Juliet McKenna - The Warrior's Bond

All this happened in no more time than it took me and Temar to catch up to the third man. He was frozen in horror, but hearing our steps behind him he whirled round, eyes white rimmed with panic visible even through the holes in his mask. He was too appalled to raise his sword and I was too surprised. With a move nine parts instinct to one part training I punched him up beneath the rim of the mask, catching him full in the soft flesh beneath his jaw. He collapsed to his knees, choking and pawing at his throat.

“Let’s see who you are, you shit.” As I yanked at the knotted ribbons holding on the concealing mask, I noticed for the first time that his clothes weren’t the usual masquerader’s shoddy pretence of noble dress. He was wearing the real thing, well-cut silk and expensive broadcloth. The hair I pulled out as it caught in the ribbons of the mask was perfumed with expensive pomade.

“Kreve Tor Bezaemar?” No wonder he had wanted to get away, identity hidden beneath this charade. Temar raised his sword in outrage and moved behind the kneeling man. “Stand clear, Ryshad, and I will have this cur’s head off!”

The last thing I wanted was the bastard going free to launch some new attack some other day, but I couldn’t allow that. “No!” I stepped between Temar and the still wheezing Esquire, eyes shut and tears pouring down his face.

“I have the right.” Temar glared at me.

“Yes, you do,” I agreed. “But let the Emperor sanction his death. Wait until he’s stood his trial in full view of every House in Toremal. That’ll discredit Tor Bezaemar so thoroughly their Name won’t aspire to the throne for fifty generations!”

“And if your advocates and their weasel words find him some excuse, some escape?” Temar challenged hotly.

“It won’t happen,” I caught Temar’s sword hand, speaking with absolute conviction. “He raised open murder against two Sieurs in direct defiance of Imperial decrees given not half a day since. That’s treason against the good order of the Empire and he’ll die for it, trust me.” Ignoring Kreve’s hoarse gasps I shoved the bastard on to his front and rested a heavy foot on his back.

Temar looked unconvinced but lowered his sword.

“If we’re going to cut his head off, I’ll do it,” I offered with savage humour as I released his hands. “The Sieur D’Alsennin shouldn’t soil his hands with such vermin’s blood. And why don’t you see who else Cas caught in his snare?”

“I suppose I may as well,” Temar agreed once a glance convinced him the incapacitated Kreve was going nowhere. Lifting the lolling head of the second man to die, he pulled off his mask with difficulty. “Firon Den Thasnet,” he called back over his shoulder. “I suppose we should have expected that.”

“I don’t see Saedrin calling us to answer for him.” I glanced up as I secured Kreve Tor Bezaemar’s hands behind his back with the ribbons cut from his mask. “Who’s the other one?”

Temar looked up uncertainly at the man hanging some way above him. “My compliments to Master Devoir, but I am not about to try climbing this. Can you bring him down, Casuel?”

“I’m not sure I can.” The mage had come to stand next to me, white-faced at his own achievement.

“You must know how you did that?” I looked curiously at the wizard.

“Of course,” retorted Casuel with frosty dignity. “In general terms, at least.” His poise melted as he stared up at his handiwork. “I suppose we’ll have to tell the Archmage about this, will we?”

The rear door to the Popinjay was opening slowly. After a long moment of hesitation on the threshold Banch advanced reluctantly into the yard, Ezinna urging him on with a savage hiss. He looked appalled at the enchanted forest sprouting from his ancient arch. At least it couldn’t really be seen from the street, I realised with belated relief. Magic as dramatic as this would hardly suit the Emperor’s declared prejudice against wizardry. We’d best get the evidence out of sight before it became a wonder for half the city to gawp at.

“We’ll get it back to how it was,” I shouted to Banch, giving Casuel a dig in the ribs. The wizard was still gazing in some bemusement at the leaves and fruit, now all immobile unyielding stone again.

“You can stuff that where your mother never kissed you,” rejoined Banch shakily. “Take a sledgehammer to it. I want it broken and carted away before the day’s out, and I don’t want so much as the dust from mortar left behind.”

“The magic is quite passed away,” protested Casuel indignantly.

“I want it gone, all of it!” Banch turned on his heel, pushing Ezinna back inside and slamming the door behind him.

I looked at Casuel. “Can you break it down?”

“I suppose so,” he said a trifle sulkily. Scowling he rubbed his hands together, palms flat. Amber light sparked from his fingertips, incandescent shards of magic flying through the air to land on the coiled stone. Hairline cracks began spreading across the yellow stems, golden light darkening to a burning ochre as fractures gaped wider and wider, dust falling first, then small chips, finally pieces of stone as big as a man’s fist. Temar backed away hurriedly and the body of the first man to die fell to the ground in a broken heap.

Temar moved forward with a cautious eye lest any masonry fall on his head. He shook his head when he’d ripped away the attacker’s mask. “I do not know the man.”

“No, nor me.” I stared down at the face now slack in death. “Probably some minor Esquire, promised the sun, the moons and the stars in between by Kreve. Still, at least we’ve got him to face Imperial justice.”

Temar looked towards the prostrate villain. “Not if he dies on us. How hard did you hit him?”

I was horrified to see Tor Bezaemar’s face suffused with blood, his breath little more than a thready gurgle. “Shit, I must have broken his windpipe.” Not checking on him had been a novice’s mistake, for all I’d been distracted by Casuel’s little display.

“Take him to Demoiselle Avila,” suggested Temar.

“At once,” I agreed. “Cas, clear this all up and fast.”

“I hardly think—” he began indignantly.

“Do you want the Emperor asking Planir for an explanation?” I demanded. I held Kreve Tor Bezaemar under the arms while Temar caught up his legs. The bastard was an unwieldy burden and the distance back seemed thrice as far as we’d originally run, but fear for his worthless hide spurred us on.

We stepped out on to the Graceway to find a solid phalanx in Den Janaquel livery surrounding Messire and Camarl, sworn men with staffs levelled and sergeants-at-arms carrying unsheathed swords. More of the Cohort had the road blocked off for some distance in either direction and those caught inside the cordon were only being set free when two other people could vouch for their name and business. Several erstwhile masqueraders and acrobats were face down in the dust, trussed up like roasting fowl.

A number of sworn men moved towards us. I nodded with some difficulty at my armring, sweating freely. “Where’s the Demoiselle Tor Arrial? We need her at once.”

“She’s busy with the injured.” Allin stopped as she went past with a steaming cup in each hand. “Can I get you a tisane?”

“Get Demoiselle Avila,” I told her flatly. “Otherwise this man dies and Tor Bezaemar escapes all punishment.”

Allin thrust the cups at a startled man-at-arms and raced off, hitching up her skirts. Temar and I laid the stricken Kreve down as gently as we could and looked guiltily at each other. Demoiselle Avila appeared and knelt beside the stricken youth without a word. Laying gentle hands on his throat, she began murmuring some rhythmical enchantment that soon had the dark colour fading from his face. As the Esquire’s ribs laboured to draw air into his starved lungs my own breathing eased, along with the apprehension I could see mirrored in Temar’s expression.