The Penitent Damned(8)

Another wave of magic slammed into the building above her. Chunks of brick started to fall away, accompanied by more screams. A piece of wall the size of a cart tumbled past, bouncing and spraying fragments, and missed Alex's head by inches. The rippling blade lashed out a third time, and she felt her line snap. She clawed desperately at the wall, but before she could get a hold something punched her hard from behind, knocking the wind out of her.

The ground. She was on the ground, watching the building come apart and tumble toward her in huge, skull-crushing pieces. Alex scrambled to her feet, whimpering when she accidentally tried to brace herself on her shattered wrist, and ran for it. Around her, the street was full of the roused population of Newtown, who were doing the same thing. None of them had any idea what was happening, of course, but they were smart enough to know that they wanted no part of it. Alex slipped gratefully into the crowd, and went to work putting as many buildings as she could between herself and the grim form of the ignahta.

Her hand was agony, her legs and back ached, and she hadn't gotten what she came for. But she was alive, and her legs had gone rubbery with relief. She felt giddy.

I won't even mind letting the Old Man say 'I told you so.'



· · ·



It took all the composure Alex could muster to walk casually along the riverfront street, rather than sprint directly to her destination. It was practically deserted, with only the occasional pedestrian hurrying about some private errand. Alex guessed that the sound of the building falling to pieces a few blocks away had sent the usual night-time pimps and purveyors scurrying back to their holes.

A good thief always had an escape route ready—that was another lesson the Old Man had taught her, and she'd never been more glad to have listened. You never knew when a job was going to go bad, although admittedly they rarely went as spectacularly bad as this one had. Nevertheless, Alex had kept her head, walking a random pattern through the grid of Newtown's streets before heading for the spot where the Old Man would be waiting. He'd procured a boat the day before, a simple flat-bottomed skiff, more than adequate to float them downstream past the water batteries and away from this hellish city.

And the next time he says it's a bad idea to go somewhere, I'm going to take him seriously, Alex vowed, as she scanned the rows of tied-up watercraft. She found what she was looking for halfway down a lonely pier. The Old Man, huddled in his wool coat with the collar up, sat in the shadow of a larger boat tied up just beside theirs.

Alex paused, a pistol-shot away, and waved with her good hand. She squinted as her mentor waved back, an odd gesture with thumb and little finger folded in. That signaled that he was in the clear, and no Concordat thug was lurking in the shadows with a pistol trained on him. Alex couldn't help quickening her steps a little as she crossed the exposed space of the pier and vaulted into the little boat, but no shouts followed her. As best she could tell, she'd gotten away clean, but her imagination equipped every rooftop with watchers and riflemen. She wanted to be away from this city, this country, as quickly as she could.

"Go," she snapped at the Old Man, to forestall any questioning. "Let's get out on the river."

He nodded, silently, and reached for the long pole at the back of the skiff. Alex untied the rope, and kept her eyes on the pier as they pushed off. The dark water of the Vor sucked and slapped at the hull.

A trio of men had turned the corner from a side street, heading for the pier. Alex crouched as low as she could in the boat and watched as they began to inspect the remaining craft. Her breath rasped in my throat.

Not as clean as I thought. She smiled tightly. The Last Duke's boys are good, I have to admit. But not quite good enough.

"It was a trap," she said quietly, when they were a hundred yards from shore. "You were right. We never should have come here. They had"—she swallowed hard— "someone like me, someone working for the Black Priests. I barely made it out, and I think I broke something in my hand."

They were far enough from shore now that they should be invisible, a dark boat against dark water. There were enough lights burning on either shore that they wouldn't need to light a lantern until they were well downriver. Alex sat up, wincing every time she shifted her injured arm, and turned to face the Old Man—

—who was gone. He'd thrown off the heavy cloak, revealing a much younger man in dark leather. She caught the gleam of steel in his hand as he reached forward, with an almost casual gesture, and planted long, needle-like stiletto in the meat of her shoulder.

She felt the blade sink through skin and muscle with an odd detachment, but no pain, not yet. Automatically, she called on her power, raising her hands to send dark spears of shadow through what could only be another of Orlanko's minions. But her limbs didn't respond—her injured hand only fluttered weakly, and the arm he'd stabbed lay as dead as if it had been severed. Alex felt something cold spreading through her body from the wound, her muscles tightening painfully as whatever substance had coated the blade coursed through her veins. Her heart began hammering double-time, though she didn't know if it was from the poison or sheer terror.