The Hero Strikes Back

by Moira J. Moore

He took a careful sip. He jerked his head back, looking as though he had been struck. He quickly put the goblet on the table. On the other side of the table, as though he wanted to get the wine as far away from himself as possible. “Good gods.”

  I went nowhere near my goblet. Neither did Lydia. Doran, being male, had to have a taste. His reaction was almost identical to Karish’s. “Zaire, that’s evil.”

  But everyone else was drinking it, and seemed to be enjoying it. Even the Prince, who I would have assumed had access to the best wines in the world.

  All right. Everyone was insane. That was the only explanation.

  Which made me think of another source of insanity enjoyed by the city, because that was the way my mind worked. “Doran?”

  “Yes?”

  “You don’t perform in the Hallin Festival, do you?” I’d been told it was required by law that every able-bodied person perform, but surely that wasn’t imposed on the High Landed.

  Then again, who’d made up the law in the first place, eh?

  He grinned. “Of course.”

  Lydia rolled her eyes.

  “You’re kidding,” said Karish.

  “What do you do?” I asked Doran.

  “Sleight of hand.” He picked up one of his unused forks, held it in his right hand, briefly curled his two hands together and held out his empty right hand, the fork nowhere in sight.

  “Well done,” Karish said with admiration.

  I grabbed Doran’s left hand and pulled the fork from his sleeve.

  “Hey!” Doran protested, and Lydia laughed.

  Karish chuckled. “Don’t be too downhearted, lordling. Misdirection may not work so well on a Shield.”

  “Well, the circumstances aren’t the best.” Doran took the fork back and balanced it on his index finger. “You won’t be able to catch me out so easily when I’m on stage with costumes and props.”

  If Lydia had not been a well-bred lady I would have sworn she groaned. “And they get more ridiculous and elaborate with every year,” she said dryly. “It took days for the paint he slathered all over my face to finally fade. I couldn’t leave the house for a week, nor see anyone. Mother was not pleased.” But the look she shot at Doran was fond. She hadn’t minded so much, I guessed.

  “You do sleight of hand, too?” I asked her.

  “No, I play his assistant. Hand him things on stage so the performance goes smoothly, with no gaps in the action and movement. It’s the best way to get through a talent show without having an actual talent.”

  What a brilliant idea. “Don’t happen to need any more assistants, do you?” I looked at Doran and hoped desperation was beaming out of my eyes.

  “Back off, Shield,” Lydia growled. “He’s my ticket through the Festival.”

  “And,” Karish tugged on my hair. “You’re doing something with me.”

  “We never agreed to that,” I protested.

  “We’re agreeing now.”

  High-handed bastard. “Neither of us have any talent.” Which was a pretty pathetic state of affairs.

  “You must be able to do something,” said Lydia.

  “You’d be stunned by the level of my ineptitude.”

  “Stop that,” Karish snapped.

  Doran and Lydia were understandably startled by Karish’s swing in mood. There was nothing for it but to let them get used to it. “I can’t do anything but shield and dance the bars,” I told our new acquaintances. “I can’t do anything anyone else would find entertaining. Except make a fool of myself, and I’d rather avoid that if I could.”

  “Do a scene from a play,” Doran suggested.

  “I’ve never acted,” I said.

  “Neither have I,” Karish added.

  Not on stage.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Doran was saying. “It’s the traditional way of getting through the festival when there is honestly nothing else you can do. Pick a short scene and act it out.”

  “Ugh!” was Karish’s eloquent response.

  Well, it was something, I supposed. Though the very idea of standing on a stage in front of a bunch of people stuttering out a string of tortured lines made me want to cringe.

  Uproarious laughter coming from up the table. From the Prince, of all people.

  “Maybe he has no head for wine,” Karish commented.

  No, I didn’t think that was it. Or it was, at most, only a part of it. Others about the table appeared equally relaxed, speaking loudly, animatedly, gesturing broadly. Spines were resting against the backs of chairs all over the room. The Dowager was smiling again.

  And she looked so much like Karish then.

