“Excellent, Pria,” he said with an oily smile. “Let’s get what we came for.”
* * *
Three bruisers stormed into the study, and immediately set to work beating and bashing. Hemmit didn’t even know what was happening before a truncheon had already been cracked over one woman’s head. She dropped like a sack, and the bruisers were invested in making everyone else in the study end up just like her.
“What in the—” was all Baron Terrenhill got out before taking a handstick to his own head. He took only a glancing blow, since Maresh had grabbed him and pulled him back from the attacker.
“Come on!” Maresh yelled, pulling the baron to his feet and dragging him to the door. Hemmit dove at the ruffian, center of the body, pushing him against the study wall. He laid several punches into the man’s sides, while books from the shelves above fell on their heads. His time in the Gentlemen’s Fisticuffs Club at RCM seemed to have been wasted, as they didn’t even give the man pause. He slammed an elbow into the small of Hemmit’s back, knocking him down. Hemmit rolled out of the way before a boot came crashing down on his head. Hemmit threw another punch at the man’s knee, and then scrambled to his feet and out of the room with Maresh, who was carrying the half-limp baron.
“What were you doing?” Maresh shouted.
“Trying to—” was all Hemmit got out before someone else crashed into him. A guest, trying to run away from the attackers. One of the attackers was struck by an oil lamp, sending a spray of flaming oil at the fleeing guests. One woman’s dress caught fire, and Hemmit quickly grabbed a tablecloth and tackled her, smothering the flames.
“You’re all right, you’re all right,” he said, more for his own benefit, as she screamed and flailed. She scrambled out from under him and ran, half singed, out of that hallway into one of the water closets.
“We have to get out of here,” Maresh said, grabbing Hemmit’s arm.
“Yes,” the baron slurred. “Most disagreeable.”
“But where’s Lin?” Hemmit asked. “We can’t run away without her.”
“He can’t run anywhere,” Maresh said.
“Come on,” Hemmit said, pulling Maresh and the baron around a darkened corner. None of the invaders seemed to be here. Hemmit felt around until he found a doorknob—linen closet. “In here.”
“We can’t all fit in there,” Maresh said.
“No, but you two can,” Hemmit said before Maresh could argue. He shoved Baron Terrenhill and Maresh into the closet just as one of the ruffians came rushing over, cudgel in hand. Hemmit shut the door and ducked, so the bastard just smashed his cudgel into the wall. Hemmit popped up and took a good swing at the man’s jaw, but once again his time in the Fisticuffs hadn’t done him many favors. A solid punch, but all it did was make the fellow cross.
The cudgel swung at him again and again, and Hemmit jumped back with each swing. Unable to see where he was going, he stepped badly and lost his footing, tumbling backward into a heap on the ground. The ruffian roared and leaped on him with the cudgel.
Hemmit put up his arms defensively, but the blow didn’t come. Instead, there was a great burst of light and sound. Lin was there, hands wide as daggers of color flew, striking his attacker in the face. The man screamed and stumbled away, dropping his cudgel, and he groped at his eyes and ears. Lin picked up his weapon and walloped him across the head.
“Can you walk?” she asked.
“Yes,” Hemmit said, getting to his feet. “Only my pride is hurt.”
“Saints, this is a mess,” she said, holding the cudgel with intention. “Where’s Maresh?”
“He’s in that closet with Baron Terrenhill,” Hemmit said. She just raised an eyebrow at that. “I would have hidden there as well, but it was small.”
“Hiding, Hemmit? Really?”
“We’re—” he started, but two more of those maniacs came running into the hallway, weapons in hand. Lin spun on her heel, dazzling another blast of light at them. This wasn’t effective, only giving them a moment of pause before pressing in again. Lin stumbled; she must have spent herself. Hemmit grabbed the cudgel and swung wild, clocking the first maniac across the forehead. That put him down.
The second teased her advance, twirling a pair of hatchets in her hands.
“Aren’t you two some fine pieces?” she asked.
