Suddenly, there was a whizzing sound—Gildas let go and Emere latched on to the podium to keep from falling. His aide, however, collapsed onto the platform, a bolt piercing his temple, the pupils of his surprised eyes shrinking behind his spectacles.
Emere stared down at him, dazed, until a second bolt hit the podium and new screams began to ring out. He immediately leaped off the platform and ran toward the door of the building behind him, the bolt in his chest digging into him more with every step. He collapsed against the door as he reached for the handle.
It was locked. He pounded on the door in frustration, knowing there was likely no one inside.
Emere’s makeshift bandage was already drenched. Blood dripped along the edges of his garments and splattered to the ground. The square, while now completely empty in the middle except for the body, rang with the sounds of people trying to flee, sharpscreams piercing through the hubbub. So many innocents would be trampled, but there was nothing he could do.
Who would dare attempt an assassination in the Imperial Capital? A provincial councillor meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, even if he was a member of a fallen royal family—surely there was no reason to expend this much effort in assassinating him?
Gildas’s body lay sprawled on the platform. As shameful as it was to flee from where his aide lay dead, his own life was still in danger.
Emere placed a hand on the dirty limewashed wall next to him, gritted his teeth, and kicked in the door. The bar holding it shut shattered with a loud crack, the shock of its break reverberating into his injury. The pain made him stumble and slide against the wall to the ground.
There were people in the world who could ignore their pain. Emere was not one of them, but he knew he couldn’t stay here—not if he wanted to live. Steadily, leaning on the corner of the wall, he got to his feet.
The wound you’ve just sustained isn’t serious…
Hoping Loran’s words from his dream were true, Emere gripped the bolt in his chest before he could think twice about it and pulled. A chunk of his muscle ripped out along with the bolt’s tip, eliciting a savage scream of pain from his lips—and yet it could barely be heard above the chaos around the square. His left arm suddenly refused to move and the bleeding was worse now. He needed more bandages, but he couldn’t rip any more from his clothes with just one working hand.
This was not the first time he had been shot by a bolt. In hisyouthful days of traveling the world, he had suffered injuries as a matter of course. But back then, he hadher.
A surgeon skilled in the Ebrian healing arts, Rakel had always been there to patch him up. It had been ten years since he left her at Finvera Pass. The rumor was that she had a surgery practice in the Capital somewhere, but Emere hadn’t dared to visit her. What he wouldn’t give to have her—and her healing skills—here now. Trying to dull the pain with a few deep breaths and the memory of Rakel, he vowed to see her again, if he could survive this.
Emere slowly got to his feet, formulating a plan. The buildings in this neighborhood were connected by bridges across the alleys, which he could use for his escape without being blocked by the crowds outside.
Entering through the broken door, he quickly found a staircase leading up and began the laborious climb, grabbing on to the banister with his good arm to help haul himself up. While his other arm was less mobile than before, it at least felt much better compared to the agonizing pain that the bolt’s tip had been ripping through his body each time he moved.
The inside of the building smelled of cheap wine, ancient piss, and some kind of fishy broth. The buildings here were said to house a dozen families, each in only one or two rooms—a crowded and noisy kind of life, even for the city. From upstairs, a child shouted in a language he didn’t know.
It was a six-floor building, so the bridge was probably on the fourth or so. The assassin couldn’t have been shooting from this angle, but what if they were following his movements? They couldbe approaching from the other side of the bridge, waiting for him right around any corner.
A mop lay on the first landing. Emere stepped on the damp mophead and unscrewed the staff. It was much shorter than the quarterstaffs and spears he was used to, but it would do as a weapon. His injured chest was still aching, but the bleeding at least seemed to have slowed. All sorts of conjectures as to why he’d been a target raced through his mind, but he tried to ignore these thoughts for now, instead concentrating on getting up the stairs.
On the third-floor landing, a child of about five years was playing on a wheeled wooden horse before he looked up in fright at the man in torn and bloody clothing. He shouted something in an unknown language, then burst loudly into tears. Emere, as he continued up the steps, heard a deep female voice from behind him.
“Who are you?”
She spoke Imperial in an unfamiliar accent. Gildas had said there were immigrants from provinces other than Kamori in the neighborhood. He turned and saw the woman standing in the corridor. She had stepped out in a blotted leather apron, her hands tying up her curly hair. One look at Emere’s state and she quickly came between him and the child.
“I am a member of the Commons Council. Forgive me for borrowing your mop.”
“A councillor who not only makes children cry but steals mops?” The woman pulled a fearsome cleaver from her apron pocket and held it up. “You’re one of those provincial councillors, aren’t you? You think you’re better than us? Do you think yourfancy clothes and your Imperial manners will change your lowly blood to theirs?”
The best thing would be to ignore her, but her words made him pause in midstep. It wasn’t his choice to be in the Capital, nor were these cumbersome robes some attempt to flaunt his status. Not to mention that he was about to be assassinated, despite his political insignificance, right on these dirty steps. But he understood what he must look like to this woman.
He turned, brushing away his indignation, and continued up the stairs, the woman cursing at his back in the language of her people. Maybe if he hadn’t said he was a councillor, she would’ve cursed him in standard Imperial.
But the problem wasn’t the insults hurled at him by a stranger, it was the taunt ofcouncillorringing through these narrow halls. If the assassin hadn’t known where he was a moment ago, they likely would know now. He gave the mop handle a white-knuckled grip with his working right hand, and gritted his teeth as he carefully placed his left hand on it. The pain would become manageable soon. He’d had worse in his youth.
He reached the fourth floor. There was a battered lattice door to the left, beyond which he could see the bridge, and beyond that, another door at the other end. No one lurked outside the first door, so he opened it and looked out onto the bridge.
The winds were strong, and there were no sides to the bridge—only holes where balustrades had once stood. But there was enough room for two men to walk side by side, and the bridge could be crossed in under ten steps. Emere took a deep breath and then took his first steps across. It was slippery from the light rain that stillfell. The crowd surged below, still trying to exit the square. He hesitated. He hated heights.
That dream vision in the square. If Loran had been on the other side, he would’ve walked on a tightrope to get to her and fight by her side, much less this dangerous bridge. Squinting, he put his right foot forward, imagining that Loran was by the door on the other side… her leather clothes, her eyepatch, and Wurmath, the sword made from a dragon’s tooth.
Whether it was from the loss of blood or the height, a dizziness overcame him. Using the mop handle as a crutch, he continued to limp across the bridge. Something whipped through the air—a bolt flew right past his sleeve, but it made no impression on him. His eyes were fixed on the door across the bridge. Just as he had stretched his hand toward the star in the night sky in his dream vision, he reached toward the other side of the bridge.
Another bolt. This one thankfully missed as well, but he knew if one did hit, his body would fall into the crowd below from the impact. The thought troubled him, but he had to make it to the other side of the bridge.
