She didn’t realize she’d lost consciousness till she came to at the sound of her name. Hands on her shoulders, dragging her up, and she gasped as bone grated on steel.
“Mother’s bones.” Jabbor crouched beside her. “Hold still,” he said, reaching for the knife. “This will hurt.”
She sobbed as he eased the blade free; metal slid past layers of skin and muscle and tissue, scraped bone. Blood pooled in her palm, ran down her wrist as she lifted her arm. She couldn’t move her fingers. Li was gone and so was her ring.
“Where did she go?” She rose to her knees, cradling her useless hand against her chest. Blood soaked her shirt, dripped off her other arm as well. “Damn it, where did she go?”
“She ran,” Jabbor said, gesturing toward the closest building. “We have to get out of here.”
“I can’t let her get away—”
“You think you can catch her like this?” He pulled her to her feet, holding her steady as she wobbled. “Besides, you were out for minutes—who knows where she is by now. We’re leaving.”
And he ran, dragging her along. Stumbling and cursing, Isyllt ran too, the other Tigers flanking them. She risked a glance back, saw soldiers closing on the rooftop. A suicide mission—or a distraction for something else?
As they reached the shelter of the pomegranate trees, another group of people broke from cover behind the eastern hall. Sivahri, and armed, but they bolted for the wall, paying no attention to Isyllt and the Tigers. One man held a child in his arms.
Four soldiers guarded the gates, nervous and distracted by the clamor across the grounds. As Jabbor and his people fell on the first three, Isyllt stretched out a bloody hand to the fourth.
“Help me,” she gasped. “Please.”
He hesitated for an instant, pistol half raised. Long enough for Isyllt’s magic to wrap around him, to close cold fingers over his heart. He fell, gasping, brown face drained gray.
Jabbor cast a horrified glance at the man as they wrestled the locks open; he huddled on the ground, shaking and moaning—if he had that much strength left, Isyllt doubted he would die.
Outside, knots of people gathered on the sidewalks and alarm bells rang. A skiff poled toward the landing as they slipped through the gate, and Jabbor and the Tigers bolted for it. Isyllt followed, too slow, and wondered if they would leave her behind. Then someone shouted her name.
She spun, slipping on damp stone, and saw Adam waving from another boat. “Go on,” she shouted at Jabbor, and ran for the other skiff.
The craft rocked as she stumbled aboard and Adam grabbed her arm, dragging her down. She cried out and fell, scraping her good palm against the wooden bench. The steersman poled away, face and hair shrouded in a scarf—Vienh.
“Blood and iron,” Adam muttered, crouching beside her. He reached for her wounded hand, and she jerked away.
“I met your other assassin.”
“Is she still alive?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Show me where you’re hurt, damn it,” he said as she flinched away again.
She swallowed the taste of pain, nearly choked on it, and held out her left hand. Skin gaped—a perfect double-edged stab wound. A wonderful example to show a class of investigators. Some pale flashed amid the blood; tendon perhaps, or bone.
She started to laugh, high and shrill. Then Adam touched her hand and she passed out again.
Consciousness returned swift and cruel while they circled the canals of Straylight, making sure they weren’t pursued. When Adam and Vienh were satisfied, they set out for Merrowgate, and the narrow waterway behind an inn. Not the Bride—Isyllt couldn’t fault Vienh for that; she didn’t trust her luck either.
Adam draped his cloak over her to hide the blood as they docked, held her steady up three flights of stairs to the room. The bleeding had slowed enough that she didn’t leave a trail up the steps, at least.
“I need bandages and needle and thread,” Adam said as Isyllt fell into a chair. “And clean water.”
Isyllt bit her tongue while Adam cut away her ruined sleeves; when half-clotted scabs peeled loose she hissed. Her right arm was still bleeding, but it was nothing compared to the left. She could only stare at her curled hand, at the naked skin where her ring should be. Vienh returned with the supplies and Adam scrubbed his hands.
The water was tepid but burned like vitriol in her wounds. Adam cleaned her right arm first and opened a tube of ointment, nodding thanks to Vienh.