No Present Like Time (42 page)

Gio’s rabble now packed the lower half of the main street, blocking the wide road as they progressed down the slope toward the harbor. Gio walked ahead of them with his rapier drawn. His column was twice the size of Mist’s tight ranks.

Mist’s fyrd was marching up the street from the
Stormy Petrel.
The boatswains were drumming; their beats got louder as I dropped height and passed over them. I spotted Mist leading by Wrenn’s side; she looked up and raised her hand. She had tied her shawl a round her waist, revealing a cuirass and backplate. Wrenn wasn’t wearing armor; he was in his fyrd fatigues. He was looking for Gio, dissatisfied with their disputable duel in the forest. He was determined to beat Gio on equal terms and leave no doubt that he deserved to be immortal.

Mist was surrounded on all sides by crossbowmen and a bodyguard of her strongest sailors, all in half-armor. After that came one hundred and fifty Awndyn men carrying halberds and spears; no space to wield pikes. They wore dark green brigandines; their helmets shone like globular mirrors.

As I watched, the rear of Ata’s column stopped at the quay and the rest separated and continued up the street. She had left about fifty men, a fyrd lamai unit, to protect
Stormy Petrel
, moored a hundred meters behind Gio’s ships. From
Petrel
’s forecastle and poop deck, archers looked out. Both her gangplanks were down but colored shields lined her railings. The longbowmen were tense, watching the rebel defectors who ran, laden with loot, out of the ends of the parallel streets. They raced up the
Pavonine
’s gangway to a deck that seethed with drawn weapons; white faces ugly with fear stared up at me. They had turned pirate; they were prepared to defend their carrack to the death.

W
hen Gio’s rabble caught sight of Mist’s vanguard, rebels in ones and twos began to melt away from his column, down the alleys and into the streets of the grid. They turned left and right along the intersecting roads like counters in a board game. I decided that their movements were too random to be tactical, even before I saw them start smashing shop shutters and grabbing whatever was inside.

Mist’s fyrd and Gio’s horde stopped with twenty meters between them. There was a second’s silence in which Gio, shield on his arm, walked forward of his line and scanned the people opposing him, looking for Wrenn.

The Awndyn Fyrd captain called, “Crossbowmen! Span. Latch. Loose!” They shot straight into the rebel front at short range, aiming at the fencing masters, knowing they were the most dangerous. The metal Insect-killing bolts cut past shop canopies and statues, burying themselves in men’s faces, chests and bellies. I saw black bolt points project from their backs.

The crossbowmen’s partners stepped forward with a shout, raised and slammed their green and white shields into a wall, hustling into position across the road. Behind the shields, the crossbowmen began to reload.

Gio’s men waited in horror for the next barrage. Heads bobbed up and down as some men split off down the side streets but most were trapped in the center.

The shields were lowered, crossbows leveled. “Latch! Loose!” Another barrage flew at Gio’s front line. The last of the fencing masters fell, lifeless or mortally wounded. Gio peered from behind his shield; swung his arm. “Forward! Break the wall! Bear down the shields!”

A wave of three hundred men together started running. The front of the column seemed to flake off, as faster and faster they closed the gap. They jumped high, crashed into the shields at full tilt, hitting them with their shoulders and forcing them down. Their swords thrust over the tops, into the necks and faces of the bearers.

The crossbowmen slung their bows into holsters on their backs, drew their swords and surged forward against the rebels. The confused mass began to shove up and down the street.

I saw that Ata’s spearmen were trapped toward the rear of her host. Surely that was a mistake—wouldn’t they be better than the crossbows? Crossbowmen had served Ata well five years ago; now she was relying on them too much. The shield wall was perfect but it should be backed by spears. The fyrd are simply following their usual procedure: Insect-fighting tactics. They’re wrong but even Ata hasn’t noticed the discrepancy.

Both the fyrd and the insurgents tried to outflank each other. From above I watched the side streets filling. As the melee widened, the columns in the boulevard shortened, with Wrenn and Gio in the exact center.

I called to the fyrd who were exploring the alleys, and led them down the right routes to ambush the rebels, who were more used to fighting in side streets. I landed and directed a group; we surprised five of Gio’s men before they could rejoin the main column, and killed them all.

