Part 37 (1/2)
”Nothing urgent, sir.”
”Good. Put it somewhere and come with me, then.”
Fitz saluted again, set the papers on a broken end table that Marcus had been using as a desk, and fell into step behind his superior.
”May I ask,” the lieutenant said as Marcus led him through the mazelike corridors of the Palace, ”where we're going?”
”We're going to see the colonel,” Marcus said.
”Ah.” His tone didn't indicate what he thought of the idea.
Marcus struggled to keep hold of the mood he'd had on waking. Jen had been right. Whether the colonel was sulking or not, there were questions that needed to be answered. He tried not to picture Ja.n.u.s' face, gray eyes sharp with irritation, an eyebrow raised in sarcasm. ”Really, Captain? Well, if you're not capable of attending to such matters yourself . . .”
He shook himself mentally, looked back to make sure that Fitz was still there to provide moral support, and turned down the last corridor that led to the suite of rooms the colonel had claimed for himself. Somewhat to his surprise, the lieutenant stopped in his tracks.
”Something wrong, Fitz?”
Fitz shook his head. ”I'm not sure, sir. But the colonel requested a pair of guards for this corridor, and I'm fairly certain I added the post to the duty roster.”
”Which company would have it today?” Marcus said. Fitz seemed to keep the entire schedule of the First Battalion in his head, writing it down only for the benefit of mere mortals.
”Davis', sir.”
”That explains it,” Marcus said darkly. ”Remind me when we get back to have a word with him.”
”Yessir.”
Marcus continued down the corridor, his good mood draining away. They were deep in the interior of the Palace, and apart from occasional skylights, illumination was provided by braziers of burning candles in discreet alcoves. It was probably his imagination telling him they were getting farther apart as he approached the colonel's door, as though he were descending into a realm of shadows.
Or possibly not. Just up the corridor from the entrance to Ja.n.u.s' suite, one of the braziers had fallen over. The candles had drooled wax all over the flagstones before guttering out, leaving that section of the corridor in semidarkness.
”Sir,” Fitz said urgently, ”something is definitely wrong. I know there should be guards on the colonel's door.”
”You're right.” Marcus' skin started to crawl, and he let one hand drift to the hilt of his sword. ”Maybe he's gone off somewhere and taken the guards with him?”
”Possibly-” Fitz sniffed the air and pointed. ”Over there!”
They hurried past the colonel's door. The corridor beyond was disused and mostly in darkness, but the huddled shape Fitz had spotted was wearing Vordanai blue.
”Saints and martyrs,” Marcus said, pulling up short. The sentry lay in a boneless heap against the wall, blood leaking from his ear and the back of his skull to pool on the floor underneath him. A spray of dark red stained the wall itself, as though he'd been slammed against it with great force. His musket lay forgotten nearby.
Fitz knelt, but only briefly. ”He's dead, sir.”
”I can see that,” Marcus said, forcing his mind to work. ”I want you to run to the barracks and collect as many men as you can round up in five minutes, then come back here. Understand?”
”Yes, sir, but-”
”I'll check on the colonel.” Marcus drew his sword. ”Go!”
a a a The door to the colonel's rooms was slightly ajar, and something metal glinted in the gap. It took Marcus a moment to recognize it as the bolt, complete with fitting, torn out of the rock wall.
What the h.e.l.l is going on? Marcus prodded the door with a boot and kept his sword in front of him. The door opened into the suite's anteroom, which Ja.n.u.s used as an office, and more doors let off into a dining room, bedroom, and servant's quarters. The office was dominated by a big, flimsy table, which had been cracked in half by the impact of another body. This sentry's face was contorted and black with the agony of strangulation, and his throat had gone a dark bruised purple.
Marcus took a deep breath, the point of his sword twitching. He considered calling out, but if the a.s.sa.s.sins-and what else could they be?-were still in the suite, he'd only be warning them. And if they've done their work and gone? It seemed unthinkable, but his mouth went dry.
The door to the bedchamber was half open. Marcus padded toward it as quietly as he could, and stopped abruptly at the sound of voices from within. The first, to his relief, was Ja.n.u.s'.
”I had been expecting-something like this,” the colonel said in Khandarai. A young man answered, his tone pleasantly menacing.
”You must be a fool, then, to walk so willingly to your death.”
”Your mother is the fool, if she thinks that killing me will change anything.”
Marcus resumed his quiet advance. Through the gap between door and doorframe, he made out a flash of blue uniform that was probably Ja.n.u.s at the back of the room.
”You understand nothing. The latest fool in a long line of fools who thought us easy plunder, and found out different.”
