One Land, One Duke

by Emerson, Ru

  There were people out in the hallway shouting, too: Jennifer couldn't decide who they were—guests, more of Jadek's men or the Thukars', possibly even their own people, trying to get in. Whoever it was, was going to have to wait. Three men piled into the room in rapid succession, filling the window, the narrow space between the two beds. Lialla caught one a hard crack across the shoulder, hit the man just behind him a glancing blow. He pivoted, caught the staff and tore it from her hands, slammed the end into the wall. Lialla yelped, scuttled down the length of the bed and dropped over the footboard, ducking out of sight. The man came cautiously around the corner, edging around his fallen companion only to trip over the man who was still curled around his arm, rocking and moaning. Jennifer took two steps to her left; the bo tip caught against rough wall, jarring her hands. One more man in the window, foot on the sill, hesitating. Sensible of him, Jennifer thought grimly. The little room had been crowded enough with only three women in it. Now—well, she wasn't moving any more than she had to; that was courting a fall.

  Too bad she and Lialla were separated; there wasn't much she could do about it, though. She glanced nervously along the wall to her right as something hit the door, hard, and she briefly could see light along the upper edge. That bolt might be strong, but she didn't think the door itself or the frame could take much of that kind of abuse. “God,” she muttered to herself, “what a way to go!"

  Someone edged around the first man she'd hit—possibly the one Lialla had just clobbered. He threw himself at her, coming in hard, fast and sideways, leading with his right shoulder and a massive upper arm, sweeping the tip of her bo around with him. His weight slammed her arms into the wall, trapping the staff between them. Her shoulders hit hard, momentarily went numb. Not like this, she thought desperately, but there was no shoving him back—he was easily half again her size and he had the leverage the way he leaned into her. But his feet were well away from the wall; he wasn't ready when she folded at the knees and dropped, taking the bo with her. The wall must have been rough-finished plaster; the tee-shirt caught on it, sliding up to her shoulder blades, and it felt like she had scraped all the skin from her back.

  No room to maneuver the bo; the end was braced in the corner, anyway. She scooted sideways on her backside, trying to free it; the guard swore and brought his foot down in an attempt to pin it and her hand. She scooted again, rattling her teeth, nearly lost her balance entirely when she came down on the end of the throwing spear. I can't stick someone again, I can't, not now, I'll lose it again! she thought desperately. But the moment's delay had cost her; the guard had the bo flat on the floor under his boot and only a quick jerk and a palmful of splinters from a rough board saved the fingers. Jennifer brought her knees up, cautiously fished the spear from under her and forced herself to wrap two badly hurting hands around the haft.

  Lialla yelled something just then, a wild curse that rose to a piercing, furious shriek. The guard was distracted—just enough. Jennifer scrambled away under him, and when he turned back, she reversed the spear, slammed the wooden end into his temple and brought it down across the back of his neck as hard as she could. For one horribly long moment, he stared right into her eyes; his lids fluttered then and he fell jarringly into the floor, Jennifer's bo trapped under him.

  "Oh, shit!” she shouted furiously.

  "Jen, are you on your feet?” Lialla screamed at her. “Get—the—door!"

  "Are you crazy?"

  "Get it! That's my brother out there, can't you hear him?” Her voice went up into a shriek as the guard who'd been poised on the windowsill threw himself into the room and onto the bed. “Get the damn door, do it!"

  "All right, I heard you!” Jennifer bellowed. She shook out her left hand, gnawed at the palm to see if she couldn't free some of the embedded bits of floorboard, pressed the spear against the wall for balance and, with a wary glance at the man she'd just hit, another for the one who'd brought in the ugly little weapon she now held, she edged her feet toward the door.

  It was too damned dark, even with the curtain gone—even with moonlight bathing the side of the inn and coming through the empty window opening. She could make out where Lialla was—all that movement on the far corner of the bed, the sin-Duchess and at least one of their assailants. Two down that Jen personally knew of, one Lialla had hit earlier. How damn many of them made it in here? she wondered. But it was Aletto out there, and as she reached for the bolt, she could hear Dahven shouting her name.

