"Now the weakblood moneybelts send their pale daughters to fight me?" His roar flecked Luma's face with spittle. "To fight Priza, they send children?"
He spun her around, wrapping his left arm around her neck. In his right he held a curved, serrated dagger, set to rasp across her jugular vein.
Arrus approached; the Derexhi closed formation around him. Behind him, the Shoanti dragged off their wounded. New additions swelled their ranks.
"You insult me," Priza growled, "by sending such as this against me."
Arrus essayed an icy smile. "You'd rather fight me, then?"
"You will leave, or this one dies. Later, you will receive our ransom demand for her. And Scarnetti's ransom will double."
"There is no negotiating with kidnappers," said Arrus.
"Who's negotiating?" Priza snorted.
Sweat pilled on Priza's bare arms. Luma waited for the instant of maximum adjustment, then used it as a lubricant to slip free. As she'd trained herself to do, she used her slight stature to advantage. To grab her, he'd overbalanced himself. She pulled him forward, then stepped to the side. Priza stumbled into the reach of Arrus's sword. Arrus chose a cleaving blow. Dropping the knife he'd held at Luma's throat, the Shoanti warrior expertly turned, taking the strike on a well-armored shoulder. His knees buckled, but he recovered, pulling loose his axe. He pushed at Arrus, forcing him back.
The two sides stood as if mesmerized, watching the two men fight. A flurry of parrying and swinging left both Arrus and Priza gasping. They joined in an instant's pause, then flung themselves against one another again.
Certain of the other rebels leapt back into the fray, engaging Ulisa, Ontor, and Eibadon. Luma rushed to the prisoner's side. Ontor's burglary kit still lay beside him. Luma grabbed a pair of long-nosed pliers. "Stay still," she told the Scarnetti.
"I will," he whispered.
She grasped the poisoned needle and jerked it loose from the rope. Then she started in on the complicated knot, the heavy rope abrading her hands. Gradually the rope loosened and fell. Shame contorted the prisoner's face: a ripe ordure smell wafted from his body.
The fight lost the adrenaline intensity of its first clashes, giving way to exhaustion and wary circling. More thugs lay dead or groaning in a circle around Ontor, Ulisa, and Eibadon. Arrus and Priza bashed away at one another with declining energy and increasing fury.
A slight, ebony-clad figure stepped into view from the street. It was Iskola, Arrus's twin. A high forehead and hawkish nose offered variations on the basic Derexhi facial features. She took in the scene with wide, protruding eyes. As was her habit in combat situations, she'd left her intricate hairpiece at home, leaving instead a bowl of glossy black hair flattened to her scalp. A high, latticed collar of black lace and a pair of laced, fingerless gloves lent her the outre aspect Magnimarian society expected of an accomplished wizard.
Iskola raised a finger, paused to calculate, and sent a blaze of blue energy through the room. The results showed the perfection of her angle: the electricity blasted through nearly every Shoanti, while leaving the Derexhi unscathed.
She'd left Priza out of the spell's trajectory. Arrus stepped back, giving the man room to withdraw.
Iskola saw that Alam Scarnetti was free. She addressed Priza. "This confrontation has reached its natural end."
"I can take him," said Arrus.
Priza bared gleaming white teeth.
"Taking him is not the mission," Iskola said. "Priza, is it?"
Priza nodded his acknowledgment.
"You might be able to fight all day, but your men are done. Your prisoner is loosed from his bonds; your odds of keeping him, poor. Need I enumerate further?"
Priza fumed, then raised his axe to point in turn at each of the rescuers. "Take him and go."
Chapter Two
Bridgeward
The Derexhi siblings escorted the Scarnetti scion from the Shadow district into Bridgeward. There, at a tavern called the Hammer and Stone, factotums of his father's household awaited his return.
Here the citysong rang with the sounds of stonework, of smithy ovens and firing kilns. Bridgeward was Magnimar's neighborhood of artisans. Their pooled intentions permeated the citysong. In it, Luma heard their pursuit of perfection, their lust for fine materials, the heat of their desire to outshine rivals. The magics they used to throw their pots and cast their jewelry and color their glass ran through her hair and sparkled across the backs of her hands.
