King's Blades 03 - Sky of Swords Read online

  day after ... allow one day for each house

  to debate. ... Probably they would move right

  after that, before foreign governments could lodge

  protests.

  "Five days!" she told Winter. "In

  five more days they'll come for me and cut off my

  head!"

  "Over my dead body," Dog said.

  She hit the far door with a bruising crash and

  turned around to scream at the apparition--not

  madness! Not that! She was not going to go crazy like

  her mother--

  He caught her in his arms and ended the

  scream before it properly got started. He had

  sounded like Dog. His kiss tasted like Dog's.

  He hugged like Dog. He smelled like Dog.

  He was much lumpier than she remembered Dog;

  under his peculiarly flimsy cloak he seemed

  to be studded with a variety of odd packages and

  hung about with a coil of rope--but he was Dog.

  Eventually they came apart one finger width.

  "You're all bones!" he growled.

  "You're all sharp edges." They kissed again.

  "You're trembling."

  "You're real! It's really you. Not a

  prisoner too?"

  "Hope not. Brought you this." He fumbled under his

  cloak and pulled out something that had once been a

  flower. It was badly mangled and smelled more of

  him than of rose; she could not see it in the dark,

  but she did not need to. She choked on tears.

  "Oh, Dog, Dog, Dog darling! No one

  has ever given me anything more welcome."

  "Better go now. Finish this later. What's

  outside?"

  "Just a walkway."

  He grunted. "How far are we from

  Rivergate?"

  "Right above it. The walkway is, I mean."

  He made a pleased sound. "Couldn't be

  better. Let's try that."

  "But--"

  He eased her aside, although she wanted to cling

  to him like ivy. He did something to the lock, and it

  clicked.

  "Golden Key?" Her voice was lost in the

  squeak of the hinges. Of course there had to be

  enchantment involved when a rescuer appeared like this.

  It was not illusion! It was really Dog! "They

  have White Sisters!" That use of spiritual power

  might have been detected.

  "Didn't meet any." Dog strode out and

  stopped to survey the iron bars overhead. Even

  as he did so, the moon fled behind a silver-edged

  cloud, leaving him in starlight. The wind ruffled his

  cloak, his hair shone like milk. "Was afraid

  ... might have to kill some. Where does that other

  door lead?"

  "Don't know." She was staying very close,

  unable to keep her hands off him. "The

  Rivergate's just below us." And if that conjurement

  he had just used had been detected, then the

  Yeomen would be on their way already. Tower

  windows overlooked this walkway.

  He pulled off the lumpy cloak and the coil of

  rope he wore over his shoulder, dropping them

  both. He jumped, caught hold, went up,

  swinging his boots up to hook in the bars farther

  along. He clung there like a bat, face up and

  back down, with Sword dangling below him like an

  icicle. He grunted, came down again. "Any

  of these bars loose? Rusted? Need to move two,

  maybe three."

  Her mind was muddled by shock. She could think of

  nothing except DogDogDog ... loose,

  rusted? "Along here," she said, and took his hand--

  that big, hard, familiar hand--to lead him to the far

  end, where water dripped off the other tower and moss

  had crumbled the mortar. "Try here. I'll get

  the chair."

  The moon peered out cautiously, just enough to give

  her a shadow as she ran to her cell and hurried

  back with the chair. Dog stood on it, peered,

  fingered. Then he said, "Stand clear!" and went up

  again. The moon vanished as if it disapproved,

  leaving him only a dark shape against the shining

  clouds. He grunted. She realized he was

  trying to pry bars loose, pulling with hands, pushing

  with feet. In a moment he came down and rubbed his

  hands, muttering angrily under his breath.

  "It can't be done!" she said. "We'll have

  to leave the way you came. Let's go, love!

  Let's hurry, not waste time here."

  "I would if I thought you could use the cloak.

  Here." He lifted his baldric over his head and

  handed her Sword in its scabbard. "Keep this

  handy." He went up again to try another place.

  "Must have been given these muscles for a reason

  ... ah!" Something scraped, metal on stone.

  She hugged herself, shivering, wishing she had her

  blanket but terrified to go and leave him again in

  case he vanished like a bubble. Besides, she was

  guarding Sword. Somewhere in the distance men's

  voices spoke loudly in the still of the night. Not

  shouting, not raising an alarm. Probably just

  changing the guard. Another bar scraped ...

  Escape, escape, escape ... It

  might have taken half an hour. It felt like

  years. At the end of it, Dog stood upright

  to catch his breath, rubbing one bleeding hand on his

  cloak and hugging her to him with his other arm. He had

  pulled two bars completely out, but they were not

  adjacent. He had loosened several

  others at one end only and bent them down, but he

  had not yet made a hole large enough for an

  escape.

  "Need more light," he muttered, and kissed her

  again. "They've been starving you," he mumbled when

  they broke loose.

  "Not really. How did you get here?"

