Kushiel's Scion (90 page)
Eamonn was waiting for us, holding the horses. Brigitta was already gone, hidden in the trees, armed with a hunting bow she'd chosen at the Tadeii villa. With luck, she'd never need use it. That was the only good thing about Gallus' plan. If he was wrong and Domenico Valpetra meant to negotiate in earnest, he'd never know we were there.
We mounted and rode toward the gatehouse square. The city was filled with a muted buzz. The streets were mostly empty, but people had clustered on the rooftops. Atop every building, the citizens of Lucca huddled and whispered.
The temples were crowded, too; mostly with the poor, hoping to claim sanctuary. We passed the Temples of Jupiter and Mars on the way to the gatehouse, and fearful faces peered from the open doorways. A squadron of the city guard was posted before both temples. Gallus Tadius—I had begun to think of him thusly—cursed at the sight. At the second temple, he dismounted and collared the reluctant squadron leader. "Lieutenant!" he roared. "Who ordered you here?" The lieutenant was a rosy-cheeked lad with a fuzz of blond down on his upper lip. He looked all of seventeen, and his voice quavered when he answered. "Captain Arturo, sir! Prince Gaetano's orders!"
"Greedy bastard," Gallus muttered. "I should never have told him Valpetra would sack the temples." He thought a moment, absentmindedly clutching the lad's tunic in one fist. "Right. Follow me." "Sorry, sir!" the lieutenant squeaked. "We can't. Prince's orders!" Gallus let him go and promptly knocked him down with a backhanded blow. "Idiots!" he said in a scathing tone. "Look at the lot of you. Green as they come, not a set of armor among the bunch. What do you think you're going to do if Valpetra brings his mercenaries in here?" He stood over the lad and shook his head. "A hundred bowmen could hold this city against an army. But no, Gaetano has to open the gates. Listen, boy. You hear fighting, you bring your men on the double."
The lieutenant rubbed his cheek. "Yes, sir!"
Gallus remounted and we continued. He muttered beneath his breath as we rode; numbers, arms, angles of trajectory—I don't know what. All the facts and figures that a good condottiere takes into account. Eamonn and I followed in his wake, glancing at one another.
"Imri." He touched my arm. "If this goes badly, don't hesitate to surrender and claim asylum."
"As what?" For a wild moment, I remembered how Lucius had reacted when I told him who I was. "My mother's son?"
"A political hostage." Eamonn's grey-green eyes were grave, as grave as I'd ever seen them. "You're a D'Angeline Prince of the Blood."
"What about you?" I asked. "What of the Dalriada?"
He shrugged. "We're a lot smaller and a lot farther away. Just remember, will you?"
"I'll try," I promised for the second time that day. "You do the same."
The square outside the gatehouse was packed. Gaetano Correggio, the Prince of Lucca, was there. Publius Tadius was beside him, and a few other noblemen I didn't recognize. There were no women. The bulk of the city guard flanked them, all on foot. I had to own, Gallus Tadius was right. They weren't an imposing sight. In accordance with the terms of parley, they were armed only with short-swords. None of them wore armor, only padded crimson gambesons.
"Stupid," Gallus seethed. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!"
There were mayhap a hundred members of the city guard all told. Forty of them had been dispatched to guard the temples. I cast my gaze over the ranks before us, and guessed that mayhap fifty were present; an equal number to match Valpetra's escort. That meant there were ten at best in the gatehouse itself. Less, if any were in the trees.
We drew rein behind them.
It was hard not to look. There were only two oak trees atop the walls that afforded sufficient cover to hide our archers and grew within striking range. Their dense foliage rustled, the leaves only just beginning to turn autumn's hues. I wondered how many archers were hidden within it, poised on thick tree limbs, prepared to shoot. I glanced at Eamonn and saw a muscle in his jaw jumping. I knew he was thinking of Brigitta. It was the first time, I think, I'd ever seen him afraid.
Gallus Tadius relaxed in the saddle, his hands loose on the pommel.
There was a small window in the chamber above the gate proper, overlooking the square. A guardsman's head poked out of it.
