Kushiel's Scion (74 page)
He trembled. "I don't know what you mean!"
"No?" I studied him. His voice was high-pitched with terror. Not the voice that had muttered the words I'd heard, not even close. "You provoked this," I said. "If Gilot dies of this beating, make no mistake, I will find you and kill you."
There was fear in his eyes. He kept his chin high to avoid the daggers, but there was fear, and the sight of it was sweet. With one swift, slicing motion, I withdrew both blades, marking his neck with a pair of shallow cuts. He cried out, clapping his hands to his throat.
"You'll live," I said with contempt. "Get out of here."
He went in a hurry, still clasping his throat, blood trickling between his fingers.
Although I would have liked to question them, Eamonn had dispelled the others. He stood over me while I knelt at Gilot's side, and even the city cohort gave him a wide berth. "Gilot." I peered at him, wincing in sympathy. Already, in the murky torchlight, I could see bruises blooming. His mouth was crusted with blood and the lids of both eyes were alarmingly swollen. I gave his shoulder a tentative shake, fearful of hurting him. "Gilot, can you hear me?"
He groaned, and one swollen lid opened a crack. "Imri?"
"It's me." My heart leapt with relief. "Where are you hurt? Can you walk?"
"I think so." With my assistance, Gilot sat upright, then coughed and spat out a mouthful of blood. "Ribs," he said with a grimace. "And my sword-hand. Some bastard stomped on it. I kept hold of it, though." He felt at his face with his left hand. "I can't see. Am I blind?"
"No." I slid my arm under his shoulders. "I don't think so, anyway. Come on, let's get you home."
With Eamonn's help, I got Gilot to his feet. We eased his sword from his broken grasp and got him over to the others. By now, the rioters were scattering, pelting every which way down the streets. Eamonn led the way, watchful and wary, no longer smiling. My wrenched ankle hurt like fury, and I struggled not to hobble under Gilot's weight.
Brigitta drew a sharp breath at the sight of his battered face. "Is he all right?"
"What do you think?" I asked grimly.
"Imri," Eamonn murmured.
"Sorry," I muttered. "It's just… this is my fault. He shouldn't be here."
"None of us should." Lucius, still holding my sword, shuddered. "You were right, Montrève. Let's get out of here."
Our insula was the closest shelter, so we made for it. It seemed to take forever. Every step sent a blaze of pain through my ankle. The worst of the riot had passed, but it was far from over. Students roamed the streets, taking to their heels at the sight of the cohort's legions. No one dared approach us, but here and there we saw skirmishes. It was impossible to tell who was fighting or why.
And there were still the torches.
Of all the possible dangers remaining, that was the worst. Gilot was right, the students' quarter was built of wood and clay brick, cheap and readily available. If one good blaze started, the whole thing would turn into a tinderbox.
We'd almost made our way home before the threat manifested.
I saw a pair of figures in front of the incense-maker's shop. One of them picked up Canis' abandoned barrel, hurling it at the shuttered windows; the other watched, torch in hand. With a loud crash, the shutters splintered, and an incongruous scent of sandalwood and myrrh wafted onto the street.
"Do it!" The one who had thrown the barrel laughed, drunk and reckless. "Aye, do it, Renzo! Why not? Let the merchant pay the price for his allegiance to the citizen assembly. Do you smell that? The gods never had such a tribute!"
The other cocked his arm, torch blazing. "You reckon?"
All at once, there was no time, and all the time in the world. I felt Gilot stir beneath my arm at their words, and I sensed his thoughts, clear as day. Anna. Belinda. The insula, a tinderbox. I saw Eamonn begin to move, sword naked in his hand, and knew he was too slow; too far away.
An arm; cocked. Flame and sparks, streaming into the night.
A snatch of a poet's tale, an impossible cast. There in the Temple of Asherat where my mother took sanctuary. It happened there.
Joscelin's voice, drilling me. Again. Again. Again.
"Take him!" I gasped, shoving Gilot's limp, heavy body in Lucius' direction. Already I was running, plucking the right-hand dagger from its sheath, ignoring the shattering pain with every step I took. "Eamonn!" I shouted. "Get out of the way!"
He ducked, bless him.
Whispering a prayer, I flipped the dagger in midair, catching it by its point. The steel felt slick and sweaty. I had done this before, done it a thousand times. Joscelin had taught me, had made me drill. At fifteen paces, my aim was good. This was farther. I was better at swordplay. But there was no time, no more.
The cocked arm began to describe an arc.
I threw.
It was a solid cast; a square cast. The dagger turned end over end, glinting dully in the torchlight. It pierced the back of the rioter's hand, pinning it to the wooden base of the torch. He shrieked and flailed, trying to shake himself free, flames dancing wildly around him.
"Thrice-cursed idiot!" I fell on him, wrestling him to the ground. We rolled on the cobbled streets. A searing pain lanced my shoulder, and his torch went out. A stink of scorched wool arose, and the odor of burned flesh. I could hear the pelting footsteps of his companion, beating a hasty retreat. "Do you know who I am?" I asked. "Do you?" He choked out an abject denial, weeping with fear. I wrenched the dagger out of his rigid hand, and he howled, blood welling in the deep, narrow wound. "Go," I said in disgust. "Go away."
