Around twenty swordsmen ran out of the colonnade, carrying lamps and oil jugs with spouts. Lightning drew on them but saw Tirrick’s blade bite against Vendace’s skin, and didn’t loose. The guards around the library door let them speed through. Crashes came up from below, smashing pottery, rustling and tearing.
A heavy thump shook the floor as the men pulled a bookshelf over. I heard them kicking the scrolls into heaps. “They’re going to burn the library!” I darted to the stairs and called down, “Stop! In the name of San and the will of god. How dare you?”
A voice shrugged, “Come out and be executed or stay there and char.”
But these are books-all the books of Tris. “You must not,” I yelled desperately.
A blue-gray twist rose from the stairwell like cigarette smoke. Within seconds it widened to fill the whole well. From the window I saw the swordsmen pouring out onto the mosaic, shoving the guards back in their haste to escape. “The fire’s caught! Ready yourselves, they have to surrender. It’s going up!”
Smoke billowed past me in a thick stream and drifted along the ceiling. Lightning released the tension on his bowstring. “We have to break out. There are a dozen fencing masters. We can deal with them, but the senators will die.”
“The books!” I wailed. “I can’t leave-”
“Don’t be stupid!”
“Maybe there’s another way down.” Gray wreaths shrouded the rafters completely and were descending extremely quickly to fill the room. I fumbled through a stack of leather-bound books on the table and slipped them into my coat pockets. I picked up the lantern. “Wait here. I’ll check the far end.”
Lightning began coughing loudly. I called, “Stoop low. Slouch down under it.” I had been in a burning building before and, as far as I knew, he had not. But my lungs hurt as I sucked smoke and I started choking more than him.
I had to save the books, as many as I could carry. I strode down the aisle snatching them from the shelves. I stuffed one in my waistband, another in my belt. I had no time to translate the titles; I couldn’t see with the smoke stinging my eyes. I didn’t know what I was snatching. I piled them frantically in the crook of my left arm, discarded a heavy tome, selected two more haphazardly. I thought, I’m rescuing a handful of volumes at random to represent the total knowledge of an entire culture. Which were most worthwhile? Were these engineering, cookery or poetry? Or even bloody fiction? I had no way of judging. I spat out the cloying smoke and the stack buckled in my arms. I reached the end of the library-which was just a blank wall-and I dropped all the books with a series of thuds.
Recognizable but horribly out of place, gray mottled, fibrous drapes strung between the last two bookcases: Insect paper. They looked folded but were as hard as concrete. They curved up from the shelves and blurred into the smoke creeping down from the beams.
Two long, brown forelegs emerged from the nest. The Insect’s black spiny foot clicked down onto the floor between my boots, and its three claws articulated shut. I backed into the opposite bay.
The Insect ducked its triangular head and slipped out from between the bookcases. Its eyes’ tessellations reflected the lamp-lit swirling smoke. It brushed a fringe on its front right leg over them. It must have pulled out Wrenn’s rapier, because the hole through its thorax was now a deep concavity filled with smooth new shell. It had sloughed its skin and was even bigger than I remembered. The high joints of its back legs loomed out of the smoke.
Two club-shaped black palps shuffled like a pair of hands rubbing together. They retracted and the scissor jaws opened and shut. It lifted a foreleg and cleaned its single crooked antenna through filaments inside its knee.
Lightning flexed his bow and spoke with his lips to the string, “Step aside.” Through the smoke he was just a silhouette blurred by the tears streaming from my eyes. I pressed my coat cuff to my nose and mouth. In another thirty seconds the room would be full and I could hear crackling from below.
“Wait!” The Insect stood still, close enough for me to see the scars and impressions I had made with my axe. A row of black spines four-wide supported the upper surface of its striped abdomen. The pale underside pulsed as it curled its abdomen under itself, pumping air through its spiracles which were wide open.
“Wait. It doesn’t like the smoke.”
Its antenna flicked forward, sensing for the clean air. It jolted into an involuntary crouch. “It’s going to run-let it pass!”
