“Shut up! You throw down that rope and cloak on the ground. No tricks or she dies.”
“Right,” Veranix said. “Nice and slow.” He unhooked the rope and tossed it in front of him, and then threw the cloak down. A wave of fatigue hit him when he dropped them, but he forced himself to ignore it. Numina still pooled around them, he could feel it at his feet, even at this distance.
“Good,” Pendall said. “Weapons, too.”
Veranix dropped his arrows—useless as they were now—and his staff to the ground. “All right, Pendall. I’m unarmed. Let the girl go.” He held his hands above his head.
“Stupid,” Pendall tossed the girl to the side negligently. She landed in a heap, but she was alive, breathing. Veranix gave Pendall a crooked grin.
“I’m stupid?” he asked. “Pen, what did you forget?”
“That you’re an acrobat?” Pendall said, moving closer to Veranix. “I think I can still catch you and pummel you to death.”
“No, Pen,” Veranix said. “You forgot that I’m a goddamned mage.”
Veranix poured as much numina as he could channel through his body into a blast of pure force, and slammed it into Pendall’s chest.
Pendall went flying backward, far out of sight. Veranix dropped to his knees, spent, barely able to breathe.
“Wow!” yelled one of the boys. “You knocked him to the river, I’d bet!”
“Let’s hope,” Veranix rasped. “Cloak.”
“What?” Maxianne asked “What is it?”
“The cloak,” he said, clawing weakly at the open air. “Give it to me.”
The girl that Pendall had been holding hostage scrambled over to him, picking up the cloak and putting it into his hand. Touching it brought numina rushing into his body, which he drank up like cold water.
“Thanks,” he said. He got to his feet, putting the cloak on. “I’ve got to stop having nights like this.”
“That was loud,” the old woman said. “If he has friends, they won’t be far off.”
“No, they won’t,” Veranix said, strapping his arrows on. “You may want to find a new camp. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t,” Maxianne said. “Don’t apologize. Just get out of here.”
Veranix didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed the rest of his gear and pushed his way through the trees. Every step hurt, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it, pushed it out of his head. He didn’t have time to let something like pain get him killed.
He came out at the edge of the park, right at the corner of Justin and Paller. He had three blocks to Necker Square, and then three more to Waterpath. As battered and beat as he was, he felt he could do that. He took three more steps before he heard the hooves pounding toward him. His hand went to his staff. Two horse riders were approaching.
“Stand down in the name of the law!” one of the approaching horsemen called. He was holding up a lantern, so Veranix could see both of them were in green and red uniforms. City Constabulary. The other one was holding a crossbow.
“Stood down,” Veranix called out, slinging his staff on his back and holding up his hands. “I am standing down, sirs.”
The two horses stopped a few yards away from Veranix. The man with the crossbow slid off his horse, keeping his aim trained on Veranix the whole time. “Think you can cause trouble in the park, rat?”
“Cause trouble, sir?” Veranix asked. “No, sir, no such thing.”
“Right,” the one with the lamp said. “Those huge crashes and screams just happened.”
“No, there were three men, officer, they . . .”
“Of course there were three men, and we’ve got one of them now,” the armed officer said.
“No, not me, officer. I’m a student at the University of Maradaine and . . .”
“And, what?” the one with the lamp said. “You were out for a moonlit stroll in the park, with a quarterstaff and a rope?”
“Well,” Veranix started. He heard a crack from the dark trees. Someone was out there. “You know what, officers? It is, indeed, very strange and unexplainable. Clearly you must arrest me.”
“He smell drunk, Ollie?” the one with the lamp asked.
“Not a drop, Hal,” the one with the crossbow said.
“Right,” Hal said, “So we have a sober, armed boy, asking to be arrested.”
“I think he’s covering something up in the park,” Ollie said, looking over to the woods. “Some job or scheme he doesn’t want us finding.”
