whether he declared it or not.
The men arrived at a jog. Melio heard their feet grinding the coarse sand, pressing fronds flat. One of them demanded that Geena stand and face them. She answered that she could not stand. She had hurt her ankle. Twisted it running away from them. The soldiers moved again, assuring her that she was in for more hurting if she tried anything.
Melio slid one eye out from behind the tree trunk. Two Ishtat soldiers stood near Geena. They had their swords out. Another had stopped a little way down the path, looking nervous. Geena clutched at her ankle in pain, her face a mask of fear. The expression looked absurd to Melio. She would never quiver that way. She would never let her jaw drop like that or lean forward in that manner, surely offering a view of her breasts. The Ishtat did not know her, though. Melio pulled his head back behind the tree.
The soldiers demanded to know who she was, if she was alone, how she got here, what she was up to. Geena answered their questions in a pitiful, trembling voice that Melio could barely recognize. He was not sure if she was a terribly good actress or a terribly bad one. He guessed it depended on what things one expected to come out of the mouth of a distraught young woman. She was sputtering and circuitous and even sounded a little insane. Piecing together what she was saying was as confounding for Melio as it must have been for the soldiers. But it gradually took shape.
She had been on a fishing boat, she explained. She and her father and brother. They were working the channel when a league galley ran them over. So stupid of them! Of her brother, she meant. Stupid, stupid to be in the way of the big ships. She told him they shouldn’t taunt the big ships, but he did.
Nice use of the truth, Melio thought. Exaggerated, adjusted, but with a twisted kernel of fact in it. She had them listening, which was strange in itself. Ishtat did not usually let people talk much. They should have pinned her to the ground beneath a savage knee and fanned out in the woods. Ask questions later. But they didn’t. These soldiers weren’t the sharpest.
“Melio was so stupid!” Geena wailed. “I hate him! I’m glad he fell in.”
Melio glanced at Kartholome, hoping to share a wry smile at the use of his name. The pilot did not seem to be listening. He stood with his back plastered against a palm trunk. One of his arms was a flat paddle at his side; his other had unbuttoned his shirt and was fumbling on his abdomen as if he already feared an injury. His gaze fixed on something in the distance, and his lips silently mouthed something. He had gone gaping, as Hephron-a boy Melio had trained with-used to say of younger boys who showed their fear. Melio cursed himself for getting so far into danger with nothing but a dagger on him and without even men he knew he could trust. Stupid indeed.
“Did he drown?” the soldier asked. Melio could feel the man’s gaze scanning the palm forest.
“Yes,” Geena said. “He and my father both died. They left me. They…” Emotion, apparently, overcame her.
One guard said something to the other that Melio did not catch. The one down the trail must not have heard it either. He called, “What are we doing? All those tracks on the beach. Don’t forget that.”
Melio wanted to smack him. Or to smack himself on the forehead.
To his surprise, the two nearest Geena seemed to buy her explanation that she had been running back and forth when she got to the beach. She had been delirious. Only her alive in the boat for three days, drifting on the ocean waves, seeing islands but not able to get to them. She tried to make the sail work, but she had never been good at it and it was broken. “I couldn’t fix it.”
“Of course you couldn’t,” one of the soldiers said.
“She got here, though,” the farthest soldier pointed out. “I don’t like this. Just grab her and let’s take her back with us. Let Finn decide.”
“No, no, don’t let Finn decide,” Geena pleaded. “He’ll decide wrong. What does Finn have to do with it? He didn’t find me. You did.” Her voice changed slightly-grew less pleading and more certain-when she repeated, “You did.”
Am I hearing this? Melio glanced at Kartholome again, but he hadn’t moved.
“I’ll do anything. Let’s do anything you want. Let’s do that first. Can we?”
After a pause one of the soldiers said, “Anything we want?” So much lechery in three words, so much pleasure at another’s distress. So little true sympathy when he said, “Let’s take a look at that lovely leg, then. It’s a nice leg. I think we’ll all like it.”
