The nose? Taran had laughed once when Andreas had landed a lucky strike. That barely counts. And he had swiftly demonstrated to the younger Andreas just how little a broken nose slowed down a resourceful and practiced fighter.
Andreas kept up the pressure on the Easterner, striking from both sides. Each attack was parried, but he could sense his opponent’s increasing desperation. His opponent’s balance had been direly shaken; Andreas could feel how unstable his stance was in how the staff bounced against the wooden sword. With each strike, the Easterner’s balance slipped a little further. He will have to yield soon, he thought. One of my blows will get through, and then—
The Easterner didn’t try to block the next jab, and his left hand snaked out—the arm he had hit with the staff!—and grabbed the tip of his sword. It was a move that would be dangerous, if not outright deadly, to try with a real sword, but with wood, it was a sneaky, but clever, trick.
Andreas could be clever too, and instead of getting into a tug-of-war for his weapon, he let go of his waster, leaving his opponent holding two long weapons by their ends. His hands free, Andreas made to finish the fight with a grappling move.
As he’d been taught, and had done hundreds of times, his left hand reached toward his opponent’s throat, and his right came up for a hammer blow to the temple. His vision flashed, and his hands were suddenly not where he wanted them to be; his head rang, and rippling lines of agony ran down his frame. Dimly, he realized what had happened: as he had closed to grapple, the Easterner’s thumb had darted out and jammed itself into one of the energy points in his neck.
Again, his conditioning and training saved him, and he reacted with a knee strike, which only slid off his opponent’s thigh, expertly moved to protect the groin. His left hand was over the Easterner’s shoulder, so Andreas shifted to grab his opponent’s neck. He braced the other man as he threw his head forward, trying to smash his forehead against the other man’s broken nose.
But the Easterner wasn’t there; he’d slipped around to Andreas’s left. Andreas was still throwing his weight forward, and combined with the lock the man now had on his left arm, he was hurled off his feet, face-first into the dusty ground.
Spitting out dirt, he rolled to the side, getting his feet under him again. He had fallen on top of his sword, and his hands had unconsciously grabbed the weapon. As he came to his feet, he discovered two things: the first being that his right hand was on the pommel of his wooden sword; the second was that his left arm refused to work. Dislocated, but not broken, he hoped.
His opponent had taken advantage of the throw to go for his own weapon. He held his staff in that shortened two-handed grip Andreas was coming to be wary of, and his face—not very pretty before—was a mass of blood and swollen flesh now.
Andreas turned his body slightly, angling his right shoulder toward the man, moving his sword behind his body to hide it from his opponent. No use trying to do anything with the left arm anymore. He was a single-handed opponent now. His choices were fewer; his tactical options much less complicated.
He had no doubt this was the man who had beaten the Livonians at the bridge. This had to be the Flower Knight. The fight was coming to its inevitable conclusion. One more pass would probably be all it would take. One more chance to deliver his message.
Andreas smiled. If his plan worked, then losing this fight would be worth the reward...
Come at me, then. Let’s finish this.
* * *
Kim was surprised at the failure of his thumb strike to the Frank’s energy point. A secret technique of the Flower Knights, the strike should have paralyzed the man’s entire body, but instead, the Frank had only lost the use of his left arm. In any other situation, Kim would have been fascinated by this revelation, for it suggested the Rose Knights had access to esoteric fighting styles, techniques that relied on a man’s understanding of his opponent’s energy centers. As it was, not only was the Frank still standing but he had retrieved his sword and had adopted a truly defensive stance. It looked almost coy, the way he was hiding behind his own body, but Kim was wary of the fact he could barely see the other man’s weapon.
It was a good stance, probably one that was very effective against another edged weapon, but the staff worked better as a thrusting and jabbing weapon, and after a few weak parries on the part of the Frank, both men realized the staff was ultimately going to win. With one hand, the Frank beat each of his attacks back, but he was forced to give ground with each parry.
