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Chapter Twenty-Five

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“You’re lost, poet,” Uthnar Roberts said. He looked like his brother Tully, but leaner, with a body that curved forward like a hungry wolf’s and only a scar running down the right side of his face from temple to chin, rather than the mass of scars Tully had. He wore an unadorned iron disk on a chain around his neck. “You’ve wandered into my path. But I might yet spare you, if you have a gift for me.”

Behind the Roberts brothers crowded six more Ildarians. They were all tall and muscular and wrapped in studded leather.

“This is no time to quibble about the map,” Indrajit said. “Listen, one of the entrances to the False Palace is Zac Betel’s, isn’t it?”

“I’ve no interest in explaining to you the constitution of our ancient and honorable society.” Uthnar bowed, almost ceremoniously, his eyes never leaving Indrajit’s. “I want the map.”

“Betel’s lieutenant Yammilku is setting an ambush over there right now,” Indrajit said. He knew Tully Roberts had been an ally of Yammilku’s in at least some of the Heru’s scheming. He hoped Tully had been acting without Uthnar’s knowledge, and that Uthnar might not approve of the plots.

Tully frowned. “To attack us?”

“To attack Betel,” Munahim said. “He has men in the service of Jaxter Boom as his allies. Huachao fighters.”

“You could come to Betel’s aid.” Philastes’s voice was bright with excitement. “You could assist him and no doubt he would be grateful in turn.”

“Or we could assist Yammilku,” Tully said thoughtfully.

“I wouldn’t mind taking Boom’s trade,” Uthnar growled. “We could kill them all.”

The Ildarians laughed.

“You want the map, though,” Indrajit said.

“Not as much as I want control of the Sootfaces,” Uthnar said. “You’ve changed the menu, poet.”

Did Indrajit care? He was tired, as if his potion of energy had burned itself out in him. He felt as if he and his heart had both been batted back and forth for two days straight in a vicious game of Rûphat. None of the Gray Lords was his friend, really, but Betel had dealt squarely with him while Yammilku had betrayed him. Twice. On a personal level, he really wanted the Heru to fail. It wasn’t only out of a desire that he get his comeuppance, it was also because Indrajit didn’t want to deal with Yammilku as a Gray Lord in the future. And Tully seemed to be every bit the backstabbing conniver that Yammilku was. For that matter, Uthnar was now turning out to be cut from the same cloth, too.

But more important than any of that was rescuing Fix. And to bargain to get Fix back, he needed to capture Hastin Gink.

“We’ll help you,” he said.

“To do what?” Philastes murmured.

“I don’t even care,” Indrajit said. “Look, we’ll help you do whatever you want here. But I need Hastin Gink as my prisoner when it’s over. Alive, and my prisoner.”

“What do you want with Old Tail-Nose?” Tully asked.

“I want to trade him for my partner, Fix, who’s being held captive by Jaxter Boom. So if Gink dies, you swear to me that you and your men will help me break into Boom’s lair and rescue my friend.”

“Why do I need your help?” Uthnar peered at Indrajit’s face by the lantern light.

“They outnumber you,” Indrajit said. “Three more fighters will give you a strong advantage, especially if you take them by surprise. Or we can help you take them by surprise. We were their prisoners and escaped. If they saw us again, they might chase us. And you could be lying in wait.”

“That feels like a device from low bawdy,” Uthnar said, squinting.

“Well, it is,” Indrajit agreed. “If you prefer a device from high epic, I will happily enter the passage, strike a pose with sword raised over my head, and recite my genealogy.”

“We attack,” Uthnar purred to his men. “Take Yammilku and Betel and Gink alive, if you see any of them. The others die if they don’t surrender.”

Indrajit nodded. “How can we support you?”

“By going first, of course.” Uthnar pointed to the False Palace. “It’s the third opening on the right.”

Indrajit led the way. Munahim slung his sword onto his back and took his bow in his hands and Philastes held his sling.

The sound of the crashing rain on the grid was tinny and high pitched. Indrajit meant to be moving silently, but he couldn’t help muttering, “What in all the frozen hells is the False Palace for?”

“Sometimes I think madmen built this city,” Philastes said.

“Madmen built every city,” Munahim said. “The sane men live free on the steppes.”

“You’re here with us,” Indrajit said.

