I cast the dagger away and swept up the blanket with my left hand. Turning, I was just able to avoid the first molten blob that came flying through the air. I shook out the blanket, shifted my hand, and spun the fabric twice through the air, wrapping it around my hand and forearm. That left a couple of feet of cloth hanging free, giving me a flexible wall of fabric to use either as a shield or a whip.
I swept another coin from the air with the blanket, then a third. Two more came after that, with Shadow right behind them.
He wasn’t playing now. Shadow didn’t set up out of measure and ease in, or play with my blade, or stand back and cast coins at me until I was a smoldering, exhausted mess; he came in fast, his sword a fire-tinted blur in his hand. A cut at my head, a second, then a switch to an attack on my outside line, followed by a thrust and then another slash, all in fewer heartbeats than it takes to tell. I caught the first two on my sword, got lucky when the blanket intercepted the next, barely backed away from the fourth, and watched as the last cut swept by, three finger breadths from my face.
I followed up with a counterthrust, but Shadow turned it aside almost absently and flicked a coin at my neck. I didn’t have time to get the blanket up, so I instead rolled my head and neck away as best I could.
I felt a searing pain just inside the ball of my left shoulder. I screamed and backed away.
I crouched lower and extended the blanket out before me. The room was brighter now, and I was beginning to feel the heat of the fire as it ran up the wall. I saw my right arm trembling in the wavering light. Part of that was nerves, I knew, but part was fatigue as well; I wasn’t used to Iron Degan’ sword, and even the addition of half a pound of blade can make a big difference.
If this went on much longer, I wasn’t going to be able to maintain any kind of solid guard. Then again, if it went on too long, we might both die when the roof collapsed, or the air ran out, or the heat cooked us. None of the options appealed, but I wasn’t sure what to do about it at the moment—I was too busy being outmatched.
Then Shadow threw three coins at once, and I suddenly knew exactly what to do.
Three coins meant I couldn’t dodge—not all of them; three coins meant I had to commit to blocking them; three coins meant Shadow was coming right behind them, counting on their threat to clear his way.
Three coins meant I had him—I hoped.
As the coins spread out and turned liquid, I fanned the blanket out and up, catching them in its folds and sending them off to my left. I let that action draw my left arm back and turn me into profile. Then, I extended my sword.
I’d seen Degan do this before, and had even tried it myself once or twice. He called it a simple voiding of the body; I called it damn slick. The idea was that you got your body out of the way while you left your sword in place, thus allowing your opponent to throw himself on it when he attacked. Degan had made it look like high art; the best I usually managed was a child’s rough sketch in the dirt. But it worked.
Usually.
I saw the flash and felt the breeze of Shadow’s blade passing through the space where I had been. Even better, I felt my sword bite—only it seemed wrong.
I looked down the blade, and my heart went cold. I had extended Iron’s sword into Shadow’s path all right, but I had forgotten about the curve in the blade. Where a rapier’s straight blade would have planted its point in the middle of the Gray Prince’s face, Iron’s tip instead sloped off to my right. What should have been a killing thrust had instead ended up sliding past his face and coming out through the side of the cowl. I might have grazed a cheek if I was lucky, but I hadn’t come close to stopping the Gray Prince in his tracks.
I pulled back on the sword, trying to turn a missed thrust into a savage gash to the face, but Shadow’s left hand flashed up and grabbed the back of my right. Then he twisted.
Muscles and bones strained against one another along my arm, all of them turning the wrong way. The pain bent me forward, then down to my knees, my arm still straight out beside me. I felt my fingers loosen, felt Iron’s sword taken from my grasp. It clattered on the floor. Then something hard—Shadow’s sword pommel? The whole guard?—tapped me near the base of my skull.
I dropped to all fours, Shadow letting go of my arm at the last instant.
I heard a roaring, but only part of it was in my head. I glanced behind me. The back wall was now a sheet of flame. Overhead, above Shadow, the ceiling was obscured by a roiling black cloud. If it wasn’t already burning up there, it would be shortly.
Shadow didn’t seem to notice or care. His sword was extended, its point inches from my upturned face. Shadow reached up with his left hand and put a finger through the hole I had made in his cowl. He smiled. His sword didn’t waver.
“Close,” he said. He looked back down at me. “You should have just taken the deal.”
“I still would have wound up dead.”
Shadow shrugged. “Of course you would. You tried to dust me—that can’t be tolerated. But at least it would have been, well,
fairly
quick. Now, though . . .” Shadow gestured at the glow of the fire behind me. “I hear the smoke kills you before the flames. Let’s hope that’s the case, for your sake.” He shifted the sword so it hovered over my back, then raised it, ready for the crippling stroke.
Well, at least he wouldn’t have reason to go after Ana anymore. That was something.
“Screw you,” I said, and I braced for the blow.
Shadow’s arm was just beginning to descend when something came flying out of the darkness and shattered against the back of his head. Brown and beige fragments bloomed around his cowl. Shadow staggered. His sword drove into the floor beside my feet.
Without thinking, I put my right hand up to his belt and came away with his purse. Shadow righted himself and pulled his sword free. He glanced at the doorway, then back at me—just in time for me to drag open the strings of the purse with my teeth and cast its contents full into his cowl.
Don’t let them be keyed to him like my rope
, I prayed to the Angels.
Don’t let the damn things be keyed.
Over the flames, I could hear the hiss of the coins as they hit the air, followed by a wetter sound as the molten metal found Shadow’s face.
Shadow screamed and collapsed on the floor, clawing at the inside of his hood. I reached over and drew Iron Degan’s sword to me. I stood.
Shadow’s writhing stopped the second time I thrust the sword into his cowl. Then I looked up.
