And now she was gone, and he was alone again.
Alone. He'd never realized how final that word sounded. It seemed to echo on in his mind, as he saw his future spread out before him. His career was over. No one would ever trust him again, now that he'd betrayed his friend and colleague in the middle of an election. His friends would spurn him, and he'd gone against his family's wishes too often in the past to hope for any support from them.
There was no hope for him now. Hope was for men with a future before them.
But there was still one thing he could do. One last thing that might win him some rest, some peace. And perhaps then his friends would realize how much he regretted the harm he'd done them.
Medley drew the knife from his boot. It was a short knife, barely six inches long, but it had a good blade and a sharp edge. It would do the job. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the knife. He thought about what he was going to do very carefully. It was the last important thing he would ever do, and he didn't want to make a mess of it. He put the knife down beside him on the bed, and rolled up his sleeves. The flesh of his arms seemed very pale, and very vulnerable. He stared at his arms for a while. The long blue veins and the sprinkling of hairs fascinated him, as though he'd never seen them before. He picked up the knife and automatically stropped the blade against his trouser-leg to clean it. He realized what he was doing, and smiled. As if that mattered now.
He held the knife against his left wrist, and then had to stop, because his hands were shaking too much. He was breathing in great heaving gasps, and goose flesh had sprung up on his arms. He concentrated, summoning his courage, and his hands grew steady again. The blade shone dully in the lamplight. He pressed the knife into his flesh, and the skin parted easily under the blade. Blood welled up, and he bit his lip at the sharp pain. He gritted his teeth, and pulled the knife across his wrist. The pain was awful, and he groaned aloud. He could feel the tendons popping as they pulled apart under the blade. Blood spurted out into the air. He quickly grabbed the knife in his left hand, before the feeling could leave his fingers, and slashed at the veins in his right wrist. His arm wavered, and he had to cut twice more before he was sure he'd done a good enough job.
The knife slipped out of his fingers and fell to the floor. He was crying now. Tears and snot ran down his face as he struggled for breath amidst his tears. The blood pumped out surprisingly quickly, and he began to feel faint and dizzy. He lay back on the bed, squeezing his eyes shut against the horrid pain that burned all the way up his arms to his elbows. He hadn't thought it would hurt so much. He held his mouth firmly closed, despite the sobs that shook him. He couldn't afford to make any noise. Someone might hear him, and come to help.
He began to feel sick. He couldn't stop crying. This wasn't how he'd thought it would be. But he wasn't surprised; not really. He should have known he wouldn't even be allowed to leave his life with a little dignity. He could see his fingers flexing spasmodically, but he couldn't feel them any longer. The blood was still coming. It soaked the bedding around his arms. So much blood.
He looked up at the ceiling, and then closed his eyes, for the last time.
<em>I loved you, Roxanne. I really loved you</em>.
The darkness closed in around him.
Chapter Eight
RESCUES
Roxanne was furious, and the mercenaries were keeping their distance. Pike and Da Silva had disappeared the moment they reached Hardcastle's safe house, ostensibly to lock Fisher safely away, but actually to get out of Roxanne's reach until she calmed down a little and took her hand away from her sword belt. The twenty mercenaries Hardcastle had detailed to guard the safe house weren't as quick-thinking, which meant they ended up taking the brunt of Roxanne's displeasure. They stayed as far away from her as they could, nodded or shook their heads whenever it seemed indicated; mostly they just tried to fade into the woodwork. Roxanne paced back and forth, growling and muttering to herself. She'd never felt so angry, and what made it worse was that she wasn't all that sure what she was so angry about.
Part of it came from losing so many men to Adamant's sorcerer. If she hadn't insisted on full magical protection from Wulf for herself and Pike and Da Silva, she and they would have died along with her men. Roxanne hated losing men. She took it personally.
Some of her anger came from not having taken Hawk as well as Fisher. She'd vowed to take them both, and she hated to fail at things she set her word to. Legends can't afford to fail; if they do, they stop being legends.
But most of her anger came from how they'd taken Fisher. She'd been looking forward to crossing swords with the legendary Captain Fisher ever since she came to Haven, and in the end somebody had struck the Guard down from behind while she wasn't looking. That was no way to beat a legend. Winning that way made Roxanne feel cheap; like just another paid killer. And on top of all that, she hadn't even been allowed to kill Fisher cleanly. Hardcastle had specifically ordered that Fisher was to be kept alive for interrogation. Roxanne sniffed. She knew a euphemism for torture when she heard it.
She glared about her as she paced, and the mercenaries avoided her gaze. The safe house was a dump; a decaying firetrap in the middle of a row of low-rent tenements. Somehow that was typical of Hardcastle and his operations. Cheap and nasty. All in all, the whole operation had left a bad taste in Roxannes mouth. She was a warrior, and this kind of dirty political fighting didn't sit well with her. She'd killed and tortured before, and delighted in the blood, but that was in the heat of battle, where courage and steel decided men's fates, not dirty little schemes and back-room politics. If anyone had ever accused Roxanne of being honorable, she'd have laughed in their faces, but this; this whole mess just stank to high heaven.
She wondered fleetingly what Medley would have thought of all this, and then pushed the thought firmly to one side.
She stopped pacing about, and took several deep breaths. It calmed her a little, and she took her hand away from her sword. The mercenaries began to breathe a little more easily, and stopped judging the distances to possible exits. Pike and Da Silva chose that moment to reappear. Roxanne glared at them.
"Well?" she said icily.
"Sleeping like a baby," said Pike. "But we've tied her hand and foot, just in case."
Roxanne nodded. "I'll take a quick look at her, and then I'd better report back to Hardcastle. He'll need to know what's happened. You two stay here."
Pike and Da Silva nodded quickly, and watched in silence as Roxanne disappeared into the adjoining room where they'd dumped Fisher. They waited until the door had swung shut behind her, and then looked at each other.
"She's getting out of control," said Da Silva quietly.
"If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was developing scruples," said Pike. "Still, Hardcastle knew there was a risk in using Roxanne for political work. Everyone knows Roxanne's crazy. It doesn't matter on a battlefield, but we can't have her running wild in Haven. She knows too much."
"So she's expendable?"
"Everyone's expendable in politics. Especially her. That's official, from Hardcastle."
"Which of us gets to kill her?"
Pike grinned. "I wasn't thinking of fighting a duel with her. I was thinking more along the lines of dosing her wine with a fast-acting poison, waiting until she'd collapsed, and then cutting her head off. There's a good price for her head in the Low Kingdoms."
"Sounds good to me," said Da Silva.
Roxanne stood just inside the doorway of the adjoining room, listening. She'd always had good hearing. It had kept her alive on battlefields more than once. She'd known Pike and Da Silva were up to something, but the casualness with which they discussed her death made her blood boil. The orders had to have come from Hardcastle; they wouldn't have dared make such a decision themselves. Hardcastle had sold her out to a couple of back-alley assassins. She wanted to just charge out into the next room, draw her sword, and cut them both down, but even she wasn't crazy enough to take on twenty-two armed men in a confined space. She hadn't made her reputation as a warrior by being stupid. She had to get out of there and think things over.