  A hard hand clamped on her shoulder, spinning her around, tearing her fingers from the piece of metal. They went numb. Jennifer's head cracked into the wall; she swore, blinked rapidly to clear tears of pain from her eyes. For a frightening moment, she couldn't see anything but a swimming, shadowy shape and wondered if she'd hit her head hard enough to blind herself. The shape stabilized; the hand released her shoulder to take a grip in her hair. “Drop that, or I'll break your neck,” he ordered. When she didn't move, he tightened his grip, dragging her off balance. “Drop it."

  "It's—it's caught,” she managed.

  "Caught? In what?” He laughed grimly. “Caught in your breeks?"

  "My watchband—a wristband,” she finished in a shrill voice that didn't sound at all like hers. The grip on her hair eased slightly. “The end ran under the band, let me work it loose—"

  "Tell me another one."

  "I'm telling the truth,” Jennifer replied faintly. She tightened her fingers around the wood, shook her arm in a sharp downward series of jerks, as if trying to release something stuck inside the watchband. There was pandemonium in the hall, something struck the door hard, and now she could hear Chris shouting in a full fury. The guard ignored it; he wasn't taking his eyes off her for a moment. She couldn't make herself let go of the spear, her last possible defense against him. Anything, she thought desperately, any delay. But any moment now, he might simply grab her wrist, realize he was being had, squeeze until she had to let go. She shook her arm down again, harder this time, made the spear clatter against the wall.

  Someone hit the door again; wood cracked but still held. Lialla shrieked and was answered by the high, familiar shrilling of a giant hunting bird beyond the window. Someone below bellowed out a warning; a terrified howl just outside the room distracted the men inside. The grip on Jennifer's hair released slightly; she set her jaw and reversed the spear with her fingers, tightened her hand on it once more and jabbed, hard. The tip struck something metal, bounced, slid over the slick surface with a screech that made her fillings ache before it went in. The guard let go of her, clapped both hands around his thigh, staggered back a pace; the spear tore from shaking hands, haft bobbing. Jennifer swallowed bile, stared at it in horrified fascination. Oh, no. It had barely cut him; she could see most of the metal blade, a gleam of steel against his dark trousers in the line of light that came through the half-ruined door. It hadn't stopped him and, worse, now he had the spear.

  Jennifer braced both hands against the wall in an effort to steady herself, swallowed desperately and, as the guard yanked at the haft, she tried to throw herself sideways, toward the door. He was there before her, bracing his body against the wood. She stopped short, clutching at the wall for balance; he shouted to those behind him: “Will you get hold of that female back there so we can get out of here? It's only two women, after all!"

  Jennifer laughed breathily. “Trying to reassure yourself?"

  He didn't take his eyes from her as someone behind him yelled back, “There's a bird, a shapeshifter outside the window!"

  "Never mind the shifter, that's why we've got two archers in the yard, remember? Hurry, will you? You get the sin-Duchess under control, I'll bring this one."

  "Like hell you will,” Jennifer said flatly. The bo, she thought suddenly. It was just behind her; he hadn't touched it and the one who'd knocked it out of her hand—he'd crawled away sometime after this other one came in. She edged herself back a pace, dropped down to one knee and fumbled around as wide an area as she could,
without letting go the wall; she doubted she could regain her feet without it. The guard shifted his weight and she thought he might lunge after her. The door shuddered as someone hit it, hard; he rebraced his legs and edged his shoulder back into the wood.

  The bo was reassuringly hard and familiar; her left hand closed around it. Her cut fingertips stung; she set the end against the floor, used the staff to haul herself up, then swung it up, cocked her wrists and slammed it down. It cracked against one of his shins, hard enough to shake her grip. He roared with pain and fury, drew the leg up, hopping for balance, and fell against the door once more. As he hunched over, Jennifer threw herself at the bolt and actually got her fingers on it. Searing pain ran like fire from her left wrist all the way up her arm. She staggered back several paces, fell into the wall and slid down it, staring in shocked, sickened disbelief at her shoulder. The wooden shaft of the throwing spear lay across the backs of her fingers, the end pressing against her outflung leg. Most of the wickedly sharp blade was buried in her shoulder. There was blood everywhere. My blood. That's my blood, she thought faintly.

