Calling Up the Fire

by Lori Martin

  “The Northwest Gate,” she said, not to Pirri, not to anyone but the night air. If the guards there had also left their posts to join in the fight –

  She shoved past the other women. They were shouting; the third attacker had ridden off, and no one had yet caught the hidden archer in the tree. The ferocious interplay of swords wavered; Scayna, uncaring, heard the blond man cry out in an agony of heart more than body, though the blade had cut deep into his chest. He called on his goddess. It was a confession of failure.

  “Follow me,” Scayna called, but no one heeded her. Then she was running, skidding around the curve of the wall. She kept on, and was almost knocked down by two more archers. “No, no, come with me this way!” she shouted. One gave her a dazed look. The other said stupidly, “There’s trouble at the Southwest,” and they were both gone.

  Half-wits, Scayna thought in fury. The Northwest...!

  Ymon’s attack was evidently a success, at least as a distraction, which was all it was intended to be. Mejalna hoped he and the others would be able to steal the precious horses and finally escape, but that was secondary. The alarm had been called down from the Assemblage House roof, and the archers from this, the Northwest gate, were gone in answer.

  “Go ahead,” Samalas whispered. She started, but he was only willing away the two Gate guards, who had remained faithfully planted in position. They were uneasy, but they would not leave their posts.

  The four Defiers crouched in the darkness, waiting. Far-off shouting could be heard. “Now,” Samalas whispered, and this time he did mean her. Mejalna lifted her small bow. The guards strained to hear the fighting. One had lowered his shield; it hung to his knees.

  “There were people on the roof,” Renasi murmured. “I don’t see them now. Everyone’s looking south. Now, Mejalna!” She had taken an oath: to kill cooperators, to overthrow the murdering Mendales. She had killed more than one Oversettle oppressor during raids in the foothills.

  (Does killing come so easily to you, too?) A guilty tyrant was one thing, but these were ordinary men doing their duty.

  “Mejalna!”

  She compromised. She was a good shot; her arrow thudded cleanly into the man’s thigh. He cried out and staggered. The other guard whirled. Renasi, stepping out of the bushes, skimmed across the ground. In moments he had downed both men with the flat of his sword.

  They rose and ran to him. “Killing is surer,” Samalas said briefly. They dragged the unconscious guards into cover. Mejalna and Renasi didn’t look at each other.

  Their servant Kel unbuckled the leather ware and took up the shields. He and Renasi threw on the guards’ outer garments. They thrust their own dark clothing behind bushes. There were no telltale bread baker aprons; nothing to compromise the Guild if they should be caught.

  Samalas raised an eyelid of one of the guards with his thumb, his sword at the ready, but the man would be dreaming still at sun-up. “All right. Quickly.”

  They approached the Gate again, deserted now. Kel and Renasi took up their positions, holding the guards’ spears out at the correct angle, which Samalas had made them practice. He and Mejalna slipped into the garden.

  Neat shallow beds, blanketed by old snow, stretched out in serene lines in the moonlight. Trees lifted branches dusted by white into the air. A formal walkway, inlaid with mosaics, led to a gleaming marble door: the entry to the First Tribune’s apartments. The guard here, they knew, stood within; two heavy bolts and six solid inches of doorstone stood between him and the intruders. He would hear nothing.

  Samalas signaled to her. Above them, sweeping out from the Assemblage building, ran the balcony. The First Tribune often broke fast here. Now, however, a single form was silhouetted. It bobbed its head at them; all was well.

  It was Extos, the Defier who’d managed to become a bread baker in the Assemblage House. To be here he had had to send two of the serving girls away with a false summons to the kitchens. To get past the inner hallway guards had been harder. Though he could have invented another summons for himself, bidding him to the Tribune’s apartments (he knew the password), it would have been remembered the next day. Instead, with precision, he had dosed the food of one of the guards. When the man fell ill, his watch companion had dragged him off to a bed: only for a few moments, true, since he was conscientious in his duties, but long enough for Extos to get by.

  He waited now on the balcony in his bread baker apron. If all went as planned, he would not be needed, and his valuable Assemblage position would not be compromised. Samalas’s orders had been clear: join us only if necessity demands.

