A Painted Goddess (21 page)

“Because I
ordered
it,” the duke said. “We couldn’t get the door closed. The Perranese bastards overran us. We know the layout of the palace. They don’t. The fire won’t block every passage, but it will slow their progress.”

“Then we’re trapped up here,” Tosh said.

“An astute observation,” Sherrik said dryly. “My men and I could have made our way to another stairway and a back exit, but I was told
this bitch
”—he pointed at her with his bloody sword for emphasis—“was implementing some grand scheme on top of the palace to win the battle. Well, Duchess? What miracle have you conjured for us?”

Rina sighed. She stuck a chuma stick in her mouth but had no way to light it. She rolled it from one side of her mouth to the other. “I didn’t like you at first, Emilio. A spoiled little duke playing with his toy soldiers. But I think you’re okay really. I think you would have been a good duke if you’d lived long enough to grow up.”

The duke’s face twisted with rage. “You stupid little—”

All heads turned at the rusty squeal of hinges. A hatch opened across the rooftop, black smoke coming up from the opening.

Alem gripped his sword tighter, palms sweaty on the hilt.
This is it. The Perranese have found a way up
.

A battered, blood-spattered person emerged from the hatchway. Sarkham. He was smudged black, and one side of his head was bloody where he was missing an ear. He coughed as he cleared the hatch, gulping for fresh air, and then turned to beckon the next man out.

The next man wore rags, leg irons and chains, wrist manacles. So did the next three.

“Hurry!” Sarkham shouted down the hatchway. “Move your asses, you lazy sons of bitches, or burn alive for all I care.”

The duke turned and hobbled back down the stairs, cursing and wincing with each step as he made for Sarkham. The others followed.

“Captain!” Sherrik barked. “What is this?”

“Prisoners up from the dungeon, your grace.”

“Care to explain why?”

A dozen prisoners had come through the hatch, and there appeared to be more on the way.

“Duchess Veraiin’s orders,” Sarkham said.

The duke wheeled on Rina, trembling with barely controlled rage. “Compliments on your kindheartedness, Rina, but would you like to tell me why saving cutthroats and rapists is a priority at this particular moment?”

“I’m not saving them,” she said.

The prisoners lay around the open hatch, coughing and gasping for air, at least twenty of them now. The next man through the hatch was a soldier in the livery of the palace guard.

“Who’s behind you?” Sarkham asked.

“Just one more,” the soldier said.

“Can the Perranese get through?”

“No chance,” said the soldier. “It’s an inferno back there.”

The soldier climbed out. The last man up was a large, barrel-chested man, wearing a once-bright suit of full plate armor, now streaked and smudged with blood and grime. He held a mace dripping red. He slammed the hatch shut again.

Rina’s face brightened, and she ran to him. “Bishop Hark!”

She threw herself on him, hugging, her face against the dirty breastplate of his armor. He hugged back best he could with one hand.

“Glad you’re not dead,” she said.

“Never without permission from your grace.”

She smiled up at him. “How did you happen to fall in with Sarkham?”

“Frankly, I was a bit lost,” Hark said. “I donned my armor when everything started happening. The palace was in an uproar, and nobody seemed to be able to find anyone else. I ran into Captain Sarkham and one of his men supervising these prisoners and thought he could use some company.”

Sarkham laughed. “Some company, the man says. A pack of screaming Perranese descended upon us, and if it hadn’t been for the bishop wading in with that mace of his, we’d all be dead.”

Hark smiled down at Rina. “I heard you had some scheme to save us all. Poor gratitude if I didn’t fight my way up here to help.”

Rina’s smile fell.

Alem was close enough to hear what Rina said next even though she whispered.

“I think I have a way,” Rina said. “Pray to Dumo for my soul.”

Confusion clouded the bishop’s face. “Your grace?”

Rina stepped away from him, turned to Sarkham, her expression iron. “Captain, please line the prisoners up at the foot of the stairs to the platform.”

Sarkham hesitated, his eyes flicking to the duke.

Emilio Sherrik staggered back into the conversation. He looked pale, had lost a lot of blood, hair matted with sweat. He was near to collapse, but his anger was still ready to boil over.

“Wait just a bloody minute,” the duke said. “I give the orders here.”

He’s only partly angry with Rina
, Alem thought.
He hates that he’s helpless
.

