A one shot about the brotherhood and rivalry between Corus' best young thieves, George and Marek Swiftknife. Constructive Criticism accepted to the point of worship, so please tell me what I can do better. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or places in this story, they belong to Tamora Pierce.
"One, two, three, four," Marek muttered rhythmically under his breath. His palms were starting to get sweaty and as each dagger wisped through his hand, the perspiration began to collect on the warm metal. Each time he cycled the four daggers through the air, his grip became less and less sure. Not that he was about to stop. He would show the men betting against him that no man handled a blade better than Marek Swiftknife!
He was aware of the dull roaring around him, but mostly he heard nothing but the deadly whisper of double-edged blades slicing through the air. He was so used to the nightly hustle and bustle of his favorite haunt, the Dancing Dove, that his sense of hearing had adjusted to it.
Out of the blended noise of the crowd, a voice began to chant, "Five, five, five, five!" Just for a heartbeat, Marek let his eyes flicker over to the source of the trouble, ready to gut whoever was taunting him in a thrice. Twinkling hazel eyes met his own brown ones.
"Stupid kid," Marek muttered under his breath. It was George, the King's newest pet. Only fourteen, George was the newest member of the King of the Rogue's inner circle and was quickly rising through the ranks. The lad had a sharp eye and a quick hand and for all that he was a good five years younger than him, Marek knew that he would prove no push over competition in his quest for kingship. Under his breath, Swiftknife cursed George with every word in his rather impressive vocabulary.
Before Marek could put into action his initial thoughts of whirling one of the knives into the young thief's throat, the rest of the court, including the King, joined in the chant.
"Five, Five, Five, Five!" The entire Court of the Rogue chanted, those with tankards of ale slamming them down in time; even the assorted flower girls joined in the chant, leaving their business behind for a moment to watch the juggling thief and giggle at the absurdity of it all. All the while, Marek kept the blades twisting in their deadly arcs.
Laughing in a way that was none too friendly, the King of the Rogue stood and made his way through the crows to stand directly before Marek. The Bear, as he was known, was easily the biggest man in the tavern. Standing at well over six and a half feet in height and weighing more than twice Marek's own weight, he was more that just an imposing figure, he was a deadly fighter. He had dethroned the last king by crushing the man's throat as the dying man had slashed his arms in vain. It was said that the King could twist a sword into a knot with his only his hands. Bearing a grin that revealed a dozen missing teeth, the King slowly unsheathed a dagger from the depths of his shirt sleeve.
"What do ya say, Swiftknife? I seem to remember something about ya boasting to Old Solom that you could juggle, oh what was it now…" the older man stroked the stubble on his jaw, "As many as eight knives, wasn't it? Five is much less then eight, if me schoolin' served me at all, so I don't see why it'd be a problem." The gruff bear of a man turned his blade over in his fingers, letting the steel glimmer in the candle light of the shadowy tavern.
Marek's breath caught in his throat. All he had wanted was a little ale and a little meat. He really was simple man after all. Of course, once he'd had a little of that meat, and just a swallow or two of that ale, he had been very much at ease. It wasn't his fault that he tended to exaggerate when he was at ease, really. He'd only been make the right image of himself in the minds of those who would one day be his subjects, once of course he got the best of the current king.
Now it seemed that as always, the King had gotten the best of him. Marek wasn't sure if he were more angry or impressed with the king's knowledge of everything that went on in his court. How that giant man, who most of the time didn't seem to be the shiniest copper in the bunch, managed to know so much was something Swiftknife would have to figure out before he could dethrone him.
"Not a problem your majesty," Marek managed to say through his rasping breaths. Still keeping his four blades in the air, he bowed slightly, earning a cheer from the crowds.
"Well," said the King, turning to the crowd and gesturing theatrically at Marek, "By all means, Swiftknife show us how it's done!"
Without warning, he spun around and flung the dagger among the whirlwind of steel that Marek already kept in the air. The new dagger fell awkwardly between the third and fourth daggers in the cycle, disturbing his rhythm. He was just able to grab it and fling it into its proper arc before his next dagger dropped into his palm. This earned him and explosive cheer from the crowd. Pleased with his success, Marek shot a triumphant look at George and winked.
"That'll show that kid who's who," thought Marek gruffly, "He thought he could do me in…" To Swiftknife's surprise however, George only winked back, grinning. Ever so slightly, the young thief nodded at the twirling knives above Marek's head. That was when he saw his mistake.
Misjudging the weight of the King's dagger, he had given the fifth blade too much spin in his hurry to get it up into the air. Now there was nothing he could do but watch as the dagger now came twirling down blade first to bite into his hand. The thin steel lodged deeply into the palm of his left hand. Growling in pain as warm blood trickled down his palm and across his wrists, Marek caught the rest of the blades awkwardly in between the fingers of his right hand, earning himself more nicks and scratches.
For the first time that Marek could remember since he had walked into the Dove as a lad ten years ago, the Dancing Dove was silent. There wasn't a giggle of a flower girl, the scraping of a chair across the planked floor, or the sloshing of ale against the side of a tankard to be heard.
Noiselessly, the King glided up to Marek. He brought his face close to Marek's own, so close that Swiftknife could trace every scar on the leathery skin.
"Ooops," said the King gruffly. He gripped Marek's blood covered wrist, never taking his eyes away from younger thief's. "It's a shame, really," he said in a sharp whisper that made every rogue in the tavern lean in to hear what the king said.
