A cheer went up. A million ranmyas split hundreds of ways would still be decent booty for those people.
“It’ll take more of a distraction than that,” Starcrest called, but he’d come up to Deret’s side and gave an order, then circled the rooftop to speak with his soldiers. Soon, they were shooting at the ringleaders down there too.
“We’re working on it,” Amaranthe responded.
Akstyr lifted a hand in the air and clenched a fist. The cries of “Sicarius” and “reward” halted, at least from the street directly in front of their building.
“Oh, that might work. Good, Akstyr, good,” Books crooned.
Amaranthe started to ask, “What?” then spotted what was alarming the crowd. Four makarovi had run out from behind the factory’s massive tanks. Two charged up the hill and two more ran below Amaranthe, barreling toward the front of the mob. They paused and reared up, thumping their chests like gorillas.
“Don’t make them dance this time,” Books said.
“Those are… Akstyr’s invention?” Amaranthe asked. “Are we sure?” The saliva gleaming on those fangs and the fur rippling on the stout limbs appeared realistic to her.
They must have appeared realistic to the gang leaders, too, for they skittered backward insomuch as they could on a street packed sidewalk to sidewalk with people.
“Amaranthe,” came Sicarius’s voice from behind her.
He nodded for her to step away from the corner. He’d found a coil of lightweight rope and a crossbow. Er, no, he hadn’t “found” the crossbow. Blood spattered the weapon and the back of one of his hands. He’d taken it from someone.
“Are the gangs in the warehouse?” she asked.
“A few scouts. I took care of them, but there’ll be more. I put a bar through the handle on the door leading up here, but there’s no way to lock it from this side. We’ll need to watch it.” Sicarius leaned over the edge of the roof, eyeing the rampaging makarovi. “That won’t fool them for long.”
He knelt to tie the rope to one of the crossbow quarrels.
“Best we can do.” Amaranthe had the blasting sticks in mind for a further distraction, if they needed them, though she’d prefer to save them for the makarovi-the real ones.
“Incoming,” Sicarius yelled, then fired the crossbow.
The quarrel arced high into the dark night sky. Normally it might have traveled a hundred meters or more, but the weight of the rope shortened its trajectory. It was enough. The bolt skipped down onto the roof and skidded toward Starcrest’s cage, wrapping around one of the pipes.
“Good choice,” Amaranthe said. “That thing looks heavy enough to hold the weight of a tightrope-walking makarovi.”
As Starcrest and Deret knelt to secure the rope, another blow to their trapdoor sent the crate skidding off the top. A gap appeared, and a long makarovi arm lashed out. The nearest soldier fired, but he was standing too close, and the claws hooked his ankle. He crashed to his back, the weapon flying free.
The second man had been leaping for the crate to shove it back over the trapdoor, but he forgot it, lunging to help his comrade. That makarovi paw pulled its victim closer. The soldier twisted onto his belly, clawing at the roof, trying to find a handhold.
Helpless from her spot, Amaranthe cringed, not wanting to see the man hauled through the trapdoor to certain death. His comrade caught his arm and threw his weight back, pulling in the opposite direction. The soldier hollered, his body stretching as claws ripped into his leg.
Starcrest and the others on the roof were charging toward the scene, but they wouldn’t be fast enough. The trapdoor was flung all the way open. A makarovi head rose, filling the entire space. Maybe its shoulders and torso would be too big for it to get out. The creature was still pulling its captive-pulling both men now. The standing soldier’s feet were slipping. In a second, he’d be on his backside too.
Though the soldiers were younger, Starcrest, with his long legs, was the one to reach the trapdoor first. He kicked the makarovi in the face and jammed downward with a dagger, sinking the blade into that rubbery flesh. The weapon didn’t pierce far-Amaranthe could tell even at that distance-but it surprised the creature enough that its grip loosened. The entrapped soldier was able to yank his leg free, and his comrade nearly tumbled over in his haste to pull him back from the trapdoor.
The rest of the soldiers came within range and fired at the black furred head. It ducked out of sight.
Starcrest thrust his hand toward the crate, saying, “Get something heavier to block that door,” then knelt to speak with the injured man, his words too soft to carry.
“He still moves fast for a gray-haired fellow,” Amaranthe said.
“Secure the rope,” Sicarius yelled. He’d tied his own end to a sturdy vent pipe and sounded slightly annoyed that everyone over there had turned toward the trapdoor instead of finishing his task. “Mancrest, you do it.”
Deret had limped a few paces toward the fight, but stopped when he saw the others had control of the situation. He waved an affirmative and soon had the rope tied off. Suan had run over to him. Was she volunteering to go first? Amaranthe couldn’t blame her for wanting to get off that cursed roof, but wasn’t sure she’d have the strength to climb fifty meters hanging from a rope.
“She needs to go last,” Sicarius told them. “The makarovi will sense it when she leaves the building.”
Footsteps pounded on the roof behind Amaranthe. “We have a problem,” Books announced.
“A new one?” She eyed the illusory makarovi in the streets. They’d stopped at the end of the building, a dozen meters from the crowd. The gangs had scooted back at the monsters’ appearance, but they hadn’t fled. Men were firing. Trust Turgonian men not to flee in the face of a battle, even grubby street thugs. It was only the darkness of the night that had kept them from noticing that their musket balls and crossbow quarrels were going through the makarovi instead of embedding in flesh.
“Not that.” Books pointed toward a corner of their building, one facing the waterfront. “Some of them have ropes and grapples and they’re trying to get up here, to get us. I shot one, but with the makarovi down there, they have a lot of incentive to want to get off the ground. More than simply money.”
“See them across,” Sicarius told Amaranthe. “I’ll take care of the climbers.” He took her rifle as well as his own and ran for the corner.
Two of Starcrest’s soldiers were starting across the rope. Amaranthe worried that it would give under their combined weight, but between the gangs and the makarovi, she doubted they had time for a safer, more leisurely crossing. As soon as the thugs below figured out they were facing illusions, their attention would return to the roofs. The gangs might attack the people on the rope, thinking they could also be outlaws with bounties on their heads. Amaranthe thought about announcing that one of the men on that roof was Fleet Admiral Starcrest, but didn’t know if his name would raise the same adoration in a mob of illiterate street roughs as it did amongst soldiers and more educated men. Those men down there might shoot him simply for being a Crest and for having been born with comforts and privileges they’d never known.
With Books and Sicarius running along the perimeter, targeting anyone who attempted to climb up, and Akstyr busy maintaining his illusions, Amaranthe felt she should do something more helpful than cheering for the men crossing the rope. She rummaged in one of the rucksacks and found a lantern and matches. If they needed the blasting sticks, they might need them in a hurry.
By the time she’d lit the lantern, the first two soldiers reached her corner. She helped them off the rope.
“Not a much better view over here,” one observed.
“It stinks less.”
“I don’t know. I smell urine. Why do people always piss on roofs? Or is it just that they do it in the alley and the smell wafts up?”
“That’s probably it.”
Lovely, Starcrest had sent his comedians first. “Could you two help those two?” Amaranthe pointed at Books and Sicarius. “We have gang members trying to-”