A wind caught furls of marble dust; it drifted over the group as they made for the pub. Alam Scarnetti batted it as if it were a cloud of gnats. "I'm so ashamed," he said.
"Your men will purchase new clothes for you before you return home," answered Iskola. "If those barbarians refused you the use of a chamberpot, you cannot be blamed for it."
Alam made a clucking sound. "That's an embarrassment, to be sure," he said. "But the entire affair—it started with a simple game of cards. Then the fights at Tessik's, which I'm reasonably certain are rigged—"
"Oh, Tessik's fights are rigged, all right," said Ontor.
"I thought those people were my friends, but they led me down the golden path to debt, and then they sold me to those—those savages ..."
"This is Magnimar," said Ontor. "If they're not family, don't trust them."
Luma wasn't sure she trusted Alam. There was still the chance he was in on it. She hung back a step or two to listen to the citysong. The city understood people. The tens of thousands of folk who had lived and died here over the decades had thought all the thoughts it was possible to think. They might be gone, but their echoes had joined the citysong. As a consequence of this phenomenon, one attuned to Magnimar's collective essence could peer into minds, at least to find the simple, obvious ruminations floating around on top.
The father was the real client. If Alam had been betraying him, working with the Shoanti to bleed his fortune, he deserved to know.
She found the strain of citysong, woven from the thought patterns of its citizens, that separated truth and falsehood as the Seacleft divided rich and poor. At first she caught a whirl of meaningless words—undecipherable fragments of thoughts current and past, from the living and the dead. Luma let this mental flotsam wash past her, and concentrated on Alam.
Father will be insufferable now he'll never let me live this down he wants me to be like him but I can't I've tried and I can't I don't care about timber or ledgers there has to be more to life than leasing forests and cutting down trees just because we've always done it so they're truly all brothers and sisters how does that work because the mousy one looks like she's got elf blood in her I suppose her father got a little faerie dust on him before settling down with humankind she doesn't dress herself or comb her hair but maybe she'd be up for a tumble though I suppose in my state of humiliation I'd have a better chance of couching with the goddess Shelyn than bedding her...
Flushing, Luma erased the laneway she'd created between his mind and the citysong. All manner of nonsense filled Alam Scarnetti's head, but none of it spoke to a guilty conscience. He was merely as his father saw him: reckless and gullible.
Still, when they reached the Hammer and Stone, and she saw the disapproving faces of the Scarnetti family retainers—gray men in gray cloaks, savoring the chance to sorrowfully shake their heads—she couldn't help a pang of sympathy for him. Alam's body language, as he followed Iskola to their side, reminded her of a scolded puppy. She wanted to see him hold onto at least a scrap of dignity. The smallest gesture would have done—a sheepish grin, an insouciant shrug. Instead he shuddered, as if on the verge of bawling. Stiffening in disgust, the retainers wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.
After an exchange of curt nods, Iskola withdrew. In a manner befitting the dignity of the client, payment would be separately arranged.
Luma swallowed. Soon it would begin.
Ontor jumped in before Arrus could introduce the obvious subject. "I wouldn't like to be him, when he gets home," he said.
"A foolish man was foolishly raised," said Ulisa, her robe flapping in the breeze.
"It won't help that his father has to pay our fee," said Ontor.
Iskola brushed marble dust from her ebony raiment. "We'll be paid in a currency dearer than coin."
"Is that so?"
As was his habit before making a pronouncement, Eibadon cleared his throat. His voice, like the rest of him, had prematurely aged. "As is said in the Proverbs of the First Vault, there is nothing one finds in a strongbox that is worth either more or less than gold."
Ontor laughed. "Is there a meaning I should take away from that, Eibadon?"
"Meditate upon it and what must be revealed, shall be."
"You can bet that I will give it full consideration, the next time I meditate." Ontor untied his top-knot, allowing his silken hair to spill across his shoulders. "Does Father need us all back?"
