by Toby Frost
It must be fifty feet to the ground.
No chance of getting down, then. The only way out was up. Something heavy hit the door.
Cold night air wrapped itself round her, and she shivered. This was going to be hard.
Another blow struck the door. Only moments to go. She climbed onto the windowsill.
Dear God, dear Archangels, Saint Senobina, patron of thieves, protect me.
The wind whipped across the building, threw her cloak against her. Giulia looked up. The front of the building was covered in statues and ornamental pillars. There were stone columns on either side of the window, and a plaster pediment across the top of them. Handholds.
She turned and stood up on the outside of the windowsill. The sense of being outside, being able to fall, almost overwhelmed her.
Come on. Do it.
Giulia grabbed the top of the pediment, braced herself and pushed up with her legs. Her shirt came untucked: the stonework grazed the skin of her stomach. She hauled with all her strength and got her elbows onto the top of the pediment, legs thrashing below.
Another crash against the door. Wood crunched. Giulia gritted her teeth. Her boot knocked against something, bumped off, found the column again, and she dug her toes into the fretwork and pushed herself up onto the roof.
The door broke open. Boots pounded into the room beneath her, a voice yelled “Oh my God!” and a second cried “The window! The window!” Feet rushed across the room.
Up, now. The roof was gently sloped, with a white railing around the edge. She grabbed the railing and pulled herself up.
“The roof! There’s someone on the roof!”
She glanced back: in the gardens, tiny people pointed up at her. “Fetch a musket! Somebody get up there!”
Her arms ached: her upper body was sweat and ice. Someone had climbed onto the window-ledge, and his friends were passing him a gun.
She braced herself and thought, Go! Giulia pushed with her legs and heaved herself over the railing.
A musket fired. Giulia rolled onto the roof, cloak ripping as a bullet tore straight through. She flopped onto on her back, exhausted, panting at the sky.
“Can’t get him!” the man cried below. “Dammit, give me that!”
She lay there, her muscles screaming at her, desperate to rest and knowing that her enemies were closing in. Her arms felt as if they had been torn on the rack. Get up, she told her body. Get up, damn you! Giulia moaned and rolled over and struggled to her feet. Something streaked past her face, and she flinched back into the dark. A crossbow bolt clattered on the roof.
Her belly was scratched, her shoulder raw. The cloak hung off her back like a dead tail.
Got to go. Find Hugh. Get off the roof.
How? The night was full of voices: there was no chance of getting down the front of the building. Giulia ran to the other side of the house and saw her chance: a tiled roof like the back of a church, built beside the mansion but a storey lower.
I can do this. I just need a run-up. I can do this.
She jogged back, and a bolt sailed over her head. People shouted under her, a jumble of voices all saying the same thing: Get her, shoot her, get the woman on the roof.
Giulia ran, legs pounding under her, heard a gun crack to her left, sprang onto the railing and jumped. Her legs drove out, her body flicked forward like the arm of a catapult. Then she was falling – the wind rushing in her ears, cloak flapping behind her – and there was nothing underneath. She seemed suspended, looking down at her flailing legs and the long, fatal drop, with only the wind and cold and the sickness in her gut to tell her that she was moving at all.
She hit the tiled roof, rolled, came up staggering. Tiles slithered under her boots, dropped off the edge and tinkled as they smashed below. An old man’s voice cried “Hey, look!” and she made herself run again, along the building’s spine.
Keep moving. Jump down in stages, house-to-house.
Someone shouted behind her. That meant they had people on the procurator’s roof. A gun cracked and tiles burst a yard from her feet.
Giulia saw a chance and went left. She scrambled down the tiles, onto the ridge of a dormer window, sped up to keep her balance and jumped again, only six feet this time, hit the next roof in a crouch and paused to take a breath.
And there was Averrio in front of her, a mass of rooftops, each a scale on a dragon’s back, threaded with canals like veins. She saw the Palace of a Hundred squatting on the waterfront, the silver mansion she’d glimpsed this afternoon still twinkling in the dark, the five milk-white domes of the cathedral rising up on the far side of Palace Square as if to challenge the palace of the Decimus. She drew in a deep breath, awed despite herself, and then heard her pursuers closing in.
Torches were gathering in the streets, weaving their way towards her. A dog barked, a low, throaty sound.
They’ll try to cut me off.
Giulia jogged across the roof. She recognised a square tower to the west: that was the way to the Old Arms. Keeping low, she turned that way and saw what she’d wanted: a tenement with an outside staircase.
This time it was hardly a jump at all. She went down backwards, easing her grazed body over the edge, dangling from fingertips until the last moment. Giulia dropped onto the stairs in a shower of loose tiles.
She wanted to rest. Not yet. She hurried down the steps on aching legs. Halfway down the stairs she saw a wall below, and behind it, an ornamental garden.
It was easy to slip under the handrail, to jump onto the wall and drop down into the shadows of the garden. In the dark, surrounded by the smell of grass, Giulia leaned against the rough bricks and tried to recover.
I killed him, she thought. Self-defence, but that doesn’t matter. It’s all ruined now. Everything’s done. Have to get the others, get far away from here.