Kim recovered badly from a wild sweep of the sword after a parry, exposing his left shoulder, and the Frank took the bait, sensing this was his one hope to regain the fight. Kim was ready, though, as the recovery had been a feint, and the butt of his staff effortlessly pushed the wooden sword aside as it came toward him. Kim surged into the opening and, with a sharp snap of his wrist, clipped the Frank on the temple with the staff. The Frank stumbled, grunting in pain, and then crumpled to the ground of the proving field.
The roar of the crowd came back to him, shut out before by the all-consuming focus of the fight. Kim was breathing heavily, and out of the corner of his eye, he could already see an enormous confusion on the other side of the ropes as his Mongol guards tried to calm the surrounding crowd.
A hand grabbed his ankle, and he looked down, surprised. Didn’t the Frank realize he had lost? The Rose Knight was squinting up at him, his mouth moving. Was he praying?
No. He’s trying to tell me something.
He would not be able to celebrate his victory for long. The Mongols would drag him out of the ring in a few seconds. He had so little time.
Kim knelt beside the fallen man, slipping his hand behind the Frank’s head. The man’s gaze was fierce and unwavering, in spite of the blow to the head, and he hissed one word, loud enough for Kim to hear over the roar of the crowd.
“Hans.”
The boy’s name.
In a flash, Kim understood. He and the Rose Knights did not share a common language; it would be difficult for them to communicate effectively. But they did share one thing in common: the friendship of the boy. “Hans,” he repeated.
“Hans,” the Frank said the boy’s name one last time, as if to seal the understanding that had passed between them. The boy would carry their messages. The two of them stared at one another for a moment that stretched longer and longer, until Kim abruptly realized that the guards hadn’t yet come to retrieve him.
The crowd had grown silent, and he saw that the man’s eyes were now fixed on something behind him with a sudden, alert intensity. Kim glanced over his shoulder, and his guts tightened at what he saw: the crowd was vanishing, slipping away like the tide gone suddenly in reverse, rushing away from the shore. They were fleeing before the arrival of heavily armored Mongol warriors, men with plumed helmets and long pole-arms with wickedly curved blades.
The Mongols scattered the crowd, flowing around the ring until the dusty brown of the audience had been replaced with the black armor of the Khan’s personal guard. Within seconds, the two fighters were surrounded by a tight cordon of armed men, their deadly pole-axes lowered ominously toward the ring.
After a few seconds, the ring parted to allow a burly Mongol with a beard twisted into an ornate braid to approach the ring. He wore polished lamellar armor that shone in the sun, and his helm was topped with a horsetail plume that danced in the wind. It was Tegusgal, wearing his ceremonial armor—the armor he only wore when he was attending to the Khan. “Your weapon,” he demanded of Kim, pointing at the staff.
Kim glared at Tegusgal, his cultivated calm dangerously close to breaking. He should have known Tegusgal would have learned of his trickery to come out to First Field, and he should have equally prepared for the man’s personal involvement in retrieving him. But the elation of the victory over the Frank and the subsequent success at making contact had driven all those thoughts from him, and to be so unexpectedly confronted with the vicious and shrewd captain of the prison guards was to be caught off gu
ard. Fighting to keep his face impassive, Kim relinquished his staff, pushing it toward the Khan’s man. Tegusgal picked it up and strode forward, swinging it heavily down on the back of Kim’s leg. “On your knees, dog.”
Kim collapsed forward, his hands clawing at the dry ground of First Field. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Frank looking at him, an expression of something not quite sympathy, not quite anger on his face. Kim turned his head slightly and held the Frank’s gaze, drawing strength and serenity from the Rose Knight’s expression. But then another commotion drew his attention back to the scaffolding again.
The Mongol guards parted, falling away from the edge of the ring, and their retreat pushed the crowd even farther back so that, in a few seconds, the area around the ring was deserted but for Kim, the Frank, and Tegusgal. Kim swallowed heavily, his mouth suddenly dry, as he spotted the reason why.
