The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,36

chest to his face as she pushed free, and she froze, appalled he might think she’d hit him on purpose.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

As he stepped back, she grabbed him and refused to let go. She was crying openly now, fierce sobs that made her face hideous. “It’s true,” she said. “I promise you. It’s true.”

Frederick shook his head. He was biting his lip and she realised – with shock – was close to crying himself. “My love,” he said, and she pretended not to hear that. “I’m so sorry, but it’s not.” Pulling her close, he told her life could be horrid but she’d survive. If he could, she could.

And then she cried until she could cry no more.

18

Rough hands reached for Tycho and he tensed until a touch at his side stilled him. Amelia was fully awake and watchful, her fingers tugging at the lace that held her ankle dagger in place.

“Hanging offence,” the man holding the sword repeated. He glanced back at his followers and seemed disappointed that they looked less enthusiastic than he expected. “Isn’t it, boys? The Pope says so.”

When you lived in a world where it was wise to nod when the Pope’s name was mentioned you nodded, and so they did. Their captain looked happier as he pulled back the covers and raised his eyebrows at the way Tycho’s and Amelia’s limbs were twisted together. As if soldiers had never clung together against the cold.

Tycho would have knocked the man’s sword aside but for a long-faced archer with an arrow aimed at Amelia’s heart. Tycho knew Amelia moved fast, she had were-blood and was Assassini trained. The question was what she could survive in the way of wounds. He’d have risked it for himself. Tycho’s smile was sour. He’d definitely have risked if for himself.

“Something funny?” their captain asked.

Tycho shrugged.

“Get them up,” the man said, and Tycho felt himself dragged from the bed. They reached for Amelia and she froze. For a moment Tycho thought she’d risk the arrow, but she allowed herself to be stood upright, her eyes never leaving the archer’s bent bow.

“Right, find me some hanging rope.”

A soldier disappeared through the door with one of the lit torches and the narrow chamber lurched into half-darkness. “And find me some more torches,” the captain called after him.

A blond, pale-skinned soldier reached for Amelia and rubbed her cheek, checking his thumb afterwards to see if any of the black came away. He scowled when one of the others mockingly did the same, miming surprise at the lack of dye. Amelia accepted their horseplay quietly. Anyone untrained might have thought she was scared but Tycho knew she’d memorised their positions and numbered their weapons, checked the exit and looked for places that could be defended.

Assassini skills stayed with you for life.

The horse-faced archer still had his bow drawn and the soldiers were careful to leave a path between his arrow and her heart. Their captain seemed unnerved by her calmness. “You can’t escape,” he said.

Amelia smiled. “Nor can you.”

The man scowled. “Hurry up and find me some bloody rope.”

A couple of others went after the first, their boots slapping on the spiral of stone steps leading to the floor below. The fort was old, built from grey stone that was crumbling with age. The floors were uneven. The ceiling beams split and twisted where broken tiles had let in rain.

A cold wind howled through the arrow slits, twitched at the drawn-back bed curtains and tumbled dust balls across the floor as Tycho made himself wait for the men to return without rope. And they would return without rope because he’d crawled all over the fort and knew better than they did what there was to be found. If they really wanted to hang him their best bet was the cord used to tie back the bed curtains and no one needed to leave the room for that.

How far had these men come – and did they imagine they’d ever reach where they wanted to go? Did he? Tycho no longer knew. He had his reasons for being here. What reason did they have for trudging through snow-filled valleys in the middle of winter? Alexa always said, know what a man wants and you know how to move him. For the duchess, all men were pieces on life’s chessboard. And which piece was he? Tycho wondered sourly. He’d thought himself a knight, perhaps a castle in time. But castles and knights were sacrificed