The Insect leapt. It hurtled past Lightning, stretched its full length and reached over the handrail, down into the stairwell. Its back sword-shaped femurs kicked and claws scrabbled on the blistering varnish, then it disappeared into the gusting smoke. I ran after it instantly; Lightning seemed bewildered so I grasped his arm and urged him to the steps.
We took deep breaths and plunged down. I patted my hair-it felt so hot I thought it was alight. Lightning held his hand over his mouth and the tip of his bow rattled off the ceiling. The steep steps were opaque with smoke. Perspiration and tears trickled down my face.
We stumbled to the ground floor, onto ten centimeters of fallen books. They slid over each other, making the floor slippery. I led Lightning around the tall shapes of leaning shelves. We crushed scorching scrolls underfoot with a sound like old Insect shell. Even now I was torn with the desire to rake them up. The fire’s crackling built into a steady sibilance and its raw orange light leapt behind the smoke, illuminating the surfaces of the billowing wreaths.
Lines of yellow flame spread between the parquet blocks. By the windows, flames began to lengthen and bend as air flow sucked them out of the shutters.
“Can’t breathe,” I said weakly. “Where’s…the fucking door?” The unbearable heat singed my feathers, my reddened skin stung. The pages of open books on the floor around us were curling and turning brown spontaneously. I saw one burst into flame.
I pointed to the rectangle of pale morning light; we rushed through without readying our weapons. Getting out of the smoke was all that mattered.
The men who had been guarding the door were spilt on the mosaic in a fan of visceral blood. We crossed the threshold with smoke pouring out above us. One had died quickly, eyes open, from a horrible gash that opened his belly to the sternum. Another crumpled in a red pool so thick the Insect must have severed an artery, though I couldn’t see the wound. The arm of a third man lay beside a rapier some way off.
The Insect did not pause to clean its mandibles. It was confused by the scents and invigorated by the fresh air. Its six feet left prints, its knee joints bunched and separated as it dashed toward the senators and swordsmen. Their white clothes reflected in its directionless eyes. Their mouths were round in astonishment. Every one of the swordsmen bolted, including Tirrick, leaving the senators in the Insect’s path.
Lightning leaned into his bow and bent it fully with the strength of his shoulders. The broadhead point drew back to the grip. Across the square the Insect reared up before Vendace. Lightning straightened his fingers, released the string with a crack and the arrow whistled past me.
The Insect’s foreclaws lashed the air in front of Vendace, then it fell sideways. It curled on its right side, the arched plates of its abdomen sliding over each other as it coiled and throbbed. A spasm went through it that flexed all its joints and pulled its limbs in, like the legs of a dead crab. They steepled angularly together, its feet drawn up to the six semi-translucent ball joints under its thorax. By the sunken ring at the base of its feeler, Lightning’s arrow shaft made a second antenna. The shell gaped around it, an open crack showing an organ of dark brown gel deep inside.
The senators gazed at it, and at the library. All the erudition of Tris was rising with the fire. I faced the intolerable furnace as if it was a punishment and spread my wings to accept and be consumed by it. Rolls of heat belched out, shelves split with creaks and thuds. Tremendous flames raged through the library I respected so much; I felt sick in the pit of my stomach.
“Shira!” Lightning called. “Co
me here, why are you standing so close? It’s falling apart!”
“No. The books are burning…What has Gio done?”
“Get a grip! Speak to the senators.”
I was numbly aware of Lightning ushering the Trisian leaders to the boulevard. Behind us, the coffers lay forgotten. I thought, if I live through this I’ll claim them. The Trisians would disregard the treasure as dross, so I relinquished it for the time being, avoided the dead Insect and stepped over three or four agonized rebels with arrows in their thighs, and ran to catch up with them. They were hurrying down the path with appalled backward glances.
Vendace was holding one of the senators tightly, a young lady. She was kicking and biting, frenziedly struggling and pulling in the direction of the library. I ran to help but Vendace snapped at me, “She’s Danio’s successor. Don’t let her go; she’ll run in to the fire. Every time you come here, you put an end to our librarians!”