"Prince Gaetano!" he bawled. "Domenico Martelli da Valpetra and his bride Helena Correggio da Lucca request entrance! They bring an escort of fifty men, and their army has withdrawn!"
Gaetano Correggio nodded curtly. "Admit them."
Within the gatehouse, a winch was turned. Gears groaned as the portcullis rose and the wooden drawbridge lowered. I saw them, then, silhouetted in the opening. Two scouts, scurrying ahead to confirm the terms of the parley, ensuring that no ambush awaited them. Valpetra and Helena, riding. The hollow echo of hooves over water, the steady tramping feet of the men who followed them, clad in steel armor. They passed through the vast doorway of the gatehouse and entered the square, facing off against Gaetano Correggio. The mercenary soldiers fell into neat lines. The gears ground once more as the portcullis descended, the drawbridge closing like an angry mouth.
They wore armor.
They carried short-swords. They planted the butts of their thrusting spears on the dusty cobblestones and slung their shields over their forearms.
"Oh, we are in a sodding world of trouble!" Gallus muttered.
Domenico Martelli was a solid man with a black hair and a fleshy face, deep lines inscribed on either side of his mouth. They deepened further as he smiled. "Prince of Lucca!" he rumbled, spreading his arms. Beneath his bridegrooms robes, a steel corselet glinted. "Father! Do you acknowledge your heir?"
Beside him, Helena kept her eyes downcast.
"I do not." Gaetano's voice was steady. "Valpetra, hear me. We are prepared to come to an accommodation. Do you cede your claim and leave in peace—"
That was as far as he got.
The Duke of Valpetra waved a casual hand. "Kill him," he said. "And take the gatehouse."
His escort didn't hesitate. A third, at the rear, peeled away to assail the gatehouse. Two-thirds of them simply settled their shields on their arms, lowered their spears, and charged.
"Archers!" Gallus roared. "Now!"
The air sang and hummed as flights of arrows passed overhead. I saw them find targets. I saw shields bristle with arrows. I saw armor pierced. I saw men wounded, and I saw some fall back and others press forward. Beneath me, the Bastard shifted restlessly, tossing his head.
His nostrils flared. I felt sick with fear. Beside me, Eamonn drew his sword.
"Again!" Gallus called, and another flight of arrows sang. For a moment, it kept the assault in the square at bay, but in the gatehouse there was shouting and fighting and the sound of gears grinding. The portcullis was rising, the drawbridge lowering. Someone was blowing a horn over and over. Beyond the walls, Valpetra's withdrawn army was advancing in a hurry. Two thousand men, less fifty, ready to assail the city.
The portcullis rose to half-mast and stopped. With a rattling clank, the drawbridge halted in its descent, hovered at an angle over the moat. I prayed, silently, that Gilot was all right. He couldn't hold a sword. He shouldn't be there.
Domenico Martelli's face darkened.
"Lucca!" he shouted. "Are you willing to watch your daughter die?"
He reached for her, catching her wrist. In his other hand, he held a naked blade. All around them, men were beginning to fight and die. Luccan guardsmen, mostly, were doing the dying. The only mercy was that the Valpetran spears were hampered at close quarters; but by the same token, our archers could no longer shoot for fear of hitting their own men. Gaetano Correggio had fallen to his knees, his hands outstretched. I watched Helena's chin rise. Her eyes blazed with despair and pride.
Gallus Tadius laughed.
I swore.
It was too much; too much. I had seen that look on the faces of too many women in the zenana; the ones who went to their death and knew it, clinging to whatever small scrap of pride was left to them. Lucca's dead might not be mine, but I had my own to answer to.
A high-pitched ringing filled my head, obscuring the din of battle. All I could hear was the horn sounding the alarm, over and over, and a single voice uttering a fierce, wordless battle-cry. Heads turned slowly, knots of unmounted fighters disengaging. So, so slow! I felt the Bastard quiver beneath me, haunches gathering. Elua, but he was a good horse! When I touched my heels to his flanks, he shot forward like an arrow from the bow.
All the fear was gone.
