Endurance (50 page)

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.

“Out the window,” I ordered. “It's a goodly fall to the terrace.”

“Archers?” asked the Rectifier.

I nodded. “With more fire. We must move fast.”

“Not me,” said Mother Vajpai.

By the Wheel!

Pointing at the big pardine, I snapped, “You first. I'll drop her into your arms. Samma third. I'll be last. If we are forced apart, look for Mother Argai out front and meet back at the Tavernkeep's.”

“We are not splitting,” Mother Vajpai ordered.

I snarled, “This isn't your handle.”

The Rectifier grabbed a chair from the dressing table, yanked down one of the burning curtains, wrapped it around the chair legs, then hurled the mess through the window. Arrows flitted and buzzed outside. He followed his own missile right after that with a yell that ended in an unpleasant crunch.

Trust,
I thought, and cannoned into Mother Vajpai to shove her out the window. She fell backwards with a yelp, tumbling away from me. “Now, Samma,” I shouted, and gave the girl a boost with my hands. “Tuck and roll!” I called after her.

Another flight of arrows came. Two more flamers sailed through the gaping window to embed in the far wall. I poised to jump, then paused.

Corinthia Anastasia.
I could not leave yet.

I turned and looked back at the door. It was shoving inward. A large closet loomed behind me. Pondering for a brief moment the principles of Stone Coast architecture, I darted into the closet. At the back, viewed by the ruddy firelight from the room behind me, one set of panels was darker and less well-fitted than the rest. I aimed a kick.

It
was
a door, passing into what would have been intended as a small servants' chamber. Thank the Lily Goddess for ladies' maids. Stepping through, I saw a storeroom, now filled with chairs stacked high and a number of large white furniture covers folded away while the rented house was in use.

Grabbing up several of the furniture covers, I wrapped myself as a crude form of armor. I regretted my sneering at the officer in his silks. Once I heard the crash of the dresser toppling, along with shouts of triumph, I darted out the storeroom door into the hall and ran like crazy back toward the central stairs, borrowed sword in hand.

Corinthia Anastasia was up, either on the third floor or in the attic. I wasn't sure precisely where, but I knew she was
up
.

To my amazement no arrows found me from behind. In the central stairs, I met two more local servants. They cowered from my bloody blade.
Whose blood?
I wondered irrelevantly. “Is the hostage still upstairs?” I shouted. “The Petraean girl?”

“Yes,” said one. “Gone,” said the other.

They might both have been telling the truth.

I sprinted up the stairs again, slipped once more, and sprawled facedown for a moment on the marble. This time I held on to my sword. Gods, that hurt. And my gut …
the baby!

Pulling myself to my feet under the frankly amazed stares of the servants, I walked more slowly to the top.

Lower ceilings up here, and less ornate decor. As I'd thought, this was a section of the house intended for minor relatives, or senior servants perhaps. Not for the quality intended to be lodged below.

I could see all the way down the hall in both directions. No guards. That wasn't good. Carefully I trotted to my right, passing above the scene of the recent fight. She had been above, right?
Above.

*   *   *

This was a nightmare. I went door to door, opening them—after the first two I stopped kicking. My foot hurt too much. And I was definitely slowing down.

Surali and the Prince of the City had already moved their people out. Despite my hopes, we'd caught the tail end of the evacuation. It was cold up here, no fires in the hearths. The smoke from downstairs was growing thicker. The air bore the heavy odor of burning house—carpets and paint and the varnish from furniture all burn differently from firewood. I wondered how fast the fire was spreading below, but I had to keep checking.

Leaving Ilona's daughter here to burn would have been even more hideous than allowing her to be borne away by Surali.

I wondered if my Blades had gotten out. I wondered if they would make it to the Tavernkeep's. I wondered how Mother Argai was doing. I wondered how
I
was doing.

Finally reaching the end of the entire floor, I admitted defeat. I had failed. Corinthia Anastasia was not here. Long gone, to the docks, to sea, to wherever that bitch Surali had taken her. Tears welled in my eyes.

No, not just tears. Irritation. The smoke was even thicker, and I realized that I'd heard no shouts for a while. Firelight flickered in the stairwell behind me. This wasn't looking well for me.

Then I remembered the laundry chute. The one I had climbed was on the other wing of the house, but it might well have a mate down here. I'd seen a linen room already. I ducked back in there and found, yes, a trapdoor for the chute. Wrapping myself more tightly in the furniture covers and holding the borrowed sword close so it wouldn't bang against me, I slid feet-first into the hot darkness. I rattled downward with increasing speed, bumping against the laths that held the panels of the chute in place, until I belatedly wondered if I would smash into an iron door deep within the bowels of the mansion.

*   *   *

I landed with a hard jar to my ankles and shins. Nothing worse, thank the Lily Goddess. After rubbing my legs a moment, and soothing the baby, who had not liked the sudden descent, I checked my surroundings. This chute ended much as the other had, in a hallway. The laundry room was back to my right. Given that Surali had stationed archers on the grounds, emerging into the backyard alone without the Rectifier for a shield seemed dubious at best. The plumbing was a far better bet.

Sewers ran beneath the Velviere District. In most houses you'd have to be the size of a rat to climb up and down the pipes, but in a building this large, anything was possible. Perhaps there was even a cistern to draw from.

I cast about the stone-floored basement. The smell was just as bad down here, but the smoke not nearly so thick yet. Fire preferred to climb. I found laundry tubs, filled from a pump. They drained into a trough, then through a grate in the floor too small for me. So there was a sewer. I just wasn't getting in that way.

Ovens, too, fires banked now. No evidence of cooks or scullions. No handy open sewer pits in the bakery.

Pantries. Tool rooms. Maids' dormitory. Guards' dormitory. Room after room, none of them filled with what I needed.

Finally I took a mattock, rather too heavy for me, and dragged it back to the laundry room. The ceiling was getting hot, and I could hear the fire roaring. At this point I might not be able to depart by any other route.

The edge of the tool allowed me to lever the grate off. I stared doubtfully into the darkness. How far down did this reach? Did it branch or split, or drop straight into a sewerway? There had to be a tunnel to the street, at least, as the mains didn't run directly under most buildings.

Below was complex enough from within. I'd earlier deliberately avoided using that as a path. Guessing a route from above …

Outside held fire, archers, killing cold, and by now, a dearth of my allies. I'd been too long within the house. Taking a deep breath, I uttered a formless prayer and began to hack at the stonework edge supporting the grate.