Page 45 of Confounding Oaths
The civilians, having learned in lives harder than they were long to take care of themselves, were scrambling for back doors and side windows, with Barryson and Boy William assisting the best they could. Mr. Caesar, aghast at the violence, shrank back against one wall next to Mistress Quickley. She, by contrast, was rather less aghast, at least at the battle. The damage to her property, on the other hand, distinctly soured her.
“Get ’em out,” she was demanding of the combatants, “and someone do something about them fires.”
There was, within Mr. Caesar, a war between his fear of injury and his fear of ignominy. He had no desire to lose any part of his face to a stray blade, but the thought that men were doing battle while he stood by and watched squirmed within him like maggots made of shame. So he set his jaw, snatched up a bundle of rags, tried not to think too much about the mess he was making of his gloves, and remained resolutely rooted to the spot.
“What you waiting for?” asked Mistress Quickley. “If this place goes up we’re all fucked.”
Being no more a man of science than he was a man of war, Mr. Caesar had no real sense of how likely it was that the fires would burn out of control. But since if itdidhe would either burn himselfor feel like an utter heel for allowing it to happen, he made up his mind to advance. Though out of deference to the blades, he did so crawling.
Within arm’s reach, the captain was doing battle with one of the larger cultists, and Mr. Caesar—who, unlike his sister, still had a heart—roiled with a complex mix of admiration and dread. Admiration at the man’s uncanny grace in motion. Dread partly that something might befall his new … associate, but mostly at the fact there were swords passing scant inches over his head.
… In the ballroom, his sister’s face was turned upwards as she gazed with empty eyes at her dancing partner. She had already forgotten his name, and he was not entirely certain that he knew hers. And it did not matter. Here and now she was the personification of beauty. Wonder in crystal. The fragile all-and-nothing in which every dream reflected …
The cult, if cult it was, had come in force. And while they fought with black powder and steel, the Irregulars knew well enough that if their attackers were men of consequence—evenminimalconsequence—they could not leave them dead. Or at least not many of them.
So they made a fighting retreat, their own lives and the lives of the locals their first priority.
… Another waltz. It was a new dance, or new by the standards of the higher aristocracy, whose tastes ran conservative, and so not normally danced at the better balls. But tonight was perfect. The Lady had seen to that. As perfect as cut glass …
The Irregulars were military men and fell back with military precision. Mr. Caesar was a gentleman who seldom rose before ten and, having smothered what fires he could, fell back with haste.
It was not, therefore, so terribly surprising that he foundhimself staring down the barrel of a gun while the rest of the party were efficiently moving to safety.
“You, we have been asked to collect,” said a soft voice that Mr. Caesar didn’t recognise.
Few of either the Irregulars or the attackers remained in the fight now. Just the man with the soft voice and another masked man behind him—this one thankfully sans pistol. Not clear what else to do, Mr. Caesar raised his hands. “Asked by whom?” he tried, hoping it might at least buy him time while also not being a shot-in-the-face level of defiance.
Unfortunately the soft-voiced man didn’t deign to answer, he just flicked the barrel of his pistol sideways in acome with megesture and began to escort Mr. Caesar out of the burst-open door.
“I wouldn’t,” said the captain.
… Another dance. Another gentleman. This one shorter, less handsome, too old definitely, far too old; her feet clicked cold and hard on the dance floor. …
The soft-voiced man had only half turned, and Mr. Caesar had barely turned at all but was craning his neck over his shoulder to look at Captain James and, if at all possible, convey with his eyes how very, very important it was that this exchange go smoothly.
“I have the gentleman at gunpoint,” the soft-voiced man pointed out. “And that is a slow blade you are carrying.”
Captain James’s blade was indeed longer and heavier than the sabres the other men were wielding. If you wish to insert your own observation about the relative values of length and dexterity at this juncture, reader, you may do so. But I hope you feel bad about it.
“Slow it might be,” the captain agreed with an easy, oddly charming smile, “but I took this off a French cuirassier and though it’s not made for fencer’s tricks, it’ll split you open right enough.”
“Orestes,” Mr. Caesar half whispered, “he has a gun.”
Captain James extended his arm just a half inch further. “So he does.” Still smiling, he gave his enemy a challenging look. “Go on then. Shoot him.”
“I fail to see how this is helping,” observed Mr. Caesar, his voice trembling only the slightest amount.
Ignoring Mr. Caesar’s panic, Captain James continued to stand very steady and composed.
All around them, the Folly had grown quiet, and when the soft-voiced man cocked his pistol the click, muted as it was, echoed around the tiny room.
… All around her the music had grown quiet, and when she crossed the floor to take her next partner, the click of her feet echoed like lies. …
“Takes a while to reload does a pistol,” said Captain James almost conversationally. “And I’m pretty sure you had your shot when you came in.”
The mask made his expression unreadable, but the soft-voiced man’s tone was playful. “Really? Bet his life?”
And to Mr. Caesar’s great chagrin, Captain James said: “Yeah.”
