James decided to take a shortcut from the palace district to the North Gate, one that would require he pass through a warehouse district behind the Merchants’ Quarter. He knew the city as well as any living man, and had no concerns about getting lost, but when two figures detached themselves from the shadows as he rounded a corner, he cursed himself for a fool. The out-of-the-way route was unlikely to be host to many citizens abroad on lawful business at this time of night. And these two looked nothing like lawful citizens.
One carried a large billy club and had a long belt knife, while the other rested his hand easily upon a sword. The first wore a red leather vest while his companion wore a simple tunic and trousers. Both had sturdy boots on, and James instantly recognized them for what they were: common street thugs. They were almost certainly freebooters, men not associated with the Mockers, the Guild of Thieves.
James pushed aside his self-recriminations for taking this shortcut, for the matter was now beyond changing.
The first man said, “Ah, what’s the city coming to?”
The second nodded, moving to flank James should he try to run. “It’s a sad state of affairs. Gentlemen of means, wanderin’ the streets after midnight. What can they be thinking?”
Red-vest pointed his billy club at James and said, “He must be thinkin’ his purse is just too heavy and be hopin’ for a helpful pair like us to relieve him of it.”
James let out a slow breath and calmly said, “Actually, I was thinking about the foolishness of men who don’t recognize a dangerous mark when they see one.” He drew his rapier slowly and moved the point to halfway between the two men, so that he would be able to parry an attack from either man.
“The only danger here is tryin’ to cross us,” said the second thug, drawing his sword and lashing out at James.
“I really don’t have time for this,” James said. He parried the blow easily and riposted. The swordsman barely pulled back in time to avoid being skewered like a holiday pig.
Red-vest pulled out his belt knife and swung his billy club, but James ducked aside and kicked out with his right leg, propelling the man into his companion. “You still have time to run away, my friends.”
Red-vest grunted, recovered his balance, and rushed James, threatening with the billy club while holding his knife in position to do the real damage. James recognized the man’s outrage - this was no longer a simple mugging; these two men now meant to kill him. He ignored the billy club, dodging toward it rather than away, and sliced at the man’s left wrist. The knife fell to the stones with a clatter.
While Red-vest howled in pain and fell back, his companion came rushing in, his sword cocked back over his shoulder. James danced backward for two steps, and as the man let fly with his wide swing - designed to decapitate the young squire - James leaned forward in a move he had learned from the Prince, his left hand touching the stones to aid his balance and his right hand extending out. The attacker’s sword passed harmlessly over James’s head and he ran onto the point of James’s rapier. The man’s eyes widened in shock and he came to an abrupt halt, looked down in disbelief, then collapsed to his knees. James pulled his sword point free and the man toppled over.
The other brigand caught James by surprise coming over the shoulder of his collapsing friend, and James barely ducked away from a thrust that would have certainly split his head. He took a glancing blow on his left shoulder, still sore from the beating he had taken at the hands of the Nighthawks, and gasped at the unexpected pain. The hilt of the knife had struck, so there was no blood - his tunic wasn’t even ripped - but damn it, he thought, it hurt!
James’s training and battle-honed reflexes took over, and he turned with the attacker, his sword lashing out again as the man went by, and stood behind him as he too went down to his knees, then toppled over. James didn’t even have to look to know his sword had cut Red-vest’s throat in a single motion.
James wiped his sword off on the shirt of the first man he had killed and returned it to its sheath. Rubbing his sore left shoulder, he shook his head and muttered, “Idiots,” quietly under his breath. Resuming his journey he marveled, not for the first time, at humanity’s capacity for stupidity. For every gifted, brilliant man like Prince Arutha, there seemed to be a hundred - no, make that a thousand - stupid men.
Better than most men in the Prince’s court, James understood the petty motives and narrow appetites of most citizens. As he turned his back on the two dead men, he acknowledged to himself that most of the population were decent people, people who were tainted by only a little larceny, a small lie about taxes owed, a little shorting of a measure, but in the main they were good.
But he had seen the worst and best of the rest, and had gone from a fraternity of men bent on trivial gain by any means, including murder, to a fellowship of men who would sacrifice even their own lives for the greater good.