The Lady (14 page)

Not that he had an axe. He'd kept his own sword. It wouldn't stand out. The Red Masks had been armed with a variety of blades and some had had Northron weapons. Murdered Northron wizards, or just whatever weapons the temple had acquired? Whose had been the swordsmanship of the dead—the Lady's or their own?

And why was he worrying? Varro hitched his cloak over the ragged tear that ran from the neck down towards the left breast of his armour—Mikki's work. He wasn't facing Red Masks here. They were Holla's problem.

He'd better not be facing Red Masks here. He should have taken a longer farewell of Talfan, not just gone blithely jaunting off like that on her errand to send the Blackdog to her. He didn't like the way Talfan looked at Hadidu now, so fondly possessive, as if the priest were some creation of her own. He didn't dislike the man at all. He still didn't have to like finding him living in his own house with his wife.

Silence fell, no whispering now, as they marched up alongside the low wall enclosing the backside of the fortress. He hesitated. They hadn't been certain. Unconvincing if they pounded for admittance on what might turn out to be a gate into a corral or something. Nothing that he could see in the dark through the wretched narrow eyeslits of the suffocating helmet showed which of the several solid wooden doors was the commonly used way into the fort. The moment's hesitation was hardly noticeable, he hoped. Surely they kept some sort of watch. He led his troop on, into the deeper darkness beneath the arch. At the far end of that long, cool tunnel between the towers, the gates themselves were faced with beaten bronze, never closed except when an enemy threatened the pass, but they were closed now.

Pointless, when your enemy was within rather than without, and you opened your doors to him. Which was what the garrison of the fort did now, even as he lifted a gloved hand to pound with his short white staff of office upon a door in the northern wall. Why the northern? He chose at random. It might just as easily have been the southern he chose.

Obviously they had been observed coming. The masked, triple-crested helmets of the Red Masks were distinctive, and in the torchlight the red glowed with sullen fire. His heart raced. If they were challenged—

A temple guardsman saluted, stepped back, and saluted next some Marakander woman in temple guard officer's ribbons who stood near Varro. “Lady be praised, you've come at last,” he told her. “We were starting to think the courier must have deserted or been taken by the rebels.”

Red Masks didn't, Varro supposed, wait for invitations. He shouldered forward and oh, Haukbyrgga, goddess of the lake in the high dale of his youth, be with him now, let the others follow. He cut off the motion to touch the stone snail-shell in the amulet-bag about his neck.

The others did follow, flowing after him, gratifyingly, menacingly silent.

“Tell them up above!” the temple man shouted over his shoulder. “The reinforcements are here.”

Reinforcements for what? Another temple guard peered around a doorway and thudded off up some stairs. And where were the officers? This man was only a patrol-first, by the thin stripe on his hem.

The man bowed to a point halfway between Varro and the woman in lieutenant's ribbons. “The rebels still hold the southern tower. We don't know if Captain Orta lives or not.”

“A hostage?” the supposed lieutenant asked, and glanced sideways at Varro. “Give me, ah, a full report. Guardsman.”

“A prisoner, at any rate.”

“Are you sure he's not allied with them? A rebel himself.”

“No, he's just a fool.”

Ya, temple and street guard were not known for their brotherly relations. What started it? What had they heard, to rise in rebellion? And how many? Holla had said there were only three patrols of street guard here, and thirty or forty temple guardsmen. Ask, ask. Varro would have kicked the woman in the ankle to prompt her, but she didn't need it.

“How many?” she asked.

“The whole damned lot of the street guard and a few of our own, too, and I'll deliver them to the foot of the Lady's pulpit myself once I get my hands on them. Orta's lieutenant's the traitor; she took them all off and had the doors barred before we realized what was up. We expected some help before now.” The guardsman's look of baffled weariness began to tighten into a frown. Taking in, maybe, their unavoidably ragged and bloody appearance. Not-so-fresh from battle. They filled the small anteroom, the last rank still holding the door open, blocking it so with their bodies.

“You're not first company. I don't know you.” The man's hand went to his sword, and he took a step backwards, frowning at the false officer.

