A brazen note pierced the tumult, Den Janaquel’s horns finally giving notice of their imminent arrival. The strident signal came again, warning everyone to get clear or face the consequences. Efforts to struggle free of the fighting redoubled all around us and I saw several masqueraders ripping off their masks in hopes of disappearing into the anonymous crowd.
But three weren’t abandoning their disguises and I wondered just who they might be, hacking a way through the turmoil with vicious swords, the bland wooden faces of folk tale heroes still tied on tight. They were heading for the alley opposite.
“Temar!” I yelled, pointing, as the crush around us lessened.
“Run them to earth, Ryshad!” The Sieur was at my elbow, a sword in his hand, Master Devoir with him, whip ready.
Temar and I used sword pommels, flat blades, fists and elbows to try to force a path to intercept the bastards. We were just too late and the three men hared down the alley, turning into a ginnel running between the backs of the close-packed buildings. I was after them like a loosed courser, Temar hard on my heels.
“Just run, man,” he was raging, and I realised we’d caught Casuel up in the pursuit. With the narrow alley giving him nowhere to step aside to let Temar pass, all he could do was run with us.
The masqueraders were holding their distance but only at the cost of running at full tilt, not daring to try any doors or gates into yards or outhouses. Using every effort I could summon I was gaining, and I heard Temar behind me mercilessly driving Casuel on with ever fouler curses. The masqueraders turned a sharp corner into a wide alley. As I skidded after them, I realised the far end opened into a walled yard. A broad stone arch was carved with archaic flourishes, vines heavy with leaves and fruit on either side of open gates. I recognised it for the yard behind the Popinjay and frustration burned in my heaving chest. If they got out into the busy northern end of the Primeway, we’d lose the bastards for certain.
“Bring that down!” I turned to yell hoarsely at Casuel who was leaning in the corner of a wall, half doubled up, one hand clutching his throat. “Block their way!”
“Noseless sons of pox-rotted whores!” spat Temar, racing past me.
That youth had been spending too much time with mercenaries. But I had no breath to say so and I ran after him.
Ahead of us the first masquerader was nearly into the yard, but just as I thought he’d escaped us the carved vines reached out from either side of the arch. They laced themselves together, coiling around each other, quicker than the eye could comprehend. A barrier of pale strands blocked the villain’s way but he was running too fast to stop himself slamming into the crisscross of writhing stone. The tangle knotted and twined around him, each tendril swelling into a branch reaching up and outwards. Tugged this way and that the man struggled frantically, yelling in terror as he was lifted clear of the ground. His cries of fear turned to anguish as his body was twisted with audible wrenching, sinew and bone no match for the implacable pull of the rippling lattice. A final hideous snap silenced his howls, leaving his body hanging contorted in the coils of the warped vines.
The second man had stumbled to a halt a scant arm’s length away but in the moment he took to recover his balance a yellow limb snaked out from the living archway. Leaves once wrought from solid rock waved softly as the sinuous vine coiled around his legs. The man screamed in horror and hacked at the curling stem but his blade simply struck sparks from the stone. A second tendril darted out to wrap itself round his sword arm, smothering it. As he tore at it with frantic, bleeding nails, new shoots sprouted to snarl around the hand he’d had free a breath before. New leaves budded and opened all over the intertwining stems now rooting his feet to the ground. But the vines binding his arms were still curling upwards in an insane parody of growth, racking the man ever more painfully. He shrieked some inarticulate curse with his last strangled gasps as the heedless branches forced him backwards in an agonising curve. His spine snapped like a dry stick.
All this happened in no more time than it took me and Temar to catch up to the third man. He was frozen in horror, but hearing our steps behind him he whirled round, eyes white rimmed with panic visible even through the holes in his mask. He was too appalled to raise his sword and I was too surprised. With a move nine parts instinct to one part training I punched him up beneath the rim of the mask, catching him full in the soft flesh beneath his jaw. He collapsed to his knees, choking and pawing at his throat.
“Let’s see who you are, you shit.” As I yanked at the knotted ribbons holding on the concealing mask, I noticed for the first time that his clothes weren’t the usual masquerader’s shoddy pretence of noble dress. He was wearing the real thing, well-cut silk and expensive broadcloth. The hair I pulled out as it caught in the ribbons of the mask was perfumed with expensive pomade.
“Kreve Tor Bezaemar?” No wonder he had wanted to get away, identity hidden beneath this charade. Temar raised his sword in outrage and moved behind the kneeling man. “Stand clear, Ryshad, and I will have this cur’s head off!”
The last thing I wanted was the bastard going free to launch some new attack some other day, but I couldn’t allow that. “No!” I stepped between Temar and the still wheezing Esquire, eyes shut and tears pouring down his face.
“I have the right.” Temar glared at me.
“Yes, you do,” I agreed. “But let the Emperor sanction his death. Wait until he’s stood his trial in full view of every House in Toremal. That’ll discredit Tor Bezaemar so thoroughly their Name won’t aspire to the throne for fifty generations!”
“And if your advocates and their weasel words find him some excuse, some escape?” Temar challenged hotly.
“It won’t happen,” I caught Temar’s sword hand, speaking with absolute conviction. “He raised open murder against two Sieurs in direct defiance of Imperial decrees given not half a day since. That’s treason against the good order of the Empire and he’ll die for it, trust me.” Ignoring Kreve’s hoarse gasps I shoved the bastard on to his front and rested a heavy foot on his back.
Temar looked unconvinced but lowered his sword.
“If we’re going to cut his head off, I’ll do it,” I offered with savage humour as I released his hands. “The Sieur D’Alsennin shouldn’t soil his hands with such vermin’s blood. And why don’t you see who else Cas caught in his snare?”
“I suppose I may as well,” Temar agreed once a glance convinced him the incapacitated Kreve was going nowhere. Lifting the lolling head of the second man to die, he pulled off his mask with difficulty. “Firon Den Thasnet,” he called back over his shoulder. “I suppose we should have expected that.”
“I don’t see Saedrin calling us to answer for him.” I glanced up as I secured Kreve Tor Bezaemar’s hands behind his back with the ribbons cut from his mask. “Who’s the other one?”
Temar looked up uncertainly at the man hanging some way above him. “My compliments to Master Devoir, but I am not about to try climbing this. Can you bring him down, Casuel?”
“I’m not sure I can.” The mage had come to stand next to me, white-faced at his own achievement.
“You must know how you did that?” I looked curiously at the wizard.
“Of course,” retorted Casuel with frosty dignity. “In general terms, at least.” His poise melted as he stared up at his handiwork. “I suppose we’ll have to tell the Archmage about this, will we?”
The rear door to the Popinjay was opening slowly. After a long moment of hesitation on the threshold Banch advanced reluctantly into the yard, Ezinna urging him on with a savage hiss. He looked appalled at the enchanted forest sprouting from his ancient arch. At least it couldn’t really be seen from the street, I realised with belated relief. Magic as dramatic as this would hardly suit the Emperor’s declared prejudice against wizardry. We’d best get the evidence out of sight before it became a wonder for half the city to gawp at.