Kushiel's Scion

Page 62

"You don't have to come," I said.
"Oh, I'm coming," Gilot retorted.
I waited while he kissed Anna farewell, then stooped and kissed Belinda. And then the two of us navigated the narrow gateway passage and plunged back into the streets.
It was beginning.
I thought about Master Piero's lecture as we hunted for our friends; that first lecture I had witnessed. Here it was, the group-mind at work. And it could be directed and shaped, as surely as he had led the pigeons with scattered grain. The anger of the students was being shaped, directed against the Tiberian citizenry. Here and there, scuffles were beginning to break out. Young men with torches eyed closed shop-fronts, daring one another. Guards from the city cohort struggled inadequately to restore order, overwhelmed by sheer numbers.
"Blessed Elua!" Gilot said fervently. "This quarter would go up like a tinderbox."
"I know," I murmured.
In time, we found our friends. As I had guessed, it was in a wineshop; the same one we usually frequented, with the faded sign of Bacchus. I'd already checked it twice that evening. I would have been better served by waiting.
It was the shouting that drew us; two voices, raised in a shouting-match.
One of them, I knew.
"That's Lucius," I said, driving shoulder-first into the packed wineshop.
There I found Lucius in fine fettle, arguing against a slab-sided hulk in scholar's robes, his face alight with keen intellect. Eamonn was there, too, his back to the wall, watching the proceedings and looking cheerfully combative. And there at his side was Brigitta, merely looking combative, her hand hovering over the hilt of her dagger. The wineshop's patrons had withdrawn to give them space, clustering in a circle. The barkeep was nowhere to be seen.
"There is a reason" Lucius shouted, "for the rule of law!"
"Oh, aye!" his opponent growled. "To keep the likes of me in my place!"
"Will you listen, you idiot?" Lucius retorted. "You can't advance the pursuit of knowledge by violent means. It's antithetical!"
I began edging my way around the crowd, Gilot at my heels, intent on getting my friends out. I didn't think they fully reckoned how volatile the situation was.
"What does he care?" A new voice entered the fray, cool and disdainful. I glanced around to see another robe-clad scholar pointing at Lucius. He had sharp features and a contained, hooded gaze. "He's related by marriage to Deccus Fulvius. He's rich, and he'll only get richer. He doesn't care about the University."
The slab-sided scholar blinked, his color rising. "Is that true?"
"Oh, please!" Lucius said in disgust. "Deccus had nothing to do with this!"
"He's lying," the new scholar said smugly. "Everyone knows the Restorationists are behind this, and everyone knows Deccus Fulvius is behind them."
The comment drew murmurs. The tide of the group-mind was beginning to turn against Lucius. Claudia, I thought, your Guild takes an almighty risk when it decides to unleash the bottled lightning of a riot. Easy to start, hard to control. You should have protected your brother before me. Your nets are not so tightly woven as you'd have me believe.
"Imri!" Eamonn hailed me as I reached his side, rubbing his hands together with glee. "I'm glad you arrived. I think there's going to be a fight."
"Yes," I said. "And we're not taking part in it. Come on, let's get out of here."
"Why?" He looked at me with bewilderment.
Too late; already, too late. I'd missed the last exchange of barbed comments, but I heard the roar as the slab-sided scholar charged Lucius, barreling into him and hurling him against the wall. There was an audible thud and a grunt as the air left Lucius' chest.
I whirled without thinking, drawing my right-hand dagger and bringing the pommel down hard on the base of the big ox's skull. His eyes rolled back in his head and his knees buckled as he sagged slowly to the floor.
"My thanks!" Lucius said, half-breathless.
"Traitors!" It was the other one's voice, shrill and alarmed. I could tell without looking that he was pointing at us. "Traitors!"
"This isn't over," I muttered to Lucius. "We've got to get out of here, fast."
He nodded, eyes wide and startled. "Whatever you say."
"Gilot, Eamonn!" I raised my voice. "Montrève, to me!"
I heard Gilot's voice answer, rising clear and ringing over the din.
"Montrève!" And Eamonn's laughing bellow echoed his call, booming through the wineshop. "Montrève, and the Dalriada! Aye, and Skaldia, too!"
