He would have freed the prisoners. Karolje’s violence was everywhere and could not be defended against entirely, but the king had set the gallows up to drive fear into the heart of everyone in the city. If the resistance prevented the hangings, Karolje’s plan failed. The king’s power would crack a little, even if his soldiers killed some of the people in the square.
She said, “What happens to the prisoners?”
“I think most will scatter at once, but we can direct any who stay to somewhere relatively safe. I presume you want to be part of the ambush.”
“Yes.”
“All right. Let’s work out the details of this, and then you can go tell Esvar what the plan is. I’ll wait here for his reply.”
* * *
She expected that Esvar would not be at the house yet, but he was. He wore a red priest’s robe that exposed his ankles. A single candle was lit on a table. They sat across from each other, the candle to the side, not touching.
After he heard the plan, he said, “It will do. I would like to tear apart that gallows with my bare hands, but that’s not possible. The prisoners will not be able to help much, I expect. They’ll be chained in the wagons and bound with fire-twine.” He tapped his fingers as Sparrow had. “The executions are at noon. They’ll bring the prisoners an hour or so before. Make sure you let one soldier get away, to draw off more men from the Citadel.”
“Sparrow thinks he’ll hang people you care about.”
“He probably will. I hope he doesn’t choose Tahari and her children.”
The horror on his face was insupportable. Anza swallowed. “Esvar,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Do you truly think you can win?”
“No,” he said. “I think we’ll be taken and later executed. But I think this is the best opportunity we have.”
“You could wait for him to die.”
“Someone else would take power and hunt us down. Even if that weren’t the case, lurking would be seen as cowardly, and Tevin would lose his authority. The confrontation has to be public and forceful. There’s a time when events propel things forward. A moment history has been building toward. If you want a change, you can’t let that moment slip by.”
Time spread backward, the past darkened by the layers piled upon it, and in the past itself was darkness, the darkness of night, the darkness of thick forest, the darkness of a mountain cave, and at the center a flicker of red firelight, holding back the unknown. Courage was stepping into the darkness. Men like Karolje worked to make their fires bigger until they blazed too hot to stand by, and they called that victory.
He said, “Are you going to fight?”
“Yes. I’ll be part of the ambush.” It felt incomplete. Sparrow’s presence was a ghost in the room, an authority they deferred to. The candle flame’s reflection fell gold on the varnished table. The world was precariously balanced, and Anza was afraid to stir.
“No more hesitation?”
“Not after Jance. I told him once—I told him I too was a soldier. I can fight in a war.”
Esvar reached across and laid his hand on hers. She got up and walked around the table to stand behind him. She leaned forward and pressed the side of her face against his, her arms dangling over his chest. His stubble scratched at her cheek.
“Either one of us, or both of us, could die tomorrow.” She stopped before she said anything else. He knew how to accept or reject an invitation.
He caught her hands together and turned his head. Lips on lips, on eyelids, on cheek. He stood and slid his hands down her back, fingers beneath her waistband. Anza read in his eyes what she hoped he read in hers: this was about gathering strength for battle. About armoring themselves.
When it was over, she walked back with his scent on her hands and a sharp, certain courage in her heart.
* * *
Like most streets that ran into Temple Square, this one had been designed to be narrow. Wagons could get through, but in only one direction at a time, and there was no passing slow-moving oxen or balking mules, so it was usually free of all but foot traffic. Karolje’s soldiers used it whenever they needed to approach the square; it was the quickest route from the Citadel.
A little after dawn, when the sun had just cleared the eastern hills and was still red, Anza took up her place on the second floor of an abandoned house. Another archer was in the next room, and two more were on the floor above. The house reminded her more of the house she had watched Ruslan’s death from than her father’s, although it shared with both those buildings the dust and silence. Once it had been grand. Its ceilings were high and painted, its doors carved, its floors made of narrow boards, finely planed and polished. But light fixtures were empty, discolored patches on the wallpaper revealed where furniture and pictures had been, and black lines of rat droppings crisscrossed each other in every room. The rats had drawn cats, and one room on the ground floor was almost unbearably acrid.
