by Nathan Long
Ulrika leapt down at him, raising her sword, but he got his feet under him and humped over the wall, then scrambled, crouching and clutching his shoulder, over the next roof. Despite his wounds it was all Ulrika could do to keep up with him as he bounded on, heading east towards the University. Ulrika’s hunting instinct consumed her entirely as she raced after him. All other thought was gone. He was her prey, wounded and panicked, and she would bring him down. She would tear his throat out and bring his corpse back to her mistress as a trophy.
Finally, as they ran across the tops of the shabby student tenements to the north of the College of Engineering, they came to the Emmanuelleplatz, the north-south street that led to the Altestadt gate, and the vampire ran out of roof. He skidded to a stop as he topped the peak of the last building and saw the broad street stretching out below him – impossible to leap.
Ulrika hit him high in the back and brought him down in a jumble, clawing and biting and forgetting to use her blades. He fought back in kind as they slid towards the edge, then got a booted foot up and kicked her back. She crashed down, still sliding, then clawed to stop on the slates with a blackboard screech. Her sword was rolling towards the edge. She stood and snatched it up and advanced on him, her rational brain slowly wresting control from her instinct.
He was slower to rise, and though she could still see nothing of him but shifting shadows and red eyes, he left bloody handprints on the slates as he pushed himself up.
She put her sword point under his blurred chin and pressed him back towards the edge. ‘My blade is now at your throat,’ she said. ‘Who are you? Where are you hiding your troops?’
The vampire coughed, then laughed, deep and cold and not at all panicked. ‘You are as easily led as a cat with a bit of string, fraulein.’
‘And you are as easily caught as a mouse in a barrel,’ snapped Ulrika. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘By the time you get back to them, the hay wagons will be through the West Gate and you will not be able to follow, for the gate will be closed for the night. Nor will you get anything from me, for I do not fear your blade.’
‘No?’ asked Ulrika, and pushed the point another inch forwards.
But to her dismay, she felt no resistance this time, and the smudged outlines of the shadow-cloaked vampire began to blur into an amorphous cloud of smoke.
‘Perhaps some day I will teach you a true vampire’s tricks, daughter of Lahmia,’ said his voice, still as present as before, though his dissipating body was drifting away on the wind.
She stepped to the edge of the roof, slashing wildly. ‘Come back, coward! Face me blade to blade!’
A knot of darkness grew in the centre of the cloud, and before Ulrika realised the threat, it shot out and struck her in the chest. Her limbs went weak and she fell back onto the slates, unable to move as the smoke drifted above her.
‘It would be wisest to kill you,’ said the cloud, ‘but I meant what I said. You are wasted with the Lahmians, and I could use someone who knows them well.’
‘G-g-go… walk in the sun,’ said Ulrika, forcing the words through her frozen lips.
The cloud chuckled. ‘If ever you change your mind, return to this roof. I will find you.’
Ulrika found she could move the fingers of her right hand, and she gripped them around the hilt of her rapier, but before she could find the strength to lift it, the cloud had drifted away.
‘S-s-stop…’
‘Farewell, Ulrika Magdova Straghov,’ came the distant reply. ‘Until we meet again.’
Morrslieb had dropped a full handspan towards the horizon before she could rise and walk, and as the vampire had predicted, by the time she reached the West Gate the wagons were long gone and the gate shut tight for the night.
Ulrika started for home, sore and sick and chagrined, and wishing vengeance upon the faceless vampire with every fibre of her being.
Ulrika stepped through the broken window into the top floor of the plague house and froze. Someone had been here. There were fresh footprints in the dust, and they were not hers. She drew her rapier and dagger and crept for the corridor, straining all her senses. She felt no heart-fire and heard no shifting, but that was no guarantee the intruder had come and gone. It might be the Lahmians. It might be the shadow-faced Sylvanian. It might be anything.
The belled thread Ulrika had stretched across the entrance to the stairs had been snapped, and the bell lay in the dust. It seemed her visitor was not particularly well versed in spycraft. Or perhaps they didn’t care for subtlety.
