Fencing Academy Pt. 03

The pen had drifted so easily across the paper, it seemed odd that she hesitated at the last line. Finally, after a nervous swallow, she concluded her piece.

Even if it is a hard buggering.

Love always,

Lyza

Lyza looked at the parchment with satisfaction, before suddenly remembering she forgot to add something. She scribbled hastily,

P.S. I'll start sending you these letters from now on. If you happen upon an idjit bragging about being done in by me, check their throat or arsehole. I'll have stuck it in there.

She folded up the piece of paper and slipped it in her pocket. Now it was just a matter of waiting.

###

It was time to work.

Carefully, Lyza lifted a plank from the floor. The tools of her trade; a sword, a hirschfanger, a brace of pistols, a cloak blacker than the night sky, and beneath it all, the mask. She put that on last. The mask of that of a ghost woman, in pain and grief, with a single teardrop painted on the left cheek.

With that, she became the Weeping Maiden.

Pulling her hood to darken her visage, she ventured out. The Weeping Maiden could easily scale the crumbling brick walls, clamber onto the tile roofs, and navigate across the cityscape. From this angle, the city became a jagged plain with a treacherous labyrinth beneath. The smokestacks of the factories cut a dark shape in the night sky. In the gaps between buildings there were power lines suspended, thick and strong, that she traipsed over like a cat. The folk who still stalked the streets at this hour would not notice her.

She made her way to the docks. Somewhere a gramophone played a mournful song with a strange and broken melody. Lights flickered from the street as a lamp went out. A tavern released a steady stream of desperate, drunken laughter.

The Weeping Maiden was clear-headed and sharp-eyed. She could leap like an animal, and tumble into alleys without injuring herself. She could sneak behind a group of chattering whores, and be noticed when she wanted to be. When they did, they fell silent and their laughter faded.

"I have a quarry," said the Weeping Maiden, "A strangler. Three girls: Sara Beecher, Gretchen Hirsch, Fernanda West."

One of the prostitutes stroked her mustache. "Aye," she muttered, "I know the feller. He likes the young'uns, I know that. A nob in a dark suit, in his forties, cane with a silver snake head, handsome in a dangerous sort o' way." The woman laughed. "O' course that's true."

"How do you know this?" asked the Maiden.

The prostitute's jowls shook as she nodded. "Gretch and I shared the same corner, we did. That was the man who picked her up last."

"Did you get his name?" asked the Maiden.

The prostitute shrugged.

"Where did you see him?"

The prostitute sniffed in a direction. "Thataway. He comes in the direction of the Golden Gate when he's hungry for a bit of blood."

A piece of silver flicked from the darkness of the Maiden's cloak, but she spared no time to receive thanks. She scaled the wall and scrambled across the rooftops. The Golden Gate divided the nobs from the rest of the city. It was gold for the people who lived behind it: in reality, it was just bleached and ornamented stone. It bristled with guards at all hours, but it was closed at nightfall, creeping open only at dusk. However, there was a side door of reinforced wood and steel which would allow a trickle of traffic through.

It all depended whether the strangler chose to hunt tonight. If he didn't, she would waste a night. If he did...

The side door opened. Soon after, a man strode towards the dock with a dark purpose. A stick in his hand glinted under the harsh city lights. It looked to be silver. She would need to be closer to know for sure.

Her soft boots made only the slightest sound as she clambered over the tile roofs and leaped over alleyways. Even above the street as she was she found it hard to keep up. He seemed to secret himself around corners, and made sudden turns, and went in circles around blocks sometimes. Once the Maiden needed to leap across the street when the man spun around on his feet. His randomness felt deliberate; he meant to foil shadowers.

As the man moved down a dark, unlit alley, the Maiden was forced to jump to street level. She looked around. The roads were empty, but the contours of the buildings provided many murky black crooks. She padded cautiously into the alley, watching the silhouette of the figure wander deep inside.

The man seemed to slow. She weaved between the crates and barrels that cramped the narrow alley. Soon the man was totally still, simply standing.

Then he shot at her.

The gunshot came as such a shock to Lyza that she let out a yelp. She flinched so hard that she didn't get a good look at the muzzle flash... she realized that the man used the darkness to conceal his gun from her.