The house across the street, from which River and three others were to shoot, had not been abandoned. Sparrow refused to tell her whose house it was, or what had been done with the inhabitants. When Anza thought too much about it, she squirmed with uneasy guilt.
Occasional hammering sounded from the square. The wait would be hours, but no one had dared bring bows along the city streets in daylight. More resisters would come later to hold the street. Still others would gather in the square to secure the opposite end when people came to watch the executions. The ambush needed to be contained. Anza and the other archers were to shoot as many of the soldiers bringing the prisoners as quickly as possible, then bolt when it turned to hand-to-hand combat. If all went well, the resisters would gather again at a house a few blocks away.
Anza waited. The ceiling above her creaked as another archer walked back and forth. She traced lines in the dust and thought about her father, the hours he must have spent standing guard with nothing to do but watch. She tried not to think about Esvar. The sun moved along the street, growing whiter and hotter. The angled shadows lost their crispness and shrank. Her mouth was dry, and she drank from her flask frequently. A rat gnawed in the wall. Her energy was too high to drowse.
The hammering was replaced by the sound of people talking, a low roar that was funneled down the street and amplified. It reminded her of the crash of a waterfall on a river. She looked toward the square, and through the narrow gap between buildings at the end of the street she saw the crowd. The gallows themselves were blocked from view.
Then, finally, the clatter of approaching wagons and horses. She laid an arrow on her bow and resisted the impulse to put her head out the window and watch. Sparrow had anticipated two wagons, each drawn by two horses, and eight or ten soldiers. The soldiers would be in mail, which meant the shots had to be precise. Neck, eye, mouth.
Now she could see the procession without revealing herself. Damn. Hellhounds, four of them. They would have to be killed first so they didn’t cause carnage in the square. Vile beasts. The men leading the hellhounds walked in front. Two soldiers on horseback were between the two wagons, and two more at the rear. With the drivers, that made ten. On each wagon there were six prisoners, hooded and bound.
A sharp whistle pierced the silence. That was the signal. The soldiers stopped almost instantly. Their heads went up, and the fur on the dogs’ backs ridged.
Energy coursed through Anza at the sound, and she aimed at a hellhound, drew, fired. Other arrows darkened the air. Her dog went down, and she grinned in pleasure. One other hellhound and a soldier had also fallen. She turned and shot again, aiming this time at a soldier behind the wagons. The arrow went wide, but her next struck him in the forearm he raised to protect himself. Another shot, and this one penetrated the base of his throat. He tumbled from his horse. A hellhound was howling in pain, and she had to pause, gather her breath to shut out the noise.
Several of the prisoners were screaming too. The driver of the first wagon was slumped and bloody on his seat. Ahead of him, two soldie
rs spurred their horses toward the square. They would be back with reinforcements immediately. She fired, saw her arrow bounce off one man’s back even as another archer’s struck him in the neck. She aimed at the second rider, that narrow patch of flesh between head and back. Her arrow hit, and he fell. The horses came to a stop, nervous, the whites of their eyes showing and sweat darkening their glossy coats.
At the end of the street, one of the mounted men who had been at the rear was galloping in the direction of the Citadel. He had a sword out, ready to slash down at anyone who approached. She remembered Esvar’s words to let one get through and stopped watching him.
She shot, and shot, and shot, her pace rapid but steady. So did her companions. Shortly all the hellhounds and two of the remaining four soldiers were dead. The survivors were taking cover between the wagons. The horses whose riders had died were clumped together, tails swishing, on the verge of panic. One of the prisoners had managed to work his hood off in the commotion, and he stared wildly around. His head was shaved, the traitor’s mark.
The door to the house across the street opened, and Sparrow came out. A drawn sword in her hand caught the sun. Footsteps thumped through Anza’s building as the other archers went running for the back door. Irini and a man who had come out behind Sparrow hurried to the horses that were pulling the first wagon to unbridle them.
