Chapter Five. Gin #2
I run and crouch near the edge of the building, behind a large chimney, and wait for the men to come up the road beneath us, just before the corner.
When Aris doesn’t appear beside me, I look back to see him, one hand leaning on the brick wall, the other holding his chest. His eyes are closed and he’s breathing heavily.
I hurry over to him and put his arm over my shoulder to help him walk.
“I told you,” he spits out between breaths, “don’t worry about me.”
“Fat chance, Aristotle.” I smile, pronouncing it the way our people do—Aris-Toh-Tell.
Supposedly it means “the best of all, the best of us.” And perhaps he’s well named, because he could have turned his back on me, but instead he gave me a place to stay, he did the best he could and shared what little he had.
I left for Madame Verona’s not only because I was sick of living that way, but also so I wouldn’t be his burden anymore.
He smiles at my use of his given name, his Ophir name, and nods, resigned. He lets go of me, leans forward, and then stands up and takes in a huge, deep breath.
The thieves are getting ahead of us.
I glance anxiously at the street, where I should be already if I want to launch a surprise attack, and then back to Aris.
“Cut them off that way,” he says. His voice is strained.
I run back to the edge of the building. Aris is right next to me.
I wonder how long he’ll keep this up. But there isn’t much time to worry about it.
The men have passed just ahead of us, and there are no more roofs to follow, just a large gap for the wide road between the west and east sides of town.
We’ll have to ambush the men before they get any farther, and before Aris and I lose any more strength.
“Now,” I say. Without waiting for Aris’s response, I jump down from above, landing first on a storage shed, and then the street. Even if the men hear, it’s too dark down there to see where I came from.
I hear Aris land right behind me with a grunt.
The men are directly in front of us. I see their backs, strained against their thin gray cloaks—did they honestly think those would fool a Blackcoat?
—gong farmers are a ragged bunch and these thieves are massive, built more like gladiators than the lowest workers who collect waste from private and public outhouses.
I run, pushing through the pain in my ankle, and jump on the smallest one’s back.
They all shout as I tackle the man and they drop the barrel.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Aris take on the other three.
The thief I’ve chosen falls heavily on the ground, but quickly turns and slashes the air with his blade.
I guess the fellow plans to cut his way through me and I force myself not to flinch.
I’ve spent the better part of my days seeing one man or another threaten me with sharpened steel so it doesn’t rattle me in the least. I’m faster than this fool, and I slip out of the way, but he whirls and catches me on the cheek with a punch from his free hand.
Pain explodes across the right half of my face and I fall to one knee.
He draws back the blade, readying for a swift strike, a killing blow that’s sure to be the end of me.
I almost welcome that fate, a quick and clean death and an end to all this pain.
But the blow never lands.
The thief I’ve jumped on moves to strike, but impossibly, he’s knocked to the ground by someone else at the same time.
Someone who is not wearing a gray cloak.
Blackcoat? I strain to see in the dark.
No, it’s not a Blackcoat, either. This stranger isn’t wearing a steel visor or armor.
Meanwhile, the mark I tackled scrambles up and tries to yank my leg out from under me, but I dodge his grasp and kick him in the face with as much strength as I can muster.
The thief raises his sword again but the stranger who came from out of nowhere blocks the strike with his forearm.
Metal rings against metal, as the stranger who’s saved me must be wearing some sort of armor beneath his sleeve.
I roll to get out of the way but find myself blundering into two of the disguised gong farmers that I’m trying to escape.
I scream out of desperation and skitter backward as the men trade blows.
I pull myself to my feet and stand next to Aris, ready to fight. The four thieves are standing against the barrel, surrounded by me, Aris, and two other men.
Strangers.
Dressed like us, in rags woven from homespun flax, the only cloth available in the Sleeve. The coarse lumpen fabric marks them as Ophir, poor folk who could never afford the richly woven cloth of the folk of Lacon. They don’t have Guild markers, so they’re street thieves, like us.
Me, Aris, the two strangers, and the four gray-cloaked marks all look at each other, brows furrowed, blades drawn. Then, without a word, we all rush at one another at the same time.
One of the gray-cloaked men darts at me, snarling.
Luckily, he’s all brute, no skill. He swings at me wildly with a blade.
I duck, narrowly avoiding a swipe. Muscle memory kicks in and I sweep my leg under him, knocking him to the ground.
He starts to get back up, but I stomp on his midsection with my boot.
He gasps for air, holding his stomach. I take the opportunity to kick his face.
Blood spews from his mouth. He spits out a tooth, then finds enough strength to grab his blade from the ground and aim it at me again.
I jump back, evading his efforts. He gets to his feet and charges once more.
Blade ready, I dodge him, then spin around and bury my blade into his back.
He crumples to the ground. I yank the blade back and frantically scan the scene, looking for Aris.
The two Ophir strangers are battling the remaining gray-cloaked men.
Two of them are locked arm in arm, neither able to get the upper hand; the other two are circling, stabbing at each other with their daggers.
Then I spot Aris, toe to toe with his assailant; his opponent lunges but misses; Aris does the same.
I need to help him. But before I can reach him, Aris lets out a startled grunt.
He’s been hit. Yet he continues, even more determined, desperate to best his opponent.
Both jab at one another. For a moment Aris and the other man stare at each other, and I think they’re about to begin brawling again.
But suddenly, they both collapse on the cobblestones.
Blood soaks through their tunics and begins to pool around both their bodies. Each of their blades found purchase.
My feet are frozen to the ground. “Aris!” My heart falls into the pit of my stomach. But there’s no time to mourn.
Then I hear screams behind me and swing around to see the last gray-cloaked thieves go down, one by sword and one by dagger. The taller stranger who’d saved me holds two bloody blades in his hand; he’d bested them both, while his companion lies on the ground, dazed but alive.
The barrel is anyone’s for the taking now.
But I’m alone against another street crew of two. And one of them took out two massive thieves all by himself. I’m tired and out of practice. I was able to beat the smallest thief but I won’t be so lucky this time. Fighting one man took a lot out of me already. But there’s no other choice.
I hold up my blade.