Free Bloodheir by Brian Ruckley Page B

staring after Ammen. The two youths exchanged a few curt words – enough to tell Ammen that the man he had robbed was their father – and then the chase was on.
    Ammen knew the streets around Kolkyre’s harbour as well as anyone. It was his father’s territory, and thus his. But his pursuers had longer legs, and they were driven by powerful indignation. They ran him down in no time, and he turned at bay in a tight, lightless alley that stank of fish guts. Afterwards, turning the treasured memory of those moments over and over in his mind, he was proud that even then, with the two burly youths bearing down on him and shouting their fury in his face, he had not felt fear. Their anger made them careless: in the deep darkness of that alleyway they did not see Ammen draw their own father’s knife from its scabbard. He slashed the first one across the face and was rewarded with a piercing howl of shock and the sight of his assailant reeling away. There was no time to savour the victory, for the second closed and Ammen took a stunning blow to his head. The crunching sound and the splash of blood over his lips told him that his nose was broken, but he was so dazed by the impact that he felt only a numbness that spread across his cheeks. He fell, and his attacker threw himself down on top of him, fumbling for the hand that held the knife. Ammen never could remember exactly what happened then, but he knew that he stabbed the young man more than once. He might not have killed him, for the blade was short and his strength faltering. It was enough, though. Ammen staggered to his feet and ran, rather unsteadily, for home.
    Ochan’s pleasure on hearing of the incident lit a glow of pride and joy in Ammen’s heart.
    “Keep that blade close by you,” his father had laughed. “It’d be wrong to sell something that’s served you so well. We’ll call you Ammen Sharp now, shall we? The little boy who grew a tooth.”
    So Ammen became Ammen Sharp, and treasured the name. Having borne it for a year now, it felt as much his true name as any other. Only Ochan called him by it; his mother and sisters remained ignorant of its origins. Being a secret shared only by Ammen and his father, it had become that much more precious to the boy.
    He was with Ochan, watching as his father sorted through a pile of trinkets, when his cousin Malachoir –
    one of the numerous distant relatives who served Ochan as thieves, runners, watchers, guards – poked his head nervously around the door. Ochan was engrossed, minutely examining each bauble and bracelet for any sign that it might have some true value.
    Ammen had no idea where this little hoard had come from, and the question had not occurred to him.
    From his earliest years he had understood and accepted that goods and materials of every imaginable kind appeared in his father’s possession and then, just as abruptly and inexplicably, disappeared once more.
    Malachoir cleared his throat.
    “What?” snapped Ochan without looking up. He disliked interruption.
    “Urik’s here,” the cousin reported. “He wants to see you.”
    “What does that mudhead want?”
    “He won’t tell us. Says he needs to talk to you. Says there’ll not be another chance if you won’t talk to him now.”
    With a snarl of displeasure Ochan let a copper brooch fall from his hands.
    “I pay that man so I never have to see him, not so that he can visit me in my house. It looks bad to have a Wardcaptain of the Guard showing up on my doorstep. Attracts attention.”
    “Well, he was hooded when he came. And he did come to the kitchen door, not—”
    “Enough, enough,” Ochan grunted. “Get him in here.”
    The man who entered was short and broad-shouldered, a stocky little bull. He wore a voluminous rain-cape that concealed any hint of his standing as a member of Kolkyre’s Guard. Narrow, dark eyes darted from side to side as he edged into Ochan’s presence.
    “Look at that, look at that,” said Ochan to his son.