Ten broad-backed slaves, bearing a red-curtained palanquin, slowly came to a halt next to Tegusgal, who dropped to his knees as well, holding Kim’s staff in front of him like an offering to a god.
Beside him, the Frank pushed himself up to a sitting position with his good arm.
The bearers knelt as one in perfect synchronization, laying their burden upon the ground. The palanquin was enormous, draped with dark silk, edged in gold ornamentation. A pair of snarling wolf heads, made from gold wire and sporting ivory teeth and flashing rubies for eyes, adorned each of the forward corners. A curtain parted on one side, and Tegusgal jerked as he heard the voice issuing from within. The words were too softly spoken for Kim to hear, but he could guess as to their import from Tegusgal’s reaction.
The captain of the guard stepped forward and delicately raised one of the curtains on the front of the palanquin, keeping his face downturned the entire time. He stared at his boots as a thick-bodied figure ducked under the edge of the palanquin’s roof and stood upon the dry earth of the proving ground.
Kim felt the Frank stiffen next to him, and he did not fault the man’s reaction. Here was Onghwe Khan, the man responsible for all their misery. He was dressed in fine silks inlaid with cloth of gold. His beard was thick and oiled, and but for the ostentatious garments, he was a surprisingly unassuming man. But for his eyes, Kim thought, wondering if the Frank saw the man’s eyes as he did. The eyes are like hungry tigers.
The master of the Circus had come.
“What is this?” the Khan demanded.
Tegusgal snapped to attention and, in a quiet voice, began to explain what had transpired, even though he had witnessed none of it. As the Khan’s attention passed from them—they were two dirty and bloody men, sitting in the dirt, not worth his attention—Kim turned his head slowly until he could once more meet the eyes of the Rose Knight. A message, he thought. He must understand.
He raised one hand surreptitiously from the ground, no more than the height of one finger’s width, and with his index finger, he pointed at the Khan. The Frank saw the motion of his hand, and though his brow creased with confusion for a brief second, he gave the tiniest of nods.
Kim raised his hand farther off the ground, making no effort to hide the motion now, and he tentatively touched at his bloody face, as if suddenly aware of how much his broken nose pained him. He slid his hand down to his throat, letting the bulk of his hand hide the motion of his middle finger. He drew it across his neck in a small, but unmistakable, cutting motion.
The Frank stared at him for a long moment, and Kim was afraid Tegusgal would finish his explanation before the Frank understood. He didn’t dare risk making the motion a second time. Please understand, he silently implored the other man.
Something flickered in the Frank’s eyes, a deep-seated and mischievous gleam. Then, with a tiny curl starting at the edge of his mouth, he tipped his head fractionally.
I understand and agree.
They were of one mind: they had to find a way to kill Onghwe Khan.
23
Servus Servorum Dei
THE GUARD OUTSIDE Orsini’s palazzo held up his hand as Cardinal Sinibaldo Fieschi approached. “Good day, Father. Please state your business with the Senator.” Fieschi, lost in the turmoil of his thoughts, stopped abruptly and stared at the man’s hand. He had been thinking about the gates of Rome, about which one the pair of ragged messengers would probably use to escape the city, and he hadn’t been paying much attention to his surroundings. Walking through Rome during the day, dressed as a priest—even a simple one, without any of the usual finery he or the other cardinals wore—was much less dangerous than the hurried and somewhat stealthy pace he typically adopted during his nocturnal visits.
“Servus Dei, bringing urgent news to Senator Orsini,” he growled at the guard. “Let me pass.”
The guard blinked but did not move aside. Fieschi, on the other hand, did not blink, pinning the man with a stony glare that worked so often on the weak willed. “The Senator wants to see me immediately.”
The guard shrugged and sucked on the inside of his cheek. “The Senator is a busy man, Father. Why don’t you tell me what’s so important and I’ll have someone inform the Senator?”
