Chapter Sixteen
The colonel’s group moved with professional precision. We jogged in a tight pack, two abreast in the narrow dormitory corridors, with the most experienced soldiers in the front and the rear; a pair of Falconers checked every intersecting corridor we crossed. Everyone was heavily armed with nonlethal weapons, potions, and artifice devices from the armory where they’d been trapped, and the two Falconers in front bore small round shields marked with artifice circles that could neutralize some common magical attacks or slow down a musket ball. At the center of the formation with Istrella and Zaira, I felt very much out of place in my crimson Assembly gown, a soft rustle of silk surrounded by the hard clink and jingle of military gear. It was no wonder the colonel thought me a liability; but I resolved not to become one, keeping up with our pace and staying alert for any sign of danger.
For a few brief minutes I thought we might make it to the colonel’s office unopposed. But the colonel’s breakout from the armory hadn’t gone unnoticed. Shouts rang out both ahead of us and behind, mingled with the tramp of feet rushing to meet us.
A Falconer swore, hefting a club with a wire-wrapped crystal bound to its tip. An artificer wound a coil of rune-marked rope nervously about her hand, and an alchemist thumbed the cork on a potion bottle. I had no tricks left; my flare locket was expended, my rings gone. I had my dagger, but the last thing I wanted to do was stab a controlled Falcon. I met Zaira’s eyes and found them as wide as mine. She curled her empty hands into fists, shaking her head.
“No stopping!” the colonel barked. “No matter what, keep pressing forward!”
Then the approaching forces rounded the corners before and behind us, closing in to catch us between them.
I couldn’t look away from their faces. A soldier lifted his pistol, despair scrunching his features. A Falcon shook her head frantically, mouthing No, no, no, as anguished recognition of her friends flickered in her eyes. A kitchen boy sobbed as he came up behind us, lost and frightened, a vegetable knife clutched in his white-knuckled hand.
“Oh, Hells, that’s my wife,” the Falcon with the rope moaned, staring at another Falcon in the group behind us. “I can’t fight her.”
She pushed abruptly past our rear guard and flung her rope across the corridor, without taking her eyes off her wife. The rope’s painted runes blazed with light—a ward. It wouldn’t last long, but the attackers coming up behind us surged to an uneven halt for now.
There was no time for relief. I whipped back around to face the front, where a group twice our size braced unwillingly to meet our advance. Between the shielding legs of the soldiers and Falconers they’d put in their vanguard, I glimpsed a little girl with a jess on her wrist who couldn’t be more than seven, tears streaming down from eyes wide with fear.
“Not the brats, too,” Zaira whispered. “Hells, no.”
The two Falconers in our front line lifted their shields; behind them, more readied weapons. Grace of Mercy, this is really going to happen. We really have to fight them.
“I’m sorry,” one of the soldiers facing us cried. “I’m so sorry.”
And with a deafening crack, he discharged his pistol.
I barely swallowed a shriek. The shot struck a bell-like note from one of the shields, splitting it down the middle; the Falconer carrying it swore and dropped it, shaking out her arm. Another gunshot sounded, loud as the end of the world in the cramped quarters, and she dropped to one knee, crying out in pain. The orange light of the wards caught eerily in the haze of gunsmoke floating in the air.
“Keep going!” the colonel shouted, and our front lines pressed forward around the wounded Falconer as she gripped her bleeding leg and let out a stream of curses.
I crouched down beside her, desperate to do something to help, unwilling to walk past the pain constricting her face. “Do you have any bandages? I can—”
“Keep moving, Cornaro!” Colonel Vasante snapped. “Let the controlled ones treat her. They’ve been taking care of the fallen on both sides. You!” She swiveled in front of me to jab an imperative finger back at the group blocked by the rope ward, rising on her toes to call out over the heads of her troops. “Treat the wounded! Go get some alchemical salves if you don’t have them already!”
One of the Falcons behind the ward saluted. “Yes, Colonel!”
