Guy Gavriel Kay Sarantine 2 Lord of Emperors

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'How the fuck do you know about-?'
Cleander moved closer, knelt. Sword to the wounded man's breast, he twitched
the cloak aside. The man on the ground made no movement at all. Cleander
looked at him for one instant-then let the cloak fall from his fingers as if
it were burning to the touch. There was no light. The others couldn't see what
he saw.
They heard Cleander, though, as the cloak fell once more over the downed man's
face.
'Oh, fuck!' said the only son of Plautus Bonosus, Master of the
Sarantine Senate. He stood up. 'Oh, no. Oh, fuck. Oh, holy Jad!'
'My great father!' said the wounded man brightly.
This was followed, unsurprisingly, by silence. Someone coughed nervously.
'Does this mean we aren't singing?' Declanus asked plaintively.
'Get out of here. All of you!' Cleander rasped hoarsely over his shoulder.
'Go! Disappear! My father will fucking kill me.'
'Who is it?' snapped Marcellus.
'You don't know. You don't want to know. This never happened. Get home, go
anywhere, or we're all dead men! Holy Jad!'
'What the-?'
'Go!'
A light appeared in a window overhead. Someone began shouting for the watch-a
woman's voice. They went.
Thanks be to Jad, the boy had a brain and wasn't hopelessly drunk. He had
quickly covered Scortius's face again after their eyes locked in the darkness.
None of the others-he was sure of it-knew who it was they'd attacked.
There was a chance to get out of this.
If he lived. The knife had gone in on his left side, and ripped, and then the
kick in the same side had broken ribs. He'd had breaks before. Knew what they
felt like.
They felt very bad. It was, putting it mildly, not easy to breathe.
He clutched his side and felt blood pouring from the wound through his
fingers. The boy with the knife had jerked it upwards after stabbing him.
But they left. Thanks be to Jad, they left. Leaving only one behind.
Someone at a window was calling for the watch.
'Holy Jad,' whispered Bonosus's son. 'Scortius. I swear ... we had no idea'
'Know you didn't. Thought ... were killing just anyone.' It was irresponsible
to be feeling such hilarity, but the absurdity of this was so extreme. To die,
like this? 'No. We didn't! I mean Not really the time to be ironic, actually.
'Get me upright, before someone comes.' 'Can you ... can you walk?' 'Of course
I can walk.' Probably a lie.
'I'll take you to my father's house,' the boy said. Bravely enough.
The charioteer could guess what consequences would await Cleander after he
appeared at the door with a wounded man. Closeted with his wife and son.
Something became clear, suddenly. That was why they'd been together tonight.
And then something else did, driving amusement entirely away. 'Not your house.
Holy Jad, no!'
He was not going to appear at Thenais's door at this hour of night, having
been wounded by partisans after descending from the bed chamber of Shirin of
the Greens. He winced at the image of her face, hearing this. Not at the
outraged expression that would ensue: the lack of one. The detached, ironic
coldness coming back.
'But you need a physician. There's blood. And my father can keep this-'
'Not your house.'
'Then where? Oh! The Blues' compound! We can-' A good thought, but...
'Won't help. Our doctor was at the wedding today and will be drunk and
unconscious. Too many people, too. We must keep this quiet. For .
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. . for the lady. Now be silent and let me-' 'Wait! I know. The
Bassanid!' exclaimed Cleander. It was, in fact, a good thought.
And resulted in the two of them arriving, after a genuinely harrowing progress
through the city, at the small house Bonosus kept for his own use near the
triple walls. On the way they passed the enormous dark litter again. Scortius
saw it stop, was aware of someone watching them from within, making no
movement at all to help.
Something made him shiver; he couldn't have said what.
He had lost a fair bit of blood by the time they reached their destination.
Every step with his left foot seemed to drive the kicked ribs inward,
shockingly. He'd refused to allow the boy to get help at any tavern. No one
was to know of this. Cleander almost carried him the last part of the way. The
lad was terrified, exhausted, but he got them there.
'Thank you, boy,' he managed to say, as the house's steward, in a nightshirt, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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