Kushiel's Scion (91 page)
Inch by inch, the drawbridge rose and the massive portcullis descended.
Until it was done, I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath. I daresay all of Lucca breathed a sigh of relief as the drawbridge slammed into place and the portcullis shuddered to earth. The city was sealed. We were back to where we had been a mere hour ago. Under siege, and this time grateful it was no worse.
"Forgive me, my lady." I turned to Helena. "Are you… all right?"
She looked away and I knew she wasn't all right, not at all. She had been abducted and brutalized. She had watched the man she loved cut down before her eyes, and a man she despised violently maimed. One side of her scarlet wedding gown was splashed with darkening blood. But all she asked was, "Are we safe?"
"For the moment," I said truthfully.
She looked at me, then. Her pupils were no longer as stark, and I saw that her eyes were a clear blue. "Who are you?"
"Imriel," I said. "Imriel nó Montrève."
"You're D'Angeline." She put out one hand, then drew it back. "When you rode toward us, I thought you were… I thought…" She shook her head and did not finish the thought. "My father?"
"Let's go see," I said gently.
It was still mayhem in the square. Gallus had vanished into the gatehouse, for which I was grateful. Helena didn't need to know, not yet, what had befallen her betrothed. I counted the dead. Five of theirs, and eight of ours. There were another dozen, at least, badly wounded. The four injured Valpetrans were under guard, their faces stoic with pain and resolve. At least they were alive. Eamonn was right, war was ugly.
Gaetano Correggio was alive, too. He'd taken a blow to the temple. It wasn't serious, but his hair was matted with blood.
"Helena." His voice cracked and he raised his arms. She dismounted into them, hiding her face against his chest. He held her tight, his head bowed. I sat quietly atop the Bastard, thinking what a strange world it was where a man loved his only daughter enough to risk an entire city to save her, but not enough to permit her to wed a poor man. After a moment, the Prince of Lucca shuddered and lifted his head. "Thank you," he said. "My lord D'Angeline, you have my deepest gratitude and the eternal gratitude of my house." A touch of wonder lit his deepset eyes. "I don't even know your name."
I bowed in the saddle. "Imriel nó Montrève, your highness."
"Imriel nó Montrève." He repeated it. "Montrève."
"Yes, my lord." I saw Eamonn approaching across the square, Brigitta riding behind him, still clutching her hunting bow. Eamonn nodded toward the gatehouse. "My lord, forgive me, but I must see about a friend."
"Yes, of course," he said absently.
I paused, glancing down at the top of Helena's head. Her face was still hidden. Brown hair, straight and fine as baby-silk. "My lord, will you tell her about Lucius?"
"Lucius." The Prince of Lucca licked his lips. "Yes."
Eamonn and I entered the nearest guard tower without exchanging a word. We didn't need to. Even Brigitta had grown somber, agreeing to watch the horses without a quarrel. There were more dead in the tower; one Valpetran and two Luccan guards, blocking the narrow stair. We had to clamber over them.
The lower chambers were empty, which was absurd, but there were three guardsmen in the top chamber manning the arrow-slits with crossbows. In the far tower, we could hear Gallus Tadius shouting, but it was quiet here. One of the guards glanced around as we entered, the other two remaining intent on their duty.
"The D'Angeline?" he asked.
"Is he… ?" I couldn't ask.
"In there." He jerked his head toward the open door onto the inner chamber. "Tell him thanks for saving our arses."
With a surge of hope, I ducked through the door and entered the central chamber, Eamonn crouching as he followed. The windows were shuttered and bolted, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. All I could see was the vast mechanism that took up a good portion of the chamber; a huge cog-wheel and pulley system with levers protruding at strange angles and the chains oddly disengaged.
"Gilot?" I called.
For a moment, nothing. And then a scrabbling sound and a faint cough. "Imri?"
"There." Eamonn pointed.
Gilot was lying propped against a wall. He raised one hand—his good hand—in greeting as we hurried to his side. I dropped to my knees.
"Are you all right?" I asked anxiously.
"No." He smiled at me. "Not really. But did you see what I did?" He pointed at the mechanism, and I realized one of the levers was a Valpetran spear, shoved deep within the gears of the cog-wheel. He coughed, and a bloody spume trickled from the corner of his mouth. "Damned engineers. You don't spend a year in Siovale without learning how things work. All knowledge is worth having, right?"
My eyes stung. "You did that? Stopped the drawbridge?"
He nodded. "Getting it unstuck was the hard part. I had to convince 'em to slip the chains and haul the weights by hand. Had to show 'em, too. They finally got it once the chains were loose." He laughed, then winced. "Sorry. Imri, I think mayhap that splinter… I think mayhap it's moved."
