Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy #1) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,78

all for a key. Once everyone finds this, no one will suspect a thing.” He gave Orso another brutal kick, again pushing him toward the edge.

No, Orso thought. No! He tried to fight, to grab hold of the roof, to push back against his attacker, but the blows kept coming, landing on his shoulder, his fingers, his stomach. Orso watched through teary eyes as the edge of the roof came closer and closer.

“A bitter, old screw,” said the attacker with savage relish. “Deep in debt.” Another kick. “In over his head.” Another kick. “A dumb bastard who has thoroughly shat where he ate.” He paused to position the final blow. “Who’d be surprised to think you’d go and kill yourse—”

Then someone small and dressed in black came sprinting down the edge of the rooftop and tackled the man, knocking him to the ground.

Gasping, Orso looked up and watched as the two people in black wrestled. He had no idea who this new arrival was—it appeared to be a small, bloody, and somewhat dirty-looking young woman—but she tore into the man with savage intensity, slashing at him with a stiletto.

Yet the man was far more skilled in combat. He rebounded quickly, dodging her attacks and managing to land a fierce blow on her chin, knocking her to the side. She coughed and cried, “Dandolo! Are you scrumming coming or not?”

Orso’s attacker dove at the woman hard enough that the two rolled over and over again, tumbling right toward…

Orso watched as they rolled close. “Oh no,” he whispered.

The two combatants knocked him toward the edge. He felt numb and slow and stupid as his body tipped over. He reached out frantically, scrabbling for a handhold, and then his fingers finally found purchase on the edge…

Orso let out a rather undignified shriek as he dangled from the edge of the roof. The man and the young woman were just above him, almost on top of his fingers, wrestling and clawing at each other. Orso’s attacker finally overpowered the young woman and climbed on top, fingers around her throat, clearly intending to choke her to death, or throw her off the roof, or both.

“Stupid little whore,” the man whispered. He leaned down on her throat. “Just a bit more, just a bit more…”

The young woman, gagging, clawed at the device on his stomach, twisting and turning it.

Then something on the device slid into place.

The man froze, horrified, let her go, and looked down.

And then he simply…erupted.

Orso nearly let go of the roof in shock as the blood rained down on him in a hot wave. It stung his eyes and spattered into his mouth, a coppery, saline taste. If he had not been terrified, he would have been unspeakably disgusted.

“Ah, shit,” said the young woman, sputtering and coughing. She tossed away some remnant of the dead man—something akin to two plates held together with cloth. “Not again!”

“H-help?” stammered Orso. “Help. Help!”

“Hold on, hold on!” she said. The young woman rolled over, wiped her hands on the roof—her clothing was not an option, as it was just as bloody as her palms—and grabbed his wrists. With surprising strength, she hauled him up and dumped him onto the roof.

Orso lay on the roof, gasping in pain and horror and confusion and staring up at the night sky. “What…What…What was…”

The young woman sat next to him, heaving with exhaustion. She looked terribly ill. “Captain Dandolo’s on his way up. Idiot is probably still looking for the stairs. You’re Orso, right?”

He looked at her, still shocked. “What…Who…”

She nodded at him, panting. “I’m Sancia.” Her face went slack, and she suddenly vomited onto the side of the roof. She coughed and wiped her mouth. “I’m the one who stole your shit.”

* * *

Sancia turned her head and vomited again. It felt like her brain was burning up. She’d pushed herself much too far tonight, and her body was breaking down.

She lugged the man to his feet and limped with him across the roof. He was shaking, blood-spattered, and he kept coughing and gagging after what the cord did to his throat—but he still looked better than she felt. Her skull was fire and her bones were lead. If she managed to stay conscious, she’d count herself lucky.

She felt herself getting weaker as they hobbled over the peaks. The door to the south tower opened, and light spilled across the red-tile rooftop. The blade of light was a golden, buttery smear in the dark, and no matter how