Hal smiled wryly at Veranix. “Sorry, pal. Afraid you found the two constabs who aren’t in Fenmere’s pocket, so whatever you’re up to, we aren’t going to . . .”
“Oh, thank the saints,” Veranix said. “Because Fenmere has three killers in the park trying to . . .”
That was as far as he got before the knives came whistling out of the trees. Both constabs were hit square in the chest. They dropped down to the ground. Coleman stepped out of the woods, two more knives in his hand. His shirt was soaked in blood, left arm in a makeshift sling. He was pale and breathing hard, but he looked determined.
“Hate to kill honest men just doing their jobs, but I couldn’t have them interfering.”
Veranix didn’t bother replying or bantering. He pulled out his staff and charged in, willing his cloak around him to blend his image away. Coleman threw, deadly accurate at Veranix’s heart. Veranix twisted to the side and batted it away with the staff. He swung it back around, grazing Coleman. Nothing resembling a solid hit.
Coleman struck back with his knife, almost too fast for Veranix to block. He had to fight defensively, as Coleman’s constant barrage of attacks left him no opportunity. Even one-handed, Coleman was outmatching him.
“Yes!” Coleman shouted joyfully. “This is a fight!” His eyes glinted with delight.
Veranix realized Coleman was only toying with him. Having fun before taking the killing shot, or possibly keeping him occupied while Samael got in position to shoot.
Veranix wasn’t going to let that happen. This was not going to be another fight like the one with Nevin. He wasn’t boxed in here.
He swung up with the staff, sweeping the knife out of his way, and flipped backward. His feet connected with Coleman’s chin as he went over—not as strong or as hard as he wanted, but enough to daze the knife fighter for a moment. Staying camouflaged, he pulled back, getting to the other side of the street, keeping most of his weight on his good leg. He was pushing himself, willpower alone keeping his body going. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep it up.
“Close quarters or distance, no difference to me,” Coleman jeered, despite looking like he would drop any minute. He threw the knife in Veranix’s direction, and dove at the body of one of the constabs, yanking his knife out of the dead man’s chest.
Veranix jumped up to avoid the knives, grabbing the metal awning of a barbershop. His palms were sweating, he barely could keep a grip. Veranix flipped over to the top of the awning. Knife after knife flew past him, each one only a hair away from him. Breath short, heart hammering, every muscle ready to give out, he couldn’t keep dodging. As another knife raced at him, he jumped off the awning. Wildly, he cast out the rope, wrapping it around a high tree branch jutting out over the park side of the street. Coleman kept his eyes to the sky, knives at the ready.
Veranix swung himself over the tree branch, looping high as he could before diving back down. He reeled himself down with the rope, catapulting at the ground.
Coleman was alert and threw two knives, and then two more, aiming wide; Veranix’s camouflage and velocity made it impossible to aim accurately. One of the knives grazed Veranix’s arm. It didn’t matter to him as he plummeted hard and fast directly at Coleman, rope in one hand and staff in the other. Right before contact, he swung his staff, imagining Coleman’s head was a tetchball and he was going for a triple-jack.
He hit Coleman’s face, cracking the staff in half.
Veranix stumbled his landing, barely staying on his feet. Coleman was down, either knocked out or, more likely, dead. Veranix didn’t feel like sticking around to check. Samael couldn’t be far away, and given his skill with a crossbow, he didn’t need to be very close, either. Veranix dropped the broken half of his staff. It was nothing he couldn’t replace, just a polished stick of heavy wood, but he had a twinge of regret. His grandfather had given him that staff years ago.
He didn’t have any fight left in him, he couldn’t waste any more time. He mounted one of the Constabulary horses. It was a risk if the law caught him, but it was the fastest way to put some distance between him and the park. He gave it a sharp kick, and it started to canter down the street. Veranix steered it down Paller.
He wanted nothing more than to lie down on the horse’s back and rest, only giving it the minimal leading it needed to reach Waterpath. Instinct told him not to let his guard down. He glanced back toward the park. Up on a roof, framed in the ruddy glow of the nearly full blood moon, he saw a figure running at full tilt, chasing him.
