Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [317]
Once again, I was filthy and bedraggled in the presence of the D'Angeline ambassadress' guardsmen; clad in motley armor, splashed with mud and gore. This time, there was no hint of amusement in their regard. Quentin LeClerc dismounted and his men followed suit. There in the filthy street, they all dropped to one knee.
"Your highness," he repeated, bowing his head. "We came in all haste."
"Thank you." There were lines of Tiberian faces behind the kneeling D'Angelines, alert and attentive. And clean. They all looked so clean. I took off my helmet and rubbed my face with a fold of my sodden cloak. "Mayhap… mayhap you could help with the wounded."
Quentin LeClerc stood. "Of course, your highness."
"Call me Imriel," I said wearily.
He began to give orders, calm and efficient, and they spread through the streets, helping sort the dead from the wounded, giving what comfort they might to the latter. Atop the roofs and the walls, the sentries were sounding the all-clear, and Luccan citizens were beginning to emerge, wailing or rejoicing at the fate of their loved ones. Lucius was busy organizing the surrender of Silvanus' men, who were being gathered from all quarters of the city and herded into the empty fabric warehouse where Barbarus squadron would have made its second stand. There was a great stack of weapons piling up on the portico.
I stooped and gathered Canis' body in my arms, carrying him over to the ledge where Eamonn was waiting. He was on his feet, weaving a little, the rain making pink rivulets through the blood seeping along his neck. I laid Canis down gently, then eased the bloody length of the javelin from his chest and set it aside. We both gazed at him. He looked peaceful in death.
"So," Eamonn said. "Who was he?"
"I don't know," I said. "My mother sent him."
"Phèdre?"
"No." I shook my head. "My mother." I touched his arm. "Come on, Captain Barbarus. Let's get you patched."
Eamonn nodded at a dead Valpetran. "Your dagger."
The hilt jutted forth between the man's eyes. A part of me was tempted to leave it. I didn't want to remember killing him with it. But Joscelin had given them to me when I'd turned fifteen. It was after the winter when I'd first kept Elua's vigil on the Longest Night with him. I remembered the carriage ride home, shivering and delirious, when I'd told him I wanted to be like him.
Ah, love, he'd said. Don't wish for that.
I had, though.
I put one foot on the Valpetran's breastplate, grabbed the hilt, and yanked. It came out hard; I'd planted it with a good deal of force. There was a cracking sound and it came free. The corpse's helmeted skull bounced on the cobblestones. I thought about that vast pit opening beneath the city, the obsidian curtains of water spilling downward, downward, and wondered if the Valpetran's spirit was wandering a flooded Caerdicci hell, all its five rivers swollen and raging.
I wondered how many others I'd sent there.
I didn't know.
"Imri," Eamonn said.
I laughed, or at least I made a sound that resembled a laugh. "Is three a lot, Eamonn? I wanted to ask you, before. Because I didn't think it was, but you made it sound like it was. And now I don't know how many. Four, anyway."
"I owe you my life," he said simply.
It was enough; it had to be enough, because if it wasn't, there was nothing else. Standing in the cold, drizzling rain, I met his steady grey-green gaze and forced myself to smile. "Do you suppose Brigitta will think better of D'Angelines because of it?"
Eamonn managed a grin. "No."
In the baths, where most of Barbarus still loitered, we were greeted as heroes; or at least Eamonn was. Me they regarded with a renewed wariness—whether it was because of Canis, or Valpetra, or LeClerc and his men kneeling in the street to me, I couldn't say—but they fell over themselves to pound Eamonn's shoulders, his back. He bore it with stoic good humor, looking a little green and sick. Matius, who was neat-handed, bound his bleeding head with a length of clean bandage.
Outside, we heard a chant