Page 13 of The Man with the Violet Eyes

Balduin shook his head. “When did you get here?”

“Just now.”

Balduin nodded. “You missed a good night, my friend. There was a girl (burp) at Sade’s—you missed her. Ass like the dark side of the moon.”

“You can tell me about it tomorrow,” chided Nicolo. “If you remember.” He beckoned to one of the bodyguards to help lift the now more pliant prince.

“Oh, I shan’t forget that ass in a hurry,” Balduin mumbled on a deep chuckle as he lolled his head to the side and appeared as if he might pass out right there. “I nearly suffocated under it.”

Nicolo and the bodyguard shouldered Balduin and turned to the door. But as they did so, a sudden cry came from the bodyguard outside.

“Ho! To the prince!”

It was a rallying cry. And that meant something was wrong. Leaning Balduin against the wall, Nicolo drew his sword.

“Check the rear,” he instructed the other man.

One of the bodyguards hurried for the back door, but as he did so, armed men suddenly burst through both front and back.

“Give us the prince,” their leader demanded, pointing a sword at Balduin.

Nicolo stared the man down and didn’t appear in the least bit intimidated, surprising given the fact that he was clearly outnumbered. “You know who I am?”

“There are six of us and three of you.”

That was a stupid thing to say; now Nicolo knew how many men he had to deal with and there was no one lurking in the shadows outside.

“And you think those odds are well enough in your favor?” Nicolo asked on a chuckle.

“Only one of us has to get through, we’re all willing to die for our goal.”

“I can guarantee you accomplishing one but not the other,” Nicolo replied.

Blades clashed. The two bodyguards, one on the front door, one at the back, slashed at the attackers, but the attackers pushed on, while Nicolo stayed by his prince.

“What in the Great Gods is…?” murmured Balduin, only vaguely aware of what was going on. I was fairly sure he’d blacked out during the time this small battalion had announced themselves.

The back door bodyguard flinched as a blade scored his leg and in the moment of distraction, he was pushed aside. Nicolo turned to meet the attackers, knocking the first one aside then crossing swords with the next. A short scream was cut off abruptly as one man fell to the floor. Nicolo kicked back the next, and cut down another, his sword an evermoving arc of steel.

“The back’s clear, get the prince to safety.”

The wounded bodyguard nodded and hurried to help Balduin. Nicolo dashed forward to join the other guard, who was already sporting wounds on his face and arms but kept fighting bravely—this was what he’d been trained for.

“The prince.”

The guard didn’t question orders, but fell back as Nicolo took his place, holding off the remaining three men. The cramped confines of the old tavern meant they couldn’t all come at Nicolo at once, but he was still forced to fend off attacks from three directions. Even so, my money was on Nicolo, because he was a remarkable swordsman.

But as the bodyguards carried Balduin out the back, one of the prince’s outstretched arms caught an earthenware jug, sending it crashing to the floor as he headed into the alley. The noise made Nicolo turn and his attackers pounced, and suddenly Nicolo was on the back foot.

They had him.

I couldn’t say what went through my mind at that point. There was a sort of unofficial Guild rule that fortunate accidents didn’t count, and that in such cases, money was to be returned to the client. But I don’t think that was what determined my actions.

The attic had a trapdoor leading down into the bar and I now flipped back the catch and drove my heels down into it, so it opened sharply, smacking one of the attackers in the face. I dropped through the trapdoor, landing lightly and executing a perfect spinning kick that knocked a second man on his ass.

For a moment, Nicolo looked completely shocked by the appearance of his masked savior, but he wasn’t the type to dwell on good fortune for long and lunged back into the fight.

The element of surprise had helped me initially, but now I was in a sword fight, wielding only the long-bladed knife that I’d strapped to my thigh for these nocturnal excursions, and it proved too short for a fair fight. I winced as a sword blade sliced across my forearm, cutting through my blacks to draw blood.

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