This wasn't some great empire's army. There couldn't be more than a handful of captains and lieutenants in the entire temple force, known to all. The first impression of the uniforms had gotten them as far as it was going to. Varro raised a hand and swept it down. They all surged past him, through the opposite door and up the stairs, through into other doorways. The guardsman opened his mouth as shouts of alarm came from some inner room. The woman clipped him hard on the jaw with the hand clutching her guardsman's club. She gaped in astonishment when he actually dropped, looked at her fist, and grinned. “I wish my brother had seen that.”

Varro left her behind, taking the stairs two at a time to catch up with the leading edge of the surge. A disorganized roar followed him from behind. “Ilbialla! The gods of Marakand! Ilbialla and Gurhan for Marakand! Death to the false Lady!” Accents of the road dominated.

Kharduin caught up with him at the top of the stairs, where Varro pulled off his helmet. The protection it offered was little use when he couldn't see what he was doing. He hurled it at a cluster of temple guardsmen impeding one another on yet another set of stairs, over the heads of some other Red Masks who were likewise shedding helmets.

No shields. Forcing stairs held against them without shields was going to be deadly. His men were already hesitating, faltering back. Varro shouted and seized a bench from along the wall, a long, unwieldy weight, but Kharduin caught the other side, and with it between them like a ram they ran for the stairs, their own folk pressing back to let them through, closing in to put their weight behind it. The temple guard fell and were run over or fled scrambling up.

“On your knees!” Kharduin roared, as they burst into a chamber filled with red tunics. Some were already coming towards them, weapons in hand, but others still clustered to a door in the far wall, which they had been driving another bench against, trying to force it open. Hah, the passage over the gate to the southern tower. “On your knees and ask mercy of your true gods!”

“Murderers! Devil-lovers!” someone else cried.

Some of the caravaneers below set up a yell and came boiling up in an incoherent clamour, pursued by—dear Haukbyrgga, Holla had said a mere thirty or so temple guard, hadn't he? No time to count, and these were scarred and scared and desperate, some at the back still lacing helmets or barefoot. They'd been sleeping. Varro damned himself for a fool. The yards out back. Barracks there. Of course. These were survivors of yesterday afternoon, cut off and abandoned when the Lady ordered the city gates closed. And a tide came
down
yet another flight of stairs, forcing back those of his own band who had started up. Lanterns had been dropped or gone out when their bearers flailed with them as weapons, and only a couple of the torches still burned, waved aloft, though one smouldered on the floor. They were packed too tightly into this room and another adjoining it, hardly room to swing. Those with the short stabbing swords did better, but in places it seemed mostly grappling, hand to desperate hand like a damned tavern brawl, fists and heads and boots and even teeth. In the dim and swirling nightmare light friend and foe looked one.

“Ilbialla's guardsmen, get down!” Kharduin roared. “Down on the floor, for your lives! Now! Down and out of the way, for the gods of Marakand!”

Some, obedient without thought, dropped; others hesitated. “Get down or lose your damned heads!” Varro roared, and then they understood, most of them, and not only dropped but crawled away between legs, seeking a safe corner. Now there were fewer rebels standing in the clothes of the dead, but gods and Old Great Gods, ya, those on their feet had room to use the longer swords and sabres favoured by the caravan mercenaries, and in the chaotic torchlit flare and shadow any guardsman's silhouette was enemy. Or had only its own slow wits to blame.

Made the fact they were outnumbered worse, of course, with so many of their allies ordered out of it.

Varro drove forward, the sweep and swing of the blade a dance. Cursed sword, hah. A damned excellent sword was what it was, and if the enemy faltered, confused by his Red Mask armour, so much the better.

“The Lady is dead!” he howled and watched a man's eyes widen, a hesitation, overcome as he tried to close in to stab, but Varro sliced the flesh of his arm away and trampled him down. Another voice, Kharduin's, took up the cry from the foot of the stairs to the uppermost storey. Others added theirs, made it the battle cry, and there were more temple guards huddled on the floor than they had brought with them, surely.

“Throw down your arms! The Lady is dead! The Red Masks are dead and the Blackdog comes for you!” Kharduin cried. “Death comes for the devils! Death for the false Lady!”

