The Red Wolf Conspiracy by Robert V S Redick Read Free Book Online

his fellows. Sandor Ott walked to the center of the room.
    “It's the best of news, eh, lads? The start of your golden time. Just think: a year from now His Supremacy will count you all Defenders of the Realm. And centuries hence your family names will still be praised in song. You work in secrecy today, but your grandchildren will know that they are descended from the men who saved the Empire. More than heroes, you shall— Zirfet Salubrastin!”
    At the sound of his name a very big man, easily the strongest in the room, gave a startled jump.
    “Why are you looking at the door, you straw-gutted mule?”
    “I never did, sir!” blurted Zirfet. He stood rooted to the spot, his enormous frame turned slightly in the direction of the tower door. Ott crossed the room to face him. The top of the old man's head was little higher than Zirfet's elbow.
    “You had a mind to slip away,” said Ott, very low.
    “No, sir!” exploded Zirfet.
    Ott held Zirfet's gaze without moving. Then, in a smooth gesture, he unsheathed a long white knife.
    “You were scheming, Zirfet,” he said. “An illness, a broken leg, your dear ma dying in Hubboxum. Any story, so long as it kept you off that ship.”
    “You're wrong! I never—not for one minute—”
    Ott slid the naked blade through Zirfet's own belt, then withdrew his hand.
    “Master Ott!” Now Zirfet's great shoulders were quaking. “I don't want your knife, sir! I don't!”
    “You've got the only blade in the room, lad. And I'm calling you a coward. A reeking, swill-blooded coward. You'll want to challenge me, Zirfet. It's your right.”
    With contemptuous slowness, the old man turned his back on the younger spy and cast a cold glance at the other five.
    “Men of the Secret Fist. Which of you could stand before his father and not hang his head? By the Night Gods! I watched them leap onto burning ships. I watched them charge up ladders through the boiling pitch, into the very teeth of the Mzithrin horde. Murder in their eyes, blood to their elbows. And look at their progeny. A few years of peace and you turn into dolls. Straw dolls, scarecrows, cowards! Rin spare me, you're like old Quimby, Her Highness' pet. White flabby sows, too fond of your slops to bother with the oath you swore at the Ametrine Throne, or even to defend your own rancid, maggot-mounded, offal-heap honor! Pelech!”
    The last word was in Old Arquali, a ritual battle-cry to be flung at an enemy, and with it the old man twisted sideways, out of the path of Zirfet's lunge. The knife missed his back by an inch, but Ott did not escape unharmed: Zirfet's huge left fist caught him squarely in the eye. The old man flung himself with the blow, rolled over the little table with the candles and the sea chart. The other men retreated to the walls. No stopping a fight the spymaster himself had provoked.
    Zirfet leaped for Ott again, snarling, all hesitation gone. But Ott was quicker. His fall from the table carried back into a roll, and as he gained his feet, still spinning, he caught the table by one leg and whirled it with terrific speed. His first pass checked Zirfet's advance, his second caught the knife in mid-stab and tore it from the other's hand.
    To the watching spies, the rest of the fight seemed pitifully one-sided. Zirfet rushed Ott like an elephant, Ott leaped back and let him slip on the wine. Zirfet had learned enough from his old teacher to use the fall rather than struggle against it, and sprang to his feet again with something approaching grace. But then he took another hopeless swing at Ott. The spymaster parried it easily with his knee, and at the same time broke the second wine bottle over Zirfet's head. Even as he fell, Zirfet managed to lash out with his fist. Ott merely danced backward, absorbing the blow, and seizing the big man's wrist in one hand. The blow had stretched Zirfet out, and almost at his ease the spymaster kicked him in the stomach, leaped on his back, and pressed the jagged stem of the