Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [204]
And then there was air; blessed air.
I bent over double, hands on my knees, sucking it into my lungs.
"What took you so long?" There was Eamonn, the battle-grin still plastered to his face. He'd drawn his Dalriadan longsword, and no one dared venture within its reach. Brigitta stood at his shoulder, dagger in hand, her face alight with fierce Skaldic pride. Prince Barbarus and his shield-maiden.
Still bent, I glared at him. "Someone tried to kill me."
"Oh, aye!" he agreed. "It's a right mess in there."
I didn't have time to explain. "Where's Gilot?"
Eamonn's expression shifted to dismay. "Dagda Mor!"
"Guard my back," I said to him.
And so we went back; back for Gilot. I gave my sword to Lucius in exchange for my second dagger and bade him defend Brigitta. He gave a terse nod; for a mercy, she didn't protest at it. Eamonn and I returned to the fray. I tried to identify my attacker, but I'd never even seen his face. By this time, reinforcements from the city cohort had arrived, dissolving the riots into knots. They meted out punishment with dispassionate equanimity, battering away at rioters and bystanders alike with the flats of their shortswords.
"Gilot!"
I knew him; even prone. His limp hand clutching the hilt of his sword, the fine D'Angeline profile against the cobblestones, bruised and swollen. He'd been beaten to the ground. One of his assailants drew back his foot, prepared to plant another kick to Gilot's ribs. I recognized him from the wineshop. He was the agitator, the sharp-featured scholar.
"Don't." In a flash, I was on him, crossed daggers at his throat. A cold, clean fury filled me. I leaned against him, breast to breast, close as a lover. "Was it you?" I asked softly. "Were you told to say, 'that's for Baudoin'?"
He trembled. "I don't know what you mean!"
"No?" I studied him. His voice was high-pitched with terror. Not the voice that had muttered the words I'd heard, not even close. "You provoked this," I said. "If Gilot dies of this beating, make no mistake, I will find you and kill you."
There was fear in his eyes. He kept his chin high to avoid the daggers, but there was fear, and the sight of it was sweet. With one swift, slicing motion, I withdrew both blades, marking his neck with a pair of shallow cuts. He cried out, clapping his hands to his throat.
"You'll live," I said with contempt. "Get out of here."
He went in a hurry, still clasping his throat, blood trickling between his fingers.
Although I would have liked to question them, Eamonn had dispelled the others. He stood over me while I knelt at Gilot's side, and even the city cohort gave him a wide berth. "Gilot." I peered at him, wincing in sympathy. Already, in the murky torchlight, I could see bruises blooming. His mouth was crusted with blood and the lids of both eyes were alarmingly swollen. I gave his shoulder a tentative shake, fearful of hurting him. "Gilot, can you hear me?"
He groaned, and one swollen lid opened a crack. "Imri?"
"It's me." My heart leapt with relief. "Where are you hurt? Can you walk?"
"I think so." With my assistance, Gilot sat upright, then coughed and spat out a mouthful of blood. "Ribs," he said with a grimace. "And my sword-hand. Some bastard stomped on it. I kept hold of it, though." He felt at his face with his left hand. "I can't see. Am I blind?"
"No." I slid my arm under his shoulders. "I don't think so, anyway. Come on, let's get you home."
With Eamonn's help, I got Gilot to his feet. We eased his sword from his broken grasp and got him over to the others. By now, the rioters were scattering, pelting every which way down the streets. Eamonn led the way, watchful and wary, no longer smiling. My wrenched ankle hurt like fury, and I struggled not to hobble under Gilot's weight.
Brigitta drew a sharp breath