By Rod or By Dagger

Part I: Thief’s Triumph

Chapter One: A Welcome Catch

Move aside! Get back! the knight commanded irritably. The peasants and laborers of the city of Gohm paid him no mind as they brushed past his mount and shouldered into the flow of merchant caravans clogging the King’s Highway. Locals and travelers alike hurried about on their business before the markets closed for the day, while roadside peddlers reloaded their wares into mule-drawn carts for the weary trek home. The knight regarded the peddlers with disgust, wondering if some were free men returning to farms which the area lords had sold to fill empty, ill-managed treasuries.

He snorted in distaste and ploughed through the throng, trusting his great black war stallion to scatter the commoners from his path. He intended to reach his cousin’s manor tonight, unwilling to room among the lawless rabble in filthy, stinking Gohm. Weaving between the wains, he traversed half the city without incident until an enormous ale wagon came bearing down upon him. Steering his mount away, he nearly collided with a cart entering from an adjoining street, and almost lost his seat as his stallion reared and whinnied in surprise. Suitably enraged, the knight bent down to scream curses against the driver and his mother, causing the latter to cower in his seat.

Everyone in the vicinity avoided the scene, except for one man who dared to approach the thundering knight. This man drew no attention to himself, moving casually, though with the slight spring of youth. He had reached eighteen years of age a month ago, but nobody cared enough to keep count. While short of stature, his body was well-muscled and correctly proportioned, neither bulky nor lanky. His straight black hair hung past his eyes and to his shoulders, as dirty as his unshaven face, which was angular, though not gaunt or harsh. His brown tunic and hose were patched, torn, and dusty from the roads where he worked, but he minded not at all. His appearance suited his need to remain inconspicuous and neglected, for he was a thief by trade. Selth Barnicade was his name.

Selth kept pace with the front of the long ale wagon until he was directly beside the knight’s saddlebag, then deftly untied the laces that held it shut. He was practically invisible as he worked, hidden in the narrow gap between the tall stallion’s flank and the towering ale casks. Quickly opening the bag, he reached inside and removed two items that seemed promising. He hid them under his tunic and sloppily retied the flap.

The knight felt a slight tug and immediately spun in his saddle. The edge of the ale wagon was now brushing against his saddle packs, although none were damaged as yet. Cursed teamsters, he muttered, nudging his horse away from the wagon. With a final glare at the cart driver, he urged his mount onward.

Selth remained hidden on the far side of the wagon, whither he had fled after completing his task. When he felt confident that no one had detected him, he moved swiftly through the crowd, stooping slightly to disguise the pilfered goods beneath his tunic. Lining his way were slate-roofed, limestone and mortar buildings, which displayed painted, finely-carved signs advertising each as an inn or a shop. The flowers still blooming in many windowsills enlivened the otherwise functional, bland architecture characteristic of Gohm’s wealthier districts.

After a few blocks, however, the young man began turning down side streets and alleyways. Stone gave way to cheaper half-timbered houses whitewashed between their dark beams, which in turn were replaced by timber and mud conglomerations the further Selth ventured into Gohm. Passing a broken barrel, Selth entered an alleyway and squeezed into a narrow gap between two buildings: a small, abandoned dwelling on the right and a cheap boarding house on the left. The recess was heavily shadowed and vacant as usual—an ideal location to inspect his loot.

With a final backward glance, he knelt on the dirt and withdrew the two items he had stolen. He set the small money purse aside for the moment and examined the more exciting catch: a dagger. Encased in a simple leather sheath with a belt loop, the blade was as long as his hand. No rust marred its surface, and both edges were sharpened the entire length up to a fine point. A simple steel guard separated the blade from a dark walnut handle with ridges like tree bark. The dagger did not balance well for throwing, but in other respects it would serve a trained wielder well.

Selth instinctively considered selling the weapon. After all, he could demand a high price—perhaps a few gold pieces! Yet the dagger stirred feelings of excitement within him. If he possessed this fine blade, he would be the rival of any thief in Gohm. He touched the small, rusty knife secured within his own boot. It was his all-purpose tool: his utensil at mealtime, a handy companion when cutting purse strings, a nail trimmer, and a weapon. How pitiful it seemed next to this splendid dagger!