  In the garden below Mejalna slid into the night shadow of a tree trunk. Samalas, breaking a branch here or there, shinnied up, above the height of a horse.

  Soon, Mejalna thought. Hurry up! Ymon won’t be able to hold out at the Southwest for long.

  Perhaps Nialia was with them, for their timing was perfect. They could all hear the riders approaching.

  The edges of something dark and heavy dropped on to her shoulder. It was a blanket of wool, doused in the center with sleep-inducing herbs, to haul in their catch. The First Tribune’s a big fish in more ways than one, she thought humorously, and grasped her end. Above her Samalas held the other. The dark blanket, invisible, filled with breeze like a sail.

  At the gate Renasi and Kel lifted their spears, clanking, in ritual salute. “Good even’,” came the First Tribune’s voice. Haol’s tone was distant. He was known to take little trouble with the servants and guards; he had been in the Assembly for most of his adult life but could call few of them by name. He wouldn’t stop to remark on the night’s chill or ask after far-flung kindred. They had counted on this in their planning.

  “You needn’t wait,” Tribune Haol went on, apparently to a companion. Mejalna glanced up into the tree. Samalas, craning to see, tapped on the trunk softly, twice. Two riders only. That meant only Haol and his personal guard, whom, it seemed, he was now dismissing. Excellent.

  Her hands tightened on the blanket’s edge. She looked over at the balcony. Extos was immobile. From his position he would be able to see if anyone else entered the garden.

  Renasi and Kel were opening the gate. The First Tribune’s horse, directly before them, stepped into her view. Haol was yawning.

  Scayna felt time rushing away from her in swift flying moments. Her feet pounded on stone. As she followed the curve of the wall she could hear the creak of the gates; they were being pushed back. He had returned.

  “Tribune!” she screamed. Her left ankle turned and her foot skidded; for a few seconds she teetered, then recovered her balance. Her quiver, tilted, dropped its arrows. They rained down on the wall and were gone.

  “Tribune! Wait!” When Haol turned his head the moonlight streaked across his puffy cheeks. He looked annoyed; his thought obvious: could these people never manage on their own?

  “Yes, yes, what is it?”

  Scayna halted above the Gate. The guards – who were they? – lifted staring faces. She straightened up respectfully, trying not to pant. “Sir, there’s a disturbance at the Southwest Gate. The guards were attacked, and there seemed to be rebel archers there. You’re in danger.”

  “What? Rebels? You mean Defiers?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but who else would do such a thing?” The guard directly below her shifted, his hand still on the Gate.

  “Sir, you’d better get inside.”

  “Yes,” the second echoed. “Come through the gates, sir, quickly.” Haol was careful of his comforts, but he did not lack courage.

  Defiers at the gates of the Assembly! It infuriated him. He looked about, but his personal guard was gone, and these two would be needed where they were. He drew in breath and bellowed. “Roof! Sentries on the roof!” His huge voice boomed across the garden and bounced off the walls. A torch flared.

  “Gate guards! Who is it?” A woman from Scayna’s own Band peered down from the roof suspiciously. Her high torch lit up the air around her; everything else fell
in deeper black.

  “It’s the First Tribune,” Scayna called.

  The woman shouted, “Oh, sir! We’ve been attacked at the South –” “Yes, yes! Get your watch companions and meet me there. Notify

  the house guards and send for the Second and Third Tribunes. Did you hear me? Hurry up!” A lantern suddenly glowed in a window of Haol’s apartments; the noise had roused someone. The guard below Scayna said desperately, “Sir, don’t risk yourself. Come inside!”

  Haol ignored him. He gathered up the reins and issued his orders. “You two stay here at your posts. Where in the howling wind are the other sentries? No, no, girl, stay here. They may try all the Gates at once, who knows? We need an archer here.”

  Scayna felt frantically for her lost arrows. All the Gates? No, he was the target, she knew... “Sir,” she began to plead, but he didn’t wait.

  Haol kicked at his horse. Both guards burst into protest, which went unheeded. He galloped away.

  A streak of cold ran down her back. She felt that he had passed from danger, but something was still wrong.