“I noticed.”

Indrajit counted three openings in the wall of the False Palace. At the third, he eased his head around the corner and peered carefully within.

For a moment, he saw nothing. Then a stray glint of light made it through the pouring rain and limned the feathers of Yammilku’s head. Squinting, Indrajit could see that the Heru leaned against the wall just this side of a bottleneck, waiting and watching for anyone to come through. The Huachao and Hastin Gink and several cloaked henchmen of Jaxter Boom all hid themselves around the bottleneck similarly.

Indrajit looked back. The Ildarians stood ten paces distant, swords drawn, rain pouring down the wool hoods of their cloaks.

Indrajit held up fingers to try to communicate to the Protagonists how many men were inside and how they were arranged, but all he provoked was uncomprehending frowns. Finally, he sighed, stepped away from the wall, and charged into the tunnel.

“Protagonists!” he roared.

He slashed the first Huachao to turn around through his forearm, causing the man to drop his sword and shriek. Indrajit planted a sandaled foot in the man’s chest and kicked, sending him flying through the tunnel’s bottleneck and into darkness.

A second Huachao leaped up, a knife in each hand. Indrajit caught the tip of Vacho on the tunnel wall, which nearly ended in disaster by blunting his swing and leaving him open to attack. Staggering back, he narrowly managed to avoid being sliced open by three slashes with knives.

Arrows whooshed past Indrajit into the tunnel. A thief in a long cloak fell with feathers sprouting from his chest and a cat-man dropped with an arrow in the neck.

“Not Gink!” Indrajit cried.

Slingstones followed the arrows in.

When did the Ildarians plan to help?

Then Indrajit caught a fourth attack on Vacho’s cross-guard. The Huachao warrior with two knives lost his balance and stumbled sideways, leaving himself exposed. Indrajit kicked his knee, knocking him to the stony floor of the tunnel, kicked him in the temple, and finally stomped on his right forearm, snapping the bones.

The Huachao yowled.

“Don’t hurt Gink!”

The Huachao pridechief, Budhrriao, stood before the bottleneck. He held Gink in front of him, one hand gripping the doorman’s proboscis like a handle and the other holding a long knife to Gink’s throat.

“Don’t hurt Gink!” Budhrriao called again. “Why is that, fish-man? Is Gink your secret ally?”

“No!” Gink honked, his voice muted by the fist gripping his nose.

“No,” Indrajit said. “I want my partner back.”

“And you think if you save Gink alive,” the Huachao said, “you can trade him back to Boom for your friend. What makes you think this worm has any value?”

“Hey!” Gink honked.

“It’s my only play,” Indrajit said. “A wild guess. Let him go, and I’ll let you go. No more deaths.”

“No more deaths.” Budhrriao chuckled. “I’ll give you another play, Blaatshi. I’ll fight you. One on one. If you kill me, you get Gink.”

“Don’t you have an opinion here?” Indrajit called to Uthnar.

“No,” Uthnar said. “We’re just watching. We’ll decide what to do after you’ve worn each other down. I’ll tell you what, though. We’ll guarantee a fair fight. No cheating on either side.”

He glared at Munahim, and Munahim lowered his bow.

Indrajit looked around at the other entrances to the False Palace. If agents of the other Gray Lords were watching, they were all lurking unseen in the darkness. He sighed.

“And if you kill me?” he asked the Huachao.

“Does it really matter what happens then?” Budhrriao sneered.

“If you kill me, Munahim and Philastes get Gink.” Indrajit nodded to his companions. “Gink lives in either case and we try to ransom Fix.”

Gink chuckled nervously.

Budhrriao shoved Gink to the floor in the tunnel. He switched his knife to his left hand and drew a scimitar in his right, and then stepped out into the rain.

Indrajit circled and backed away from the wall. He swung Vacho in demonstrative poses, communicating his courage and resolution. The Ildarians backed away, not quite retreating to their own corner.

Munahim stood watching, an arrow to the string. Philastes held his sling with a stone in the pouch, poised to throw.

“I know you, Blaatshi,” Budhrriao rumbled. “You’re an actor. You’re all poses and no action.”

“You’ve got me all wrong,” Indrajit said. “I’m not an actor at all, I’m a poet. And I’m not just a poet.”

