Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [254]
"Gilot?" I called.
For a moment, nothing. And then a scrabbling sound and a faint cough. "Imri?"
"There." Eamonn pointed.
Gilot was lying propped against a wall. He raised one hand—his good hand—in greeting as we hurried to his side. I dropped to my knees.
"Are you all right?" I asked anxiously.
"No." He smiled at me. "Not really. But did you see what I did?" He pointed at the mechanism, and I realized one of the levers was a Valpetran spear, shoved deep within the gears of the cog-wheel. He coughed, and a bloody spume trickled from the corner of his mouth. "Damned engineers. You don't spend a year in Siovale without learning how things work. All knowledge is worth having, right?"
My eyes stung. "You did that? Stopped the drawbridge?"
He nodded. "Getting it unstuck was the hard part. I had to convince 'em to slip the chains and haul the weights by hand. Had to show 'em, too. They finally got it once the chains were loose." He laughed, then winced. "Sorry. Imri, I think mayhap that splinter… I think mayhap it's moved."
"Gilot…" I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. "Eamonn," I said roughly. "He needs a chirurgeon."
Without a word, Eamonn stooped and gathered Gilot in his arms.
When the poets sing of glorious deeds, they leave out the awful parts. Phèdre always said so, and I knew it was true. I had heard the tales, and I had witnessed the reality. But this was the first time I'd done so as a man in my own right. I understood it anew that day. In a poet's tale, a valiant few might stand against the many, and a cunning hero prevails.
This was no poet's tale.
Eamonn had to sidle sideways down the winding stair, and even at that, Gilot's head and his trailing legs scraped the walls. And then there were the dead. One Valpetran, two Luccan. I had to move them all before Eamonn could pass with his burden.
Dead flesh, heavy and inert. Blind, staring eyes.
I took the Luccans first, hoisting one at a time over my shoulder and carrying them down the stairs. Dead limbs dangled and thumped against me and I could feel the slow seep of blood from their wounds soaking my shirt. It was hard work; harder than hauling stumps at Montrève and infinitely more horrible. I laid each down in the square with care. They were someone's son, someone's brother, someone's beloved. Already there was wailing in the city.
By the time I got to the Valpetran, I was exhausted. I had to strip his armor in order to move him. Beneath his helmet, he had an ordinary face. I hated him anyway. For a moment, I was tempted to grab his ankles and haul him down feet first. Let his skull crack as it bounced down the stair; what did it matter? He was dead.
Remember this.
I imagined Phèdre's expression, sighed, and hoisted the Valpetran's corpse.
Eamonn followed carrying Gilot. It was easier work than hauling the dead, but he had the physical strength to do it with a tender effortlessness I couldn't have mustered. Gilot hadn't uttered a word of protest. By that alone, I knew how badly he was hurt.
"Guard!" I caught at the nearest crimson gambeson. "I need a litter."
He jerked his head toward the northwest corner of the square, where a dozen wounded men lay groaning. "Wait your turn."
I swore at him.
"Imri." Gilot's breathing was shallow and thick, and blood bubbled over his lower lip. "Just put me on a damn horse, will you? I'll make it."
In the end, we did. Eamonn and I eased him atop the Bastard. We walked on either side and held him upright, while Brigitta took Eamonn's horse and raced ahead to the Tadeii villa to beg them to send for a chirurgeon.
Outside the walls of Lucca, Valpetra's army was settling in for a long siege. In the gatehouse, Gallus Tadius was rallying the city guard's defenses. So I assumed, at any rate. What had become of Gaetano Correggio and his daughter, I couldn't say. At the moment, I didn't care about any of them.
The Bastard was as good as gold.