“It’s fake!” someone shouted in the street below. “All the makarovi are.”
“Wizard,” another shouted. “That’s Akstyr, he’s the wizard.”
“Kill the wizard, kill the wizard!” Men ran through the makarovi illusions, their chants rising in volume as they grew more sure of themselves.
Amaranthe grabbed one of the blasting sticks. A part of her wanted to let the gangs surge closer, in the hopes that they’d draw the real makarovi out of the factory, but it’d be a massacre, especially after Akstyr’s illusion. The youths wouldn’t know to be afraid of the flesh-and-blood creatures until it was too late.
Out on the rope, Tikaya and Mahliki were making their way across. A nightgown peeped out from Mahliki’s jacket, and she wore nothing but socks on her feet. Tikaya wore a dress and boots but no parka or gloves. As Amaranthe had feared, the factory had been caught unsuspecting-and asleep-when the makarovi showed up at the door.
While the women advanced, Starcrest stood on the rim of the roof, his feet planted on either side of the rope, a rifle raised to the hollow of his shoulder. Face set in stone, he was prepared to fire at anyone who threatened his family. Amaranthe didn’t think the mob had noticed the rope or the people crawling along its length overhead, and she’d keep it that way if she could.
“Distraction coming,” she called to warn the women-the last thing she wanted to do was startle them into losing their grips-then lobbed the first blasting stick.
It sailed toward the center of the street, a few meters ahead of the crowd. The stick landed on the worn cobblestones and lay there. The flame danced along the fuse, then went out. Amaranthe groaned. And here they’d been worried about the sticks being so volatile. So much for her distraction, and so much for demolishing that building over there. They’d have to-
An explosion roared in the street. Three stories up, the force of it was diminished, but a gust of wind still sent Amaranthe stumbling away from the edge.
She scrambled back, afraid bloody chunks of human beings would litter the street and splatter the walls. When she’d timed her throw, she’d thought the weapon would go off sooner, that it’d be a scare tactic, not a true attack.
The brick building walls weren’t awash in blood, but there were many injured people near the front. Limping, or clutching arms or torsos, they staggered to the sides, trying to find an escape route past their own men.
“We have more blasting sticks up here,” Amaranthe yelled. “Back off or we’ll throw them.”
“Wait until the women are across to use more,” Starcrest ordered.
Amaranthe winced, wishing he hadn’t yelled that-there were gang people close enough to notice him, maybe even decipher the words. On the rope, Tikaya and Mahliki had paused and curled in upon themselves, like turtles ducking into their shells. Starcrest’s face was grim, as if he was thinking about raising his rifle in Amaranthe’s direction. She gave a wave of acknowledgment.
Books jogged over to grab more ammunition. “Where are the blasted enforcers?”
Akstyr, still kneeling, wiped his brow. “Does anyone else think it’s strange that we’re trying to save those idiots when they’re here to collect on our bounties?”
Amaranthe shook her head, not having a good answer to either of their questions. “The enforcers are-”
A distant boom came from the depths of the city, and it took Amaranthe a surprised moment before she realized what it must have been. “Not the city,” she whispered. “The Imperial Barracks.”
From their rooftop perch, they could see past the miles of intervening buildings and to the top of Arakan Hill, to the great fiery blaze erupting from the center of the walled courtyard at its crown. Flames leaped into the black sky. Amaranthe couldn’t see the building or how much of it had been damaged, but one thing was clear: Sespian and the rest of the team hadn’t found one of the bombs.
Chapter 20
Sicarius stared, transfixed by the leaping flames. Sespian. He forgot about the gangs mobbing the street, the men banging at the rooftop door, and the youths scaling the side of the building. For a moment, all he could wonder was if he’d made a mistake in leaving the Imperial Barracks.
From across the rooftop, he found Amaranthe’s eyes, and saw the same fears reflected in them.
Her mouth moved. She was too far away for him to hear over the din in the street, but he read the words on her lips: “He’s fine, I’m sure if it. He knew there might be more bombs. He would have evacuated everyone. And himself.”
Yes, he must believe that. But, as she turned away to help Komitopis onto the roof, Sicarius let his gaze be pulled back to those flames.
Only when a ringing clatter arose from the center of the rooftop did he jerk his focus back to the battle. The bar holding the door shut. Someone had knocked it loose. Sicarius lunged in that direction, but a scrape and grunt from behind him alerted him to another danger.
He dropped and spun. A dagger swooshed over his head and clattered on the roof behind him. Two men Akstyr’s age had clawed their way over the edge, their eyes wide with anticipation-and greed-when they spotted him. One was recovering from the blade he’d thrown, but the other man held a pistol, his finger on the trigger. Anticipating the shot, Sicarius hurled himself to the side. As he rolled, he yanked out a throwing knife. He twisted and threw, and the blade lodged in his attacker’s eye. Sicarius jumped up, sprinting for the edge. Seeing him coming, the second man stumbled back and tried to catch his rope again as he disappeared over the side. He missed it and fell forty feet, landing on the mob below. Sicarius tugged his knife free of the first man’s eye before that body, too, tilted backward and dropped to the street.
After a quick scan to see if any more men had made the roof-Starcrest’s soldiers were engaged in their own battles on the waterfront side, but they were keeping the gang members from reaching the top-Sicarius ran toward the door. If Amaranthe and the others hadn’t heard that bar drop…
More men than he’d expected had already raced out of the stairwell. They sprinted straight toward Amaranthe’s corner, clubs, swords, and crossbows raised. She had her back to them, helping Mahliki onto the roof. Books knelt beside one of the rucksacks, stuffing fresh ammunition into his pouches. His back was to the mob too. With the clamor all about the building, they didn’t hear the threat.
“Look out,” Sicarius yelled, though at the same moment, Akstyr acted. Still kneeling, he’d been facing the door, and now he threw up an arm. A curtain of fire erupted from the roof between the team and their attackers, but not before three of the men ran into it. One screamed, but the others didn’t. Had they made it through? Or had they been enveloped in the flames? Sicarius, also behind that curtain, couldn’t see his comrades or anything around them.
“Wizard!” someone on his side of the fire shrieked. “There he is. Get him!”
Sicarius pumped his arm once, then two more times, hurling knives. All three blades slammed into the backs of those at the rear of the crowd. His targets went down. Two at the front hurled themselves at the flames, as if they believed them as illusory as the makarovi they’d faced. They screamed, their clothes catching on fire. They dropped to the ground, rolling. Those with crossbows fired, and Sicarius’s gut clenched. If one of those stray shots struck Amaranthe…
Someone on the other side of the flames fired a rifle, but nobody went down. His comrades couldn’t see through the flames either.
Sicarius leaped into the remains of the cluster of attackers, his black dagger in hand. He slashed two throats before the men knew he was there.
“Akstyr, get out of there-” someone shouted-Books.