Page 12 of Mistress of Bones
As second-in-command of the Golden Dogs, the Royal Guard, greetings like this were a given and went unnoticed. His position allowed him free roam of the palace and gave him the kind of life the Heart had created for itself: fragile, extravagant. Unlivable.
He came upon another set of guards, who opened the big, heavy wooden door leading outside. Without breaking his stride, he trotted down the stone steps, fitting his hat on his head and pulling his half cape over his right shoulder. It was too warm to bother with one, but De Anví would wear it all the same.
He kept his pace even, avoiding carts, horses, and their manure. Twilight was upon the dozens of islands that made up the Anchor city of Cienpuentes, shadowing the buildings in contrast with the darkening sky—no longer the pink hue of winter, but the beautiful deep blue of early summer. Houses rose two and three stories in height; narrow bridges connected them over his head, and broader ones connected the islands over the flowing water of the River Espasesmo. The wide streets surrounding the Heart gave way to the meandering flagstone paths of the city as he made his way to his favorite tavern.
Now that the official mourning for the queen was over, the silent halls and rooms of the Heart would soon be filled by summer balls and celebrations given by Regent de Fernán in honor of the child king.
What a bleak handful of months, of years, waiting for him, stuck in the palace like a dog on a leash, waiting to see who died first—the master or the pet.
“Count de Anví.”
De Anví, waking from his musings, found himself in a shadowed alleyway running by the river’s edge. The sight was familiar—he took this route every other day. Ahead of him, three men in dark clothing blocked his passage, black masks covering the upper halves of their faces.
One stepped forward. “Your Honor, our employer would like a word with ye.”
De Anví cocked his head. “And who might that be?”
“You’ll find out when you get there.”
“I think not, then. Tell them to schedule an appointment—I am on private business.”
“We must insist,” the man said, adding a small growl.
Did the man think he would be cowed by dogs? “Your wishes are of no matter to me.”
The man’s hand went to his sword. The two behind him copied his movement. “Then we shall make it your business.” He began to unsheathe the rapier.
De Anví’s hand gripped his own Valiente, a present from his late father. One foot glided backward, and his body turned sideways. He was isolated, but the narrowness of the alley worked in his favor. Here, they could not surround him. Here, they’d be stuck in line like ducks after their mama. Then it would be a simple matter of pushing their corpses into the water and letting the river’s current work its wonders.
He suddenly craved the excitement, the risk of a fight. Pride would not allow him to intentionally fail, but he could always be bested. One missed feint and a rapier between his ribs, and then the Lord Death would be to blame for the promises his death would break, even if De Anví had only made them to himself.
The man’s rapier slid out of its sheath. “Come now, Your Honor. Don’t make things difficult for yourself.”
Things had never appeared simpler, in De Anví’s opinion. He brought out Valiente and pushed his half cape aside, allowing for a full range of motion.
His opponent’s eyes narrowed. Did he think him a man of words and not swords? If he were brought up in Cienpé, perhaps, but De Anví was bred and raised in the countryside, where fights erupted at a moment’s notice and the paths at night weren’t always safe.
He pressed forward, the other man raising his rapier in response, waiting to see who would attack first.
De Anví decided he had a liking for it, to start something rather than be dragged into it.
Valiente pierced through the air, its path met by his opponent’s rapier, De Anví’s mind on the next move, and the next, and the one after that.
After the man parried the count’s initial attack, he attempted a strike in return. De Anví blocked it easily, pushing forward and aiming for the man’s shoulder. A rapier could sever things besides veins, and De Anví had always preferred the subtle tearing of tendons and muscles to bloody shows of conquest.
His attack was parried again, easily. They were testing each other, figuring out their speed, their accuracy, their reflexes.
The man lunged for De Anví’s arm. Valiente met his rapier, the ensuing rasp filling the air over the murmur of the river.
The man’s companions remained silent behind him, waiting, bored.Curious.De Anví would have expected them to cheer or jeer or try to join in.
But then, these men didn’t want him dead. If they killed De Anví, how would their employer talk to him? That explained the half-hearted attacks coming his way—they were not a matter of skill but of necessity. De Anví’s opponent sought to maim, not kill.
This fight would not give him the satisfaction he craved, but perhaps he could still find some sport in it.
“What’s this?” cried a new voice from behind the men. “My, what luck—a show of underhanded tactics!”
De Anví and his adversary stopped. The two men in the background turned to glare at the newcomer. The front man’s attention didn’t waver—he trusted his companions to deal with the new danger—and De Anví allowed himself a spark of intrigue. Hired criminals did not usually trust one another this much.
