Jay Lake: Endurance

I did not waste my breath trying to reorganize my men. I didn’t know much of leadership and less of armies. Instead I raced for the front wall and swarmed over it without thinking, slipping at the slick top to drop down the other side in an acanthus bush a dozen yards in front of a foursome of archers. The Prince of the City’s men, not Street Guilders, though that hardly mattered now.

They did not even notice me, so intent were they on their officer directing their fire from a place up in a nearby tree. The fighting outside had masked me. Fine, I had a moment to consider. There were at least four more archers nearby, judging from the arrow flights. Even with that thought, they released another round, and drew again.

I couldn’t very well rush four prepared archers. They’d skewer me.

The answer was obvious enough. I altered my crouch, checked their officer, and threw my blade into his armpit as he raised his hand to call another volley.

Peacock-pretty silks make for lousy armor.

He shrieked and fell from his tree, grabbing at himself until he slammed into the ground with an unpleasant crunch barely more than an arm’s length ahead of me. Some fruit is never out of season.

Two of his men dropped their bows to race forward. A third bent to pick up the discarded weapons. This wasn’t likely to become any easier.

Roaring, I sprang from my crouch with my long knife already swinging. I landed one archer a solid sweep across the gut, then elbowed the other in the face before stabbing him hard enough in the thigh to make him forget about me. Momentum intact and freshly blooded, I ran down the third, who was busy grasping at bows. He took my knife point in a raking gash down his chest, then sat, very surprised and no little unhappy. My long knife was snagged in his ribs. The last archer released his arrow with a twang that echoed far too close, but I broke his bow and both his wrists for him.

No time to retrieve the weapon right then, not with four more archers nearby. I sprinted toward the house. Screaming behind me seemed to indicate something of a change in fortunes. Then the thwock of more arrows fluttering by, but I was already running away in the dark, toward another big wagon being loaded with crates of something. Papers? Bodies?

They were unguarded on this side, though two servants gaped at me. I slashed away all the straps I could of this team’s harness, then slapped their rumps with the flat of my remaining short knife. The horses needed no further encouragement to race back down the drive toward the gates.

I chased around the back of the wagon, trying to avoid any more arrows, and bowled over the servants.

“Run!” I shouted. Then I stared at what they had been loading.

Furniture, goods. Not prisoners or people.

I glanced back to see the Rectifier racing toward me. Two arrows protruded from his shoulder. He yanked out the shafts as he ran.

“Charged the archers head-on, did you?”

“It worked,” he rumbled.

“Barely.”

We looked up the shallow steps at the fortress of our enemy, took a deep breath together, and kept moving.

The front doors stood open. A Street Guildsman in a borrowed leather coat-no Selistani tailor ever sewed those lines-stood just within, staring about in obvious exasperation. His expression changed quickly as my blade came up. He was alert enough to parry with his own weapon. Unfortunately for him, the Rectifier grabbed his parrying wrist on the blocking swing and tore his shoulder out of its socket.

Disarmed, the man went down howling.

“Upstairs,” I shouted. Samma and Mother Vajpai first, if they were here. I knew where to find them, or at least where they had been. And they might be able to help with Corinthia Anastasia.

Scrambling up the marble steps, I stumbled. Fatigue, injury, the sheer lateness of the hour. I narrowly avoided impaling myself on my own blade as it tumbled away, bouncing down the stairs with a dull ringing, spraying thin arcs of blood behind. The Rectifier swept me up and carried me the rest of the way. My knives were gone now. I was naked, by Blade standards.

I led on, aware that I was fading. A Lily Blade never lost her weapons. Never. Could I be this tired? Three servants came out of a side door with armloads of baggage, saw us, and darted back in.

“End of the hall,” I gasped. “By the ballroom doors.” A whooping breath. “That’s also the guard barracks.”

We burst through a pair of doors partway down, opening into a wider lounge. The hall beyond held half a dozen more guards, mixed Street Guild and the Prince’s men, hammering on a familiar door.

The Lily Blades were still in here. It looked as if they were not being pried out.

Startled faces glanced up at us. I charged them screaming, my hands empty. The impression I’d made on my last visit must have been strong, because four of them scrambled back from me to make a stand by the next doors. The other two turned to see what the fuss was.

I let the Rectifier hit them first. That almost immediately made several weapons available, which in turn helped me feel much more dangerous.

“Get them!” I hurled someone’s sword end over end at the four cowering from me. They ducked, then opened the double doors behind them. The Rectifier charged and bowled the whole mess into the room beyond.

Kneeling by the besieged door handle, I shouted, “Samma, can you hear me?” Smoke, I smelled smoke. Smoke?

Something crashed-a dresser, maybe?-then a horrendous scrape. The door cracked open and a bloodied blade stuck out, a frightened deep brown eye just above it. More smoke oozed around her.

“Green?”

I hated the quaver in her voice, hated what they’d done to her. “I’m here to rescue you,” I said as calmly as I could.

“The room’s on fire.”

“Yes, I smelled it.” A deep breath. “Open the blessed door, Samma! And where is Mother Vajpai?”

Blade and eye disappeared. To my left, in the ballroom, people howled, while something very large broke with a shattering crash. Had there been floor-to-ceiling mirrors?

Another scrape, then the door jerked open. Samma stepped out. She was in her leathers, but they looked slept-in and thrown-up-upon. She dropped her weapon and tried to hug me. Right now, I was less frightening to her than our enemies were.

“Mother Vajpai,” I growled into her ear.

My old teacher emerged next, dressed in her leathers. She was walking with two crutches-no, canes-made from bed slats. Her feet were bound in bloodied rags.

“I am afraid I cannot run so well, Green,” she said.

“Can we escape out the window?”

“A-archers on the back terrace,” Samma said. “With fire arrows.”

“An effective discouragement,” added Mother Vajpai.

I glanced back down the hall. Another handful of discouragement was creeping toward us, bristling with crossbows. “Rectifier,” I shouted. “Our time is up.” Then back to the Blades, “Where is Corinthia Anastasia?”

“Who?” asked Samma blankly.

Mother Vajpai just shook her head.

“Local girl,” I said. “Being held hostage. I thought she was with you, Samma.”

A flight of quarrels skimmed past me with a buzz to thunk into the wall around the ballroom doors. Several skipped into the room beyond.

The Rectifier had better return soon, or he wasn’t getting out.

He arrived as if summoned by my thoughts, carrying a kicking, bleeding Street Guildsman for a shield. I pushed the Blades ahead of me into the smoky room. The Rectifier followed, throwing his man behind him like an old fruit peel before blocking the door again with the big dresser that the Blades had used earlier. The smoke was almost blinding. Curtains were on fire, and the carpet seemed to be smoldering.