The Mongolian Wizard Stories by Michael Swanwick

Author:Michael Swanwick [Swanwick, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tor.com
Published: 2015-12-08T05:00:00+00:00

By the time he’d made his way to Charing Cross, it was twilight.

The streets glistened from a rain which that Ritter could not remember, though his coat was damp from it. He faded back into the shadows, watching the carriages clatter by, eyes cocked for one in particular. A coach which rarely took the same route two days in a row, out of Sir Toby’s natural reluctance to make himself an easy target for assassins. So there was no way of being sure Ritter would see it tonight. Still . . . there were only so many ways of getting from the one place to the other. And there were always other nights.

Then a carriage came rattling toward him. He recognized it immediately, for he had ridden in it many times. Desperately, he lunged forward. “Sir Toby!” The words flew from his mouth like ravens. He was running alongside the carriage now, waving, frantically trying to attract the man’s attention. Above him, he could see the coachman lifting his whip to warn him off.

But now, in the carriage window, that round, complacent face turned and its eyes widened in astonishment. “Ritter!” Sir Toby flung open the door and, extending a hand, pulled Ritter into the interior, alongside him. They tumbled down together in a heap and then clumsily righted themselves.

He was inside, and the carriage hadn’t even slowed down.

“I . . . have . . . a . . . message,” he gasped. It seemed he would never catch his breath. “For . . . you.”

“My dear fellow, I thought you were—well, never mind what I thought. It is wonderful to see you again. We must get you into some clean clothes. A good meal wouldn’t hurt either, by the look of you. I’ll rent you a room at the Club; it isn’t normally allowed, but I think I can swing it. Oh, dear me, you do look dreadful. What Hells you must have been through.”

“The . . . message.” Ritter reached inside his greatcoat, fumbling for an inner pocket.

“There will be plenty of time for that after you eat.” Sir Toby patted his arm soothingly.

“No . . . it . . .” To his astonishment Ritter saw his hand emerge clutching the Sheffield knife he had been given so long ago.

And then he was stabbing and stabbing and stabbing and blood spurted everywhere.

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