She pulled one of the pistols on her brace and fired back blind. It was thunderous, and echoed loud against the stone walls. Somewhere a crate fell and splintered on the ground. She cursed.

I shoulda played dead, she thought to herself, Now I wasted a shot.

She had lost more than that. When the echoing gunshot finally died she heard the faint patter of feet on stone, getting further and further away. She cursed again and shimmied up onto the roof, using the gaps in the stones as footholds. When she made it she put her ear to the sky, trying to pick up the same sound.

It was still there. And the direction she needed to move in was clear.

She ran across the tiles, not bothering to disguise the noise, and leaped over an alleyway, forcing her to tumble on the other side. She pulled the second gun from her brace, leaned over the side, and shot at the paralyzed shadow.

He scrambled, pulling his own gun and firing back. Plumes of gray smoke lingered and disguised another retreat. But the Maiden had familiarized herself with the sound of his boots. She followed him easily, this time her third pistol already drawn.

The man unleashed another shot behind him, but it was clumsily fired and the Maiden only flinched. Lyza was no good at counting coins, but she knew how to count bullets, and at this point her target would be short of guns. At the very least, she was.

She followed the man out of the smog, and she saw him running from her. It would be as clear a shot as she could want. She lifted the pistol to line up with her eyes, and pulled the trigger. The gun fizzed and popped, a gout of flame coughed out. But the man continued to run.

She holstered the pistol and wasted little more time. She sprinted across the slanted roof and tumbled into the alley in front of the man. She drew her sword.

"You face the Weeping Maiden," declared Lyza, spinning the sword in her hand.

The man didn't respond, his face shadowed but for a pair of evil, glinting eyes. Instead, he produced a small, murderous pistol and shot it at her. The bullet whistled past her ear and Lyza was left stunned.

Lyza looked behind her. "Hoo... that was close. I didn't think ye had four guns."

Again, the man was silent. He held out his cane, and in one smooth motion, pulled a short, cruel sword from it.

Lyza went into a guard position, holding out Liam's steel sword in front of her. "I'd like to introduce you to me friend. I call him Ghost on the Blackwater. He will be taking your life shortly, aye."

They stood before each other, the points of their swords making smooth, hypnotic circles in front of them. Lyza did not recognize his style: he was to his side, his arm coiled for a thrust, his other hand in a fist on his breast. In the narrow alley they could not circle one another, there was only attack and retreat. In the darkness the only thing clearly visible was the glow of the swords.

She noted the sword had no guard. If she could sidestep the thrust he was preparing for, a hand shot would likely cost him a few fingers. That would be risky in the confines of the alley, with so little area to dodge but it would be devastating if it hit.

Lyza edged toward him. She wanted to touch swords, to see his reaction. She hovered her tip temptingly, at arms length. But he remained stone still, his arm coiled. Impatiently, Lyza swatted his blade.

He was like a spring. His sword propelled forward, waving unpredictably in the air. At the last moment, Lyza had to suck in her stomach and stand on her tiptoes to avoid getting stabbed. When she returned to a defensive position, huffing with exertion, he was already prepared for a second strike, his arm coiled as it was before.

"That is a neat trick," Lyza admitted.

His arm shot out suddenly, the sword springing out. It veered high when it was close, forcing Lyza to sidestep to prevent the thrust from sticking her neck... and she hit the wall. She had no time to swear. Her opponent saw an opening, and another thrust came for her, which she tried to bat away. The swords locked, in the confines of the alley there was no way to regain control, and they crashed into one another, body to body.

There was a chaos of fumbling. One of his gloved hands went for her throat to throttle her. As he choked her, she reached inside his cloak and found a knife, which she flicked out of the sheath and shanked him with. Trickles of hot blood traced down her glove and onto the flesh of her arm, the knife having bitten deep. She used her knees to lever him off the blade. The man stumbled away, the only sound a deep, wounded breathing, looking at the knife still in his belly.

"Now I got—"

Lyza was interrupted by the feeling of something alien jarring in her own belly. She looked down, and saw the hilt of her own hirschfanger sticking out unnaturally from her stomach. She became aware of the sticky wetness that spread all around it. She suddenly felt sick.

"It... it really is painless..."