  “Maybe the wine is unusually potent,” I said. “Would that affect the taste?”

  Karish snorted. “It’s too new.”

  “Too new?”

  “If it was waved at a bottle between the vat and the glass I’d be surprised.”

  I frowned, my memory twigging.

  “Three weeks,” said Doran, eyeing his goblet. “Bet it’s three weeks old.”

  “I’d take that bet, except it would require actually tasting it again to be sure.” Karish shuddered. “No amount of money is worth that.”

  “Hah! Money. Like you have to worry about that.”

  Karish stiffened at that. “I always honor my gambling debts,” he said coolly.

  Doran’s eyes widened. “Forgive me,” he said, with every appearance of sincerity. “I honestly didn’t mean to imply anything disrespectful. I only meant that, your being a Source—so how much did you lose in the upset yesterday?”

  We all recognized the diversionary tactic for what it was, and Karish’s shoulders relaxed. “You mean that vicious stumble in the fourth race?”

  Racing. Gambling. Wonderful. I had to admit Karish was good about not boring me to suicide by constantly talking about such things, which were of no interest to me. But I could hardly expect him to restrain himself when he encountered a fellow enthusiast.

  I noticed Lydia’s avid interest. Make that two fellow enthusiasts. I predicted I would be feeling very ignorant and very stupid soon.

  However, before the three could degenerate too far into racing slang the main course was served. Thick round slices of beef covered in gravy and surrounded by steamed vegetables. Mouth-watering commenced immediately. My stomach twisted painfully. “That’s it. I’m eating.”

  “Lee,” Karish said with disappointment.

  “And I thought Shields were supposed to be so disciplined,” Lydia teased.

  “Discipline be damned. This smells good and I’m starving.” Besides, I loved roast beef. I neatly sliced off a corner and stuck it in my mouth. I bit down, anticipating a rush of flavor.

  But my teeth didn’t sink through in the manner they were supposed to, and the taste was . . . different. Because I couldn’t spit it out I quickly chewed and swallowed. I put down the cutlery.

  “What’s wrong?” Karish asked me.

  “I don’t think it’s beef.” And I hated eating something when I didn’t know what it was. My imagination went to bad places.

  “Maybe it’s ostrich,” Lydia suggested.

  Karish picked up my cutlery and took a slice from my meat. Like he didn’t have his own plate right in front of him. “What, do you feel it’s less like cheating if it’s from my plate instead of yours?”

  He chewed and swallowed and returned the cutlery. “It’s goat. Quite good, actually.”

  “Goat,” I said. Things starting clicking in my head.

  “Aye.”

  “Just as well, then.” Doran grimaced. “Can’t stand goat.”

  Oh god.

  Could I have been any more stupid? If I gave myself a year? And tried really really hard?

  Wine of the new moon.

  Mountain mammal.

  Cheese.

  Honey.

  Plants would be in soil. Earth. Fireplace. Waterfall. Window for air. Everyone seated in a circle. Of a sort. In a stone room. It couldn’t have been more obvious i
f there’d been a sign saying SITE OF RITUAL SACRIFICE hanging over the door.

  Everyone was an aristocrat, except me. Almost everyone had a title. Risa had mentioned a belief that one big sacrifice would still the planet for a good long while. Maybe indefinitely. The Reanist who’d stopped me in the street had told me killing off one aristocrat at a time wouldn’t accomplish anything.

  Yet they had been killing them off one at a time. Or at least taking them. Why would they bother if they were just going to have this big party and kill everyone. Why not just invite them to the party with everyone else?

  A test run? Proof killing aristocrats would work? There hadn’t been an event for months. Not, of course, that that meant anything. Of course killing aristocrats didn’t actually calm the world. Not in a geophysical sense, anyway. But someone could probably point to the coincidence and make a convincing argument.

  Except no one who wasn’t a member of the Triple S knew there had been no events.

