“I only wanted—”
“Do you know what they’ve done to me? What they’ve put me through tonight? How could you do this?”
Kimiko knelt and extended a hand, though Aryll ignored the offer and climbed upright without support.
“Reunion and tense dialogue can come later,” Kalyna barked. “Right now you’re getting us out of here.”
The two women unhitched clasps and yanked leather through buckles until the harnesses slumped onto flooring. Kalyna kicked the clattering pile underneath furniture before wiping sweat and ash from her face. Several jerky hand motions returned errant hair to her lone ponytail while Blaer straightened wrinkly clothing, leaving Aryll to realize both looked utterly unremarkable. They planned to waltz out as if common festival attendees, with nothing to raise suspicions beyond faint creases hiding their pilfered artifacts.
Kalyna snapped her fingers with an impatient imperative, yanking Kimiko from her shamed reverie. “Pay attention, girl.”
“Right. I haven’t heard any students for a while, but I know guards will sometimes do rounds on these floors, even during the Fete.”
“Don’t help them!” Aryll shouted.
“Keep your damn voice down if you don’t want to be gagged again,” Kalyna retorted.
“I don’t care anymore.” She pivoted to face Kimiko, glimpsing humiliation marring her features. “You don’t need to do this. Just stop right now.”
“Aryll, you don’t understand—”
“Screw them!”
“That’s it,” Kalyna muttered, striding forward. “I warned you.”
A darkened silhouette appeared in the doorway, revealing the stunned features of an intruding guard and snagging Kalyna’s attention. She lunged low across carpeting while the man’s hand groped for a scabbarded sword and he sought to cry out in alarm. Kalyna lashed rigid fingers against his throat, thrust a boot into one knee and slid iron from a sheath looped around her thigh. She caught the collapsing sentry by his surcoat and pressed a cold knife to his exposed throat.
“Don’t hurt him!” Kimiko pleaded.
Kalyna glowered into the guard’s fearful eyes, holding him partially upright by his collar. “He’s seen you, kid. Let him live and he’ll have you ruined. Your days in Starwatch will end. A flick of my wrist and all your troubles will be gone.”
“No. I won’t stay if this is the price I have to pay. This isn’t worth it.”
Her eyes glittered with malicious intent as whitened fingers squeezed the grip tighter.
“You promised me no one would be hurt,” Kimiko declared. “You gave me your word.”
“Your choice.” Kalyna buffeted the man’s skull against a wall and heaved him onto the floor. She gathered spare rope and knelt astride him, binding his wrists and ankles together. Incisions with her dagger sliced fabric from the tabard he wore, which she unceremoniously wadded into his mouth.
“This is a mistake,” Kalyna remarked, sheathing her knife. “But it’s yours to make.”
“And I’ll be the one living with it.” Kimiko uncurled her fists and stared at the dazed guard. “You have what you came for. Now leave me and Aryll alone. I don’t want anyone else to be hurt. I’m done with all this.”
Kalyna stared at Kimiko, though Aryll could not tell whether disgust or anger was written on her face in the weak light. Shifting on her heels, she nudged Blaer and the thieves fled into an adjoining hallway without further words.
Kimiko raced forward and fumbled to unbind Aryll’s wrists, though this time she did not resist. “They promised to pay for my tuition if I helped them. It was such a dumb decision. I didn’t mean to put you through any of this. You weren’t supposed to be involved in my mess.” Kimiko untangled the final loop and tossed rope aside. “Can you forgive me?”
“You’ll never be able to stay here.”
“I know.”
Aryll cast her gaze toward the shackled guard as he struggled through a groggy stupor. His confusion shifted to hate as senses returned to him, unleashed on the only targets within sight. “You gave up everything to save his life.”
“My stupid choices put him in danger.”
She reached out and held Kimiko’s hands in her own. “You need to leave,” Aryll begged. “Right now.”
“I can’t abandon you.”
“Listen to me. You won’t be expelled for this. They’ll throw you in a Draugan gaol. Please, you need to stay safe.”
“I have nowhere to go.”
