The City (32 page)

‘Who sent you?’ asked the old soldier.

The Wolf frowned. He would have liked to oblige the old boy with an answer, but loyalty meant discretion, and he had vowed never to tell his protector’s name, even to a dead man.

Instead, in a bid to be pleasant, he offered, ‘I will not molest the girl.’

The man said nothing, just watched him with his pale eyes. Then he slowly levered himself to his feet. The Wolf let him. He had no wish to kill this man as he lay on the ground. The old boy took a
knife-fighter’s stance and circled cautiously. The Wolf was thirty years younger, and armed with a short sword, but he treated the old man with respect. If the events of this night had taught him anything it was never to take anything for granted.

They were both right-handed, although the assassin could use his left hand with deadly accuracy. He thrust experimentally at the old man’s throat. The man weaved to the right, his knife leaping forward and nearly cutting the Wolf’s shoulder. He is game, thought the Wolf, and he is working on an old soldier’s memories. He smiled inwardly. If he were fifty years younger, he might give me problems. Out of politeness he turned his stance to minimize his profile.

The old man’s knife flickered forward and the Wolf instantly took his chance, weaving and thrusting for the man’s chest. But the old man’s blade slid against his, deflecting it, and in that moment the old man stepped in and threw a ferocious punch with his left fist which rocked the Wolf backwards to the top of the stairs to the ground floor. He teetered, getting his balance, and the old man moved forward. The Wolf recovered and stepped down two steps to give himself room.

In that second he saw the old man reverse the knife and pull his arm back to throw it. Good, thought the Wolf, as he swayed easily to the right. The knife thunked into the sloping ceiling beside his head. The Wolf, short sword in one hand, grinned and looked the old boy in the eyes as he dragged the knife out of the ceiling. Then he leaped forward with his sword. The old man raised an arm to defend himself and the Wolf thrust the dagger into his side. He felt it ram home through flesh and muscle and the old man sagged against him. Carefully the Wolf helped him down to the floor, leaving the knife lodged in his body.

He turned to Derian, who was dragging himself to his feet.

‘Go find the girl!’ he commanded. ‘Or do I have to do everything?’ Derian was pale and could barely use his right leg but he nodded and swallowed, and started limping up the stairs to the upper storeys. The Wolf ran downstairs and looked around the shabby rooms on the ground floor. There was a workroom, with pots of paint and foul-smelling potions. He piled several of them in a haphazard heap, then emptied one pot over the others. He had no idea if it was flammable, but it smelled as though it ought to be.

He glanced through a gap in the boarded-up window. Dawn was
breaking. He could see the buildings on the other side of the alley and the early birds were beginning their song. It was a good time to be out in the City, walking through the waking streets to the sound of birdsong, he thought. Then he remembered Derian and scowled.

He ran up the stairs, flight after flight, glancing to left and right as he went. He found his man on the top floor. He had discovered the girl and was laboriously tying her to a heavy chair with a rope he had found. She was crying and struggling and Derian cuffed her round the head as the Wolf arrived.

‘What are you doing?’ the leader asked, amazed.

‘I thought you’d want to ask her questions,’ Derian replied sulkily.

‘Questions? About what?’ Derian shrugged, staring at the floor. The Wolf shook his head in wonder at the stupidity. The gods defend me from imbeciles, he thought.

‘It is nearly dawn,’ he said. ‘We can’t be seen here.’

He returned to the hatch in the floor. Derian asked, ‘What about her?’

The Wolf shrugged. ‘What about her? I told the old man I would not molest her,’ he said. ‘I keep my promises.’

They went back down through the building, stepping over the body of the old man on the first landing. On the ground floor the Wolf grabbed a candle and threw it on the heap of paint pots. Disappointingly, nothing happened for a moment. Then he saw a thin blue line of light surge across the floor. There was a small explosion of flame, then quickly the whole pile caught alight.

He opened the side door and together they stepped out into the fresh new morning.

THE POOL OF
blood was widening, and soon it would start to sizzle.