One of the two soldiers by the wagons came forward and engaged Sparrow while the other ran toward Irini and her companion. It was time to run, but Anza could not break away from watching Sparrow. The swords struck against each other in quick strokes, beats on a cymbal, flashing and sparking in the bright light. The clash of metal echoed off the building walls. The soldier brought his blade down, and Sparrow deflected it upward, twisted, and slashed at his shoulder. He lurched backward against the wagon. A knife glittered in Sparrow’s other hand.
Before Sparrow could lunge, the soldier recovered and increased his speed. The street went so quiet that Anza could hear Sparrow and the soldier panting. She glanced toward Irini and saw that the resister with her was holding off their opponent too.
At the Temple end of the street, a woman shrieked. The scream was cut off. Anza tensed. The only thing that should be happening at the gallows was soldiers heading toward the ambush. Irini released the horses and hit one of them on its hindquarters. It neighed indignantly and cantered toward the square. The three near it followed. Anza hoped they didn’t trample anyone in the crowd.
Sparrow slashed at her opponent’s arm with the knife, then slipped past his guard and stabbed him in the throat. Blood jetted past her to the wall. Shouts and screams still rose from the square. What the hell had happened? A pool of blood was bright beside the body of the soldier the other resister had been fighting. Irini was rummaging among the soldiers’ bodies, searching for the keys to the prisoners’ shackles.
Anza had a dozen arrows left. She gathered them and looked out the window. Metal rattled, a heavy sound, as the prisoners were unchained. At the end of the street, soldiers broke through from the square, their swords raised and bloody. Anza fired at the lead man as soon as he was close enough. Her arrow flew straight and sure and into the soldier’s face. He fell so quickly that she must have hit his eye.
She shot again at the approaching soldiers. So did another archer who had disobeyed orders and stayed behind. One fell. Another. The men behind him halted out of range.
From the distant crowd, surpassing the noises of fear, came a tremendous cheer, repeated. The soldiers froze as Anza tensed. This was not part of the plan. Pray that you never have to improvise. The cheer came a third time. The soldiers pelted back toward the square. Anza fired at them, but her arrow skipped on the ground.
“Run!” Sparrow yelled at the freed prisoners.
Anza ran too. Descending the steep stairs, she almost slipped. The building’s rear door was open, and she ran out to the alley, turned east, and ran for the street.
A blood-spattered Sparrow and the other resisters waited, holding several horses. Irini exchanged a triumphant glance with Anza. In the distance the crowd chanted, the words indistinguishable, the rhythm potent. One prisoner, gaunt and pale, had collapsed against the wall. The others had fled.
Sparrow said, “We need to know what’s happening in the square. I’m going to look. The rest of you go to the meeting place.”
“We’re all going to the square,” said River. Dust smeared his face. His red hair was tangled and sweaty.
Another cheer.
Sparrow sighed. “All right. One moment.”
She gave her reins to Anza and walked to the freed prisoner at the wall. They spoke. Sparrow gave her something, and the woman nodded. Her hand went up to her forehead, perhaps to shade her eyes from the bright sun, perhaps to hide tears. This is victory, Anza thought. One prisoner freed, allowed to reclaim a life she had thought vanished. It mattered as much as the deaths of a hundred soldiers. Against Karolje, every victory counted.
Sparrow returned to her horse. “Harpy, mount up behind me. We’ll go around, not through here.” She helped Anza up and mounted herself. The horse, large and well-trained, stood placidly, ears pricked forward. River, who had Irini behind him, walked his horse forward to join them.
They trotted south, then west, then north back to the square. The chant swelled and grew clearer as they approached. Kill the king! Kill the king! The sound resonated off the stone buildings, a roar that wanted to suck Anza in. The vitality, the energy of it, sent chills down her spine. Things were happening. She wanted to leap from the horse and join in, roar with all her might. Kill the king!
