The Sword of the Lady (30 page)

Beyond him she saw Rudi moving like quicksilver, whirling and striking as he fought his way towards them, and as the mist of pain and fuddlement darkened her eyes he seemed limned in fire, a winged shape that danced like spears of lightning amid dark thunderclouds. Then someone else was beside her.

″Jesu-Maria!″
Ignatius shouted, and struck.

The man who′d been about to kill her fell backward, trailing blood. The priest′s voice rang thunder deep; Mathilda felt it resonate through her aching bones, as she slumped against the wall with the force of the blow that had felled her still buzzing through her head and down her limbs in spikes of agony. A taste like brass and sulfur filled her mouth, and her breath came rapid through a dry throat. Odard crouched at her feet, swaying on one knee with his ruined shield propped against his shoulder.

The soldier-monk′s sword and shield swung in beautiful unison, leaving trails of silver light to her dazzled eyes. Ignatius shouted again, over the slithering crash of steel, the dull ugly sound of a blade in flesh, and the panting snarls of his opponents:

There was anger in that shout, but no rage; instead a happiness that was fierce and joyous at the same time. It was as if the
spirit
of anger filled him, pure and hot and infinitely clean.

As if this was the thing that anger was
for
.

The Cutter in the dried-blood robe came through the press, throwing his followers to either side in his eagerness.
Murk
moved with him to Mathilda′s aching eyes; not darkness that hid him from sight, but something of which darkness was merely a symbol—a whirling chaos that hummed with power but was somehow decayed, as if he were a window to a place where even the stuff of matter itself perished in an endless denial of possibility.

″
I—see—you
,″
he said, in syllables of burning ash.

The battle ceased for an instant that stretched. Rudi used it to step to the warrior-cleric′s side. The Cutter magus looked from one of them to the other with a grin of hatred.

″And I see you,″ Ignatius said into the panting silence. ″Go back, Hollow Man, to the nothingness that waits for you; for you have chosen it.″

″
You
are nothing!″ the High Seeker rasped. ″A bag of bones and slime and dung, a worm that feeds on sunlight and turns it to shit!″

Ignatius smiled. ″I am
her
knight, and through her the servant of the Most High, a
miles
of Christ; in His name I command you, not mine. From the bottom of my heart I pity you. Repent! Even for you there can still be mercy. Go back!″

The Cutter howled; Mathilda felt an almost irresistible impulse to beat her own head open on the wall behind her. Only weakness and the thought that
that
face and voice might be waiting for her on the other side of death stopped her. The curved shete leapt at Ignatius, and his sword met it. Sparks flew through the air, and she smelled brimstone and lightning.

Rudi struck as well, and the shadow of a great scythe seemed to move with the sword:
″Morrigú!″

As the monk shouted, Mathilda′s vision blurred. Men fought, but it seemed to her that the two between her and the enemy struggled with a heaving roil rather than another human. Or as if the Cutter was the shadow of a man, a skin sack around a mass of coiling tendrils, behind a gaping scream of agony. Shapes stretched about the knight-brother of the Order as well; were they wings vaster than the Earth could contain, or were they blazing wheels, or a swirling cloud of flashing eyes?

And beyond them a blue-mantled figure whose hands stretched down, touching Ignatius on his forehead and the cross guard of the sword he gripped, a power blazing into flesh and steel. And behind them all a radiance that was terror and longing all in one, that shone through her bones as if they were wisps of air—

″Retreat!″ a voice called.

″No!″ the Corwinite magus in the red robe—bloody in truth now—screamed. ″We are too close!″

Even then Mathilda could sense how a trace of humanity had returned to the voice; there was human evil in it now, bloodlust and a furious anger at being balked, as if the Presence that had ridden him was too exhausted to maintain its grip. When he howled as Graber grabbed him by the shoulders and wrestled him back it was merely shrill.