  The guard below cursed and kicked at the wall.

  “What –?” She was bewildered. In the corner of her eye light danced: the lantern, moving in the night air. Someone had come out on the balcony.

  “Haol?” a man called.

  Like a pantomime she had once seen, several hulking shadows were suddenly in awkward motion. A white flash appeared on the balcony behind the man; a ghostly arm came down on him. He grunted and fell to his knees. His lantern tumbled through the air. Its encasing shattered loudly on the mosaics below. Another figure swarmed up the trellis, while a third silhouette crawled out on the far tree’s outer branches. “Come away!” it hissed. The white spirit on the balcony answered, “No. It’s the Third Tribune, it’s Nichos. Take him instead.”

  “Stop!” Scayna shouted. She fumbled for her bow, but it was useless without arrows. She flung it away. “Guards,” she began, and broke off. One of them had disappeared into the garden. Her look met the other’s; his eyes were fixed on her face. His spear was pointed at her breast. He had tossed away his shield. “If you move,” he said, “I’ll throw.”

  Defiers.

  She calculated the distance: short, but it would be a hard throw for him, almost straight up. As if he read her thoughts he added, “I can do it.”

  The others must have bundled up the fallen man. A heavy burden was being lifted over the balcony’s sides into waiting arms. The Third Tribune, then, not the First... (Name of Nichos, stay away from him, her father’s voice repeated.)

  Her right hand, stealthy beneath her cloak, closed on the short knife strapped to her skin.

  “Hurry!” The white figure on the balcony glanced nervously over his shoulder. “People are waking up in here.”

  “Renasi,” one of the figures hissed. “Get the cart!”

  “I can’t,” the false guard protested. “We’ve got an archer here.” He gestured with the spear. In his urgency to get their attention he glanced towards them.

  Scayna jumped. She crashed down, knife aimed at his chest, narrowly avoiding the up-turned spear. Their bodies slammed together; her blade, missing his heart by inches, plunged into his lower shoulder as they fell to the ground.

  He didn’t yell out. Her weight was on his chest, stopping his breath. She pushed up, knees astride him, clutching at her blade’s handle, and yanked it free from his flesh. Blood gushed on her hand and wrist; some hidden part of her, horrified and fascinated, noted that this was true killing, a world apart from the routine army drills. She raised the knife again.

  Mejalna brought the heavy Mendale shield down on the archer’s head, swinging both arms. The woman crumpled. Renasi, taking the weight again on his chest, hissed air between his teeth. Mejalna shoved the archer’s limp body off him and pressed hard on his wound with the end of her robe to try to stanch the bleeding. “Ren? Ren?”

  “Yes,” he said. He struggled to sit up.

  “Can he travel?” Samalas was beside them. “Good, quick, let’s go.”

  Kel ran through the gates to their hidden cart. The horse was farther back; they had been afraid of his sound. They would drag the cart themselves to the animal.

  The Third Tribune, dazed by the blow and wrapped in the herbstained blanket, gave no sign of life beyond his slow breathing. Kel and Samalas tossed him into the back of the cart like a bag of bread bakers’ flour. Renasi staggered behind them and collapsed on to the cart boards. He was still bleeding heavily.

  Mejalna glanced around. The balcony was empty; Extos had vanished. An after-shock of fear trembled in her limbs. Had they yet avoided disaster?

  A sword glittered. Samalas stood over the unconscious archer.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, furious.

  “She’s seen us. And she probably saw Extos, that’s worse. What would you have me do?”

  He was right. It doubled her anger. If Extos were exposed, their entire Guild might be endangered.

  Does killing come so easily to you?

  She said desperately, “Take her with us.”

  “What!”

  She leaned over and grabbed the archer’s limp arms. The head, covered with closely cropped dark hair, lolled to one side. She dragged the body, bouncing on the ground, to the Gate.

  “Mejalna. She’s seen us.”

  “So has the Tribune. We’ll take them both.”

  Two torches bobbed somewhere on the roof. The sentries were returning.

  “Help me,” Mejalna panted, pulling.

  “No. Mejalna. I said no.”