Arrus examined a bruise spreading across his forearm. "Why do you ask?"
"The fire of battle still floods my veins. It might likewise flood some of yours, those of you who have them. A stop at a tavern might cool our nerves."
"I'd join you," said Arrus, "but the sun has barely crept above the horizon."
"Any time of day when a Shoanti tries and fails to take your head off is suitable for the hoisting of flagons."
"Then raise a second one for me. Father will be anxious for his report."
"Suit yourself. Anyone else?" Ontor asked.
"So, Luma," said Arrus.
"What?"
"I suppose I have no choice but to mention that you got yourself taken hostage."
"Tell him what happened," Luma shrugged.
"She got herself free," said Ontor.
"And if she hadn't?" Arrus failed to keep the enjoyment entirely out of his tone.
"Unless I took a hit to the head and have completely taken leave of my recollections, I'm certain that she did," said Ontor. "As are the rest of us." He looked to the others, but none of them spoke. "Abadar's kidneys, Arrus. You're more of a pain by the day."
"Between the pain of an unpleasant discussion, and that of death by enemy hands, which should we choose? Luma?"
Luma wanted to leap onto an alleyway wall and climb away like a scuttling spider. This was no metaphor, but a real trick the city had taught her. But later she would have to come back, her shame redoubled. "You're right, Arrus. It was a misstep. I can do better, and I will."
Ontor's fists clenched. "Any of us could have been caught out like that. It was a fight, Arrus. Bad moments happen. And don't forget, she's the one spotted the poison needle. Without her, our rescued wastrel would be a corpse. Maybe one of us along with him."
Arrus clapped him on the shoulder. Ontor winced; he'd taken a hard blow there. "Don't mind me, little brother. You're right. The heat of battle lingers in the blood. You slake your fight-nerves with Fort Indros Ale. I gnaw over the report, seeking improvement. I daresay your method is the healthier. Yet as Eibadon can't help spouting proverbs, and Luma can't stop herself slouching, I can't restrain myself." Ontor evaded a second shoulder-clap, circuiting out of range.
Thwarted, Arrus came up behind Luma and bear-hugged her off the ground. Feet flailing, she tried to slip from his grasp, as she had Priza's, but he'd placed a grip surer than the barbarian's. He ran his fingers through her tangled hair, carelessly pulling it. He roughly rubbed her scalp. "Our half-sister knows we love her. Don't you, Luma?" He made to let her down, then hauled her up into the air again. "Don't you?"
"Of course!" she yelled. Immediately she regretted her volume. Workmen hauling worked stone in a barrow stopped to stare.
Belly-laughing, Arrus released her.
"Arrus, you're not twelve anymore," Ontor groaned.
Arrus wiped sweat from his brow. "I haven't offended you, have I now, Luma?"
"No," she insisted.
"See, Ontor? She's not the delicate vine you think she is. She may be half elf, but the other half of her is Derexhi. She can take it."
"I'm not the one calling her a ...oh, never mind," said Ontor.
"A strong leader's tread," Eibadon quoted, "may flatten some wheat."
Luma jolted to attention; the citysong had shifted its pitch. She sensed that the source of the disturbance was nearby. Her head turned just in time to see a shape ducking out of sight on a rooftop across the way.
"What is it?" Iskola asked.
"Nothing," said Luma. The song had returned to normalcy.
She'd had this feeling before. Once, early on, she'd alerted the group to imminent attack. But then, as always, the moment passed. She couldn't pin it down. There was imbalance in it, and observation, too. But whether it was a menace yet to come, or one of the thousand random occurrences of a bustling city, she could never be sure. Maybe it was the citysong itself testing her, a premonition of secrets it would soon reveal. Sometimes she felt funny, then realized shortly afterward that Magnimar had been adding new magics to her repertoire.
"Are you certain?" Iskola asked.
"A false alarm," said Luma. "A bird or somesuch."
They walked without comment for a while, wending past workshops and warehouses.
Arrus broke the silence. "Luma understands if I'm overprotective of her. Don't you?"