Veranix drove his heels into the horse, pushing it to a gallop.
The running man was beating the horse’s pace, never losing pace to jump to the next roof or clear an iron grate. Veranix stole another glance and spotted the crossbow in the man’s hand. It was undoubtedly Samael.
One block away from Necker Square, Samael overtook Veranix with a bold jump from a four-story row house to the one-story shop across the street, using the cloth banner over the shop to slow his descent. He charged forward, never looking at his feet, secure that every step was sure. Veranix was more than a little impressed.
Samael bounded off a railing, onto the awning of a tailor, down to a wooden cart. As he stepped off the cart, he twisted his body around, raising up the crossbow. He was going to block the way through into Necker Square, and Veranix knew the moment his feet touched solid ground he would shoot the crossbow. Crashing forward on the horse, Veranix had no way to turn or dodge or retreat. He couldn’t cloak himself and the horse.
His hand went to the rope, and he lashed it out at Samael. Like lightning, it whipped forward and wrapped around the crossbow. Just as Samael landed on the ground, the crossbow was wrenched out of his hand.
Veranix barreled the horse forward, pounding toward Samael and knocking him on the cobblestones. Not losing another second, he turned down Necker and galloped at full pace toward the campus.
Samael got up from the road, disgusted with himself. He had underestimated the Thorn, and he should have known better. Cornered cats are always the most dangerous. He should have taken a clean kill shot back on the ridge, but he’d wanted to make sure the Thorn had the merchandise Fenmere wanted first.
He gingerly pressed his chest. He had probably broken a couple ribs. The gash across his skull was bleeding badly as well. Coleman was dead, in all likelihood, and he wasn’t sure exactly what had happened to Pendall. He hoped he was still alive.
Lying on the ground in front of a smoke shop was the smashed remains of his crossbow. That angered Samael more than anything else. Pen and Cole were good friends, but the crossbow was a true treasure. He could rebuild it, of course, but that would take time and money. He bent down to look at the mess and see what could be salvaged.
He grinned. The scope was intact. That was an amazing bit of luck. He was certain the lenses would have shattered. He put it up to his eye. It worked fine. A small blessing on this poor night; the scope was the most expensive component of his crossbow.
Samael walked over to Necker, where the Thorn had raced away, and looked down the road through the scope. Sure enough, he saw the Thorn at the end of the road, getting off the horse. He gave the beast a few slaps until it ran off. Samael watched as the Thorn glanced carefully around, and apparently satisfied that he wasn’t being seen, climbed over the University wall, and dropped down into the campus.
Now the night wasn’t a total loss. He didn’t get the Thorn, but he knew where he went. That should be worth a hundred crowns at least.
Chapter 19
VERANIX PUSHED HIMSELF on pure will to the carriage house. Kaiana had fallen asleep sitting on a bale of hay, her head lolled over to one side lying against the wall. Her book lay discarded at her side, and her lamp was burning low, almost out of oil.
Veranix stumbled over to her. He was already feeling terrible, but he knew it was about to get worse. Best to do this close to her.
First he dropped the rope next to her. Letting it go made his whole body shudder for a moment. He took a moment to catch his breath.
Next the cloak. Taking that off and putting it on the hay bale was like a hammer to the chest. Suddenly every muscle hurt. He didn’t even bother trying to hold himself together, and slumped down on the ground, nudging Kaiana awake.
“Hey,” he said. “You said to wake you up.”
Kaiana opened her eyes blearily, and looked down at him. “Oh, sweet saints, Veranix. Another one of those nights?”
“Ambush tonight,” he said. “I should have expected it. Stupid.”
“You made it out.” She got up, stretching her arms and neck. “How bad was it?”
“Three real pros,” Veranix said. “An arrow almost missed my leg.”
“You were hit?” She bent down to examine him.