“I demand you explain what’s happening right fucking now!” the duke bellowed.

Rina took three quick strides and grabbed the shoulder strap of the duke’s breastplate, yanking him close. If her chuma stick had been lit, it might have burned him.

“I can beat them. I can do it,” she said. “But every second I’m trying to explain to you is a second away from doing it. You understand? And even if I did explain what I’m about to do, you might never sleep another night all the way through again. Listen. I need your help. So shut up your fucking whining and help me. Can you do that? Can you be a man instead of a boy and help me?”

Alem almost felt sorry for the man.

Miraculously, the duke pulled himself together. “Promise me,” he said. “Promise me you can do it.”

“I promise,” she said, releasing him. “But I meant what I said. I need you.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“Keep them off me,” she said. “I don’t know how long it will take me, but you have to keep the Perranese at bay.”

The duke smiled slowly, his upper lip trembling, sweat beading on his forehead. He was obviously in pain and just as obviously trying to hide it. Dumo damn it, Alem admired him. Didn’t
like
him, but admired him.

“I’ll hold them,” the duke said. “My men are guarding the south door on the level below. They won’t get through us. I swear to you.”

“One more thing,” Rina said. “Is there a way to call your men back from the harbor wall?”

“Call them back? The Perranese will overrun—”

“Is there a way or not, Emilio?”

“I don’t have any flagmen with me to send a signal, but . . .” His eyes drifted to the great horn on the platform. “The signal for general retreat is a long blast followed by two short blasts, then another long blast. They’re good men, trained. They’ll retreat properly, not some panicked rout.”

“And I’ll need Captain Sarkham,” Rina said. “To manage the prisoners.”

The duke shifted his gaze to the ragged men lying around the roof in chains. His expression made it clear he didn’t want to know. “Sarkham is yours.”

The duke turned to go, and Bishop Hark fell in behind him.

“I’ll stand with you, your grace,” Hark said. “There’s no work for my mace up here.”

Tosh nudged Kalli. “You ready to get to work?”

Kalli drew her sword, her grin making her look predatory. “Right behind you, boss.”

They jogged after the bishop.

“Me too.” Maurizan’s hands fell to the hilts of her daggers. “Let’s see what an ink mage can do.”

Alem looked down at the faintly glowing sword in his hand.

“No,” Rina said. “I need you here, Alem.”

Maurizan’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“You know he’s no good with a sword,” Rina said. “And I’m going to need help.”

The gypsy thought about it.

Maurizan went to Alem, grabbed him by the doublet, and pulled him close, planted a hard kiss on his lips. “I’ll see you later.”

She shot Rina a last defiant look, then ran off after Hark and the others.

“Sarkham.”

“Your grace?”

“Keep the prisoners in line at the base of the platform,” Rina told him. “When the time comes, I’m going to want you to bring them up one at a time. If they all see what I’m doing, they’ll riot.”

Sarkham almost asked but stopped himself. He didn’t want to know either. He moved away to organize the prisoners.

“What do you want me to do?” Alem asked her.

“When I signal you, I’ll need you to sound the retreat,” Rina said. “You heard the duke. A long blast, two short ones, and another long.”

“That’s what you need me for? To blow a horn?” Alem gripped his sword tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Everyone else was fighting.
Maurizan
was fighting. Alem didn’t want to be in a battle, but if he just stood around waiting to blow a horn he’d feel like a coward.

But she’s right. I’m not trained with this sword. I can swing this sword around like a club, but I don’t really know what I’m doing
.

“Alem.” She put a hand on his shoulder, tentative, as if wondering whether she still had permission to touch him. “I need somebody I can trust at my back. Just so I know I’m not alone. I know things are different now, but . . .” She cleared her throat, looked away for a moment, nervously. “Something’s going to happen, Alem. And afterward, you’re not going to be able to look at me in the same way. I wanted to say I still . . . I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

She let her hand drop from his shoulder.

Alem wanted to ask her about it. Maybe if she explained. Maybe he could help somehow. Maybe . . .

“I’m here for you,” Alem said.

She nodded, a brief smile lighting her face for a moment. Then she turned and headed up the stairs to the platform. Alem took a deep breath and followed.