Luma couldn't tell if this was remorse for crossing the line before, or a prelude to another round. "We all have to watch each other's backs."
"After all, not everyone has a cobblestone druid with them, do they?" It was not clear who Arrus was addressing—perhaps himself. "Our little Luma, if we keep her alive, may someday surpass us all. She'll walk on air, like it was as solid as this street beneath our heels. Bring the dead to life in new bodies. You'll be of great use to us then, won't you?"
"She's of use to us now," said Ontor.
"That's what I said. But those would be great workings, wouldn't they? The stuff of legend, eh, Luma?"
The group rounded a corner. At the end of the street clanked a party of men, encased in armor both flamboyant and menacing. Each suit, dull as slate and as dark as iron, was ornamented in the extreme. Flanges, spikes, and crests rose from or surrounded the helmets. Spikes fared from shoulder-plates. The fingers of their metal gloves were shaped like claws, either straight or curved. The knee-guards alone outweighed an ordinary soldier's helmet: they took on the stylized forms of ram's heads, or gargoyles, or glowering suns. More outlandish still were the sculpted breastplates, each in the shape of a voracious, diabolical face. One warrior paraded about in a toothy skull; another wore a reptilian visage. The man to his left sported a beetle's face, outfitted with articulated, clacking mandibles. The effect was irresistible: one always looked into the face on the breastplate, ignoring the helmeted head above.
"Nothing improves a morning," said Ontor, "like a squad of Hellknights."
The armored men, previously walking in loose formation, stopped and spread out, blocking the street.
Dimples appeared on Arrus's face. "They wish to test the family resolve." He marched toward them; Luma and the others kept pace, a step back.
Hands hovering over sword hilts, the Hellknights braced themselves.
Arrus dropped into a saunter. When he reached earshot, he faked out a salute, which at the last minute became a dismissive wave. "Rather early for you boys to be up and about, isn't it?"
The man with the reptilian breastplate spoke for the others. "What business brings you to Bridgeward?"
"Whom do I address behind that black helmet?"
"I am Maralictor Perest Sere Maximete, and I will brook no insolence from hired law-enforcers."
"The Derexhi enforced law in this city long before your kind arrived."
"Yet we were invited by the Justice Council."
"Not everyone can afford our services. It is good to have those willing to serve the wretched."
"Your ilk lacks severity."
"Our methods contrast, it is true. Rather than emulate devils and their torture racks, we Derexhi find inspiration in human valu
es."
A scoffing noise echoed in the maralictor's helmet.
"Now that we have compared our ways," continued Arrus, "you'll of course step aside and allow us to pass."
"My question has gone unanswered."
"We have no business in Bridgeward, except to pass through it. We did have a task to perform in Shadow, but you have arrived much too late to watch us perform it."
"You are insolent," Maximete said.
"You are merely guests here. We are Derexhi."
"You will tell me what you were hired to do."
Arrus scratched at his beard. "There is no great secret. Shoanti kept a man hostage over a debt. We liberated him."
"Who led them?"
"Priza, I believe his name was."
"This man poses a grave threat to public order. If you knew his whereabouts, you were obliged to inform us."
"This city has few laws, and that is not among them."
Maximete's clawed glove came to rest on the pommel of his sword. "I speak of higher law."
"A quaint notion."
The hellknight's fingers wrapped around his sword-hilt.
Arrus breathed in deep, expanding his chest to its full dimensions. "If you're planning to use that weapon, Maralictor Perest Sere Maximete, I would have to say you show scant grasp of local politics."
Iskola stepped in. "Gentlemen, our interest in this Priza creature has come to an end. We'll gladly direct you to his hiding place. He'll be gone from there, naturally. But perhaps you'll find a way of tracking him to his next lair."
"This is what you should have said immediately."
Iskola replied with an ambiguous bow, then beckoned Luma. In a few swift strokes, on a scrap of vellum produced by the Hellknights, she drew them a map. When she was finished, Maximete snatched it from her hands. Without farewell, they clanked off, headed for the Shadow and Priza's hovel.
Blood of the City Page 2
