Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [174]
To no avail; a Drujani wielding a broadsword cleared a space around him and then flung down his blade, seizing me and bending me backward over a table, the heel of his hand under my chin. "Do it, Kishpa!" a voice behind him laughed. "We'll ward your back if you'll give us a turn!" The edge of the table pressed hard against my buttocks, and my neck was strained. Someone was holding my arms. Tears stung my eyes as he pressed himself between my thighs, fumbling at my skirts.
Then came shouting, and the sound of someone else waded into the fray. The pressure left my chin and my limbs were free. I straightened to see Tahmuras in the thick of battle, his morningstar a spiked blur as he whipped it in deadly patterns with effortless skill. Men yelped and dove out of the way. One was already down, the side of his head crushed and bleeding. Behind Tahmuras stood the Mahrkagir, unarmed, calm amid the chaos, his mad eyes watching. No one laid a finger on him; no one would dare. There was Tahmuras, for one thing—and a few paces away, there was Gashtaham, stroking his staff of office, gathering darkness around him. None of them seemed to care in the least that Drujani were being maimed or killed.
And I was still in the middle of it. A tall warrior staggered backward, knocking me half off my feet. Someone else lurched into my left side, and . . . how it happened, I cannot say. Only that I fetched up hardagainst Joscelin, who had somehow shaken his attackers and regained his footing.
I knew. Even before I saw, I knew. His hands closed on my upper arms, and I lifted my gaze to his face. Like the Carthaginian looking at the sky, I could have wept.
"Phèdre." He spoke quick and low in D'Angeline, his expression betraying nothing. "If I thought I could throw before the Skotophagotis killed me, I would perform the terminus. I don't. Blessed Elua had best make his will known fast, before I go mad here. I don't know how long I can endure this."
Elua's will. It was then that the first terrible inkling of suspicion dawned.
"I need time," I whispered. "I think. . . Please. A little while longer."
Joscelin said nothing, only released me and bowed, looking past me to the Mahrkagir. The fighting had settled. One man dead, and another dying; half a dozen others lay groaning. The Mahrkagir was smiling. "I changed my mind," he said calmly, taking my hand and leading me back to the head table. "Gashtaham, that was a foolish idea."
Like Joscelin, the priest only made a bow in reply, the girdle of finger-bones rattling at his waist. He had killed his own father and eaten his heart, and there was no annoyance at the Mahrkagir's rebuke in his expression, only the guarded satisfaction of a man who has confirmed a long-held theory. It made my skin crawl to see it, so I looked away. At the far end of the opposite bench, Tahmuras was wiping blood and bits of hair and flesh from his spiked mace. He gave me a long, measuring gaze, and there was hatred in his eyes.
He knew, too.
And he did not welcome the news.
That night, the Mahrkagir was zealous in his attentions and there was something new in his manner, heated and triumphant. With his hands and teeth, he tore at my flesh, leaving his mark on my skin. It was a conquest, not only of me, but of all others who sought to possess me, and his victory was in my yielding. I knew it well, for many of my patrons have been possessive. Whether he knew to name it or not— and I do not think he