nothing more. It would be the least of their worries. He would kill the children if he had to, but not unless it was absolutely necessary. And it wasn't absolutely necessary. Not yet.
While the Bel Zheret continued its work on the guards, Paet exited the alley in the other direction as silently as possible, picking up the bag as he ran. The knife wound seared through his back, making the broken wrist seem mild in comparison. He could sense fluids in his body mixing that should not mix, blood leaking into places where blood did not belong. Despite his best efforts, he might not make it.
Again he considered abandoning Jenien. A loose cobblestone would do the trick, crush her brain until it was utterly unreadable. But he couldn't do it. Killing her had been bad enough. Nor could he simply toss the cloth bag into one of the now-many burning buildings that lined the street along which he staggered.
A clock in the main temple struck the hour, and Pact felt what blood remained in him drain toward his feet. The Port-Herion Lock would be shut down soon. Any minute now. They would not wait for him.
Running. Breathing hard in his chest. Now no longer caring whether he was seen or what kind of impression he made. Get to the gate, through the lock, onto Seelie soil. This was all that mattered now.
There was a side street that ran along the base of Kollws Kapytlyn, where the Southwest Gate stood, and Paet reached it, out of breath, after what seemed like hours. The street was empty. It ran along a ridge line, overlooking the endless prairies of Annwn. In the distance, one of the giant, tentacled boars, the Hwch Ddu Cwta, raised its head to the sky in the dark, amidst the noise.
Paet's legs felt like they'd been wrapped in cold iron; his breath came like knife thrusts. Blood dripped down his back, thickening along the length of his thigh. He stumbled once, then again. He should have killed those two children; it had been necessary after all. He was sworn to protect the children of the Seelie Kingdom, not the children of Annwn.
He struggled again to his feet. The pain in his back, in his chest, in his wrist-they all conspired against him, hounding him. Each had its own personality, its own signature brand of hurt.
The city gate was up ahead, left open and unguarded. Beyond he could see the lock glowing in the distance. The portal was still open!
One of the Bel Zheret tackled him hard from behind, his shoulder biting into the knife wound. The bag containing Jenien's head tumbled away. Whether his attacker was Cat or Asp he couldn't tell; not that it mattered now. If it was Cat, then he'd get his wish to kill a Shadow after all.
But he wouldn't get Jenien. Paet crawled toward the bag, allowing the Bel Zheret free access to his back, which his assailant readily exploited, kicking him hard in the kidney.
Paet collapsed on top of the bag and, with the last of his strength, crushed Jenien's skull with his hands. It was harder than he would have thought. Mab wouldn't learn any of her secrets now.
The Bel Zheret knelt over Pact and began delivering efficient, evenly timed blows to Pact's spine, then turned him over and dealt equally with Pact's face. Pact felt his nose crack, his lower jaw split in two. Teeth rolled loose on his tongue; he swallowed one. He felt ribs crack, first one, then two more. Something popped in his chest and suddenly he could no longer breathe. There was no sound except the dull rush of blood in his ears. The world spun; the beating, the pounding receded, then faded altogether.
A few minutes later Tract, the Seelie ambassador, followed by a pair of clerks lugging baggage and valises thick with papers, literally stumbled over Pact's body.
'Oh, dear!' Tract cried. 'How awful!'
'Is he alive?' asked one of the clerks, kneeling.
'We don't have time for that,' Tract muttered, walking past. 'There will be casualties.'
'Sir, it's Pact!'
The ambassador quickly turned, his eyes wide. 'Gather him up, then! Quickly!'
The kneeling clerk felt for a pulse. 'He's dead, sir. Perhaps we oughtn't to bother......
'Don't be a fool,' said Tract. 'Hand me your bags and take him. Now!'
Neither the clerks nor Tract noticed the cloth bag that had fallen from Pact's hand, now resting in a clump of bushes just outside the gate.
Once the ambassador's party was safely through the lock, the Master of the Gates opened a small door on the side of the massive portal. He adjusted the ancient machinery, and a loud hum joined the cacophony of flames and the percussion of war from across the city. While a sextet of extremely fiercelooking members of the Seelie Royal Guard held back the small knot of would-be refugees that had surrounded the lock, the Master closed the door, carrying a heavy part of the lock's inner workings with him. He stepped through and beckoned the guardsmen to follow. They backed slowly into the