”Times have changed. The Redeemers have-”
”They have changed nothing. They wash in, and wash out again, like waves on a beach. It is of no importance. Mother remains.”
”The Last Duke does not agree. Neither, I suspect, does the Pontifex of the Black.”
”Gahj-rahksa-ahn.” Marcus didn't understand the word, but the Khandarai spat it as though it tasted foul. ”If you are the best he can muster, his order has fallen low indeed.”
There was a footstep, and Marcus' sliver of vision was eclipsed by someone in brown moving between him and Ja.n.u.s. It was the best chance he was likely to get, and Marcus had not survived five years in Khandar by being chivalrous. He kicked the door out of the way and dropped into a lunge that would have made his old fencing master proud. The sword went in just between the young man's shoulders- Or should have. As Marcus started to move, the stranger twisted in place, impossibly fast. Marcus got a glimpse of bald head and a thin, mirthless grin. One of the man's hands came up, viper-fast, and the edge of his palm struck the flat of Marcus' sword a moment before impact. There was a sharp, wild ring of steel on stone. The blade had been neatly severed a third of the way down its length, and the shorn-off end slammed against the wall so hard it raised sparks. It bounced like a leaping salmon and pinwheeled across the room while Marcus stared incredulously at the broken fragment protruding from the hilt.
His eyes were still trying desperately not to believe what they'd just seen, but the rest of his body had enough sense to send him reeling backward as the stranger's hand came around again, a lazy backhand blow that whistled through the air with the force of a cannonball. Marcus scrambled away, searching for his balance, and came up against the broken table in the main room. The stranger blurred in front of him, and only another wild dive to the side kept Marcus out of his path. With a crack like a gunshot, one end of the table exploded in a shower of splinters.
Marcus ended up on the floor, rolling until he b.u.mped into a bedraggled sofa. He'd lost the remnant of his sword, and spent a moment scrabbling for his belt knife, but the Khandarai was on him before he could draw it. Marcus rolled again as the man came at him, but this time the stranger antic.i.p.ated the move, and Marcus fetched up against his suddenly interposed foot.
”Good-bye, raschem,” the man mouthed. But before Marcus even had time to flinch, the a.s.sa.s.sin was gone, twisting away faster than the eye could follow. Marcus saw the glitter of steel overhead, and then heard another tremendous impact, as though a battering ram had crashed home.
Adrenaline drove him to his knees, though he was still desperately fighting for breath. Ja.n.u.s was in the anteroom, a thin-bladed sword in hand, and it was his attack the stranger had been forced to avoid. The Khandarai's riposte had been intended to plaster the colonel against the doorframe, but Ja.n.u.s had ducked away, and the punch had hit home hard enough to crack the ancient sandstone. Ja.n.u.s' sword flicked out as he moved, scoring a line on his opponent's flank that cut through the Khandarai's s.h.i.+rt and left a bright crimson stain.
At least he bleeds. Marcus struggled to his feet as the stranger rounded on Ja.n.u.s, warier now. The Khandarai tried to swat the colonel's blade aside, as he had Marcus', but Ja.n.u.s kept his nimbler weapon just out of reach and circled the tip around to pink his adversary's sleeve. After the third try, this seemed to enrage the Khandarai, who picked up a nearby chair and hurled it like a handball. Ja.n.u.s twisted out of the way, and then had to dive for his life as the a.s.sa.s.sin came bulling in after the missile.
Marcus cast about, looking for a weapon. The best he could come up with was an ornamental lamp, and he was just reaching for it when someone whispered in his ear.
”Sir. Perhaps these would serve?”
Marcus glanced over his shoulder to see Augustin, Ja.n.u.s' aged manservant, crouched beside him, a pistol in each hand. They were fancy guns, all oiled wood and silver chasing, but, important to Marcus' mind, they were c.o.c.ked and loaded. Marcus grabbed them without a word.
”Careful, sir,” Augustin said. ”Hair trigger.”
Marcus was already spinning away, a gun in each hand. Ja.n.u.s had bought himself a few moments by ducking under the damaged table, but the stranger heaved it aside like a cheap toy. Marcus aimed carefully as the Khandarai stalked forward, and even managed a smile.
”Good-bye, demon,” he said, but the words were drowned under the blast of the pistol's report, mind-shatteringly loud in the enclosed s.p.a.ce.
The Khandarai spun as though he'd been punched in the shoulder and staggered a step. Marcus dropped one pistol and switched the other to his right hand, then let his mouth fall open in naked disbelief. The a.s.sa.s.sin raised one hand, blood dripping slowly from his palm. When he opened his fingers, Marcus heard the soft ping of a pistol ball bouncing off the stone floor.