The man pretending at being the Greatest Swordsman in the World was right here in Selbsthass? Truly the gods smiled upon Wichtig. Well, maybe not all gods. Wichtig grinned at the girl. “What’s your name, my love?”
“It’s—”
He waved her to silence. “Where is the Fehlerhafte Turm?” he asked. When she pointed east, he said, “I’ll be back in a moment. I must regain my title.”
Spinning, he strode from the room. With luck she wouldn’t notice he hadn’t paid until he was well clear of the inn and lost in the crowd.
Wichtig sobered the moment he exited the Leichtes Haus.
He glanced up and down the busy street. Bright and colourful signs advertised various shops. The sky above was an impossible deep blue reaching from horizon to horizon. Only the best weather for Selbsthass. He tested the air and, though it didn’t stink as much as most cities, he still caught the scents of horse shite, sweat, and refuse. He loved it. These people were so alive.
He turned to the horse rail and frowned. “Where the hells is my horse?”
Wichtig hurried into the street, putting some distance between himself and the inn.
Stupid child. Morgen hadn’t thought to warn him his damned horse would not return with him. Thoughtless idiot. Well that was inconvenient. He’d have to purchase—Shite! He remembered he no longer possessed the pouch of gold. How the hells was he supposed to get a horse and go after Bedeckt?
Wichtig walked, long strides carrying him away. He’d deal with the horse problem later. First he’d kill this pretender. It rankled that some up-and-comer he never heard of strutted around calling himself The Greatest.
Had Morgen said something about time passing differently in the Afterdeath than it did in the world of the living? He couldn’t remember; he hadn’t been listening. The wee shite tended to blather on. The barmaid—whatever her name was—said he’d been dead a decade. In that kind of time his reputation might have faded.
Might have?
Wichtig tried to remember the name of a single swordsman from a decade ago and drew a blank. That was bad.
“Shite-arse pig-rutting son-of-a-whore!” Years building a reputation, countless duels, and all for nothing! I’ll have to start again.
Wichtig spotted the Fehlerhafte Turm, yet another tavern in a far too clean city where everything looked much the same. He angled toward it, thinking as he walked. If the common people no longer knew he was the Greatest Swordsman in the World, how good would he really be? Should he turn around? Maybe this wasn’t the best time to discover he was no longer—
Wichtig stopped in the street and people cursed as they shoved past him. He ignored them. If he wasn’t the Greatest Swordsman in the World, what was he?
Nothing.
The day I am nothing is the day I die.
All he had to do was kill this—damn it, he couldn’t remember the man’s name—and everyone would know, once again, Wichtig was the Greatest Swordsman in the World.
Slamming the door open to ensure he got everyone’s attention, Wichtig strode into the tavern and struck a heroic pose. The light, he knew, would catch the red in his hair just right, glint off the iron grey of his eyes, and frame him in a cloak of chalky gold from the road dust. Too late he remembered the insane cleanliness of the streets. Annoyed, he shrugged the thought aside. A small loss. The rest of his pose would suffice.
“A Swordsman,” drawled a well-dressed man sitting at a table surrounded by a coterie of wealthy idiots, not one of whom looked to be armed. The Swordsman, a pair of swords peeking out over his shoulders, looked lean and muscled.
“The Swordsman,” corrected Wichtig, scowling at the man’s richly embroidered shirt and knowing how drab his own looked in comparison. He really should have stopped by a tailor first. “Are you…?” What the hells had the wench said the Swordsman’s name was?
“Kurz Ehrfürchtig,” said the Swordsman, nodding. “In the flesh and twice as deadly.” He grinned perfect teeth and Wichtig noted the lack of scars. This then was a skilled Swordsman. “And you?” Kurz asked.
Wichtig bowed deep, a flawless flourish of gorgeous hair backed with his favourite smile. Kurz no doubt now wanted to kill him.
“Wichtig Lügner,” he answered, watching Kurz’s eyes for a hint of recognition and happily catching it. “Ah, I see you’ve heard of me.”
“Heard you died kissing the arse of some Slaver in Neidrig,” said Kurz.
Wichtig chuckled, enjoying the moment to come. “Hardly. I was slain by a god.”
“Oh?” asked Kurz. “And which god was that?”
Wichtig pinned the Swordsman with flat grey eyes. “Yours.” He let a slow grin of utter superiority grow as he spread his arms wide, knowing how this showed off the ropes of hard muscle. “May he strike me down if I lie.”