Mab's operatives were getting stronger, faster, more intelligent. Whatever the black art was that grew them in the bowels of her flying cities, it was improving with every year.
So there was one. Where was the other one? Had he run ahead, plotting a tangential course, or was he behind the one he'd just seen? Which had been at the window? Which at the stairs? In the pain and hurry, Paet couldn't remember.
Scattered thinking kills quicker than poison. That was one of Master Jedron's favorite adages.
Paet ducked into a doorway and risked closing his eyes just long enough concentrate and cut off the pain from his wrist, slow his heart, and clear out the essence of fear in his blood. Better to lose a moment of his head start than to give up his mind to panic and pain.
Again he ran, now turning into a blind alley that was dark and cool, the walls close together. It was quieter here; the commotion beyond became a homogenous roar. The smell of smoke, though, was stronger. Nearer the fire.
Condensation dripped down the moss-covered stones. Though Paet knew Blood of Arawn well, and had spent hours poring over maps a few days earlier, he wasn't exactly sure where he was at the moment, or whether this alley would take him to another street or to a dead end. Still, it was the unexpected thing to do, and that was his primary defense at the moment.
The alley opened on a wide street, and Paet hurried into the center of the city, where the giant obelisk atop the Kapytlyn rose up and vanished into the blankness of night. Asp was nowhere to be seen. The crowds were thicker here, the city's dependents waiting for news or instructions. Paet knew that those instructions wouldn't come until Mab's officers took control of the place. The rightful governor was long gone, having taken refuge in the Seelie Kingdom earlier that day, along with a score of top officials. Most everyone else in government had already fled to the countryside.
Paet stopped a moment to get his bearings-he'd actually been running away from the Port-Herion Lock, not toward it. Inwardly cursing himself, he turned and began again. Thankfully the chaos surrounding him, which would normally have been a hindrance, worked in his favor. At any other time, a limping, sweating Fae brandishing a bloody knife would undoubtedly be noticed. The first rule of Shadows was to draw no attention; that was the ostensible meaning of the nickname. Though not the true one.
Paet breathed deep and concentrated again, hoping to heal the wrist enough to fight. He was running low on re, having used up much of his stored magical essence in his various reachings-in today. He did the best he could, then headed toward a side street that led to the Kollws Ysglyn, and the Port-Herion Lock beyond.
The Bel Zheret named Cat was there waiting for him, sword drawn.
Paet dropped the bag and rushed him, praying that his momentum would be enough to take the man down, but the Bel Zheret stayed on his feet and, though unable to bring his blade to bear, punched Paet hard in the stomach. There was something on his hand, turning his knuckles into spikes, and the Bel Zheret twisted those spikes into Pact's midsection, not hard enough to draw blood through Pact's cloak, but still painful.
Pact pulled back, stepping hard on the side of Cat's knee, a lucky move, and the Bel Zheret crumpled, falling backward against the wall. Pact knew from experience that having your knee kicked out of its socket was one of the more painful things that could happen in a fight, short of being run through, and he was amazed that Cat was still standing, let alone continuing to swing his blade.
For an instant, fear tumbled into Pact's mind and he was certain that he was going to die. Right here in this alley, carrying the severed head of a woman with whom he'd once made love. All his regrets spilled onto the dank cobblestones. Where was Master Jedron with a homily against the inevitability of death? Certainly one existed, and it was something stoic and tough. Well. Better to die here in an alley than in a dimly lit room with the Bel Zheret. They would torture him slowly and effectively, and despite his training they would cut his knowledge out of him. With their teeth.
There was a sound in the alley. A pair of burly city guards were approaching, their clubs out and ready. Both looked tense and afraid. They'd been given instructions to remain and to keep the peace until the bitter end. Neither one appeared happy about it.
Cat spun Paet around and shoved Paet's face hard against the wall. A knife pierced his back, went deep, and Paet felt something in his body give. A kidney? The knife traced a path across his back and caught on something hard, a vertebra. With Paet's enhanced sensitivity toward his own body, he felt it in excruciating detail, felt the nerve tissue shredding like spiderweb. Another hard shove and Paet's nose smashed into the bricks of the wall.
Paet slid down the wall and watched Cat begin a methodical slaughter of the two guardsmen, who barely had time to shriek before he began hurting them. One of the Bel Zheret's few weaknesses was that they took a bit too much pleasure in causing pain; perhaps it was an unintended side effect of whatever it was that created them. Perhaps, worse, it was intended.
With the very last of his re, Paet attempted to repair those nerves, to find his way into the kidney and send healing toward it. These were still killing wounds, but perhaps they would kill a bit more slowly now, and give him time to reach the lock before he died. Paet now reached out, out of his body and out into Blood of Arawn, looking for life, looking for re that he could steal. Two children in an adjoining house, huddling in bed. He drew as much from them as he could without killing them. They'd be sick for a few days,