Since arriving in Gohm two years ago, Selth had rarely needed a weapon, skillfully evading the overworked city guard and avoided detection when picking pockets. When confrontations arose, he simply outran his pursuers. Over the past month, however, a brutal gang of thugs had been intruding on his territory. Thus far Selth had retreated, but soon all his hideouts would be discovered. Violence was imminent, and he wanted security when the showdown finally came. With this dagger, he could face the thugs on their own terms.

With his spirit lifted, Selth laid the weapon close by and reached for the money pouch. He had stolen purses of this size before, which usually contained enough coins to pay his way for a week or two. Though snatching one was always dangerous work, the wealth they carried offered a reprieve from the desperate struggle for survival which normally oppressed him. This purse, however, weighed heavier than most, and he eagerly untied its strings and peered within to discover over forty coins! He could not distinguish their types in the shadows, so he returned to the larger alleyway. Finding it deserted, he held the purse open to catch the sun’s final glow.

An unbelievable color glinted back at him: gold! He dropped to his knees and spilled the coins into his hands. He found six gold Hawks, twenty silver Crowns, and fifteen copper Zanbics! He had rarely seen gold in his life, and had never touched it. With those gold coins alone he could rent a decent room and eat three meals a day for months!

He realized that his victim must have been a rich fellow. That thought made him smile. Ever since Lord Hengrar had bought him from his parents at the age of eleven to serve as his page and to train as a knight, Selth had come to despise every facet of the rich. Each day of his training, the lord’s family and knights had mocked his low birth. He had roomed in a cramped and dirty barracks with the other pages and squires while the lord and his family enjoyed a comfortable, lavish manor house. They had eaten more and better than the thin stew which had been his daily fare. He consoled himself with the memory of fleeing the castle with a sack of loot after years of servitude.

Lord Hengrar had been furious, so rumor said, after discovering Selth’s escape. Supposedly his men still had orders to keep watch for Selth at home and abroad, even though three years had now passed. At the moment, Selth ignored this threat, hoping instead that the loss of this purse had upset its owner as greatly as Lord Hengrar’s loss had upset him. With luck, the knight Selth had robbed would miss a meal or be unable to purchase more fancy clothes and finery.

Then again, Selth realized that he himself could spend this money on fancy clothes and finery. He could dine in Gohm’s finer taverns, stay at an elegant inn, and masquerade among the rich. And while parading among them, he could seize more of their wealth—perhaps amass a fortune to sustain him for a lifetime.

Such a plan was dangerous. The money in the purse would not support him long in an extravagant lifestyle, nor could he operate in his familiar territory. Instead, he would need to seek out the rich and quickly learn the art of stealing from them before he became penniless again. Moreover, he would need to expend great effort at imitating them and disguising himself as one of their number, though he knew not how.

Despite the many risks, he decided to make the attempt. He had lived on the streets for three painful years and knew that he could not live another three in the same manner. The life of a street thief, while exciting and challenging, was mostly worrisome and frightening. Sooner or later he was certain to be caught by the city guard or stabbed in the back by a rival. He could not remain ever-vigilant; the strain of constant wariness exhausted him more each day.

Besides, he grew bored of the same streets, the same routine, and the same thugs threatening him, and realized that this boredom would lead to carelessness and to his death. He wanted an adventure with the promise of real gains, not the meager pickings he now found. He felt the sudden urge to delve into the secrets of the city, which had been denied him as a commoner. Perhaps after he had seen all in Gohm, he could journey to the wondrous places of the land where no law could reach him and discover the fabulous treasure hoards of legend.

His imagination grew wilder with each moment, so he roused himself and collected his thoughts. He would indeed masquerade among the rich and dispense with his former life. Although he usually proceeded more cautiously, his desire was too great to be delayed. He felt that the time had come to take command of his destiny. He could see a wonderful new life dawning before him: the life of Selth Barnicade, master thief!

Chapter Two: Covert Meetings

Elsewhere in Gohm, a man named Jaeran stood alone at a bar, hunched over his second ale. Apart from his height, his appearance was nondescript: short brown hair, brown eyes, plain face, and a brown tunic, hose, and boots. A weather-beaten leather backpack and a bedroll rested at his feet; otherwise, he carried nothing. He did not move, though his impatience nearly overwhelmed him. He found that his patience lessened daily.

A round man in a green waistcoat joined him at the bar. After serving the newcomer, the barkeep retired to a table across the room and resumed his conversation with a group of regular patrons. The man in the waistcoat sighed and ran a hand through his short brown curls. What a day, he muttered.

Jaeran continued staring into his drink, not altering his posture in the slightest at this pre-arranged signal. You are late, Foth.

