Ghost in the Razor by Jonathan Moeller

boldness and cleverness had impressed Morgant, and he did not impress easily. For a moment he had thought that the Knight of Wind and Air had been right, that she might be the one who could help him keep his word to Annarah. 
    Obviously she could not do that after the Adamant Guards killed her. 
    Yet…
    A peculiar idea stirred in his thoughts. 
    Perhaps she was only an outline upon canvas. Or an uncompleted drawing. Or a sculpture only half-freed from its block of marble, though Morgant had always known that painting superior to mere crude sculpture. She was not strong enough to help him.
    But maybe she could become strong enough to help him keep his word to Annarah. 
    Assuming she lived through the next hour or so. 
    Morgant let out a little laugh.
    “Manipulation, indeed,” he said, and made up his mind.

    ###

    Caina set herself, preparing to strike. The Guard on her left was nearer. If she hit him with the dagger, perhaps she could immobilize him long enough to take down the second Guard. Or, more likely, the second Adamant Guard would kill her as she attacked the man on the left. 
    She could think of nothing else to do.
    A deep, hoarse voice boomed over the courtyard, a voice with a thick, burred Caerish accent. 
    “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen!” 
    Caina turned her head, blinking in surprise, and the Guards froze for a moment. Even Kylon and the two Guards dueling him turned to look. A thin, black-clad figure limped from one of the tenements, leaning upon a brass-handled cane, his black coat open to reveal his crisp white shirt.
    “Markaine?” said Caina, astonished.
    “Or I should say gentlemen and lady, I suppose,” said Markaine of Caer Marist, waving a hand in her direction. “She’s actually a woman.” He squinted at her. “Well, a bearded woman. But the beard is fake. It’s a convincing disguise, but it’s really not a good look for you, dear. You’re never going to get a husband like that.” He spun, both hands upon the handle of his cane, and looked at the Guards. “You fellows. Is it sporting to kill a woman? I admit, she is an incredibly annoying woman and talks far too much, but cutting off her head seems excessive. Maybe you could just take a finger or two.”
    “Identify yourself,” said one of the Guards in a cold voice.
    “You don’t know me?” said Markaine. He struck a pose and gestured with his cane. “I am Markaine of Caer Marist, the finest painter in Istarinmul or anywhere else, for that matter. I could paint you lot. Half my usual price, too.” He grinned, showing yellowed teeth. “I could paint you holding her head. Or upon your sword, as you prefer. The patron is always right.”
    “Have you lost your mind?” said Caina. What was he doing here? “Run!”
    “Kill him,” said the Guard
    Markaine sighed. “No one appreciates art.” 
    Two of the Guards strode towards Markaine, and Caina ran towards them. The painter made no move to defend himself. The Guards would cut him down, and Caina would have gotten him killed for nothing. He had been her only chance of discovering what had happened to Morgant the Razor. 
    The Guards drew back their swords to strike.
    Then Markaine moved.
    There was a clicking noise, and his cane fell in two pieces to the ground. In his hand he held a long, slender blade, the handle of his cane rotating to become the sword’s hilt. The weapon blurred in his hand, and one of the Guards fell to his knees, blood fountaining from a sliced throat. The second Guard slashed, and Markaine twitched to the side, the blade missing him by inches. Caina darted forward and stabbed her ghostsilver dagger into the Guard’s shoulder. The Adamant Guard fell to his knees with an enraged bellow, and Markaine’s sword sank into his left eye. The Guard gave a spastic twitch and then collapsed. 
    Stunned silence fell upon the courtyard as the Adamant Guards stared at the old painter.
    “That was embarrassing,” said Markaine. “For you,