The man wasn't going anywhere, so she carefully leaned forward and gently touched the wound. Her finger caused more pain than the knife had... she shivered, and hissed, and took in shallow breaths. Meanwhile, the man slowly rose to his feet, dragging his sword up with him.

She tried to get up, but the cold steel stopped her. Twitching caused it to dig deeper. She squirmed on her elbows, trying to crawl away from the silvery steel of the cane sword.

I don't need to get up... I just need to get to my boot.

The man loomed over her, his sword was drawn back for a finishing thrust. She made one, great, wrenching twist, so that she could grasp the pistol handle at her boot. As the sword point flew towards her, she drew and fired. Smoke flared out, she heard the grotesque sound of lead plunging into flesh and breaking bone. The weight of the bullet flung him backwards and had him flat on the ground.

"Now... now I got you," she smiled.

###

When the man awoke again, he felt afloat in a dark, silent void, but he found to his chagrin he was not dead. The Weeping Maiden, wounded, could only manage one oar at a time, and clearly she was laboring even with that, flinching after each stroke, switching to one side when she was going too far in one direction. They cut a zig-zag pattern through the dark waters.

He tried to move, but he found himself to be blanketed in old chains.

"No use," she muttered, "I've already padlocked ye, and the key was the first thing I flung into the river."

The Weeping Maiden was a strange figure. She was wrapped in a black cloak, but wore a mask of bleached clay in the twisted visage of a mourning woman. A blue tear was painted to one of her cheeks. Beneath the mask, she had bright green eyes, untouched by the crow, but, at least right now, full of pain.

The man said nothing, even if he wanted to he couldn't. He was gagged.

She seemed satisfied with where they were in the river. After some effort she stood up, an impressive act for a woman so wounded. His things were in a pile in front of him: his cane, his gun, his purse, a gold stopwatch, so close but far from arm's reach. She drew up the oar leaned toward him.

"You were a tough one. I haven't had a tough one in a while," she said.

She leaned over and took the butt of his gun. "Three barrels. No wonder you seemed to have so many bullets. Too bad none of them were of any help, ha!" Her breathing was deep between pauses. She turned the gun around. "Nice handle though. 'Tis ivory methinks, and carved nicely too."

She threw it like a piece of junk over her shoulder, and the gun splashed and sank beneath the waves. She picked up the cane sword.

"Snake's head cane, silver. Just like the whore said. Looks like I got meself the right one."

She drew the sword and flipped it in her hand.

"Hand-forged. Very nice. I prefer rapiers meself, but 'tis a personal preference. Y'beat me in that sword fight, after all."

One after the other, she threw the cane and its sword into the water. They hardly even splashed as they sank.

The Maiden didn't even look at the stopwatch. She threw it overboard immediately.

"Now, this purse here," she poked at the heavy pouch, "Quite nice. Lots of coins, a good mix of silver and gold aye. This I'll be keeping."

She pushed it aside with her boot, and then knelt in front of him.

She said: "It may seem odd, but I need your help."

The man didn't react. He continued to look up at her with cold, unmoved eyes.

The girl fiddled by twisting a the point of a dagger into one of her fingers. "It's not often I get meet another killer, y'see, like meself. And sometimes, who better to give advice on killing then a fellow killer. I figure you'd know this sort of stuff."

"Y'see, I came to this town with vengeance in me mind. There's this girl... I vowed to kill her, for what her dad did to my dad, y'see. I thought she'd be some pompous nob with her head up her arse, so I was thinking it would be as easy as pissing. But it's not. She's actually not a bad person, as far as nobs go anyway."

"And now something new has come up," she sighed, "she offered me a place in her palace, as a champion. And... that's a pretty good offer by anyone's measure. In any other circumstance, I'd be crazy to turn it down."

She snatch a copper from the purse, and skipped it on the water. It managed several jumps before it sank with a final plop.

"How many chances for a good life does a girl like me get? That doesn't involving getting married to a rich, old, crooked man like you? No offense."

She sighed, looking out on the putrid waters. "Maybe this is what my dad would've wanted," she contemplated, "For me to live a good life. He liked nobs less than I do, from what I hear of it. But... I dunno."

She took another coin, not even looking at it, and tossed it angrily. This time it sank as it hit the water.