The prone guard eyed her with unrestrained fury, though Aryll was confident his fetters would hold for the time needed. She grabbed her friend by the elbow and led Kimiko beyond earshot. “Remember how we talked about visiting Lorentarth together? Travel there and start a new life. I’ll figure out a way to send you letters. Maybe I can even visit you on my way home to Angevine. But spend tonight at the Eager Rest inn. I’ll have some of your things sent there in the morning. If you don’t hear from me by sunset tomorrow, assume I wasn’t able to get anything out. Leave the city as soon as you can after that. And no matter what happens, empty your account at Vinaldor’s lending house. Take the money you have and head north.”
“I don’t know, Aryll.”
“You can do this. Become an apothecary’s apprentice like you said before all this started. You’re more qualified than anyone else.”
Nervous eyes flicked as though searching for reassurance forever beyond her grasp. “What about you?”
“I’ll buy the time you need.”
“I don’t want you taking that risk for me.”
“There won’t be any risk. I’ll just lie and hope I’m convincing enough.” She gently pushed Kimiko’s shoulder, offering encouragement one final time. “Please go.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“Me too.”
Aryll watched her friend depart and wiped a lone trickle from one eye. She wrapped shaking arms around herself for warmth and waited several long minutes, scarcely believing Kimiko was gone. Eventually she returned to the guard and settled onto her knees, tugging wet cloth from his mouth. Hands long since calloused from mending her clothes unfastened knots imprisoning his limbs.
“I swear the galens will learn about her betrayal.”
“Ask me if I care,” Aryll muttered.
Once untied, his hands seized Aryll’s wrists in aching grips as he towered over her. A savage shake ended weak squirming and he leaned close, spewing foul breaths over her face. “I’m dragging you to Almar Graycloak. He isn’t a forgiving man.”
Aryll glared upward into vindictive eyes and refused to shirk from his anger. Not after all she had gone through. “Take your hands off me. Guards are forbidden from touching students without cause. And I just freed your sorry arse.”
“You might not have helped them willingly, but you let your friend escape. That makes you guilty, too. And it gives me cause.”
Lowering her gaze, she slackened straining limbs. “I still don’t care.”
“You will when you face judgment.”
*
Baskaran withdrew a sullied rapier and held it crosswise before his chest. Moonlight glittered over scarlet splashed across the iron as Jaxon clutched his savaged forearm with one hand. Raw ire bathed the lord’s features while irregular rasps hissed between gritted teeth. Cyriana exhaled a lengthy breath in relief. The bout had been too close, and she did not know whether the equal contest owed to Jaxon’s rekindled talents or Baskaran intentionally delaying victory. She wiped flush droplets from her nape, waiting for the herald to declare victory.
“I believe that concludes our bout,” Baskaran uttered. “I’m unsurprised you failed to offer much contest. After all, you are a craven who commands others to defend his own honor.”
Jaxon roared and leaped for his adversary, forcing a startled Baskaran to heft his blade and stumble backward. Iron snapped outward to parry vicious strokes as blood splattered from Jaxon’s whipping forearm.
“The duel’s over,” Cyriana said. “Hera
ld, do your frigging job.”
“I am,” Lord Tarlowe declared. “I continue to monitor and uphold the rules of engagement.”
She watched in stunned horror as Jaxon sustained his remorseless assault, forcing Baskaran to adopt a clumsy defensive stance. Having stressed a duel only to first blood, Baskaran could not kill without violating conventions and laws. Cyriana understood Jaxon might well force such a result, blinded as he was by absolute indignation. The realization stirred dread in her chest, since she chose the damned man believing his anger to be a virtue in this instance.
“What the hell are you waiting for?” she demanded of the herald. “Stop the fight.”
“His lordship wishes to continue until a more satisfactory conclusion is reached.”
“They agreed the contest would only be to first blood.”
“I do not recall Lord Torne explicitly consenting.”
“He didn’t damn well argue against it,” Cyriana rebuked. “His silence was consent enough.”