Ulrika started down the stairs, blades at the ready. As she neared the floor she had claimed for her own, she heard a faint rustle of fabric coming from her room. She froze. They were waiting to ambush her. She smiled, showing her fangs. Well, she wouldn’t disappoint them.
She padded towards the room’s closed door, silent as snow, then kicked it in and leapt inside, slashing to the left and right.
A figure at her table leapt up, gasping, and put a frightened hand to her breast. It was Famke, dressed in sober skirts and hooded cloak. She had been in the middle of scrawling a note.
‘Sister!’ breathed Ulrika, sagging with relief. ‘What are you doing here?’
Famke recovered from her shock and stepped towards her, her green eyes pleading. ‘Ulrika! You must flee! Hermione knows where you are. She is sending our sisters to kill you!’
chapter eight
THE MAZE
Ulrika burned with embarrassment. For all her supposed worldly knowledge and skill as a warrior, the Lahmians had tracked her down in only a few days, and were now closing in. Then another emotion broke through her shame as she realised what Famke’s presence meant.
‘You shouldn’t have come. You’ve put yourself in danger.’
‘Do you think I could stand by and let you die?’
‘But how did you know where to find me?’
‘I told you. Hermione knows. I overheard her spy telling her where you were.’
Icy prickles shivered Ulrika’s skin. ‘If Hermione finds out you’ve–’
Famke thrust out her lower lip. ‘I don’t care what she knows! She’s mad. She grows madder every day. If I had the courage–’
A creak of floorboards brought Ulrika’s head up and she gripped Famke’s arm. They froze and listened. Something was moving above them, but so quietly that had Ulrika’s hearing not been unnaturally keen she would not have heard it. Another creak and shift of weight, then a footstep, soft as a feather. Someone had climbed through the broken window – someone who knew their business.
Ulrika led Famke into the corridor, trying to be as silent as the intruder, but for all her willowy delicacy, Famke was as ungainly as a colt, and made squeaks and thuds with every step. At the stair, Ulrika turned her down towards the ground floor. She did not want to fight the assassins, not with Famke in tow, and, really, not at all. If she was to some day return to the sisterhood, she could not afford to get Lahmian blood on her hands now.
A sharp snap from below froze them in their tracks. Someone had just broken the lock on the front door. Then a screech of wood came from the rear of the tenement. Someone else was prying the boards from the back door.
Ulrika cursed under her breath. ‘Back the way we came. Hurry.’
Famke started up the stairs again, making too much noise, and Ulrika followed, straining her ears above and below. The soft steps coming down had quickened, and from the ground floor she heard the faint ring of swords drawing from scabbards.
Abandoning stealth for speed, Ulrika pushed Famke roughly into her room. There were two windows on the exterior wall, both shrouded and boarded up. She vaulted her bed and kicked the planks of the nearer window as hard as she could. A few snapped and fell away, taking the black drapes with them, as cries erupted outside. She kicked again.
Female shouts came from above and below, and the
silent footfalls turned to pounding bootsteps. Ulrika tore away a last board and looked down into the alley. A handful of well-armed blood-swains craned their necks at her. Some had pistols.
‘There!’ shouted one.
Ulrika jerked back as an iron ball splintered the frame. Jumping down was not an option, but across? There was a window in the tenement opposite, shutters open to the sultry summer night.
‘Turn, stray,’ said a voice behind her. ‘I’ve heard you can fight.’
Ulrika turned. Mistress Casilla, the Estalian Lahmian who had confronted the fat vampiress at the sisterhood’s council, stood in the door, rapier drawn and a cruel smile making a mockery of her noble features. She was dressed this time in breeches and boots, with a heavy leather jacket over her doublet. Two similarly dressed women pushed through from the hall behind her.
Ulrika went on guard. ‘Famke. Jump across.’
‘But–’
‘I will follow. Go.’
Casilla seemed to notice Famke for the first time. ‘It’s the shrew’s get. She warned the prey.’ She motioned her companions forwards. ‘Kill her too. We cannot countenance traitors.’
