Kushiel's Scion

"Not just us." Eamonn shook his head. "Every man of age with a sword and a horse, Luccan or no. And if you don't move and hop to it, he's like to confiscate the Bastard and assign him to someone who will."



"Like to see him try," I muttered, but I moved with alacrity.



We reported for duty in the central square of Lucca, along with a score of others. We assembled in two lines, while Gallus Tadius rode slowly back and forth, surveying us. Since earlier today, he had obtained armor; a full corselet, vambraces, and greaves. It was very fine and a little outdated, and I wondered if it had been his own. The gilded steel glinted in the fading light.



Everyone else bore a mishmash of armaments; swords, spears, hunting bows. Some carried bucklers slung over their backs. There were padded gambesons and chainmail shirts, and one lad with a helmet the size of a bucket, riding low on his brow. But all of them were armed, one way or another, and all were mounted. Several of their mounts bore unmistakeable harness marks on their hides, and at least one, I was sure, was a plowhorse, placid and gentle, with feathered fetlocks and hooves the size of dinner plates.



That was the one the boy with the bucket-helm rode.



Elua, but he looked young.



"Greetings, warriors," Gallus Tadius called. "Welcome to the Red Scourge!" He paused to acknowledge the resulting cheer. "Captain Arturo, give them their badges."



The captain of the Luccan city guard nodded to a lieutenant. It was the rosy-cheeked lad from before, the one Gallus had struck outside the temple. He looked different, proud and somber, despite the down on his upper lip and the yellowing bruise on his cheek. He paced along the lines, handing out scraps of crimson cloth as though bestowing a grave honor.



Eamonn and I watched others lash them about their upper arms and followed suit.



"Right!" Gallus said crisply. "You're to divide into pairs and ride along the inner walls. I want a constant circuit, no more than a few minutes between each pair. We're mounting guards atop the wall at every tree. Not my choice of crenellation, but we might as well use 'em. You will check in with each and every guard. Is that understood?"



We agreed that it was.



"Good." He leaned over and spat on the ground. "Aught's amiss, you ride like hellfire. One to the gatehouse to alert Captain Arturo, and one to find me. Understood?"



We agreed, again, that it was.



"Good." He eyed the sky. Sunset's last afterglow was vanishing and a pale half-moon hung on the rise. Whatever warmth the day had held was vanishing, and autumn's chill was setting in with the night. "Dare-say you'll make do without torches tonight. Get used to it. We'll make do without wherever we can."



On his order, we paired off. Gallus Tadius gave us the night's password and countersign we were to use with the guards and began ordering us to leave, one pair at a time. He sat astride his horse, motionless, and each rider saluted as they passed him. When Eamonn and I took our turn, he gave us both a long, hard stare.



"Behave yourselves, my princelings," he said. "Whoever you may be outside these walls, so long as you're inside them, you're under my command. As far as I'm concerned, we're all Luccan here. Understood?"



"Aye, sir!" We both saluted.



He jerked his chin. "Go on."



Through the deepening twilight, Eamonn and I rode toward the outskirts of the city. It was disconcerting. I was barely familiar with Lucca, and the streets looked less familiar than ever in the purple dusk. No one was about. We passed the closed doors and shuttered windows of shops and inns. Here and there, in townhouses, we could see a spark of lamplight, but already people were hoarding their stores as Gallus had ordered.



We reached the city wall, and beneath its looming shadow began to ride in a slow circuit around the inside perimeter of Lucca.



Gallus Tadius had been busy. At every substantial oak tree, there was a sentry posted. I craned my head at the first one, but I could see nothing save the vague silhouette of branches and leaves against the dusk.



"Mundus," I called.



"Manes," came the soft reply. "All quiet."



We rode onward.



"Gallus Tadius has an odd sense of humor for a dead man," Eamonn remarked. My stomach rumbled in answer. "Have you eaten since this morning?" he asked. When I shook my head, he rummaged in his saddlebag and handed me a meat pastry pie in greasy cloth. "Here. Filched from the kitchen."



"My thanks," I said gratefully.



Eamonn shrugged. "Thank Brigitta. It was her idea."



I ate one-handed, juices dripping down my chin. "She's…" I swallowed. "You're very fond of her, aren't you?"



