“Do you see that ramp at the very end?” Mr. Wainright said, pointing to the dim, deserted recesses of the tunnel. “That leads up to the scout.”
Two are here, Havarr said in my mind.
Ahead, I saw a flash of metal in the air. Another wary knife.
I grabbed Mr. Wainright’s arm. “They have found us.”
We stopped beside a cart full of metal equipment and another stacked with tea chests drawn up side by side. The drivers, in mid conversation, stared at us, then at the knives hanging in the air.
“Leave!” I ordered.
A second wary knife appeared beside the first, both high in the air and slowly rotating. The drivers swung down from their seats and backed away, abandoning their carts and ponies.
Havarr squared up opposite her counterparts, her spin in time with the hard beat of my heart.
“I have an idea,” Mr. Wainright murmured. He ducked behind the equipment cart, leaving me to stand alone against the two men who emerged from a small ramp ahead. The men who had killed the gate guards.
“Countess Grayle,” one of them called, “the Brotherhood has a proposition.” They strode towards me, their greatcoats fanning out behind them. I recognized the tall, thin speaker: Sir John Pelwyn. We used to play whist together in another lifetime.
“Sir John, I know what kind of proposition the Brotherhood is offering,” I called back. “I warn you, stop now.”
The two men halted ten or so yards from me. Their knives still hovered between us.
Sir John held up his hands: a show of conciliatory palms. “Allow me to introduce my knife—Denas—and this is Mr. Seaford and his knife Fencar.” It was the polite Brotherhood greeting: introduce man and knife. Sir John had always been a stickler for the niceties. Mr. Seaford, a great deal shorter and wider than Sir John, bowed. “You must know you cannot keep the knife now,” Sir John added. “We have a way to remove Havarr from you without harm.”
Sir John had been a reasonably good card player, but he’d always had a nervous habit when he strategically lost tricks. A compression of his lips. Right now, his lips had all but disappeared.
“We all know that is not possible,” I said. “You are lying.”
He lowered his hands. I glanced across the carts. No sign of Mr. Wainright. Had he fled?
Behind me, at a safe distance, a crowd of workers had gathered to watch.
“Do you intend to attack me, two men upon one woman?” I challenged, raising my voice so that the spectators could hear. “If that is the case, you have no honor.”
I knew Sir John prided himself upon his good name. He tilted his head: a silent command to his comrade. Mr. Seaford stepped back.
Now the odds were better.
“It will only take one man, Countess,” Sir John said, “and I am sorry for it.”
His knife phased out.
Havarr screamed within my mind, Jump!
I jumped and landed a few feet forward. Sir John’s knife phased back into the air where my right heel would have been. Ah, going for the Achilles. Havarr slammed into Denas, the clang of metal spinning both knives across the cobbles.
Keep Denas busy, I ordered.
Both knives phased. I ran at Sir John. He had not yet moved: a contemptuous immobility.
Right, Havarr yelled. I lunged to my right as Denas phased into the air inches away from my legs, turned and slashed at me. Havarr phased into a block. The force sent a shiver through my mind. She hammered a series of blows upon her counterpart, driving it back.
The crowd started to yell their support. At the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Seaford shift upon his feet, no doubt eager to join the fray.
Time to attack.
Shoulder, I ordered.
Havarr phased. I saw Sir John’s eyes widen; his knife had sensed the attack. He ducked to his left. Havarr missed his body by a hairsbreadth. Denas blocked. Now was my chance.
Two steps, then all my weight upon my left leg. I whipped into a round kick. The full length of my boot sole slammed into Sir John’s jaw. The force jarred up my leg as I landed. He staggered back then toppled to the ground, the shock and my boot heel imprinted upon his face. No man expected a woman to kick him in the face. Lud, they barely knew we could run.
Denas phased out and reappeared above Sir John, hovering above his fallen partner: protection mode. The man was out cold.
Behind me the crowd cheered and whistled, their approbation amplified tenfold in the tunnel.
It was not finished yet. Mr. Seaford, gaping at the insensate Sir John, gathered his powerful frame into righteous indignation.
“I am not such a gentleman as Sir John,” he said, eyes narrowing.
“Neither am I,” a voice said.
Behind him, Mr. Wainright appeared from nowhere, swinging a thick metal rod. The crowd gasped. In reflex, Mr. Seaford spun around. The full momentum of the rod connected with his sneering face. He dropped where he stood. After a stunned moment, the crowd clapped and whistled.
Mr. Wainright peered down at the sprawled man, rod still raised. “Good God, I haven’t killed him, have I?”
I ran to check. If Seaford were dead, his knife would be untethered and kill everyone in the tunnel. The air above him shivered then his knife phased above him, hovering.
Thank God.
“They are both unconscious. We are safe,” I said, delighted and, I had to admit, relieved by Mr. Wainright’s commitment. “An excellent strategy.”
The Brotherhood are on the grid, Havarr said.
The real fight was on its way.
“The others are here, Mr. Wainright! We must go now!”
He dropped the rod, its clanging bounce ringing out behind us as we ran towards the Scout. Towards possible salvation.
“Where are they?” Mr. Wainright asked, gasping between each word. We still had a good five hundred yards to cover before we reached the ramp.
I posed the question to Havarr. She phased out then back above me, bringing bad news.
“Forty-eight, on horseback, near the cargo ship,” I repeated.
“Forty-eight? But with you and those two down there, that makes fifty-one. I thought there were only fifty knives.”
“They have brought an extra man for Havarr when I am dead.”
“Goddamn them.”
We finally reached the scout ramp. The paved incline was not overly steep but it slowed Mr. Wainright’s pace. He dropped back, stumbling. His hat dislodged and rolled down the slope. I grabbed his hand and pulled, his weight a searing drag on my hand and shoulder joints.
“I cannot,” he panted. “Go ahead.”
“Keep moving.”
The top of the ramp was in sight, the view beyond the archway filled with the scout’s huge sled-like landing runners and pocked underside. Would we have enough time to get inside? The Brotherhood could not kill me before their chosen man was close by; the exchange of knife partnership had to be made before actual death. But at any moment, all forty-seven knives could come at me.
We broke out into the shadow of the scout.
Some kind of panic had set in around the cargo ship at the other end of the grid. Men running, ponies galloping, carts tipping over, sending bales and boxes across the flagstones. The Brotherhood had not factored in the effect of their knives flying past the workers. The posse splintered into three groups of horsemen threading their way around the mayhem. I was still beyond the limit of their knife energy bonds, but it would not be long before I was within range.
Gasping painfully, Mr. Wainright pointed to the bottom of the scout. “Door. Over there,” he managed.