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“There’s nothing to scout. Rich family’s home. Kill everyone. Steal anything that looks valuable.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tonight.”

  Tarc pictured rolled eyes on both sides of the conversation. He looked out one of the tavern’s small windows. It was already getting dark. With so little time, I couldn’t count on the king successfully calling the mission back. He sighed, drained his beer, regretted not leaving the disgusting dregs in the mug, and got up. On his way out of the Palace Tavern, he eyed the men at the table and took careful note of their appearances.

  Out on the street, he saw a vendor roasting sausages. He bought two sausages, flatbreads to wrap them in, and a bottle of water. Eating them, he started for the Descarte home. The bastards aren’t going to show up until after midnight, he thought, but I won’t be able to sleep for fear of missing them. I’ll be up most of the night and I’m going to be exhausted for my morning shift guarding the caravan!

  He passed a café and stopped in for a large coffee.

  ~~~

  Hood up against a cool evening, Tarc sat, leaning against the wall next to the back gate of the Descarte home. His ghirit showed him five warm bodies inside the building, presumably the parents and three children. Or, possibly, two children, and a maidservant. Or, one parent, three children, and a maidservant. It didn’t really matter, but he found himself wondering.

  Despite the coffee and his curiosity, he was having a hard time staying awake. He pulsed his ghirit out its full distance—over two hundred meters now—to see if anyone was coming yet.

  His heart quickened when he found a cluster of seven warm spots on a corner a block and a half away. Finally, he thought. Then he felt some dismay to realize he was happy the crew of criminals might be here. I should be hoping they’d decided to call it off, instead of relieved this’ll soon be over. And, I should be worried that it’ll go badly. These’re probably experienced fighters. There’re seven of them and I only have six throwing knives with me.

  A mistake could easily get me killed!

  After a moment, he thought, I already made a mistake, not carrying my ankle knives all the time.

  Confirming their likely identity, the seven human-sized warm spots started moving toward the Descartes’ block. Then, to his dismay, they split up. Three proceeded down the street in front of the house and four started for the alley Tarc was sitting in.

  Shit! Tarc thought, getting to his feet. It being a shorter distance, the three’d probably arrive at the front door before the four got to the back gate. He used his telekinesis to flip open the latch on the back gate and slipped through. Closing the gate, he reset the latch. He tugged the gate so the iron on both sides of the latch would be in solid contact, then, leaning his head down right next to it he melted a tiny weld. The weld wouldn’t hold against much, but they’d have a hard time sliding a knife blade through the gap and lifting the latch from the outside. They’d either have to break the gate or climb over the wall.

  Tarc trotted through the garden to the back door. He didn’t try to keep quiet since it’d be helpful if the people in the house woke and contributed to their own defense.

  Having already snuck through the garden and examined the door with his ghirit, it only took a second for him to lift the pawls in the crude lock and open the door. Once through, he set the lock again.

  He stopped and sent out his ghirit. The men were almost at the front door.

  As Tarc walked through the kitchen on his way to the hall, he reached out and flipped a pan off the stove so it’d clatter to the floor. Down the hall, a masculine voice said, “Paula?”

  Closer, a frightened feminine voice replied, “That wasn’t me Master Descartes!”

  The father and a maidservant, Tarc thought.

  Tarc’s ghirit showed the man getting out of bed.

  “Lights Meredith! Light the lamps!” The masculine voice exclaimed. The man was moving to a closet, hopefully getting a weapon.

  The three men approaching the front door from the outside were almost there. The bedrooms were along one end of the main hall. Tarc was coming from the kitchen at the opposite end of the hall. A shorter hall crossed this main hall, one end starting in the main living area, the other ending at the front door. Tarc walked down the main hall from the kitchen and turned left into the hallway to the living area.

  The men outside reached the front door.

  Tarc used his ghirit to check the four men in the back alley. They were climbing over the wall.