  "Walked in the gate. Followed them when they

  took you back to your cell. We weren't certain

  where you were being held, see?"

  "This is conjuration!"

  "The cloak is. It's a Dark Chamber

  secret, but the College has copied it. ...

  Lothaire stole one for us ... not really

  invisibility, just unimportance. You knew I was

  there and paid no attention."

  "I was sure I was seeing a man-at-arms."

  "It does that." He hugged her tighter.

  "I'd put it on you and send you out, but it

  doesn't work for smart people. Ah!"

  The light was brightening as the moon headed

  bravely for a wide expanse of black sea between

  cloud islands. Dog knelt to fumble through the

  cloak.

  "Got more tricks in here ... You're sure

  we're right over the Rivergate?"

  She nodded, then said, "Yes."

  "Going to send a signal ... Got a boat

  standing by, but the Yeomen may get here first.

  I'll lower you on the rope to the dock. Do

  whatever I say, no arguing. Ready?"

  "Yes. Oh, I love you!" She kissed

  him, but he cut it off.

  "And me you." He stepped up on the chair and

  reached out through the bars. He must have thrown something

  down to the dock, because a moment later a

  brilliant flash lit the towers overhead. A

  ball of white fire s
ailed up from the landing into the

  sky, brightening the entire Bastion before it faded and

  disappeared.

  Dog grabbed Sword from her hands, unsheathed

  it, and repeated, "Stand back!" Then he swung

  it against one of the bars he had bent down.

  Clang! Clang! Like a woodsman loping

  branches, he chopped iron, abusing that

  magnificent weapon, treating it like an ax.

  Clang! Clang! Clang! After the third

  blow there was a quieter ring as the bar broke off and

  hit the flagstones. But the racket must have been

  audible all over Grandon; and voices

  were raised now, candles flickering in windows,

  sounds of men running. Then a drum, rousing the

  Watch. Clang! Clang! Ring. Another

  bar fell.

  "There!" Panting, Dog dropped Sword and

  grabbed Malinda in both hands. He almost threw

  her up through the gap he had made. Voices high

  overhead showed they had been seen. She felt her

  dress tear on a jagged end, found a purchase,

  doubled over on the ladder to haul herself up, and

  Dog transferred his grip to her feet, pushing

  her. She scrambled onto the bars and rolled to the

  flat top of the outer wall, which was four or five

  feet thick. She turned to help Dog and a

  coil of rope was thrust in her face. Then

  Sword in its scabbard. Then Dog himself, who

  did not need help. Voices were shouting all

  around, the drum beating. She heard the hard

  thwack! of a crossbow, but could not tell where the

  quarrel went.

  "They're coming!" Dog said. "There, see?"

  Moonlight glimmered on a sail. Heeled

  over by the wind, a boat sped toward the landing

  stage, and it was the most beautiful thing she had ever

  seen. Thwack! again and now the clink! of the

  quarrel bouncing off stonework, much too close.

  "They're shooting at us!"

  "Let them," Dog said, looping rope around

  her, under her arms, knotting it. "Lucky to hit

  a tower in this light. Got you. Go!"

  Trusting him, she stepped backward off the edge

  and began walking down the wall. The rope cut

  into her ribs. It was hard to keep herself away from the

  rugged, abrasive stonework--she had not realized

  how weak she was. Unexpectedly her feet

  met air and she swung free, striking her shins

  against the capstone of the Rivergate arch. Then she

  spun, banging a shoulder against iron-studded

  timbers as Dog lowered her the rest of the way.

  She landed in a heap at the base of the gate. The

  rope went slack. She freed herself and jumped

  up.

  The landing stage was a stone shelf along the base

  of the wall. It was closed off at the ends by the

  protruding towers and could be reached only from the

  Rivergate or the river itself. The tide was in,

  so waves slapped foul-smelling spray up

  onto the paving.

  Time had stopped. The boat was coming, but

  painfully slowly. It had seemed much

  closer when viewed from above. She could see

  faces, though, and light flashing off steel.

  Dog was visible against the clouds, climbing over

  the top of the wall, starting to work his way down the

  rope. Crossbows sang their death song,

  thwack! thwack! and the quarrels replied from the

  stones: clang! clang! Fortunately

  crossbows took time to reload. The archers were up

  in the towers, shooting, she supposed, at Dog.

  The great Rivergate itself was still closed but even as

  she stood up, a smaller postern beside it swung

  open and a Yeoman ducked through and straightened up.

  Moonlight flashed on the spike and blade of his

  pike. She turned to flee on legs that suddenly

  felt like reeds. A quarrel rang off flags

  at her feet.

  She came to the end of the quay, right under her

  cell, and there was nowhere left to go. She turned

  at bay. A dozen Yeomen had emerged now, and the

  leaders were on her already. A hand grabbed her arm.

  She tried to claw at the man's face and that

  wrist was seized, also, and twisted up behind her

  back.

