Luckily for me, Ludovoco chose that moment to press his attack once more. Blade high, he dashed off a rapid sequence of strikes, the tip of his blade dancing figures-of-eight towards Alvantes’s face. It was clear even to me that the fight had changed — that Ludovoco was done with toying.
He wasn’t the only one. Alvantes twisted, side-stepped, let Ludovoco’s blade slip past his right side and smashed an elbow into Ludovoco’s shoulder. Not giving him an instant to react, Alvantes lashed out a foot for Ludovoco’s knee — and though Ludovoco recoiled in time, he still staggered. Alvantes swung for Ludovoco’s heels and then pressed close, clubbing at his opponent’s hand with his sword hilt, once and twice, so that blood splashed from his knuckles.
This wasn’t duelling. It was the kind of brutal, dirty street-fighting that had no place in a duelling ring — but which a city guard-captain might well pick up over the years. Ludovoco was too good to be kept off his guard for long, but Alvantes had chosen his moment perfectly. They were fighting now before Alvantes’s own men, and any crossbow shot aimed at them was as likely to strike Ludovoco.
Alvantes pressed his attack once more, abandoning any hint of style for raw, calculated violence — and making sure that wherever Ludovoco was, he made a mess of any clear shot the palace guards might risk in his defence. Alvantes’s men, meanwhile, already had their own blades out, and were pressing towards the nearest arch, with no one making any effort to stop them.
Ludovoco’s face was set with cold fury at the fact that he’d let himself be played, that he was still being played — for though he was capable of defending against even so vicious and undisciplined an attack, the need to protect himself against not only Alvantes’s blade but his feet, knees and elbows had thrown him badly. His anger, however, was nothing to Alvantes’s manifest hatred. Perhaps he knew he couldn’t win this fight, but I had no doubt he’d draw every drop of Ludovoco’s blood he could to avenge his murdered man.
Whatever opportunity Alvantes had hoped to gain, it wasn’t going to get better than this. No one was paying me the slightest attention. My sentry was twitching beside me, undoubtedly unsure if he should be heading off the retreating guardsmen or rushing to aid his commander; he was hardly even looking my way.
It came as no surprise when Alvantes darted a glance my way and bellowed, “Now, Damasco!”
I didn’t need to be told twice. My arm was still half numb from the guard’s attentions, and once I might have let that stop me. Lately I’d been through a lot, though, and grown intimately familiar with pain. Thus it was that I managed to grasp the vase beside me, despite pins and needles lacerating my wrist and shoulder — and thus it was that I managed to smash it into my guard’s face.
I even succeeded in not screaming as I did it — though a scream might have been manlier than the yelp I came out with. My guard fared better, making not the slightest noise as he took two slow steps backward to collapse through the curtain, his head negotiating a perfect arc on its way to the floor.
The horrid thud of his skull against the tiles was blessedly masked by my own footsteps, as I snatched up my pack and pounded past, back the way we’d come.
CHAPTER FOUR
I was surprised to realise I had a fair idea of not only where I was but where I was going. Mounteban had insisted I spend an hour poring over plans of the palace — without ever feeling the need to explain where he’d found those plans — and now, almost unbidden, the details were returning.
I was in the east wing, somewhere near the main entrance and nowhere near where I wanted to be. The only way into the sublevels that my memory threw up was towards the kitchens, in the northwest corner. Since the palace was essentially a vast quadrangle, even getting that far meant covering quite a distance.
I couldn’t tell what was happening behind me — except that a lot of people were running, and many of them apparently in my direction. Whether that meant the duel had been called off, whether Alvantes and his men were making a break for it, I didn’t know or much care. I had more than enough trouble of my own approaching.
Seeing the chance of a shortcut as I met the corridor around the inner garden, I vaulted through a wide window arch, rolled through a bed of crimson blossoms and crashed into the line of low shrubbery beyond. That brought me out near a paved pathway, with a little cover and a significantly extended lead. I was nearing the far side before a shout let me know my pursuers had me back in sight.
Leaving the gardens via a mosaicked arch, I saw what I was looking for: a descending flight of stairs. I took them four at a time. It wasn’t often I had an advantage, over anyone or anything. Right then, however, I was unencumbered by weapons or armour, being chased by men with more than their share of both. Even without that, I was better built for speed than those muscle-bound clods. Lastly, I was following a precise mental map through regions of the palace its guards might never have encountered. All in all, I was startled to realise I’d gained a decent lead.
What I couldn’t do was lose them. I doubted this lower level had ever been cleaned as fastidiously as the rest of the palace, and it certainly hadn’t been touched since Panchetto’s death. The tiles I sprinted across were thick with dust. Even without looking back, I knew I was leaving a trail that anyone could follow. My only chance of losing my pursuers would be to stay ahead until they gave up — and from what I’d heard of the Palace Guard, that meant no chance at all.
It only occurred to me then that Mounteban’s secret passage, which I’d been running towards all this while, might not be the best of my options. It might not even exist; I had no reason to trust Mounteban, or to put faith in his information. Even if it were real, wouldn’t I have done better to flee the palace by a more conventional route, and the city soon after?
Too late now. And if the passage was real, it offered the easiest route out of both palace and city that I could hope for.
Another flight of steps led me into a yet lower level; one that, from the thick grime on the flagstones, was rarely entered these days. The walls were of a different stone to those above, stained with mildew, and echoed my footsteps hollowly. There were brackets of soot-blackened iron but no torches, so that the only dim light filtered down from the stairwell and failed as I penetrated deeper. By the time I reached the door at the far end, it was all I could do to feel out the keyhole sunk into its ancient timbers.
I bent over, panting, straining my ears for any sound of footsteps. There was only a faint rumble, as of distant earthquakes; but I knew that unless my pursuers had abandoned the chase altogether, they couldn’t be far behind. I unslung my pack and fumbled inside, grateful that my captor had only made the most cursory of searches. Probing beneath the clinking vials, I felt the cold touch of metal, and drew it out.
The key was nearly as long as my hand, and complicated, eight teeth jutting awkwardly. The lock must be fiendish, and I was glad I wouldn’t be trying to pick it. Instead, I slipped the key in and turned it.
Or at least I tried to. The key fit perfectly, but it was stiff. I applied both hands and threw my weight into it; this time, in a series of heavy jerks, the key clicked round. There was a metal ring beside the keyhole, so I gripped it, pushed with all my strength. The door gave, but barely. How often would crews be sent to check the boat, assuming it was more than a figment of Mounteban’s imagination? Once a month? Once a year? It wouldn’t take long for hinges to grow rusted down here. I put my shoulder to the door, dug my heels against the damp slabs and drove with all my strength.