“I stopped the bleeding on it. A few small slices here and there. I got lucky, really.”
“Lucky is good,” she said. She looked him over. “Those pants will have to be burned, you know.” She crossed the carriage house, leaving him on the ground, and then came back with a cup of water and some dried meat.
“You think so?” Veranix asked. He took what she offered without question.
“I have no intention of washing or sewing them, all right?”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Where are my regular clothes?”
“Under the hay, back in the corner there,” she said, pointing into the empty stable. “Where are your bow and staff?”
“Casualties of the evening,” Veranix said. Summoning as much strength as he could muster, he pulled himself back to his feet. He frowned as he went into the empty stable and began stripping off his bloody clothes.
“If you plan on going out again in the near future, you can’t go unarmed,” she said, turning her back to him. “Even with that fancy rope and cloak. Look how bad it is when you can fight back.”
“I need to have more nights where I don’t fight anyone,” he said.
“That’s a good choice too. Can you replace the weapons?”
“Staff is easy,” he said. He glanced around the carriage house, spotting several gardening tools. “I can see a few replacements right here.”
Kaiana snorted with laughter. “Master Jolen would love that. What about the bow?”
“It would cost a few crowns, but . . .” He trailed off, lost in idle thoughts, his mind too tired to stay focused. Everything in his body ached, but he might have just enough strength to get back to his dormitory.
“What is it?” She glanced back at him, and quickly turned away again. “Can you get your pants on?”
“Right,” he said. He grabbed the clean pants and pulled them on. The wound on his leg still hurt like blazes, but it wasn’t in any danger of opening up, probably wouldn’t get infected. He made a note that he would have to stretch it more than usual to keep it from healing tight. “I just remembered I have my father’s old bow in the trunk in my room.”
“Sounds like you’re all set,” she said.
“Even still, God and the saints willing, I won’t be going out for a bit.” He tossed the cloak and the rope over to her. “They wanted that stuff, and Fenmere clearly has his mad on for it. So let’s hide it and lay very low for a few weeks.”
She picked up the things and smiled. “Consider it hidden.
Glad you’ve come to your senses on this.”
“I just need the rest,” he said. “Tomorrow is Saint Senea Day. Break from classes, and I’m just going to sleep all morning. I hear they’re going to be doing Three Men and Two Wives over in Cantarell Square in the afternoon. You want to go see it?”
“Break day for you,” she said. “I still have work to do.”
“Right,” he said. “Sorry.”
“It’s not a big deal,” she said. “Three Men and Two Wives? Raunchy junk.”
“It’s hysterical!”
“Hardly,” she said. “Now, if it were one of Whit’s history plays, like Queen Mara, I’d make it work.”
“Queen Mara? Really?”
Kaiana picked up a spade and held it up like a Druth pikeman. “This crown, this throne, this kingdom is mine by birthright. You tell every last traitor that I will hold it, alone if I must, even if the borders of Druthal be no greater than the walls of this room. I will keep the crown on my head for as long as I have breath in my body and strength in my arm!”
She was good. Veranix had no idea she had that in her, and had to respond with applause. “You know that speech?”
She snapped back to looking at him. “I know the whole play.”
“Wow,” Veranix said. “We should find someone to do Maradaine XVI. You could do a blazing good job playing—”
“If you say Queen Majara, I will hit you with this shovel.”
“Any role you wanted,” Veranix finished. He wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. But even if she was interested in the stage, playing the half-Napolic former queen of Druthal was clearly not something that appealed to her.
“That play isn’t even Whit, it’s Kelter mimicking his style,” she muttered. She put down the spade and looked at the slices on Veranix’s arm. “I think you’ll live. Get back to your room before the sun starts coming up. I’ll take care of this stuff.”
“Thanks, Kai,” he said, smiling. “One last favor?”
“You mean one last for tonight?”
“Yeah. Just . . . keep your eye on me until I’m in Almers. Make sure I get in there.”
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