Rina stood atop the platform between the brazier and the great horn, looking down at the battle, her face impassive. Alem stood behind her. Thousands of men still fought for possession of the harbor wall. The boom of the battering ram continued. It seemed impossible the gates could hold much longer.

“Well. I wonder if this has ever been tried before.”

Rina tugged off one of her gloves, and Alem saw the tattoo on the back of her hand. A cloud with a stylized face, cheeks puffing as it blew a long stream of wind.

She slowly held the hand aloft, fingers spread, as if she were defying the sky itself.

At first, nothing happened. Then slowly Alem felt it, the wind kicking up behind him, blowing past and out to sea. It made Rina’s short hair flutter. A few seconds later, a gust almost knocked him off his feet. Gray clouds gathered overhead.

A minute later the gray clouds turned black, blotting out the sun. The bright day had dimmed almost to night. The wind rose again, buffeting them constantly at the top of the platform. The banners rippled and snapped.

Alem looked down and saw whitecaps forming on the water. Some of the smaller ships were beginning to feel the effect.

“Better blow the horn,” Rina said. “They’ll need time.”

Her voice startled him. She sounded so strange, distant.

Alem went to the horn, stood at the mouthpiece. His mouth felt suddenly dry. He licked his lips, turned his head, and spit.

Then he took a deep breath and sounded the retreat.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The falcon dove low, flying along the harbor wall.

Rina saw through Zin’s eyes, close enough to see both battle rage and abject terror on the faces of the men. Screams of rage and pain. She smelled the blood and sweat, bowels loosened in the throes of death.

The duke’s men looked up at the sound of the great horn from the top of the palace.

Get out of there
, Rina thought.
Hurry!

The duke had spoken true when he’d said the men were well trained. Squads formed to hold off the Perranese atop the wall as others made a quick and orderly retreat down the inward stairways. Many were already running at a full sprint across the market grounds and through the gates of the inner wall.

I hope that’s enough. I hope the inner wall saves them
.

When it was time for the rear guard to turn and flee, archers covered their retreat. The men of Sherrik were disciplined and skilled, but hundreds of them were cut down as they fled.

She told Zin to fly out across the harbor.

The ships had been caught by surprise, the typhoon winds seeming to come out of nowhere. Crews scurried across the decks, pulling on lines, and sailors crawled through the rigging.

A wave lifted one of the smaller ships and dashed it down again against the stone wharf, a span of the hull cracking and splintering like kindling. It listed away, taking on water and then bobbing on waves. The crew scrambled to save it, but it was obviously hopeless.

She’d seen enough. She told Zin to get to safety, then released her hold on him.

Rina blinked and was back on the platform atop the ducal palace.

She stood with her legs spread, braced rock steady against the howling wind. One arm still raised as she continued to summon the storm, building it stronger with each passing second.

Just as she’d predicted, her store of spirit had already nearly exhausted itself. The tattoo that controlled the winds behaved just like the others. The more she asked of it, the faster it drained spirit.

The moment Rina had been dreading had come at last.

She turned back to Alem, who was waiting patiently, wind pulling at his hair and clothes. “Tell Sarkham I need the first one!” She had to shout to be heard over the gale.

He nodded and ran for the captain.

Rina thanked Dumo she was tapped into the spirit. She was able to shove her fear and guilt and self-loathing into some dark corner of her soul, lock it away, ignore it. Cold logic told her what needed to be done.

She turned and saw Alem escorting a prisoner toward her, an emaciated man in gray rags, filthy and barefoot, hair greasy and matted, skin fish-belly white. How long had he been in the duke’s dungeon? Months? Years?

“Come here,” Rina told him.

The prisoner took a look at her, one hand held high in command of the storm, black armor, a fierce expression on her face. He took a half step back.

“It’s okay,” Rina said. “No harm will come to you.”

The songbird tattoo flared at her throat.

The prisoner shuffled to her, chains hampering his movement. He knelt, looking up at her, eyes wide and trusting.

She told herself the man was a criminal. He’d probably raped some young girl or murdered a child. She told herself what she needed to believe, tried to summon anger or disgust at this man, whatever made her next actions okay. Any excuse to justify it.

Rina tugged off her other glove with her teeth. Seeing the skeletal tattoo on her palm was still a shock. She would never get used to it.

“I’m sorry,” Rina said to the prisoner.

She reached out to take him.