  This was Lord Yellows’ home. He had served the food. He was High Landed. He’d have to be involved, if the Reanists were planning something that evening, but why would he be? Did he have his own reasons for wanting the Crown Prince dead? Surely he couldn’t be foolish enough to believe he would get away with it.

  On the other hand, if we were all dead, who knew what story he could tell?

  What could I do? Who was involved with this? The guards? The servants?

  But the Reanists had all been captured at the parade. Risa had said they were.

  Everyone working for Yellows had their heads covered.

  What was I going to do?

  How could I have been so thrice-damned stupid?

  But maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was all a coincidence. Everyone said Yellows was eccentric. Maybe he’d stumbled on a description of the Reanist sacrificial rituals and thought they were charming. I could be about to make a huge public fool of myself.

  Better humiliated than dead.

  Of course, I might not be killed. Not yet. My bad merchant blood might taint the rest. Just one more reason to be grateful for not being an aristocrat.

  Stop rambling.

  What the hell was I going to do?

  I put a hand on Karish’s shoulder and subtly pulled him closer. “We have to get everyone out of here,” I whispered. “I think this is a Reanist ritual.” Damn it. What an idiotic way to put it. It demanded doubt.

  He stared at me, and I could tell he was wondering whether I’d been nipping at the wine without him noticing. “You what?” he demanded. But he kept his voice low. Good boy.

  “Trust me.” I didn’t have time to explain it all. We had to think of a way to get everyone out of the manor, or at least out of the room, without alerting whoever was responsible for this.

  Karish studied me a few moments more before nodding.

  I wasn’t relieved. He didn’t try to talk me out of it, didn’t think the idea was beyond the realm of possibility. Hell.

  He looked up towards the Prince.

  I could hear movement behind me. I could see guards moving around behind the guests at the other table.

  Something slipped before my face and around my throat, squeezing tight, cutting off air. I opened my mouth and no sound came out.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Colors streaked before my eyes as the pressure cut into my throat. Panic flared as I tried to draw a breath and couldn’t. I grabbed at the cord wrapped around my throat, forcing my fingers between my skin and the abrasive material. I couldn’t pull it away. All it did was bite into my fingers. It hurt. The colors were swirling into black. I couldn’t think at all.

  And then the cord was gone, the lack of it almost stung, and I could breathe again. I slumped over the table, my hand landing in a plate of meat and gravy, and I pulled in huge gasps of air. I shrank away from the cacophony roaring in my ears, the blood pounding in my head and air scraping through my larynx. Movement, movement, too much to feel.

  People were screaming.

  Did they have to do that?

  Still panting, rubbing the stinging skin on my throat, I opened my eyes. It took a few moments for my vision to slide back into focus, and even once it did it was hard to understand what I was seeing.

  It was chaos. People were running around. Tables were being knocked over. Not two long tables after all, but sectionals, and people were falling into them and pushing them over, spilling dishes and food and wine over the floor. And then someone would run through the mess on the floor and slip and fall.

  Some of them were wearing ridiculously high heels. I hadn’t noticed before. My shoes were nice and flat. I could run if I had to. The advantages of having no sense of style.

  No one made it to the doors.

  The guards were attacking the guests. Some had come up behind with cords, like they had with me. But they weren’t throttling them to death. High above a seated, choking victim, the guard would hold a stake, an actual pointed wooden stake, and in a hard quick arc would bring it down and thrust it into the victim’s heart.

  At least, that was the plan. Only the victims were squirming around too much, some managing to slip out of their chairs and away from the cords. Or the guards, who were not professional guards at all, didn’t have the strength to bring the stake down hard enough, to force it deeply enough into the chest. Or they didn’t know precisely where the heart was. And guests with quicker wits than I were grabbing up utensils from the tables, knives and forks or anything handy, and shoving them into the faces of their attackers, knocking them unconscious with heavy platters or the center pieces decorating the tables.

  I heard the triumphant shout as one of the guards found his target. With one hard thrust he plunged into the chest of an older man. My whole body spasmed in shock as I envisioned the brutal wood piercing soft flesh, shredding the delicate organ. Blood spurted out. The guard laughed ecstatically, eyes gleaming. Words were chanted, a short phrase I couldn’t decipher over the din.