″High Seeker! Now, or we die without fulfilling the mission. They′re hitting us from both sides down there in the street and those whores in black are shooting from the roofs! Brave men are dying to buy us time to try again later.
Now!
″

The Sword of the Prophet′s commander gestured, and three men rushed Ignatius and Rudi. The rest backed, then turned and fled, hustling the suddenly limp and half-conscious form of the High Seeker between them. Fred and Virginia shot in unison, and the last man through pitched forward with arrows through the backplate of his armor standing up like masts from a ship.

From below came the sounds of battle, war cries, and a high screeching like so many great cats. Then Rudi was beside her, slamming his notched sword point-first in the floorboards and easing the wrecked shield off her injured arm while Ignatius bound it up with the sterilized bandage from his belt pouch. She almost fainted at the wave of pain, then forced awareness back; more voices were shouting, and others burst through the shattered door, Edain and Ingolf at their head.

″Are you all right,
anamchara
mine?″ Rudi said, his arm holding her against his shoulder.

Blood was spattered across his face, some of it his own, but the wildness was fading from it, leaving only the warm blue-green gaze that had been in her life so long.

″No,″ she said. ″But I will be now.″

CHAPTER TEN

″He′s ... dead,″Kate Heasleroad said numbly.

″Yes, he is, Kate. You can grieve later. You have to
do
things! Now!″ Mathilda Arminger spoke firmly. The pain in her arm and ribs was like white ice playing up into her shoulder, but she kept the bandaged limb hugged against her aching side. The bandages were wet—the priest said she needed stitches—but she could attend to that later; there weren′t any bone spikes prodding into her lungs, for all that each movement of her chest was like breathing in molten lead.

If I move
very carefully
, I′ll be all right.

The younger woman′s eyes were blank as she repeated: ″He′s . . .
dead
. Tony′s
dead
.″

She began to rock back and forth, moaning. Mathilda suppressed an impulse to bury her hands in her hair and shriek in frustration. The urge to slap the other woman across the face was even stronger but she repressed it, even when Rudi raised one palm and mimed the action.

″That only works in stories,″ she said decisively.

″Well, we′d better do
something
,
anamchara
mine. The wheels are going to come off the wagon here, and soon. The Bossman dead, Denson dead . . . If we don′t just run for the docks they′ll be looking for someone to blame . . .″

″I know what to do, and I′m not going to leave Kate without help now of all times. I owe her.
Get
this place in order, would you, Rudi? I′ll be right back.″

The nursery was down a corridor and through a pair of light swinging doors; she put one foot ahead of the other, with a determination that brought beads of sweat to her face. It had room for more than one infant, and the walls had an attractive modern mural of animals and flowers. That showed clearly, for the wall-mounted gaslights had been turned up. The boy rested on his back in a padded crib, dressed in a pink jumpsuit and looking up at a mobile of cutout cats and dogs and birds, taking an occasional dab at it with one chubby paw. The noise had woken him, but he wasn′t frightened yet. Kate had said that he was a good baby.

The children of the Coordinator of Dubuque were elsewhere tonight, probably to their parents′ eventual intense relief, but there was a sadness to the scattered toys—wooden blocks, a beautiful pre-Change doll with blond hair, a rocking horse with a carefully repaired stirrup. The nurse was a middle-aged woman in a print dress; she stood before Tommie Heasleroad′s crib with an aluminum baseball bat clenched in her hands and an expression of wild determination on her rather horsy face.

That grew greater as she took in the newcomer′s alien—and blood-spattered—clothes and disheveled hair. Mathilda paused for an instant to take a necessary deep breath and pitch absolute confidence into her voice. The nursemaid deserved it if possible, rather than having the boy taken from her—she was obviously ready to sell her life for his.

And it wouldn′t do to bleed all over him,
Mathilda thought for an instant of half-crazed humor before she spoke:

″Your mistress needs her son with her. It′s quite safe now, but you must
bring
him to her.″

She turned, and the nurse scooped up the child and followed . . . although she kept the bat in one hand.