Degan was standing in the doorway. He had another piece of battered crockery in his right hand—he must have found a squatter’s stash somewhere—and his bronze-chased sword in his left.
I laughed out loud and almost sat down on the floor. Degan, here, saving me again. Even after what I’d done. I laughed some more.
I hadn’t even thought to hope.
Had he followed me, or Shadow? Part of me—the bit that housed my professional pride—hoped it had been the latter, but I had my doubts. If anyone could stick to my blinds without my knowing it, it was Degan. Not that I minded; not in the least.
The roof was burning now, and a fallen ceiling beam had split the room in two. There was a small gap at the far end, but the fire moving along the wall was close to reaching that area. Once it did, the opening would be too narrow, if not gone altogether.
I moved to go around, then paused as I remembered Ioclaudia’s journal. It was lying on my side of the room near the burning timber, smoldering but not yet alight.
Degan followed my gaze. When I looked back at him, he shook his head and dropped the bit of crockery on the floor. Then he turned away.
“Wait!” I yelled.
Degan turned back around. As I watched, the smoke beginning to sting my eyes, Degan drew himself up straight and raised his sword to his lips. It was the same gesture he had made back in the Cloisters, when we had exchanged the Oath, except now he was staring straight into my eyes. He didn’t blink as he kissed the blade, or as he flourished it in the firelight, or as he threw it onto the floor before him. He just met my eyes. Then Degan turned away and was gone.
It was over: the Oath, our friendship, his life as a degan. I knew it as sure as I knew my own mind. All the debts were paid for him, all the accounts closed. It was just as he had predicted: Binding ourselves with the Oath had broken everything else between us, and more.
I didn’t move to follow him. I wouldn’t embarrass him like that, wouldn’t go after something that was already gone.
I was a Nose: I knew when a trail had run out.
The smoke was starting to fill the place now, making me cough, blurring my vision. I found my way to the journal and had to kick it away from the fire because it was too hot to touch. Its cover was more char than leather now, and one corner of the tome had begun to turn crispy black.
Which gave me an idea.
I smiled grimly in that small corner of what felt like hell and wrapped the journal in the blanket. It wouldn’t do to burn it up—not just yet, anyhow.
I retrieved Iron’s sword and laid it across Shadow’s body. A few right words in the right ears, and the Order of the Degans would find the twisted remains of the sword here, along with Shadow’s burned husk. Let them think a Gray Prince had killed their brother and kept the sword as a trophy—Shadow was certainly arrogant enough to make it plausible. It wouldn’t ease Degan’s conscience any, but it might keep his former brothers from hunting him down.
Not the parting gift I would have wanted, but it was the best I could manage.
I gathered up the journal and headed for the outside wall. I was on all fours by now, nearly blind from the smoke. I could feel cinders settling on me from above, burning the backs of my hands and neck, singeing my hair, smoldering my clothes. Those spots felt only a bit warmer than the rest of me at this point.
I reached the wall sooner than I expected and crawled along it until I was able to make out a patch of calm, shiftless black above me. I reached up, levered my torso over the window ledge, and let myself fall.
It was two stories down, but I wasn’t about to complain.
Chapter Thirty-one
I
stood loitering against a wall across the street from the Imperial cordon, trying to look casual. That wasn’t easy, considering I had a dozen Gold Sashes staring me down.
The avenue that separated us was as wide as three normal streets and in impeccable repair. Along the west side, where I stood, ran residences with gated compounds, prosperous specialty shops, well-appointed taverns, and whorehouses of the best repute. On the east side stood the Wall, an immense line of red-and-white brick running more than a mile north to south, until it swept in a grand curve to meet the seawall that surrounded Ildrecca. Taller than any of the surrounding buildings, and thicker than most of them as well, the Wall marked the boundaries of Heaven on Earth, if you listened to the priests, or the playground of the pampered and powerful, if you had a more earthy bent. Either way, it wasn’t the sort of place to let my kind in.
But that wasn’t why the Sashes were staring at me.
I made a point of ignoring them and instead looked up at the sky. A dark smudge ran across the otherwise placid blue expanse. Ten Ways was burning, and had been for almost a day, thanks to Shadow and me. The blaze was contained—it turned out the legions were good for something after all—but there was ash settling all across the city, its pattern depending on which way the wind blew. A dark winter falling on the eve of spring.
I half wondered if the ash wasn’t following me, making sure I didn’t forget about how I had brought things to this point. Not that I would have forgotten, even under a clear sky.
The slam of the sally port in the gates across the street brought my eyes back down to earth. The Golds were at hard attention. A tall, familiar figure had just come out of the Imperial cordon. She was sporting a white sash around her waist and had ribbons running through her braid. Lyria.
She spoke to one of the Golds, who pointed in my direction. Lyria looked me over, frowned, then glanced at the folded piece of paper I’d had them deliver to her.
Concerning your Oath. Outside,
it read. No signature. She’d clearly been expecting someone else—a broad man with a big damn sword, a man by the name of Iron Degan.
I put an ahrami seed into my mouth and began walking away, up the street.
Footsteps came up behind me. I was just getting ready to turn around when I felt a hand grab me across the back of the neck. Another took my right shoulder and steered me into the wall. I bounced off it once, got shoved up against it again. The seed popped out of my mouth and went skittering away on the paving stones. I could hear laughter and jeers coming from the Imperial gate.
Lyria put her mouth up to my ear. “
No one
summons me out of the Imperial cordon, especially not a Crawler like you.”
“Back off, Sash,” I said into the wall. “I’m here as a favor.”
“To whom, Iron Degan? Did he send you?”