striking left and right, the therimoir swordist trying to close, her arcs free again and keeping all at bay.
Beyond, a confused swelling melee began to once again fill the quadrangle: fistdukes in their bizarre pot helmets and yet more green-clad door wards striving against the fury of a company of staunch lesquins, their gloriously harnessed captain-the very fellow who had visited Cloche Arde-at their lead. A leap of hope in his innards, Rossamund barely glimpsed Lady Madigan, Marchess of the Pike, in the fray. Her face a bloody mask, the lahzar was locked elbow in elbow with Threedice, her factotum, the two pivoting on each other in splendid unison amid their enemies, Madigan's arcs flashing, Threedice's own pistols popping.
Tall among Maupin's foul defenders was a woman in a wide lustrous black dress, the pastiness of her bald head framed exquisitely against her gauzy fanlike collar of black, the flesh about the left eye dark with great diamond and arrow spoor-a dexter's marking.
Anaesthesia Myrrh!
All this Rossamund saw in a twinkling even as he defended himself, dodging and thwarting the swordist's blows, one block leaving a spent pistola hacked clean in two. Darter Brown swooped down to pester and curse in the swordist's face, checking the relentless fellow for the merest beat. That was all Rossamund needed. Throwing the intact pistol at the swordist, with a bark of fury he launched himself at the startled man. Calling all the strength he could muster, he drove his fist into the vermilion swordist's middle, amazed at the heave and turmoil of sinews beneath his knuckles. With a wheeze of wind and crack of bone the wretched foe was lifted clear off his feet, tumbling back several feet to collapse.
Rossamund did not wait for more but, attention fixed upon his mistress, took up the hefty blade of his fallen opponent as easily as if it were but a butter knife, and with it sought to win to her through the stouche. Even as he did, he saw Europe, pressed on all sides, artfully dodge yet another thrust of the swordist's white blade, only to be struck from behind by a cudgel-wielding door ward. A viper-quick contortion of her body and the Branden Rose ended the fellow with a flash of levin. In that very instant, the soft-hat swordist sprang to the fulgar's left, and, dancing somehow under her guard, swung about behind the Branden Rose to cut at her. In complete horror Rossamund witnessed the white spathidril incise through the fulgar's superior proofing and bite deeply into her side. Crying out-and Rossamund with her-Europe recoiled from the aggrieving hit, instantly swinging her stage to whip the swordist viciously about the head once, twice, thrice, until the weapon bent and broke. Snarling, the Branden Rose gripped the fellow, stunned and bleeding about the throat, stiffening the swordist dead with her sparks. Letting the lifeless man drop, she swooned herself, tottered…
Heedless of anything but Europe, Rossamund shoved some obstructing figure aside-friend or foe he did not know or care. He could see Pater Maupin realize his chance and pounce with two door wards, intent on finishing Europe where she faltered.
Her stage now two useless ungainly parts connected by unraveling copper wire, the fulgar flung it at Maupin, rapping him smartly on the cheek.
'Am I a dog, oh thorn-ed Rose, that you come at me with sticks!' Europe's adversary spat, making light of the stunning hit as he blundered in reverse.
Winning through the mayhem, Rossamund stood over the lifeless therimoir adept and spied the malignant blade lying discarded upon the flags. Ignoring the offensive taint of its touch, he seized the ancient monster- destroying weapon in his other hand and, Darter Brown chattering passionately just above him, threw himself at his mistress' foes. Cutting down one door ward with shocking ease, he drove Maupin back with great sweeps of heavy sword and poisonous white blade, flourishing them like a mad thing. Here now he could himself end the proprietor cowering before him and bring this terrible night to a close.
In the very moment of a final upswing, a crushing frission smote Rossamund, a driving agony that bore searingly into the very crux of his soul. Dropping the swords, the young factotum was forced to his knees.Yet as quickly as the tempest arrived, it cleared, replaced by a strangely effervescent sensation in his brain and belly that set his eyelids flickering. Blessed with this buzzing clarity he first saw, then felt, the Branden Rose's grip on his wrist.