“Nevertheless. You compatriot should have strived to earn formal consent regarding the rules. A gentlemen’s agreement alone does not hold legal weight.”
“You wretched bastard. You’re willing to let one of them die to settle a score?”
“With no reason binding me to demand a conclusion, I shall allow it to progress.”
Cyriana whirled, her entreaties met with indifference or loathing from each stranger’s face. She spied no indication of sympathy or desire to turn away from their peers and defend a wronged man. Baskaran had well and truly earned animosity from these bloodthirsty aristocrats. “Is no one willing to end this madness?”
Fiery discomfort tore at her stomach as she pivoted and Cyriana inadvertently touched moisture with one hand. Pale red splotches adorned her fingertips, tarnishing leather in discolored dots. A stitch must have tugged free and reopened her wound. Cyriana rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, smearing the sticky fluid while a moment of insane inspiration crowded her mind. The scheme might get her killed, but if she chose to do nothing, someone else would definitely die. Either that psychotic Jaxon would force Baskaran to kill him, or get lucky and skewer her companion while he valiantly sought to avoid inflicting a fatal stroke.
She reached into one fold nestled in her jacket and withdrew a narrow shiv partially wrapped in cloth. Starwatch policy be damned, she was never unarmed. Cyriana pulled on her jerkin and carefully traced the blade’s edge along fabric until there was a smooth split over the wound. Slipping the shiv into its nook once more, she eyed the frantic duelists and waited for a chance to cheerfully attempt an outlandish stunt. After years spent ignoring her friends, maybe it was time to concede they were right. Maybe she was out of her mind. Evidence in support of the diagnosis was certainly mounting.
Baskaran landed a blow with one fist to conclude a flurry of hacking blades, thrusting Jaxon into an ungainly retreat. Telling that bothersome, intrusive little voice in her head to shut up and do as she said, Cyriana seized her fleeting opportunity.
She scrambled into the dueling circle, interposing herself between Baskaran and Jaxon with upraised hands. “You have to stop this!”
Jaxon whipped his rapier in a low horizontal slash aimed for Baskaran, unaware or uncaring that Cyriana stood in the way. She held an unwavering stance despite mounting reticence, watching iron scythe closer to her flesh, and arched backward as it passed a hairsbreadth from making contact.
Cyriana staggered on uncertain feet and clutched her stomach, feigning terror. “Oh gods.”
She curled forward and wedged fingers into the jacket hole, pinching a loose stitch. This was going to hurt like a bitch. She ripped the thread free, uttering a shrill scream. At least there would be no need to fake the pain. Water pooled in her eyes unbidden while blood washed over a burning stomach, seeping through stained fabrics. Voicing a pained cry, Baskaran flung his sword aside and cradled her wilting body. Tears streamed down Cyriana’s cheeks as he gently lowered her onto grass.
Horrified murmurs rippled through gathered onlookers, the softer ones even drowned by indignant howls. One act of impetuous lunacy and the tide had turned against Jaxon. Cyriana wanted to smile, though miserable pangs put a swift end to the desire.
“He’s killed her!” cried a voice.
Baskaran leaned close and spoke in a whisper. Sincere concern for her wellbeing colored his features, leaving Cyriana to suspect he had not surmised her strategy. “Are you okay?”
She fluttered one eyelid in what she hoped he would recognize as a wink. “Only a scratch. I’ll be fine.” The gravelly words sounded bereft of strength even to her own ears. Cyriana could only imagine what she looked like to Baskaran. No wonder the sentimental sap believed she might be dying after a tragic, ill-fated act of heroism, despite the absurdity of her ever choosing to be heroic. Once sufficiently recovered, she vowed to never let him live this one down.
Cyriana heard thumping boots and glanced upward to see Lord Tarlowe and another man standing between her and Jaxon.
“Disarm, Lord Torne,” commanded Tarlowe. “The fight is over.”
“I will not. Our duel hasn’t finished until I kill that bastard.”
“Not while a woman lies in blood delivered by your hand.”
“That fool forced herself onto my blade,” Jaxon claimed. “The fault is entirely her own.”
