When Vac had faced the mob, he faced nothing but a threat issued by a mass of uncertain people. Their numbers were great, but so was their doubt, their weakness. When Jaysynn appeared in his window earlier that night, he thought it possible that he would die. But he was fueled by a carefully measured hope that good might come of Jaysynn’s return. Vac was a man who knew little of fear, because his heartless logic so often ruled it out. And he was a rare man because he could trust common sense even in the face of danger and even in the face of the unknown.
Now, however, he knew that he would die. They would not have broken into the palace just to kill Jaysynn—if they knew he was there, they would have waited for him to leave and killed him in the streets. Logic dictated that if they were in his office, they were there for him. They would kill Jaysynn, yes. That was a given. But they would make it look like Vac had been their target. The Governor of Falcon Point would be found dead, and the word would spread. And no one would spread the news about the other corpse found in his office, whose face would be butchered beyond recognition. In an instant he discerned that this would be their plan. For its simplicity, he admired it. And fear grabbed him by the heart.
“Well, Jaysynn Kyzer,” he said, forgetting his hatred, and went on, “I hope you can save us,” forgetting his logic.
Jaysynn took a defensive stance. He was unarmed, but held Eugenics and the Magical Society in his strong hand. He took a step toward the nearest of the intruders—one of the two who had come through the door—and tossed the book toward his eyes. It was a lousy tactic, almost childish. The intruder, an expert fighter, simply lifted his hand to push the book out of his line of sight before it had time to cause any trouble.
But somehow it wasn’t quick enough. Somehow all his skill was too slow: when his fingers touched the side of the book, Jaysynn’s foot was already at the back of it. He had jumped up and kicked the book into the man’s head, knocking him over backward. The other one who had come from the door swung his knife at him, but Jaysynn was quick to leap backward, out of its way. When the man tried again, Jaysynn grabbed the arm that held the knife and used the attacker’s momentum to fling him across the room, so the three men were all on one side of Jaysynn and Vac now—instead of surrounding them—and the other man lay barely conscious near the door.
“I can take him,” said the man who had been thrown across the room, so the other two, happy to oblige, pushed him back into the fray. They held their own knives ready and shifted from foot to foot, feeling the rhythm of the combat, ready to join in an instant.
The confident fighter swiped his knife at Jaysynn again and again, but each time Jaysynn backstepped or sidestepped faster that the assassin’s wrist could travel. It was uncanny. It was too easy, and Jaysynn knew it. He began to wonder if these assassins were just toying with him. But he could not believe that there was any humor or game in their deed.
After dodging a few strikes, Jaysynn began to counterstrike. Each time the man attacked, Jaysynn hit him in the hand—from the top, from the bottom, with his hand, with his foot.
His movements were quick. Quicker than the assassin’s. Quicker than anyone’s. Quicker than a snake’s. They were not playing a game, he decided. He was. He made sport of the killer. His counterstrikes were not a tactical combat move meant to gain him any advantage. They were fun. It was like a game of slap hands. Until, accidentally, he disarmed his attacker with a chop to his knuckles. Then the man tried to resort to punches.
Jaysynn caught him by the wrist, struck him on the elbow with his offhand, and broke his arm. Then he tossed him behind him and faced the remaining two men.
They had stepped forward as soon as their friend had lost his weapon, but his bones were busted before they had time to reach him.
Now they tried to team up on Jaysynn, tried to come at him from opposite sides, but it was hopeless—it was not a fight they could control. Jaysynn was at one moment striking one, and then skirmishing with the other. At one moment in front and another behind. At one moment kicking at the ankles and at the next leaping off their heads.
At last they turned their backs on the fight and ran toward the open window, but Jaysynn was faster. He caught them around the ears and slammed their heads together. They lost their balance at the blow and stumbled to the ground.
Vac came up from behind Jaysynn and the two men and, with Jaysynn’s knife, stabbed one of them in the kidney.
Jaysynn grabbed his hand, too late to save that man’s life. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
“These men are Thyrian Whispers,” Vac said. “They’re the best of the best, and, since my guards outside are probably dead, I’ve got no way of dealing with four of them.”
Jaysynn turned around to see the other two men. The one who had been so eager to take Jaysynn one-on-one was lying near the bookshelf, his throat slit open. The other was rolled over with a deep wound in his lower back.
“That one’s alive,” said Vac. “But he’ll never walk again. I’m going to give this last one the same treatment.”
“No you’re not,” Jaysynn said, tightening his grip on Vac’s wrist. “Regardless of their actions, these are my people, and you’re not doing anything to them without a trial.”
“That’s a great notion,” said Vac, “but for the second time, these are the best of the best. We cannot handle four of them, all able-bodied.”
“These were nobodies,” said Jaysynn. “I handled four of them by myself—and I’m not even a fighter. These weren’t real Whispers.”
“Then how did they come in through the window? And why weren’t my guards able to stop them?”
Jaysynn shook his head, slowly, considering what Vac was saying. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m telling you, these men were not trained fighters. They were sluggish. They were clumsy.”
Vac smiled so big his teeth showed. “If they were sluggish then I’ve never seen a real fighter,” he said. “Jaysynn, you were fast. You were faster than my eyes could handle.”
Jaysynn looked again at the men in the room, living and dead, and remembered the moves they had used, remembered the motions, the way they held their knives, the way they bent at the knees. It was all right. It was all textbook knife fighting. Every move had been perfect. No overreaching. No lack of commitment to a move. No timidness. No telegraphing.
“How?” Jaysynn asked, letting Vac’s hand loose.
“There was magic in this room.” Vac rubbed his arm where Jaysynn had gripped it.
“There is no more magic,” Jaysynn said, shaking the idea off his head. “Where would it come from? Why would I be able to use it?”
“I can’t explain it,” Vac said, “But that’s no reason to deny it. The world is new.”
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