Shattered Pillars(43)

She had hoped the big one would flinch when his friend shot and missed, but he was too focused, too well trained. She pulled the idea of fire into her mind. There was fire in the powder in the gun and it wanted to come out: it would have been easy to make it simply burn. But if the gun were aimed at her, that was no help.

So now she coaxed the fire to stay itself, to wait. And she persuaded some of that warmth into the lead ball within the barrel of the gun. Warmth made things swell—with the exception of ice, which grew as it froze. But with a pistol, the ball must be a close fit to the barrel of the gun, so the expanding force of the black powder behind it could fire it out with great velocity, without too much of that pressure escaping. A hot ball was bigger than a cold one. If it fit as tight as it ought, it would catch in the barrel.

Samarkar could climb and work wizardry both at once, an indirect result of her masters’ years of patient instruction. She didn’t need to maintain her persuasion for long. As the assassin’s finger flexed on his trigger, she allowed the fire in the powder to do what it would. The spark flared in the pan, the heated ball lodged within the barrel—

The gun exploded in his hand.

Sandstone gritty, abrading her fingertips, Samarkar was still climbing. She had glanced down, seeking a foothold and keeping an eye on those below. The big assassin dropped to his knees, clutching his wrist. There was blood; she could not see how much. Her hand found the edge and then the railing of the balcony.

She didn’t trust it, but she hadn’t much choice. Brother Hsiung might have vaulted the railing and come down among the enemy kicking. Samarkar had no such skills, and therefore no such luxury. The assassins seemed to have dispensed with their pistols—a wise choice when dealing with a wizard, it turned out—but there were still three of them, and they had short blades out. The better for such work at close quarters.

The two uninjured assassins climbed behind her, if not quite with her skill and facility. Now she was treed like a cat between hawks and hounds, and the hounds were closing the gap. Her breath raked her lungs; her heart beat a martial tattoo within her rib cage. Muscle and ligaments stretched painfully under the weight of her armor.

A hand clutched her boot, fingers scrabbling at the lacquered armor. She kicked it off her ankle and used the momentum to scramble upward. A Rahazeen stabbed at her hand on the balustrade; she found a drainpipe with the other hand and swung around it, a gyre of momentum. As if of its own will her foot lashed out and took one of the attackers in the face; she recognized a motion that Brother Hsiung had drilled into her over hands and hands of days, crossing the desert from Stone Steading.

So that’s what that’s for.

She followed the motion through, summoning her will into her hands. A blue blade no longer than the span of her palm shimmered at her fingers; she struck toward an assassin’s face, but his flinch carried him clear. The magic that could open locks with keys made of intention could construct a dagger, too.

Her foot kicked off the balcony rail and she felt it settle slightly. Her fingers hooked the scar where the other balcony endured no longer. Her hands were busy, her focus sharp—but a wizard’s will and sense of structure fanned around her, and the wooden joists beneath the balcony the Rahazeen stood on were old, weathered. Nearly petrified.

Samarkar grinned behind her helmet, her breath rasping through the faceplate, as she hauled herself atop the parapet opposite. A knife glanced off the stone beside her. Another punched her on the spine, but the armor protected her. Still she felt the blow like a kick and nearly went sprawling to the roof. Only a quick turn with the force of the blow and the reflexive curl of her fingers over the parapet edge saved her.

She perched like a vulture, her armor coat spread over her knees, her eyes on the Rahazeen who still held a knife poised to throw. She would twist as it left his fingers, she decided. She would protect her eyes and throat. Each heaving inhalation crushed her breasts and ribs against the inside of the armor, but she managed a calculated chuckle between gasps.

“Six Rahazeen chosen men,” she mocked. “And yet no match for one Wizard of Tsarepheth.”

The assassin threw. Samarkar dodged to the side and let the knife whisk past her, so close she thought for a moment she’d misjudged, but it was only the whistle of the blade that startled her.

There was fire in the old wood of the balcony, too. The stone it bore up shivered as she released that long-constrained energy. Even behind the veils, she could see the eyes of the Rahazeen widen. Their arms windmilled gracelessly. One tried to leap to the parapet. But the stone flags of the balcony poured away beneath them like sand through opened hands. The Rahazeen below did not shriek, but tried to leap away.