  “Hurry! Hurry!” Kel’s sizzling whisper cut between them. They stared at one another.

  He was immune to her beauty, she knew; she had never even tried to use it against him. And he would not bend to an appeal of the heart. Only his sharp mind was open, and here she had no weapons, for there was no sense or reason in her actions. She knew all this; but she didn’t know the force of her own compelling will, and so his silent decision astonished her. He picked up the archer’s legs, grasping firmly beneath the knees. Together they brought her to the cart.

  The alert ran faster through MenDas than they had anticipated. They had been delayed, and had been forced to take the wrong quarry, while First Tribune Haol had had time to take command of the Assemblage House defense.

  Had Haol disappeared, chaos – at least for a few hours – could have been counted on. But the Assembly had been without a Third Tribune for a time, and this new one was not yet relied on; he might not yet even be missed. Meanwhile, as they rattled down backstreets, they could hear all around them the proof of Haol’s quick actions. Soldiers were already spreading through the avenues. Light flashed up in window after window as the townspeople were roused from their beds.

  Kel drove the horse with a fury, ahead, he thought, of the spreading activity. Yet as they neared the Guild some instinct made Samalas grab his arm. “Pull up,” he whispered.

  Kel slowed the horse. They halted just before the turn on to the street of the bread bakers. Harsh voices reached them.

  “– invade this Guild at such an hour?” Pojji’s outraged treble said.

  A man answered, “Assembly orders, First Tribune’s directive. Every house to be searched –”

  “Sir, there’s a smith down the street. Pulled a knife on Shamas, says we’re disturbing his horses and family –”

  “Ask him if he wants to see the inside of a holding-house for his trouble,” the first man said.

  “Get these men to the other side!” someone shouted.

  Pojji was heard to ask, “But what’s wrong?”

  Another clamor of shouts drowned out whatever answer she received. Wavering torchlights danced out.

  Kel leaped out of the cart and drew the horse farther back. Mejalna and Samalas glanced at one another, each in question, and looked away.

  “– your people are all here now, in the middle of the night?” The soldier’s voice rose in interrogation.r />
  Samalas drew in breath, but Pojji gave a calm response. They could hear snatches of her story; it was a tale of an apprentice’s mistake and the ruin of many hours’ baking. “And I told them there’d be no sleep while we’re so behind –”

  “No use,” Samalas suddenly hissed. “We’ll never get the Tribune in here.”

  Kel said, “Well, we can’t stay here, sir, there’re more soldiers coming up the next street. I didn’t know they had so many soldiers posted in MenDas.”

  “The spearhead camp,” Mejalna said. “No, no, Samalas, listen to me. There’s nowhere else to bring them.”

  Behind them, flat on the cartboards, Renasi jerked with pain. He moaned. Mejalna bent swiftly and whispered in his ear; he fell silent. Their unconscious captives made no movement.

  “We’ll have to get through before they close off the town gates.” Samalas, furious at the disruption of his plan, could still change with the new wind. “Hurry up, Kel, let’s go.”

  “The gatekeeper –” Mejalna began. Samalas waved her to silence.

  The cart’s hurried progression was too noisy, and they cringed with every ringing fall of the horse’s hooves. Shouts seemed to pursue them. Mejalna lifted the blanket to cover all three forms lying in the cart. Then she scrambled to the box and wedged herself between the two men.

  Kel whipped on the horse, but as they neared the wall they could see signs of stirring at the gates. Two standing torches had been lit. The keeper, in a soiled nightsmock, stood in bewilderment; the soldiers hadn’t yet reached him; he had no instructions. One of his hands rested indecisively on the top cross-bolt.

  “Even’, friend,” Samalas called in a commoner’s accent. They rolled to a stop.

  “Good even’,” the keeper answered. “What’s wrong down there, do you know? Been hearing shouts. Dog’s been barking.” He jerked his head at the old dog that sat at his feet, one lame paw held up and ears pricked.

  “Soldiers who should know better,” Samalas said. “Sounded drunk to me. I think they’re brawling.”

  “Half-wits,” the keeper grumbled. “Waking a man for nothing. I was just going to bar the gates, maybe.”