Without warning, he yanked the blade out from its lodged position in Marek's hand. With the blood, no longer slowed by the blade, it spurted from Marek hand, spraying the circle around him with drops of crimson.
"I just had this knife sharpened!" The king cried as he began to laugh, his coarse peels filling the otherwise silent room.
Very conscious of all the eyes on him and wincing at all of the blood he was losing, Swiftknife felt that perhaps it was time for a retreat. Quickly, he wrapped his throbbing, dripping hand up in the bottom of his shirt and bowed awkwardly to the chuckling king. His stomach churned as he noticed specks of his own blood on the King's forehead.
"Well," Marek began, needing to fill the silence, "It's my pleasure to assure your majesty that your sharpening stone has done a truly excellent job." He gritted his teeth in an attempt to grin. With that, Marek escaped through the crowd as it broke its silence with laughter.
Growling with pain, Marek finally stumbled out into to the cool night air of the alley behind the Dove. His new shirt was now covered with growing stains of crimson. His hand would not stop bleeding. If he didn't stitched it up soon, Marek knew he would bleed to death.
"Well," a crisp voice mused from behind him, "You can't say you didn't try,"
Marek whirled around, flicking into hand two of the knives he kept loaded in a spring up his sleeve and settling into a fighter's crouch. He circled his shadowed opponent until he recognized the man leaning comfortably against the side of the Dove as none other than George. This didn't inspire Marek to sheath his knives or leave his crouch.
"Come now Swiftknife," George smiled, "that's no way to greet a friend."
"Friend?" Marek hissed in rage. He swayed slightly, dizzy from the loss of blood. Deciding to end things quickly, Marek flung one of his knives at George's gut with a speed that had rightfully earned him the name 'Swiftknife'.
Within a blink, George sidestepped the dagger and sunk into his own crouch. By the time Marek's knife thudded into the wooden wall where George had been only a moment before, the teen had unsheathed two knives of his own, one in each hand.
Where the young lad had learned the move he had just pulled on Marek, he didn't know. What Marek did know was that he was going to find out. Maybe he was a bit slower because of his bleeding hand, but he didn't like the idea that some green rogue could pull a fast one on him.
"Honestly Marek, I don't think that was called for. Friends don't try to gut friends,"
Marek growled, "You are not my…"
"Don't move," a voice from the shadows at the end of the alley barked, cutting Swiftknife off. In the same moment, both George and Marek snapped their heads toward the source of the voice.
"Don't move! In the name of His Majesty King Roald, I order you to freeze." The voice proclaimed with slurred words. Out of the shadows slouched two city police. One pointed a crossbow at George and the other sloppily drew his sword. They were very drunk and they wouldn't have been much of a threat if it wasn't for the crossbow. With a twitch of his finger, the man could send a bolt sailing through Swiftknife's heart. It didn't matter how much the man's hand shook, at this range it was a near impossibility that a trained police could miss.
"There won't be any brawling in the King's street," the second guard hiccupped as he got a firmer grip on his blade. Slowly, the two guards shuffled closer.
"Really?" asked George, catching Marek's eyes. Reading his gaze, Marek sighed heavily, but nodded just enough so that George could see but the two approaching enemies couldn't. Personally, he wouldn't mind seeing the guards shoot George full of arrows, but he preferred to keep his own body whole and if that meant working with his rival thief, so be it.
"Yeah," said Marek, "The King we follow rather likes brawls," Moving so that the Provost's men couldn't see, Marek twisted his blade slightly in his hand to a better grip for throwing and waited for George's signal. He didn't tare his eyes away from the hazel ones in front of him.
George's eye flickered slightly and Marek tensed his muscles, ready for the fight. "And so do we!"
At the signal, Marek whipped his knife out of his hand toward the attackers. Right on target the blade bit into the crossbow, pinning the shaft of the arrow to the base of the bow. As the two thieves charged the Provost's men, the man with the crossbow was still pulling the bow's trigger in a vain attempt to stop them.
It wasn't much of a fight, really. After dodging a few sloppy swings of the other guard's heavy sword, George's knife in his gut finished him. Marek's man was still trying to shoot at him as Swiftknife's blade slid silently across his throat. In the same moment, the guards collapsed onto each other, dead before they knew what had happened.
Exhausted from even such a pathetic fight by the loss of blood from his still dripping hand, Marek stumbled back from the bodies to lean heavily against the alley wall. He drew a new knife from the small of his back and turned again to face George. He hadn't forgotten their fight.
George turned away from the bodies grinning, "Well that was fun." Seeing Marek's drawn knife, he laughed lightly. "Come now Marek, is that really necessary?" Deliberately, the young thief sheathed his own knives, bared his empty hands for Marek to see, and then he pointed at his bloody palm.
"That's a nasty gash. You'll want to have a healer take a look at that."
Marek snorted, but kept his eyes on his adversary. "Oh, and what healer will work his magic on a thief like me?" He asked bitterly.
George's eyes twinkled. "Come my friend, I know just the woman." He tossed his head toward the entrance of the alley.
Looking down at his gushing hand, Marek realized that he had no other choice. He had to hope that George was telling the truth and not just planning to gut him when his back was turned. Marek reluctantly sheathed his blade and shuffled toward the thief.
"We are not friends," Marek grumbled as he stumbled, dizzy and exhausted.
A moment later, his good arm was wrapped around a steady shoulder and George was helping him walk out of the alley. George laughed comfortably as he guided Marek through the streets.
"Just you wait Swiftknife," he said, "I'll win you over yet."