From somewhere to the left she could hear men calling to each other. Their voices were loud but indistinct. She waited. They didn’t come any closer.
There was a little wooden door on the far side of the garden. It ought to lead back into the city. Once there, she could slip through the streets and be away. She started towards the door, keeping close to the wall.
Falsi had been right: this went deep. The procurator knew who had murdered Coraldo. And he ran the Watch. God, the whole fucking city’s in on it.
Now that she was going slower, the cold closed in on her, tightening like a fist. She felt something, and she pulled her hood up and stopped.
An animal stood on the far side of the lawn. It was too broad to be a dog, but too long and skinny for a bear. Fear swelled up inside her like fever.
Steam pumped from its muzzle. Patches of bare skin shone where there was no fur. The creature wore no collar, but someone had tied a belt around its upper arm. It took a step into the moonlight, snorted, and stood upright.
Ghoul.
Its mouth opened and she saw teeth glint like polished marble. It yawned.
You can’t see me, she thought. Don’t look at me.
The beast’s head swung left, then right. It sniffed the air, raised its hands and thoughtfully cracked the knuckles.
The truth dropped onto her like a weight. She was looking at the murderer. It loped away from her, deeper into the garden.
Giulia took a step to the left. She kept in close to the wall, deep in shadow. She took another step. The sweat felt freezing as it dried on her stomach and back. She slid the knife from her sleeve.
Keeping close to the wall, Giulia started to walk towards the door on the far side of the garden. Ten steps in and she looked behind her. The thing had gone. She opened the door and slipped into the city. Fifty yards on, she gave in to her instincts and ran.
EIGHT
She stepped into the Old Arms and stopped dead. The front room had been torn apart. Chairs and tables were smashed, a window broken. A
long smear of blood ran down one wall.
Movement on the left. Giulia turned, reaching for her knife. Elayne rushed over to her, sleeves flapping. Alarm caricatured her face, accentuating her wide eyes.
“Giulia, thank goodness! She’s here, everyone!” Then, “My God, what happened to you?”
“I’ll explain later,” Giulia said. “We’re leaving.”
“Damn right we are,” Edwin said. He stepped out of the rear of the inn, his face set and hard. “We’re getting out, right now.”
“Where’s Hugh?”
“Getting the horses ready.”
Giulia looked about, trying to find some reason for the mayhem around her. “What happened? Where is everyone?”
“They ran,” Elayne said. “An animal broke in. I don’t know what it was – magical, I think. It came in through the window there. It was like a mastiff, or a wolf, but much bigger. We managed to kill it—”
Giulia said, “Did it walk upright? On two legs?”
“How did you know?”
“I saw it. Or I saw something like it, I’m not sure. Listen, things turned really bad out there. The procurator tried to pin the murder on me. He was in league with whoever did it. I knocked him out… I think.”
“What happened to your dress?”
“I had to do some running. It’s back there with the procurator.” Giulia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Falsi said this went high up. Shit… What did you do with the animal?”
“We dragged it over there, round the corner.” Edwin grimaced. Giulia took a step towards the back of the room. “You won’t like it.”
A body lay in the shadows. It looked like a starved, shaven bear.
You could know what was coming, but still be repulsed all the same. The lower body was an animal’s: the legs were jointed wrongly and half-furred, as though the man’s pubic hair had spread over his thighs and back like mould. The feet were particularly horrible, she thought: the contorted delicacy of the toes made her nauseous. It looked like something she’d seen in a picture, a cavorting thing from the deep woods. A satyr, that was the word. She felt oddly relieved to give this abomination a name, however ill-fitting.
“We all fought it,” Elayne said. “Hugh and I distracted it, then Edwin hit it in the back of the neck—”
“Through the spine,” Edwin said. “It wasn’t like any animal I’ve ever seen. Dog, bear, God knows: it looked like a whole load of things.”
“I thought it was a ghoul,” Giulia said. “I saw them at an abbey, back in Pagalia. Wait—”
She crouched down, half-knowing what she would see. Giulia made herself examine the creature’s face. The lips bulged with teeth, and the nose was smaller than before, but she recognised its features all the same. She made the Sign of the Sword across her chest.
“It’s Varro, the man from the boatyard. The one who tried to kill me.” Giulia looked round at them. “God almighty. No wonder his wounds sealed back up. He was a monster.”
Hugh called from the doorway. “Giulia? Are you all right?”
She straightened up and nodded. “We’ve got to go. They’ll be looking for us.”
“I know,” he replied. “The horses are ready. I put all your things in your saddlebag. You need another shirt,” the knight added. “You’ll catch a cold like that.”
“In a minute. Let’s get moving.”
“The north gate’ll be sewn up tight,” Edwin said. “I suggest we keep to the back alleys and work back towards the harbour. We can get out on my ship. The crew should all still be on board.”
Hugh said, “What’s the wind like?”
Elayne said, “I can summon a breeze to get us out of port. After that, it’ll be fine.”
“Your ship’ll be watched,” Giulia said.
“I don’t see that we’ve got much choice,” Edwin replied. “Besides, we beat this monster. We can deal with whatever else we find.”
Hugh smiled. “Well said.”
“What about the horses?”