“I’m getting Finn,” the far soldier said. “I’m not going to answer for this later.”
And there it was. Melio had not come up with a plan as he stood behind a tree, but plan or not, he had to act. He came from around the tree just as one of the soldiers slid his sword into its sheath and knelt near Geena. Melio had walked forward several steps before they noticed him. It was the farthest soldier who called, “Hey, there’s one! I told you! Stop! Sta-”
He cut off his cries when Clytus rose in a shower of palm fronds. The soldier turned and ran, Clytus in pursuit.
The soldiers by Geena reached to draw their swords. The one closest to her should have used the moment to back away from her. He did not, though, and because of this oversight he was perfectly positioned to receive the full force of a kick from her lovely, muscular leg. He doubled over, clutching his groin. Geena snapped another kick into his face, grabbed him around the neck, and yanked him down. That was all Melio saw of them.
Melio neared the third soldier himself. Though he walked with confidence and military precision, he had no idea how he was going to get past that Ishtat sword. The dagger held out to his side had never seemed smaller, like a wasp’s stinger. The confident way the soldier moved his weapon into ready position showed that he felt the same about it. His sword had a gentle curve to it, similar to a Marah sword. It was thinner, but Melio knew the steel of it was unusually heavy. In all likelihood, I’m about to lose limbs, he thought. All these years I’ve kept my limbs. For this. For this…
He thought that as he closed the distance. He thought it as he saw the soldier draw the blade back, tense through his arms and shoulders and torso and legs. Thought it as the man began the step that would initiate the swinging arc the blade would cut. In the face of that, he knew that what his body began-a spin during which he would drop low and try to kick the man’s forward leg-would not work. He knew he would never get to use his dagger, but he held the weapon white fisted and wanted nothing more than to carve it through this stranger’s abdomen with a fury that came upon him sudden and raw and filled with longing for the woman he was about to lose. Though he cried her name in his head and saw her as she had been that first day on the docks in Vumu-lean and bare breasted, suntanned and salt caked, a priestess of Maeben-he knew their story was over. He knew she had never really been his. Knew it and hated it.
What happened next took only an instant. As he began his spinning kick, something small zipped over his shoulder. He heard it whirring in the air, though it shot straight and fast as an arrow. He carried through with his kick, turning his back on the swordsman as he did so. In the blur when he faced away from him, he saw a shape moving toward them, and then he was around. His tensed foot impacted the man’s weighted leg with all the force he could have wished. He felt one of the lower leg bones break instantly.
His eyes flicked up. The soldier’s face was fixed in an absurd expression: his mouth loose, cheeks flaccid, eyes crossed and staring at the jagged crescent of metal protruding from his forehead. Melio spun with the force of his kick, and then used the motion to twirl away from the sword, which carried around for a moment before falling from the man’s limp hands as he crumpled. Melio sprang up and stood, gaping at the soldier.
Kartholome strode past him. He bent over the man and thrust a fish knife into his chest. The soldier gasped, a slow grotesque elongation of his mouth. Kartholome put his hands on the protruding metal disk and began tugging it. It took some effort to get it free. When he had it out, he turned, holding the bloody, sharply pronged disk in front of him. It was small enough to rest on the palm of a hand. The prongs looked as sharp as knifepoints, backs curved treacherously. He met Melio’s gaze. “As a child,” he said, “I was good at darts. Later, I got good with these throwing stars.” With his knife hand he indicated the pouch of the disks strapped around his torso, inside his shirt. “I am not the bravest man, but I have good aim.”
Melio, breathing hard, said, “I believe you.”
He picked up the fallen soldier’s sword. Geena had done the same. Both of them began to move in the direction Clytus had chased the third soldier. A few steps on, they saw him returning, also newly armed, with the man’s helmet sitting tiny on the crown of his head. When he reached them, he spat off to the side and then grinned a bloody, fat-lipped grin. “Who’s got a plan, then?”
B ait again,” Geena grumbled. “It’s somebody else’s turn next time.”
