Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [266]
"Get behind him!" the other guard gasped.
I waded with difficulty through the deep water. The guard made a move to grapple with the intruder, and I saw the intruder's arm rise, dripping, above the surface of the water. Distant torchlight struck a faint gleam from the dagger in his hand.
There was no time to think, so I didn't. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed his shoulders and hauled him backward. He wasn't expecting it. Off balance, he fell atop me and both of us plunged beneath the cold, dark waters. Before he could struggle, I wrapped my arms and legs around him in a death-lock. Entwined, we sank to the bottom of the canal.
He did struggle, then; he thrashed like a gaffed fish. But I'd learned to wrestle in Siovale, and I had a good grip on him.
And I was stubborn.
I held him until the air began to burn in my lungs, and he went limp. Guessing it for a trick, I relaxed my grip a cautious degree. When he began thrashing anew, I tightened it and squeezed him hard, shifting my arms so that my doubled fists dug into his belly and jerking upward. This time, a stream of bubbles issued from his lips. I'd nearly drowned once. I knew how it felt.
I squeezed him until no more bubbles came.
The second time he went limp, I gauged it was real and shoved him toward the surface. My limbs were cold and leaden, my lungs ached, and I barely had the strength to lever myself upright. I did, though, sputtering and coughing. That first gulp of air, drawn through a throat still bruised by Gallus Tadius' ire, was as sweet as anything I'd ever tasted.
Our intruder floated like a sodden log.
Comfortable and dry, Eamonn leaned over the canal and caught a fold of the man's tunic. "Nice work, Imri," he said cheerfully, tugging him over to the edge and hoisting him out of the canal with annoying ease. "Let's see what you've caught."
At that point, the only thing I cared about was getting out of the water. I dragged myself onto the cobblestones and sat in a puddle of spreading wetness, breathing hard, with my arms propped on my knees.
Eamonn gave our captive a helpful shake. The man groaned, rolled onto his side, and spewed out a considerable volume of canal water. His hair was plastered to his face. His dagger was long gone, and he wore only a tunic of rough homespun; not even sandals on his bare feet. Already he was beginning to shiver in the cold air. Whoever he was, he looked miserable.
"Poor bastard," I murmured.
Over at the wall, our fellow guards shouted back and forth with the sentry. I watched him lower a rope ladder and climb down awkwardly, the flaming torch held in one hand. Once he descended, all three approached, the torch bobbing. It threw everything into high relief, casting stark shadows.
"So who is he?" the sentry asked.
Squatting behind the intruder, Eamonn hauled him upright and yanked on his lank, dripping hair, angling his face so that the torchlight fell upon it.
Canis.
All I can say is that it was a mercy that I was half-drowned, since no one thought anything of my choked gasp and subsequent coughing fit. Canis' gaze flickered toward me; briefly, so briefly. He gave his head an infinitesimal shake.
"Who are you?" one of the guards demanded. "Are you with Valpetra? Are you a spy? What do you want?"
What followed was a pantomime. Canis shook his head in vigorous denial, water spraying. He opened his mouth and pointed to it, shook his head again. He placed both hands over his ears and shook his head.
"A deaf-mute," the guard said in disgust.
Oh, he was good.
By this time, a small audience had gathered. Two other sets of riders had arrived. All of them watched, bemused, as Canis, half-clad and shivering, went through an elaborate set of gesticulations, miming his actions. He pointed to where his village lay outside the wall, he depicted Valpetra's soldiers arriving, sweeping through the village with sword and spear, laying claim to all it held. He mimed himself quaking with fear, his eyes stretched wide. He pointed to the sluice gates and showed, with his hands, how he had dismantled