The King of Thieves

Chapter Twenty-Two

Paris

Jacquot walked into the chamber and was surprised to see that the King had the same wench as before draped over his arm. This one must be more durable than most, he thought to himself. As he eyed her, she rolled over slightly, and her dark eyes were on him from beneath a tumbled mess of black hair.

However, at that moment his attention was concentrated more on the mood of the men in the room than on her. The atmosphere was edgy. He could see that one in particular — perhaps a friend of the Stammerer? — was staring at him angrily. The King himself was mild in manner, but there was something in his eye that put Jacquot on his guard. Not that he allowed it to show in his face or his actions.

‘You owe me for the two jobs,’ Jacquot announced.

‘Ah, so the Procureur is dead?’

‘You know he is. All Paris is talking of it,’ Jacquot said flatly.

‘And the second?’

‘The Stammerer. The one you sent to do my work.’

He was right. The man at the edge of the room was practically foaming at the mouth. It was quite amusing, really.

‘I see. So you want me to pay you for the removal of one of my friends?’

‘You commanded his execution. You owe me for it.’

‘And what would an executioner demand for the death of his friend — the same fee as usual? Poor young Nicholas hardly deserved his end, did he?’

‘I gave him the fastest ending a man could hope for,’ Jacquot said with silky calmness. There was a serenity about him as he settled on his legs, waiting.

‘Perhaps you would like the same?’ the King sneered.

Jacquot saw it coming. There was a shadow in the corner of his eye, and he ducked to avoid it. It was a mace, only a smallish, tubular one, perhaps an inch in diameter, and six inches long, with nail-like spikes protruding, but set on a shaft of beech two feet long, there was enough momentum in it to crush his head like an apple. It swept over him, one spike catching his shoulder as the man tried to change his point of aim, and the pain burned.

He was up, turning as he rose, his dagger already out and thrusting. It plunged into the man’s gut, and he ripped it upwards, his left hand grabbing the man’s mace-hand as it crashed into the wall. Then the mace was his, and the attacker was on the ground.

Whirling, he brought the mace around, clenched in his left hand, the dagger slick and slippery in his right, and a man shrieked with pain as the iron spikes tore into his forearm, the massive weight shattering the slender bones, ripping through the flesh and peeling it away, from his elbow to his wrist.

Another was at his side. He could not swing the mace in time. Instead he dropped his stance, his right knee bending, and thrust with all his body’s mass behind the dagger’s point, straight at the fellow’s groin. The blade skidded on the man’s thigh-bone, and a gush of blood proved he had hit the artery, before there was a snap like a small cannon-shot hitting a wall, and the man’s tendon was gone. He slumped, sobbing, his hands over his wrecked body, and the blood pumped in a steady flow from between his fingers.

Jacquot continued the whirl, and rose slowly from his crouch, the dagger held up at his breast, the mace high, in the overhand guard. Two more men stood at the walls, but they did not challenge him. The King himself was still lying on his cushions, the wench at his side breathing a little faster, her little pink tongue touching her upper lip, her eyes bright with excitement. So that was how she survived, Jacquot thought to himself. He had never liked women with a taste for violence, but it explained the woman’s longevity.

‘My money,’ he said again.

The King glanced at him, and now there was a chilly dispassion in his gaze. ‘What do you think, Amélie? Should he have it or not?’

‘No,’ she said. She rolled a little to study him more closely. He could look along the length of her body, and she saw his gaze, lifting an arm to make her breast tighten, an invitation. She was breathing faster, but it was not fear, he saw. No, rather it was a sexual excitement. She had been thrilled to see the men fighting. Women like that made Jacquot feel sick.

‘She says I should keep my money,’ the King said.

Jacquot glanced about him, then gripped his knife more tightly, and stepped on the King’s foot. ‘Then I’ll cut off each toe. That will be payment enough for now.’

He set the blade at the first, the little toe of the right foot, and began to press.

‘All right, you bastard! Yes, you can have it, but let me go!’

He pointed to the man furthest from the door out. This was not one of his protectors, but one of his counting-men. The King maintained several who were escaped clerics, renegades who sought to avoid a life of boredom by joining his little group. The sad fact was, few if any realised what a life of excitement might entail. This fellow was a youth of only some two-and-twenty summers. He was about the age Jacquot’s son would have been, had he lived.

Dropping his foot and walking to the lad, Jacquot held out his hand. It still held the dagger, and he realised it made him look intimidating. He did not care. The mace was a dead weight in his hand, so he tossed that to the wall, and reached out with his left hand for the purse the boy held.

He saw the movement in the boy’s eye. It was tiny, just a fleeting glimpse of a reflection, but it was enough to send him diving to his left, and the weapon missed him completely.