"Everything was so damn easy back then. I thought killing one person would be as simple as killing another. Once I broke meself in, I wouldn't need to think about it. I've killed lots of people. Lots."

She sighed, putting her hand on her cheek.

"I've killed lots people, easy as pie. I don't even think about it anymore. But I can't kill one damn girl. That's a bit unfair on those I did in, don't you think?"

Seemingly expecting an answer, the girl looked at him through the holes in her mask. The mood they held matched the mask's expression.

The girl laughed joylessly. "Ha, what am I saying? I'm talking to a man who can't talk back... I wonder if I should cut that gag off?"

The man didn't react, his eyes had neither fear nor hatred, they simply stared right at her with the cloth in his mouth. With some effort, the girl leaned forward and sliced the gag at his cheek. Once it was loose and off, the man stretched his mouth and jaw.

"So, what do you think?" the girl tried again.

The man didn't respond.

The mustachioed whore said he was handsome, though Lyza didn't see it. Perhaps anyone would be handsome by measure of that woman. His cheeks were shaven and sallow, eyes sunken into the skull. His silver hair was short and swept back. He wore black, except for a silk undershirt. His finery was barely visible under the heavy chains.

"Is that how it is, aye?" pondered the girl, "The silent treatment. Of course. Why would you rattle bones with your killer?"

"You're not a killer," hissed the man. His voice was soft but menacing.

The girl raised an eyebrow. "He speaks," she said, "and I am a killer. I've killed—"

The man shook his head. "No, no you're not. I have no conception of anything you've just talked about. Your dilemmas are alien to me, and listening to you bleat on was insufferable. I've never considered such a question as should I kill someone. My only questions are: when should I kill, and how?"

"You're full of it," said the girl.

The man snarled. "No, you are. You want to be me, you want to be as at peace as I am, you want to drown your... daddy issues under a tide of blood. But it doesn't work like that. We are born either predators or prey. You want to imagine yourself the predator, to make yourself into something special, into something invincible, immune to your petty problems. But you were not born me. Everything you said, it is meaningless to a true killer."

"Shut up," hissed the girl.

"So this is the legendary Weeping Maiden? Weeping is right. How did a pathetic little girl like you acquire such a fearsome reputation?"

The Maiden pulled herself to her feet, using her sword to balance her. "Shut... UP!"

"You're nothing like me. You never will be. You—"

"SHUT UP!"

She stabbed him, hard, right between the gap in the chains into his belly. He screamed out, and with an enraged snarl she twisted the sword to cause maximum pain.

"I hope you enjoy choking on the Blackwater, you evil cunt!" she said.

The man's cries morphed eerily into laughter. The Maiden was taken aback.

"Wot's so funny?"

He didn't stop laughing, even as blood pooled into the grains of the rowboat. Crimson oozed from his mouth.

"Wot's so funny?"

"You... you drown your victims in the river?"

"Yeah..."

"How many?" he asked.

"I can't count..." she said.

He laughed even harder this time. His body was so wracked that he began to do more damage to himself than the sword.

"I made that error once, with my sweet young sister. I've never done that mistake again."

"Wot mistake?"

He looked up her and smiled a bloody smile, his eyes wild. "The river is cursed. Anyone who drowns in the river rises again."

The Maiden spat derisively. "That stupid story? 'Tis false. I've drowned many an idjit in the river. None of them came back."

"Oh, I am not a believer in much, but I am a believer in that. That's why I strangle them before I throw them in."

The man laughed and laughed, and the Maiden grew tired of it. She put her boot to the man's body and gave it a firm shove. He laughed as he rolled, even and until he sank beneath the water. The man disappeared under the filmy, oily surface with a surprisingly dull splash.

"Come back from that, ye damn idjit," she said, following the rippling waters with a wad of phlegmy spit.

###

As Lyza finally stumbled back into her room, she felt sore in innumerable way. A physical, mental and emotional exhaustion drained her. She couldn't make it to her bed. She had only the energy to go to her icebox, and pull out a large bottle of barley wine.

She stared at it. The bottle was large and cheap, but it was potent and still safely corked. She negotiated with herself for a long time, her head shifting back and forth to no will of her own, as if she needed to look at every angle of it.

I don't want to be the sort that drinks alone, she said, grasping the bottle by its nose, her thumb resting on the cork.