  There was a crash from the front door as the largest of the warm bodies outside hurtled into it. The door held, but Tarc heard some splintering. He doubted it’d hold through another impact. The master of the house opened his bedroom door and stepped into the hallway, faint light coming from behind him. He was holding something, though Tarc couldn’t be sure whether it was a sword or a club.

  The big man outside backed up then charged the door again. This time it burst open and the man flew through. Overbalanced and plunging into total darkness, he crashed to the floor. Two men crowded through behind him.

  Tarc threw his first knife.

  His ghirit guided it into an eye socket.

  As the man on the floor was just beginning to rise, Tarc threw his second knife. It also unerringly flew into an eye socket. Its victim collapsed on top of the man on the floor.

  While the two bodies were tangled on top of the big man, Tarc sent his ghirit to the back door. The four men were gathered at the door but so far it was holding. Tarc suspected that was because the back porch was so tiny they couldn’t get a decent run at the door to break it down. He turned his attention back to the three men in front of him. One was flopping around, apparently seizing from his brain injury. The second one was limply draped over the big man who’d broken the door. The big man seemed to be in a wide-open panic over what’d happened to his compatriots.

  Tarc’s ghirit showed him Descarte coming down the bedroom hallway. The hallway suddenly glowed with more light. Tarc’s ghirit showed him Descarte’s wife had come out of the bedroom behind him, carrying the heat of a lamp.

  The big man was frantically pulling himself out from under the bodies of his two associates when the homeowner arrived at the corner and practically beheaded him with a sword.

  As the homeowner started to look toward Tarc, he quickstepped through the living room and dining room into the kitchen. In the kitchen, he avoided the line of sight down the main hall to where Descarte seemed to be trying to figure out what’d happened in his entry.

  The back door into the kitchen burst open under the assault of the four men there. As the first man—unbalanced by the sudden giving way of the door—staggered into the room, Tarc threw his third knife. The man collapsed.

  The next two men came through on his heels. A knife buried itself in each of their eye sockets. One flopped to the floor beside the first man, the other convulsed.

  Tarc expected the fourth man at the door to turn and run when he saw what’d happened to the first three, but he came through the door so rapidly he tripped over them. Tarc’s knife found its way into that man’s eye as he arched his back to keep his head from hitting the floor. Tarc realized it’d been so dark in the kitchen that the fourth man had no idea what’d happened to the first three guys.

  Tarc’s ghirit showed him Descarte cautiously coming down the hall to investigate the noises coming from his kitchen. Tarc stepped quickly to the four bodies in the kitchen, retrieving his knives and briefly wiping them on their victim’s clothes.

  The kitchen’s entrance to the main hallway brightened at the lamp approached. The homeowner and his sword were just about to enter the kitchen.

  Tarc darted out the broken kitchen door. Turning left, he trotted around the house. Tarc’s ghirit showed him Mr. Descarte and his wife in the kitchen. His ears heard their exclamations. The other three occupants of the house were still in their rooms, one in a closet, one hidden beneath a bed, and the smallest one sprawled atop its bed.

 
Tarc thought, The one on top of the bed’s probably a child young enough to sleep through such a commotion. He sent his voice in beside the one under the bed. “Nerri?” he whispered.

  In a voice filled with both trepidation and hope, she said, “Hood?”

  “Yes, some men broke into your house but they’re dead. You should be safe.”

  “What?! Why?!”

  Not knowing what to say, Tarc didn’t answer her. Arriving at the front door, he confirmed that none of the occupants of the house were coming that way. He stepped through the broken door into the entry and retrieved his other two knives.

  Back outside, Tarc headed out of the city, looking forward to his sleeping roll at the caravan. However, he only went a block before turning wearily back to the Descarte home. I’ve got to stay. What if someone else comes? The Descartes don’t even have doors to protect them anymore.

  An hour later, Tarc decided he could safely head back to the caravan. Descarte had wakened his neighbors and someone had gone to get the guards. Their neighborhood was fully alert and well lit.

  They were safe.

