To her left there was a scratch of metal on stone, a hint of something in the periphery of her vision. She turned to see a grappling hook lodged against the stone railing, her brain not processing what was happening. And then, one after another, four figures emerged from over the railing. They were all wearing mismatched drab clothes, their hair was matted and shorn unevenly, their faces dirty and covered in stubble. Each of them had a crossbow slung over their shoulder, and bare short swords tucked into their belts.
Alana froze. Her mind racing back to the night in the Royal Oak when, without thinking, she had tackled Mareth’s assassin. She’d nearly lost her head. She remembered Win attacking her in the alley, her over-confidence in being safe late at night walking through Kingshold; who knew what Win would have done to her if Mareth and Florian had not arrived.
Alana took one small step backwards, followed by another as the gray men raised their crossbows. Three twangs. Three grunts. The sound of three bodies hitting the floor behind her, followed by the howls of the nearby witnesses. One of them looked directly her, snarling through a gap-tooth sneer.
The bolt hit her in the stomach and knocked her off her feet.
Alana lay on the floor, her arms above her head, a pain in her stomach and a stinging in her side. She blinked slowly, looking at the man who had shot her lower the crossbow, dropping it to the floor with a clatter as he reached for his sword. She was sure she was bleeding out, here in a foreign land, never to see her sister and home again. And it looked like this man had every intention of making sure of it.
Her heart hammered in her chest. She felt her soul raging at the injustice of it all. Why? Well, if she was going to die here, then she was not going to do it lying down. Her hand touched the wire headpiece that dug into her scalp as she watched the gray man approach her, the other attackers charging the remaining guests behind her. The headpiece! She remembered how Jill had fixed it in her hair.
Clutching her stomach, she forced herself to her feet before her attacker got too close. Then both of her hands were in her broken wire headpiece until they emerged with what she had been seeking. She flung the crystal and wire adornment to the floor; the hair it took Jill an hour to pin up as a seat for the headpiece fell about in disarray as she did so. In her hands were the two hat pins, though it was probably an understatement to call them that. Each was nearly a foot long, as thick as her finger, and though they lacked a sharp edge they ended in enough of a point that Alana considered them to be the closest thing to a knife at hand.
She stood, a little unsteadily, with her feet apart, in a knife fighting stance like Florian and Dolph had taught her, thankful for the first time that night for her wired under-skirt. Alana knew she didn’t have a chance of making it out alive; once the other attackers came back, she would be done for. But if she could just stick this arsehole who had shot her, if she could just once use the skills she had learned, then she could at least go to the next world in some sort of peace. She just hoped that the bolt that must be sticking in her stomach wasn’t going to make this impossible.
The gray man walked warily forward, sword held outward and away from his body. Alana had a sneaking suspicion that he didn’t know what he was doing. He was babbling something but all she could hear was her own breath, the rest of the world melting away as she watched him intently. A couple of strides away, he brought back the sword over his head and charged, meaning to bring it down towards her neck. The muscles of her legs exploded into action, launching her forwards before he could react. Her left hand went to meet his strike. She knew the hat pin would have no chance of parrying the sword so she reached out to stick his forearm as it swung down. The gray man’s hand opened in pain, releasing the sword which continued its momentum to strike her on the back. But her other hand was already moving upwards and she pushed with all her strength, driving the hat pin into his pale neck.
Her attacker fell to the floor, blood gurgling from his mouth.
Alana stood there, bent over, panting and staring at the man she had just killed. At the life she had just taken. And slowly, the rest of the world came back into focus. Unfortunately, the three other attackers were now heading for her with murderous intent.
From the hall burst a figure in yellow, tearing with deadly intent to intercept the gray men. It jumped into the air, kicking one of them in the face and sending him sliding across the stone tiles. The figure landed on its feet, turned and punched another of the attackers in the gut. He doubled over and the yellow blur launched a knee up under his chin, snapping his neck back audibly. The last attacker swung his sword at the back of her rescuer, and even though all this happened in a matter of seconds, she felt her brief flutter of hope dim, certain that the strike would be unseen.
But the yellow figure kicked high, back into the gray man’s face, his nose crumpling like a piece of fruit thrown against the wall. A low kick followed, sending the man crashing to the floor and the yellow figure snatched up his sword and shoved it unceremoniously into his chest. Alana watched as the figure did the same to the unconscious men on the floor, slowly realizing that her savior was a woman, dressed in yellow down to just above her knees, where long pantaloons clothed her legs below. She held a sword in each hand now, another tucked under her armpit as she walked over to the stunned Alana. Relief flooded through her and it took another moment for Alana to realize that the pain in her stomach had subsided. The woman looked familiar…
“Jill?”
“Are you injured?” asked Jill, looking flushed and concerned.
“I… I got shot.” She looked down at her stomach, and saw blood on her side but not where she had felt the impact of the bolt. Jill crouched down before her, inspecting what Alana still expected to be a mortal wound. She’d seen a chicken run around with its head cut off before, and she had a terrible foreboding that she was such a fowl right now.
