Chapter Eighteen
The Karthing was closest to Betel, and was also within Indrajit’s reach. Indrajit hurled himself forward, slashing down, aiming for a quick kill by decapitation or by opening up a vein in the neck. The longer any fight went, the bigger liability the bolt in his leg would become.
The Karthing saw him coming and stumbled back. He canceled his attack against Betel and raised his own sword, deflecting three blows and eventually getting a heavy wooden table between himself and Indrajit.
Philanthes launched a sling stone into the face of the Yuchak. A gout of blood spurted from the suddenly smashed nose and the gaping wound in his face. The blood splattered onto the hot coals beside the anvil, sending up a foul stink.
The Pelthite slashed at Betel’s head. Indrajit saw the attack coming from the corner of his eye and wanted to leap sideways to intercept it, but there was a table in the way, and ten paces of hard-packed earth. He found himself screaming, a shredded yodel that didn’t quite sound like a war cry.
Betel spun about, surprisingly quick for a man his size. His downturned ears bounced and his visible arms raised the iron bar he was working on, heated to orange. The Pelthite’s sword, a long, straight machaira with no stabbing tip, hit the bar. The heated iron flexed and bent, the descent of the machaira slowed and turned. The Luzzazza crime boss moved and the iron bar wrapped itself around the sword coming at him, and when the weapon finally reached where Betel’s head had been, Betel had moved on.
The two iron hammers, appearing to float unaided in midair because Betel held them in his invisible arms, slammed together, crushing the Pelthite’s skull like an egg.
The Karthing staggered backward, staring at his downed and dead comrades. He stopped attacking, parried only, and tried to run. Indrajit wouldn’t let him. He pressed the assault, slashing fiercely, not exposing his own torso or thighs, and trying very hard not to strike self-consciously heroic poses. Finally, the Karthing threw his sword. Indrajit scooped the blade aside with his own, sending it flying into a brick wall.
The Karthing ran.
“Ha!” Indrajit cried. “Easy!”
More men poured from the building. They were armored in studded leather and they carried long swords and round shields, and they charged Betel.
The Gray Lord threw the iron bar, now dulling quickly to a gray color, with the machaira trapped inside it. The sizzling hot and also bladed conglomerate wobbled awkwardly as it flew and then struck a screaming Xiba’albi in the chest. He dropped, stinking of charred flesh and blood, his voice suddenly gone.
Betel swung his hammers. They were short-handled, which reduced his reach, but the difficulty of seeing his arms made them lethal, anyway; it was hard to parry them, even with a shield, and the men who attacked him focused on following the hammers, leaving them little attention with which to plan good attacks.
Indrajit couldn’t see clearly how many men there were. He threw himself at the mass of flailing limbs yelling, “Protagonists!” He saw Philastes at work with the sling; the Pelthite wasn’t as fast as Munahim with his bow, but he had the advantage of being able to pick projectiles up off the ground and launch them. After he left one thief bleeding from the head and still on the ground, and a second swinging his shield like a club because his right arm hung useless at his side, two Yuchaks ran out after him.
“Treachery!” Betel roared. “To me, Sootfaces!”
But precious few Sootfaces rallied to his side. A man in a green tunic with a long knife in each hand showed up and stood at the Gray Lord’s left, and then a pair of Zalaptings with short spears took up position on his right. Indrajit hadn’t meant to, but backing away from attacks, he found himself standing at the fourth side of a defensive square with the others.
The attack became frenetic. Indrajit could no longer see Betel, but he heard the crunching sound of the big hammers in action. The man with two knives took wound after wound, having the disadvantage of a shorter reach compared to the men with swords. But each time he took a slash to an arm or to his side, it left him with an avenue of attack. He slid under guards and behind shields, he disabled men by slicing them across the wrist or the thigh or the throat. The Zalaptings were a match for any single man, one Zalapting keeping an attacker at bay with his spear while the other looked for defensive weaknesses. When two Ildarians with ragged teeth rushed at the same time, Indrajit closed from the side, knocking one of them into the other and creating chaos; the Zalaptings moved in with their spears and made short work of the men.
