Chapter 7 – Sharp Conversations
Sonata hadn’t asked the guard questions about the tower’s defenses because she was ignorant of them. Uncle Galo had told her many stories of the various sieges of Cragsport during the time of the emperors. She had asked because she had hoped, beyond hope perhaps, that there was a second way down from the upper floors and that the guard would confide in her the truth of it. The notion that Duke Ernesto had to walk up and down six floors every day, and perhaps several times a day, was ludicrous. There had to be a second passageway or a mechanical lift of some kind that would carry the Duke up and down his tower quickly. Either it was there, or it wasn’t. The young guard hadn’t spoken of it, and would never speak of it or anything else again. Now Sonata had to find out herself because if things got ugly—and they would—she would have to tuck swords quickly and run. And the idea of running down a chokepoint like a winding staircase held no joy.
Luckily, there was no guard at the top of the stairs on the second floor, so she was able to pause a moment when she reached the top. Then she moved quietly and carefully up the darkest corridor to search again for Uncle Galo.
The second floor was similar to the first, though smaller. The tower tapered floor to floor as one ascended, until it finished in a sharp point wherein lay the Duke’s personal quarters. This second floor was another web-work of corridors flanked by similar rooms as the first floor, though there were some personal quarters sprinkled about. Not kitchen help for sure, but perhaps body servants, maids, the families of Duke Ernesto’s staff. The Duke liked to have his staff close, and so he sequestered them and their families into the tower. It made sense on one hand; on the other, it made Sonata uncomfortable and, quite honestly, angry. To force all those families, some with children, to live in one place, and to be at the beck and call of their master every hour of the day . . . well, it didn’t seem right. But then, weren’t all rulers selfish when it came to their subjects? Were the Palma kings and queens of Sagano any different? Sonata hoped that Queen Mariana of Pontaboro would, in time, break that cycle. If the men who counseled her would allow.
Sonata moved to the third floor. A guard was there at the top of the stairs, luckily facing the other direction. She had Chefe in his back before he could turn to see who had killed him. She covered his mouth, pulled him aside, and laid him down carefully.
The third floor was smaller than the second, though this time the layout of rooms and corridors were not the same. There was one large meeting room that took up half the floor, wherein a dozen chairs sat around a long rectangular table. At the head of the table was a throne-like chair, the obvious place where Duke Ernesto sat if he was holding a meeting. Uncle Galo was not in this room either.
There were residences on the third floor as well, though most of the rooms were locked, and so far, Sonata had not raised the alarm. She did not want to waste time trying to jimmy locks. Uncle Galo could be in any of these rooms, she knew, though something inside told her no. The most logical places for him to be would be the first three floors, assuming that Duke Ernesto had taken her uncle for display or gloat purposes. In his solid granite state, he would make a fine centerpiece for a room, like the meeting hall she had just searched. Besides, trying to get a dead-weight statue up more than three flights of winding stairs was ridiculous. Perhaps through a system of pulleys, they had hoisted him up to and through a higher-floor window, but why run the risk of the ropes breaking and Galo falling to his ultimate shattering death? Why waste time trying to find him if you break him shortly thereafter? No. Uncle Galo was not here, and this mission was useless to continue.
Just one more floor.
There were two guards at the top of the next floor. Sonata waited just below them in the shadow of the staircase. They spoke of mundane things: their families, their children, their wives and lovers, as if these two actually had any. Whores, perhaps, but no respectable women would give these little cretins their gifts. Their braggadocio was amusing, and Sonata listened to it patiently, while she tried to figure out a way forward.
Then one of the men stepped away, saying that he had to “mijar duma varanda” which, as far as Sonata could divine, meant “piss off a balcony.” The other man chuckled. As she listened to the exchange, Sonata wrapped a bandana around her face. When it was secure, she drew Freira and added the sword to her left hand.
She ran up the stairs loudly, so that the lone guard would hear and turn to her. He turned, saw her, and his eyes grew large. He reached for his whistle, his sword, but Freira was across his throat before he had a chance to blare. He groped at his gushing throat, and Sonata caught him, like she had the others, and set him down gently. His blood spray was a bit messy, more so than the others, and the floor around her feet grew crimson as the red pool advanced. Sonata stepped away from it and turned to search for the other guard. He was pissing off a balcony somewhere.
The fourth level was simple. Only five rooms off the main landing floor of the staircase. There was a small corridor that led to a door. There was a placard on that door, and Sonata squinted to try to read it, but the light from the lanterns was too faint. The fact that it was marked meant someone important lived there. Sonata turned from the corridor and kept searching rooms.
She found the second guard in a small privy on the opposite side of the staircase. The room had a decidedly noxious odor. Sonata was glad that she had placed the bandana around her face. This was where guards did their business when on duty. There was a bowl of water set on a small table, a wash cloth nearby. There were two chamber pots beneath the table, thankfully unused at the moment. And at the end of the room, through a set of stained-glass swinging doors, was a balcony. On the balcony stood the second guard, his canvas breeches around his ankles.
He was literally pissing off the balcony.
Sonata shook her head at the abject insult of it. This Night Guardsman, this nobody, urinating on Cragsport. And how long had this been going on? For years. Probably, for decades, centuries. The insult!
Sonata wasted no time. She straightened her posture, walked into the room, flung open the stained-glass doors, and stepped onto the balcony.