The curly-haired man likewise gave no sign of recognition. We didn’t set a time.

All the same, you ought to have been the one waiting.

I wanted to ensure that all was in order for you.

A worthy thought, I suppose, conceded Jaeran. What news have you? Tell me about the Society here.

We’re rather disorganized, Foth admitted. We meet only once a month to avoid detection. Our resources are limited to my funds and whatever else we can steal.

How advanced are your members in the hierarchy?

Well now, the round man ran his fingers through his hair, you must understand that we have no proper instruction. I have only one of the Great Books, which few of us can read, and fewer still are capable of teaching their subordinates. Officially, we have one wizard, but he’s rather inept: a cobbler by day. The rest are laborers, soldiers, servants, and thieves, who all chose to enter the warrior caste. We have one clerk, who writes for us; he and I are in the artisan caste.

"You select your own caste?"

That is the way, isn’t it?

Jaeran breathed deeply then took a long drink. I will have much work to do. Have you what I need?

Foth placed a key softly on the counter. Your house is in the artisans’ quarter near the end of Damar Way. The surrounding houses are deserted, and there’s little traffic in that area.

And what of disposal?

Seek work at the forge near there. It’s so busy that the owner keeps the fire burning all night long to avoid the trouble of rekindling it in the early morning. Two-man crews have been stoking it, but the wages are poor, and none stays for long. A vacancy has just appeared.

You’ve done impressive work. What do you know of events in Faerdland?

Generally a great deal, but very little about the Society there. Down here in Zanbar we look south to Mekh.

And what happens there?

Power struggles mostly, which we have neither the manpower nor the time to support.

The proper order must be established.

Yes, but we can’t afford to kill off what few adherents we have.

Jaeran drank the last of his ale. I agree, but our opinion is in the minority.

They sat in silence for many moments until Foth asked, What are you wearing on your wrist?

Jaeran glanced at the plain, copper-link bracelet peeking out from beneath his sleeve. He grinned smugly. Bait.

What do you mean?

I shall make my mission clearer at the gathering in three nights’ time. He paused briefly. What do you know of the Rod?

I know that it’s the key to our victory.

You’re a valuable ally, Foth; be sure you do not learn too much. Jaeran stood, lifting his pack and palming the key from the counter. Before turning to leave, he pretended to drain his mug, adding in a low voice, Find me a new sword.

Chapter Three: Changing Circumstances

Selth awoke just before noon, fully refreshed from what, he decided, was the best sleep of his life. He reclined for a time atop the thick feather mattress on his high, four-posted bed and surveyed with satisfaction his new room in Madame Eyre’s Inn.

Directly under the solitary window stood a hardwood table with a gleaming surface, and a dainty chair of the same material, its legs and arms shaped like cats’ paws. In the corner of the room opposite Selth’s bed was a tall dresser with two hinged doors. At the foot of his bed rested a square storage chest with a shiny brass lock, on top of which lay an alabaster bedpan, pitcher, and washbasin, a thick towel, and Selth’s own freshly cleaned clothes. The floor and walls were all of smooth, dark wood, as were the rafters.

Eventually hunger roused him. He dressed, exited his room, and descended the wide staircase to the atrium. The walls were of dark-hued limestone, as was the remainder of the ground floor. Set in the walls to either side of the front door were polished walnut shelves, holding tiny sculptures illuminated by candles in brass sconces above them. Doorframes with elaborate leaf and vine carvings led into several adjoining rooms. To Selth’s right was a large dining room filled with rectangular tables draped in purple tablecloths and set with silver cutlery. Small groups of guests dined in the golden sunlight, served by maids in fine black dresses. Running past the staircase was a hallway leading to the kitchen and baths, where Selth had scrubbed himself clean the previous night.

From this hallway glided Madame Eyre herself, her long, steel-gray braid bobbing slightly as she approached. She wore a puffy, purple dress that accentuated her stately, stern bearing. She turned up her nose and gazed disapprovingly at him, revealing the sharpness of her features. Servants do not eat in the dining room.

Selth had claimed to be a servant last night, when he clearly saw that he would get a room no other way. He was supposedly preparing the room for his master, who would arrive in a week. As you say, madam, he responded with a bow.

He headed for the kitchen, but once she had disappeared up the stairs, he immediately sat in the dining room, feasting on the sumptuous roast chicken set before him. With only the meal to occupy his attention, he noticed the frequent, disdainful glances of the other patrons. He realized that, even when clean, his attire was unsightly in such a crowd. If he wished to blend in, he would need a proper outfit.