“We’ll try and get them onto the deck,” Edwin said. “My crew can help.” He looked from face to face. “Anyone got a better plan? No? Then let’s go.”
As she stepped outside, she saw faces: good citizens of Averrio, watching. Giulia saw a woman in a cloth cap shrink back like a revenant confronted with a holy sign. People stared at them from the edge of the road, from upstairs windows – horrified and appalled, but not so much that they didn’t want to see.
“Let’s move,” Giulia said.
They hurried to the stable at the side of the inn. The horses were nervous, shy in their stands. “Must’ve smelt that thing,” Hugh said. “Whatever it was.”
Giulia fished her black shirt from her saddlebag. As she pulled it on, she saw that her arms and stomach were dirty and grazed. She fastened her knives to her belt as Edwin untied the reins.
Hugh took hold of the stirrup. “No,” Giulia said. “We’ll walk to begin with. Easier that way.”
Giulia’s horse drew back, head raised. Its teeth flashed in the moonlight.
“Damn thing’s lost its nerve,” said Hugh.
Elayne slipped inside the stable and whispered something to the nearest horse. It lowered its head, placated. Giulia looked over at Hugh. He had gone quiet as well, watching Elayne. The blank smile on his face made Giulia feel uneasy.
Edwin was last to be ready. “All set?” he asked, fastening a cloak across his shoulders.
Elayne stepped back. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“Let’s go,” Edwin said, and they led the horses into the street.
Giulia’s crossbow jutted out of the saddlebag, lurching with the horse’s every step. She glanced back. Figures moved towards the inn at the edge of her vision, like little animals creeping out under the cover of night. Maybe they wanted to see the damage, or maybe they just wanted to steal the wine.
“Quickly, now,” Edwin said.
They left the Old Arms behind them, empty and wrecked. Good fucking riddance, Giulia thought.
***
Azul’s knee was giving him trouble again. It was a steady, constant ache, behind the kneecap. It was weak to give in to pain, but he still scowled as he climbed the last few stairs.
The procurator’s guards waited on the landing. They were well-equipped but slack, Azul thought. Soldiers were, these days. Horror had knocked the discipline out of them and turned them into startled, frightened men.
The one on the right said, “Halt and state your name and business.”
“My name is Ramon Azul. My business is with the procurator.”
The guard hesitated, then said, “They told me you were coming, milord. You can go through.”
“Did my man Cortaag get here?”
“He’s inside, milord.” The guard opened the office door for him. “Milord, is the procurator going to live?”
“Go downstairs with the rest of the guards,” Azul replied. “Watch the doors. If a woman called Alicia shows up, send her to me.”
Cortaag waited inside. He stood up in the centre of the room, his broad shadow falling across the body at his feet. The procurator was sprawled across the carpet as though he had fallen out of the rafters. A dress lay under the window.
Azul turned and closed the doors. “Is he dead?”
Cortaag shook his head. He looked as if he’d been running. His hair was ruffled, sticky with sweat. His jacket lay discarded on the chair. “He’s breathing. But only just.” He picked up his jacket. Standing over the procurator as he pulled it on, it looked as if Cortaag was leaving after an illicit liaison.
Azul took off his spectacles and scowled at the lenses. “I take it you couldn’t catch her.”
The big man glanced away, as if he expected to have to soak up a blow. “She was too quick.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
&nb
sp; “She hit him with this,” Cortaag said. He held up the bronze sculpture. The corner of the base was dark red.
“And then what?”
Cortaag nodded at the window. “She took her dress off and climbed out there.”
“What?”
Cortaag glanced at the floor. “She had men’s clothes on under the dress. She must have been expecting trouble.”
“I’m sure she was.” Azul stepped over to the window, opened it and looked down into the gardens. “It’s a long way down.”
“She went up,” Cortaag said.
Azul looked up. He leaned out of the window and took in the complex façade, the columns and handholds. Yes, he thought, someone could do that, if you had the skill. It would take a hell of a lot of determination. It was interesting how the prospect of imminent death weakened some people and strengthened others. Some wilted and just froze, or wept, in the face of danger. Others became filled with rage and cunning. You never knew which you’d get until they were tested.
“She climbed over the rooftops,” Cortaag said. “The guards tried to catch her, but…” He ran a hand through his thick hair. “She lost me in a garden to the north. She got away.”
“So I see,” Azul replied.
Two bronze horses reared up on either side of the fireplace. Busts of Quaestan emperors stared blindly over the body in the centre of the room. Azul stood there for a moment, breathing it all in.
A light breeze blew through the window, and the curtains stirred like seaweed in the tide.
“Felsten, this has not been a good week for you.”
Cortaag looked at the floor. “I know. I’m sorry, sir.”
“First the priest, then this. It won’t do.”
“I apologise.”
Azul stepped in close to him. “Lift your head, Felsten. Present yourself like a soldier, not a schoolboy.”
Cortaag’s back stiffened; his heels struck together. He stood bolt upright, tensed. Azul looked into Cortaag’s eyes and knew that his servant was trying not to flinch. Azul had seen that look many times before. He’d be wondering where the blow would fall.
“Much better,” Azul said.