“You’re fine,” said Jill, looking up at Alana. She must have noticed how confused Alana looked, as she went on to explain. “The bodice, it’s lined with metal plates. Special issue from the palace. It must have deflected the bolt. You have a nasty gash on your side where it ricocheted but you’ll be fine.” She handed her one of the swords. “I know you know how to use this. The Admiral needs our help. Are you ready?”
Alana took the sword and nodded dumbly. All that came to mind were the words Jyuth often said:
What the fuck is going on?
“Good, let’s go. Leave most of the fighting to me. Just stay out of my way.” Jill turned to head back into the hall where Alana could hear the sounds of butchery, but then she turned back again. “Wait, let’s get rid of this stupid thing.” Jill reached out and grabbed hold of Alana’s gown; only a few hours ago so beautiful, and now covered in blood and dirt. She grabbed two handfuls of fabric and metal hoops and yanked it downward, ripping the skirt away and to the ground. Alana looked down—Jill’s current appearance made a lot more sense. “Come on, let’s go.”
Stepping out of the tattered remnants of her dress, Alana sprinted after Jill and back into the hall. It was chaos. Men and women in the long black robes of the serving staff now wielded swords and daggers and were in combat with the few guards who were inside the party. The bodies of various attendees were lying broken on the ground, or trying to crawl away from trouble across the marble floor made slick with their own blood.
Where was the city guard? she wondered, as she ran after Jill to Admiral Crews keeping three attackers away from a group of women who were huddled together. Dolph was there too, engaged with serving staff gone murderous. Jill neared Crews, one of his attackers turning to engage her, but Alana didn’t see what happened next.
Another scream and she looked over to see a fat old man getting skewered in the stomach, a young woman quivering behind him. She had met that couple earlier this evening. Guafi Grandi, an Assembly member with his wife, was now kneeling on the floor trying to hold in his entrails.
She knew that Jill had meant for her to follow, but she couldn’t
leave that poor woman undefended. So she changed direction and headed their way. Alana saw a glass discarded on the floor and she kicked it in their direction. It shattered on the wall by the side of the swordsman, distracting him from cutting the wife’s throat, causing him to turn around and notice her as she skidded to a halt just out of sword range. He threw the young woman’s head back against the wall with a thud, readying himself once he spotted the blade in Alana’s hand as the trophy wife slid to the floor. No sneer on this one’s face. No uncertainty in the way he held the dagger that glinted in the sparkling light of the chandelier.
The man charged her; from over-confidence in her lack of ability to defend herself with the blade or lack of concern over his life, she was not sure. Not that it mattered in the few seconds she had to think about what to do. She had the longer range with the sword and would likely be able to skewer him as he approached, but his strength could still get him close enough to use that knife if he didn’t care what happened to him.
Who were these people? Surely, they knew they wouldn’t get out of here alive.
She waited until the last possible second and dived to the side, evading the man’s strike. Alana left her sword trailing behind her, it connected with the man’s legs, and though she couldn’t tell if she scored a real hit or just clipped him with the flat of her blade, it was enough to send him tumbling on to his hands and knees. Alana was up first, running at him, anxious to finish the fight—but he was ready by the time she neared. He parried her attacks just as he regained his feet, but at least she was the one attacking now. The world melted away again as it had before, just her and this one man—the only people in existence. The same way it was just her and the book she was reading when she hid in the palace library.
Alana kept her attacks high, switching directions, hoping for a window of opportunity. The sword she held was heavier than the rapier she was used to, and she was beginning to tire. But then she got a lucky break. He parried a swipe, but misjudged the depth of the attack when Alana had stepped in, catching the sword blade on his hand. A finger fell to the floor, the blade clattering behind it. Alana swung again, scoring a deep gash across his throat and he fell.
She turned; another figure was coming at her quickly. She took a deep breath and readied herself again but noticed that this new person was wearing red, not the black robes.
“Don’t bloody swing at me,” called Dolph. “Come on, let’s go.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him at a run, not waiting for a response. Crews and Jill joined them as they pelted toward the door, past other fights, where the surprise attackers were being subdued. Jill stopped for a moment, looking at the man who had spoken to Alana earlier that evening, inquiring about her assistant. The man gave a small salute and Jill moved on.
The great door of the Palazzo had been barred. Other guests were trying to lift the long bronze beam that held the door shut, while noises of banging from outside rang through the antechamber. Dolph and Crews joined the group of largely weak old men and removed the barrier, the doors swinging open quickly, revealing scores of armed guards. They took one look at them, identifying them for guests, and ran past them to the hall beyond.
Alana, Dolph, Crews, and the suddenly much more formidable Jill, ran in the other direction. Out into the lamp-lit night.
Chapter 33
The Morning After The Frightful Ball
Without even speaking, they were all in agreement. They had to make sure Alana was unharmed. As soon as the man had reached the end of his story, the three friends were on their feet and out the door.