With this in mind, he set out for the closest tailor’s shop. Even with his limited knowledge of fashion, he found the selection wanting. Passing then from store to store, he saw either garments too plain for his purposes or so extravagant and impractical as to make him laugh. Yet when the proprietors offered to design an outfit to his tastes and presented an array of fabrics for his perusal, he could not specify his desires. Finally, after exhausting every possibility in the artisans’ quarter, he wandered into the wealthiest part of town, hoping to stumble upon the vague object of his search. For hours he walked between rows of well-spaced, tidy stone buildings, which loomed majestically above him. Their tall windows, soaring chimneys and pointed arches gazed with suspicious condescension upon him, as did the shop owners, pedestrians, and guard patrols. Sometimes he found himself strolling for nearly a block in front of the same house, which was surrounded by a high stone or metal fence. Though he felt slightly intimidated, he pressed onward, imagining the treasures hidden behind those gates.

Late in the day he chanced upon a seamstress shop that seemed ideal, but decided to wait until morning, since the establishment would soon close for the night. He continued down the street, puzzling out his next destination. The past two days had been a blur of excitement and confusion. A drink at the Bawdy Ruffian and a chat with Aeron, Selth’s gang leader, would help him to think straight. Selth wanted the satisfaction of bragging about his new fortune, but knew he could not. Another thief might overhear, and later rob and kill him. Even Aeron, in whom Selth regularly confided, might try to swindle a share of the new treasure for himself. As gang leader, he organized and directed the thieving efforts of his eight followers, receiving a monthly fee for his position. Aeron was the most amiable of all the gang leaders in Gohm, but not to be completely trusted.

Selth arrived at the Bawdy Ruffian tavern an hour later, which was living up to its name; already a brutal fistfight raged out front. Patrons crowded around, placing bets and scurrying to avoid the wild swings of the combatants. Two of the tavern guards leaned on either side of the door and observed the fight, ensuring that it remained at a distance. Selth gave the scuffle a wide berth and nodded to the guards as he entered the tavern.

Many loud and boisterous conversations greeted him as he passed the threshold, creating a steady rattle of noise. The distinctive smell of ale, foul breath, and body odor jolted him at first, but his nose would quickly adjust. The patrons sat at tables of various shapes and sizes, all stained and chipped from previous fights. Practically no two of the rickety chairs matched; in fact, the saying went that a two-week-old chair in the Bawdy Ruffian was sturdy, and a month-old chair, indestructible. Dented tin lanterns hung by chains from the squared rafters above, revealing the chips and cracks in the support beams and in the bare plank walls. The few windows were unshuttered, allowing the night breeze to relieve the pervading stuffiness, and the hearth in the far right wall was cold. Selth shouldered his way through the throng at the bar and procured an ale, taking a long sip as he scanned the room.

Most of the tables were full, forcing many customers to stand. They were the usual lot: thugs, thieves, poor local laborers, and the occasional wanderer. Close at hand against the wall sat that scum Keevill, bragging about his latest mugging. Two wandering mercenaries with swords and daggers at their belts laughed heartily over their victory at the gambling table. The pair looked quite battle-hardened, and Selth doubted that even Keevill would try to steal from them. Lel the carpenter leaned against a rough maple timber that supported the roof, talking to the cart-wrights crowded at one of the circular serving tables. He was large enough that men seldom wanted to fight him, which explained why he was so friendly. He had often given Selth a warm meal at his shop when the young man needed it. A tall stranger dressed in elk skins and furs sat nearby, close-mouthed and obviously alone. His fur cap hung past his ears, but Selth could see his ruddy face. He felt the urge to see strange lands when he looked at the foreigner. He wanted to ask the man about his travels, but casual conversation was an unwise practice in this place.

Comfortable with the scene, Selth spotted Aeron at his regular table in the corner, where he could put his back to the wall. Those tables filled up quickly, but Aeron somehow got the same one every night. He was trading a necklace and two bracelets to Gron, a member of his gang who would resell them to travelers and unscrupulous merchants. Selth waited until the transaction was finished, then took the vacant chair across from Aeron.

How’s the dib? his mentor asked in street slang.

Heavy! Selth replied, patting the old money pouch hidden beneath his hose. He had left the knight’s purse in his room behind the dresser and retained only a few copper coins; the thieves here would be suspicious if he carried the bulging purse.