  The room spun sickeningly, tunneled down to nothing. The unbearable shouting and pounding stayed with her only an agonized breath longer.

  Terrible, throbbing pain brought her back to consciousness moments later. She was half-sitting, held up by the wall and her outflung legs. The door stood ajar, spilling light and more noise into the room. There seemed to be bodies everywhere. Including mine, she thought dizzily. Why can't I just pass out and stay out? Her eyes sagged closed. God. Hurts. I think I'm going to be sick if it gets any worse. Don't you dare be sick, Cray. Don't dare—

  "Jennifer?” Dahven's voice. She managed to open her eyes once more. He knelt before her, hands hovering but well away from her arm; his face was very white in the light someone had brought in.

  "Don't—touch,” she whispered.

  "You're bleeding; we've got to get that out, get it stopped."

  "No. Please, no. Hurts."

  "I know, my love.” He rose partway, turning to look around them urgently, then stripped off his shirt and hesitated, as though uncertain where to press it. Jennifer let her head back against the wall and tried to breathe so nothing moved.

  "Oh, jeez!” Chris's voice slammed through her; she winced and bit her lips not to cry out as the spear shifted slightly.

  "Don't,” Dahven urged in a low voice. “Don't. Find Lialla, hurry."

  "Jeez—right."

  "Jennifer.” Dahven's voice was still low; she wondered if he thought it sounded soothing. Because all she could hear was fear.

  You can be strong for Dahven, she reminded herself, and for a confused moment she thought they were back in Bezjeriad, Dahven the ill, thin, tormented huddle of a man in that dreadful little shack, herself kneeling next to him, reassuring him. “It's all right,” she whispered. “Don't worry, Dahven."

  "Of course not.” His fingers were cool against her cheek; they trembled, steadied again. She tried to bring her right hand up to cover his but it fell back into her lap. “You'll be fine. Once we get that out.” He cautiously slid his hand between the spear haft and her hand, edged shirt fabric between the two and let the haft down again to hold it in place.

  Everything shifted alarmingly and briefly faded. When she opened her eyes once more, he had his shirt worked up her arm to the elbow. The pressure was pure misery; she had to bite her lip not to tell him so. He's trying to stop it bleeding. God, what a hope. She was aware of the rough wall against scraped and bruised shoulders, of the fiery agony that was her left shoulder, of pressure against the inside of her left knee. The rucked-up tee-shirt and ruined underwear seemed very unimportant at the moment, in comparison. She laughed very faintly, rather breathily. “Guess if I had to ruin something, better my skivvies than my jeans, huh?"

  "Jen? Oh, God,” Robyn said and dropped down hard enough to shake the floor boards under her. Jennifer took her lips carefully between her teeth, forced her eyes partway open. Robyn's face shone with perspiration and she was trembling. She drew a deep breath, forced herself back to her feet and leaned against the ruined door frame to shout into the hall, “Caro! Caro, we need something for bandaging, fast!"

  "No,” Jennifer whispered. “Thread—” She tried to bring herself to look at her arm again and couldn't. It didn't surprise her that she couldn't shift into awareness of Thread, either. It did come as a shock that the pain was so much worse than what she'd felt when healing Aletto's arm. There was a difference after all. She felt consciousness slipping away once again, and let the darkness take her.

  9

  Thread-vibration woke her. Lialla was kneeling next to her, weaving the fingers of her right hand apparently through plain air, while the left shifted very lightly up and down Jennifer's arm. The overall pain had lessened, she thought; the bleeding had definitely slowed. Immediate pressure was going to make her sick, if she couldn't deal with Lialla's touch, careful as it was. She had one brief glimpse of the spear on the floor between her knee and Lialla's, the entire tip a dark, rusty red. It lay in a frighteningly large puddle, very dark against pale floorboards. Jennifer swallowed, forced her eyes away.

  Dahven had eased her away from the wall at some point and put himself on her right side for support, his left hand lightly rubbing her neck and holding her hair out of the way. His right fingers were threaded through hers. She gave them a squeeze and he managed a smile when she looked up at him. But his eyes were dark with worry and he looked as sick as she felt. “It's all right,” she assured him—or tried to. Her voice was a harsh, dry whisper that didn't sound very convincing.

