Chapter 10: To The Edge

In the end, it wasn’t much of a question, which weapon to buy. I immediately ruled out all the fancy specimens on display, never mind the idea of a custom model, and turned towards Britain’s old favourite: the knife. Now, say what you like about stereotypes, but this particular one has its roots in the truth. Firearms were heavily regulated in England, and whilst this wouldn’t usually be enough to deter illegal activity, the use of them in the commission of crime came with a far harsher response.

Instead of the regular police officers with their tasers, gun crime was met by specialist armed police, and those captured alive faced far harsher sentences. Accordingly, the preferred tool for crime was the humble knife, and it was likewise the only weapon on display with which I had any familiarity. Oh, I was sure a spear would be objectively better in most combat situations, given its reach and penetrative force, but I had no fifty-odd gilt to my name, and no connections to lean on. Private tuition in the martial arts was out of the question, and I didn’t fancy the idea of learning on the job, so a knife was the only real option, even before considering the matter of price.

Examining the stock one at a time, I tested each knife in turn, assessing ease of grip on the hilt, the distribution of weight, and how they felt in both a forward and reverse grip. That alone eliminated over half the stock, namely anything with a blade over six inches long: all of them were heavier than equivalent blades back home, too heavy for me to use properly. It didn’t slow me down much, maybe half a second with each switch, but half a second could be a matter of life and death, so out of the running they went.

From there, I went in reverse order, testing the longest knife first, on the assumption that the longest blade I could reasonably handle would be the correct choice. Two rapid thrusts, into a horizontal swipe, nothing advanced, but you didn’t need to be an expert with a knife to make someone bleed. The six incher went back on the rack, its bulbous wooden hilt too heavy and slow on the return. The five incher nearly slid out of my grasp on the first thrust, proving its glossy metal hilt pretty but ineffective. I struck gold on the third test, a four and a half inch blade with one edge smooth and the other serrated: good for both soft targets and harder fabrics. Light enough to dance in my hand, and heavy enough to do some damage, this was the one.

“How much?” Was the only question worth asking, as I placed my chosen weapon on the counter.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

“You’ve fought with knives before,” the smith remarked, with not a hint of accusation in his tone, only calm certainty.

“Only wooden weapons, in this lifetime,” I replied, sticking to a technical truth, which was the best kind of truth in business negotiations, as far as I was concerned. “I did try to learn to use a sword at first, like every young boy who dreams of becoming a wandering hero, slaying monsters and demons. Alas, I fear I don’t have much talent for it; I took a nasty blow to the head just recently while practising, enough to send me to the healers. With my Class day fast approaching, I had to make the decision to go with what I was good at, rather than what I’d been hoping for.”

I had no idea at the time whether lie detecting magic existed in this world, but truthfully (pun intended) that didn’t affect my behaviour at all.

The best lies were always woven throughout with truth, to a degree that made distinguishing between them all but impossible: this philosophy had allowed me to play the part of a concerned friend while milking rich pensions down to their last pound, so believe me when I say I’m good at spinning lies. Everything I was giving the smith, except perhaps my exact motivations, were based on verifiable facts, such that even if he went to the matron or even Amelia, he wouldn’t hear anything to cast doubt on my tale.

“That’s very mature of you,” he replied, a hint of approval now apparent in his otherwise bland tone. “Keep that level head of yours, and you might last a bit longer than my usual clients. That’ll be twenty gilt please.”

“Here’s five right now,” I replied immediately, placing all I had in my pocket on the counter to seal the deal. “I’ll be right back, just need to grab the other fifteen from back home.”

“No need to rush,” the smith agreed patiently, taking both payment and knife and placing them in a drawer, out of sight and mind. “I’ll hold this one for three days, get me the rest before then and it’s yours.”

I was already halfway out the door before he finished his sentence: time was wasting, and now that I actually knew how much I had on hand? There was simply too much to do.

—

Amelia Dawn frowned as she scrubbed, the rough soap stinging her hands as it cleared away the thick rivulets of blood and gore coating them both. While most of her healing was done by magic, some treatments still required a more personal touch; it couldn’t be avoided, really, not that she minded it much. Nobody who feared blood would ever have been assigned the Healer class, the System was far too wise to make such a rookie mistake. After a solid minute of scrubbing, her hands were clean again, allowing Amelia to make her way from the sink, down to the small iron plaque she kept at the back of her office, nestled innocuously amidst a throng of paintings.

“Monitor.”

At a word, a screen appeared, showing the names, levels and locations of all of her Contacts. Most of what she saw bore little notice, except for one intriguing update far to the north.

“Oh? Another Assassin? That will be useful, it’s not long now, until the next changelings start to appear.”