  I felt sick. What a way to die.

  I tried to stand and found I couldn’t move my chair back. I looked down and saw the body of the guard who had been standing behind me, now crumpled on the floor by my chair, a cord loosely tangled in one of his hands. Meat, gravy, and the shattered remains of a plate littered the area about his head. I shoved harder, panic surging back. I couldn’t move the damn chair. I had to get out. I couldn’t move like this. I was an easy target.

  Karish was still seated, struggling awkwardly with a guard who was crouching over him and trying to stick a stake in him. I imagined Karish had spared a moment dispatching the guard who’d attacked me and left himself vulnerable. This second guard hadn’t used a cord on him but had gone straight for the stake. Karish had grabbed the guard’s wrist and was holding the stake away—he was stronger than he looked—but trapped against the table there wasn’t anything more he could do to defend himself.

  It appeared that the guards had really been relying on their victims being pliant. Few of them were having much success. But they didn’t need to worry. The servants started to lend a hand, dropping their trays and jugs and rushing in to hold people still.

  Who the hell was behind all this?

  I grabbed a knife from the table. It wasn’t sharp but it would have to do.

  The guard struggling with Karish was wearing armor. I didn’t know anything about fighting. I couldn’t think where . . . Oh.

  I took a deep breath and shoved the knife into the side of the guard’s exposed neck, forcing it through the layers of resistance, swallowing down the revulsion that welled up in my own throat. I heard something snap, and an awful gurgling sound, and blood started pouring out over the knife and my hand and into Karish’s face.

  I blinked away sudden tears.

  The guard jerked away from Karish, grabbing at the knife protruding from his throat. He stumbled over a body on the floor behind him, falling. He arched and writhed as he choked on his blood. I couldn’t bear to watch him die.

  Karish put hi
s hands under the table and deliberately shoved it away. It skidded a few feet over the stone floor before tipping over. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Karish jumped to his feet, blood spattered all over his clothes and the side of his face. His skin was pale, his eyes wide with shock. But he was alive.

  Doran was fighting with a footman. Seriously fighting, with real brutal bare-knuckle competence. It looked like he’d already dispatched one of the guards and he had taken the stake from him.

  Lydia was lying on the floor, curled up in pain, a stake protruding from just below her right breast. I grimaced in sympathy and took a step towards her, but I would have to get too close to Doran to get to her and I knew nothing about medicine anyway. I looked to Karish, but he was staring at the head of the table, mouth dropping open.

  Lord Yellows was struggling with Prince Gifford. It was hard to tell who was trying to kill who. Their tables had been shoved away, and two guards lay unmoving on floor. So did Princess Jane. The two men were engaged in a knife fight, dancing around each other, thrusting and parrying, a bizarre example of art in the graceless chaos erupting around them.

  After a moment I realized Lord Yellows was bearing a stake, not a knife. That answered that.

  Lord Yellows was behind all this? But he was an aristocrat. It didn’t make sense.

  Act now, think later, Lee.

  But act how. They appeared incompetent, but I was beginning to think they’d done something to the food to make us weak and slow, and we were hampered by our finery. All they needed was time, and eventually they’d get us all.

  I had no idea what to do.

  Then I was flying off my feet and landing on my face on the stone floor with a bone-crunching thud. Smacked my head good and hard, too. It was the serving girl, the one who’d noticed we weren’t eating. She’d tackled me. Presumptuous little bitch.

  Fear tasted sour in the mouth, but anger . . . ah, anger was fun.

  I was able to turn over a little on the floor as the servant crawled up onto me, a stake in one hand. The floor was hard and bruising against my hip. I couldn’t get free, couldn’t crawl away.

  She was holding the stake wrong, surely. Clutched in her fist, which meant she had to raise it fairly high to get any kind of momentum and power behind it. This gave me plenty of time to grab her wrist and hold the stake off. It was hard though. Most of my strength was in my legs, from the bar dancing.