The man didn’t recognize him. The nighttime guards knew him, having been informed that he would occasionally show up unannounced; after a few visits, they had simply turned a blind eye when he arrived at the palazzo’s gates, indifferent veterans to the secret machinations in which their master was involved. The daytime guards, though, were another matter; their purview was less complicated: keep the palazzo safe; don’t let anyone disturb the Senator.
Fieschi stepped close. “Listen to me very carefully, you son of a poxy bitch,” he said. The guard jerked to attention, surprised by such language coming from a priest’s mouth. “The news I carry is of vital importance to the Senator and to the safety of Rome itself. If your stubborn ignorance causes harm to befall the Senator, he will—I am certain—have you flayed alive with less ceremony than he would take in picking his crusty, noble nose. You will—immediately—escort me, Cardinal Sinibaldo Fieschi of the Holy Church, to the Senator’s chambers, or not only will your skin be ripped from your body and thrown to the dogs but the hands of your wife, your mistress, your daughter—if you have managed to breed—will be nailed to the head-board of your favorite whore’s bed.”
The guard had more spine than Fieschi credited him for, and he held his ground until Fieschi raised his left hand as if he were going to deliver a backhanded slap. The guard caught sight of the large ring on the cardinal’s hand, and the blood drained from his tawny face.
He fled, running for the palazzo, and Fieschi allowed himself a tiny smile before he followed.
* * *
“Threatening my staff now, are you, Sinibaldo?” Orsini asked as Fieschi entered the Senator’s sitting room.
“He did not recognize me,” Fieschi said with sullen irritation. “He mistook me for a common parish priest—”
“I thought humility was one of the traits holy men sought to embrace. A reminder of one’s insignificance before God, no?” Orsini observed with a trace of a smile. “Besides, do you really expect my entire domestic staff to know you on sight? That would suggest both of us are atrocious at keeping secrets.” He drew back his smile and his face turned cold. “Why have you come in the middle of the day? What has happened? Did someone die?”
“Not yet,” said Fieschi and repeated with emphasis, “not yet. There is a more alarming crisis that you must address. At this very moment, a messenger is heading to alert Frederick of the cardinals’ imprisonment.”
Orsini’s face darkened. “What messenger?”
“That’s the worst of it. A Binder.” Fieschi threw him an accusing stare. “So much for your successful eradication of that witch network.”
“How do you know this?” Orsini demanded.
“Oh, my friend, my friend,” Fieschi clucked. “You would not believe the excitement we’ve had in our little prison. I will tell you all that has happened, but first, you must immediately lock the gates; the gu
ards must be on full alert, not only at the gates but the rooftops of any building within jumping distance of the walls.”
“Are you serious?”
“Have you ever heard of a Binder-carried message not being delivered?”
Orsini frowned. “What you are proposing is costly and difficult; I want to know that this is a genuine threat.”
With visible effort, Fieschi controlled his temper. It was no wonder the palazzo guards were so disrespectful and arrogant—they took their cues from their master. While it would be satisfying to wash his hands of this disaster and let Orsini discover the danger of doubting his words, the messenger could disrupt everything. “I heard—with these very ears,” he said with some forced patience, “I heard Somercotes give the message to the Binder girl. Simply, it asks for Frederick to assault the Septizodium and tells him that she knows of the secret passages.”
“And you let her go?” Orsini snorted.
“Someone half my size who has been trained in the arts of concealment and stealth just might be able to slip past me in a pitch-black tunnel,” Fieschi shot back. “However, she will have a harder time evading your guards in broad daylight—that is, if you could be bothered to actually alert them to that necessity.” He gestured ferociously at the door behind him. “For every second you sit there, staring at me like a clod, she gets closer to one of the gates. Why would I dare leaving the Septizodium during the day if it were not for a crisis such as this? Damn your indolence, man. I am certain of this. If she is fleet, she could already have reached the Porta Appia or the Porta Latina. We have no time. You must act now!”
Orsini narrowed his eyes. “Very well, Sinibaldo. I will send out an alert,” he said, rising to his feet and striding toward the door, “but then you must tell me exactly what you know and what has happened.”