At the floor, he rolled swiftly, and just missed the second blow. It was a war-hammer, an evil tool, with a great square lump of steel on one side, a four-inch spike on the reverse, and a sharpened blade protruding from the head for a good six-inches which held a razor-edge. The man wielding it was, short, but heavy, and his eyes were quick and alert. This wasn’t one of the King’s young drunks, but a wary and competent opponent.

Jacquot sprang to his feet, regretting his confidence in reaching for the money. He should have been more cautious. The blade waved in front of him, the two edges of steel catching the light as it moved. Each had a quarter inch of rebate where the man had whetted it, and it held Jacquot’s attention like a snake as it wove from side to side, in and out. And stabbed.

Close, so close. He had only just moved in time. And now he was running out of space to reverse further. The hammer was set on a long shaft, and gave the man an extra three feet of reach. Jacquot needed a weapon with similar length, or some other means of attacking. He was not near the door, and all about him were the bodies of the men he had beaten off. Their groans were dismal in his ears, making him wonder if his own would soon join theirs.

No. He was not ready to die. Not yet. He felt a foot slip, and could smell the odours of death about him. There was the tinny, metallic scent of blood, the foulness of faeces where death had relieved one of the contents of his bowels. Without glancing down, he knew that the floor was dangerous here.

Without considering, he took a couple of quick steps back, and allowed the hammer-man to chase him, and then reversed his dagger quickly, letting it flick up in the air, before catching it by the point. Then he drew his hand back and let it fly straight at the man’s groin.

Some would flinch to see a blade whirling towards his face. Many would duck or slip to the side — but there was no man who could prevent himself from trying to avoid a weapon aimed at his manhood. This fellow was no different. His hammer was pointing at Jacquot, but when the dagger was released, the hammer was withdrawn as he tried to knock it away with the shaft nearer his right hand. The hammer was away, and Jacquot did not wait to see where his dagger struck, or even if it did. He sprang at the man, grasping the shaft too. Their feet scrabbled on the bloody floor, and then the fellow was forced back, his legs flew away from him, and he landed badly on his back. His dagger was on the floor, but Jacquot still had his thin blade. Except he couldn’t reach it while also holding this shaft. And if he released it, he was sure the man would kill him in an instant. All he could do was fight. He head-butted the man, he kicked, kneed, bit and butted again. The man was not going to relinquish the hammer, but neither would Jacquot. In the dark, lying among the blood and the shit, the two scrambled for the better purchase, both desperate to win control, both knowing that the one to weaken must die.

And then his knee hit something. It was his dagger. With a last convulsion that felt as though it must tear all the muscles of his back and shoulders, Jacquot heaved at the hammer. The shaft moved up just slightly, enough, and Jacquot bent his legs, and then leaped with them as high as he could. He came down with both knees bent, pulling against the hammer’s shaft to bring himself as hard as possible into the man’s belly.

It worked. There was a foul gasp of agony as his knees hit the man’s lower gut and groin, and then he gave a keening shriek while trying to protect himself.

Jacquot didn’t care. He snatched up his blade, and now thrust it twice, thrice, four times, into the man’s upper chest. There was a long, rattling noise, a harsh hacking that seemed to tear at the man’s breast, and then nothing.

‘You seem to have destroyed all my guards,’ the King said.

Jacquot hefted the hammer in his hands. It would have been easy to kill him, but there was no point. It would prove nothing. It would not even make him any safer. As soon as the King was known to be dead, Jacquot would become one of those who would never be trusted in another gang, a man who was safer if eradicated. The King would not waste good money on killing him. There was no profit in it. But if the King was dead, others would likely decide to dispense with Jacquot as well as his services.

He walked to the cleric who watched him with eyes made luminous with terror. Gently he eased the purse from the boy’s fingers, and hefted it. ‘I hope it’s all there,’ he said grimly. He surveyed the floor. ‘You really should think about cleaning up this place. It stinks in here.’

‘Tell the lad on the door, Peter the peasant, to get in here and clean this lot away,’ the King said without interest. He was already fondling his wench, who writhed under his hands with a passion Jacquot had not seen her exhibit before.

Jacquot nodded. And then he kicked the King as hard as he could in the face. He heard the woman gasp, and it was not from horror.

‘Never try those tricks on me again, King. And never renege on a business arrangement again. Next time I will give you so much pain, you will wonder that the life has not left your body.’

The King tried to speak, but his mashed lips would not respond. He bent and spat out a shard of tooth. And then, as Jacquot stepped back to leave the room, he saw the wench gentling the King and licking at the blood on his lips with a smile on her face.