I returned to the air, where I could easily distinguish Mist’s bodyguards. I occasionally glimpsed her face but she no longer had time to look up at me. The press was so intense, she held her curved Wrought sword with the convex arc uppermost to thrust rather than slice. Her voice carried—she screamed commands to surround Gio and disarm him. Whenever he could, Gio yelled at his rebels to close in on Mist.

I
n Lowespass, women soldiers have always successfully fought Insects. The culls follow procedures; the women help each other and men sometimes back them up. The difference in strength was not important when six or seven infantry recruits can tackle an Insect together, or women can join the cavalry and ride destriers. But in this crush they were fighting one-on-one against men, and I gravely feared for them.

Capharnai families peeked from the windows of their houses above the shops all along the street. They were stranded in their homes, witnessing a scene they couldn’t hope to understand. They saw the heads of men wrestling and stabbing along the center line, and behind them, filling the street above and below, a pack of foreigners in strange clothes facing each other, putting pressure on the breathless crush. The strangers were so eager to push forward to the fight that they trampled dead bodies. At the end of the street, flames piled up from the civic center and smoke boiled like spit in lamp oil. The Capharnai neighbors looked helpless, not knowing what to do. I shouted, “Stay inside! Don’t get involved—they fight each other, not Trisians!”

They saw their own shops vandalized below them. Their faces disappeared from the windows as they began barricading themselves into their upper rooms.

I
glanced back; the library was now a roofless shell, the floors were falling through and just the façade was left. Flames leapt in the windows surrounded by blackened stonework—it looked like an animated skeleton.

Coruscating sparks and dull fragile ash dropped on us. I beat my wings to dislodge flakes from the feathers, thinking: the town is being covered in burned knowledge.

G
io was looking for Wrenn, carving his own men aside. I landed on the nearest roof to watch, searching the alleys below for a crossbow to pick up. Gio, wild-eyed, saw Mist’s bodyguards and Wrenn beside them in an area of calm because no fighter would engage with him.

Gio raised his rapier and saluted. “Well, look if it isn’t the
novice.
”

“Good morning,” smiled Wrenn.

Gio snarled, “You could have chosen better last words.”

First-blood fencing in the amphitheater was just an entertainment; no rules apply in a duel to the death. They watched each other with cool anticipation; Capharnaum didn’t exist for them. They were in a world of two people, challenger and challenged.

There are no words in that world. I know, because I have been there.

Gio swept his rapier down in the rage cut. “You stole my name,” he said. “I’ll be Serein again. I am good enough. I Challenge you, Serein Wrenn.”

Wrenn leveled his blade. “Just run onto this and save me the effort.”

I took off and climbed above them through the deafening battle’s noise.

They dropped the pretense of faking other styles to conceal their own. They flew at each other eager for blood. Gio rushed to chop at Wrenn; at the same time a bystander tried to catch him but Wrenn smashed his teeth with the rapier pommel.

Wrenn lunged at Gio, reprised. Gio swiped it aside with a blow that would have shattered a lesser blade than the 1969 Sword. I thought: How long can they keep this up? But I knew the answer—at least four hours.

Gio pointed his rapier, its lanyard loose around his wrist. He lunged to Wrenn’s dagger side. Wrenn swept his rapier across—clash!—disengaged and cut down aiming for the sensitive bone of Gio’s shin.

Gio jumped on the spot then attacked. Wrenn parried, riposted, enveloped Gio’s blade in quatre, made as if to beat him on the arm and tried to stab him in the forehead. Gio spun away in a move that took me two years to learn. His thigh boots slipped on the pavement. He was trying to predict Wrenn’s actions four or five moves in advance.

In a split second Wrenn slid his rapier tip through Gio’s swept hilt, sliced the skin off his knuckles, withdrew the blade. Gio’s grip became slippery on the freely running blood. He hid his sword hand with his dagger, so Wrenn couldn’t see to predict the direction of the next blow.