Aeron smiled and leaned back. He had a small nose and chin, which made his brown eyes look large. Selth knew that much of Aeron’s persuasive power came from his entrancing eyes; consequently, though neither handsome nor well dressed, he was popular with women. He kept his light brown hair cut above his ears, and habitually covered it with the hood of his cloak. Curious about Selth’s recent pick pocketing, he asked, How’s the brushing on your swarth?

Heavy as ever. I brushed some jen ere; it should keep me fat for a few weeks.

Any crawlers?

Yeah. Keevill’s still stepping, trying to rake my finds.

Did he give you a pat?

His gaerls tried, but I darted.

Aeron looked at Keevill, who sat against the opposite wall. He hasn’t whiffed you yet, but he might want to gouth.

So what should I do?

Stay loose for now. Jeen’s coming later. But if Keevill still has four of his swarls with him, we might have to dart.

I’m sick of darting! They keep raking our jen, and all we do is bury ourselves!

I know, but if we threck one of them, then they’ll threck one of us, until we have a grand old head-bashing out in the way. Right now, we step some, they step some, and nobody gets nethed.

But doesn’t it make you steam?

No. I’m loose about it.

Why?

Aeron leaned forward, excitement in his eyes. Because I’ve discovered the most amazing religion, one that doesn’t condemn jeks like us!

Did you invent it?

No! It’s called Gibbrism, and it teaches about freedom from all that controls us.

How’s that possible?

You do anything you want that isn’t destructive. For example, I brush some jen from the keels, who don’t need it anyway, and use it myself.

But what if some sot brushes your jen? Do you just let him have it?

Of course not, but I don’t neth him. I dart and slide without gouthing.

Sounds too flowery for me. If every sot does what he wants, sooner or later someone gets threcked.

Aeron sipped his ale. I must not be explaining as well as the sot who told me. Listen, if a priest comes by, ask him about it. They wander from burg to burg, wherever they feel Emanu calling them. They don’t wear any special wraps, except for a copper chain, and they only speak with those who wish it.

Selth shrugged noncommittally, and the two watched the customers at the other tables for several minutes. Then, remembering the necklace that Aeron had sold earlier, Selth asked, Did you brush that len from a traveler?

No. She’s a local.

Did you brush it in the way? You talk like you know her.

Digging from keels needs more than a brush. You need to skulk out the troughs and troves where they go; act like you belong.

And how do you do that?

Aeron beckoned a wench over to refill his mug and waited until she was gone before continuing. What are you up to, Selth?

Selth looked away. My finds have been pretty light, he lied. I’d like a pile of my own. Making a few keels steam would be heavy too.

Aeron stared at him over the rim of his mug as he drank, finally slamming it on the table and giving an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction. Remember to start small. Don’t dig if it’s too slim; the pack would hate to lose you. You need new wraps, and make up a story. Pretend to be an airy traveler; few sots fear an idiot, and some sweets find it appealing. Go to Erra’s Tavern near the east well. It’s heavier than this trough, but no ren-house.

Selth nodded his thanks for his mentor’s advice, feeling slightly sad about the deception.

Just then, he clearly heard a conversation at Keevill’s table some distance behind him. The thick-necked, whiny thug, Ross, was speaking. We slid up to give ‘im a pat, but ‘e whiffed us and darted.

Didn’t ya trail ‘im? The harsh, insulting voice was Keevill’s.

We tried, but ‘e buried ‘imself too far in Aeron’s swarth, and—

Stinkin’ rat! They’re rakin’ from us! I don’t care whose swarth ya step on; the less jen they dig, the heavier for us.

We can’t fist ‘im; ‘e’s too fast.

Keevill growled like a dog on the attack. Snivelin’ sweets, all of ya! I’ll threck the little glot right now! His chair clattered to the floor as he hastily arose, and the tavern grew quiet.

Selth met Aeron’s eyes. Do we dart?

His mentor quickly scanned the room. That depends on you. Jeen and Dan are here, so the odds are about even.

I’m ready. That filthy hagrim needs a threcking!

Get ready; here he is.

Selth turned and stood beside Aeron as the thug stalked closer. Keevill’s face was covered by an enormous, bushy black beard, with hair from his nostrils and ears overflowing into it. Selth was grateful for the whiskers, because rumor described Keevill’s face as a masterpiece of ugliness. His only visible features were his bent nose, blood-shot eyes, cracked lips, and missing left earlobe, supposedly gnawed off by a guard dog. Coincidentally, he wore a dogtooth necklace. He stood a head taller than Selth—as did many men—and bore a fat ale-paunch. Though large of arm, he was not muscular.

