A dozen armed men stood in a morose circle in front of the gateway. They were militia, probably members of the night watch called out for this special duty. Close by were a trio of mercenaries, bulky fair-skinned armsmen from Blaise. There was a watchtower, but if its floors were in the same condition as the gate, Ilna understood why the guards weren’t in it.
Both groups watched the women approach. The civilians looked worried; the attitude of the soldiers was more generally speculative, though Ilna noticed the senior man lifted his broad-bladed sword a finger’s breadth in the sheath to make sure wouldn’t bind if he needed to draw it suddenly.
One of the civilians held a lantern hanging from the crossbar of a pole. The lamp had at least two wicks, but the dirty parchment lenses passed only a yellowish glow. Ilna frowned as she walked closer, wondering if there’d be as much light as she needed.
Alecto walked a half step behind. She didn’t touch the horned hilt of her dagger, but Ilna could smell murderous tension in the wild girl’s sweat. Alecto might fly into berserk slaughter at any moment, driven mostly by fear. Against so many armed men, the result was a foregone conclusion.
“What are you doing here?” said a militiaman in a bronze cuirass, his voice rising a note on every syllable. His full white moustache flared into his sideburns. “You haven’t been marked!”
Each of the militiamen had the spider stamping in the middle of his forehead, though the helmets of several of the men partly covered the symbol. The speaker wore real body armor and a number of the others had cowhide vests, which they obviously hoped would turn an edge. They looked more threatened than threatening.
“No, we haven’t,” Ilna said in a clear voice. The knotted pattern was a ball in her left palm. “Hold that lantern up, and I’ll show you why.”
The guards were all staring at her. The three professionals moved around to the side so that they had a clear view without being blocked by the militia.
Ilna nodded, gesturing them closer. When she thought everyone could see what she was doing, she reached down with her right hand and pulled the pattern open in the light.
The guards went down like lightning-struck sheep in a clatter of equipment and dropped weapons. They were stunned, not dead, but it would be hours before they regained their senses. The lantern broke on the pavement, spilling oil that blazed into soft flame.
The old man in the cuirass had fallen only to his knees. He pawed his eyes with his left hand and made choking noises. Bad vision had saved him from the pattern’s full impact.
Alecto knelt over him, her dagger out. Ilna dropped her cords and caught Alecto’s shoulder; she couldn’t reach the knife wrist. Alecto twisted and slit the old man’s throat to the spine. Blood gouted onto the cobblestones, black in the light of burning oil.
Ilna picked up the pattern and began to unknot it as a way of occupying her fingers. She was afraid of what she might do to her companion if she let her control slip.
“There’s a wicket gate in the main panel,” Ilna said coldly. “Help me get it open.”
She put the cords in her sleeve and stepped to the city gate. A door small enough that she’d have to hunch to pass through it was set in the center of the right leaf. Ilna slid the drawbolt open, but the sagging frame kept her from pushing the wicket open.
Alecto slammed the butt of a watchman’s spear into the panel. It sprang ajar. Alecto stuck the shaft into the crack and levered the door fully open.
She smiled at Ilna. “Are we going out or aren’t we?” she said.
“Yes,” said Ilna. Her mind was white with fury, but she’d spent most of her life angry, so she knew how to control the emotion. She slipped through the doorway, out of Donelle.
On the pavement behind lay the ring of guards, their eyes open. They were breathing as heavily as sleeping seals; all but the man in the bronze cuirass, whose feet had just ceased to drum the cobblestones.
Garric swung to the top of the wall and found Lord Thalemos squatting there. “Where’s the ladder down?” Thalemos cried.
A watchman with a cudgel and a whirling rattle stood calling over his shoulder to people Garric couldn’t see around the curve of the wall. Probably it was a detachment of Protectors, summoned from the guardhouse at the front of the enclosure. More Protectors were coming down the street from the other direction, their spears raised to strike.
“Jump, you fool!” Garric snarled. Thalemos goggled at him, then leaped down without looking. He’d have belly-flopped on the pavement if Toster hadn’t been there to catch him.
Garric jumped also, angry at the world and particularly at himself. He’d let his fury out at Thalemos, who was guilty of nothing worse than having lived a normal life which hadn’t fitted him for slaughter and prison breaks. Between Garric’s tone and the bloody sword in his hand, the rescued prisoner had almost broken his neck in fright.
And if that had happened, what would Tint’s death have been worth?
A javelin flackered in the air. The leading Protector, still twenty yards down the street, threw up his hands and fell backward. Prada stood on the roof of the building where the gang was hiding. He cocked another missile. The surviving Protectors ducked for shelter in doorways.
Garric followed his group across the street and into the shop. Toster half helped, half carried Thalemos. Garric tried to sheathe his sword, but the curved blade and memory of Tint’s cracking bones kept him from finding the mouth of the scabbard.
Metron was jabbering demands in his squeaky mental voice. It was with an effort of will that Garric managed not to smash the crystal between his heel and the cobblestones.
Halophus and Mersrig slammed, then barred the shop door behind Garric, the last to enter. The panel wouldn’t withstand a determined burglar, let alone a military assault.
Vascay stood at the door of the inner room, gesturing Garric through tight-faced. The wizard lay on the littered floor, his head pillowed on a rolled-up cloak. Yellow lamplight helped turn Metron’s complexion sallow, but Garric had seen corpses laid out for burial with more apparent life in them.
“Put the amulet on my chest!” Metron’s voice said. “Quickly, now!”
Garric slipped off the silver chain and set it with the crystal on Metron’s chest. He was surprised at how much lighter he felt; the amulet’s psychic weight was greater than he’d realized.
The tiny figure of light within the crystal vanished. The wizard’s lungs swelled. He lurched upright, snorting like a man saved from drowning. Looking around wildly, he shouted, “Lord Thalemos! Is Lord Thalemos all right?”
Heavy objects hammered the shop door. Wood splintered, followed by a scream.
“Who’s next?” Hame cried in a high voice. “Who else wants to die for the Intercessor?”
“He’s all right,” Vascay snarled, “but he won’t be long if we don’t get out of here. Come on! You swore you could get us free!”
“Yes, but bring him here,” Metron said, crossing his legs shakily. He’d drawn a circle of power on the grimy floor before going into the trance. Now he moved the oil lamp into the center of the figure and took the athame from under his sash.
Garric started for the main room. Vascay waved him back. “Stay with this one,” he said. “I’ll send the boy in.”
Over his shoulder, he muttered, “I’ve seen enough wizardry for the night—and for a lifetime!”
Metron ignored him. He held the sapphire ring between his left thumb and forefinger, then dipped the athame in his other hand over the words written about the circle.
“Rexi,” he chanted. “Thorexi hipporexi…”