silent with her party, and a ramming clank from de Stafford’s, there was no way to move fast and quietly in armor. They went past the guard detail, who, she was pleased to see, were keeping their eyes front, and not turning around to look behind them except for a designated cover man-there were any number of classic misdirection ploys which relied on the natural impulse to focus on the place the noise was coming from.
The family quarters of the Counts were splendid but not ostentatious by the upper nobility’s standards. Subtle signs showed recent modifications, including more locally made post-Change work, including several small elegant bronzes of wildlife, probably to mark the switch from the first count to his son-or to his son’s wife, which was often the case. A library-study full of wood paneling and leather furniture and glass-fronted bookcases showed the first signs of the attack; bodies being carried away, blood, furniture overturned and scorch marks where fires started by overset lanterns had been hastily stamped out. The broad windows needed for light were probably why the enemy had picked this room for entry.
Tiphaine pursed her lips. “I’m glad I advised him to go overboard on numbers,” she said, absently rubbing the back of her right hand.
Rigobert jerked his blond head in agreement. “I can think of a lot of operations which failed because not enough force was used,” he said. “But other things being equal-timing mainly, and concealment-I can’t think of a single damned one that failed because too much force was used. Subtle buys no bread.”
Tiphaine nodded. A pair of crossbowmen were being given emergency care near the big doors from the library into the rest of the suite, and another lying on his back looked as if someone had grabbed his helmeted head and twisted until he was looking out over his shoulder blades. She bared her teeth.
Heard about that before, she thought.
Through a corridor, with two dead Cutters in it; these ones had shetes, the broad-tipped slashing swords favored in the far interior, and they were wearing cloth masks that covered everything but the eyes. Next was a door with firing loopholes that had been hit so hard that it sagged on one hinge; she bent slightly to check as she went by. The pattern of splintering around the lock confirmed what she’d thought; someone had slammed their hand into it.
“They thought they could pin them in this corridor and shoot them down,” Rigobert said thoughtfully. “Didn’t work, for some reason.”
“Their point man broke the trap open from the inside,” Tiphaine said.
Rigobert’s fair brows went up. The chamber beyond was some sort of social space. Probably mainly a ballroom, judging from the superb parquet floor and the mirrors and spindly tables around the edge and the brilliantly lit crystal gas-chandeliers above. This was where the killing had mainly been, pitilessly illuminated by the lights designed to bring out jewels and bright cloth; her nostrils flared at the familiar scents, and the floors were never going to be the same. The local dead had been dragged out and laid in a row with their arms folded, and she saw stretchers disappearing out the other side of the big chamber as she entered.
Count Felipe was sitting on one of the chairs near the three-deep pile of enemy fallen. The spindly seat creaked dangerously under his armored weight. Two men with bolt cutters were working on the bevoir of his suit of plate, which had been bent so badly beneath his chin that the usual hinges and clasps were all irredeemably stuck; it came free with a clang, and another got the equally damaged gauntlet off his left hand.
Felipe swore again, his handsome swarthy young face showing as much chagrin and anger as pain. A chirurgeon began to work on the hand. By then the two western nobles were close enough to see that the fleshy pad at the base of the thumb there was mangled, besides the bruising where the little overlapping plates had been bent; the doctor was examining it carefully, and then got to work with tweezers and a small very sharp pair of scissors, and a spray of disinfectant.
At mere pain the Count’s face went impassive, though a film of sweat covered it. He started to speak, and then something gripped Tiphaine’s left ankle with crushing force and jerked.
Reflex saved her; she had the sword coming down before she hit the ground, curling up and using the grip that anchored her leg as a brace to strike. The edge of the long sword hit and bit, and the fingers started to relax as tendons cut. Another slash and she was free, rising in a flickering shoulder roll. Half-free at least; it took a stamp and the use of her point to get the hand off her ankle. Blades were rising and falling, amid half-hysterical shouts of loathing. She tested the ankle and found it only a little sore.
She looked up. A man had risen from the pile of bodies, half-risen at least. Six crossbow bolts studded his torso, and one eye was dangling down his cheek, and an arm ended in an oozing stump. The sole remaining eye looked at her.
“I… see… you… forever…”
The voice was a rasping guttural, and air wheezed out of the chest from the other openings as well. If cinders could speak, they would use that tone. For a moment it was as if she were locked in endless hot stone, and then there was a dry wind and a rustle that might have been broad wings hunting in the night or the wind in narrow olive leaves of silver-gray, and the world returned.
Rigobert’s long sword was up in the two-handed grip with the hilt beside his face. He stepped and struck, pivoting his torso in a beautiful suihei horizontal cut and follow-through. The head toppled away from the body, and the torso fell back with a thud.
Thank you, Lady of the Owl! Tiphaine thought.
Men were crossing themselves all around her, touching their crucifixes or saint’s amulets. Her own hand had gone to her throat, for the owl medallion hidden there, and she grinned for an instant at the tinge of scorn she’d have felt for the others only a few years ago.
I’m finally a full-fledged Changeling, not caught betwixt and between, she thought. Poor Sandra! She got the world of her dreams and she’ll never really be at home here.
Aloud she went on: “You men! Get that head and body, wrap them in mats and blankets, and take them away. Wear gauntlets. Burn the body and everything that’s touched it, somewhere where you’re upwind of the smoke. Don’t touch it if you can help it. Wash afterwards. Wash thoroughly and discard your clothes and gloves. Have the floor here ripped up, cautiously. Scrub everything with lye and bleach, burn the wood. And get a priest to do an exorcism. Do it all now.”
The Walla Walla men hesitated, looking at their lord. He flushed and snapped, “She’s the Grand Constable, you fools, do what you’re told! Do it all, do it right! Sir Budic, take charge and see that the Grand Constable’s instructions are followed to the letter. Now! And get the rest of this carrion out of the palace.”
A little more gently: “You’ve all done well and bravely, and I will not forget who stood with me this night. Now show good vassalage once more, and keep your mouths shut about this until I give out what’s happened. We don’t want a panic.”
The men scattered about their tasks, though Tiphaine doubted any secrecy would last more than about fifteen minutes. When they had some small degree of privacy Felipe looked at her and ducked his head.
“I am in your debt, my lady. I and my House. But for you, I and my wife and our unborn child might have been caught by surprise by that. .. that thing and its minions. Even as it was-”
He looked around.
“I thought you were being overcautious when you recommended so many men waiting. Remind me not to doubt you again.”
Lioncel silently returned her sword, clean once more, dropped a cloth into the pile that the Count’s men were getting ready to burn, and then stripped off his gloves and added them as well.
She nodded, sheathed the weapon and went on to her host. “I don’t claim to be infallible, but I’ve had some experience with this. With those creatures in particular, and I’ve made it my business to investigate. And the High King told me more.”
“What was it? I… I had my sword through its belly, I swear I did, and then it put its hands around the bevoir of my suit and started to squeeze as if it were trying to throttle me through the metal, and I could feel the steel begin to buckle! I was holding it off with one hand against its face and stabbing it, and it chewed through the bison hide on the palm of my gauntlet!”
“That,” Tiphaine said, “was a High Seeker out of Corwin. You don’t really need the red robe to recognize them once they get into action; and if you kill them… well, you kill the man that was. But the. .. whatever… lingers, even stronger, for a few moments. Be flattered, my lord; the enemy have paid you a great compliment.”
Her face was glacier-calm; inwardly she was cursing herself for overconfidence. Her little trap had worked perfectly… against normal assassins. It had been only marginally acceptable at what had shown up, and that only