The bearer of bad tidings had been right about the streets, too. Ioth city guard were clearing the narrow cobblestone byways, which would have made it difficult to make it across town. So they took to the skyway. Across the flat rooftops they ran, leaping from one building to another. Occasionally, they met a canal where the gap was too great to jump, but it was usually possible to find tightly strung wires that bridged the gap, maintained by whatever thieves operated in Ioth (who probably lurked in the sewers somewhere, though fortunately they didn't have a history with them). Motega whispered a quiet word of thanks to them for their continued diligence in maintaining the tightropes against whichever officials were tasked with getting rid of them. He did all the way until they reached the grand canal, that is.
The span across the grand canal was too wide and too out in the open for any ropes or wires to remain uncut, especially at festival time. The streets below them were deserted, and so was the canal, save for patrols of soldiers, five at a time. And these ones were dressed in green and gold.
Why the fuck are Pyrfew soldiers on the street?
Two guards stood on the bridge that separated them from the foreign quarter, and even Motega realized it was not going to help the tense climate in the city if they cut them up on the way to their destination.
They had no recourse but to get wet.
The canal was warm and deep and their swim across was thankfully undetected. Eventually they reached the door step of the Ambassador’s residence, hardly difficult to find by the large flag of Edland flying out front. Stationed outside were guards dressed in black armor. The Ravens. Florian strode forward in the vanguard.
“Ho. Midnight. Joe. Put down your crossbows, it’s me,” said Florian to his former squad mates.
“Twins?” said Midnight. “What are you doing here? And why are you all wet?”
“No time for chit-chat. Is the sarge inside?”
Midnight flicked her head toward the door and Motega dripped inside after Florian. Nobody met them at the door, and there was no sign of any staff as they passed through the entrance way, looking in the rooms off the hallway to see where everyone was. Florian led the way into a sitting room where three people waited, all in complete silence.
Motega recognized Jill, the girl who had been brought on as Alana’s maid and attendant, sitting on a chair furthest away from the doorway and the windows that faced out onto the canal. She was looking at her hands in her lap and Motega couldn’t help but notice how her clothes had taken a bit of a beating.
Opposite her sat Dolph, his sword sheathed but resting across his legs. A red coat was draped over the back of his chair but crimson spattered his white shirt. The man had been in a fight. Against the wall near the entryway leaned Sergeant Morris, looking as grim as ever to Motega’s eye. He seemed to be at ease with their arrival but Motega could guess that he’d already established who was coming in.
“Twins. Boys. Didn’t expect you three to make it here until morning,” he said.
“Where’s Alana?” said Motega. “Is she hurt?”
“She’s alright, lad,” said Morris, gesturing behind him with his thumb. “Getting a few stitches from the surgeon. Same as the Admiral. I reckon they’ll be out soon.”
“What happened?” asked Trypp as he cast an appraising eye over Dolph and Jill.
“Let’s wait till they come out, and we’ll cover it all then. Why don’t you find someone who can help you dry off? You’re getting the fucking floor wet.”
After wandering around and finding the staff hiding in the kitchen, they dried off through a combination of heat from the stove and some towels. They also took a beer each, if nothing more than to stave off the headache that Motega knew was around the corner from his suddenly-enforced sobriety. The sitting room was still the same when they came back. No one spoke, and not even Dolph, who would typically be game for a laugh, could be drawn into conversation. Motega and Trypp flopped onto a settee while Florian spoke in a hushed whisper with his old sergeant. Motega eyed Jill. He could see that not only was her dress badly torn, but it too was spotted with blood. Poor girl must be so worried about Alana that she hasn’t even cleaned herself up.
Alana and Crews walked through the doorway together, she dressed in a robe and the Admiral wearing spotless trousers and shirt. Florian was the first to hug her, but Motega wasn’t too far behind.
“You keep getting into these scrapes,” joked
Florian, his concern etched clearly on his face, only too mindful of her injuries this past year.
“At least I held my own this time,” she countered. Motega noticed that Alana’s smile didn’t reach her eyes, and she still seemed to be in a state of shock. Probably the first time she’d seen something like this. Maybe she’d been able to put some of that training to good use. She sat and looked at Jill for a while as everyone else resumed their seats. Motega couldn’t wait any longer.
“Tell us what happened.”
Alana and Crews shared the responsibilities of what had happened that night. An attack on the ball, seemingly the wait staff turned assassins with others coming from outside. The guard locked out and unable to help. Alana told them she thought she’d been mortally wounded—the crossbow bolt in her stomach, describing the attackers that fired it. She killed one, with hairpins no less, but her voice became hoarse and broken in the telling. Crews laid a hand comfortingly on her arm before taking over, saying how Jill saved Alana and then came to help him too.
Jill?
Motega looked at the girl again. Granted, he could see some muscles on her, now that he had a mind to look, but what kind of maid becomes the savior of the day?
“There were a lot of people hurt. I couldn’t guess at how many dead, but I can’t imagine any of the attackers made it out of there alive. They’d lost the element of surprise and were losing even before the city guard got back into the building.”
“Who would do this?” asked Alana as Crews finished the telling.
Morris coughed from the doorway and all eyes turned to him. “We had a visit from the city guard. Wanted to know if we were alright. I talked to them a bit and they said it was a group called the Devoted.”
Ioth, City of Lights Page 35