“Back off!” Hemmit said, brandishing the cudgel in his right hand while holding Lin steady with his left. The woman responded by spinning around, and in the space of a whisper, chopped the cudgel into pieces and landed a kick on Hemmit’s chest.
“So,” she said, her voice a purr thick with Acoran accent, “other than the very pretty beard you’re sporting, is there a reason I shouldn’t kill you now?”
Chapter 18
“I WILL NOT ALLOW YOU to cause any harm,” Dayne told the two. They were quite the pair: a flying mage with flaming wings, and a madman with well-oiled muscles and whips.
“Oh, I’ve heard of this one,” Scanlin said, snapping one of his whips with a resounding crack. “He’s the big hero.”
“Big hero, indeed,” Pria said, charging a ball of fire in his hand. “He’ll burn just the same.”
He threw the fireball at Dayne, who blocked it with the serving tray. The ball burst on the tray, the flames licking Dayne’s fingers, forcing him to drop it. With his attention occupied, Scanlin whipped at Mirianne, wrapping her waist. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled her up the stairs past Dayne.
“No!” Dayne said, grabbing her hand. That kept Scanlin from pulling her to him, but he still had her ensnared. He cracked the other whip at Dayne’s arm, leaving a harsh welt. Painful, but not enough to force Dayne to let go of Mirianne.
“Get him off!” Scanlin snarled.
“With pleasure,” Pria said as he swooped around and hurled another flaming ball at Dayne. This one flew over Dayne’s head and splashed fire on the wall, catching one of the tapestries.
“You will pay for that!” Mirianne shouted.
“It’s you who are going to pay, sweet,” Pria said. “Mark it.”
Another whip snap as Scanlin yanked at Mirianne. She cried out in pain—her arm was being wrenched from Dayne’s hold on her. He stepped forward to ease her pain and close the distance between him and Scanlin. If that meant a gash or two from his whips, so be it. But another fireball forced him back a step, near the upper railing.
“You want her?” Scanlin cackled, snapping at Dayne. He charged forward and shoved Mirianne at Dayne, while cracking the whip at Dayne’s ankle. With a yank, he pulled Dayne off balance just as she crashed into him, and the two of them broke through the railing. Dayne fell to the floor below, landing on his hip with a resounding slam. Pain radiated through his body, but his attention was locked on Mirianne, dangling over the edge on the tips of her toes, Scanlin’s whip still wrapped around her waist.
Before Dayne could get up, more fireballs rained down from above. Dayne rolled away from the foyer, slapping down the flames on his uniform jacket.
“Dayne!” Mirianne screamed as she was pulled out of view.
Dayne pulled himself up, his entire left side in pain. Pria still swooped about, hurling fire and keeping Dayne from the stairs.
“Not the big hero now, are you?” Pria taunted.
Down the hallway, Dayne spotted someone in the fray with a couple other brigands. Fredelle, armed with a broken broomstick. She put them down with well-placed punches, and then glanced up to make eye contact with Dayne.
“Fredelle!” he called out. “Sequence Twenty-Seven!”
She came charging down the hall at him. Pushing through the pain, he forced himself to his feet and got himself under the flying mage, bracing his legs and holding his hand in position. Fredelle ran to him and leaped up, landing the ball of her foot on his hand just as he pushed up.
Fredelle flew high up to Pria and executed
a perfect combination of staff blow and spinning kick as she passed him and drop punched on his head as she came back down. Pria’s flaming wings were snuffed out as he plummeted to the ground. Fredelle landed in Dayne’s arms.
“That was a hoot!” she said, her face a wide smile.
“Her ladyship’s in trouble upstairs,” Dayne said.
“On it,” Fredelle said, hopping out of his arms and dashing up the stairs. Dayne couldn’t move as fast as she did.
Pria pulled himself to his feet, groaning as impotent sparks came from his hands. “I do not get paid enough for this,” he muttered as he wiped the blood off his nose.
Dayne grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “Who paid you? What is this about?”
“I do get paid enough not to tell you,” Pria said. “But just barely.” He spit a ball of fire in Dayne’s face. It was too weak to do anything but startle Dayne, but that was enough for him to let Pria go. Pria dashed out the main door.
