Weapon of Blood by Chris A. Jackson Page A

donned a silk shirt of deep
rose and tucked it into her pants.  Soft leather boots laced tightly, pants
tucked in and rolled over the tops.  A slim stiletto slipped into the top of
one boot, the rolled cuff hiding the hilt nicely.
    In her bathing room, she brushed out her
now-dry hair and added a touch of fragrance to mask the sweat of her exertion. 
Then, behind yet another mirror, she opened her secret egress and hurried out
into the night.
    The damp, chill air invigorated her as
she slipped quickly through the shadows.  Vonlith’s home was more than halfway
across Twailin.  She had no time to waste.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter
IV
     
     
     
    L ad walked away
from the Golden Cockerel until the noise and lights faded, and shadows
cloaked the roofs and alleyways.  Stopping, he eased his mind into a light
meditation, sharpening his senses until the hiss of light rain faded to distant
white noise.  He felt the patter of raindrops against his sodden hair and
clothes, each one distinct, and through the background hiss, he heard just what
he expected to hear: the scuff of a boot, the creak of leather, the click of a
buckle against a hilt.
    “Let the game begin.”
    The hiss of rain masked Lad’s whisper,
but he didn’t really care if his stalkers overheard.  They waited nearly every
night to follow him as he left the inn.  He’d never mentioned his dubious
escort to Mya.  If they weren’t her own Hunters, she’d probably have them
killed, and the last thing he wanted was more death on his hands.
    Friends, wives, husbands, family …
    So tonight, as he had every other night,
he would evade them.
    “Good practice…”
    Smiling, Lad accepted the challenge.  He
bent to remove his shoes, unconcerned by his exposed back; these stalkers never
tried to attack him, only follow.  Tying the laces in a loop over his
shoulders, he stretched the taut muscles of his neck, picked a direction at
random, and vanished into the night.
    Dashing from shadow to shadow, a silent
wraith in the dark, Lad heard the patter of feet, the rustle of cloth, and the
clatter of equipment behind him.  Four tonight , he decided as he rounded
a corner and doubled back through a courtyard.  He lost two of the stalkers
with that simple evasion.  They must be new .  He assumed his stalkers
were apprentices—Hunters or of some other guild faction—assigned to follow him
as a part of their training.
    He heard the clatter of a loose cobble
and a brush of leather against slate.  The other two were more tenacious.
    Good.
    Lad lengthened his stride, exulting in
the rhythm of his movement, the chill rain forgotten in the blazing heat of
muscle and magic.  Twists and turns, streets, alleys, and doors all flashed
past him.  He turned a corner and stopped to listen.  Still one left.
    He smiled, appreciating his stalker’s persistence. 
The exertion was a pleasure after a long day spent following Mya from meeting
to meeting.  Despite his abhorrence for killing, he had been created for this,
and loved to practice his skills.
    Let’s see how good he is.
    Lad slipped into a narrow alley and
bounded off a rough brick wall, converting his lateral momentum into vertical. 
A window ledge, a drainpipe, a clothesline hook, and his fingertips grasped the
narrow eaves of the tenement’s roof.  A twist and a flip, and he landed atop.
    Another moment’s pause to listen.  The
creek of the drainpipe touched his ears.  His last stalker was still with him.
    Dashing across the roof, he leapt to
another, his bare feet landing lightly on the wet slate shingles.  He crouched
behind a chimney and listened again.  The faint patter of soft boots told him
that his stalker had gained the roof and climbed to the crest, pausing there to
look for his quarry.  Whoever it was, they were very good.
    How good ?
    Lad dashed into the open and over the
next roof crest.  Bounding like a cat, he landed with perfect precision, slid
down the incline on the balls of