Osric Melkire, soldier for the sultanate, once known as Dirk Problemsolver, assassin for hire, stared long and hard at the man he could have been had he signed on with Worthy Jetsam for more than a mere half-dozen moons. His hands ceased to play with the forest of hilts protruding up and out from the table before him. His breathing slowed. His shite-eating grin died.Â
He grunted. He reached forward. He pushed his tumbler towards Nero. He drew his blades from the woodwork. He sheathed them one by one. He left the last, a single pesh-kabz, embedded where it stood. He pushed his chair back. He rose to his feet.Â
One hand snaked upward and turned over as he seized the neck of the bottle in a reverse grip, lifted it up high, and in a single motion that made use of his wrist, his arm, his hips, his legs, and his weight, slammed the glass down and broke it against the edge of the table, shards of glass flying every which way.Â
The sergeant didn't spare a glance for his "guest" as he threw what was left in his hand aside and into a far corner. Instead, he leaned out over the table and starting moving shards around until he had a circle of broken glass surrounding the knife. His eyes never once left his task.Â
"This game is different," he breathed. "As an extension of another's will, he benefits from their aegis. As their instrument o' choice, he has had some time t'entrench himself in the affairs o' the city, to ingratiate himself with its worthies. His is a web o' dependency: associates, business partners, contacts, acquaintances, they all benefit far too much from his ever-present influence to ever allow him t'come to harm. To try for him directly is to be cut."
A smile touched his lips again.Â
"Different game, similar solution." He waved a hand out over the broken glass, then wrapped his fingers tight around the hilt and slowly drew the pesh-kabz from the wooden table. He slid the knife home into its scabbard, then turned and walked away, pausing only in the doorway long enough to glance back over his shoulder.
"Then we're agreed?"
He grunted. He reached forward. He pushed his tumbler towards Nero. He drew his blades from the woodwork. He sheathed them one by one. He left the last, a single pesh-kabz, embedded where it stood. He pushed his chair back. He rose to his feet.Â
One hand snaked upward and turned over as he seized the neck of the bottle in a reverse grip, lifted it up high, and in a single motion that made use of his wrist, his arm, his hips, his legs, and his weight, slammed the glass down and broke it against the edge of the table, shards of glass flying every which way.Â
The sergeant didn't spare a glance for his "guest" as he threw what was left in his hand aside and into a far corner. Instead, he leaned out over the table and starting moving shards around until he had a circle of broken glass surrounding the knife. His eyes never once left his task.Â
"This game is different," he breathed. "As an extension of another's will, he benefits from their aegis. As their instrument o' choice, he has had some time t'entrench himself in the affairs o' the city, to ingratiate himself with its worthies. His is a web o' dependency: associates, business partners, contacts, acquaintances, they all benefit far too much from his ever-present influence to ever allow him t'come to harm. To try for him directly is to be cut."
A smile touched his lips again.Â
"Different game, similar solution." He waved a hand out over the broken glass, then wrapped his fingers tight around the hilt and slowly drew the pesh-kabz from the wooden table. He slid the knife home into its scabbard, then turned and walked away, pausing only in the doorway long enough to glance back over his shoulder.
"Then we're agreed?"