky, but was very definitely not. It was alcohol, though, so Bafion drank it. And spilled a good deal on his tunic it seemed.

‘I’m glad to see you’re fighting fit,’ Nozza said.

Bafion shrugged but said nothing. He might have to work for Nozza, but he didn’t have to pretend to enjoy it.

‘I have something I need you to do,’ Nozza said.

‘What?’ Bafion’s curiosity was piqued, but only a little. Instead of getting a dressing down, or a blade in the back for having let the last unfortunate live, he was being offered more work. An unexpected development, but not a particularly welcome one.

‘I need you to kill someone in Ostenheim.’

Nozza was not a man to refuse, but Bafion had no desire to ever return to the city. ‘Isn’t there anyone else who can do it?’

‘No. I need a gentleman killed so I need a gentleman to kill him.’

The murder of an aristocrat drew more attention than the usual type of killing Nozza ordered. He was too clever to bring that type of trouble to his door, smart enough to know there was a better way. An aristocrat killed in a gentlemanly duel—even if it was nothing more than a pretty façade for an assassination—would attract little more than a glance.

‘How much?’ Bafion said. If he was going to go back to Ostenheim, he’d at least make sure he was well paid for it.

‘Expenses. Not a penny more.’

Punishment for letting the other man live? Nozza could go to hell if he thought Bafion would scurry off to Ostenheim on the threat of punishment. He made to stand up.

‘Top billing at Count Talens’s Arena. Any date you choose.’

Bafion stopped and lowered himself back into the seat. He had fallen through the cracks of society. Disgraced and all but forgotten, there was no road back to anything even resembling the life he had before. The opportunity to duel in the city’s finest arena could get him close, however. Even after so long the thought of it set his heart racing; hope for something better still lurked deep within him. He wondered how much of a toll the booze and self-neglect had taken. Could he make anything of the opportunity he was being offered? That was not the only problem, however.

‘I’m not eligible to duel anymore. No licence,’ Bafion said.

‘I know the trouble you’ve been having finding an arena to give you a match. I can take care of that. Do this for me, and I’ll see that you get your chance. You’ll have your licence. I’ll even throw in a new set of duelling clothes.’

Bafion chewed his lip. He hated who he was, what he had become. ‘Who do I have to kill?’

Nozza smiled and slid the letter he had received that morning across his desk.

BOOK: The Swordsman of Tanosa: A Short Tale of the Middle Sea

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