“Why are you in here, Manuel?” The guard said with a heavy sigh as he reached down to grab his breeches to pull them back up. “You aren’t supposed to leave your post when—”
Sonata put her boot into his backside, catching him off balance. The man tried to catch himself, but her strike was too strong. So, he went over the side, still clutching his breeches.
She waited until the man’s screams ended with a meaty thunk! on the cobbles below. Stupid mistake, Sonata knew instantly, letting her anger get the better of her. Best thing would have been to cut him like she had done all the other guards. His screams going down would alert the tower, if not the people walking below. Now, there was no alternative but to escape. The mission was over.
Sonata turned, and there, in the middle of the privy, stood a man in a dark grey night-shirt, holding a lantern in one hand, a knife in the other. He was tall, and Sonata could tell that he had ample strength beneath the shirt.
He was confused at her presence, shocked perhaps. Sonata stood stone still and said the only thing that came to mind. Her voice was muffled behind the bandana. “Is it customary to bring a knife to the shitter?”
“Who are you?” The man asked. He raised his lantern to get a better look. Sonata could see better as well.
The man was not Duke Ernesto. That was clear. But Sonata knew who it was immediately. She had seen him a few times in Nathyn Sombrio’s company.
It was the new captain of the Night Guard.
✽✽✽
Rodrigo Vaasco stood there in the lamplight, in his nightshirt, like an iron post. Sonata could not easily slip by him and dash away. This would be a fight, and despite the aptain’s unprepared state, it would be a tough one.
“Step aside, and let me by,” Sonata said, trying the diplomatic approach first.
“I say again, who are you?” Rodrigo asked. “If you do not answer, I will alert the guards.”
“Your guards are dead,” Sonata said. “Most of them, anyway. My name is unimportant.”
Rodrigo set the lamp down and took a more defensive stance. He held the knife forward in proper attack position. “Then you will join them . . . whoever you are.”
He attacked first, lunging forward with a solid knife strike. He aimed for Sonata’s chest. She stepped aside easily and tried to exploit the gap between Rodrigo and the door that his lunge had created. Despite his size, Rodrigo was fast, and he put his leg up in time to bar her retreat. His knee caught Sonata in the face. She took the strike in the mouth, winced as pain reverberated through her jaw and neck. She fell back and supported herself against the balcony. He came at her again. This time, she let Freira and Chefe speak. Freira split Rodrigo’s shirt at the chest and found a spot of flesh there as well. Chefe was blocked by Rodrigo’s knife hand. The block was so strong that Sonata nearly dropped the sword. She ducked his swipe at her head, scrambled out of his way, and tried again for the door.
Rodrigo’s big hand was on her ankle. She fell. Freira cut his knuckles open. Rodrigo screamed and released. He stabbed forward, catching her in the calf before she could collect herself.
Gods, did it hurt! She hadn’t felt pain like that in a while. Even when Sacudente do Mundo was upon her, its residual pain was more like a nauseous a sense of dread. This just plain hurt.
Blood flowed down her leg. Sonata tried to rise and run. Rodrigo tried stabbing her again, an even more powerful, forceful stab, hoping to pierce her leg clean through, no doubt, to end this battle once and for all. But she wasn’t having any of it.
She blocked Rodrigo’s second strike by thrusting Chefe underneath his arm, blade up. The captain’s own impetus brought his forearm straight into the sword’s edge, and it peeled away his skin like paper. Rodrigo howled and dropped his knife. Sonata scuttled away.
She had a clear path to the door, but she baulked. Rodrigo was howling so loudly that even if she did leave, guards on the first floor could probably hear him. She had to shut him up and now.
She reached under the table and grabbed a chamber pot, thankful again that it was empty. She held it tightly, stepped over to the howling Rodrigo, lifted it above her head, and then smacked it across his face. The clay pot shattered into a dozen pieces.
He was still moving, still moaning. Less so than before, but still . . .
She took the second pot and held it again above her head. Rodrigo put his uninjured arm up to block it and pleaded for mercy.
“I’ve never shown the likes of you mercy before,” Sonata said. “Why should I start now?”
She brought the pot down, but before it struck, a half dozen guards burst into the room and took her to the floor.
Their weight was crushing. Her chest hurt. She could not breathe. She still held Chefe, but in the scuffle, she had dropped Freira. Sonata screamed and tried pushing them off, but she could not move. She tried calling for Sacudente do Mundo.
Nothing.
Someone punched her. She felt a trickle of blood run down her cheek. She spit, catching one of the men in the face. She was smacked again. Then the brutality stopped. Two of the guards got off of her and let her breathe, though they still held her down.
Rodrigo Vaasco came into view. He was wounded, badly. She could see the blood running down his lacerated arm, could see the bad cuts on his face that the shattered pot had created. He was a mess. And angry.
He muscled his way through the guards holding her down. He raised his knife above her throat. He bared his teeth and brought the knife down.
A guard grabbed his arm. “No, sir. I’m sorry, but the duke wants her alive.”
Rodrigo looked as if he were about to disobey the duke’s order. Then he paused, spit blood himself, and stood.
Sonata smiled. Despite her own wounds, she felt calm, elated. She even managed a chuckle. “I’m sorry, Captain Vaasco. But you lose.”