Dayne wasn’t about to let him go so easily. He knew what this was about, and if he was a hired mage, he’d probably be willing to cut a deal with the constables in return for telling who hired him. He ran after the man, despite his hip joint screaming in pain with every step. Pria stumbled and fell as he went, looking more and more terrified each time he turned back to see Dayne’s relentless pace toward him. Dayne knew he was limping, left leg almost dragging as he went. That might have made him even more frightening to the man.
“You shouldn’t be worried about me!” Pria shouted. “You should be worried about getting the Fire Brigade here before the house catches!”
That didn’t deter Dayne, even though he knew Pria was right about that. They needed everything: constables, brigade, Yellowshields, and fast.
“Come on!” Pria shouted as he reached the gates. Dayne was briefly confused. Was he trying to taunt Dayne? Was running outside a distraction? “Come on!” Dayne pushed forward, about to grab the man.
Then it was clear. Pria was berating himself, trying to build up his magic. A pair of flaming wings—smaller and dimmer than before—sprouted from his back and he launched into the air. Dayne didn’t even have anything to throw at him as he vanished into the night.
Dayne grabbed hold of the gate to steady himself. Everything hurt. But he needed to get back to the house, back to help everyone. Lady Mirianne was—
No, he had to trust Fredelle. She was excellent. She could handle an enthusiastic whip master.
He caught his breath, and looked across the street to see the one thing he really needed right now.
A whistlebox.
He stumbled over to it and checked the list of codes until he found the one he needed: one long, two short for an All-Hands Emergency.
He blasted that out several times, until he heard it repeated in the distance. Good. That meant everyone was coming: constables, brigade, and Yellowshields. The help Lady Mirianne needed.
He wanted to drop down to the ground, but he couldn’t do that yet. His leg was growing stiff, and each step was harder. But it didn’t matter. No matter what, he’d make it back to the house, back to Miri.
* * *
Jerinne felt a lot of satisfaction in clocking the first one of these bastards in the head with the handstick. It was in no way a weapon of choice for her, but she found the feel of the wood in her hand as it connected to his jaw and the crack his bones made as he fell to the ground very pleasing indeed.
“All of you, back away,” she said as she pressed her foot on the neck of the one she knocked down. “No one is going to hurt these women tonight.”
“Then we’ll hurt you and then them,” one of the miscreants said. “All of you.”
Jerinne glanced to her left and right to see Evicka and Kelly on either side.
“You found a party,” Evicka said.
“Was this a costumed soiree tonight?” one of the others said, grabbing the young noblewoman—who was wearing an elaborate mask that matched her dress—by her chin and lifting her up.
“Don’t use that word,” Evicka said.
“I mean,” the front man of the boys said, “why else would these girls be playing at soldier, hmm?”
“We aren’t playing,” Kelly said, flipping her makeshift weapon into a ready position. Evicka had clearly heard enough, as in a snap she whipped the chain out, clocking him across the head and knocking him down.
Jerinne sprinted at the one holding the noblewoman, bringing her handsticks into his ribs, and pulling the woman away from him. He responded with a sharp punch, knocking Jerinne back. He hit like a horse kick, but she stayed on her feet.
“You got some fire, girl. Let’s quench it.”
“Not hardly,” Jerinne said. Miss Jessel was on the ground, trembling. She looked too scared to move. Jerinne wouldn’t let this bruiser or anyone else lay a hand on her.
He brought a flurry of punches, strong and hard. Jerinne knew better than to block them, instead dancing and dodging. Let him keep coming like a wild carriage. At one point he grinned, possibly thinking he had her pinned against a vine-covered wall. He swung hard, but his fist only hit plants and stone as she darted down, hitting quick at his knees and slipping under his legs.
“Going to skin you, rabbit,” he gasped. He was winded from that.
“Saints, man. Quench the fire, skin the rabbit,” Jerinne taunted as he swung another wild punch. So wild she was able to grab his wrist and throw him to the ground. “Pick a term and stick to it.” She jumped and landed on him, bringing all her weight into his sternum and tenders.