Their motions were wide; their heads ducked to avoid being cut in the eyes, watching with the faster speed of their peripheral vision. Their flexed sword arms were close to the body for strength. They hacked at the nearest enemies whenever they had a chance and the melee backed away from them, leaving them in a clear space. The fighting was spreading up and down the street and fragmenting. Tussling groups of men dispersed down the side alleys. The densest part of the fighting eddied around Ata’s bodyguard; spearmen behind, rebels ahead. Five sailors linked arms, trying to preserve a space around her so she could breathe.

I’m doing no good here, entranced by the duel. I need a firebrand to drop on Gio.

I flew back to find Lightning. It was easy, because he was the only person in Fourlands clothes walking down the middle of the broad street. Behind him, the road rose up the hillside backed by the incredible blaze. He was oblivious to the Capharnai around him, with their crying children, bucket chains and packs of belongings. He sniped unerringly at the small groups of rebels-turned-pirates who were all busy with different intents. Some scavenged like wolves; a man pulled down a gold street-lamp bracket; two lechers were held at bay by a Trisian man defending his daughter.

Lightning limped on his left side, moving slowly. Conserving his energy, he held his mighty bow horizontally with the arrow on top, drawing back the heel of his hand to fit in the hollow of his cheek. He used short-distance arrows, color-coded with white flights, and let fly at the looters. Anyone who touched a shop shutter or ran from a house with an armful of gold was sent reeling with an arrow through bicep or thigh.

I glided over and called. I landed and ran to a halt beside him. “Gio and Wrenn are dueling! Ata’s caught in the crush—we have to help her.”

I drew my sword and we continued downhill toward the rotunda at the road’s midpoint. Lightning never missed a shot, counting under his breath, “Fifty-five. Fifty-four. Three…Two…”

I scanned the windows for any movement that might end with a knife in my back. Beyond the forum we passed a precinct of narrow streets. We looked down the nearest and saw a gang of rebels heaving at a solid door. The first was a weasly man with baggy, low-crotched jeans. He had his shoulder to the cracking panels and the others all added their weight. They noticed Lightning and me but renewed their assault on the building. Inside, women were screaming in Trisian so rapid and full of dialect I couldn’t understand. From the first-floor window an elegant lady with ringleted hair, a white chiton dress and red nails hurled terracotta dishes down on the besiegers. They angled their arms over their heads and kept pushing.

“Hey!” yelled Lightning. “Away from that door! Jant, what are they shouting? What is this place?”

I read a tiny inscription on a stone block set into the wall:
Salema’s Imbroglio.

“It’s an imbroglio; in Trisian, I mean. A brothel.”

The Archer raised his eyebrows. “I see. Then we must save the honor of these ladies—regardless of whether they have any honor or no.” He loosed at the thin-faced Awian. The arrow rammed straight through the man’s leg and into the wood. Its shaft made a high-pitched crunch of gristle, dimpling his jeans’ fabric into his knee, locking it out straight. He tried to step forward but was fastened to the door. He screamed and hammered his fists and free leg against it.

“Are you all right?” said his friend, being slow on the uptake.

He screamed, “Pull it out!”

“You can’t, it’s barbed.” Lightning spanned his bow. “And if you try, I’ll kill you both.”

The gang sloped off, then broke up and ran toward the forum. Lightning called to the whores, “I promise you’ll come to no harm.”

“I’m sorry,” the would-be rapist pleaded, leaning forward with both hands over his knee.

“You will be,” Lightning commented, without moving the arrow trained on him.

“Saker, what are you doing?” I said, disturbed by this change.

The rapist’s eyes bulged. His left leg kicked, shoe sole scraping the step. He stuttered, “No, no! I’ll—”

“You’ll do what, exactly?” Lightning said, driven to fury by the man’s Donaise accent. He loosed the arrow; it pinned the rapist’s left leg to a panel. It met some resistance at the kneecap but drove easily between the articulated surfaces of the joint behind and split the wood. Its arrowhead was a shiny stud in his flattened and mushy knee.

Lightning selected another arrow. “My card. Seeing as you need reminding who we are.” He shot again, pinning the man’s right elbow to the door. A wedge of broken bone clicked away from the metal point pushing past it.