Bartellus lay on his side watching with interest as reflected flames flickered on the shining slick surface of the blood pool.

He was curled up, hands clutched protectively round the dagger embedded in his side, trying not to move, trying not to breathe. When his chest moved he could feel the blade rasp against a rib.
That broken sword is the only thing keeping you alive, sir.
Bartellus could still see the officer’s white anxious face bobbing above him as he was carried off the battlefield. He had wanted to pull the weapon out, to ease the pain. He had known his lifeblood would gush out with it, but it seemed not to matter. The young officer had restrained him, holding gently on to his hands.

Now the old man was lying on the landing at the top of the first staircase, and from the sounds below him, roaring and crackling, he knew the ground floor of the House of Glass was well alight. The flames were crawling up the wooden walls of the stairwell. Pulling the blade out would mean a quick death. A better choice than burning alive. Emly would understand. She would not blame him.

He pictured his daughter’s face. Then he realized he could not remember when he had last seen her. He tried to concentrate, but his thoughts were swirling like water in his head. He could not stay
focused on Emly. He kept seeing the young officer. What was his name? Gilliar? Gellan?

There was an explosion in a room below him, and a blast of hot air warmed his face. Paint, perhaps, or the chemicals Em used on the glass. He opened his eyes. He had to think of Emly. Where was she? Why was he thinking about her? Her bare feet. Her bare feet running up the stairs. Suddenly he remembered the attack in the night, the two men, the fight, the blade in his side. Emly fleeing.

With a groan he lifted his head and saw flames all around him. He slowly rolled over and on to his knees. The agony in his side made the world lurch and he paused while it righted itself again. Then, on all fours, flames reaching for his clothes and grasping at his hair, he slowly crawled up the stairs.

There were thirteen stairs. On the next landing he rested, still on hands and knees. He could not let himself lie down, for he knew he could never get up again. He peered around him, looking into the rooms on either side. No sign of Em.

‘Emly!’ he cried, but there was little breath in his lungs and it came out as a whisper. He pressed on up the next flight, inching his way, outpacing the fire only by moments.

Finally, after aeons, he reached the bottom of the wooden ladder which led to Em’s attic. He looked up and tried calling her name again, but the effort made him cough wretchedly. Agony surged through his body and darkness covered his eyes. He could not climb up there. It was impossible.

Then he heard something above him, a regular rasping sound like someone scouring a pan. He listened hard. There was silence for a while, then the sound started again. It gave him hope, and a little strength, and he forced himself up the steps, one agonizing rung after another, clinging on with bloody hands, his feet dragging as if weights were tied to them. After an age he reached the top and peered over into the attic.

Emly was roped to a heavy wooden chair, which was lying on its side. She was gagged and her hands and feet were tied. She was rubbing the ropes around her wrists against the sharp corner of a metal chest. She was facing the opening and when she saw him her eyes widened above the filthy paint cloth they had used for a gag. The old man forced his feet up the last few rungs, then slid across the wooden floor towards her, his pain for a moment forgotten. He
fumbled at the back of her head to unknot the gag then, angered by his weakness, wrenched it roughly off over her head.

‘Hands! Hands!’ she whispered, terrified, and her eyes looked beyond him and he saw the flames reflected in them.

His thick clumsy fingers worked at the knots in the rope. His blood gave them grip, but he was weakened by his wound and rendered incompetent by his fear for her, and it took precious moments to untie her. When she felt the rope loosen she tore her hands free and unwound the rope at her waist, then bent to free her feet. Bartellus looked behind him. Flames were roaring up from the stairwell, setting fire to the wooden rafters above and crawling across the ceiling. Smoke was pouring across the floor.

Emly was free. She bent down to him and grabbed his arm, his shoulder, on his uninjured side.

‘The window!’ she whispered.

He shook his head. The thought was preposterous. ‘I cannot,’ he told her, his voice muffled and rasping from the smoke.

She grabbed his face and pulled in close to him. ‘I will not go without you!’ she said, her words firm and uncompromising.