"Aye." Eamonn glanced at me. "Does it bother you?"



"Because she's Skaldi?" I asked.



He shrugged. "All of it."



I thought about it as I finished my pie and Eamonn exchanged password and countersign with the next sentry. All was still quiet atop the walls of Lucca. "A little," I said honestly. "Not because she's Skaldi. In the zenana, there was a young man, Erich… did I tell you about him?"



Eamonn nodded. "At the Midwinter Masque. Remember?"



It seemed like a thousand years ago that we had attended the Queen's fete, dressed as Skaldic deities, reveling amid all the glittering panoply. I remembered Eamonn attired as Donar the thunder-god, dancing so carefully with Alais. And I… I had danced with Sidonie, and we had quarreled. That was the night I'd sworn fealty to her on a perverse whim.



"I remember," I said.



"It seems like a long time ago," Eamonn said softly. "And another world."



"It was." I tucked the grease-stained cloth in my belt. "Eamonn, I'm happy for you, truly. And yes, a little bit envious, and a bit jealous, too. It had naught to do with Brigitta. I miss you, that's all."



"I'm right here," he said.



"I know," I said, "But…"



"I know." He sighed. "It's different, it's all different. Why can't things be simple?"



I opened my mouth to reply. Up ahead, in the darkness, we heard shouting and splashing. Eamonn and I glanced at one another and set heels to our horses, racing toward the sound.



It was coming from the point along the wall where the aqueduct that fed the moat entered into the city, passing through a pair of sluice gates beneath the wall itself. The two riders ahead of us had dismounted and plunged into the canal. There was a good deal of splashing and grunting, but it was too dark to make out why.



"Hey!" a voice shouted from above. "Mundus!"



"Manes!" I squinted at the sentry-tree. "What's happening?"



There was scraping sound of a flint striker and a flurry of sparks atop the wall. A pitch-soaked torch kindled and I saw the sentry who held it, pointing. "Intruder. I saw him slip into the moat."



By the light of his torch, I could make out the dim sight of three figures struggling in the water. Whoever the intruder was, he was putting up a hell of a fight. Uttering a curse, I dismounted, unfastened my cloak, and jumped in to aid my fellow guards.



The water was only chest-deep, but it was cold and dank. In a heartbeat, I was soaked and chilled to the bone. The intruder wasn't a big man, but he was slippery as a fish and deceptively strong. One of the other guards gave up the moment I entered and flung himself over the edge of the canal, panting for breath.



"Get behind him!" the other guard gasped.



I waded with difficulty through the deep water. The guard made a move to grapple with the intruder, and I saw the intruder's arm rise, dripping, above the surface of the water. Distant torchlight struck a faint gleam from the dagger in his hand.



There was no time to think, so I didn't. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed his shoulders and hauled him backward. He wasn't expecting it. Off balance, he fell atop me and both of us plunged beneath the cold, dark waters. Before he could struggle, I wrapped my arms and legs around him in a death-lock. Entwined, we sank to the bottom of the canal.



He did struggle, then; he thrashed like a gaffed fish. But I'd learned to wrestle in Siovale, and I had a good grip on him.



And I was stubborn.



I held him until the air began to burn in my lungs, and he went limp. Guessing it for a trick, I relaxed my grip a cautious degree. When he began thrashing anew, I tightened it and squeezed him hard, shifting my arms so that my doubled fists dug into his belly and jerking upward. This time, a stream of bubbles issued from his lips. I'd nearly drowned once. I knew how it felt.



I squeezed him until no more bubbles came.



The second time he went limp, I gauged it was real and shoved him toward the surface. My limbs were cold and leaden, my lungs ached, and I barely had the strength to lever myself upright. I did, though, sputtering and coughing. That first gulp of air, drawn through a throat still bruised by Gallus Tadius' ire, was as sweet as anything I'd ever tasted.



Our intruder floated like a sodden log.



Comfortable and dry, Eamonn leaned over the canal and caught a fold of the man's tunic. "Nice work, Imri," he said cheerfully, tugging him over to the edge and hoisting him out of the canal with annoying ease. "Let's see what you've caught."



