Heart of Iron - Ekaterina Sedia [19]
“Halt!” called the Nikolashka who smelled like onions. At his command, a few of his comrades stepped forth, surrounding the three men.
I am not exactly sure what was I hoping to accomplish, but I stepped between Chiang Tse and the Nikolashki. A part of me hoped that the latter would be dissuaded from their pursuits if there were a witness; it had never occurred to me that any real harm might befall me.
The one who smelled of onions moved to shove me aside, and his arm caught me across the chest, pushing me into the waiting arms of others, while three more stepped forth to apprehend the Chinese students. I struggled out of the men’s hands, appalled by the unclean touch of their corrupt fingers, all the while demanding that my friends be left alone.
The gas streetlamps were coming on, but the passersby were few, and clearly uninterested in getting involved. All four of us were held by the arms now; only I continued to struggle, still willfully oblivious to whose side the power was on.
I was lifted bodily off the ground, and used this opportunity to try and kick at my capturers, but they were apparently used to such attempts and the onion-breath avoided injury with surprising deftness. Before they could carry me off to the carriage now waiting at the corner, a part of the night sky suddenly grew darker—both starlight and lamplight disappeared, and before I had a chance to wonder at this phenomenon, the dark patch resolved itself into a wide cloak.
I could not see the face of the man who fell like a stone from the sky—a suicide, I thought at first, even though there were no tall buildings in our proximity. Our capturers saw him too; I felt the grip on my elbows relax, and used the opportunity to wrench free. I was not the only one: I saw Chiang Tse and Lee Bo wrestle out of constraining hands as well. Noting their hesitation, I screamed, “Run!”—furious that they might waste this opportunity with unneeded chivalry. They wisely obeyed.
The man who fell out of the sky backhanded one of the Nikolashki, and the rest of them stepped back, understandably stunned by his appearance as well as his rude behavior. I could not see the face half-hidden under his wide-brimmed hat—only a long, clean-shaven chin was visible.
He grabbed my elbow. “Come on,” he said, and pulled me along. I ran after him, into darker streets with only a scarce smattering of streetlamps. He ran quickly, changing directions as to confuse any pursuit, and I did my best to keep up. My skirts tried to twist around my legs, and my chest felt as if it would explode against the confines of my corset. “Wait,” I gasped.
The stranger paused and let me lean against an anonymous brick wall where I stood gulping air.
“Wong Jun,” I finally managed. “They still have one of my friends.”
The stranger gave a soft chuckle. “I am awfully sorry to hear that, miss,” he said in perfect English, “only I’m not going back. Look at the bright side though—two of them got free. Maybe for long enough to leave the city and avoid further trouble altogether.” He had an easy, pleasant manner of speech. By then I had decided he had not fallen out of the sky, but had a good enough heart to interfere with injustice when he stumbled upon it. It was his sudden appearance that had confused me.
“I appreciate your assistance, sir,” I said. “You came seemingly out of nowhere.”
“Just happened by.” A flash of teeth under the brim of the hat, and another soft laugh. “Name’s Jack Bartram. I do believe I’ve seen you in my philosophy class.”
I shook a proffered hand, very long, with square-tipped fingers. “If you say so.”
“Forgive my lack of manners, miss.” He took off his hat, and I saw an entirely unremarkable, pale visage—even if he was in my class, he had one of these faces that was easily forgettable. But he was quite tall and gangly under his cloak, and that made him memorable enough.
“I am Alexandra Trubetskaya,” I said. “It is a pleasure to meet you, and I thank you for a timely and dramatic rescue.