‘I am not a traitor!’ cried Famke. ‘But I’ll not stand by and–’
‘Famke!’ Ulrika barked. ‘Go!’
With a snarl, Famke went, rucking her skirts and leaping out the window as the three Lahmians charged, rapiers extended.
Ulrika hooked a toe under her bed and upended it at them. Casilla tripped as she tried to leap it, and the woman on the left got her feet tangled in the mattress as it flopped to the floor. The third Lahmian, however, dodged all and came on. Her form was faultless, but very salon de fence. Ulrika trapped her blade in a high bind and kicked her knee sideways.
She went down with a cry and Ulrika jumped back, then spun and sprang through the window. Another pistol cracked as she flew across the narrow alley, but too late. She landed in a tiny room filled with screaming children.
Famke was just getting to her feet in the centre of the nursery, staring around in horror. The place was a nest, ankle-deep in dirty blankets, gnawed bones and human excrement, and a dozen gaunt children were waking up and shouting in fear.
‘Ma, come quick! Someone’s come through th’window!’
‘Out!’ said Ulrika, and pulled Famke towards the door.
She kicked into a second room and knocked down a stringy woman in a filthy nightshirt who was coming to see what was the matter.
‘My babies!’ she shrieked as Ulrika trampled her, searching for the exit.
Heavy thuds and fresh shouting told Ulrika that the Lahmians had followed. She found the flat’s door, a sturdy board with a lock and a wedge stuck under it, and tore it open by force, then ran through with Famke and slammed it behind her.
They were in the tenement’s narrow stairwell, a square, laundry-webbed hole that reeked of piss and rotting food. Ulrika could hear the heavy clatter of the blood-swains thudding up from below. No going down, then. She took Famke’s hand and pounded up the rickety stairs towards the roof, Famke holding up the hem of her long dress so she wouldn’t trip. Below them, the door to the filthy flat slammed open again and the three Lahmians burst out, then followed, silent and swift.
Ulrika stumbled as a tread cracked under her left foot. The stairs seemed made of matchwood and spit. It would be a miracle if they didn’t crash through and fall to their deaths. The thought brought her up short. No. It would be a miracle if the Lahmians did!
As they ran on, Ulrika looked closer at the steps. They were nailed at top and bottom to the landings and support posts, but the wood had warped with age and was pulling away from the nails. She could see the whole construction sag with every step they took. She looked down. The Lahmians were only one landing below. Not much time.
At the top of the flight, Ulrika stopped and began kicking as hard as she could at the join where the steps met the landing. The wood splintered and cracked under her unnatural strength, and started to separate. Famke saw what she was doing and joined her, kicking at the wall-side join with her slippered feet.
Casilla uttered an Estalian oath and she and her sisters redoubled their speed. Ulrika kicked harder, but the join was stronger than it looked. It still held as the Lahmians reached the bottom of the flight. The moment they started up, however, it listed sharply to one side, and they froze, clinging to the handrail. Ulrika laughed, exultant, but the flight caught on something and stuck. Casilla let out a held breath and the Lahmians continued, cautiously now, swords out.
Ulrika gave up kicking and readied her weapons. At least she had the high ground. ‘Famke, get back.’
Famke withdrew as Mistress Casilla advanced up the last few steps, her blade extended towards Ulrika’s breast.
‘Come, child, let us test your–’
She broke off as the stairs slipped another shrieking inch, and she threw her arms wide for balance. Ulrika was not slow to take advantage. She kicked Casilla in the chest and sent her flying back into her companions. They caught their mistress and stopped her from falling, but the weight of the impact did what Ulrika and Famke’s kicking had failed to, and separated the flight from its supports. With a splintering of wood, the steps peeled from the wall and plummeted away, taking the three Lahmians with them. The whole mess smashed through the flight directly below, then continued on down the well in a cloud of dust and flying splinters.
