Read Online Villains by Necessity by Eve Forward - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Eve Forward
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stakes here, you know," he added, his eyes showing a joking concern. Sam returned it.
"I'm afraid I have no stakes, nor roasts, nor even chops or brisket, but..." he let the good-natured laughter at the old joke die down, then continued with a smile, "But I do have this to wager." Upon the table he set an intricate gold ring with a single red stone. If the truth were to be known, the gold was gilded brass, the stone merely colored glass, the whole having the purpose of flipping open when pressed in a certain way so that the contents of the tiny compartment within could be poured into a glass. It was empty now, of course, but still glinted richly in the warm light. It held many memories for Sam-a gift from Cata, way back when; he'd never used it professionally except once to carry willowbark and mayweed powder in, sovereign against the headaches that plagued him one year during a particularly bad pollen harvest.
Cata, Cat-a-Crags, sapphire eyes, seductive and deadly as the fey black panther she took her name from, that would call like a crying woman in mountain passes and would lead brave men to a bloody death. Cata would call the men in a different way, but the death was just the same ... Cata, beautiful dark dancer ... who had vanished one day and was never heard from, until years later when Blarin received reports of her-living in a small provincial village, a farmer's fat wife, cleaning and cooking and tending two small chubby brats. Sam had been in a vicious mood for days, feeling betrayed without knowing why, unable to understand what had happened, and why. Mizzamir, you're going to hurt for that one, he vowed. His reverie was broken as the jovial Beard roared: "A fine wager!" and clapped Sam on the back. "Come, my fellows, put up your gold, we will play at darts with Blackie here." Sam looked flushed and pleased at being allowed into their circle, and the game was on.
As the others made their tosses, Sam inspected the darts. Not everyone's weapon, to be sure, but then, an assassin was trained in just about every weapon that could easily be concealed under a suit of normal clothes.
Darts were one of Sam's favorites. Sharp needles perfect for a sticky coat of poison, with no annoying twang or puff sounds such as you got with a crossbow or blowgun.
Easier to aim than a blowgun, too. Daggers were his specialty, but darts were a good second choice. They had made some lovely darts in the Guild workshop, he remembered fondly: clear glass ones that could be filled with acid or poison or the potion of your choice, silver rune-worked ones that could be enchanted (if one could find a sorcerer to do so), ones with tiny tiny barbs in the break-off needle, so that the sharp point would continue to work its way inward with every breath of its victim until ... He shook his head. These were simple, cheap, and common darts, and had seen much use. The points were dull, the fletching tattered. He lifted them one by one, testing the balance, smoothing the feathers. His hand finally closed on a set of three, blue and white, with brass tips. Good enough for now, he decided, until I've gotten the hang of it again. Just in time, too.
"Your turn, Blackie!" crowed the bearded man, and Sam pretended to look worried as he studied the board.
Darts as a pastime was an old sport, taken from archery practice in the reign of the Mage-King Verurand, long before the Victory, even long before the War, back when the Six Lands were a mass of feudal struggles and border disputes, and the rest of the world little more than savages. Variants of the game were so numerous Sam didn't bother to brush up on the rules, but had watched this group long enough to recognize the scoring system.
They were starting with two hundred and one points and going to exactly zero. The others hadn't done too bad for their first toss, he decided. His only problem would be looking clumsy enough that they didn't get suspicious.
He selected one of his darts and managed to stick
"I'm afraid I have no stakes, nor roasts, nor even chops or brisket, but..." he let the good-natured laughter at the old joke die down, then continued with a smile, "But I do have this to wager." Upon the table he set an intricate gold ring with a single red stone. If the truth were to be known, the gold was gilded brass, the stone merely colored glass, the whole having the purpose of flipping open when pressed in a certain way so that the contents of the tiny compartment within could be poured into a glass. It was empty now, of course, but still glinted richly in the warm light. It held many memories for Sam-a gift from Cata, way back when; he'd never used it professionally except once to carry willowbark and mayweed powder in, sovereign against the headaches that plagued him one year during a particularly bad pollen harvest.
Cata, Cat-a-Crags, sapphire eyes, seductive and deadly as the fey black panther she took her name from, that would call like a crying woman in mountain passes and would lead brave men to a bloody death. Cata would call the men in a different way, but the death was just the same ... Cata, beautiful dark dancer ... who had vanished one day and was never heard from, until years later when Blarin received reports of her-living in a small provincial village, a farmer's fat wife, cleaning and cooking and tending two small chubby brats. Sam had been in a vicious mood for days, feeling betrayed without knowing why, unable to understand what had happened, and why. Mizzamir, you're going to hurt for that one, he vowed. His reverie was broken as the jovial Beard roared: "A fine wager!" and clapped Sam on the back. "Come, my fellows, put up your gold, we will play at darts with Blackie here." Sam looked flushed and pleased at being allowed into their circle, and the game was on.
As the others made their tosses, Sam inspected the darts. Not everyone's weapon, to be sure, but then, an assassin was trained in just about every weapon that could easily be concealed under a suit of normal clothes.
Darts were one of Sam's favorites. Sharp needles perfect for a sticky coat of poison, with no annoying twang or puff sounds such as you got with a crossbow or blowgun.
Easier to aim than a blowgun, too. Daggers were his specialty, but darts were a good second choice. They had made some lovely darts in the Guild workshop, he remembered fondly: clear glass ones that could be filled with acid or poison or the potion of your choice, silver rune-worked ones that could be enchanted (if one could find a sorcerer to do so), ones with tiny tiny barbs in the break-off needle, so that the sharp point would continue to work its way inward with every breath of its victim until ... He shook his head. These were simple, cheap, and common darts, and had seen much use. The points were dull, the fletching tattered. He lifted them one by one, testing the balance, smoothing the feathers. His hand finally closed on a set of three, blue and white, with brass tips. Good enough for now, he decided, until I've gotten the hang of it again. Just in time, too.
"Your turn, Blackie!" crowed the bearded man, and Sam pretended to look worried as he studied the board.
Darts as a pastime was an old sport, taken from archery practice in the reign of the Mage-King Verurand, long before the Victory, even long before the War, back when the Six Lands were a mass of feudal struggles and border disputes, and the rest of the world little more than savages. Variants of the game were so numerous Sam didn't bother to brush up on the rules, but had watched this group long enough to recognize the scoring system.
They were starting with two hundred and one points and going to exactly zero. The others hadn't done too bad for their first toss, he decided. His only problem would be looking clumsy enough that they didn't get suspicious.
He selected one of his darts and managed to stick
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