Indrajit took a shield. He was dizzy and short of breath, but he no longer noticed any pain in his calf, so that was good. He beat down another Ildarian’s defense with Vacho and then smashed the man’s nose with his shield, and then he saw Philastes.
The Pelthite had his back to the wall in the alley. He had dropped the sling and held a knife; blood was spreading through his tunic from a grievous wound in his side. A dead Yuchak lay in the middle of the alley and a second Yuchak climbed over the corpse, swinging his sword back and forth and making taunting, chickenlike noises.
Indrajit had an opening. He dashed across the alley. The Yuchak heard him at the last second and turned but couldn’t quite pivot around in time. Indrajit hit the man shoulder first and crushed him against the wall, hearing bones make a satisfying snap.
Then he found he couldn’t hold himself upright, and sank to the ground. Philastes sank with him, leaving a dark smear on the wall.
Indrajit rolled over. His head kept rolling and spun three or four times before coming finally to a stable position. He saw more men swarming Betel, and now some seemed to be taking his side. The defensive circle had expanded to surround the anvil and the fire. Betel had a weapon in each hand and was laying out death left and right as only a fully armed Luzzazza can, roaring his demand that his Sootfaces join him.
How long could this continue before constables showed up to do something about it?
Welcome to Kish, Munahim would say.
Yammilku and a group of armed men appeared at the mouth of the alley.
“Sling.” Indrajit pointed. “Hit that guy.”
He gripped his sword and dragged himself back up the wall. His leg might have been on fire, it hurt so much. The pain lanced up his back and neck and into his skull, making his breath come in ragged gulps. He forced himself to step away from the wall, anyway.
“Yammilku!” he roared. Then he very deliberately took a pose, a stylized challenge stance that was used when performing the Blaatshi Epic. It communicated the invitation to a duel, limbs raised and tensed to show full commitment, jaw set to show resolve to conquer or die, chest thrust out to show indifference to wounding or even death. Not that Yammilku the Heru would have any experience of the Epic, but the stance communicated in and of itself.
In fact, it communicated far more than Indrajit could realistically deliver. He fought to keep his knees from trembling and his breath steady.
Yammilku’s hawklike gaze was unreadable. He drew his long straight sword and stood looking at the scene. He gazed on Indrajit, and Indrajit had never felt more like a field mouse.
“To me, Sootfaces!” Zac Betel bellowed. Two Kishi pressed him on his left, and the hammer on the right side had disappeared. Had he lost the use of an arm?
Yammilku charged, and his men charged with him. To Indrajit’s astonishment, they attacked those who were fighting Betel, rather than the Gray Lord himself. Yammilku flew, his sword slashing and stabbing with astounding speed despite the unruffled expression on his face. The men they attacked looked surprised and betrayed, and fell quickly, like dry wheat before a scythe. The fight ended, as abruptly as it had begun.
The men with the Heru were quick to stab their downed enemies in the throat, and thorough, not missing a single one.
Yammilku knelt before Betel and offered up his sword, hilt-first. “Gray Lord,” he said, “I must explain.”
Betel sank heavily onto a sturdy bench. Indrajit dragged himself across the alley, feeling more light-headed by the second. “Help,” he murmured. Then he laughed, because he reminded himself of the two archegoi he’d seen die of . . . well, of childbirth. Then he stopped laughing, because that wasn’t really very funny.
Betel grunted. “Insurrection requires no explanation. Tell me why I don’t cut off your head right now.”
“Because I did not rise against you.” The Heru pointed at one of the corpses, a Karthing who had died with two spears through the chest. “I knew you had enemies. I did not know for certain who they were. But I knew I could lure them into the open.”
Betel grunted again, without words.
Indrajit sat down in the middle of the alley. “Wine, at least?” he murmured. Someone passed him and busied themselves over Philastes. He hoped they were helping the Pelthite rather than, say, looting his body, but he didn’t have the strength to turn and look.
Someone handed him sour wine in a leather skin. It was better than nothing.
“The Blaatshi comic,” the Heru said. “I deceived him, and sent him to attack you. I knew he couldn’t harm you if he did attack, and I thought he might try to warn you instead, and either way, I believed your enemies would come into the open.”
