The man scowled. “Get out of my way. I don’t answer to you.”
Martin shook out his limbs, bouncing on the balls of his feet, warming muscles for the dancing exercises Dmitri enhanced into fighting lessons. He’d not practiced yet today. Why not now? “But you see, it is my business. Maintaining order in the city is my business.” The sailor didn’t need to know the particulars or that Martin’s position as Captain of the City Guard only meant the upper city. He had no jurisdiction here.
All toughness and sinew, the roughhewn man reached inside his tattered jacket and yanked a knife from an inner pocket. Martin smiled. Now the game got interesting. With clumsy motions, the sailor slashed. Martin expertly danced out of the way. How could the man know Martin practiced these moves daily since learning them outside of a temple?
Martin pulled Dmitri’s knife from his belt. Even after only a few lessons, the runes on the knife handle felt familiar, the weapon becoming an extension of his hand. Where he willed, the knife obeyed.
Martin twirled and wove, grinning all the while.
The man slashed.
Martin spun out of the way. His assailant’s actions might as well have been slogging through mud. Martin sliced a neat line down the man’s sleeve, avoiding skin. “That was your warning. Next time, blade tastes flesh.”
The man wheezed, growing slower by the minute. He jabbed. Martin dove, knocking the man from his feet, rolling back to standing in one smooth motion.
The sailor rose a moment later. His shipmates might think him a worthy fighter. Martin did not.
This time, when the man charged, Martin sidestepped, trailing his blade down the path on the sleeve. A thin red line appeared. The knife hummed as though tasting blood aroused its appetite.
The man screamed, slashing blindly, unwilling to admit defeat.
Without really trying, Martin avoided each clumsy lunge. He didn’t need to read thoughts to know intent.
He darted around his tiring opponent and levered one arm behind the sailor’s back. The man screamed again, this time dropping the knife.
Too easy, leaving Martin barely winded. He’d hoped for a good workout, at least. Sour body odor stung his nose, nearly making him loosen his hold. “On what ship do you sail?”
“That is not your business.” The sailor spat on the ground.
“I’ve already told you that it is.” Power surged through Martin’s veins, the thrill of the hunt, the pursuit. The capture.
The man struggled but proved no match for a trained fighter. Martin dropped his voice to a sinister murmur. “Take me to your captain, and we’ll collect the money you owe. How you pay him back is your problem.”
“Like hell, I will.” The man struggled anew.
Martin chuckled; a rehearsed sound aimed to raise the man’s hackles. “Suppose I should tell him that you planned to kill an innocent man to cover your debts.” Martin turned the sailor to catch his horrified expression, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction.
Merchant ship’s captains were a suspicious lot, unlikely to risk the Father’s wrath by employing a man with blood on his hands, lest foul weather beset them.
The midnight hour approached as Martin made his way back to the tavern, money bag in hand and memories of a ship’s captain clouting the sailor upside the head. A kinsman, no less. Not Martin’s problem. He’d succeeded in his mission to protect the innocent.
He stopped short. Protecting the innocent? A tenet of the Father. For how long had Martin taken the mission to heart, never realizing his desire to right wrongs had as much to do with Dmitri’s teachings as his own da’s?
Light still shone in the tavern window when he arrived, though dim, and the great door resisted his push. Had he returned too late? Martin tapped lightly. With the tavern shut down for the eve, he didn’t really expect a reply. Peter opened the door in trousers and loose-fitting shirt, apron discarded at some point, holding a broom in his hand. His eyes widened.
“Martin? You came back?” The flush coloring Peter’s cheeks shouldn’t have brought such joy.
Martin lifted the money bag he’d gotten from the captain. Peter’s eyes widened even further. “What is that?”
“It’s what is owed to you and yours.” Martin dropped the bag onto Peter’s outstretched hand. “His ship’s captain is none too pleased but is a man of honor and made good on the debt.”
“By the… Would you like to come in?”
“The hour is late.” Martin glanced around the room, never before having seen the cozy interior free of patrons. Alone. Alone with Peter. The man Martin despaired of ever working up the nerve to speak to. He wouldn’t push if Peter wanted him to leave.
But he had questions. So many questions.
And more than a little desire.
