“Don’t-” he whispered as she tugged torn cloth aside.
“Damn it, let me see.” Not the heart, at least. She laid her hand on his shoulder, searching for death-echoes in the wound. Not that she could do a damned thing if it was mortal-
She sucked in a breath and watched as the misshapen copper ball melted and oozed out of the wound. His diamond pulsed and sparked in time with his pulse, but her own magic was silent. He carried no trace of death in his flesh.
“What are you?”
He only shook his head, that hollow look in his eyes again. Faraj frowned and grabbed at her arm, but Isyllt pulled free and ran. Gunsmoke hung in the air, along with the reek of blood and death. She glanced up, glimpsed crouching figures on the nearest rooftop before a bullet struck the path in front of her, kicking up dust and shards of gravel. She dove sideways, scrambling across the grass, nearly tripping over the dead councillor as she regained the shelter of the tree.
Jabbor and his Tigers were still pinned down across the path. They had no cover for yards if they ran for the main gate.
Leaves rustled behind her and she turned to find Li creeping toward her.
“Be careful,” Isyllt hissed, beckoning the woman closer. She didn’t see the knife till Li was nearly on her.
She caught the first stroke with her forearm instead of her neck; the blade traced a line of fire below her elbow. Isyllt drove her knee into the woman’s ribs, falling back on her good arm. Li grunted, dodged a kick and lunged, driving Isyllt flat against the ground and knocking the air from her lungs. The sky darkened as Li leaned over her, knocked her left arm aside. She threw up her wounded arm to block the blow-
But Li wasn’t aiming for her heart or her throat. The knife came down and Isyllt screamed as it skewered her left palm, nailing her hand to the ground. Her vision washed red and black; the weight left her chest, but she still couldn’t breathe.
She didn’t realize she’d lost consciousness till she came to at the sound of her name. Hands on her shoulders, dragging her up, and she gasped as bone grated on steel.
“Mother’s bones.” Jabbor crouched beside her. “Hold still,” he said, reaching for the knife. “This will hurt.”
She sobbed as he eased the blade free; metal slid past layers of skin and muscle and tissue, scraped bone. Blood pooled in her palm, ran down her wrist as she lifted her arm. She couldn’t move her fingers. Li was gone and so was her ring.
“Where did she go?” She rose to her knees, cradling her useless hand against her chest. Blood soaked her shirt, dripped off her other arm as well. “Damn it, where did she go?”
“She ran,” Jabbor said, gesturing toward the closest building. “We have to get out of here.”
“I can’t let her get away-”
“You think you can catch her like this?” He pulled her to her feet, holding her steady as she wobbled. “Besides, you were out for minutes-who knows where she is by now. We’re leaving.”
And he ran, dragging her along. Stumbling and cursing, Isyllt ran too, the other Tigers flanking them. She risked a glance back, saw soldiers closing on the rooftop. A suicide mission-or a distraction for something else?
As they reached the shelter of the pomegranate trees, another group of people broke from cover behind the eastern hall. Sivahri, and armed, but they bolted for the wall, paying no attention to Isyllt and the Tigers. One man held a child in his arms.
Four soldiers guarded the gates, nervous and distracted by the clamor across the grounds. As Jabbor and his people fell on the first three, Isyllt stretched out a bloody hand to the fourth.
“Help me,” she gasped. “Please.”
He hesitated for an instant, pistol half raised. Long enough for Isyllt’s magic to wrap around him, to close cold fingers over his heart. He fell, gasping, brown face drained gray.
Jabbor cast a horrified glance at the man as they wrestled the locks open; he huddled on the ground, shaking and moaning-if he had that much strength left, Isyllt doubted he would die.
Outside, knots of people gathered on the sidewalks and alarm bells rang. A skiff poled toward the landing as they slipped through the gate, and Jabbor and the Tigers bolted for it. Isyllt followed, too slow, and wondered if they would leave her behind. Then someone shouted her name.
She spun, slipping on damp stone, and saw Adam waving from another boat. “Go on,” she shouted at Jabbor, and ran for the other skiff.
The craft rocked as she stumbled aboard and Adam grabbed her arm, dragging her down. She cried out and fell, scraping her good palm against the wooden bench. The steersman poled away, face and hair shrouded in a scarf-Vienh.
“Blood and iron,” Adam muttered, crouching beside her. He reached for her wounded hand, and she jerked away.
“I met your other assassin.”
“Is she still alive?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Show me where you’re hurt, damn it,” he said as she flinched away again.
She swallowed the taste of pain, nearly choked on it, and held out her left hand. Skin gaped-a perfect double-edged stab wound. A wonderful example to show a class of investigators. Some pale flashed amid the blood; tendon perhaps, or bone.
She started to laugh, high and shrill. Then Adam touched her hand and she passed out again.
Consciousness returned swift and cruel while they circled the canals of Straylight, making sure they weren’t pursued. When Adam and Vienh were satisfied, they set out for Merrowgate, and the narrow waterway behind an inn. Not the Bride-Isyllt couldn’t fault Vienh for that; she didn’t trust her luck either.
Adam draped his cloak over her to hide the blood as they docked, held her steady up three flights of stairs to the room. The bleeding had slowed enough that she didn’t leave a trail up the steps, at least.
“I need bandages and needle and thread,” Adam said as Isyllt fell into a chair. “And clean water.”
Isyllt bit her tongue while Adam cut away her ruined sleeves; when half-clotted scabs peeled loose she hissed. Her right arm was still bleeding, but it was nothing compared to the left. She could only stare at her curled hand, at the naked skin where her ring should be. Vienh returned with the supplies and Adam scrubbed his hands.
The water was tepid but burned like vitriol in her wounds. Adam cleaned her right arm first and opened a tube of ointment, nodding thanks to Vienh.
“I don’t need that.”
His eyebrows rose. “Humor me.”
The cream smelled of tea-tree oil, sweet-sharp and faintly resinous. It also stung, and she glared at him while he smeared it on. The needle was a proper surgeon’s tool, curved and razor-tipped; light gleamed and splintered off the tip. She wondered how many patrons the innkeeper stitched up. Adam’s hands were steady as he threaded it.
Isyllt braced herself and swallowed. Her head ached, the edge of her vision too dark-more magic would only make it worse.
Her resolve lasted till the third stitch. Then the cold came, sweet and soothing. The throb in her temple became a spike, but instead of fire and wasp stings in her arm, she felt only the soft pop of skin, the slide and tug of the thread.
When he clipped the last knot, she tilted her arm to look. Ugly, thread black and stark against her skin and the red edges of the wound; at least the stitches were neat. Adam dabbed on more ointment, then bound her arm in bandages.
The pain had dulled to a queasy red blur by the time he was done. She stank of blood and sweat, and breathing ached where Li had landed on her ribs. All her luggage was at the Khas.
“Now this,” Adam said softly, reaching for her left hand. The concern in his voice was no comfort. “Have you numbed the pain?”
She shook her head and quickly regretted it.
“Good. I need to know where it hurts.”