He fled, sniveling.
I rolled onto my back and watched the others arrive. Gilot, blind and limping, leaning hard on Lucius. Brigitta, wary and sidling. Eamonn, extending a callused hand. I let him haul me to my feet.
"Right," I said, wavering. "Into the insula."
Chapter Forty-Two
Gilot was a mess.
Eamonn volunteered to take first watch at the gate, and I dispatched Brigitta to fetch Anna Marzoni from her apartment. The whole of the insula was awake and nervous, many of them hovering around the courtyard well, buckets in hand. They knew the danger of fire.
Anna came in a hurry, bringing an elderly woman who had spent years as a chirurgeon's assistant. We laid Gilot on his pallet, lighting all the oil lamps in the room. In the flickering light, they undressed him with care. His torso was a solid mass of bruises, and his right hand was growing bloated and puffy.
"Ah, Jupiter!" Lucius looked sick. "What was he doing out there?"
"Trying to protect me," I murmured.
It was an awful feeling. Anna's daughter Belinda clung to her mother's skirts, wide-eyed and terrified, her thumb in her mouth. I watched, helpless, as the old woman—Nonna was her name—washed away the crusted blood with tender care, bathing his face. She bound Gilot's ribs with strips of clean linen and lashed his broken hand to a piece of board.
" 'Tis beyond my ability to set, young lord," she said, nodding at his hand. "And I can't be sure he hasn't pierced a lung. I don't like the sound of his breathing. When it's safe, take him to the Temple of Asclepius. You know it?"
"Yes." I remembered the island in the middle of the Tiber. "They can help him?"
She shrugged. "If anyone can. What of you?"
"I'm fine," I said.
Lucius lifted his head. "Don't be an ass, Montrève."
So I suffered Nonna to remove my shirt and probe at the burn on my shoulder, a raw, oozing patch. She swabbed it with salve and bound it with clean linen. I tried to drag the boot from my left foot, but my ankle had swollen and it wouldn't come. In the end, Lucius had to cut it off. He knelt on the floor of the apartment, cradling my foot gently, sawing at the leather with the edge of one of my daggers.
"Sorry," he murmured as I hissed with pain. One corner of his mouth quirked. "This isn't exactly how I imagined undressing you."
Despite everything, I laughed.
"There." Lucius eased the remnant of my boot away, and Nonna took his place, probing judiciously with her fingertips, turning my foot this way and that. It hurt like hell. I rolled my eyes skyward and concentrated on breathing slowly.
She grunted. "Bad, but not broken, I think."
"Imri?" On his pallet, Gilot turned his blind, swollen face in my direction. His voice was anxious. "You're all right? Tell me, please!"
"I'm fine." I heard the irritation in my tone, and softened it. Later, I'd tell him the truth. Not now. "It's nothing; just a wrenched ankle."
"Good." He sighed, the tense lines of his body relaxing. "Good."
Nonna bound my ankle, then left. Brigitta went to stand watch at Eamonn's side. Gilot drifted into a fitful sleep, with Anna curled alongside him on his pallet, drowsing and stroking his hair. Little Belinda slept soundly, nestled against her mother.
"A pretty picture," Lucius mused. "He's very loyal to you, isn't he?"
"Yes." Although it wasn't me; not really. Gilot served Montrève. Still, the burden of guilt remained. Here in Tiberium, I was Montrève, and keeping me alive appeared to be a tall order. I ran my fingers through my hair. It was growing longer; Claudia must have been pleased. I glanced sidelong at her brother. "And you, too. I owe you a debt, Lucius."
"Oh?" He arched his brows. "How so?"
"For keeping me afoot when I would have fallen," I said honestly. "Someone struck me from behind. You saved me, and you cleared a space when I needed it the most. I'd have gone down for sure if you hadn't." I paused. "How did you manage it?"
Lucius shook his head. "I didn't."
"What do you mean?" I was confused.
"'O, dear my lord'…" Head bowed, unruly locks falling over his brow, he toyed with an oil lamp, giving it a quick, secretive smile. "I wish I had. We were parted after the wineshop. All I saw was you starting to fall, and I tried to make my way there. But no. That was someone else broke up the throng and made a passage. I couldn't have gotten to you if they hadn't."
"Who?" I asked.
"I don't know," said Lucius. "But whoever it was, I think they killed to do it."
Other books
At Weddings and Wakes by Alice McDermott
Lawyers In Love: In His Own Defense by Ann Jacobs
From the Cradle by Louise Voss, Mark Edwards
The Avenger 5 - The Frosted Death by Kenneth Robeson
A Stolen Season by Gill, Tamara
Her Secret, His Love-Child by Tina Duncan
Bestial Acts by Claude Lalumiere
The Seventh Night by Amanda Stevens
Gift of Fire by Jayne Ann Krentz
Summer House by Willett, Marcia