He clutched the harp tightly, as if holding it closer would shut out some of the cold. Kai's coat was wide open, and he wore no warm hat, as Alaire did; evi- dently, as drunk as he was, he didn't feel the cold.
"Oh, let's try The Dead Dragon Inn again," he said, matter-of-factly. They probably won't throw us out"
The clamor surrounding the fire faded, and a new, muffled silence fell about them. In spite of his annoy- ance with Kai and with himself, and his discomfort, the snow fascinated Alaire; he'd never seen this much falling at one time, so suddenly, and with flakes this large. They fell about the two of them in swirls, land- ing on his face, his clothes. He stuck his tongue out and caught one. The large flake melted instantly in the warmth of his mouth, reminding him how thirsty he was for simple, plain water. Maybe at The Dragon Inn, I can get some, he thought. After all, Kai drinks enough for both of us.
He hoped they would reach the place soon. The cold was beginning to eat through his clothing.
He heard something behind them, and turned just in time to see a dark figure vanish into a shadow.
A chill that had nothing to do with the weather ran up his spine, and he felt for the hilt of his sword, sling- ing his harp over his back. Saying nothing to Kai, who babbled something to himself in his native language, he continued the slow trudge through the snow, keep- ing his ears open for another telltale noise. When it came, he knew for certain they were being followed.
He didn't turn to look this time, but as he listened, he heard the same footsteps trying to match theirs, using the noise they were making as cover.
Maybe it's one of Sir Jehan's men, keeping tabs on the Prince, he thought hopefully, but the prospect didn't comfort him as much as he thought it I'd better say something. He's still a good fighter, even if he's drunk.
He whispered to Kai, "I think we're being fol- lowed."
Kai glanced up, and shrugged. But in spite of the bravado, Kai acted a little more wary. Then, finally, he whispered back, "How many?"
"One, at least Maybe more." Was that a second set of footsteps, or echoes of our own? The effect of snow on sound was maddening.
Two figures jumped out in front of them, swords drawn. Kai hissed as he drew his weapon, clumsily, and staggered backwards.
Alaire's nerves were already keyed up, and he was ready. His sword out, he went after the closest of the two and closed for the attack. His opponent seemed surprised at the aggressive tactics. Figured I'd be drunk, too? Alaire thought briefly as their swords engaged.
Within moments he knew that these were no aver- age cutpurses. These are professional killers! Alaire thought in dismay, taking in their black clothing, the scarves wrapped about their faces to hide their identi- ties. Why they would be wearing black escaped him; they stood out against the snow. Unless the snow caught them by surprise too.
Swords flashed through the falling snow, and Alaire was separated from Kai and the other assassin.
Alaire heard them, somewhere behind them, clashing away, and didn't like the idea of not being able to see anything but his current opponent. And what of the men who had been behind them? Where were they?
Street-fighting meant street-tactics. He managed to distract the fighter for a moment; his blade lashed out, nicking the man's wrist. Bright ruby-red spots appeared on the snow beneath him. First blood.
The assassin snarled an evident curse in a lan- guage he'd never heard before. Alaire feinted, and parried twice, pushing the killer near a torch on a rock wall. In the flickering light he saw the man's eyes, and the dark, olive skin around them. His wrist bled brightly into the falling snow, and Alaire knew his wound must be a great liability to him; he didn't change hands, as Alaire would have done in the same situation. Evidently his teacher had not been as good as Naitachal.
Alaire stepped back, saw an opening, and lunged.
Metal pierced flesh with more difficulty than expected, reminding Alaire he hadn't sharpened his blade since the fight in The Dead Dragon. Even so, his sword found a rich target, and as he withdrew his steel, blood followed it.
The assassin groaned, dropped his blade, and pressed a hand over the wound. The stain spread beneath him as the snow captured the fresh blood.
The man stared at him, his eyes hollow in the torchlight, then staggered off into the dark and snow.
In a moment, he was lost to sight.
Alaire turned and looked for Kai; there was nothing to see but snow. Then, around a corner, he heard blades clashing. He ran to the sound, staggered as his foot slipped on the fresh snow, and found the two next to another building, their arena brightly lit by street torch. The tip of Kai's blade was broken, giving the assassin the advantage. The boy's face was a mask of pure terror; he knew he was in serious trouble.
And Alaire was a good twenty feet away.