Having finished his proclamation, Frederick turned and said something to one of his officials in a guttural tongue that she did not know. The man responded tentatively, and at a nod from Frederick, bowed and scurried out of the tent. Frederick said something to Léna—in the same tongue—and she stirred from her reverie, her reply precipitating a rapid conversation. Frederick’s face lost some of its ready humor, but he eventually agreed to whatever she was suggesting. Even though she did not understand what they were saying, Ocyrhoe was fascinated by the brief insight into the working relationship between them—they seemed to be conversing as equals. Then, very abruptly but cheerfully, the Emperor bid good afternoon to Ocyrhoe and Ferenc, and strode out of the tent while they were still bowing to him. The entire retinue, except for Léna, followed.
“If I ever used half as much gutter-speak, Auntie would have whipped me,” Ocyrhoe declared when the entourage was well outside the tent.
Léna—very briefly—smirked. “His Majesty is renowned for his colorful and often blasphemous language. He grew up in Sicily,” she said, as if that somehow either explained or excused his language. “I hope you understood the import of his words?”
Ocyrhoe nodded, turning toward Ferenc and taking his arm to start the lengthy process of relaying Frederick’s decision.
“You will stay here in the camp until His Majesty has determined which Cardinal it will be. His guests, as he describes them, are staying at the castles of men he trusts. When the one he has selected arrives, we will return to Rome.”
Ocyrhoe paused, her fingers resting on the back of Ferenc’s hand. “We?” she asked.
“Yes,” Léna said. “I will be going with you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lian’s Dagger
Lian stabbed Luo in the neck, and she had only a moment to be shocked by the volume of blood spurting over the blade and her hand before the Chinese commander violently clawed at her. He caught some of her hair with a wild grab, and clutching the black strands tightly, he yanked her head forward. The hilt of the dagger was slippery, but she tightened her grip and sawed the blade back and forth. More blood gushed out, and Luo gurgled and coughed, and blood spattered from his yawning mouth.
Gansukh, having ducked aside during Lian’s stab, planted his feet more firmly against the ground and shoved. Luo, a dead man’s grip on Lian’s hair, stumbled back.
The dagger came out of Luo’s neck and Lian, her resolve failing, swung it again and again at Luo’s hand and arm. She wasn’t trying to cut him; she just wanted him to let go. She just wanted to get away. Luo—covered in blood, mouth gasping wordlessly, eyes rolling back in his head—no longer seemed alive. He was a shambling apparition, already claimed by death but whose body was still animate. Would death claim her as well, bound as they were by Luo’s frightful grip? She felt the blade of the dagger bite into flesh, and holding the hilt tight, she cut again.
Finally, Luo’s hand let go. His legs gave out, and he fell down. His body jerked, legs kicking as if they were still trying to walk. He lay on his side, one arm reaching out. He stared at her, though his eyesight had already fled, and his mouth tried to form a word, but he never finished. His legs stopped, and his frame relaxed. The fingers of his outstretched hand folded in, and his gaze fell to her feet.
“Lian.”
She started, dropping the dagger. When Gansukh whispered her name again, she finally managed to tear her gaze away from the dead Chinese commander.
Gansukh was sitting up, half turned toward her. He raised his shoulders, trying to draw her attention toward his bound hands. “The dagger,” he whispered, blinking and nodding toward her feet. “Cut me free.”
Nodding dumbly, she bent to pick up the dagger. She recoiled at how much blood was on the blade and the handle, unwilling to touch the bloodied weapon, but then she saw her own hand and arm. She froze, staring at the stain.
“Lian,” Gansukh hissed. “Don’t panic.”
I’ve killed a man. The thought swelled in her head, and she could hear the individual words growing louder and louder inside her skull. She couldn’t make them stop. A terrible voice—hers, hoarse and ragged with utter despair—was shouting the words, and a multitude of echoes answered, chirping and shrieking the words in response, kill kill kill killed a man...
“Drop it,” Gansukh barked, and her hand opened of its own accord like a startled bird taking wing from a bush. Then, freed from the dagger, she recoiled from the sticky thing lying on the ground, stumbling and tripping over her own feet.
Clumsily, Gansukh dragged himself toward the dagger, falling onto his side and blocking her view of it. He stared at her, moonlight making his swollen and pulpy face a hideously grinning mask. His shoulders moved as he struggled to pick up the dagger with his bound hands and orient the blade so that it could cut his bonds, but he didn’t give up. With dogged, unblinking persistence he kept trying to free himself, all the while without saying a word—without admonishing her to help him in any way.
She regarded him with fascination as if she were watching a wild animal try to chew its way out of a snare. A tiny part of her still wept and shrieked within, but mostly she found herself fixated on Gansukh, staring uncomprehendingly at this being who fought with every iota of his body to live. Who would kill in order to live. He had done so, and would again. And it wouldn’t bother him. It was part of who he was, a real part of the world in which he lived.