Page 66 of Company of Thieves
“He really is good at what he does,” I said softly.
“Aye,” came the equally soft answer from below. “It’s why I wanted to join his company. Everyone knows that Prince Akbar is fearless in battle, and would never ask his men to do anything he wouldn’t do himself.”
I was about to answer when there was a shout from the building nearest us, and the peculiar splatting noise that meant someone was firing disruptors. I pulled out an arrow, ready to nock it should I see someone to take down, but it was difficult to see in the darkness, angled as we were away from the front of the building. There was a gas lamp on the corner, the dull yellowish light from it making the wet cobblestones glisten, but beyond that pool of light, I had no idea what was going on. “Do you see anything?”
“No,” Yussuf answered.
“Maybe you should go help them.” I didn’t want to think of Alan being overwhelmed and possibly hurt. We’d just found each other again, dammit.
“Do you know what he’d do to me if I left you?” Yussuf’s voice was rife with horror.
“Would it involve a gelding knife?” I asked, trying to distract myself from the need to go help Alan.
“That and so much more.”
Men spilled out of the building then, at least fifteen of them yelling orders in French and English, followed by Alan’s men. Swords flashed in the gaslight, bodies dancing in and out of both my view and the pool of light. I held the bow and arrow, hoping to get a clear shot at one of the imperial guards, but the fighting was too confusing and fluid to pick any one person out for more than a second.
At that moment, a dull sound like distant thunder came from the street to my right, and I watched with horror as a group of men mounted on horses thundered down the slight hill that led up to where the airships were still firing at each other.
The men all wore the scarlet uniform of the emperor, obviously a company of guards that had been sent to help protect the emperor’s stores.
“Oh, you are so not going to join the fray,” I said, nocking an arrow and sighting the front-most horseman. Luckily, he was a big man, with broad shoulders, and streaming blond hair. Just as he was directly in front of me, I pulled the bowstring back until it was level with my cheek, and let the arrow fly.
The man had lifted a sword high in the air, clearly about to attack Alan’s men, but the arrow hit him dead in the shoulder, sending him jerking to the side, toppling off his horse.
I saw a man on the ground—I couldn’t tell from this distance who it was other than he wore Moghul clothing—turn toward where I knelt, lifting a hand in what I hoped was thanks. I didn’t acknowledge it. There were far too many men still pouring down the street. My bowstring twanged over and over again, each arrow but one striking a target. I went mostly for the torso and arms, since I didn’t want to inadvertently strike one of the horses, but one unlucky soul got an arrow through his neck.
I felt sick about that. Although Jack and I had been raised as Quakers to believe in nonlethal force, I had strayed from that path, seeing things differently than my brother. Or at least I thought I had. As I watched the man fall from his horse, his hands on his throat before he slumped into an unmoving blob on the ground, I realized just why Jack refused to kill anyone.
Tears welled over my eyelashes, my heart aching at what I’d done, but I pushed down the guilt and sorrow, knowing I’d have to deal with both emotions later. “But not right now. Not while Alan is out there, at risk of being skewered by one of those bastards.”
The last few men had evidently figured out that someone was responsible for picking off their fellow horsemen, and two had paused, clearly looking for me. I flattened myself on the roof of the fruit stand, but the movement must have caught their eye, for they both charged toward us. Yussuf immediately ran out in front of the stand, his sword in hand, but I didn’t like his odds.
I grabbed my last arrow and quickly picked the horseman who made the best target, sending an arrow right into his upper arm, causing him to scream and drop his sword.
The second man tried to decapitate Yussuf, but he had been trained well and dived for the ground, before popping up and dragging the injured horseman from his horse. I yelled encouragement from the top of the stand, hoping to distract the remaining horseman long enough for Yussuf to disable him, but at that moment, a shadow loomed up from the side, and the blond man that I’d shot first grabbed me by the arm, hauling me down over the edge of the roof.
I screamed and kicked at him, but it was no use—he just hauled me down onto the boxes.
“Alan!” I screamed, struggling and trying to hit the man with the bow, since I had no more arrows left.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he growled in English, his accent all polished syllables and upper-crust. “You’ve done quite enough damage with that for one night, I think.”
“You bastard! Stop that! I’m possibly pregnant!”
The man, who was more or less dragging me, stopped and glared at me. “You’re a woman?”
I tugged down my leather breastplate before pulling back the bit of lay I’d wrapped around my face in the style of the men (evidently, they did that as a matter of course when engaging in battle). “Damn straight I am. And I may be a mother soon. I’m not exactly sure, because I haven’t found out if there’s such a thing as a pregnancy test, but I should know soon. And stop bleeding on me! You’re getting my nice gauntlet bloody.”
“You’re the one who shot me, so you can put up with a bit of blood on your armor,” he said in a gritty sort of voice. It wasn’t nearly as nice as Alan’s, but it held a tone of command that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “Who are you?”
It was on the tip of my tongue to answer “Your worst nightmare,” but by then Yussuf had finished with the two horsemen and loped over to help me, his sword bloody.
“Hold!” the man said, pulling me so that I was in front of him, a hostage shield. “Do not come closer, or this woman will suffer.”
I cursed myself as Yussuf backed off, his eyes narrowed on me.
“It’s OK,” I told him, more to keep him from doing something stupid than to reassure him. “I think Bleedy McBleederson here wants to talk to Alan. Unless I’m mistaken about who you are, that is.” The last sentence was directed to the man who forced me across the street, toward the front of the storehouse.