"Gilot…" I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. "Eamonn," I said roughly. "He needs a chirurgeon."
Without a word, Eamonn stooped and gathered Gilot in his arms.
When the poets sing of glorious deeds, they leave out the awful parts. Phèdre always said so, and I knew it was true. I had heard the tales, and I had witnessed the reality. But this was the first time I'd done so as a man in my own right. I understood it anew that day. In a poet's tale, a valiant few might stand against the many, and a cunning hero prevails.
This was no poet's tale.
Eamonn had to sidle sideways down the winding stair, and even at that, Gilot's head and his trailing legs scraped the walls. And then there were the dead. One Valpetran, two Luccan. I had to move them all before Eamonn could pass with his burden.
Dead flesh, heavy and inert. Blind, staring eyes.
I took the Luccans first, hoisting one at a time over my shoulder and carrying them down the stairs. Dead limbs dangled and thumped against me and I could feel the slow seep of blood from their wounds soaking my shirt. It was hard work; harder than hauling stumps at Montrève and infinitely more horrible. I laid each down in the square with care. They were someone's son, someone's brother, someone's beloved. Already there was wailing in the city.
By the time I got to the Valpetran, I was exhausted. I had to strip his armor in order to move him. Beneath his helmet, he had an ordinary face. I hated him anyway. For a moment, I was tempted to grab his ankles and haul him down feet first. Let his skull crack as it bounced down the stair; what did it matter? He was dead.
Remember this.
I imagined Phèdre's expression, sighed, and hoisted the Valpetran's corpse.
Eamonn followed carrying Gilot. It was easier work than hauling the dead, but he had the physical strength to do it with a tender effortlessness I couldn't have mustered. Gilot hadn't uttered a word of protest. By that alone, I knew how badly he was hurt.
"Guard!" I caught at the nearest crimson gambeson. "I need a litter."
He jerked his head toward the northwest corner of the square, where a dozen wounded men lay groaning. "Wait your turn."
I swore at him.
"Imri." Gilot's breathing was shallow and thick, and blood bubbled over his lower lip. "Just put me on a damn horse, will you? I'll make it."
In the end, we did. Eamonn and I eased him atop the Bastard. We walked on either side and held him upright, while Brigitta took Eamonn's horse and raced ahead to the Tadeii villa to beg them to send for a chirurgeon.
Outside the walls of Lucca, Valpetra's army was settling in for a long siege. In the gatehouse, Gallus Tadius was rallying the city guard's defenses. So I assumed, at any rate. What had become of Gaetano Correggio and his daughter, I couldn't say. At the moment, I didn't care about any of them.
The Bastard was as good as gold. He picked his way with care, placing each hoof delicately. I swear, he knew.
"Remember that spotted horse, Imri?" Gilot coughed. "The one at the fair, the day we heard about your mother. What was his name?"
"The Salmon," I said softly. "I remember. You were going to save your wages."
"Never was any good at that." He bent his head, stroking the Bastard's neck. A few drops of blood fell from his chin, blending into the Bastard's speckled hide. "Take care of this one, will you?"
"Don't talk like that!" I said in alarm.
Gilot smiled, and winced. "Talk to you any way I please, today."
"Why not?" Eamonn said equably. "You always do."
It made us all laugh, and then Gilot coughed again and more blood came. We walked the rest of the way in silence, and Claudia Fulvia met us at the gate of the Tadeii villa with a handful of retainers, all of them armed and watchful. She looked tired and worried, but strong. Elua help me, I was glad to see her in a way I hadn't known existed. The courage of women is different from the courage of men; deeper and more enduring. A vast weariness crashed over me, and all I wanted was to sink to my knees and lose myself in her embrace.
"The chirurgeon is coming," she said. "Let's get him inside."
Eamonn carried Gilot into the villa. Without the presence of Gallus Tadius, the atmosphere was quiet and hushed. We made Gilot as comfortable as possible in one of the guest chambers, and settled in to await the chirurgeon.
There was nothing else to be done.
Chapter Fifty-One
So began the siege of Lucca.
It seemed like a fever-dream. From the moment we had spotted the smoke outside the walls, nothing had felt quite real. A single day had passed and the world had gone mad. It was, though. It was all horribly real.
The Luccan chirurgeon who examined Gilot shook his head. "Pray to Asclepius and Far-Sighted Apollo," he said simply. "There is nothing I can do."
I wanted to pray; I wanted to curse. I wanted to feel hope or fury. Anything to stem the awful tide of sorrow that threatened to swallow me. But there was nothing, only grief.
Gilot died in the small hours of the night.
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