Varro had cut a clear way to the landing of the stairs from below, stood there with an undisguised Marakander and some grey-haired Nabbani man at his back, to hold it against any further push from below, but the handful of temple guard left down there, apparently as rear-guard—and hadn't Kharduin done that himself, or had the whole mob ignored him and pushed on up?—had dropped swords and staves and held out empty hands.

The Nabbani ducked around him and walked cautiously down, sword ready. “Sit,” he told them. “Along the wall, there. Don't move.” He kicked weapons out of reach, shouted without looking around, “A little help, down here?” A couple of the Marakander street guard, pale in their grey tunics, edged by Varro and clattered down. A third stood with him.

Movement in the corner of his eye. Varro turned just as a red-tunicked guardsman who'd been crouched on hands and knees by the wall rocked forward and stabbed through his ragged red cloak. He yelled and struck with all the force of his turning. The man's head lolled back, throat fountaining, and the knife, tangled in dirty silk, scraped shrieking on the armour beneath as the man fell away. The Marakander beside Varro, so slow to see, to move, now finally yelped and leapt back, wide-eyed and sprayed scarlet. “I didn't see,” he stammered. “I didn't see him there, I—”

“Damn your eyes, watch them!” Varro snarled. More street guard pushed up around him, dragging another temple guardsman, terrified and stammering his innocence, to his feet.

“Take their weapons and lock them in the gaol for now,” a woman shouted. “Sort them later. We'll find an oath they'll fear to break.”

“Not me, damn it, I'm a weaver of the suburb, I'm for Gurhan,” someone cried.

“All the warden's folk in temple uniform, the three gods' folk, get over here. Get someone to vouch for you.” That was Kharduin. “And someone stamp that fire out.”

Varro threaded a way through the throng to him, trying to wipe at least his gloved hand and hilt clean.

“And who in the cold hells are you?” a woman with a burgeoning black eye was demanding. Single wide black stripe on her hem; a lieutenant of something or other. Grey tunic. Street guard. Hadn't come with them from Magistrate Pazum.

“Kharduin,” Kharduin said. “You're—Lieutenant Jing.” Of course, an eastern road master, he'd know the officers of this fort. They'd have taken the tolls off him often enough. “Where's Captain Orta?”

“That fat—dead.”

“How?”

“He fell.”

“Fell where?”

“Onto the road.”

Kharduin's expression said what Varro thought.

“Lady my witness, he did. He got away from us and was trying to get over here to the north tower on the roof in the dark.”

“Pick another god,” Kharduin said darkly, dismissing Orta.

“
Gurhan
be my witness.” Her voice shook and her hand was tight on her sword's hilt. “Orta fell. It might have been the judgement of the gods.”

Kharduin merely nodded. “Ally of Jugurthos, are you, Jing?”

“Jugurthos? Sunset Gate? No, not in particular. What's he got to do with it?” An assessing look over both of them. “That,” and she poked at Varro's torn armour with her sword, “should have been fatal.”

“It was,” he said. “Or would have been, if the man hadn't been dead already, Great Gods help him find his road.”

“True, then? They're walking dead, the Red Masks? Wizards. Dead slaves. I believe that. I saw. . . . And the Lady's the necromancer?”

“Who told you?” Varro demanded.

She scratched her chin, considered the pair of them.

“Kurman,” she said. “Cousin of mine in the temple guard. He's the one over there stripped to his shirt, or what's left of it. We didn't have any spare grey for him. His idiot mother put him into the temple guard, but his heart was never in it, you know. We're from Silvergate Ward, Gurhan's folk from long back. Anyway, you, Northron, I don't know you, but
you're
Master Kharduin. I heard your Nour was taken for a wizard.”

“He escaped,” said Kharduin shortly. “He's alive. Did Hassin tell you there's a Warden of the City been proclaimed by the folk and the senate? Jugurthos Barraya.”

By a few of the folk, anyway.

“
Him?
Warden of the City? The Lady really has lost control, then. No, but I haven't had any couriers from Captain Hassin in a while.” She waved her few patrols away. “Give these a hand. They're on our side, outlanders notwithstanding.”