There was only fury, a fury so vast my body couldn't contain it. It felt as though flames surged from the top of my skull. We plunged into the melee, guards and soldiers scattering. I guided the Bastard with my thighs and he wove between them, his striped hooves beating a fierce tattoo on the paving-stones of Lucca.
No one touched us.
I didn't even remember drawing my sword.
And then there they were, and we were bearing down on them. Domenico Martelli, the Duke of Valpetra, was slow to react. His fleshy face looked surprised, his mouth agape like a fish. His thick-fingered hand, clamped like a manacle on Helena's wrist.
Slow. Too slow.
I turned the Bastard sharply, coming broadside. I brought my sword down in a single swift stroke, severing the link that bound them, severing his hand at the wrist. Blood spurted from the stump. He stared at it in disbelief.
Helena gave a choked gasp.
Everything came back, then. Time flowed in its usual channels, and the taste of fear filled my mouth. I smelled death; blood and feces and rot. Daršanga. Willing my churning gut to subside, I shoved my bloodied sword in its scabbard and grabbed the reins of Helena's mount.
"Lucius sent me," I said. "Hurry!"
She asked no questions, only followed. We fled on horseback, plunging past the fighting. It had grown fierce. Eamonn was in the thick of it, still mounted, laying about him on both sides with his sword. Other guardsmen had come at a run, swords drawn. Gallus Tadius rode along the fringes of the battle, calling out orders. A handful of guards were dragging Gaetano Correggio's limp form to safety. Here and there, a Valpetran soldier fell, picked off by a judicious arrow.
"Retreat!" the Duke shouted, clutching his stump. "Retreat!"
"Attack!" Gallus roared. "Archers, forward!"
Valpetra's men fell back; back to the gatehouse. On the far side of the moat, nearly two thousand reinforcements were hurrying to their assistance. But the drawbridge was stuck at its midpoint, and they wouldn't be able to cross easily. If they reached the moat before we could raise the bridge, it would buy us a few moments. Gallus Tadius' archers swarmed down from the trees, descending on ropes, fierce grins illuminating their faces. I breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of Brigitta, who looked remarkably happy. In the throng, Eamonn made his way toward her.
"Guards, down!" Gallus shouted. "Archers, shoot!"
Their untrained obedience was a marvel. The Luccan guards flung themselves flat and the ragtag band of archers knelt and took aim, shooting over their heads to drive back the invaders. Beneath the shadow of the gatehouse, Valpetra's soldiers began crawling beneath the half-raised portcullis and hurling themselves into the moat, leaping from the steeply angled drawbridge. Some stripped off their armor; others floundered and sank.
A dozen of them clustered around Domenico Martelli, the Duke of Valpetra, helping him toward the moat. Gallus Tadius issued furious orders to halt them, but the Luccan guards within the gatehouse were still struggling for control of the drawbridge mechanism, and a handful of Valpetra's men had made a stand, guarding his retreat from the onslaught of the guards in the square. Two of them died defending him, and four were wounded. Gallus was right; they were professionals.
The horn sounded an increasingly urgent alarm. "The bridge!" Gallus roared. "Damn you, raise the bridge!" I watched with my heart in my throat. Somewhere in the gatehouse, the mechanism was jammed. For long moments, the bridge stayed at half-mast. Valpetra and his men had made a successful retreat. On the other side of the moat, the entire bulk of his army was massing. It wouldn't be long before they mounted a second attack. If we couldn't seal the city, the lot of us were doomed. We were too few and too disorganized to hold off a sustained assault. And I didn't like my chances as a political hostage, not after I'd lopped off Domenico Martelli's hand.
"What is it?" a trembling voice asked. "What's wrong?" I glanced at Helena Correggio, shivering beside me on horseback, her arms wrapped around herself. Her face was white, and her eyes were all pupil. "The bridge is stuck, my lady."
She swallowed. "Oh."
There was a clamor in the gatehouse; men shouting up and down the stairs. At length, a figure emerged from the right-hand tower and leapt onto one of the chains that held the counterweights. It didn't budge, not at first. But then a score of men followed suit on both sides of the gatehouse, several clambering up the chains to add their weight, others hauling on them with brute force.
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