10 #2
Either the glyph Vawn gave me is more powerful, or the glyph paint itself is more potent. One punch sends the window into splinters of wood and slivers of glass.
Severin sails out into the night, fibers glowing and tassels waving. He jerks and stutters in his flight, but manages to right himself and climb higher above the square, calling, “Catch us if you can, you fiends!”
I roll my eyes, even as I duck beneath my bed and lick the glyph on my smallest left finger—the one for stealth.
Vawn is under the other bed, the side of his face pressed to the floor and his eyes glued to mine. He touches his tongue to his own stealth glyph, and his form turns shadowy and indistinct. Not invisible, but barely discernible even to someone who knows he’s there.
Someone shouts from the courtyard, and more exclamations come from the hallway. Boots thump rapidly along the corridor, and someone bursts into our room.
“They smashed their way out. There they go, across the rooftops. Get the carpets. We can’t lose them again.”
“Right,” replies a voice, and several pairs of boots leave the room.
Vawn and I wait until they’ve descended the stairs much more noisily than they mounted them.
Then I slide out from under the bed, signaling for him to do the same.
We drag our satchels and the carpet case out, too, and hurry along the dark hallway.
Another guest is peering anxiously out of her room, but we ignore her.
Knives in hand, I lead the way down the steps and through the common area to the inn’s kitchen.
The door to the innkeeper’s private rooms is shut, either because he’s too terrified to come out or because he played some part in the assassins’ appearance here, and he’s waiting to be sure the job is done and the soldiers have left.
We leave by the back door. The courtyard beyond is so tiny there’s barely room for a refuse bin, and the intersecting alleys are basically tall cracks between buildings, barely wide enough for an average adult to walk through.
Wind moans eerily through the passages, banging loose shutters and rattling shingles.
The sounds confuse my ears and ratchet up my panic.
It’s almost pitch-black here, cramped as a cave passage, and if I can’t hear well, I won’t know if anyone is creeping up on us.
My stealth glyph prickles sharply, and I deactivate it with a touch. Visibility is so poor in these alleyways that we’re practically invisible anyway. Odors of piss, shit, and rotten food slither from side yards and nooks, betraying the presence of more refuse bins.
The carpet should be far away by now, dodging and dancing, leading our pursuers astray.
But the pillows and blankets I fastened to his handles won’t stay put forever.
Eventually they’ll be dislodged and fall off, or the assassins will get close enough to see that the lumpy figures on the carpet’s surface aren’t riders, just bedding.
Once they realize that, they’ll abandon their pursuit of the carpet and double back to hunt for us.
I told Severin to hide in the red gondola, which at this time of night should be parked on the city side of the gorge with the others.
Hopefully the car will conceal his glow…
otherwise he might be spotted and grabbed by someone other than us.
Either way, I’m not sure how we’ll get out of Zeletas, because I’m guessing the gondolas are locked down at night when they aren’t operational. I can handle a simple lock, but the Zeletan city watch probably has more sophisticated methods for securing those cars.
If we do make it to the gondolas, we’ll be faced with a choice—hide there, wait until the embarkation station opens for business in the morning, and hope we can make it across the gorge without being captured—or risk our lives attempting to fly a damaged magic carpet to the other side.
The bridge isn’t even an option. It will be watched for sure.
I glance over my shoulder to make sure Vawn is following me. His shoulders are so broad he has to sidle along the alley.
“Anyone behind you?” I whisper.
He looks back. “Not that I can see.”
“Good. This next turn should lead us to—” But as I round the corner, moonlight slants into the alley, revealing a tall figure. The crystals on the soldier’s helmet glitter as he stalks toward me, slitting the top of his hand with one long nail. A blood activation.
I don’t wait to see what the glyph is. I slit my own skin at the back of the wrist and trigger my shield glyph.
The impact of the incoming magic knocks me back against Vawn. He grunts at the impact, then licks one of his nails and hisses, “Take this, motherfucker.”
The oncoming assassin wavers suddenly, his legs wobbling beneath him. It’s Vawn’s nerve stimulation glyph, which apparently can be used at a distance, with the intent to cause pleasure or pain. Genius, really, on a level I wouldn’t have given him credit for.
Taking advantage of the assassin’s momentary weakness, I charge ahead.
I have precious little room to ply my knife skills, and the assassin has a blade as well.
For several seconds I grapple with him, locked in a tight, panicked maelstrom of lethal edges, slitted fabric, heaving breaths, and straining limbs.
Pain pierces my side. I don’t think it’s deep, and my blade finds a more deadly entry point, under the edge of the assassin’s helmet.
But as I’m yanking the knife free, the assassin’s bloody nails graze my cheek.
Immediately my limbs go slack, and I fall forward, nerveless and numb. Completely paralyzed.
“Syth!” Vawn’s hand fumbles along my back. “Syth! Fuck…”
He turns me over. I can barely breathe, and I can’t speak. I’m a floppy doll staring blankly at him.
“Syth, are you dead?” His voice cracks on the last word. Frantically he pulls open my jacket and presses his ear to my chest. His hair is like silk against my skin.
“You have a heartbeat. Good. This is temporary, then.” He’s shaking, though I can’t tell if it’s from fear or relief.