Free Octobers Baby by Glen Cook

suspicions. He was telling Dahl an exaggerated tale as they, Uthe, Mocker, Haaken, and two others entered Itaskia’s North Gate. The city watch had insisted that the main party remain outside, Trolledyngjans and alcohol having a reputation for not mixing.
    “It was here that business with the rats started,” said Ragnarson. “When Greyfalls tried to take over. I was over there, Mocker was up Wall that way, and Haroun was on that roof over there...”
    Someone was watching from the same spot Haroun had occupied then, a dark-skinned man who vanished the instant Bragi spotted him. “Watch it,” said Ragnarson. “We’ve got friends here.”
    “We’ll be all right on King’s,” Haaken replied.
    “Damned rules. Laws,” Ragnarson growled. “Don’t know if I want to see the Minister this bad.” He slapped his thigh where, till the gate guards had compelled him to check it, his sword had hung. The only personal weapons allowed were blades shorter than eight inches. “Wasn’t this way in the old days.”
    “There was more killing then, too,” Uthe observed.
    “Fallacy,” Mocker interjected. “Same number ca-davers in gutter mornings, now as then. Holes just smaller. Self, if decide man wants murdered, will dispose of same. Can exterminate with hands, ropes, rocks, bludgeons...”
    “Maybe,” Uthe replied, “but it’s inconvenient, not being able just to grab a sword and stick him.”
    They crossed Wall Street and entered King’s, a busy artery sweeping grandly to the heart of the city and kingdom with identical names. Bragi had convinced his companions that they should take rooms near the Royal Palace, where he had business.
    In New Haymarket Square in New Town, only a few hundred yards from North Gate, the blow fell.
    Two men, dusky and hawk-nosed, exploded from a throng watching a puppet show, hurled themselves at Ragnarson and Mocker with daggers and screams.
    The dagger thrust at Ragnarson slid over the mail beneath his sleeve as he threw up an arm, then slashed up his chest and along his jaw. His beard kept the gash from being nasty. He brought his right hand across to strike back. His horse, spo. oked, reared and neighed wildly, dumping him. As he went down he saw Mocker doing the same, heard the screams and squeals of panicky on-lookers. Then his head hit cobblestones.
    Mocker had a moment more to react. He threw himself, robes flying, off his donkey. His attacker plunged his dagger into an empty saddle. As the assassin bounced back, Dahl Haas kicked him in the temple.
    Mocker came up off the pavement shrieking, “Murder!
    Watch! Help! Help!” He plumped his considerable weight atop the man Dahl had kicked, began strangling him. “Murder! Dastardest dastard attacks poor old mendicant in middle of street in middle of day... What kind city this where even poor traveler is prey for assassin? Help!” Which only spurred bystanders to flee before they themselves were butchered or nabbed as material witnesses.
    Several city watchmen turned up with amazing alacrity-as everywhere, they were wont to appear only after the dust settled and there was little danger to themselves-but were unable to get through the dis-persing crowd.
    Haaken, Uthe, and Blackfang’s bodyguards piled onto the man who had attacked Ragnarson. Dahl tried to control the horses while complaining that his foot hurt.
    The police finally sorted things out. A half-dozen bolder onlookers, who had hung on for the denouement, supported Blackfang’s story. Despite an obvious desire to arrest everyone, the officers settled for two battered would-be assassins and Haaken’s promise to file a complaint.
    Mocker and Dahl then brought Ragnarson around. “Damn!” Bragi growled. “I’m going to start sleeping in a helmet, way my head’s getting smacked anymore.” He struggled to his feet, cursing the pain. Dahl and Mocker hoisted him into his saddle. “One thing. I’m going to see the Minister while I’m still hurting. That’ll keep me