  "Take the bitch back to her kennel!"

  They pushed her forward so she almost fell. That

  seemed like a good idea, so she let herself go

  limp, and as a result dropped to her knees.

  She screamed and went on screaming. She tried

  to kick, without much success.

  "Behave, bitch!" one said. The rest of the

  troop arrived and got in the way. The two

  holding her hauled her upright, took her by the

  arms, and began to run her back toward the gate.

  She screamed, yelled, tried in vain to struggle,

  but they kept her moving. Despite all her

  efforts, she was too weak even to slow them down.

  The boat caught an eddy of wind off the

  Bastion. The sail went limp, then rippled.

  Voices cursed. It rolled, momentarily

  helpless. Slowly it regained way, but it was not

  coming fast enough for the men on board to save her. Once

  she was through the postern, she would be lost. She was

  too weak; they were too many. They were at the gate.

  Feet stumbled on the unneeded coils of rope.

  She looked up. Dog had stopped halfway

  and had somehow turned over, so that he was looking

  down at her and the Yeomen. He had his feet against

  the wall and the rope over one shoulder; he was

  stretched out from the stonework like some bizarre

  gargoyle. As the two men holding her were

  about to push her in through the postern, he howled at the

  top of his lungs and let go. It was deliberate

  --he threw himself down on them. Several of the men

  were hurled to the ground, including one who was gripping

  her. She went with them in a tangle of limbs and

  bodies and pikes. A couple were flung into the

  river. There was shouting, screaming, confusion. As the

  boat swept in, a dozen swordsmen leapt

  across the gap, some falling on the stones, two in the

  water, the rest landing on their feet. Battle was

  joined--but briefly, because a Yeoman against a

  Blade was a very unequal struggle and the

  newcomers had the advantage of numbers.

  Malinda was not interested. She was on the ground,

  tending to Dog. Blood was jetting from his chest, a

  black fountain in the moonlight. His eyes were

  wide, stark white.

  "They're here!" she said. "You've saved me

  ... Dog? Dog?"

  He tried to speak and made horrible grating

  noises.

  "What?"

  It sounded like, "Told you ..." but more blood

  gushed from his mouth and the sentence was never finished. It

  was probably, "Told you I would die for you."

  "Come quickly, my lady!" Audley shouted.

  "Oak, Fury, get him aboard--"

  "No!" Malinda screamed. "No! I will not

  allow this."

  The invoked are in no wise to be trusted and

  assuredly will seek to bend the vaticinators to their

/>   purpose, for they hold firm to the desires they

  held at their dissolution, yet know not the gentler

  prospects of the living, viz., not pity, love,

  nor hope.

  ALBERINO VERIANO, INVOCATION OF

  THE DEAD

  Judging by its smell, the boat's normal

  business was something involving fish. Caught in the

  lee of the Bastion walls, crammed to the

  gunwales with the living and the dead, it responded

  reluctantly to its rudder, tipped dangerously

  as it scraped along the tower's masonry, and

  took several more hits from quarrels before it broke

  free to open water. After that it was out of danger.

  Shivering, Malinda crouched on the

  boards with Dog a dead weight in her arms and his

  lifeblood cold all over her. No tears, not

  yet. Perhaps never. This could not be true. He must

  not be dead. It was some horrible illusion, some

  torture Horatio Lambskin had dreamed up.

  "We must go to an elementary quickly," she said.

  "Dog needs healing."

  Audley beside her: "He's dead, my lady."

  "He must not be!"

  "He fell on pikes, Your Grace! It

  was quick. But he is dead."

  "No!"

  He sighed and looked up at the faces gathered

  around. "What's the tally, other than Dog?"

  Men's voices answered from the dark.

  "Bullwhip."

  "Reynard."

  "Victor's missing. Could he swim?"

  "Lothaire took a bolt through the gut, needs

  healing soon."

  "Brock?" Audley said. "You bring those

  conjured bandages?" "Be all right," said a shaky

  whisper.

  "Mercadier and Alandale need healing too."

  "Piers has concussion, can't be sure how

  bad."

  "Jongleur's wrist is broken."

  "Just sprained," said another voice nearby.

  "Nothing serious."

  Then others still: "And a dozen Yeomen!"

  "I only counted eight."

  "Not enough of the bastards, anyway!"

  More chorused agreement.

  The words were slow to line up and make sense

  to her. So many men dead or injured. Just to rescue

  her. And many of the enemy, who had only been

  obeying orders. She struggled to free herself of

  Dog's dead weight; willing hands helped her.

  They sat her on a thwart, wrapped her in two

  blankets, and gave her a flask of strong wine

  to drink. The boat rocked on over the dark

  waves. The moon had gone, but the helmsman

  seemed to know where he was headed.

  "Thank you." It was hard to talk, her teeth

  kept wanting to chatter. "I am very, very grateful