The Swordsman of Tanosa: A Short Tale of the Middle Sea Read Free

overlooking the rest of Ostenheim. It abandoned the tight, twisty streets, cobbled yards, and tall buildings of the city centre for broad avenues, parks, and magnificent townhouses.
    Nozza had not told Bafion why he was to kill Nicolo, but he didn’t really care. If Nicolo was still living at his house in Highgarden, it wasn’t money problems, but he always had talent for finding trouble in unexpected places. He had certainly found it on this occasion.
    Bafion reached the Westway River and crossed it, and then passed by the Academy where he had been taught to use a sword, where he had befriended Nicolo dal Sason, and where he had been happy. Life had seemed to be nothing but opportunity then, just as opportunity was presenting itself once again.
    After the Academy came Highgarden. Once there, it did not take long to reach Nicolo’s house. As with the rest of the city, the house was very much as it had been the last time that Bafion had seen it. The lawns in front were still lush and trimmed to a uniform height, the shrubs and bushes manicured perfectly as though it had all been frozen in time. Dal Sason’s family had owned it for generations, ever since they had made the step from wealthy commoners to minor nobility.
    Bafion looked at the house and strained to prevent a flood of memories washing through his mind. He felt reluctance to continue with his task for the first time since being given it. The onslaught on his resolve was almost overwhelming, but tucked in the middle of all the other memories was the one that he had been trying hardest to avoid; the one that made him want to kill Nicolo for more than just the money. Self-respect dictated that he should have killed Nicolo years before, but as with his old life, he had left self-respect behind when he fled to Tanosa.
    There was a park opposite the house—the location for many more memories—but Bafion concentrated on what he had to do. He found a bench that provided him with a view of the house, sat, and waited.
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    A decade and more had passed since Bafion had last seen Nicolo, but there was no mistaking him. He left the house and skipped down the steps outside the door with the same carefree attitude he had as a younger man. It was as though he didn’t have a worry in the world. He headed in the direction of the city centre, a course that took him quite close to where Bafion was sitting. He didn’t notice Bafion however; he had rarely ever noticed things that didn’t involve him directly.
    Bafion felt such a mix of emotion on seeing Nicolo that he didn’t know how to react. The initial joy of seeing an old friend was erased by the memory of the last time Bafion saw him, in tight embrace with Caroline. Anger replaced it, and pain.
    Bafion watched him as he walked away. He carried a little more weight around the waist. His light brown hair was shorter than he had kept it in the old days and it showed hints of grey over his ears. His face was much the same though; a few more lines here and there, but still shaved smooth and displaying the prominent cleft in his chin that he had always seemed so proud of. The years had been kinder to him than Bafion, but that did not come as a surprise.
    Bafion resisted the urge to do it there and then; it was too hasty, too public. Gentlemen did not conduct their affairs in such ways, and even if he forgot the fact most of the time, Bafion was still a gentleman, and on this day he would be expected to behave as one, a further example of the hypocrisy of the social conventions adhered to in the city.
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    H e had to wait most of the day for Nicolo to return, but when Bafion spotted him again, walking up the avenue, he had enough time to get to the gateway of the house and wait.
    When Nicolo walked through the gate, Bafion stepped out from behind the bush. Nicolo stopped and his hand moved to the hilt of his sword. His expression of puzzlement and suspicion was replaced by one of uncertain recognition.
    ‘Bafion? Is that