“I’ll get some blasting sticks,” Sespian said.
Mahliki flashed a smile. “Good.”
He darted back into the building through the gaping hole in the side. The fire at the front door had been put out by some of the men on the roof, but the priests were still targeting that area—some of them had rifles as well. Clangs and clanks continued to echo from within the submarine, the sounds faster and more frenzied now. Sespian hoped Starcrest was almost done in there, but at the same time, he was relieved nobody was outside the craft to notice him racing back through the hole with matches and an armful of blasting sticks. He didn’t want to have to explain, “Uh, yes, My Lord, they’re for your daughter.”
He almost tripped and sent the explosives flying when he ran outside to find Mahliki with her back to the wall and two thick vines swirling in the air around her head. She jabbed at the closest one with the electrifying prod. Like a living beast, it jerked away from the attack before she could deliver more than a quick jolt. The lightning scorched it, but didn’t slow it down.
Sespian set down the blasting sticks and raced to join her. He yanked the black dagger out of his belt, jumped, and grabbed the nearest vine. With one hand, he hacked into it, and with the other, he tried to wrestle it to the ground. The tendril, as thick as his forearm, was as unyielding as a tree trunk. Only after he sliced into it several times, cutting halfway through the meaty stalk, could he push it to the ground. It took all of his body weight.
He thought Mahliki was busy with the other vine and that he would have to saw the top of his off by himself, but she pounced like a cat, trapping the tendril with the forked tip of the steel prod. Lightning poured from the tool, searing the plant.
It shocked Sespian was well, and he leaped free, feeling as if his heart would shoot out of his chest. The singed scent of the vine tainted the air, mingling with the wood smoke from the charred building. Soon the attacking vine went limp, its flesh shrunken and black. Mahliki had managed to take down the other tendril as well. More of the green stalks writhed scant meters away. They reminded Sespian of hissing cats backed into a corner.
“We might not want to stay here,” he said, gathering the blasting sticks.
“I know. I wish we could circle around somehow and get behind the lorries, but I’m not going through that jungle.” Mahliki peered into the gloom behind the building—the dark lake waited back there, along with the remains of the dock where the submarine had been unloaded. The plant had since destroyed most of the structure and taken over the shoreline. “We’ll have to dart across the street. Let’s head for that alley. If we can slip between those buildings and get onto the next block, it’ll be dark over there. Maybe we can sneak up on them from that direction.”
Sespian wondered if he, as former emperor, should be giving the orders here. You’re not anyone now, the voice in the back of his head pointed out. Besides, he didn’t have a better idea. “Hold on.” He dug out a match. “I’ll throw a blasting stick in either direction, and we can run across the street while they’re busy staring at the explosions.” He wished he could hurl one as far as the lorries, but the drivers must know their magical protection would only do so much good—they were staying back far enough that none of the explosives hurled from the soldiers had gotten close.
“Good idea,” Mahliki said.
Sespian was about to strike the match when a voice from above asked, “What are you two kids doing down there?”
A soldier knelt at the edge of the roof, a rifle across his knees. He had an eye toward the nearest lorry, but he was clearly talking to Sespian and Mahliki.
“Plotting an incursion behind enemy lines,” Mahliki announced.
Her honesty surprised Sespian. “I would have lied,” he whispered.
“It’s not like he would have believed we’re going out for rum and haupia.”
“For what?”
“It would probably be cider and flat cakes here.”
“Does your father know about your... mission?” the soldier asked. Though he was addressing Mahliki, Sespian found the notion that he had to ask for parental permission a strange one after so many years of taking care of himself.
“Light the blasting sticks,” Mahliki whispered to Sespian, then raised her voice to tell the soldier, “My father raised me to be a creative thinker and an independent soul.”
“That sounds like a no,” the soldier said.
Mahliki nudged Sespian. Shaking his head, he lit the two blasting sticks. The flames danced on the fuses.
