Chapter 23
Anton makes a sharp right, his stride picking up through the north wing.
He has no doubt Calla can handle whatever is happening at the wall, but he gnashes his teeth all the same.
In his mind, he envisions her slipping through the gate and walking out into the provinces.
He sees her dark hair underneath her crown, writhing down her back like a cloak.
Her figure growing smaller and smaller in the distance, never to return.
Anton shakes himself out of it. There is no world in which Calla is abandoning their fight in San-Er right now—what’s wrong with him?
He forces himself to focus, barging into the hall containing the palace vaults.
The Crescents are no longer guarding the space.
They have taken what they need. Left to his own devices, he hurries to unlock the one marked Rehanou, pulling the heavy door aside.
Anton takes a beat, perusing what is within view.
Short on time, he doesn’t linger gratuitously before taking a dagger hanging from the wall.
This will do. He should have come digging the moment they launched their coup on the capital—reclaim what used to belong to the Makusa vault—but he supposes there were larger pieces worth moving first.
Anton steps out from the vault, tucking the dagger into his sleeve. He’s already heading toward the north atrium, meaning to take up a station overseeing the coliseum, when he stops, listening.
There—he’s not imagining it. Anton turns over his shoulder, concentrating on the sound.
Who is screaming?
Reluctantly, Anton backtracks for a short corridor.
He wanted to guard the coliseum because he assumed a wide-scale attack would begin there, but the muffled screaming is coming from deeper within the palace.
It isn’t long before he makes another turn and isolates its source.
It’s coming from below. The cells—where the Crescents dragged in every heretic who displayed some unnatural feat of power.
Anton flings open the door. The steps descending underground are dark.
He smells it before he feels its effects: the stench of blood, crawling up his nose and tightening his throat.
When he takes his first step down, his qi splutters, and Anton spots the sigil marked on the floor.
The Crescents have already activated their block in the cells.
He can’t see anything past this initial stretch. Someone has smashed the lights.
“Help! He’s killing us!”
Anton doesn’t recognize who is yelling, but he’s quick to hurtle up the stairs and lunge into the nearest sitting room. He grabs one of the cordless lamps on the drinking table. Hefts its heavy base into his arm before returning to the cells and descending the steps once more.
This is a trap—that much, he’s aware of. He shouldn’t be able to hear screaming from the north exit: the door was left ajar to draw him over. So he is somewhat prepared when he raises the lacquered lamp and finds a body slumped in the aisle between the cells, a pool of blood spreading beneath it.
Anton swings the lamp fast, making contact with Galipei’s shoulder just before Galipei Weisanna can grab him. The heavy base snaps into two. The lamp drops to the floor, its sharp beam of light cutting diagonally up to the ceiling.
Galipei staggers back, hissing.
“Didn’t expect that, did you?” Anton asks. “I played in the king’s games, Galipei.” He snatches a loose shard of the lamp base. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
Galipei swerves the lamp shard Anton throws, avoiding the projectile. He narrows his eyes for a beat. Then Galipei leans low, drawing a knife from his boot.
“If I recall correctly, you lost those games.”
Fucker.
Anton pulls his own blade from his sleeve. When he armed himself mere minutes ago, he had been prepared to guard the palace, not have their intruder lure him into the cells. Did Galipei know that qi was blocked down here? Why would he care, if Anton isn’t able to invade him anyway?
Galipei charges forward. Anton’s eyes flicker fast when he ducks, running an eye over the other occupants, the prisoners who cower beside their cots in fear of being targeted next.
He cannot see much with the lamp pointing up.
The cell that the heretic had occupied is wide open.
Galipei must have pulled them out, cut their throat, waited in the dark…
Galipei pounces, slashing backhanded. Though Anton blocks with his arm, the blade glancing off his jacket, he doesn’t take the opening to attack. He kicks hard instead, shoving Galipei into the bars of the open cell.
Clang! Anton raises his hands before him, blade held out. This would be an ideal opportunity to flee, but Galipei’s eyes snap to the body on the floor. A curious gesture. Anton stays put. Galipei dives toward the body, sinking one hand into the blood. Then he throws his blade.
It sinks into Anton’s thigh.
“Shit—”
As soon as Anton is distracted, bracing against the pain, Galipei grabs his ankle.
Slick, metallic blood smears onto his skin, under his trouser leg.
Galipei yanks hard. In slow motion, Anton feels himself begin to fall, his feet going out beneath him.
He cannot land like that next to an opponent; he will be slashed to pieces.
He reaches for the blade embedded into his leg, and before Galipei can adjust his grip, Anton tears the knife free, slicing across Galipei’s arm.
“Ah!”
Anton rolls. He braces onto his knees. Galipei is not trying to kill him. Galipei, taking another moment to touch the blood—the heretic’s blood—on the dirty floor again, rises and charges toward him.
Galipei is trying to mark him.
When Galipei swings, Anton only blocks, thinking fast. He holds both blades in his hands now.
He could likely parry for longer. In the past, he has fought in far less desirable conditions.
But Galipei did not plot his solo invasion into San-Er and a distraction at the wall merely to kill Anton.
Right as Galipei throws a fist, meaning to take Anton off-balance, Anton throws one of his blades to the floor, beside the dead body.
Galipei, baffled, turns to look.
And Anton shoves him inside the open cell. Galipei smacks against the wall, his eyes rolling as his head strikes stone. Without affording a second of recovery, Anton dives for the cell door, throwing it back into place with a fervent click.
Galipei recovers. His expression creases with sudden rage. He has been trapped.
“Hey!”
“Stay there!” Anton barks. He leans down to pick up the fallen dagger. “Fuck!”