Then our front rank slammed into the forces standing against us, and our column compressed with the impact. Shouts of fear and pain rose up as the Falcon with the crystal-tipped club laid about her, delivering stunning shocks with every strike. At her side, the remaining shield blocked some kind of hurled artifice device, its runes flaring. The stink of sweat mingled with the sharp scent of gunsmoke. A Falcon in our second rank cast a net wound with artifice wire at the controlled soldier with the pistol; he fell in a tangle of coppery strands that tightened around him, with a strangled whoop.
Suddenly, I had to step over fallen bodies. My heart slammed repeatedly into the back of my throat as I tiptoed over the sprawled and twitching form of a woman who’d been stunned by the crystal club, then lurched into Zaira in my attempt not to step on the netted soldier. Violence still thrashed a few paces ahead of me; half the shouts and cries seemed to be apologies or denials, and it wrenched my heart to hear people begging a man who wasn’t even here to stop making them hurt their friends.
A soldier staggered back into me, clutching his throat, choking from some powder an alchemist had cast into his face. I caught him as he fell, looking around in a panic for someone who could help as he struggled for breath. A Falcon behind me pulled a bottle from one of dozens of small pouches ringing her waist and tipped some purple liquid into his mouth, her face blank with focus, and he gasped in a lungful of air. I helped steady him, then looked up to find that we’d fallen behind as our vanguard pressed forward, leaving a trail of incapacitated comrades in their wake.
I hurried past a couple of unconscious soldiers who reeked of peppermint and several more weakly stirring victims of the shock club. A Falconer with both legs tangled in artifice wire had dragged herself to help a soldier who clutched a horribly burned hand, tears streaming down his face. A sickening crunch and a wet scream sounded from the surging mass of combatants ahead, and I could only hope to the Graces it was nothing worse than a broken nose or some lost teeth. My stomach turned at the acrid smell of scorched hair.
These were the same dormitory halls I’d walked down chatting idly with Zaira and Marcello countless times, my shoulder brushing the warm wood paneling now scarred with burn marks and streaked with blood. It was as if when the orange light of the wards flared up in the darkness, the whole Mews had been plunged straight into the Hell of Nightmares.
As I caught up with the back of our embattled group, I found Istrella with both hands over her ears, her face pale, clinging close to her brother. My heart twisted at the lost look in her eyes. Marcello, with one good arm and only lethal weapons, was helping triage the fallen, quickly checking each body to make certain they were in no immediate danger.
Zaira emerged from the press of bodies before us, struggling out between the back line of packed-in soldiers like a dog weaseling under a fence, with a bloody streak on her face and the little girl Falcon struggling in her arms.
“Get a door open, quickly!” she snapped, averting her eyes as the crying girl gouged at her face with small fingers.
I threw a door open on someone’s untidy bedroom full of dying potted plants. Zaira all but tossed the little girl into it and slammed the door.
“Stay in there and stay safe!” she shouted, holding the door closed as the girl thudded into it, still crying. “Damn it, I can’t lock this from the outside. Not with her banging on it like that—she’d break my picks, and it’d take too much time.”
Istrella ran up to us, determination in her eyes and a charcoal stick in her hand. She scrawled a quick runic circle on the door and jabbed an obsidian-headed pin from her satchel into the center of the design. It took her mere seconds. “That won
’t hold more than ten minutes,” she warned us.
“Good enough,” Zaira said roughly. “Let’s go.” And we turned back to the fight.
After that, the four of us made a team, dealing with any less than fully incapacitated opponents who fell behind our lines. Zaira and I threw open doors and hauled bodies, Marcello checked for injuries, and Istrella sealed the doors. It was sweaty work, and we picked up bruises from flying fists and knees; Zaira took a light slash on her arm when she reached for a ten-year-old boy who wasn’t quite done fighting. My corset dug painfully into my waist whenever I bent over, and the others had the same grim, haunted expression I knew must be on my face. But we were doing something that got innocent people out of harm’s way, and that gave us an excuse not to look at the terrible and desperate shouting mess of violence a few feet up the corridor.