“And you did this while you weren’t here yourself,” the Luzzazza observed. “Why?”
“I knew my absence would embolden your enemies.”
“Why not root them out more directly?” Betel asked. “Knife them one by one in dark alleys, stuff their bodies into the sewers, as they deserve?”
“I wasn’t sure who they all were,” Yammilku said. “Now we know.”
Indrajit finished the wine and felt stronger. “Can someone help me with the crossbow bolt in my leg?” he meant to ask, but the question came out more garbled than that. He tried to stand, and instead fell on his face.
“Why not come to me?” Betel pressed.
“I feared you were beset by evil counsellors, and watched by spying eyes.” The Heru lowered his head humbly. Indrajit was impressed at how well he was playing the role.
“We’re weakened now,” Betel said in the darkness. “We’ve lost many men today.”
“Traitors,” Yammilku said.
“Not all of them. Did Harrek do this alone?”
Yammilku said nothing for a short time. Then, “I’m not certain.”
“I don’t believe he was capable of it,” Betel said. “He was greedy and ambitious, yes, but he wasn’t a planner. There must have been someone else behind him, don’t you think . . . Yammilku?”
“Yes,” Yammilku said immediately. “You must be right.”
“Who could that have been?” Betel asked. He waited, but no answer was forthcoming. “Who could benefit from my death?”
“Another Gray Lord, perhaps,” Yammilku suggested. “If you died, someone might take your territory. Take your businesses. Anyone who replaced you would be weak and on the defensive, and an easy target.”
Indrajit had the sensation that someone was touching his legs. He was dragged, and then hands touched his leg that burned.
“The Silksteppers?” Betel asked. “The Sookwalkers?”
“Perhaps,” the Heru said slowly. “But the Sailmenders would also be interested in many of your businesses. And what about the Soulbinders?”
Indrajit floated in darkness, and then was racked with sudden, agonizing pain. He screamed, then flopped onto his back. Someone was trying to hold him and wrap his leg. Someone else was trying to force more wine into him. He whimpered, and then acquiesced to both.
“We won’t let them get away with this,” Betel said.
“We strike tonight?” Yammilku suggested.
Indrajit’s vision cleared. He stared up at a bright midday sky. “Philastes?” he asked. “The Pelthite?”
“The Pelthite lives,” a rasping voice said.
“We don’t strike,” Betel said. “I call the Conclave.”
“To do what?” Yammilku asked.
“To flush my enemies from hiding.”
“And the Blaatshi? I can get rid of him. He’s seen too much. He works for the Lord Chamberlain.”
“He’s a jobber,” Betel said. “He works for anyone who pays, including the Lord Chamberlain.”
“Not quite anyone,” Indrajit mumbled, but no one responded.
“The jobbers acted with honor,” Betel continued. “I find that refreshing. They stay with me.”
A chalk-white Gund with four scratched-out eyes dragged Indrajit up and slung him onto a heavy bench. Indrajit managed to balance in a sitting position, leaning forward and swaying slightly. “My sword,” he croaked.
“Well done,” Yammilku said, inclining his head slightly.
Indrajit nodded. “I had a feeling you were playing a deep game, Heru.” Hopefully his fatigue and pain masked the lie.
A Zalapting brought him Vacho, wiping mud from it with a rag. Other thieves carried over Philastes, who winced as he was plopped onto the bench beside Indrajit.
“Where are the others?” Yammilku asked. “Fix? And the Kyone?”
“They went back underground,” Indrajit said.
“To come here?” the Heru pressed.
Indrajit hesitated. How much should he say? He didn’t want to give Fix and Munahim away to Yammilku, whom he distrusted thoroughly. If he just waited, wouldn’t his partners show up? But they might not. If anything had gone wrong, they could be in peril. They could be dead, or captives of Ghouls, and he had no way to find them.
Except that Fix and Munahim would be following the spoor left by Yammilku and his men. Which meant that Yammilku should be able to show Indrajit exactly where they had gone, and where they had left the harness. So if Fix and Munahim were indeed in trouble, Yammilku was his best bet as an ally to rescue them.
