Forest Kingdom Trilogy 2 - Blood and Honor

grew quiet again. Jordan slowly picked himself up off the filthy street, and brushed the worst of the mud from his clothes. Ungrateful peasants. Didn't know a class actor when they saw one. He started back down the street towards his caravan. It looked like he'd be sleeping with his props again, and that damned demon was starting to smell something fierce.
    As he passed a narrow opening between two houses, Jordan thought he heard someone moving surreptitiously, deep in the gloom of the alley. He slowed to a halt just past the opening, and scratched thoughtfully at his ribs, letting his hand drift casually down to the sword at his side. Surely it was obvious to anyone with half the brains they were born with that this particular actor had nothing worth the effort of taking, but it was best to be wary. A starving man would murder for a crust of bread.
    Jordan's hand idly caressed the pommel of his sword, and he eased his weight on to his left foot so he could get at the throwing knife hidden in that boot if he had to. And if all else failed, there were always the flare pellets he kept concealed in his sleeves. They might not be quite as effective as they appeared on stage, but they were dramatic enough to give most footpads pause. He swallowed dryly, and wished his hands would stop shaking. He was never any good in a crisis, particularly if there was a chance of violence. He let his gaze sweep casually over the dark alleyway, and then stiffened as his hearing brought him the rasp of boots on packed earth, and something that might have been the quiet grating of steel sliding from a scabbard. Jordan whipped his sword from its sheath and backed away. Something stirred in the darkness.
    'Easy, my dear sir,' said a calm, cultured voice. 'We mean you no harm. We only want to talk to you.'
    Jordan thought seriously about making a run for it. Whenever anyone started talking that politely, either they were intent on telling him something he didn't really want to know, or they wanted to sell him something. On the other hand, from the sound of it there had to be more than just the one man hidden in the alley darkness, and he wasn't that fast a runner at the best of times. Maybe he could bluff them . . .
    He held his head erect, took on the warrior's stance he used when playing the ancient hero Sir Bors of
    Lyonsmarch, and glared into the gloom of the alley.
    'Honest men do their talking in the light,' he said harshly, 'not skulking in back alleys.
    Besides, I'm rather particular about who I talk to.' 'I think you'll talk with us, Jordan,' said the polite voice. 'We're here to offer you an acting role; a role beyond your wildest dreams and ambitions.'
    Jordan was still trying to come up with an answer to that when the three men stepped out of the alley mouth and into the fading light. Jordan backed away a step, but calmed down a little when they made no move to pursue him. He quickly resumed his warrior's stance, hoping they hadn't noticed the lapse, and looked the three men over carefully from behind the haughtiest expression he could manage. The man in the middle was clearly a noble of some kind, for all his rough peasant's cloak and hood. His skin was pale and unweathered, and his hands were slender and delicate. Presumably this was the owner of the cultured voice. Jordan nodded to him warily, and the man bowed formally in return. He raised one hand and pushed back the hood of his cloak, revealing a hawk-like, unyielding face dominated by steady dark eyes and a grim, humourless smile. His black hair was brushed flat and heavily pomaded, giving his pale skin a dull, unhealthy look. He was tall, at least six foot two, probably in his early forties, and looked to be fashionably slim under his cloak. He wore a sword at his side, and Jordan had no doubt at all that this man would know how to use it. Even standing still and at rest, there was an air of barely contained menace about him that was unmistakable.
    'Well?' growled Jordan roughly, trying to gain the advantage before his knees started knocking, 'are we going to stand here staring at each other all night, or are you going to introduce yourself?'
    'I beg your pardon, Jordan,' said the noble smoothly. 'I am Count Roderik Crichton, advisor to King Malcolm of Redhart. These are my associates, the trader Robert Argent, and Sir Gawaine of Tower Rouge.'
    Jordan nodded to them all impartially, and then sheathed his sword as an act of bravado. It seemed increasingly important to him