‘Now!’ the magician thundered. ‘Now! Strike!’
And the silk flew from Bram’s face. He looked up into the wrinkled face of the man who would kill him, and snarled defiance.
The knife dropped, despite the magician’s howls. ‘Zakry?’ he whispered.
Who? Bram wondered, suddenly shocked out of his fear and anger. He’d never seen such pain as that on the age-scored face above him: the man’s features writhed, and tears trickled down the cheeks.
‘Zakry! Zakry’s son. It was true! Elaine, you whore! You bitch!’
‘She’s dead,’ another voice sighed. ‘Oh, damnation. You waited too long.’
I am dead!
That rang through Bram’s head like the tocsin of a great bronze bell. There was a figure standing before the lord now. He could hear its voice, not so loud, but echoing as if it made his bones vibrate in sympathy.
Seventeen years dying! Seventeen years, dying every minute. You killed me! You killed my Zakry, my darling, the father of my son! You tried to kill my child, too, but I stopped you, you monster!
‘Whore,’ the old man wheezed. ‘Seventeen years I lived for nothing save to bring you back, and now I see Zakry told me the truth. You were his lover and this was his child! How I hate you!’ He raised the dagger and struck at the insubstantial figure before him.
Its mouth gaped, emitting an endless dolorous wail that made Bram want to smash his own head against the stone table beneath him, if only that would stop it. The knife flashed again, and again.
Jimmy the Hand wheezed with a pain so great that he couldn’t even scream. There was a scream going on, and it blew through him like a wind, like the agony of death stretched out to years. His vision had cleared a little, though, and he knew that he’d feel no more pain—or anything else, ever again—if he didn’t move in the next moment.
There. The glitter of steel. He turned and lunged.
The effort hurt, but it cleared his head. He saw Baron Bernarr dodge, leaping backward to avoid the point of the rapier. That took him nearly to the window.
The window had been made as an archer’s position: the man-width slit at the outer edge of the wall had sloping sides on all edges of the inner, so that the bowman could shoot to either side. The sill caught at his heels and he toppled backward, the knife glittering as he dropped it so that it landed point-down in the floorboards. But that allowed him to grip the smooth slanted stone and hold himself there with the friction of his palms. Then he struggled to get a leg behind himself and push his body upright.
Something came between the Baron and Jimmy. Jimmy thought it was a woman, but his head was still hurting too much to be sure; and he also thought he could see the Baron through it.
It screamed, and Jimmy dropped his sword to clutch at his head. He saw the older man’s hands fly up likewise, and the O of his mouth as he fell backward and out of the window with a long scream, smashing through the fragile, costly glass and tumbling away into the lightning-shot night.
‘Fifty feet down, onto stone,’ Jimmy wheezed, bending and scrambling for the hilt of his rapier.
A huge weight seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders—or from the inside of his head. The night blew in through the shattered glass, and the black candles flickered out. Ten feet away Skinny goggled at him, and then slipped backward. Blood spurted as he pulled his throat off the point of Jarvis Coe’s sword.
A sigh cut through the silence.
The magician at Bram’s feet shook his head, and tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robe. ‘It seems I must seek another patron for my . . . art,’ he said, his voice whimsical and light. He raised his hand and suddenly he was gone.
Coe looked at the space the magician had occupied a moment before and swore. Jimmy didn’t recognize the language, but the tone was unmistakable.
Behind him, Flora came into the room, supporting Lorrie; but the farmer’s daughter shook herself free and hobbled toward Bram with her brother dancing behind her.
Bram raised his head and looked at all of them. ‘Will someone please cut me loose?’ he asked plaintively. ‘And get me some breeches!’
Jimmy the Hand reined in and looked back down the road. There were enough people around the doors of the manor for the buzz of their voices to be audible even half a mile away. He shook his head ruefully and patted the hilt of the rapier slung at his saddlebow. ‘So much for minstrels,’ he said, taking a deep breath of the cool spring air.