Then we broke through the opposition at last and ran down the hallway, free and clear. More shouts and footfalls approached; it sounded like someone was rallying another group together to try to stop us, but with everyone fighting the compulsion any way they could, they were slow to get organized. My pulse pounded with bitter insistence in my head, and my dry throat craved a cool drink of water.
Hells. I was probably overdue for my elixir. The last thing I needed now was to collapse from poison symptoms. As we thundered down a staircase, I worked a vial out of the secret pocket in my skirt and downed it; the swallow of anise-scented liquid barely dampened my tongue, but I managed not to spill any. I wished I could drink more just for the water in it.
Then we were sprinting across the dark cavern of a first-floor dormitory entrance hall, with cold marble floors and a vaulted ceiling; a shadowy doorway on the far side led to the wing that housed the officers’ quarters and, eventually, the colonel’s private office. Our footfalls echoed like the pattering of hail on a tile roof. More shouts and running steps came after us, but we were going to make it.
But a line of glowing runes sprang to life across the threshold of the doorway, illuminating a terrified teenage boy crouching behind them in a glare of harsh blue light. A ward. We scrambled to a halt in front of the doorway as the boy fled, his work done. Zaira let out a string of curses.
“Istrella Verdi!” Colonel Vasante barked. “Get up here and cancel this ward!”
Istrella, pale but determined, hurried to the front; Marcello went with her, hovering protectively. I felt a strange surge of pride; when two artificers pitted their work directly against each other like this, a combination of skill, precision, and raw power would determine whose enchantment prevailed. The fact that the colonel hadn’t hesitated before calling for Istrella spoke volumes for her abilities.
Echoing shouts and the clattering rumble of footsteps and gear broke into the hall. I swung around to face the arriving forces as the sixteen or so remaining in our party formed an arc to protect Istrella.
Some twenty people poured through the main door into the gloomy hall, fanning out as they approached us. My heart dropped; we were outnumbered. The soldier in the lead bore a saber and a more determined expression than the others, who moved with hesitant reluctance, seeking with each step to find a way around their compulsion.
But I had no eyes for him. All I saw were two figures near the back of the group, miserable and tear-streaked. Foss, desperation hollowing his face, clutched a fireplace iron in one hand—and Aleki’s tiny hand in the other.
Despair squeezed my chest. Hell of Nightmares. Not Aleki. He wasn’t even three years old.
Aleki cried and clung to his father, who put himself in front of his boy as much as he could. But Aleki kept walking toward us with the rest, terror on his small, helpless face, compelled by Ruven’s command the same as the others. Angry cries of protest rose up from more than one person around me when they saw him.
“Oh, bring that piss bucket here,” Zaira growled. I had no doubt she was talking about Ruven. “I’ll burn him slowly, so he can feel himself dying one piece at a time.”
“We’ve got to help Aleki.” I could barely stop myself from pushing past the Falconer with the last remaining shield, who stood in front of me, and rushing to grab Aleki and get him out of here.
“Please don’t do anything rash, Lady Amalia,” the Falconer with the shield said. “We’ll get him to safety. Never fear.”
Marcello stepped forward from Istrella’s side, staring hard at the soldier leading the opposing force. “That’s the one who came in late with the hangover this morning,” he muttered. “Except…” He raised his voice. “You’re not Bertram.”
The soldier spread his arms, holding his saber wide. An unsettling mix of bright silver moonlight from the open door and sullen orange glow from the runes around it lit his face. “Of course I am! I’m controlled, the same as the rest. Sorry to have to fight you.”
Marcello drew his pistol. “Bertram is left-handed. You’re holding your sword in your right. And your walk is all wrong. Who are you? How are you wearing Bertram’s face?”
I tore my eyes from Aleki to look at Marcello, startled, and then at the soldier. The man who wasn’t Bertram hesitated. Then he sighed, lowering his arms. “You caught me, Captain Verdi. But it doesn’t matter anymore. The Mews already belongs to my Lord Ruven.”