Which made him feel thoroughly uncomfortable.
“Was the Blaatshi hit on the head?” Betel asked.
“Sorry, yes,” Indrajit said. “Fix and Munahim were to come here. But they were taking the trail beneath the city that Yammilku took. They were to pick up . . .” He remembered at the last second that Betel thought he was receiving the map just now, and the location of the Girdle of Life was still his secret. “. . . another item in Underkish. So if they’re not here, then perhaps they’ve come to a bad end. Or been delayed.”
Betel nodded. He gripped Indrajit’s shoulder, shaking him slightly. “I want you at the Conclave tonight. But I want your partners also. I will go to summon the Gray Lords. You and your Pelthite here, gather up the rest of your company.”
“I’ll need Yammilku.” Indrajit felt light-headed. “And . . . I worry. There are Ghouls. And other perils.”
His vision had cleared and his stomach calmed, and he met the Luzzazza in the eye. Betel nodded, his face inscrutable.
“Yammilku,” Betel said. “Take them, and recover their friends. Get them back here before the Conclave.”
“Where will it be held?” Yammilku asked.
“I’ll summon the Gray Lords to the False Palace. I want all the jobbers unharmed, understood?”
“Of course,” Yammilku said.
“Manko.” Betel turned on his heels, addressed the white Gund. “Go with Yammilku. Protect these two men at all costs.”
The Gund roared. The insectlike legs sprouting from its shoulders quivered, rattling against each other.
Indrajit climbed to his feet, followed by Philastes.
“I’ll take Cholo and—” Yammilku began.
“Manko will be enough,” Betel said. “I’ll need everyone else to prepare for the Conclave.” He handed the map to Indrajit. It had a few sandal prints on it, but had survived the scuffle intact. “Perhaps you can use this to collect your company.”
Indrajit tucked the map into his kilt pocket.
A Zalapting pressed a lamp into Indrajit’s hands.
Yammilku nodded. To Indrajit he said, “I’ll retrace my steps?”
“Munahim should have begun tracking you from the point you left the boat,” Indrajit said.
“Come.” Yammilku sheathed his sword and led them away. Indrajit followed, gaining strength with each step and each deep breath, and keeping an eye on Philastes.
The rain had let up, but the iron-gray sky overhead and the gusting winds suggested that the storm was merely holding its breath, preparing to blast them again.
The Pelthite turned to the Gund, shambling on his heels, and emitted a sonorous belch. Indrajit was about to take Philastes to task when the Gund belched back.
“You speak Gund, too?” Indrajit asked.
“It’s also a pretty easy language.” Philastes shrugged.
Indrajit wanted to communicate things to the Gund, but they were things he didn’t want to say within earshot of Yammilku. Still, he smiled. It was reassuring that Philastes, at least, could talk to the monstrous thief. “Let him know we’re happy he’s along.”
“Gund doesn’t have a word for ‘happy,’” Philastes said. “Shall I tell him that we’re satiated with good food, or sexually aroused?”
“Can you tell him he’s our friend?”
“I can call him a good pack-mate.”
“Do that.”
Indrajit caught up with Yammilku as Philastes and the Gund grunted and snickered at each other. “Do we have to come to an understanding?” he asked.
Yammilku headed along the edge of a Rûphat court. Ten sweaty, shrieking Zalaptings played a team of two Luzzazza and a Shamb. The Zalaptings swarmed the larger players and dominated the court, but had a hard time getting past the forest of extra limbs to actually score. The Luzzazza wore gloves on their invisible hands, to prove they weren’t cheating, but invisible elbows still disconcertingly caused the ball to change angle sharply in midair on a regular basis. At the back of the court rose a knob of shattered rock, crowned with a knot of pipal and amalaki trees.
“I think we have an understanding,” Yammilku said. “I fooled you, but it was to defend my master, Zac Betel. I hope you can forgive me.”
“Think nothing of it,” Indrajit said.
Yammilku was obviously lying.
“There’s a crack in the stone at the base of the wall.” Yammilku pointed. “We’ll go underground there. The harness isn’t far.”
He began to climb.