She is vacillating me too! he realized.
Half prone, Europe pushed herself up where she lay by her other hand, a grimly ephemeral smile dancing like a small triumph upon her worryingly pale lips. Yet her attention was not on Rossamund. Rather it was in Maupin's direction, fixed with murderous intent upon Anaesthesia Myrrh standing protectively in all her silken swar t-clad glory before the proprietor of the Broken Doll. Her hand lifted to her sallow temple, she regarded Europe with narrow scorn, a contemptuous smirk visible through the gossamer vent the dexter wore over nose and mouth.
Pressing hard upon Rossamund to stand, the fulgar remained clasped with the dexter in their invisible wrestle.
Suddenly the lesquin captain stepped into the gap, flourishing a heavy war hammer in his steel-armored grip. A snort and a flick of her hand, and the black-hearted dexter struck the lesquin with a peculiar glaucous flash, the same combined witting-arcs Rossamund had seen her use at the rousing-pit long weeks ago. Stoutly the captain stood his ground, ducking as if walking into a headwind, seeking to swat the woman down. A second time the dexter struck and the sell-sword staggered.
Still acting as a crutch for his mistress, Rossamund reached into his rightmost pocket to find a thennelever of glister. Grasping the flute, he tossed a measured dose of mild repellent at the dexter, the glister scattering in an effervescent crackle about her. In a beat, Rossamund shook the thennelever and strewed yet more of it, a veritable fog of tiny detonations that balked their foe despite her vent.
In the brief reprieve the lesquin captain came at the dexter anew, but, twisting away from the glister-fume, Anaesthesia struck the fellow a third time with her disembodied arcs and sent him toppling lifelessly away.
Barely on her feet, the Branden Rose let Rossamund go and lunged, leaping at the dexter through the glister. Leading now with her left, the Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes began pounding upon Anaesthesia, sending out arcs at every clout, yet the dexter, unharmed, seemed to catch each hit and return it with arcing knocks of her own. Blow after crackling, coruscating blow they pummeled at each other, boxing and blocking punches with deft pivots of arm and torso, catching hits with a flash and throwing them off again, neither able to do real harm to the other.
Abruptly, shockingly, Europe shouted in pain.
Anaesthesia had found the fulgar's worst wound and was striking at her opponent's flank again and again.
Rossamund pounced to his mistress' defense, Darter Brown with him.
'Rossamund!' Europe cried, her voice thin. 'No!'
The dexter flung her arm at him, and he was instantly smitten with the bizarre and fiendish amalgam of witting and arcing. He was hurled away, thrown clear across the quadrangle yard, the thennelever he yet held flying from his grasp as he skated along his rump to collide with a shock into a heavy supporting post in the gloom well under the floor above. The world convulsing, Rossamund shook his head and squeezed his eyes to try to bring clarity.
Emerging from behind the protection of his deadly dexter spurn, Maupin approached as quickly as his injured gait would allow.
Rossamund tried to rise on legs rebelliously unstable.
'Hello, little bird,' the proprietor of the Broken Doll purred. 'You are a very small little bird to have a place in this fight.'
Limbs needling painfully, the young factotum labored to his feet only to be instantly witted; a stifling trammeling frission drove the young factotum back to his knees.WHERE IS EUROPE? his galloping thoughts screamed, they alone free of the dexter's wicked work. He was suddenly aware of the dark form of Anaesthesia looming over him, bleeding and bruised.
She snatched Rossamund by his hair and tore his sparrow mask and vent away.
'Our prize has come to us, it seems!' Maupin declared, his voice exhausted yet triumphant. ' 'Tis a brave little mouse who dares trespass into the mouser's den…'
Tormented, the young factotum writhed and swatted at the dexter spasmodically as she scratched and clutched to keep a hold on him. A wicked jolt zapped through him, driving down into his very core. His vision narrowed to a dazed circular slot filled with oddly writhing checkers.