“Like Hells it does,” Colonel Vasante snapped. “Even if you take us down, you can’t hold the Mews forever.” Her eyes flicked back toward Istrella, so quickly I doubted Not-Bertram noticed. She had no interest in this conversation, and knew perfectly well it would all come down to fighting; she was stalling to buy time for us to get through that doorway.
Not-Bertram’s eyes narrowed. “Oh? Bold words, Colonel. What do you say to this?” To my horror, he lunged sideways and seized Aleki’s arm, yanking him away from his father. “This one’s too small to be of use to my lord. Surrender now, or I’ll kill him.”
“No!”
The scream had formed in my own throat, but someone else released it first: Foss.
He threw himself on the soldier’s sword arm, knocking him away from Aleki. And at the same time, Zaira dashed forward, leaving a streak of sizzling obscenities behind her.
I lurched a step after her without thinking, fear for her and Foss and Aleki shoving me forward.
“Back her up!” Colonel Vasante roared, frustration and fury clear in her voice, and our careful defensive arc broke as most of us ran after Zaira to protect her. I charged a few steps behind the rest, pulling out my dagger, with no clear idea what I would do when I caught up.
All around Foss and the struggling soldier, the line of controlled Falcons and Falconers turned to face our onrushing attack with wrenching slowness, forced to raise weapons against their will. Not-Bertram must have fallen outside the compass of their orders, as no one seemed compelled to help him; but he was more than a match for shy, scholarly Foss. He shook him off his arm like a wet rag.
Artifice devices and potions flying past her, Zaira hurled herself at Aleki. She scooped the squirming, crying bundle of him up in her arms.
And the soldier with Bertram’s face whirled, saber flashing, and struck her in the back.
The air rippled as if his sword had hit water, sounding a piercing chime. The blade rebounded in his hand, wrenched out of his grasp to skitter across the floor, while Zaira curled protectively around Aleki.
Relief shattered the lance of icy fear that pierced my lungs. She was still wearing her enchanted corset from when she’d gone out into the city to meet me. Thank the Graces.
One of the soldiers who’d charged with Zaira drove a sword into Not-Bertram’s chest. Bertram staggered back, taking the sword with him, stuck in his ribs; a Falcon caught the now-weaponless soldier in the face with a splash of vitriol, wailing an apology, and he dropped to his knees, screaming.
And then our charge crashed into their faltering line, and chaos erupted in shouts and clamor all around us.
I caught up to Zaira even as Foss pulled Aleki from her arms, his eyes stark with horror. He hugged his son tight to his chest,
but Ruven’s compulsion made him launch a kick at Zaira even as he did, his face drawn with misery.
“Come on!” I shouted to Zaira, ducking something that sailed over my head. She leaped back from a knife that a frightened clerk swung at her even as the Falconer with the shield stepped up to cover her and help form a line. “We’ve got no business in the front lines, and we can’t leave Istrella undefended!”
Zaira nodded, her lips pressed tight together, and the two of us ran back to where Marcello, Colonel Vasante, and a couple of others still formed a broken arc around Istrella as she crouched over the threshold, painting runes to counter each one of the sigils on the warding rope laid across the doorway.
But someone else was running at the protective knot, too: a controlled Falconer, pistol in hand. She stopped several paces away, feet braced wide, and screamed “Look out!” as she lifted her weapon.
Marcello lunged at her, desperation in his eyes. Zaira tried to fling herself in the way, arms spread, ready to take the ball on her corset. But neither of them were fast enough.
The pistol’s muzzle flashed, and its retort echoed painfully loud in the marble-sheathed entrance hall, its echo ricocheting around the room.
Istrella shrieked in pain, and her paintbrush clattered to the floor.
Chapter Seventeen
Istrella!” I threw myself to my knees at her side, dimly aware of the battle continuing behind me, of Zaira and Marcello struggling with the soldier who’d shot her. In the clashing blue and orange glow of the wards, all I could see—all I cared about—was the blood that seeped between her fingers as she clutched her left arm.
“I’m fine,” she said through her teeth, rocking back and forth with the pain. “I’m fine. I’ve got to finish this. Ow.”
“Let me take a look,” I urged her.
The Unbound Empire Page 17
