Lapis ran, her lungs filled with cold, her heart filled with hate.
Miki died, like her little brother. No reason for it, other than a cruel and heartless man liking the sight of blood. A filthy traitor, who led Kale’s men to Nicodem and joined in the slaughter of man, woman, child, noble, commoner. A traitor who thought killing a street rat would get to her. No care for human life, no thought for the pain and tears and devastating heartache. He wanted her life brushing against theirs to mean death, a crushing finality to bludgeon those left alive.
The agony of bitter guilt that she had not done enough to protect those tangential to her burst through her, a river she could not dam. She would make certain, every single man Perben sent after her the previous day would pay for their involvement. She would take out his partners in death along with him.
The streets blurred; tears fell, rushing down her cheeks and soaking her collar. She silently apologized to Miki; he paid for her failure, and he never deserved the blade. She asked the rats for forgiveness, for not protecting them from the danger. Every street rat lost meant friends left behind, sometimes lovers, sometimes a brother or sister. The living mourned and their days remained heavy with fog and dark clouds, their lives a torrent of sorrow that faded but never dissipated.
Only a few rebels completed chores outside the House when she arrived, trimming bright green hedges and sweeping the walk; all stared, startled, as she raced by. She ignored them; she had another target.
The foyer was empty but for Brander, who had another place to be. He paused and studied her for one moment before rushing to her.
“What happened?”
She glared at him. “He killed Miki,” she gritted through clenched teeth. “A street rat. Thought he was Rin.”
“Lapis!”
She forced herself to still, to take a deep breath. “I need to speak to a Blue Council leader.” Did she sound civil enough?
“Baldur decided to host a communal breakfast, so they aren’t available. Lapis—”
“Don’t stop me,” she told him as she turned towards the room that Baldur used to feed his important guests. If the traitor did not sup there, she would--
Brander snagged her arm, and she yanked forcefully away before fleeing. No. She had to prevent Perben from killing anyone else.
Rebel faces blurred around her as she raced past. She hated their shock, their dumbfounded expressions; not one yelled after her, to ask what was wrong. Of course not. She walked among them long enough to know that, unless she accompanied Patch, they thought nothing of her.
She rammed into the open door to the room; a few turned to see what made the noise. Most clustered in small groups, chatting, waiting to partake. She skimmed the attendees, searching. Tables with pristine white cloths, shining utensils and whitish glass stood ready for hungry rebels. Whitley and Relaine busied themselves at a wide table, setting out white plates. Covered dishes emitting salty and too-sugary odors spanned the length, and beaded silver pitchers of something cold sat at the end. A windowless room, illuminated by a myriad of wall sconces filled with fruit oil that lit the peeling, white-stained walls and roughened wooden flooring. Too much brightness, combined with the over-sweet smell of the burning oil and food. She wanted to gag.
Perben, surrounded by a handful of friends, noted her. The slow, steady, smug smile that immediately parted his lips snapped the remains of her control.
“Lapis!” Baldur roared.
Ah. So he noticed her. He waddled from his place at the head table, intent on her. She ignored him; Perben was her target.
“You killed the wrong rat, you fuck.”
Perben raised one eyebrow, still smiling. Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to stare.
No one clustered about the traitor matched the description of his accomplice, but no matter. Plenty of others who searched for her the night before kept him company, and they would pay for their involvement. “You and your friend didn’t kill Rin. His name was Miki.”
Perben stopped smiling.
“What are you talking about?” a round, bearded man with greying temples and angry brown eyes snarled at her. He wore scarlet robes and a fine gold cloth sash, a sign he was one of the rebel nobles. Meinrad or Rambart? She did not care.
“Melanthe.”
She heard the sick pain in that one word, but she could not respond to it and still give Perben his due. She knew the voice; a kinder time had imprinted the tone, when he laughed jollily at her antics before showing her a fat volume of closely written text he planned to read. She always told him such small words made for terrible reading, but he assured her it meant the book held that much more pleasure. “Stay out of this, uncle,” she ordered, keeping her gaze on Perben.
“Melanthe?” someone asked, confused.
Perben managed another smile, a vicious, gloating smirk. “Melanthe.”
“I swore on the graves of my family I’d send your traitorous soul to them for retribution, and I haven’t rescinded my vow.”
“LAPIS!” Baldur screamed, barely managing the words past a tightened throat.
She ducked as someone tried to snag her. Perben snatched a knife from the table and threw, uncaring who might step in the way. She raised her right hand and the blade smacked against her gauntlet before rebounding, flipping through the air and clattered against the wall. It tinging to the ground and spun away. He drew a larger knife from his belt sheath as one of his friends slid between them.
Idiot.
The friend lunged at her; she slipped to the side and rammed her elbow into his back. He stumbled forward into a chair, taking it to the floor with him. Another raced at her; she kneed him in the stomach. He fell with a startled cry and curled up, shaking. Perben surrounded himself with men who had no idea how to fight. Did he make certain of that?
