Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [51]
Lymond was whispering. His voice, agreeably eerie, echoed through the foggy stone vaulting.
‘O God breake thou theyr teeth at once
Within theyr mouth throughout
The tuskes that in their great chaw bones
Like Lions whelpes hang out.’
The two figures hesitated. Philippa fitted a dart to her blowpipe. Lymond’s voice, a little louder this time, said hollowly, ‘May Gibil devour you! May Gibil catch you! May Gibil kill you! May Gibil consume …!’
The words rose to a shout. The clash of steel on stone drowned it. The man nicknamed Ringwood had rushed into the traboule. With a roar and a sweep of his sword he slashed the hooded figure which loomed in the darkness. The head of St Peter, immovably benign, jumped from its shoulders. With equal precision Lymond stepped from the shadows and forced his sword through the hide, flesh and bone of Ringwood’s broad leather back.
Ringwood fell. The statue tottered. Lymond pulled out his sword. Philippa, vouchsafed at last a perfect view of Royster plunging in to the rescue, aimed her sarbacane, took a deep breath and spat.
Royster screamed. Two other shapes, rushing precipitately in from the roadway, hesitated, stopped, and remained suspended, like washed-out dye, in the entrance. Lymond kneeling said, ‘Christ.… My dear girl, you’ve killed him.’
‘I meant to,’ said Philippa irritably. ‘To devise is the work of the master: to execute, the act of the servant. There’s a courtyard there with a couple of workshops, a turnpike tower and a stable.’ She spat again, and a yell came from the mouth of the traboule. One of the shadows, clutching its shoulder, was cursing. She said, ‘You could try banging on a few doors, but they’ll be mad if they answer,’ and realized that she was talking to herself: Lymond had passed her like a wraith and was already in the courtyard banging on doors. The two men at the entrance of the traboule stayed where they were, debating. The man or men at the opposite end had made no further sign either. It seemed to argue that they were pretty certain there was no escape possible. She thought they were probably waiting for reinforcements.
Philippa put the pipe in her teeth like a flautist, and kicking off her shoes, began unhooking her bodice. The men in the entrance arch faded and vanished. She called, ‘They’ve gone! Mr Crawford!’ and hopped to her feet, kicking aside her discarded gown and petticoat as Lymond, reconstituted, became again visible.
He examined the traboule entrance and with equal interest the knee-length chemise of his companion. ‘At least we’ll let them think we think so,’ he said. ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’
‘Looking for a piece of string,’ said Philippa. ‘Since someone gave away my pearl cincture.’
Lymond pulled undone the knot of his shirt and tossed her the silk cord with its aiglets. ‘Kirtle your chemise up with that, and keep your cloak on. I’ve managed to break a few locks. There’s a horse, a knife-grinder’s and a shoemaker’s workshop. Hurry. They’re bound to try and come in from the quayside.’
She took St Peter’s lamp with her. He had the courtyard lanthorn already inside the stable. The cobbler’s workshop produced thirty left-footed shoes on a spar, a greasy felt helmet and a tunic apron, the last two of which covered her hair and her chemise respectively. She chose two identical shoes and jammed them on, hopping, prior to making one or two fast dispositions. A horse’s feet, trampling excitedly inside the stable, told that Lymond was occupied also. She returned from the traboule in time to see him race over the courtyard and up the first flight of a turnpike.
He came down again almost immediately. ‘There’s a group of men on the quay at our entrance.