He sighed and, resting on her thin shoulder, he stood and struggled across the workroom to the window. She threw it open and helped him on to the wide sill. He gazed down. Blue Duck Alley was far below them and down there he could see excited faces looking up. In front of them the latticework bridge stretched in the darkness to the opposite building. Impossible.

‘I cannot,’ he told her. ‘This is a path for cats, and deliverance for you. But not for me.’

‘I will not go without you,’ she repeated, and he heard the iron in her words. She started pushing him out of the window, beating at his back with her fists, shoving with her shoulder. He tried to hold her, to thrust her in front of him on to the bridge, but even her frail strength was too much for him.

He could feel himself dying, but he could not take her with him.

With a huge effort he reached up with his left arm and caught hold of a wooden beam. He felt her lift his boot up on to a secure foothold, then, with a groan, he swung himself up on to the bridge. He clung on, riding out the pain, forcing back the darkness in his head. Emly was right behind him, placing his right hand then his right foot on the beams of the bridge. He moved his weight to his right side, and
she immediately took his left hand, guiding it forward again. They were high above the alley now, with nothing but dark air between them and the cobblestones. His head felt a bit clearer, and the night air cooled his burning side. He stretched forward and took one more shuffled pace. On the far side of the bridge he could see two young boys watching him from an open window. He could hear thin cries, like the mewing of gulls. They were shouting at him, their eyes wide with excitement. He guessed they were egging him forward.

He shifted his grip and moved his feet to a lower beam, so he could rest for a moment against the latticework. There was an explosion of glass and a blast of hot air as the window behind him was blown out. He heard glass crashing on the street below and the alarmed shouts of spectators as they fled the falling shards. He quickly stepped another pace forward, conscious that Em was behind him and closer to the inferno. His right hand slipped on the smooth wood and he half fell, landing hard on his hip, grabbing on again at the last moment, tearing the wound in his side. Pain stabbed through him and his vision blurred.

That broken sword is the only thing keeping you alive, sir
. What did that damn fool know? That sword was keeping him from the battle. His men needed him now and he would not let them down.

Emly saw her father reach purposefully for the dagger embedded in his side. She knew what he was about to do and she grabbed his hand to stop him. He struggled weakly for a moment, then he let go and his body relaxed against her. She guessed he had passed out. He was half sitting against a diagonal beam and she was squatting behind him, holding on with one hand, the other arm wrapped tightly around his chest, her bare toes digging into the timber.

‘Father! Father!’ she called in his ear, trying to bring him round. Behind her she could feel the heat of the inferno, and she knew the flames were licking along the lattice bridge towards them.

‘Bartellus!’

Weak with exhaustion and fear, she looked ahead at the attic window of the lodging house opposite. It was a few paces away, but might as well be a hundred. She was not strong enough to move him. She could barely hold on herself. Before long her grip would fail and they would both plummet to the cobbles.

She spoke into Bartellus’ ear again, leaning her head against his,
and for the first time in a long time her words came clear and fluid. She did not know if she was speaking out loud or the words were still trapped inside her head.

‘Remember, Father, the great stone bridge in the Halls,’ she told him. ‘You said it was a bridge made for giants. We had no idea where we were or where it led. I was so small you had to pick me up and place me on each step then clamber up after me. You did not leave me in the darkness, in all the long darkness of the Halls, you did not leave me and save yourself. Now I will not leave you on this bridge. I would rather die here or on the stones below than go on without you. Now you must wake up and we will climb to safety together.’

But Bartellus did not hear her words. Despairing, she looked ahead to the window again. There were three anxious faces, a woman and two boys. As she watched the bigger boy climbed out of the casement. The woman clutched at him, her face contorted, imploring, and Em saw them frowning, arguing, although all she could hear was the roar of the fire so close behind her. The boy shook the woman’s hand off his arm and he launched himself out on to the bridge, climbing swiftly and with confidence towards her. In moments he was at her side, clinging on easily to the latticework of beams. Disappointed, Emly realized he was only young, perhaps ten or twelve.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ he shouted at her over the roar of the flames.