At that point, the only thing I cared about was getting out of the water. I dragged myself onto the cobblestones and sat in a puddle of spreading wetness, breathing hard, with my arms propped on my knees.



Eamonn gave our captive a helpful shake. The man groaned, rolled onto his side, and spewed out a considerable volume of canal water. His hair was plastered to his face. His dagger was long gone, and he wore only a tunic of rough homespun; not even sandals on his bare feet. Already he was beginning to shiver in the cold air. Whoever he was, he looked miserable.



"Poor bastard," I murmured.



Over at the wall, our fellow guards shouted back and forth with the sentry. I watched him lower a rope ladder and climb down awkwardly, the flaming torch held in one hand. Once he descended, all three approached, the torch bobbing. It threw everything into high relief, casting stark shadows.



"So who is he?" the sentry asked.



Squatting behind the intruder, Eamonn hauled him upright and yanked on his lank, dripping hair, angling his face so that the torchlight fell upon it.



Canis.



All I can say is that it was a mercy that I was half-drowned, since no one thought anything of my choked gasp and subsequent coughing fit. Canis' gaze flickered toward me; briefly, so briefly. He gave his head an infinitesimal shake.



"Who are you?" one of the guards demanded. "Are you with Valpetra? Are you a spy? What do you want?"



What followed was a pantomime. Canis shook his head in vigorous denial, water spraying. He opened his mouth and pointed to it, shook his head again. He placed both hands over his ears and shook his head.



"A deaf-mute," the guard said in disgust.



Oh, he was good.



By this time, a small audience had gathered. Two other sets of riders had arrived. All of them watched, bemused, as Canis, half-clad and shivering, went through an elaborate set of gesticulations, miming his actions. He pointed to where his village lay outside the wall, he depicted Valpetra's soldiers arriving, sweeping through the village with sword and spear, laying claim to all it held. He mimed himself quaking with fear, his eyes stretched wide. He pointed to the sluice gates and showed, with his hands, how he had dismantled them underwater.



When he had finished, I was half-convinced.



"Ah, the poor dumb bastard!" The sentry took control of the situation. As the only person present who'd been a member of Lucca's city guard prior to nightfall, I supposed he was entitled. "Take him to the gatehouse," he said, nodding to the first pair of guards. "Let Captain Arturo decide what to do with him. The rest of you, resume patrol."



I stood up, my boots squelching. "All of us?"



He gave me a wary look. "Did Gall us Tadius order otherwise?"



I glanced at my fellow conscripts. The boy in the bucket-sized helmet was there atop his plowhorse, looking scared despite the scrap of red cloth tied boldly about his upper arm. If the lemures of the Red Scourge were afoot—and I believed they were—they were not finding so consistent or congenial a host as their commander. I sighed, catching the Bastard's reins and setting one foot in the stirrup. "Right." It was a half-conscious echo of Gallus Tadius. I swung myself astride, plopping wetly into the saddle. "Patrol."



Eamonn handed me my cloak without comment. At least it was dry. I settled it over my shoulders and huddled inside it as we resumed our circuit of the city walls. Within a few minutes, an acrid funk of wet wool surrounded me.



We rode for hours. I noted the landmarks, and reckoned that it took almost an hour to make a complete circuit of the city. I had learned, in Saba, how to gauge the passage of the stars across the night sky. Although I'm no horologist, I've always had a good sense of time ever since then.



We made nine circuits that night.



By the fifth, I was sore. It was much like keeping Elua's vigil on the Longest Night. The air was cold and I was soaked. My muscles tensed and fought one another as I shivered until I ached as with an ague. I thought about the boy in the bucket-helmet, and I thought about Joscelin, his profile silhouetted against the winter stars. I kept riding, and the Bastard paced along the walls, tireless and steady. From time to time, I blew on my fingers and warmed my hands on his spotted hide.



"Damn, that's a fine horse," Eamonn muttered.



I summoned a weary smile. "You want a rematch?"



He eyed me. "You know, I don't fancy it. You're a little mad, you."



By the eighth circuit, I was beyond sore. Everywhere my sodden clothing rubbed me, my skin felt raw. Circuit after circuit, sentry after sentry. Mundus manes, mundus manes. All was quiet, and if I never heard the words again, it would be too soon.