Sparrow’s back went rigid. Bending, Anza looked around Sparrow over the crowd.
At one end of the gallows stood Miloscz, fist raised in triumph. He had a bloody knife in his other hand. A semicircle of soldiers surrounded him. Two had swords pointed at him, not touching, waiting.
Sparrow said, “He must have rushed the gallows when some of the soldiers on it headed toward the ambush. He’s roused the crowd.”
“Why haven’t the soldiers killed him?”
“They don’t want to start a riot. But if they lose control of the crowd, they’ll kill him at once. We should go.”
“Instead of being part of it?”
Sparrow looked over her shoulder at Anza. “I’m going to the Citadel.”
Kill the king!
“You’re needed here,” Anza said. “Someone has to lead the crowd. If Miloscz doesn’t get killed, he’ll be the hero afterward. They’ll follow him and get crushed.”
“If he survives that, he deserves to be a hero,” said Sparrow. “By then whatever is going to happen in the Citadel will be over.”
In the crowd, at the other end of the gallows, there was movement. A quick eddy and spin, then another man was climbing onto the gallows. The man raised his fist like Miloscz and shook it in triumph. Two of the soldiers grabbed Miloscz and hauled him backward, pushed him to all fours.
The crowd went silent in a wave from front to back as people realized what was happening. The silence was eerie, the air hot and still. One of the soldiers with his sword drawn advanced on Miloscz, and the men holding him stepped aside. The man who had climbed the gallows stood motionless, statue-like.
The soldier raised his sword. It was not a headman’s sword and might take several strokes to sever Miloscz’s head from his neck. This is going to frenzy the crowd, Anza thought. He was making a mistake.
A second soldier pushed him aside, grabbed the sword, and jabbed the blade into the wood of the gallows. He held his hand out to Miloscz. Another soldier joined them. The man at the other end of the platform ran forward, his footsteps distinct in the quiet.
The soldiers scuffled. “Kill the king!” someone shouted, and the crowd took it up again. Miloscz and the other resister raised joined hands. The two soldiers did too. Then several of the other soldiers charged. Miloscz vanished in a confusion of bodies and blades. The crowd roared and swelled toward the gallows.
&nbs
p; “Get down,” Sparrow said. “I need to get to the Citadel before the crowd does.”
“And do what?” Anza said. She wanted to be there too, but if there was to be any taking of the Citadel, it would be done by the princes.
“Face Karolje.”
There’s no reason, Anza thought. Not for the leader of the resistance. She should stay here and make sure she was not eclipsed by Miloscz. If Tevin or Esvar had not won control of the Citadel, going there would be suicide.
But for Mirantha it was necessary.
“I’m coming with you,” Anza said.
“No.”
Anza said, “You need a witness.” She knew Sparrow would take it as witness to the event, but she meant it more deeply, as witness to the life of the queen, in its past and its future. Sometime in the struggle, Mirantha would need to be acknowledged.
The noise of the crowd crashed into the silence Sparrow had wrapped around herself when Anza spoke. Anza waited.
Sparrow shifted position, so Anza could no longer see her face, and looked at River. “When they will listen to you, when the violence is over, lead them to the Citadel,” she said. She looked at Anza once more. “Hold tight.”
ESVAR’S HORSE WANTED to race, and he held it back with effort. Everything was sharp and clear, the movement of the horse against his legs, the movement of his legs against the horse. The vibrations of the cobblestones. The children shouting in play. The walls of the Old City rising against a bright sky. Twenty mounted men in armor looked like a military force, and no one was going to interfere.
Near the Citadel, they slowed to a walk and rode onto a curving side street, out of sight of the main road. One man stayed behind, watching the gates to see what happened when news of the ambush reached the king. It was nearly noon, and the tunic Esvar wore under his mail was soaked with sweat. Tevin’s face displayed the same eagerness Esvar felt. If they died, it would be on their own terms. If they won, they won everything.
The Vanished Queen Page 38