Budhrriao made an experimental lunge and Indrajit deflected his blade. “No? What else are you, then?”

Indrajit charged, driving a series of slashing attacks straight at the cat-man’s head. The Huachao dodged, but evading the blows brought him back three long steps.

“I’m an epic poet,” Indrajit told him.

Budhrriao threw his knife. Indrajit whipped his sword up to knock the missile aside, but didn’t hit it as directly as he intended. The tip of the knife blade sank into Indrajit’s shoulder and he grunted in pain.

“Kill the fish!” Yammilku shouted.

Budhrriao rushed Indrajit. The cat-man roared, a sound deeper than anything Indrajit had previously heard from any of the cat-warriors. The war cry vibrated in Indrajit’s bones and made his knees tremble, and then he was struggling to parry and dodge a hurricane of scimitar attacks.

Rain slickened the metal grid they stood on. Air blasted up through some corners of the iron lattice, cold in one place and hot in another. Light similarly leaked up through the metal hatching in various places, giving the impression that the slippery footing was also uneven. Indrajit slid and stumbled back, the point of the scimitar growing closer by the moment.

Until he gambled, and took a great leap back. He was no dancer, but he jumped backward and into a pose, the so-called Sharpened Tongue Position, used for pointed martial orations. He leaped back and landed with his feet apart, one forward and one back, and his sword extended to maximum reach in front of him.

His arm was longer than Budhrriao’s, and so was his sword. Budhrriao had been closing, inside Indrajit’s guard, and suddenly he was outside and at sword-point, thwarted by Indrajit’s greater extension.

Budhrriao snarled and pulled up, to avoid impaling himself.

Indrajit yanked out the thrown knife and tossed it aside. Then he in turn pressed. He made more circumspect attacks now, stabbing at the Huachao’s face and torso. Budhrriao protected his eyes and face, but Indrajit landed several blows on his upper arms and sank the tip of Vacho two fingers deep into the broad muscle of Budhrriao’s chest.

Then Budhrriao locked Indrajit’s blade between his own and his free hand. With a snap of both wrists, he ripped Vacho from Indrajit’s hand and hurled it away into the rain.

While the Huachao’s blade was to the side, Indrajit leaped. He struck the cat-warrior shoulder to shoulder and knocked him backward. The collision sent a juddering pain through the knife-wound he had suffered, and a trembling that ran all the way to his toes. He heard a metallic rattling somewhere far away—was that Vacho, hitting the metal grill? Was it Budhrriao’s scimitar?

Then he and the cat crashed to the iron deck. He heard bones snap and felt pain in his chest. Budhrriao rolled as they struck, and lashed up with a foot. He struck Indrajit in the thigh, and Indrajit’s own forward momentum, aided by the blow, threw him over Budhrriao’s head.

Indrajit landed on his back, hard. He couldn’t breathe: rain in his mouth? Air slammed from his lungs? Both?

Claws raked his face and he lurched away.

Indrajit struggled to get to his feet. He couldn’t see, but when he felt claws on his face a second time, he punched. He felt his knuckles connect with bone and heard a cry. Then he staggered away sideways, sucking air into his lungs and pawing water and blood from his eyes.

“Finish him! Kill him!”

Indrajit couldn’t tell who was shouting, or to whom.

He regained his vision and found he was standing over a sword. Not Vacho, it was the Huachao’s scimitar. He scooped it up; its weight and balance were strange in his hand, so he swung it around experimentally several times.

Then he stalked toward Budhrriao.

The Huachao was struggling to rise. He coughed and spat; it was difficult to be certain in the darkness, but it looked as if he might be spitting blood.

“You can surrender,” Indrajit said.

Indrajit heard a shriek behind him. He turned and saw Yammilku standing over the body of Hastin Gink, pulling his sword from the dead man’s chest.

Munahim emitted a howl of surprise and rage. He sank an arrow into Yammilku’s neck and then a second into the Heru’s head before anyone else could move. Zac Betel’s rebellious lieutenant stumbled forward out of the tunnel and crashed to the floor in the rain.

“What about a fair fight?” Indrajit shrieked. Fix would die. Fix would burst apart in Jaxter Boom’s dungeon, and now Indrajit had no bargaining chips to get him out. He turned to Uthnar Roberts, feeling his blood hot in his face. “You said you would keep it fair!”