Screams, roars; her side tingled, and she squatted and rolled as someone tried to wrap his arms around her from behind. She ran the short distance to her target as he set one foot in front of the other and wove his blade about. The man Ciaran spoke of, Gerrit, shuffled back from him, disbelief mingled with disgust. He knew the traitor now—whether he believed it, she hardly cared.
She studied her enemy, waiting for his move. The rebels told tales of Teivel’s skill in hand-to-hand fighting. His sneak attacks, his fast footwork, his faster strikes—he was the Rebel’s Devil because of it. Patch never seemed impressed with the stories, and she assumed him another rebel of standing who bloviated about their abilities so others would hold them in high regard. She could not take the chance he had no skill, but if her partner thought the man could take her, he would have already warned her.
Perben thought her unarmed; he gloated as he rushed to strike. She arched away to the left and triggered her right gauntlet; her own weapon slid out, smooth and quick. She sliced across, the edge carving a slit in his right sleeve, but it did not quite graze his flesh. He leaped back, his eyes wide as she whirled with the momentum and struck out, slashing down. He narrowly avoided her cut against his skin, though it ripped through his shirt. He tangled with a chair and fell, planting his ass on the tabletop as another friend rushed her, holding one for protection.
He expected that to stop her?
She dodged him and jumped to the open section of floor, away from the confines of tables and chairs. She sheathed her blade with an ominous shing and grabbed the legs, tearing it from his hands. She glimpsed his stunned expression as she slammed the wooden back into his shoulder, sending him reeling into his friends. She threw the seat at her enemy and redrew.
Perben regained his balance and his hate; he easily dodged and confronted her, unimpressed. So be it. When her blade buried itself into his throat, he could drown in a moment of shock that he underestimated his foe before he bled to death on the floor.
He was fast. He darted in and out, slicing and retreating far enough her longer weapon could not touch him. Concern for being cut worked against him; he had more flexibility with a free blade, but he pulled attacks and skidded away, avoiding her slashes. It kept him fingerlengths away from striking her. She positioned herself sideways to him, making her body as thin a target as possible. She did not doubt, if he harmed her, he would not stop at one hit.
His position among the rebels relied on her being dead, after all.
The room fuzzed and narrowed to the point she saw Perben, his companions, but no one else. His friends tried to throw silverware at her; most missed, and she either dodged the rest or let them strike her. Spoons, especially, bounced away with a sharp but minute sting. An enterprising man shattered glasses at her feet, but she simply moved away from the shards. Could she force her enemy to step all over them? She doubted the fine bits would puncture his boot soles, but it would make for a crunchy, slippery foothold.
A buddy drew a short, stout sword with a longer reach than her blades by perhaps a fingertip. He faced her; Perben glared at him and barked something, which he ignored as he leaped past and ran at her. He expected her fear, he expected her to run.
She expected him to handle his chosen weapon better than he did.
He sliced down; she avoided his strike. He slashed across to the left, then reversed. She caught the sword against her blade, then triggered her left gauntlet. She slammed her second blade down crosswise, near the hilt, and jerked the tip of his sword upwards; the grip tore from his fingers and the weapon flipped away. It struck the floor and skidded; Brander snagged it and backed up, holding it to his breast.
The stupid man stared at her, clutching his hand. Stupid, and not her immediate target. She slammed her foot into his chest, and he sprawled backward, almost taking Perben with him. Dammit. The traitor avoided the collision and regarded the second blade with harsh gravity, his amusement gone.
“Stop this at once!”
The round, bearded man tried to wade into the center of the fight, but a younger rebel grabbed his collar and yanked him back. “Meinrad!” he protested as the other gag-yelped.
Perben attempted to take advantage of the distraction and jabbed in, quick; she turned to the side and sliced at his forearm. Cloth ripped and a thin line of blood stained the light brown cloth. Too bad, she cut too shallow.
More men surrounded her; she held her arms out with a slight crook and whirled. They tumbled back, even though the blades came nowhere near their precious skin. A few fell, slipping on the shattered glass they forgot existed. The traitor readied a lunge, and she made another circle; he, too, retreated, unwilling to near her fast and deadly weapons.
His mouth firmed, and he attempted to take advantage of the spin, racing to her left. He slashed crosswise, expecting to cut her chest, and deep.
There.
Lapis arched back; Perben missed, carving air. She planted her right foot, turned, and swung her right-handed weapon, aiming for his stomach. The glint of a blade, to her right, just behind. It would slice through her shoulder, down her back, if she followed her momentum.
She would gut the traitor, take the hit.
Strike. For her father, mother, siblings, Nicodem staff, the townspeople caught in a power play they knew nothing about until it killed them. She drove at his stomach; death and revenge, especially for Endre, and for Miki.
