“I will make it hurt more if you scream,” he hissed, yellowed teeth mere inches from Tasia’s face. He was taller than her, but not by much, with black hair cut in a severe ring around his head, shaved to his scalp below the black fringe. He wore heavy robes, grey and plain and cinched at his waist with a white rope.
He’s a Wise Man, Tasia thought with a shock of incredulity.
But that made no sense. She knew every Wise Man in the city, and she’d never seen this man’s face before.
He pulled an iron knife from somewhere within his robes, its blade as black as his hair.
Not just any Wise Man. A Wise Man who intended to kill her.
Something about the realization brought the world into focus for her. Regaining her balance, Tasia struck out with one foot, hard and low against his shin.
The first kick in a fight should always be low. She’d learned that from the night guardsmen’s bragging, boisterous tales of their barroom brawls and misadventures.
The Wise Man’s grip on her arm loosened — not much, but just enough for Tasia to take a half-step backwards. She drove her knee upward, hard and swift. She’d aimed for his groin but missed somehow, and felt her knee crack against the bottom of his ribcage. It was good enough — he grunted and let go. Tasia sprinted up the hill, knowing if she could just out-pace him by a hundred yards, she’d be able to call out for help, and her friends of the Westgate guard would recognize her voice in the night.
But she could not out-pace him. He was on her again in an instant, before she’d managed to evade him by so much as a yard. This time he grabbed the back of the cloak, yanking hard so that the leather tie in the front dug into her throat.
“You’re only making it harder on yourself, Princess,” he said as she stumbled backward into him. He threw her roughly to the ground, her chin smacking against the cobblestones before the rest of her.
He planted a knee in her back, pinning her. He leaned closer to roll Tasia over, but she was ready for him, grabbing the wrist that held the knife, trying to wrest it from his hand.
“No!” she screamed at him, unable to find any other words. “No, no, no!”
The Wise Man tried to extract his wrist, but she had the wrist with both hands now, refusing to let go. He used his free hand to slap her hard against the face — once, then twice.
“No!” Tasia yelled again, still stubborn and fighting despite the pain blossoming in her chin, her cheeks, the scraped palms and bruised knees where she’d hit the pavement. But he was far stronger than she, far heavier, and she knew she would lose this battle.
And that was the worst part about it — knowing that she would lose before the end actually came.
2
He pulled his wrist loose at last, and the knife arced up, its black blade refusing to reflect the moonlight. Tasia closed her eyes on instinct, body tightening in anticipation of the final blow.
But then there was a series of shouts, a muffled cry, and the weight pressing her into the cobblestones mercifully disappeared.
Tasia opened her eyes in time to see two men in city guard uniforms sling the Wise Man face-first into the middle of the street. One guard yelled obscenities, his short sword’s blade pressed to the Wise Man’s throat; the other guard busied himself tying the would-be-assassin’s hands behind his back with a length of twine.
Dazed, Tasia made her way to her to her knees, gathering the scattered contents of her bread basket from the pavement. On instinct, she picked up the Wise Man’s black iron knife as well, dropping it into the basket with the bread.
Fortunately, the ring with the royal crest of the House of Dorsa was still in its hiding place inside a loaf of bread. She pulled it out hastily and put it on her finger, rotating it so that the crest faced down instead of up. She would only reveal her identity if she had to.
One of the guards looked over at her. “Girl? Are you alright?”
“Yes. Thank you.” She tugged her hood down a little lower, avoided his gaze, and went back to gathering her fallen bread.
But she could feel the guard’s eyes on her.
“Awfully late for a bread delivery,” he said with obvious skepticism. He took a few steps closer to her.
Tasia decided the best course of action was to not respond. That was what a humble, lowly baker’s girl would do if approached by the city guard, wasn’t it? So she only nodded and brushed dirt from a loaf.
“Where are you going?” asked the guard.
Through the shadows cast by her cloak’s hood, she glanced at the guard, then her attacker. The Wise Man on the ground appeared to be unconscious now; a starburst of blood painted his temple red and trickled down his cheek.
Like it or not, Tasia had the full attention of both guards. One of them was huge, with wiry black hair and a black beard that protruded out from beneath his leather cap and spilled halfway down his chest like a plant that had overgrown its pot. The other, the one who’d suggested it was too late for a bread delivery, was average-sized but looked puny next to the big man. He wore no leather cap, and he wore his oiled hair slicked back behind his ears. Both guards inspected her with open curiosity. It was indeed the wrong time and the wrong place to find a baker’s girl alone on the street.
“I’m going home,” Tasia replied. She made her voice soft, timid, the way a baker’s girl’s would be. She looked away from the guards, keeping her face hidden within the hood.
“We’ll escort you,” said the guard with the slicked-back hair.
“No.”
Tasia said it too firmly, too quickly, realizing as soon as the word escaped her lips that a baker’s girl wouldn’t speak in such a contrarian tone to a member of the city guard. Especially not a frightened baker’s girl who’d just been attacked.
She tried to correct herself but instead made a second blunder: “I’m close to home. I know the way.”
The big guard with the wild black hair stood up, straddling the fallen Wise Man. He was even bigger on his feet, looming over the unconscious man.
“Close to home?” said the bear-sized man. “You’re in the Ambassador Quarter.”
The shorter guard took another step closer. He cocked his head like a cat, narrowing his eyes at Tasia.
Feign confusion, instinct told Tasia.
She straightened, turned her gaze away from the guards, rubbed the tender spot on the back of her head with imagined absent-mindedness as she rotated in a slow circle. Behind her, dark water gently lapped at the bank of the Royal Canal.
“But isn’t that the canal?” she asked.
“It is.”
She paused. “The Merchant Canal?”
“No,” said the big guard. “The Royal Canal.”
She spun on her heel back towards the guards. “The Royal Canal? How… where am I? Did you say this is the Ambassador Quarter?”
The guards exchanged a glance, and the one with the slicked-back hair chuckled. “I think you must’ve hit your head harder than you thought, girl. You’d better let us walk you home.”
Tasia didn’t respond.
“But wait, Mack,” said the big bearded one. “How’s we gonna walk her home, eh? What’re we goin’ t’do wit’ him?” He toed the body of the unconscious Wise Man.