We forged a path toward the door with fists and elbows. There was no room to draw a sword, and I would have been reluctant to do so. I didn't want to draw blood unless it was absolutely necessary. Joscelin had told me not to take chances, but Joscelin had never been in a riot where innocent lives were indistinguishable from the guilty.
Without Eamonn, I daresay we would have been trapped. He waded into the fray, heedless of his own safety, tossing people aside like jackstraws. I felt a fierce grin stretch my lips as I followed in his wake. Brigitta stuck like a burr to his back, and I swatted away the hands that reached for her, Lucius hard behind me, and Gilot bringing up the rear. He had managed to draw his sword, and he walked backward with it, warding off pursuit as we spilled onto the street.
It worked for the space of a few heartbeats.
At first it wasn't even a fight; just a throng of bodies pressed against one another, pushing, shoving, and cursing. Too many people in the street, too many pouring from the wineshop. The throng surged in response to forces I couldn't see. I couldn't move, and my arms were trapped at my sides. I couldn't even raise my dagger. Bodies, pressed all around. Torchlight streaked the night, but it was hard to see. Nothing but swathes of cloth, bits and pieces of faces. Anyone who fell would be trampled, and it was hard to keep one's feet in the swaying, surging crush.
For the first time, I panicked and found myself struggling to breathe. Brigitta was no longer in front of me. I couldn't tell if Lucius was behind me, couldn't even turn my head. Someone's elbow was lodged in my ribs. Someone's heel stomped hard on my toes; hard and deliberate. I would have hopped with pain if I could have. As it was, it made me lurch. I felt another foot planted in the back of my left knee, and my leg buckled.
Somewhere, Gilot was shouting my name; "Imri, Imri!"
I heard it, then I didn't. Someone had gotten to him, silenced him. And I was off balance, and the rioting throng was like a dark tide, threatening to pull me under. My left foot was trapped and I couldn't free it, couldn't straighten, couldn't move with the tide as I ought. A fist plowed into my bowed spine, driving me downward. Another blow, hard as a hammer. Helpless and furious, I pitched forward.
Somewhere above me, I heard a voice mutter, "Told to tell you, that's for Baudoin."
An intensified shock of panic ran through me. This was more than random violence; someone wished me harm. And if I fell, I'd never rise in one piece. Bodies, all around, thrashing and stomping and churning. No air, nothing to breathe. Only strange bodies, all too willing to crush the life from me. My attacker had hundreds of oblivious accomplices. I couldn't see faces, now; only backs and buttocks, legs and trampling feet. Before my eyes, the dim cobbled streets loomed close.
And somewhere, a faceless enemy.
Claudia had tried to warn me, but not hard enough.
Stupid, I thought as I fell, still holding the useless dagger, my arm pinned beneath me. Mayhap if I was lucky, I would fall upon its point and put an end to my foolish existence. I should have drawn them both, should have fought my way free. So what if I shed innocent blood? I could have claimed asylum at the D'Angeline embassy.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. What a stupid way to die.
Somewhere behind me, there was an anguished cry of pain; and then another. And then the throng shifted and the press abated and there was space, a little bit of space. I drew a ragged breath and yanked my left leg hard. With an excruciating twist of my ankle, it came free, and I nearly fell on my face once more. I thrashed, trying to get to my feet before my enemy struck again, but I was still unbalanced and flailing.
"Montrève!" Lucius was there, ducking under a reaching arm. He was wild-eyed, his hand clutching at my wrist, steadying me. "Give me your dagger!"
I let it go, drawing the second one from my boot-sheath as I forced myself upright. "Behind me!" I shouted. "Who is it?"
Lucius shook his head. "Never mind! Just get out!"
Of a single grim accord, Lucius and I planted ourselves shoulder to shoulder and fought our way free of the fracas, prodding with our daggers when a threat didn't suffice. I heard yelps of pain, and didn't care; it made people move. Some had been less fortunate than me. Twice, I stumbled over fallen bodies and kept going, trying not to tread on anyone, desperate for air. By the time we reached the outskirts of the battle, I was gasping for it.
And then there was air; blessed air.