“What are you two doing?” The soldier lowered his rifle and gripped the edge of the roof, as if he were going to jump down.
“Now,” Sespian whispered and leaned around the front corner of the building. He tossed one stick into the street to the north and the other to the south.
A rifle cracked in the distance, and he jerked back. A bullet smashed through the corner of the building, and shards of wood dusted Sespian’s head.
“A little cover fire would be welcome,” Mahliki called up to the soldier.
Whatever his response might have been was lost in the explosions, first to the north and then to the south, one after the other. Mahliki raced from cover, the awkward electricity generator not slowing her at all. Sespian sprinted across the street after her.
To his right and left, clouds of smoke billowed from the blast sites, obscuring the lorries. Broken cement and dirt thudded down in all directions, but nobody fired as Sespian and Mahliki sprinted across the street. They reached the alley without trouble, though they hadn’t run more than ten paces down it before two robed figures appeared at the far end. Two figures with rifles.
With the flames lighting the sky behind Sespian and Mahliki, he knew they would be easy targets. It would take time to light another blasting stick, and it might bring down one of the buildings anyway. He still had the black dagger and snatched it from his belt, leaning around Mahliki to hurl it at the closest of the figures.
“Look out,” she whispered to Sespian and lunged behind a garbage bin.
As soon as the dagger flew from his hand, he followed her example. A rifle fired, cracking into brick inches above their heads. The second man never got a shot off. Sespian hadn’t taken more than a split second to aim, and had thought he would distract his target at best, but the dagger slammed into his shoulder. The robed figure spun backward, then tripped over his own feet and toppled to the ground.
“What the—” the second man blurted, glancing at his downed comrade.
Mahliki sprinted from behind the garbage bin, charging straight at him.
Sespian cursed and ran after her, afraid the priest would have far too much time to recover before she reached the mouth of the alley. He noticed her racing at him and raised his rifle again. Sespian didn’t have anything else left to throw.
Mahliki must have flicked the switch on the generator, pushing it to full power, for blue streaks of lightning arced through the air in front of her. The man stepped back, his eyes bulging open. For a moment, his rifle lowered. He shook his head and recovered, jerking it up again, but he was too late. Mahliki leaped the last few feet, swinging the prod at the rifle. Metal clanked against metal. Lightning ran from the prod up the rifle, and the man yelped and released his hold. Mahliki kicked him in the groin.
Sespian intended to leap in to help, but the first priest was rising to his feet. He yanked the dagger out of his shoulder with a pained grunt, one that turned into a snarl of fury. He lifted it toward Mahliki, then saw Sespian run out of the alley and changed his target.
The inky dagger slashed toward him. The darkness made it hard to judge the attack, and Sespian chose to dodge rather than block it. The armful of blasting sticks made throwing out blocks—and punches—difficult, regardless. He kicked upward, catching the side of the man’s arm. It was enough to get him to drop the knife, the blade clanking as it struck the cement. Without lowering his leg all the way to the ground, Sespian shifted his hip and launched a side kick. His heel sla
mmed into the priest’s ribcage. Sespian followed the attack with a palm strike to the solar plexus. The man reeled back, clutching his chest. He dropped to his knees.
In the poor lighting, Sespian couldn’t see the dagger, but he spotted the bigger weapon, the man’s rifle. He grabbed it and pressed the muzzle into the priest’s back before he could recover.
Mahliki was finishing her foe, too, and Sespian had time to see her punch the man in the gut, throwing all of her weight behind it like a hand-to-hand specialist, not a teenage girl. Sespian would compliment her later. For now...
He pressed harder with the rifle. “Take a long walk, friend. There’s nothing but death for you here.”
The priest staggered to his feet and glared at Sespian, but shambled off without argument. Sespian hoped he wasn’t making a mistake in letting him go, but they couldn’t stop to tie up everyone they crossed. He hadn’t even thought to bring rope.
A heavy thud came from behind him. When Sespian turned, he found Mahliki’s opponent unmoving on the ground.