“Inadvertent or otherwise, wounding a spectator is grounds for immediate cessation. Be thankful I don’t decree this warrants disciplinary action, given the circumstances.”
“Stand aside. This brash child insulted me and our people. That can’t go unpunished.”
“You named me herald for the bout, and I cannot allow it to continue in light of this unfortunate accident.” Tarlowe lifted his voice for all to hear, imbuing the words with an imperative command. “Stow your blade and withdraw at once.”
“You can’t possibly permit him to depart unmolested following his abusive tirade.”
“I should have ended the duel at first contact. Evidence of defeat is flowing down your arm. Do not taint the loss with even greater disgrace.”
“There isn’t even blood on my damned sword!”
Tarlowe shifted his posture and thrust a finger toward Cyriana where scarlet fouled her jacket. “You wish to challenge the veracity of that?”
Jaxon hurled the rapier into grass and roared a stream of profanities. Milling spectators granted a wide berth when he strode from sight, perhaps fearing he might lash out against one who strayed too close.
Lord Tarlowe regarded Baskaran with something approaching shame. “My apologies for this. You could have been grievously hurt even following victory. I hold myself responsible for the failing.”
“Think nothing of it. We were all caught in the moment.”
“You are too gracious.” Tarlowe cast concerned eyes toward Cyriana. “And your friend?”
Baskaran kept one hand pressed firmly on her weeping laceration. “Fortunately it only appears to be a flesh wound with cursory penetration. I see no reason to fear for her life.”
“A relief to hear. I’m certain a galen would be more than happy to clean and bandage your wound, my lady. Please accept my apologies, even knowing it can never be enough.”
She lifted a hand sheathed in red and patted Baskaran’s hand. “I’m only thankful no one died.”
“You humble us all.” Lord Tarlowe turned to face gathered onlookers and raised his hands. “Engard Sirava of Barrow Hall has claimed victory in this duel against Lord Jaxon Torne. In the name of Adonas, his assertion has been proven conclusively true. Let no man or woman challenge him on this issue again.” Tarlowe turned as Baskaran gingerly brought Cyriana to her feet, lowering his voice while he stepped close. “In light of this outcome it is within your right to petition for financial restitution from Lord Torne. Direct your entreaty to the Consortium of Commerce and Merchants, of which his enterprise is a chartered member.”
“Perhaps I will another day. For now I must tend
to my friend rather than nurse grievances.”
“Of course. Again, I apologize for what you have been forced to endure on my account.” He gave a smile to Cyriana that seemed somewhat strained, as though the man was unaccustomed to such unnecessary displays. “I will delay you no longer. Seek the medical care you need and be well.”
Cyriana noted few eyes were upon them as she left with Baskaran. Conversation grew in volume and backs were turned, dismissing the dueling circle and those standing in it. With the conflict finished and no further bloodshed forthcoming, none evidently bothered to devote attention in watching its victims. A wounded woman stumbling from the ring held less excitement.
Baskaran whispered in Cyriana’s ears as she rested her head on his shoulder. “Are you truly okay?”
“Yep. Just me being brash and stupid. I do it all the time.”
“Brash and stupid seem to serve you well.”
“Only because I’ve had such practice.” Cyriana leaned on Baskaran, fighting to ignore her self-inflicted torment. “Engard? Must you try to be cute with your name at a time like this?”
“I don’t believe they noticed.”
“Lucky for you. Aristocrats don’t like being toyed with.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“I make a living of it. Though it’s nice to see I’m rubbing off on you.”
Baskaran touched his shirt with one hand and Cyriana noticed her blood smeared across his fingers. “In more than one way,” he asserted.
“Shut it, wise guy.” Cyriana winced until a thought crossed her mind. “Wait a moment. Your fake family name was Sirava, yes? Isn’t that your real name spelled backward?”
“It is,” he admitted. “No good?”
“We need to give you a lesson in crafting credible pseudonyms, I think.”
“What would you have chosen?”
“Something that can’t trace back to you in any way. I don’t prance around with my name in reverse.”
Starwatch Page 33