I bent over double, hands on my knees, sucking it into my lungs.
"What took you so long?" There was Eamonn, the battle-grin still plastered to his face. He'd drawn his Dalriadan longsword, and no one dared venture within its reach. Brigitta stood at his shoulder, dagger in hand, her face alight with fierce Skaldic pride. Prince Barbarus and his shield-maiden.
Still bent, I glared at him. "Someone tried to kill me."
"Oh, aye!" he agreed. "It's a right mess in there."
I didn't have time to explain. "Where's Gilot?"
Eamonn's expression shifted to dismay. "Dagda Mor!"
"Guard my back," I said to him.
And so we went back; back for Gilot. I gave my sword to Lucius in exchange for my second dagger and bade him defend Brigitta. He gave a terse nod; for a mercy, she didn't protest at it. Eamonn and I returned to the fray. I tried to identify my attacker, but I'd never even seen his face. By this time, reinforcements from the city cohort had arrived, dissolving the riots into knots. They meted out punishment with dispassionate equanimity, battering away at rioters and bystanders alike with the flats of their shortswords.
"Gilot!"
I knew him; even prone. His limp hand clutching the hilt of his sword, the fine D'Angeline profile against the cobblestones, bruised and swollen. He'd been beaten to the ground. One of his assailants drew back his foot, prepared to plant another kick to Gilot's ribs. I recognized him from the wineshop. He was the agitator, the sharp-featured scholar.
"Don't." In a flash, I was on him, crossed daggers at his throat. A cold, clean fury filled me. I leaned against him, breast to breast, close as a lover. "Was it you?" I asked softly. "Were you told to say, 'that's for Baudoin'?"
He trembled. "I don't know what you mean!"
"No?" I studied him. His voice was high-pitched with terror. Not the voice that had muttered the words I'd heard, not even close. "You provoked this," I said. "If Gilot dies of this beating, make no mistake, I will find you and kill you."
There was fear in his eyes. He kept his chin high to avoid the daggers, but there was fear, and the sight of it was sweet. With one swift, slicing motion, I withdrew both blades, marking his neck with a pair of shallow cuts. He cried out, clapping his hands to his throat.
"You'll live," I said with contempt. "Get out of here."
He went in a hurry, still clasping his throat, blood trickling between his fingers.
Although I would have liked to question them, Eamonn had dispelled the others. He stood over me while I knelt at Gilot's side, and even the city cohort gave him a wide berth. "Gilot." I peered at him, wincing in sympathy. Already, in the murky torchlight, I could see bruises blooming. His mouth was crusted with blood and the lids of both eyes were alarmingly swollen. I gave his shoulder a tentative shake, fearful of hurting him. "Gilot, can you hear me?"
He groaned, and one swollen lid opened a crack. "Imri?"
"It's me." My heart leapt with relief. "Where are you hurt? Can you walk?"
"I think so." With my assistance, Gilot sat upright, then coughed and spat out a mouthful of blood. "Ribs," he said with a grimace. "And my sword-hand. Some bastard stomped on it. I kept hold of it, though." He felt at his face with his left hand. "I can't see. Am I blind?"
"No." I slid my arm under his shoulders. "I don't think so, anyway. Come on, let's get you home."
With Eamonn's help, I got Gilot to his feet. We eased his sword from his broken grasp and got him over to the others. By now, the rioters were scattering, pelting every which way down the streets. Eamonn led the way, watchful and wary, no longer smiling. My wrenched ankle hurt like fury, and I struggled not to hobble under Gilot's weight.
Brigitta drew a sharp breath at the sight of his battered face. "Is he all right?"
"What do you think?" I asked grimly.
"Imri," Eamonn murmured.
"Sorry," I muttered. "It's just… this is my fault. He shouldn't be here."
"None of us should." Lucius, still holding my sword, shuddered. "You were right, Montrève. Let's get out of here."
Our insula was the closest shelter, so we made for it. It seemed to take forever. Every step sent a blaze of pain through my ankle. The worst of the riot had passed, but it was far from over. Students roamed the streets, taking to their heels at the sight of the cohort's legions. No one dared approach us, but here and there we saw skirmishes. It was impossible to tell who was fighting or why.