“Mine didn’t want to walk,” she said.
He smiled at her. “Sometimes they don’t. You have impressive fighting skills.” He hoped his own hadn’t embarrassed him. It was hard to throw knives, kicks, and punches while cradling blasting sticks to one’s chest.
“Thank you. Though that smarted.” Mahliki shook out her hand. “Only in Turgonia can you find priests with abdomens harder and more muscled than those of the soldiers.”
“Well, we have a long history of being warriors.” Sespian patted around on the ground and found the dagger. “Religion on the other hand is just catching on after a long break.”
“Take this one’s rifle,” Mahliki said. “It’s one of those new ones that fires multiple rounds without needing reloading. I’d take it, but the generator is all I can manage, and we might need it if we encounter plants.”
“Got it,” Sespian said after he had grabbed the rifle and tugged the man’s ammo pouch off his belt—this elicited a groan but nothing more. “By the way, how did you get so used to ordering people around in combat situations?”
“I’ve been ordering my cousin around since I was four.” Mahliki nodded toward the street, and they walked along, paralleling the waterfront. “Granted,” she added, “those were mostly in bug-collection situations, but sometimes they grew quite hectic.”
“Somehow I’m not surprised. Do you—”
Mahliki hissed and dropped to one knee. At first, Sespian thought she sensed some danger and was ducking out of the way, but the generator dipped off her shoulder and clunked to the ground. She clutched at her head with both hands.
“What is it?” Sespian whispered, putting a hand on her back, though he was already scanning the street for an attacker. He didn’t see anybody.
“Practitioner,” she got out between clenched teeth.
Sespian grimaced. How could he defend her from an opponent he couldn’t see?
• • • • •
Sicarius crouched in the shadows, his fingertips pressed to the coarse tarpaper rooftop. He heard but paid little attention to Maldynado and Yara’s conversation. Instead he trained his ears toward the city around him as he watched all possible routes leading to the buildings and the construction site. If he were a sniper, commanded to strike that jug from afar, he would choose a spot near the edge approximately ten feet in front of his current hiding spot. He had climbed to the top of a water tank at the back of the building and dismissed it—an intervening chimney would make the shot to the jug less than ideal. Yes, this was the spot he would choose. Though he could not imagine accepting such an asinine task. Even full of acid, the broken jug would cause little significant damage. A few beams and posts would have to be replaced, but it would set the workers back no more than a few hours. Sicarius believed Maldynado had misread whatever clues he had discovered that had led him to believe someone would be coming tonight. Nonetheless, he listened.
He heard the end of Maldynado’s conversation with Yara. She strode out of the back of the alley they had shared, crossed the street, then stopped and leaned against a building. Sicarius could not see her, but knew she hadn’t continued on. He did not suspect her of having anything to do with the saboteurs so assumed the conversation had affected her and made her pause. He was aware, too, of Basilard scouting about, first in the alleys and then on the adjacent rooftop. Sicarius trusted Basilard to remain hidden from an approaching sniper. Yara was less worried about hiding. She might become bait for an unintended trap if she did not move on. But after a few minutes, she pushed away from the wall and left. Good.
By the stars and the moon, Sicarius judged the passing of time. Midnight drew closer. He thought of walking a circuit to more fully see everything below, but he trusted his senses. He would remain hidden for now. And wait.
Eventually, the feeling of being watched came over him. That sense was not as reliable as taste or touch or hearing, but he trusted it well, and he knew the moment he was not alone. He shifted his head minutely to watch the rooftop of the building across the street behind his. The flat structure was lower than his own, and he had dismissed it since it would not provide a view for a sniper, but something about a lightning rod on that roof had changed. The narrow rod would not prove sturdy enough for him to climb, but for someone lighter, perhaps... Yes, a shape bulged out from the vertical shaft. A boy? A woman?
The Nurian mage hunter?