We tried to calm the hysterical girl. I explained to Lightning, who said candidly, “I know how she feels. People pass away, there are always more, but the books are irreplaceable. They’re the immortal part of Zascai-how many lifetimes are burning to cinders in there?”
I said to Vendace, “You saw how Gio’s men treated you. They’re causing this catastrophe, not us. We’ll deliver you from them before they destroy the rest of town. Lightning shot the Insect dead. We were sent to protect you from it and from Gio; he’s a wanted criminal in the Fourlands.”
Vendace, mystified, turned his pinched, resilient face from myself to the Archer. The Senate had prized Gio’s rhetoric so highly that they found it hard to trust our actions. As I walked quickly they pressed close, trying to hear over the sound of the blaze. With an earsplitting screech and crash, the library roof caved in at its midpoint. Timbers dangled like fingers from both sides. Glowing tiles slid into the fissure, adding to the noise; the rumble grew to a roar. Sparks whirled up and fell on the roof of the Senate House. It was hypnotic.
Lightning said, “Jant, tell them that I’ll see them to a safe place, then I’ll clear looters from the avenue as far as the rear of Gio’s column.”
I asked, “Are you well enough?”
“I believe so.”
“Then I’ll fly over Mist and Serein, and join you on the main road.”
An elderly senator with a rookery voice coughed. “What is going on? Where’s Gio?”
I changed language and said, “He’s causing the mayhem-I’m going to find out. Lightning will help you, if you please lead him to a place of refuge. I’m sorry, I am really sorry.”
Vendace pointed a shaking finger at the Amarot. Flames were now lapping on the Senate House roof. Driven to incandescence by the wind, the fire spread to the apartments on its upper story and began to engulf them. “No amount of apologizing will ever repair that sacrilege!”
When we reached the base of the crag, Vendace directed Lightning toward a road called First Street. I left them, and as soon as I carved into the air I found myself battling against the wind being sucked into the inferno. It whipped around the crag in one-hundred-kilometer-per-hour gusts, causing a swirling column of vertical flame to rise eighty meters above the devastated library.
Smoke layered and drifted out at the height of the Amarot. It completely blocked the sunrise and shadowed the town. Burning embers were falling into the gardens of the villas below. The whitewashed walls looked gray and the boulevard was littered with spoil and broken furniture dragged out by the rebels; here and there lay the bodies of the Trisians who had tried to stop them.
Sleepy residents stumbled into the street, looking up at the crag and trying to understand. At the edge of town, people panicked and began moving toward the harbor. I saw Capharnai of all ages responding to a call to make a bucket chain. About two hundred people filled pails, pans and bowls from cisterns and carried them up the winding road to the Amarot, but the air was unbreathable; the rising heat and wind stopped them before they reached the mosaic. A few of the lamed rebels who were still lying among the boxes of money, writhed as they inhaled smoke. Their clothes and hair caught fire spontaneously.
I soared higher, because I was alarming the Capharnai and they were wasting their time watching me. I lost sight of the peach-colored sky beyond the edges of the smoke pall. Flocks of pigeons sped around the tiny rooftops, grouping to roost, confused by the eerie eclipse light. Dawn would not end; the light was dim, as if it was still seven A.M.
The looters were fanning out through the top of town, kicking in doors and pulling shutters off their hinges, leaving a wake of debris, barking dogs and half-eaten food.
Pages and whole blackened pamphlets, scroll fragments burned thin, jostled up in the smoke then fell on the town as hot ash. The residue of hundreds of thousands of books was raining over Capharnaum. The gloaming light and the roar of the library added to the rebels’ edginess. It was much louder than the sound of the wind on my wings.
Gio’s rabble now packed the lower half of the main street, blocking the wide road as they progressed down the slope toward the harbor. Gio walked ahead of them with his rapier drawn. His column was twice the size of Mist’s tight ranks.
Mist’s fyrd was marching up the street from the Stormy Petrel. The boatswains were drumming; their beats got louder as I dropped height and passed over them. I spotted Mist leading by Wrenn’s side; she looked up and raised her hand. She had tied her shawl a round her waist, revealing a cuirass and backplate. Wrenn wasn’t wearing armor; he was in his fyrd fatigues. He was looking for Gio, dissatisfied with their disputable duel in the forest. He was determined to beat Gio on equal terms and leave no doubt that he deserved to be immortal.
