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.
CHAPTER SIXGIN
The two Ophir strangers stare back at me. All of us are breathing heavily. I’m unsure what to do—take them both on and risk almost certain death? Cut my losses and try to escape?
But I already know. I didn’t come this far to let that treasure go.
I pick up one of the discarded swords so now I have blades in both hands just like my opponent.
The two strangers glance at one another, then back at me. Then the most unexpected thing happens. Their shoulders relax. The taller one’s hood falls; he has black hair that falls over his forehead, thick eyelashes over deep brown eyes. He sheathes his sword and puts his arms up, palms out in front of him. “Whoa,” he says. His partner, a bit smaller, short, with home-shorn brown hair, follows the other’s lead and puts his blade away as well.
I squint at them. What game are they playing? I keep my weapons ready and check the area behind and around, in case I’m about to be ambushed by more unexpected strangers. I want to turn around and look, but I’m afraid to take my eyes off them.
The tall one with the brown eyes and broad shoulders takes a couple of steps forward.
I lunge, warning him. “Stay back,” I growl. “Or I’ll cut you.”
A whistle shrieks in the distance. All our heads turn toward the sound. An alarm. We all meet each other’s eyes again. The Blackcoats are coming. There’s no time for a fight.
Though they’re all tensed up and ready to run, no one makes the first move.
The tall one who seems to be the leader glances at his friend. The friend nods back to him. Something’s been agreed. “How about we call it even and split the loot?” the tall one offers, arms still held out in front of him.
“What?” I exclaim aloud without meaning to. This has to be some kind of trick. It’s two against one. No one offers to split when they can take it all. “No,” I tell him.
He looks at his friend quizzically, who shrugs in response. “We should split it now,” he repeats. “Or no one gets anything.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why are you offering to share? Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he replies, shaking his head. “Look, we all want to go home in one piece, right?” When I don’t answer, he tries again. “All right, fine. I’m Eban.” Then he gestures to his friend. “And this is Vergel.”
The one called Vergel raises his hand in a slight wave and says “Hello” in Ophir.
They’re both young—my age—although Vergel looks a little younger.
A combination snort and laugh escapes me, despite my misgivings. “I’m sorry, this is ridiculous,” I say, shaking my head. “This was our job.” When I sayour, I remember Aris is lying dead behind me. My heart clenches. The old man didn’t deserve to die this way, bleeding on the street. I can’t think about that right now. Not until this is over and I’m somewhere safe and away with the treasure.
The whistle blares again.
“Look, normally, I’d argue the same, and I’m far from the generous type, but we need to move.” His eyes go to Aris’s body. “And I’m sorry about your father.”