  "I tried to tell him as much,” Lialla said stiffly. “It's a cut—"

  "A cut!” he protested.

  "All right, it's a nasty one, it's long and deep, but it's a cut all the same. Even I can deal with a cut,” Lialla added; she ran the fingers of her weaving hand through her hair and sighed in exasperation. “If you want to do something useful, keep quiet until I'm done, will you? I'm deathly tired and, quite honestly, this kind of thing is difficult enough for me when I'm fully awake and not trying to do it around a lot of people. You keep talking to me, and it breaks my concentration. Things take longer. Jen might not want that."

  "Sorry,” Dahven said stiffly, and shut his mouth hard. Lialla ignored him, closing her eyes and sifting through Thread once more. The stuff wrapped around Jennifer like a swirl of thick jelly, swaying her back and forth; she set her jaw and tried to think of a piece of music—any piece. Pain, Thread and nausea were effectively blocking her brain at the moment; she finally tightened her grip on Dahven's fingers, and when he bent his head close to her face, she murmured, “Sing to me. Something, anything.” He cast a doubtful look at the top of Lialla's bowed head. “It's all right; that won't interrupt her. What she's doing is making me ill. Help me take my mind off it. Anything. Please."

  He must have had as much difficulty as she in gathering scattered wits; he finally began humming something that might have been one of the Childe ballads she'd sung to him, back in that Red Hawk caravan—perhaps one of his own that was similar. Her throat was too dry to hum with him; she concentrated on the sound, on anticipating what the next notes would be. It was enough to partially block what Lialla was doing; the nausea faded.

  The arm throbbed dreadfully—more than she could block with only music—and she was still uncomfortably aware of blood trickling down her forearm. She was caught up in the picture once again, thrown back into the moment when there had been blood everywhere, her arm laid open from wrist to shoulder, the spear haft balanced almost delicately against the backs of her fingers. She clenched her teeth, swore under her breath. Dear God, no, stop it. Dahven's fingers tightened on hers, reflexively; she could feel his worried gaze on her face and he stopped singing. Thread jostled her, sickeningly, but for once she welcomed it: It shattered the nightmare vision. She opened her eyes, whispered, “Go on. Please.” He nodded, began to sing again. Thread faded. Lialla's fingers came down on h
er shoulder then, perhaps with light intent, but it felt like a brick. Jennifer sagged and everything faded.

  She wasn't certain she'd actually passed out, or lost only a moment or two. When she opened her eyes, however, Lialla was sitting back on her heels, eyes closed, breathing rather heavily. Jennifer set her teeth, flexed her fingers cautiously. It hurt, all the way into her shoulder and back again. But the fingers moved; her thumb folded over the way it should, even though the movement set everything throbbing wildly. After that, she decided not to attempt bending her elbow just yet. After one hesitant look at it, she decided she wouldn't do that again, either: There was blood everywhere, dried in dark patches on her forearm; creased in her knuckles—still dripping from the slashed sleeve of her ruined tee-shirt.

  Lialla looked abnormally white and perilously near tears; she dragged herself to her feet and walked out of the room before Jennifer could so much as try to thank her. Caro Ellaway, radiating calm and efficiency, settled down in the same place with a tray that held a large bowl of water, a pile of washing cloths, a steaming cup of something that smelled like herbs and lemon, a clay mug with beads of sweat on the side. Caro put the tray beside her and held the clay mug to Jennifer's lips. “It's only water,” she said. “But your sister said you prefer it for drinking, and she found your aspirins. I've two, will that be enough?” Jennifer nodded. “Good. I did bring tea, in case you'd like that. It's plain herb, no sleeping powders."

  "All right,” Jennifer managed.

  "Well, I suppose it might not have occurred to you, not the way you look just now. All the same, I'd want to know, and I didn't want you wondering about it, or being afraid to take anything.” She handed Dahven the water mug, wrung out wet cloths and began carefully sponging down the left arm. The water was cool, the woman's touch light and gentle. It hurt, but not as much as Lialla's healing had. “I'm sure you don't feel much like having me do this,” Caro went on. “But once we get you cleaned up and out of those bloody things, you'll feel better."