  Chapter Six

  After finishing his guard shift the next day, Tarc took a nap, then headed back into Realth. This time he walked all the way around the palace walls, finding the king in a large chamber some distance from the audience chamber he’d used before. To Tarc’s surprise, the big room was positioned directly against the outer wall of the compound. At first it seemed crazy to him, but then he realized that, from the king’s perspective, the tall, thick outer wall might seem to provide more protection than a thinner wall in the middle of the compound.

  He might especially believe it gave better protection from a witch’s hex.

  Tarc listened to the goings-on in the chamber, but the king seemed to be carrying out ordinary business. Tarc turned toward the Palace Tavern, wondering whether he could justify leaving the king alive after he’d attempted but not succeeded in a capital crime. If only I understood the politics in Realth well enough to know whether there actually would be another battle for succession.

  Entering the tavern, Tarc tried to look unsociable as he crossed the room to take the same bar seat he’d had the afternoon before. When the tender arrived, he asked: “You have any better beer than that piss you served me yesterday?”

  “Costs more.” The man quoted a price.

  Tarc nodded, then watched to make sure the man actually did draw it from a different spigot. When the beer arrived, it was still awful, just not as bad as the beer he’d had the evening before. I hope it still has enough alcohol to keep it from carrying disease, Tarc thought. He certainly wouldn’t drink the water in a place this filthy.

  Tarc turned on his stool to look out over the patrons in the rest of the room. No guards this afternoon, he thought. Yet.

  His eyes roved. They stopped when he recognized the man who’d talked to the guards the night before. Realizing he shouldn’t stare, Tarc sent his eyes skipping on from patron to patron around the room. No one else I recognize, he thought, turning to hunch over his beer at the bar. He took another sip. With a grimace, he thought, At least I don’t have to worry about enjoying the beer so much I over-imbibe.

  Tarc was about to send out his ghirit to check on the room when a hand fell on his shoulder, telling him he should’ve had it out already. “Hey, pretty boy,” a deep, gruff voice said.

  Tarc turned slowly, irritated he’d let the man come up on him unawares. “If you think I’m pretty, you need to get out more.”

  “Hah,” the man rumbled, “if I say you’re pretty, you’re pretty. Nobody in here’s gonna disagree with me, see?” He lifted an arm out to one side, bunching the muscles.

  Tarc stared at the man. Is he picking a fight? If so, why? Or is he actually interested in me? Just in case, Tarc found the man’s semicircular canals, then sent his ghirit into the man’s abdomen, finding the cluster of autonomic nerves behind the stomach known as the solar plexus. He re-surveyed the other men in the room—there were no women—wondering if the room were full of the kind of homophobes he would’ve expected in a place like this, or…

  The man answered Tarc’s question by saying, “We don’t like pretty boys in here.” He swung a big roundhouse.

  As he ducked away from the oncoming fist, Tarc tried his new technique, giving the man’s semicircular canals a gentle twist.

  The disequilibrium turned the man’s aggressive stance into a stumble. Tarc’s dodge would’ve caused the telegraphed punch to miss, but the man’s stumble was toward Tarc. It realigned the swing so the man’s fist did strike Tarc’s chest. It didn’t hit as hard as the man’d intended because—in reacting to his sudden imbalance—he’d partially aborted the blow.

  It might not have struck with the force the man had intended, but it still felt like getting hit by a sledgehammer.

  Tarc was stunned for a moment but then returned the favor, slugging the man in the gut. Tarc missed his aim point in the upper central abdomen but it didn’t matter since Tarc’s ghirit twanged the guy’s solar plexus as he struck.

  Tarc’s powerful arm did drive the man backward.

  The guy’s eyes widened as the breath whooshed out of him; he took another stumbling step backward and fell onto a table, scattering its patrons and crashing through the wood to land on the floor heaving for absent breath.

  Surprised, Tarc momentarily gaped at the outcome, then got his expression in control. He gave the fellow on the floor what he hoped was a loathing look, then turned back to his beer. This time, he kept out his ghirit so he’d know what was happening behind his back.

  The bartender stepped over. He said, “Hey. You owe us for that table.”