Mist was surrounded on all sides by crossbowmen and a bodyguard of her strongest sailors, all in half-armor. After that came one hundred and fifty Awndyn men carrying halberds and spears; no space to wield pikes. They wore dark green brigandines; their helmets shone like globular mirrors.
As I watched, the rear of Ata’s column stopped at the quay and the rest separated and continued up the street. She had left about fifty men, a fyrd lamai unit, to protect Stormy Petrel, moored a hundred meters behind Gio’s ships. From Petrel’s forecastle and poop deck, archers looked out. Both her gangplanks were down but colored shields lined her railings. The longbowmen were tense, watching the rebel defectors who ran, laden with loot, out of the ends of the parallel streets. They raced up the Pavonine’s gangway to a deck that seethed with drawn weapons; white faces ugly with fear stared up at me. They had turned pirate; they were prepared to defend their carrack to the death.
When Gio’s rabble caught sight of Mist’s vanguard, rebels in ones and twos began to melt away from his column, down the alleys and into the streets of the grid. They turned left and right along the intersecting roads like counters in a board game. I decided that their movements were too random to be tactical, even before I saw them start smashing shop shutters and grabbing whatever was inside.
Mist’s fyrd and Gio’s horde stopped with twenty meters between them. There was a second’s silence in which Gio, shield on his arm, walked forward of his line and scanned the people opposing him, looking for Wrenn.
The Awndyn Fyrd captain called, “Crossbowmen! Span. Latch. Loose!” They shot straight into the rebel front at short range, aiming at the fencing masters, knowing they were the most dangerous. The metal Insect-killing bolts cut past shop canopies and statues, burying themselves in men’s faces, chests and bellies. I saw black bolt points project from their backs.
The crossbowmen’s partners stepped forward with a shout, raised and slammed their green and white shields into a wall, hustling into position across the road. Behind the shields, the crossbowmen began to reload.
Gio’s men waited in horror for the next barrage. Heads bobbed up and down as some men split off down the side streets but most were trapped in the center.
The shields were lowered, crossbows leveled. “Latch! Loose!” Another barrage flew at Gio’s front line. The last of the fenci
ng masters fell, lifeless or mortally wounded. Gio peered from behind his shield; swung his arm. “Forward! Break the wall! Bear down the shields!”
A wave of three hundred men together started running. The front of the column seemed to flake off, as faster and faster they closed the gap. They jumped high, crashed into the shields at full tilt, hitting them with their shoulders and forcing them down. Their swords thrust over the tops, into the necks and faces of the bearers.
The crossbowmen slung their bows into holsters on their backs, drew their swords and surged forward against the rebels. The confused mass began to shove up and down the street.
I saw that Ata’s spearmen were trapped toward the rear of her host. Surely that was a mistake-wouldn’t they be better than the crossbows? Crossbowmen had served Ata well five years ago; now she was relying on them too much. The shield wall was perfect but it should be backed by spears. The fyrd are simply following their usual procedure: Insect-fighting tactics. They’re wrong but even Ata hasn’t noticed the discrepancy.
Both the fyrd and the insurgents tried to outflank each other. From above I watched the side streets filling. As the melee widened, the columns in the boulevard shortened, with Wrenn and Gio in the exact center.
I called to the fyrd who were exploring the alleys, and led them down the right routes to ambush the rebels, who were more used to fighting in side streets. I landed and directed a group; we surprised five of Gio’s men before they could rejoin the main column, and killed them all.
I returned to the air, where I could easily distinguish Mist’s bodyguards. I occasionally glimpsed her face but she no longer had time to look up at me. The press was so intense, she held her curved Wrought sword with the convex arc uppermost to thrust rather than slice. Her voice carried-she screamed commands to surround Gio and disarm him. Whenever he could, Gio yelled at his rebels to close in on Mist.
No Present Like Time Page 36