Mother was right. Just act as if there′s absolutely no doubt you′ll be obeyed, and chances are you
will
be. The more so when people are frightened.

It had been only moments, but the room was in order when she returned, if you didn′t count the pooled blood, and white-faced servants were stumbling to clean that up with cloths and mops. The bodies of the dead Cutters and guardsmen had been carried away; Anthony Heasleroad had been laid out, his body covered with something that had probably started as an embroidered tablecloth, and his eyes closed. Mary and Ritva were there too, looking the worse for wear. Mary had a bruise that would cover a full half of her face and was talking in Sign, leaning against Ingolf as she did and squinting as the swelling nearly closed her one good eye:

Rudi stood at the top of the stairs, and Father Ignatius at the base; between them they limited the men allowed up to a few of the most important, the ones who came with armed retinues at their backs, and a doctor with her black leather case. The doctor set to work, but the potentates milled around, taking in the dead Bossman with exclamations of horror or in more than one case with blank, calculating expressions while turning to look at each other. A few seemed nauseous; well, the stink
was
bad, particularly if you hadn′t seen many battlefields.

Kate looked up from her fugue when the nursemaid held out her child. She snatched the boy; he whimpered, but then she controlled herself and turning her clutch into a firm comforting grip.

Seize the moment
, Mathilda thought, and bent to put her good hand on Kate′s shoulder, willing strength down it.

″Kate!″ she said. ″Your husband′s dead but your son lives. You must act for him, and act
now
.″

″What . . . what should I do?″

The edge of hysteria drained out of her voice in the course of the sentence, and she straightened.

″You must summon your affinity . . .″ Mathilda said, and saw blank incomprehension. ″Your vassals and liegemen . . . oh, Mother of God, your
supporters
, Kate. The ones who′ll rally to your son and have fighting men behind
them
. The ones who owe land and office to your family!″

″But I′m not . . . I′m just . . .″

″You′re the mother of the heir, unless you let him be dispossessed,″ she said. ″Think of
him
and you can do it.″

″I don′t know what I′d say!″

″I′ll help. I remember what Mother did, after my father was killed in the Protector′s War. Just for starters—″

″Christ on a crutch,″ Abel Heuisink said, his voice pawky-dry as the gathering before the cathedral doors massed and waited in a murmuring churn. ″Thanks so very much. Because of
you
, Kate′s going to pull it off. So we get more Heasleroads.″

Rudi grinned at the look of grudging respect the elder Heuisink shot towards Mathilda, where she stood three steps down from the hastily erected dais, bright in the court dress of an Association princess. He took a deep breath of the crisp autumn air, enjoying even the pull and itch of his wounds as they continued their healing. None were serious . . . and the feeling meant he was alive, alive on a bright fall day with years yet before him. The best part about a fight was surviving it . . . until you didn′t, of course.

Doesn′t miss a trick, my Matti!
he thought.
And Kate′s a more apt pupil than I′d have thought.

″Don′t blame me,″ Rudi said. ″Sure, and it′s Mathilda who managed the politics, for the most part, with Odard next. They both learned it in the Lady Regent′s school.″

″Lady Regent?″

″Mathilda′s mother, Lady Sandra, Regent of the Portland Protective Association.″

″Yeah, you mentioned her. She′s good at politics, this Lady Sandra?″

″Oh, you have
no
idea, my friend. At the game of thrones, there′s none like her in all the world.″

You couldn′t quite call the chair that had been set out on the dais a throne; but with its massive size and glowing inlays of jewels and rare woods and semiprecious stones, you couldn′t quite say it wasn′t, either. The morning sun made it blaze and sparkle; careful hands had buffed and polished away the patina of age that it had kept all the way to the museum in Boston, and from there westward in Ingolf Vogeler′s caravan.

″Tell me, sir,″ he said to the Iowan. ″Do you and your friends . . . your faction . . . this Progressive Party . . . have enough troops to put down all the other factions here without civil war, and the black shame and grief of it?″