Would someone with her skill have been given such an uncritical task? He wouldn’t think so, but those people were using her. The note had said as much. Using her like a hound until she ran into a grimbal that would eat her.
Sicarius shifted his gaze so he was not staring intently at the lightning rod, knowing she, like he, might sense another’s eyes. One trained as a mage hunter might have even more refined mundane senses, all the better to detect the use of the Science. She might already know he was there.
Deciding to wait for her to make the first move, Sicarius remained in his position, his back to a chimney, trusting his form was indistinguishable from the dark bricks. He kept to his toes, ready to spring away, in case an exceptionally fine pair of eyes picked him out of the shadows. The figure on the rod remained still, too, so still he began to suspect the bulge was some object fastened to the shaft rather than a person. But he had surveyed that roof when he had first come up to this one. The bulge hadn’t been there then.
Between one blink and the next, the shape dropped from its perch, landing on the roof and disappearing from his line of sight. Sicarius waited. The street was too wide to leap across. If she descended from the rooftop, she might encounter Maldynado. Sicarius listened for signs of an attack—Maldynado would likely need help against this opponent.
But the sniper didn’t climb down from her building. She sailed out of the night, tucked into a ball, a long pole held horizontally as she somersaulted down onto the lip of his rooftop. Impressive. If Sicarius had been closer to that back edge, he might have attacked then, before she landed and recovered from the flight, but he was closer to the front, to the view of the construction site.
The woman crouched, laying the pole on the roof without a sound. She shifted a bow stave off her back. She would have to string it. Recognizing a moment when she might be slightly distracted, Sicarius slipped away from the chimney. The flat roof offered no contours to hide behind, but there were other chimneys, as well as vents, and that water tank at the back. He used every scrap of cover, drawing closer to her.
Her head came up, and he froze, standing tall, pressing his back against the side of the water tower. For a long moment, the woman didn’t move, though he could feel her gaze raking the roof, searching for whatever she had sensed. He hadn’t made a sound, but she knew he was there, nonetheless.
When her head shifted slightly, pointing toward the chimney where he had been before, he eased behind the water tank. At some point during his stalking, his black dagger had found its way into his hand. Apprehending her without killing her
would be difficult, but he might strike a grievous blow without making it a mortal one. If her attention was still focused elsewhere, he would be close enough to attack when he reached the far side of the tank. He thought of climbing it and leaping down from above, but he would be silhouetted against the sky then. Also, once one jumped, it was difficult to alter one’s direction, and impossible to change one’s momentum, if an opponent on the ground reacted.
Sicarius listened before coming out of cover and didn’t hear anything, but his senses told him he had taken too long. He eased his head around the side of the tank.
The woman was gone.
She had either sensed his approach or had finished stringing her bow and continued on to the front of the rooftop. He didn’t see her anywhere. The moon had gone behind a cloud, stealing the shadows, the contrast. She wasn’t wearing white tonight. If she were crawling across the roof on her belly, he might not be able to distinguish her from the tarpaper. He looked up, on the chance that she had chosen the top of the tank for an attack. With a projectile weapon, it made much more sense. But no figures were silhouetted against the cloudy sky.
A crack sounded in the distance—from the construction site. The jug.
A crash followed the crack, the ceramic shattering on the ground below its perch.
Sicarius forced himself not to sprint to the edge of the roof, though the knowledge that she had gotten by, and that he might miss her altogether, threatened to muddle his calmness with urgency. He went the rest of the way around the water tank, intending to stay behind cover and pick his way to the front again. His foot brushed something, and he chastised himself. The pole. He had forgotten it and almost kicked it. Such noise would be unforgivable.
He was going to step over it, to leave it so she wouldn’t know for sure someone was up here with her, but his senses and his mind melded, throwing an alert to the front of his brain. The sounds... the way the arrow had clunked against the jug instead of cracking solidly into it, the way the ceramic had landed, off to the side on the dirt instead of on the cement directly below it. She hadn’t shot from an ideal position. She had glanced it. She—