She was practically dancing with impatience. But she didn't dare add more flour too quickly. She had to give the broth time to regain its heat.
When the liquid began roiling, she hurried back to the closet. More flour. Into the kettle. Stir it. Wait. Wait.
Again.
That's enough, she decided. The meat broth was now a lumpy, viscous mess. And, within a minute, would be back to a boil.
She looked around. Draped on nearby pegs, she saw the thick, wettened cloths which the shopkeeper used to handle the kettle. She wrapped her hands in the cloths and picked up the kettle. Grunting with exertion—it was a big kettle, three-fourths full.
Yes. Barely, but—yes.
She replaced the kettle on the stove, leaving the cloths next to it. Then, she raced to the door and closed the latch. For a moment, she considered trying to brace the door, but decided against it.
Better this way. I don't want them to have to work too hard to get through the door. Just hard enough. The latch will do for that.
She strode to the table onto which she had dumped the coins, and dragged it into the middle of the kitchen. Then, squatting down, she placed her shoulder under the edge and levered the table onto its side. It was a solidly built wooden table, large and heavy, and it made a great clattering sound when it hit the floor.
Upstairs, she heard the shopkeeper's wife scream.
Damn you!
Faintly, she heard a voice coming from the street.
"In here!"
She heard the outer door burst open. Then, the sounds of many men pouring into the shop.
Now, louder:
"In here!"
She saw the door to the kitchen move, as someone tried to open it. The latch jiggled.
Very loud:
"She's in here!"
Antonina stepped to the stove. She wrapped the wet cloths around her hands and gripped the kettle. Stood still, looking over her shoulder. Watching the door.
A loud thump. The door bulged. The latch strained, but held.
Very loud:
"Out of the way!"
Thundering footsteps.
Smash!
The latch splintered. The door flew open. A large body—then another—hurtled through. Three men came piling in behind. All of them were dressed in the rough clothes of street toughs, and all were holding cudgels in their hands.
The first man—the self-appointed battering ram—was already off-balance. He slammed into the upended table in the middle of the kitchen and bounced back, half-sprawled onto the floor. The man coming right behind tripped over him and stumbled to his knees, leaning over the edge of the table itself.
The three men behind him skidded into a pile.
Five men, tangled up, immobilized.
Antonina seized the kettle, turned, and heaved its contents onto the cluster of thugs.
Several gallons of boiling, flour-thickened meat broth spewed over the would-be killers.
Shrieks of agony filled the room. Half-crazed with pain and fear, the five men in the kitchen began tearing at their flesh, frantically trying to scrape off the scalding brew.
Couldn't. Couldn't! The flour made the broth stick to their skins.
Antonina ignored them. More men were in the room beyond. Two of them were jammed in the doorway to the kitchen, gaping at the scene.
She spun lightly, seized her own little dagger by the blade. That one, she knew, was perfectly balanced.
Whipped around.
Father, I need you now!
He hadn't been worth much, that charioteer, but he had taught his daughter how to use a knife.
Taught her very well.
The little dagger flashed across the room and sank hilt deep into the throat of the man standing on the right side of the doorway.
The man's eyes bulged. He choked blood. Grabbed the hilt. Tried to draw it out. Couldn't. Sank to his knees. Died.
By the time the man next to him realized what had happened, it was too late. Another knife had sailed across the room.
Not into his throat, however. That knife, not as delicate as her own small dagger, Antonina had aimed at a less chancy target. The heavy butcher knife plunged four inches into the thug's chest, right into his heart.
Antonina took up the cleaver. The two dead bodies in the doorway would keep off the assailants in the room beyond for a few seconds. Time enough.
She sprang forward, right to the edge of the upended table, and began butchering the men on the other side.
Quite literally. Her knife-strokes were the short, sharp, chopping motions of an experienced butcher dismembering meat. There was no frenzied lunging; no grandiose stabs; no dramatic swings.
Just short, straight, strikes. With the heavy, razor-sharp blade of a cleaver.
Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop.
A nose fell off. The fingers from a hand covering a face. Another nose, and most of an upper lip. An ear and half a cheek.