"That's the gold down there," he muttered to another man afoot. "Damn bet it is. Wouldn't y' like t' guard that?"
"Ain't a chance," the man said wistfully, and spat. "You come near that, you're dead."
"Where's the commander?"
"Ought to be out. Don't know what they're doin' in there."
"Waitin' for th' rebels. I had a bellyful of waitin'. I lost m' tent, lost ever' damn thing—"
"Me too." Another spit. "Not that it was much."
"Lot of gold down there."
"Don't say it. You can die for thinkin' it."
"I ain't. I ain't thinkin' a thing. If I was thinkin', I wouldn't be here."
He walked on, sauntered down the slope, down among the horses—looked up as the doors opened and light flooded out, with the shadows of Imperial guards and a number of official types coming out onto the terrace.
"Clear it back!" an officer yelled, and Imperials moved down to clear a space around the wagon, and to bring certain horses in close to the steps. Moving fast now. Shoka edged his way closer to the line the Imperials were making, and kept an eye to the porch.
Plan your retreat, master Shoka.
Up the steps, cut a few throats and run like hell down the terraces for the scullery gate—if the leg still has it.
Damn scullery lane's a dead end. Got to make that streetside corner in a hurry.
Where are you, kid? For gods' sakes, where are you?
He looked up to the porch as more men came out, one smallish man in robes being hustled along by others. And one tall, lank one in plain armor, with a gilt-embroidered robe thrown over it, and a helmet fancier than the armor.
None of that mattered. He knew Ghita's face, every nuance of body movements.
"You!" a voice snapped from the height of the steps, and he looked, alarmed, straight into an Imperial's face.
"Get him!" the guard yelled. And Imperials poured off the porch as soldiers scattered—as Shoka drew and took out the first and second to come at him, and charged for the porch, hell with anything but the target, who was retreating behind his guards.
Horses screamed of a sudden and wheels cracked into the terrace steps, splintering wood, then jerking forward. Shoka cleared himself a space about him and staggered back as a horse bolted between him and the guards, horses scrambling every way in mortal terror, over the terraces, breaking down railings, crashing through hedges—
He whirled clear of pursuing guards and reeled under the buffet of a horse's shoulder, dived into the general chaos of bolting and rearing horses and struggling riders and saw the fire burning, saw a fiery trail come through the air and rebound off a horse's rump, to fall and panic others as it burned under their feet.
"Taizu!"
He saw the outer gate opening, saw men running out into the lantern-lit street. Horses escaped that way. From somewhere high in the air came a booming, echoing voice.
"Damn you, Gitu!" it howled, female and huge. "Damn your cousin too! You pack of thieves, I'll have your eyes for pig-food! I'll roast you in hell and have your bones for a necklace! And anyone with you, I'll lay diseases on him, I'll give him the plague and the pox, I'll curse you with cold beds and cold feet and cold in your bones all your life, till you die and I carry you off to hell for my dinner, every one of you!"
Men ran in the firelight, crazed as the horses, bolting for the gate, the terraces, the gardens, grabbing onto horses and escaping as they could.
Ghita stared, looking up at the balconies, and Shoka jumped for the porch, vaulted the rail and sliced his way through startled guards and staff, two blows dealt before Ghita realized where he was and backed up to shelter behind clerkly men who wanted no part of it.
"You damn dog!" Shoka yelled, and took his head off while staff ran for the inner halls and guards rushed to defend a dead man.
One, two, and three died, before the quick-thinking fourth assessed the situation and somersaulted backward over the terrace railing, out of his way.
There was Beijun cowering on the porch. There was his wife up there on the balconies somewhere, and he had no hesitation in that choice.
Even when at the bottom of his gut he wondered if there were demons, and if he was rushing up there to confront a sight he would never want to see.
He took the stairs at the corner up and up, one turn and another, while the firelit courtyard and the dark alternately swung past his vision, and he saw the paved area emptying, the wagon burning, riders rushing out the gate, to shouts and curses inside and outside the walls.
He came out on a balcony at the very top of the house, face to face with a white demon shape and an arrow aimed for his heart.
"Taizu!"
The apparition whirled and sent the arrow out through the railings, several stories down into the courtyard.
And looked back to him, white-faced, white-armored, white hair streaming in the wind.
He stared. She said, with a breath: "It's flour."
"You damned fool, wife!"
"I figured you'd come here." She drew another arrow from her quiver and studiously let fly at the chaos below.
"How did you get in here?"
"With Ghita's bunch." She picked out another arrow. "I rode in, slipped down in the dark and got the scullery gate open. And got some flour and coals and stuff in the kitchen. Walked right up here." Another shot. "The kettle there's the echoes. I was going to wait till they got the gates open, but I heard a commotion and I thought it might be you. —Is help coming?"
"I damned well hope so! But I've got no guarantee. Come on, come on, dammit!" He lunged after her and grabbed her by the arm, hauled her to the stairs. "Drop the damn bow!"
"It's yours!"
"Drop it, dammit!" He hauled her down around the turns, running, hell with the pain in his leg. She followed that order the way she listened to everything, but he let her go, to follow him on her own. The bow banged on the railings and the steps as she struggled to stay with him, shedding flour all the way. "The Emperor's down below. He was. I went to save your neck! Drop the damn bow!"
She still had it when they hit the second floor. Fire was everywhere below, the courtyard deserted, the burning wagon lying wrecked, horseless, overturned against the terrace corner. A pine had caught fire, gone up like a wick. Loose horses still ran the garden and the courtyard, darting this way and that in thunderous panic, ignoring the open gates and the safety of the lantern-lit street.
He rounded the last turn, felt the shaking of the stairs, and in the next instant came face to face with guards coming up.
He yelled. Taizu yelled. They yelled. He took out the first one who stood paralyzed in shock and the hindmost three lit out down the stairs. The second came to life as he stumbled on the corpse. A sword flashed past his head and took the railing out with a downstroke: he followed up in the same direction and the man and his head followed the railing down.
Shoka ran, charged the rest of them, trying to keep the momentum, trying to gain ground—damned if he knew where anything was at the moment, except the terrace and the gate that was escape; and the place where he had parted with Beijun.
The guards ran, skidded around the corner, hit the railings and left them in sole possession of the porch and the burning wagon.
"Beijun!" he yelled into the lighted hall—the way he would call the boy-heir twenty years ago. "Beijun, dammit!"
Forgetting all the years and the titles.
"Beijun!"
"Shoka!" the Emperor cried—came staggering out from beside the door, robes askew, lost in the weight of brocade and gilt.