The sound he made was quite satisfying.
Evicka was thrashing one of them with her chain, and Kelly was sparring hard with one with a knife. Evicka wrapped the chain around the neck of her opponent and yanked him into Kelly’s. The two of them fell onto the bruised fellow Jerinne had just dealt with.
“Saints, run, run!” one of them yelled, obviously realizing they were outmatched. The boys all scrambled away. Jerinne laughed, and Evicka, cackling, chased after them.
“We should probably catch up to her,” Jerinne said, looking to Kelly.
Kelly, though, was holding her hand to her side, blood dripping through her fingers. “I think one of them got a piece of me. Stupid.”
Jerinne grabbed her before she dropped to the ground. “Come on, Kelly,” she said. “I got you.”
“It’s Kelvanne,” she said weakly. “Only Evicka calls me Kelly.”
“Kelvanne, sure,” Jerinne said, bringing her over to a bench. She looked to the noblewoman and Miss Jessel. “Get someone!”
* * *
The axe-wielding madwoman lurked closer. “But it is a pretty beard.”
“Listen,” he said, holding his arms out wide, pushing Lin behind him. He hoped this lady hadn’t realized Lin was a mage, and he could keep her distracted long enough for Lin to recover. “You all, whatever you’re doing, you have a cause, right?”
“Why do you think that?”
“Well, you’re well-armed, skilled fighters. Not common rabble. So this means you came here with a purpose, yes?”
“Let’s say yes, pretty beard. What does that mean to you?”
He slowly reached into his coat pocket. “I’m a journalist. I write for The Veracity Press.”
“Never heard of it.”
“That’s all right,” Hemmit said, pulling out his card. “We’re a bit on the fringe of popular opinion. Which makes us perfect for someone like you. We could help get your message out in a way the big papers never would. They wouldn’t listen to you. We will.”
She reached in, the hatchet in her hand spinning about as she snatched the card from him. The axe blade came far too close to Hemmit’s nose for his comfort. She glanced at it with the hatchet still in her right hand, while idly spinning the other hatchet in her left. “You don’t even know who we are.”
�
�I want to know who you are,” Hemmit said. He lowered his voice just a little. “I want to know what you want.”
“Aren’t you sweet,” she said. “It’d be a shame to make you bleed.”
“Not today,” a smooth alto voice said, and a woman in a Tarian uniform slid in next to her. With practiced, fluid moves, she disarmed the woman of one of her hatchets. The woman brought up the other, but the Tarian grabbed her wrist. The axe-woman jumped up and kicked the Tarian in the shin, and pushed into a backflip with a kick to the Tarian’s chin. The Tarian stumbled back, and the axe-woman landed on her feet, running off. It all happened so fast, Hemmit didn’t get a clear look at the Tarian woman until it was all over.
“You’re Amaya Tyrell,” Hemmit said.
“Yes, I—oh, you’re the reporter. Dayne’s friend.”
“Is that a problem?” he asked.
She scowled for a moment. “No, it’s—this place is chaos. The house is overrun. Civilians everywhere, and even with Tarians and Freddy and her friends . . . you need to get out of here.”
“What about her ladyship and her guests?” Lin asked. She still appeared out of sorts, but stumbled away from Hemmit to the other side of the room, where a tray of cheeses and bread had been overturned. She gracelessly slumped to the floor and began eating whatever she found there.
“I said you need to get out of here, not me,” Amaya said.
The closet door opened, and Maresh peered out. “Is it safe?”
“We have a Tarian, so reasonably,” Hemmit said. Maresh came out with Baron Terrenhill, both of them looking a little rumpled.
“I’m assuming this isn’t some perverse entertainment on Miri’s part,” Terrenhill said, holding a handkerchief to his head. “I mean, I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“I doubt that, sir,” Amaya said. His presence changed her attitude. “Let’s get you all someplace safe and secure. Have you heard any Constabulary whistles?”
“Why are these folks attacking the house?” Lin asked.
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