Tales of Downfall and Rebirth by S. M. Stirling Read Free Book Online Page A

approaching the target from an angle. Perfectly possible, with a long knife and if you were strong and quick, but the knife in the unfortunate Shelly’s body stood straight out at ninety degrees, thrust with the flat of the blade parallel to the ground.
    The only way an ordinary assailant could do that was with a backhand stab, and even then you’d have to be at exactly the right place.
    â€œAnd at the right
height
,” Órlaith went on. “Look, this girl, Shelly, she’s what, five-six? Something like that. Herry . . . Lady d’Ath . . . is my height pretty much, maybe an inch less. And the position isn’t right. Shelly ran right into her, headfirst. And Herry . . . Lady d’Ath . . . is very strong and quick, but to reach back, get the knife, then
turn Shelly around
, stab her without slanting the blade, and then turn her around again so she could fall flat on her face . . .”
    â€œInteresting,” Terwen said slowly.
    â€œHer prints will be on the knife!” Dayton blurted.
    â€œOf course they will be!” Heuradys snapped. “It’s
my knife
. I clean and wipe my sword and dagger every evening and touch the hilts a dozen times a day even if I don’t draw!”
    â€œSo you think someone else grabbed the knife and stabbed Shelly Hiver in the back?” Terwen said.
    â€œSomeone behind her to begin with. Someone who knows how to use a knife, and who’s quick-thinking enough to douse the light with beer . . . I hope nobody thinks Herry . . . Lady d’Ath . . . did
that.
”
    Tom Dayton started to go purple. Órlaith extended a hand.
    â€œNot him—he’s too tall anyway. There was just time to reach over, grab the knife, stab and let her fall before the lamplight came on. Someone about the same height as the girl. And—”
    A thought occurred to her. “Someone left-handed. Or using their left hand.”
    She looked at the cluster of young men beside Tom Dayton. One of them
was
a little under average height, though broad enough to be a bit squat, with big hands and long arms. His right hand was looking painfully swollen . . .
    â€œThat’s the one!” Órlaith said. “He’s the one who groped Lady d’Ath, and she dislocated his thumb. Look for
his
prints on the knife!”
    The young man didn’t waste any time on protests of innocence; he just turned and dashed for the front door and the police there poised their catchpoles. His hand came out of his pocket and twitched as he did, and a blade gleamed—flick-knife, prompting a yell of warning from several people. Where he thought he was going at night with the city gates locked shut she didn’t know; she was too conscious of the warm flux of relief in her gut.
    Sionnach moved very quickly for such a big man; he picked up a globe-bellied wine flask from a table, hefted it and threw fast enough to make it blur through the shadows. It cracked into the man’s back, and he staggered with a cry of despair. The hesitation was just long enough. One of the officers at the door darted out her catchpole like a frog’s tongue striking, and the open-end of the Y-fork whacked home on his neck. The spring-loaded catch snapped closed, but the man grabbed the pole with his hand and rammed her into the wall beside the door. The other catchpole darted forward in the instant that took, and the constables both twisted to bring the choking pressure to bear.
    â€œDrop it!” the one he’d run into the wall wheezed. “Do it now!”
    After an instant the man went to his knees as the intolerable leverage of the long poles made his thick neck creak. His face turned dull purple, mouth moving in silent curses or snarls.
    â€œDrop it or we’ll snap your spine!” the constable snarled.
    He did a moment later, and several more closed in, nightsticks ready. One smacked