Ulrika and Famke laughed, then ran on. At the top, the stairs ended in a landing with a ladder that went up to a hatch. Ulrika went up first, and forced open the hatch, then helped Famke onto the roof.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘They’ll never follow us now.’
But as they ran down the slope of the roof and leapt to the next, they heard a shrieking above them, so high and thin that Ulrika doubted she would have heard it had she still been mortal.
‘Up here! Up here! They’re heading east!’
A winged shape was circling above them, silhouetted against Mannslieb’s white light. It had a bat’s leathery pinions, but the body of woman. Ulrika recognised her as another attendee of the Lahmian council – the bat-like woman who had perched on the broken pillar and observed in silence. Well she was silent no more. She was crying Ulrika and Famke’s location to her companions at the top of her lungs.
And her companions had heard. Ulrika looked down as she and Famke leapt another alley, and saw the Lahmians’ swains spilling out of the tenement, covered in dust and scratches, and pelting down the street in the direction the bat-woman had indicated.
‘We have to go to ground,’ said Ulrika. ‘We have to hide from the sky.’
‘I know just the place,’ said Famke, turning south. ‘This way.’
Ulrika followed, a bit uncertain. ‘What place is this? How do you know it?’
Famke flashed a grin over her shoulder. ‘Don’t you remember? I was born here. These streets were my home until Hermione took me in. Come on.’
Ulrika ran after her, hopping from roof to roof, as the bat-woman cried out above and the human hounds chased through the streets below. Very quickly, the rooftops grew steeper and in worse repair, and the streets and alleys narrower and even more convoluted. Soon, Ulrika could not even see the ground between the mouldering eaves of the buildings.
‘This is the Maze,’ said Famke. ‘My home. They say a man can live his whole life on the streets of the Maze, and never once see the sun. Come. Down here.’
She stepped to the edge of a roof that looked down into a deep well of darkness formed by the backs of four dilapidated buildings, and leapt down to an awning-covered porch that had apparently been fixed to the building with tarred rope and prayer.
Ulrika jumped down after her, afraid she would crash right through, but the balcony held, and Famke ripped open the shuttered window that served it as a door and went in.
‘They’re going down!’ shrieke
d the bat-woman from the sky. ‘South-west! South-west!’
Famke led Ulrika through a filthy flat, crowded with ranks of sleeping men and women, and thick with black lotus smoke, then down through the tenement, which made the one they had first entered look like Countess Emmanuelle’s palace. The stairs were patched and sagging, and missing treads on every flight, and the walls were black with rot and mildew. Men, women and children slept on the landings, and crude drawings on the doors to the flats advertised the services provided by those who lived within – bloody knives, severed limbs, smoking pipes, exaggerated female torsos. Furtive figures shrank back into open doors as Famke and Ulrika hurried by. The place was as hot as an oven and stank of dung, decay and pipe weed, with a sweet overlay of rotgut gin.
‘You were born here?’ she asked incredulously. It seemed impossible that anyone so beautiful had come from such ugliness.
Famke nodded. ‘And I’d be here still if my father hadn’t whored me to one of Lady Hermione’s blood-swains. He told her of me and she stole me away.’
They reached the ground floor and Ulrika peeked outside, looking for the Lahmians. The street – more like a muddy ditch between buildings – was narrower than the hallway she stood in, and just as dark. It crooked off in both directions so she couldn’t see more than twenty paces either way, and was dotted with hunched figures scurrying by like rats along a baseboard. In the distance she could hear the sounds of bitter argument and rough merry-making, and further off, the thud and clash of a fight, but of the Lahmians she heard and saw nothing.
‘This way,’ said Famke, and led Ulrika to the right.
Ulrika looked up as she followed, afraid she would see the bat-woman circling above, but Famke had not lied. It was almost impossible to see the night sky. The gap between the buildings narrowed as they rose, each overhanging storey leaning closer to its neighbour than the one below. In addition, balconies, awnings, laundry lines and plank bridges stretched from wall to wall, making a haphazard layered ceiling that showed only scraps and slashes of sky.