The Black Bouquet

"It takes wealth to wage war," she said finally, "and we're the Dark Goddess's army in the struggle against everyone and everything."

"So you need a lot of wealth."

"Also, when Quwen sacked our temple in Ormath, it was a defeat and an affront to our Lady. We couldn't let it stand. In time, we'll erase it fully. Wash it away with his lordship's blood."

Aeron was sure Sefris wouldn't have divulged such a thing if she thought he might live to repeat it. That simply confirmed what he'd already concluded, but he felt a chill nonetheless.

"In that case," he said, "I'm glad I'm not him."

"It has occurred to me," Sefris said, her unblinking stare becoming a shade less piercing, her tone a bit more introspective, "that it's fitting for my order to lay claim to this particular treasure. Because of the title."

Aeron cocked his head and replied, "I don't follow."

"The Lady of Loss teaches that the whole world is like a black bouquet. Parts of it are pretty, to lure the foolish, but all the flowers are poison."

Though her statement was unsettling, he forced a grin.

He said, "That's a cheery point of view."

"You of all people should see the truth of it. You live in Oeble, where the folk prey on one another like starving rats, and friend betrays friend for a copper bit."

He snorted and said, "I guess we must be pretty bad at that, if our habits make a Shar worshiper squeamish."

"My point is, the rest of the world is no different. It's just that in Oeble, no one tries to cover up the essential foulness."

"Does that mean that in the big bouquet, we're stems as opposed to blossoms?"

"Mock Shar's wisdom if you want," she said. "Your opinion means nothing."

"I wasn't mocking, exactly…"

She pointed and said, "Look."

A few steps below street level, the door to the mordayn den opened, and three Red Axes, a pair of humans and a gnoll, emerged blinking into the sunlight. Aeron was disappointed, but not surprised. He'd assumed that none of Kesk's henchmen would roam around the city alone. The Lynxes had probably stopped raiding their competition-Ombert was shrewd enough to know he couldn't continue the harassment for long without his rivals discovering who was responsible-but the Axes couldn't be certain it was over.

"Loan me a couple of your knives," Sefris said.

"That's not the plan," Aeron answered as he started toward the end of the bridge.

She followed, saying, "If I hide, and throw daggers instead of chakrams, no one will realize I'm helping you. They'll think you made the kills."

"Just do it my way, all right?" Aeron said. "Stay well back unless I need you."

He almost wondered himself why he didn't take her up on her offer. Those past few days, his hands had run red with blood. It was probably stupid to scruple at spilling any more, particularly if it belonged to the cutthroats who were holding his father prisoner. Mask knew, Aeron had come to hate the bastards. Yet even so, given the choice, he'd manage the last part of his scheme without murder.

He slipped down the stairs that co

Alas, he had no way of telling what the Axes might be carrying in the way of potions, figurines that grew and came to life, or other magical creations. He'd just have to try to incapacitate them so quickly that they wouldn't have time to use such tricks even if they possessed them.

The Red Axes cut across the avenue toward the mouth of an alley. One of the human cutthroats, a beefy youth with a florid complexion and blond hair that stuck up in unruly tufts, kicked a beggar child who was too slow scurrying out of the way.

When he reached the start of it, Aeron saw that the alleyway wasn't nearly as busy as the street. Without dozens of pedestrians wandering every which way, he had a clear throw at his targets. He stooped, picked up a pair of round, heavy stones, and hurled them one after the other.

He wasn't as accurate with rocks as he was with daggers. He hadn't practiced as much. Still, the first stone cracked against the back of the gnoll's canine head, and the creature pitched forward. The second one hurtled past the blond lad's skull, missing by an inch.

The human Red Axes cried out in surprise and lurched around. By then, Aeron had another rock in his hand. He threw that one at the yellow-haired cutthroat's face, but his target jerked up his arm to shield himself. The resulting impact must have stung, maybe even chipped bone, but wasn't enough to put him down.

"That's Aeron sar Randal!" said the remaining bravo.

Stocky and middle-aged, he dressed all in blue, wore an abundance of cheap silver ornaments, and possessed a shrill, almost girlish voice. He and the blond youth snatched out their blades and charged.

Aeron was at least pleased that they hadn't pulled out any obviously enchanted weapons, and the gnoll appeared to be entirely unconscious. Still, the confrontation had become considerably riskier than Aeron wanted it to be.

He judged he had time for one more throw, so he grabbed a stone and faked a cast at the young Red Axe, who flinched. Aeron pivoted and flung the missile at the man in blue instead. The rock clipped his temple, and he stumbled to a halt. Looking shocked, his scimitar dangling at his side, he fingered the bloody graze.

The blond youth must have realized his comrade had stopped ru

Aeron threw the stone. It smacked the youth in the chest but didn't stop him. He pounced, slashed, and Aeron, his hands empty, could only defend by springing frantically backward.

The Red Axe pursued him. Aeron had to dodge two more attacks before he could ready his own weapons, his largest Arthyn fang in one hand and his cudgel in the other.

He feinted a stab to the stomach with the knife, then lashed the club at the blond youth's face. Undeceived, the Red Axe simultaneously ducked the true attack and slashed at Aeron's wrist. The knife tore the underside of his forearm.

Aeron thought, hoped, the wound was shallow. He couldn't stop and check. He retreated to a safe distance, fought defensively for a few heartbeats, then flowed into the same combination he'd tried before, a low feint with the knife and a strike to the head with the cudgel. He made the actions just big and slow enough that his opponent was sure to understand them.

Naturally, the youth responded with the same counterattack as before. Why not, it had worked the first time. When his dagger flashed at Aeron's arm, the redheaded outlaw spun the club, trapped the blade, and carried it safely aside. At once he stepped in and hammered the heavy pommel of his own knife into the center of the Red Axe's forehead. The lad's eyes rolled up in his head, and his knees buckled.

Aeron felt a momentary satisfaction, cut short when he sensed a presence at his back. He leaped aside, and a scimitar whizzed through the space he'd just vacated. One profile smeared with blood, the cutthroat in blue had shaken off the shock of his superficial injury and crept up on the person responsible.

Aeron parried the next cut with his cudgel. It worked, it kept the blade out of his guts, but the force of the stroke knocked the club from his grip, leaving only his own blades with which to defend himself.