Uthnar looked at the two fresh corpses and nodded slowly. “That looks fair to me.”

Budhrriao tackled Indrajit. Indrajit fell to the iron, his right eye pressed against the metal, full of water and pale green light at the same time. He pushed off with hands and knees, weary to the bone, but rolling over in an attempt to throw Budhrriao off.

He managed to flop onto his back, but Budhrriao now sat astride him. Blood trickled from the Huachao’s muzzle and his breath came in crackling grunts, but he held his dagger in his hand.

Indrajit raised the scimitar to attack the cat-man and found his hand empty. He’d lost the weapon again.

Budhrriao plunged the dagger toward Indrajit’s face. With his long arms, Indrajit grabbed the Huachao by both wrists, stopping the blade’s descent. His chest ached. Someone was screaming, but he wasn’t sure whether it was him or the Huachao pridechief.

“Stay out of this,” he heard Uthnar Roberts say.

In his peripheral vision, Indrajit saw dull light glinting on drawn blades. His two companions were fenced in and helpless.

He pushed with his knee, trying to unseat his attacker, but the knife only descended inexorably toward him.

“Why?” Indrajit grunted. “Yammilku and Gink are dead. You gain nothing.”

“I gain the kill, fish-man.”

The Huachao’s breath stank of murder and blood.

Indrajit slipped his left hand free, punching the cat-man in the kidney repeatedly, and then in the back of the neck. The Huachao only grinned and hissed, a maniacal sound, and the dagger descended closer still.

“Do you want to compose your death-poem,” Budhrriao asked, “or shall I?”

Indrajit spat in the Huachao’s face.

The cat-warrior cackled in glee. Then Indrajit heard a loud crack, and Budhrriao fell over sideways.

A man stood over Indrajit in the rain. He wore a kilt and tunic and he held a heavy timber in his hand as a club, but it took Indrajit a moment to recognize his silhouette in the darkness.

“Fix,” he said.

“Hey!” Uthnar Roberts yelled. “Where did he come from?”

“From under the city,” Fix said. “Just like you.” His voice was shaky. His belly looked swollen.

“Fix,” Indrajit asked, “how did you escape?”

He dragged himself to his knees, wincing from pain in his ribs. Behind Fix, barely visible in the rain, Indrajit saw the forger Danel Avchat.

“I extended my belly as much as I could.” Fix spoke slowly, breathing deeply every few words. “Then I made myself vomit. When the guard rushed in to ask me what I knew about the Kattak plot, I killed him.”

“I guaranteed a fair fight,” Uthnar Roberts said. “You made me break my oath.”

Indrajit stood, wobbling. “You let Yammilku kill Gink.”

“That death has been balanced.” Uthnar grimaced. “How will you balance this murder?”

“That’s a perverted idea of fair,” Indrajit said.

“I’ll kill your brother Tully, if you like,” Fix said quietly. “Will that balance your books?”

“I’ll rip your throat out!” Tully snapped.

The Ildarians surged forward.

“Hold!”

The shout was deep and loud, and it came from the third tunnel. Indrajit turned his head slightly and saw Zac Betel emerging. Behind him came Kishi and Zalaptings, swords and hammers in their hands.

“You’re late, Betel,” Uthnar said.

“I thought I should let things play out without me for a little while,” the Luzzazza Gray Lord said. “I see that I was right.”

“You knew,” Indrajit murmured. “You knew Yammilku was a traitor. You didn’t believe his explanations at all.”

“He was an obvious liar,” Betel said. “I had the strong sensation that he had already given up the Girdle of Life, and was now trying to hide that fact from me. Why would an honest man do such a thing?”

“What’s your interest in these men?” Roberts asked the Luzzazza.

“Don’t touch the Blaatshi,” Betel said. “Or his companions. They did me a service.”

Uthnar hesitated, but then sheathed his sword. “Put away your weapons,” he ordered.

His men obliged.

Other men had emerged. Small groups, two to five men each, stood around seven of the entrances to the False Palace.

A man in a gray cloak stepped forward. Indrajit recognized him as the tavernkeeper Yuto Harlee.

“You summoned the meeting,” Harlee called out to Betel. “What are we here for?”


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