He stopped a few paces short of the pair while his henchmen crowded in behind him. I’ve had enough of yer crawlin’, stinkin’ zot! The Carter’s Row is our swarth, and ya’ve been steppin’ too long. The overpowering scent of alcohol wafted with his breath into Selth’s face.

You have a problem, Keevill, Aeron observed. You think the whole burg is your swarth, but you and your airy swarls wouldn’t know what to do with it.

Keevill shook with rage. Yer next, flowery glot! He pointed at Selth. First you! Alone with me!

I never knew you cared so much for me.

Laughter erupted around the tavern along with the burly innkeeper’s command: Outside, you sots!

Aeron motioned to Jeen and Dan, and the three backed out the door with Selth, watching their opponents. After them came the majority of the clientele, eager to see the climax of a rivalry that had been building for months. A circle quickly formed with Aeron’s gang at one extreme and Keevill’s at the other. Bets were placed immediately, with three-to-one odds against Selth.

Eye my back, he said. I’ll do the rest.

Why are you so confident? Dan asked.

I have a surprise. He smiled slyly and approached Keevill even as his opponent did the same. I’ve been waiting to mash in your head, trocking gaerl.

All ya can do is brush and slide, nif.

You’ll learn the truth now.

They exchanged several probing blows, all blocked effectively. Keevill charged with his arms wide to ensnare Selth, who quickly sidestepped and landed a right and a left on Keevill’s nose, drawing blood. The hairy thug swung a roundhouse, which connected solidly with the side of Selth’s head. The smaller thief stumbled sideways and took another blow to the back. Nearly falling over, he scooped up a handful of dirt, spun, and flung it in Keevill’s face. Expecting the move, the thug shielded his eyes, leaving him momentarily blind, as Selth had intended.

In that moment, he kicked Keevill in the back of the knee, dropping him to the ground, then kicked him twice in the head. Turning, the thug caught Selth’s leg and dragged him to the ground, but Selth freed himself and rolled away. Keevill was sweating and tottering as he stood, more an effect of the alcohol than his injuries, Selth surmised. Unfortunately, his near-drunken state made him bolder as well.

The thug charged again and so did Selth, veering at the last moment and grabbing his foe’s arm. He twisted it behind Keevill’s back, but the thug spun and grabbed Selth’s own arm, himself attempting to twist it. Using Keevill’s arm as leverage, Selth drove his foot into the man’s fat stomach, pushing him away. As Keevill stumbled backward, he punched Selth on the cheek, although the blow had little force behind it. The two steadied themselves and swung back and forth, hitting and being hit. Selth landed more blows, but they scarcely registered on Keevill. The larger man, however, was breathing heavily and sweating profusely, whereas Selth felt no pangs of overexertion.

Soon Keevill became desperate and visibly anxious, a condition that made him sloppier. The crowd grew louder, knowing that the end was near. They shouted encouragement and insults in the hope of winning their bets. Dan fearfully alerted Aeron when he noticed Ross maneuvering to the front to assist Keevill. The thug, however, did not travel far. While waving and cheering for Selth, Big Lel rammed his fist into the side of Ross’ head. The carpenter briefly contemplated the collapsed body, smiled ever so slightly, and continued cheering.

Finally, Keevill growled in frustration and pushed Selth back with a burst of strength. He reached inside his boot and whipped out a wide-bladed dagger, slashing across at Selth’s body.

Metal sounded against metal, and Keevill’s dagger was deflected. He gaped at the shiny weapon in Selth’s hand, as did Aeron and the crowd. The nearest spectators could now see a dagger sheath peeking out from beneath the hem of Selth’s tunic, strapped in some undiscernable manner against his lower back. He grinned wickedly at Keevill. You’re not the only sot with a blade, just the only one who needs it. I wasn’t gonna slice you, but if you’d like to get nethed, I don’t mind. He crouched and spread his arms. If you think you’re quicker, gouth with me. If not, you’d better dart.

Keevill’s three remaining thugs moved forward to flank their leader, and Selth’s fellow gang members backed him up, baring what weapons they had. Keevill staggered, and one thug hurried to support him. "We’re not finished, glot. Yer swarth’s