The knife was a long thing, thin, but heavy enough to do half the hand’s work in driving it deep. The hilt was wrapped in leather, the strips molded together by years of oil and use. The blade barely caught a gleam. The cross-guard was so narrow it could only suggest that a hand stay behind it while the sharp edge did the real convincing.
Beitris wouldn’t usually have taken it out to play with it. She had carried it long enough for the weight to have balanced itself into her stride, but she didn’t have any affection for it. It didn’t feel right in her hand, and it didn’t feel wrong. There was some safety in holding it, but no warmth. She might have said she forgot about it most of the time, except for how quickly she could put it into her hand when she needed it.
The sheath relinquished the sword with a soft click like a key turned in a lock. Jennika paused with her hand wrapped around the hilt, and tried to decide if that was a bad sound echoing in her clever little silence.
Going still, she cocked her head, and listened just to make sure that her silence was still clever, and not the thing that fell when heads suddenly came up and breaths were held to hear what was not there.
Below her, the first floor of the house laid as quietly as before. Before she came, there had been a light hum through a cracked window, but she’d shut that up tight before it could wake anyone who might be willing to get out of bed to investigate. The second floor ached and cracked with its usual nighttime shufflings. A man snored. A sideboard creaked in the breeze outside. Some timber in the wall decided to shrink in the cold and groan about it. But none of them were loud enough to break the silence that Jennika had brought with her through the second floor window she’d shimmied into.
She slid the sword a little farther out.