The Doktor's Spyglass

Chapter 26.1

There was a moment—one, aching, dangerous moment—when he waited. He didn't hesitate, which in the fluttering card catalogue of his suddenly panicked mind implied uncertainty; he waited. He waited for the door at the other side of the room to explode outward before a wave of black fury as the Hunter came, unannounced, to the defense of Irik Thijis, his newfound sidekick. He waited for his mind to catch up with the reality unfolding before him, with the burly guards who were already getting over the surprise of his sudden appearance.

It occurred to him, oddly, that on some level he'd believed this to be some kind of test by Kantaris. Send the new chap on an apparent suicide mission to test his mettle, only to surprise him by swooping in and cleaning things up with an expert hand. Whiskey all around, gents, the boy's a keeper—what a brave heart on the lad, though his knees did quake some. All of this washed dreamily through the forefront of Irik's thoughts as he ducked and charged, slamming into the closest of the four guards and taking him out at the knees.

It was a desperate, dangerous, clumsy move, but by some miracle he ended up under the dinner table, his legs entangled with the guard's, staring up at the shadows of the worn wood like a child dawdling while his parents talk over the evening meal.

He got a quick glimpse of the other man's wide, grimacing face, his dark eyes closely set beneath a short fringe of brown hair, and then, pushing aside the almost certain knowledge that he was about to die, Thijis lurched upwards. He hit the bottom of the table with one shoulder and, regrettably, one side of his head, lifting it off the floor and charging in what he hoped was the general direction of the other three men. The noise was sudden and tremendous: the sliding scrape of the table legs as they left the floor unevenly, the clatter and crash of the dishes and crockery set out for the guards' humble dinner and, happily, the delicate noise of shattering glass.

The room, which was relatively small for a house of this size—a servant's wing, of some sort—had been lit by a single oil lamp in the center of the dinner table. He'd had the half-cocked idea of flipping the table and putting out the only light, maybe knocking out one or two of the guards in the process and giving himself a chance to sneak away in the ensuing chaos.

He blinked once as he staggered back from the overturned table, and found that chaos had been achieved. A single moment of happy darkness was replaced by a soft guttering sound, and then the unmistakable whump of something catching fire all at once.

In retrospect hoping to snuff out a lit oil lamp by smashing it on the floor in a pile of furniture and men was perhaps a poor plan. He would never know for certain whether the carpet had caught fire from the lamp alone or because the guards' cups had contained something stronger than small beer or watered wine.

He didn't have time to wonder about it at that moment, however, because someone was abruptly punching him in the face.

He'd only gotten two with the table, apparently; the third man, the one who'd dropped the beans, had avoided his bum rush and was now on him like an angry hound. Irik had the presence of mind to back away, and after grabbing the closest available object, which turned out to be an overturned chair, he swung at the bean server desperate, surprising force, crashing the simple wooden chair over his head with a deafening crack.

It was at that point that he remembered he had a weapon, and, instincts returning, he cleared leather and pointed it at the chest of the approaching first guard, who had managed to get up. The big man squinted, glancing at his companions, who in the scant seconds that had passed were still struggling under table, and then back at Thijis. He opened his mouth to speak and Irik shot him in the chest.