  Tarc suppressed his instinct to apologize. Instead, without looking at the bartender, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the man on the floor behind him. “Put it on his tab. He started it.” Tarc could hear Muscles wheezing as he tried to draw a breath, Tarc’s ghirit showed the brawny man rolling to his stomach.

  The bartender leaned closer, “He’s a good, regular custom—”

  Without looking up, Tarc lashed a hand out to grab the bartender’s vest and jerk him close. “He isn’t a good customer, is he? He breaks your furniture.” As Tarc slowly lifted his gaze to stare into the bartender’s eyes, he used his ghirit to move the fluid in the man’s ears as gently as he possibly could.

  The bartender’s eyes twitched in typical reaction to an ear twist. His face paled. Looking queasy, the man stammered, “N-n-no s-sir.”

  “Glad you agree,” Tarc said, shoving the bartender away and turning to look at the man on the floor behind him. The guy had turned on his hands and knees. He was starting to move some air but still looking distressed. Tarc said, “You’re going to pay the bar for the table you broke, right?”

  The man turned a sullen face part way up toward Tarc, “Hell no!”

  Tarc planted a solid kick in the man’s gut, ghirit strumming the solar plexus again. As the man fell on his side holding his belly, Tarc turned back to the bartender, “I’ll check with him again in a moment. I’m thinking he’ll eventually change his mind about paying.”

  Tarc turned back to the bar and his mug. He had another sip of the nasty beer while watching everyone in the bar with his ghirit. Silence reigned a few more seconds. Then a few people started talking in low whispers. Thirty seconds later, conversation had resumed.

  Though Tarc’s ghirit continued general observation of the customers to be sure none were posing him a threat, he focused now on listening to the man who’d spoken to the guards the night before. He has to be some kind of local crime boss, Tarc thought. If he’d just been a low-level criminal leading his own small crew, he would’ve died with the other robbers at Descartes’ home.

  From the position of the man’s head, Tarc thought the guy was staring at Tarc’s back. He regretted attracting attention, but he didn’t know how he could’ve avoided being attacked. He’d tried looking surly in hopes of avoiding any interaction, but that hadn�
��t worked. Was I attacked because Muscles really thought I was homosexual and has a thing against them? Or just because they don’t like strangers in here?

  Tarc refocused on the crime boss. The man was sitting by himself at a table near the wall. One that gave him a view of the entire room. His head pivoted so it no longer faced Tarc, but Tarc thought he curled a finger. A man got up from a table of six and stepped over to sit with the boss. Leaning close, the boss said, “I don’t like that pretty boy at the bar. Make sure he has an accident after he leaves.”

  The second man said, “Permanent, or temporary?”

  “Permanent. Before he dies, make sure he knows he should’ve paid for my table.”

  Oh geez, Tarc thought, disgusted—though not surprised—that they thought so little of human life. Also that they had so little fear of the local policing structure. But, from what they’d said, it sounded like the crime boss owned the palace tavern. He’s probably at least the local crime lord which fits with his being the one to make a deal with the guards.

  The man left the crime lord’s table and went back to his table of six. After a moment, two of the six got up and left the tavern, presumably to wait for Tarc’s exit.

  Tarc glanced out the window. Twilight again, he thought. I need to nurse this beer until full dark so I’ll have a greater advantage over the men coming after me. He turned and looked at Muscles, now up onto his knees. “You gonna pay for that table you broke?” he asked the man.

  “Sure,” the man grunted, hatred in his eyes.

  He’s planning to catch me in a back alley himself, Tarc thought. I’m gaining quite the assortment of enemies. He paused to consider how they should be dealt with. The bossman’s guilty of arranging capital crimes. Anyone he sends after me is guilty of intent to commit murder. Besides which, they’ve probably committed previous murders. Muscles? Maybe he’s just a bully. Obnoxious, but not a capital crime.

  The outside door opened and the room suddenly stilled. Tarc’s ghirit showed him two men had entered. With everyone else, he turned for a quick look and recognized the two guards from last night.