Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [205]
"What do you think?" I asked grimly.
"Imri," Eamonn murmured.
"Sorry," I muttered. "It's just… this is my fault. He shouldn't be here."
"None of us should." Lucius, still holding my sword, shuddered. "You were right, Montrève. Let's get out of here."
Our insula was the closest shelter, so we made for it. It seemed to take forever. Every step sent a blaze of pain through my ankle. The worst of the riot had passed, but it was far from over. Students roamed the streets, taking to their heels at the sight of the cohort's legions. No one dared approach us, but here and there we saw skirmishes. It was impossible to tell who was fighting or why.
And there were still the torches.
Of all the possible dangers remaining, that was the worst. Gilot was right, the students' quarter was built of wood and clay brick, cheap and readily available. If one good blaze started, the whole thing would turn into a tinderbox.
We'd almost made our way home before the threat manifested.
I saw a pair of figures in front of the incense-maker's shop. One of them picked up Canis' abandoned barrel, hurling it at the shuttered windows; the other watched, torch in hand. With a loud crash, the shutters splintered, and an incongruous scent of sandalwood and myrrh wafted onto the street.
"Do it!" The one who had thrown the barrel laughed, drunk and reckless. "Aye, do it, Renzo! Why not? Let the merchant pay the price for his allegiance to the citizen assembly. Do you smell that? The gods never had such a tribute!"
The other cocked his arm, torch blazing. "You reckon?"
All at once, there was no time, and all the time in the world. I felt Gilot stir beneath my arm at their words, and I sensed his thoughts, clear as day. Anna. Belinda. The insula, a tinderbox. I saw Eamonn begin to move, sword naked in his hand, and knew he was too slow; too far away.
An arm; cocked. Flame and sparks, streaming into the night.
A snatch of a poet's tale, an impossible cast. There in the Temple of Asherat where my mother took sanctuary. It happened there.
Joscelin's voice, drilling me. Again. Again. Again.
"Take him!" I gasped, shoving Gilot's limp, heavy body in Lucius' direction. Already I was running, plucking the right-hand dagger from its sheath, ignoring the shattering pain with every step I took. "Eamonn!" I shouted. "Get out of the way!"
He ducked, bless him.
Whispering a prayer, I flipped the dagger in midair, catching it by its point. The steel felt slick and sweaty. I had done this before, done it a thousand times. Joscelin had taught me, had made me drill. At fifteen paces, my aim was good. This was farther. I was better at swordplay. But there was no time, no more.
The cocked arm began to describe an arc.
I threw.
It was a solid cast; a square cast. The dagger turned end over end, glinting dully in the torchlight. It pierced the back of the rioter's hand, pinning it to the wooden base of the torch. He shrieked and flailed, trying to shake himself free, flames dancing wildly around him.
"Thrice-cursed idiot!" I fell on him, wrestling him to the ground. We rolled on the cobbled streets. A searing pain lanced my shoulder, and his torch went out. A stink of scorched wool arose, and the odor of burned flesh. I could hear the pelting footsteps of his companion, beating a hasty retreat. "Do you know who I am?" I asked. "Do you?" He choked out an abject denial, weeping with fear. I wrenched the dagger out of his rigid hand, and he howled, blood welling in the deep, narrow wound. "Go," I said in disgust. "Go away."
He fled, sniveling.
I rolled onto my back and watched the others arrive. Gilot, blind and limping, leaning hard on Lucius. Brigitta, wary and sidling. Eamonn, extending a callused hand. I let him haul me to my feet.
"Right," I said, wavering. "Into the insula."
* * *
Chapter Forty-Two
Gilot was a mess.
Eamonn volunteered to take first watch at the gate, and I dispatched Brigitta to fetch Anna Marzoni from her apartment. The whole of the insula was awake and nervous, many of them