Every gaze turned her way as she strode brazenly across Caravan Square on her way to Downwind. She smiled and winked at the gawkers, sometimes lightly brushing the hilt of her sword. Only a few had balls enough to smile back; most glanced quickly in some other direction and passed on.
As she approached the bridge that crossed the White Foal River a gaggle of grubby street urchins surrounded her. She smiled at their play, dipped a hand into the purse on her belt, and tossed a fistful of coins over her shoulder. The children lost interest in her and began scuffling for the glinting bits of metal. She laughed heartily, started past the deserted guard-post and across the bridge.
As she set foot in Downwind two men appeared to block her path. "Mebbe y'ud be s'free wi' the rest o' yer spark," croaked the one on her left. The point of his sword indicated her purse.
"An' wit' yer other charms, too," his partner suggested.
A disdainful smirk flickered over Chenaya's features as she heard two more slide up behind her, heard the soft susurrus of steel slipping from sheathes. They wore no armbands, so they weren't part of Zip's group. From the rags they wore she guessed they followed Moruth.
That suited her fine. Moruth-the beggar king-was one of the faction leaders that had dared to oppose the PFLS. Well, she hadn't come to Downwind to win Moruth's favor. Unfortunately for His Beggar-Majesty, she had come to win Zip's.
She didn't bother turning to see the two behind her. They gave away their positions by their breathing and by their constant foot-shuffling. "You'll make perfect offerings," she informed them gruffly. "I'll pour your blood as a libation to the leader of the PFLS."
The man who had spoken first tuned pale, but he held his ground, tapping his blade against his palm. "You part o' Zip's group?" he asked suspiciously. "You got no band on yer sleeve,"
"Spoils the silk," she answered. She waited a brief moment, daring them with her haughty gaze to make their move or to scatter from her path. The man on her left stopped his incessant sword tapping; the one beside him chewed his lip. Yet they were unwilling to back away from her, a mere woman.
"She mus' think she's purty good wit' that sticker," said one of the men behind her.
Chenaya had no more time to waste. "Watch carefully," she advised with impatience. "I don't often give lessons to scum."
Her hand was almost a blur. Bright steel flashed through the air. A soft thunk; a groan of surprise and fear sounded as a throwing star embedded in the first man's throat. His sword tumbled into the dirt, followed instantly by his lifeless body.
Even before the star scored, Chenaya had her sword free. She ran screaming at the man on her right. In stark terror he raised his sword to protect his head. Her blade crashed down twice against his, then arced down and across, opening his belly. On the backswing she knocked the sword from his grip, severing several fingers.
There was no time to watch him fall. She whirled, settled in a deep forward stance to meet the remaining two. But these were beggars, not seasoned warriors. Still, they knew the better part of valor. She watched their departing backs as they ran for shelter beneath the bridge. Laughing, she hurled a second star with all her arena-trained skill. A scream ripped from one of the fleeing beggars; he tumbled headlong through the weeds, down the bank, and into the river. Sputtering, screaming, clutching at the four-pointed agony behind his knee, he dragged himself onto the bank and scrambled after his comrade.
She laughed again, a bitter and challenging sound that rattled in her throat, and she glanced around in time to spy the street urchins who had gathered at the far end of the span to watch. They melted away like shadows in the sun. On the Downwind side, too, figures faded into alleys and doorways, unwilling witnesses. Chenaya bent and wiped her blade on a dead man's garments, retrieved the first star, and cleaned it, too.
She had no doubt that Zip would hear of this. She wanted him to hear. It was why she had come to this stink-hole side of town. Sheathing her sword, she walked on, giving no further thought to the bodies in her wake.
Come to me, Zip, she willed, come to me.
There were taverns in Downwind, or places that professed to be taverns. Only Mama Becho's, though, could legitimately claim to be such. Even so, there were lifelong drunks in Sanctuary who wouldn't deign to spit on its threshold, let alone consume its questionable product.
Chenaya stepped through the low, doorless entrance, her vision swiftly adjusting to the dim light. A dozen pairs of eyes turned to examine her. Quite a different crowd from the one that frequented the Unicorn. There the faces were full of menace or scheming or general disinterest. The eyes at Mama Becho's reflected only desperation and despair.
It was like no place she had ever seen before, and she thought of the men who had met her at the bridge, men like these, men with the same desperate eyes. They had wanted her gold and had gone down for it. She saw in Mama Becho's men who would have done the same and welcomed the death she gave. And why not? For such as these, life had little to offer, little to hold them.
She thought of the bridge again, of men who poured their blood into the dirty street for a handful of spark, and for one moment, Chenaya hated what she had done.
Fortunately, the moment passed. She reminded herself she had come to this cesspool on business.
"You want somethin', honey, or you jus' come to see the sights?" A mountainous woman in a tattered smock leaned one elbow on the board that served as a bar and leered at her. She wiped at the interior of an earthen mug with a grimy rag that hadn't seen a rinsing in weeks. Wisps of grizzled hair floated about her thick jowled face as she worked.
"Uptown bitch," someone muttered into his cup. Pairs of eyes began slowly to turn back to their drinks, to the private fantasy worlds found only in foul brews.
"Honey," Chenaya said smiling to Mama Becho, "I want a couple of things. First, a cup of some decent beverage, Vuksi-bah if you've got it in this dump." The eyes all turned her way again, whether at her mention of the expensive liquor or because of the insult, she didn't know or care. "A respectable wine or cool water if you don't." She leaned on the board facing the fat proprietor and felt it sag under their combined weights. The old woman's breath was worse than fetid, but Chenaya managed to force a grin. "Then I want Zip."
That got their attention. She reached into her purse, drew out another handful of coins. Not bothering to look at them or judge their value, she threw them over her shoulder, all but one which she placed on the board. It was a gleaming soldat.
"I'm betting somebody here knows how to contact him," she said, still addressing Mama Becho, well aware that everyone could hear. "And when he walks through that door I'll scatter another fistful of coins."
"An' what if we jus' take yer spark, lady?" said a lean, twisted man who squatted in a gloomy comer against the wall. He fingered one of the silver pieces that had fallen his way.
"Shet up yer mouth, Haggit," Mama Becho snapped. "Can'tcha see we got us a fine noblewoman here? Mind yer manners!"
Chenaya cast the soldat to the one called Haggit; he caught it with a deft motion. "I give my gold where and when I see fit. Two who tried to take it are still cooling at the foot of the bridge." She gave him a hard, penetrating look. "Now, I want to see Zip, and I'll pay fairly to find him. Play me any other way, Haggit-" Chenaya winked at him and nodded her head "-and you'll do all the paying."