In the Heart of Darkness(128)

Maurice stalked into the kitchen. His helmet was covered with blood. A piece of a brain slid off his blood-soaked half-armor. The spatha in his right hand dripped blood. His face was spattered with blood. Blood trailed from his gray beard.



For all the world, he didn't look like a man so much as a killing machine. A thing of iron, not flesh. His eyes, too, were gray. They gleamed out of his gore-covered face like two rivets.



Maurice circled the pile of bodies and the upended table in the middle of the kitchen. His steps were relaxed, almost casual, as if he were strolling through a garden.



Hissing with terror, the thug backed into the far corner of the kitchen, against the door which led to the rooms above. He groped, found the door latch, shook it in a frenzy.



Useless. The shopkeeper had bolted the door from the other side.



Now the thug screamed, with terror and rage. Maurice ignored the sound completely. He advanced until he was almost within sword range. The thug swung his club franctically. The blows were short, by half a foot. Maurice didn't even bother to duck.



The hecatontarch turned his head very slightly. Just enough to ask Antonina:



"Is there anything you want to find out from this piece of shit?"



Antonina shook her head. Then, realizing that Maurice couldn't see her, said:



"No. He won't know anything."



"Didn't think so," grunted Maurice.



The thug swung the club again. This time, Maurice met the blow with a flashing sweep of his spatha. The club split in half. The shock of the blow knocked the stub out of the thug's hand.



He gasped. Gasped again, watching his hand amputated by another spatha-strike. Gasped again—started to gasp—watching the sword sweep toward his left temple. In a final despairing act, the thug threw up his left arm, trying to block the strike.



The spatha cut his arm off before it went halfway through his head. The thug dropped straight down onto his knees, like a pole-axed steer.



Maurice grunted, twisted the blade with his powerful wrist, and pulled it loose. The thug's body collapsed to the floor.



"Are there any left?" whispered Antonina.



The cataphract's chuckle was utterly humorless.



"Be serious, girl."



Maurice's eyes scanned the kitchen. A cold, grim gaze, at first. But, by the time those gray eyes reached Antonina, they were full of good cheer.



"Wish I'd met your pop," he said. "He must have been quite a guy."



Antonina laughed giddily.



"He was a complete scoundrel, Maurice! A worthless bum!"



Then, bursting into tears, she slid down the wall into a half-kneeling squat. She pressed the back of her hand—still holding the knife—against her mouth, smearing her face with yet more blood.



Gasped, choked, sobbed.



Whispered:



"Thank you, father. Oh, thank you."





Chapter 24




"Stop fussing over me, Irene!" snapped Antonina. "I'm fine, I tell you."



The spymaster shook her head. Irene's face was pale and drawn. She had been sequestered in Theodora's quarters for days, and had not learned about the assassination attempt until early the following morning. She had come to Antonina's villa in the suburbs immediately.



Antonina went to a closet and began pulling out fresh clothes. The garments she had been wearing when she and Maurice returned to the villa the night before had already been destroyed. Expensive as they were, there was simply no way to clean off that much blood and gore.



"Wear a heavy cloak," said Irene. "It's cold out." Then, darkly: "I should never have agreed to let you go alone."



Antonina planted her hands on her hips and glared at her friend.



"It was not your decision in the first place," she pointed out. "It was mine. I've always gone alone to those meetings. Balban insisted."



Irene wiped her face with a trembling hand.



"I know. Still—God, you were almost murdered."



Antonina shrugged. Then, shrugged her way into a tunic. Her muffled voice came from within the simple, utilitarian garment:



"But I wasn't. And there's an end to it. So stop fussing. Besides—" Her face popped out, smiling broadly. "—it was the best news I've heard, so to speak, in months. You do realize what that assassination attempt means, don't you?"



Irene frowned. Antonina laughed.



"You're supposed to be the spymaster here, Irene! So start spymastering, for a moment, and stop fretting over me as if I were your little chick."



Irene was still frowning.



"Think, woman. Why would the Malwa decide to kill me? Now, of all times?"



Irene's eyes widened. She pressed her fingers over her lips.