A rope waited, coiled and ready, on the edge of the roof. Gyre scooped it up, tossed the coil over the edge, then stepped off himself. The cord hissed through his hand as he gripped tighter to slow his fall, and he felt the building warmth of friction even through the iron-studded leather glove. Before it grew uncomfortably hot, his feet touched the cobbles, and he dropped the rope and drew his knives.
Six guards outside, plus the driver. The driver was the one who’d been knocked out, his skin scorched from the small blast. The closest guard, writhing on the ground, wasn’t a problem. That leaves five. The next nearest, a young man with gray-green hair, had backed against the carriage, waving his cudgel wildly and clutching at one ear. He blinked and tried to say something as Gyre approached, but Gyre’s ears were still ringing from the blast. Not that it matters. The man only had time to gesture briefly with his cudgel before Gyre extended on his right foot into a textbook-perfect lunge and skewered him through the throat. Four.
That left four, as the young man spun away and painted the side of the carriage with spurting blood. The last one on this side was an older woman with stubby red hair and an angry scar across half her face. She tossed her cudgel aside and drew a long knife as Gyre advanced. Gyre dropped into a fighting crouch, feinted at her right leg, and let her parry and riposte. He twisted under the return blow, his forearm slamming into hers and shoving it out of the way, while his off hand came up and punched his short blade once, twice, three times into her stomach under her ribs. Her knife slipped from her fingers, and when he stepped away she stumbled forward and collapsed onto the cobbles.
Three. Gyre heard the scrape and grunt of fighting as he rounded the back of the carriage. On the other side, Yora and Harrow had emerged from their hiding place in the alley to engage the three stunned guards. Yora, long leather coat flapping, held two of them off with her flashing, spinning unmetal spear. Harrow had somehow ended up in a grapple with the third, her leg twisted around his as he pressed a forearm against her neck. They staggered together along the length of the carriage like a pair of drunken lovers.
None of them were looking for Gyre, which made things easy. He stepped in behind the larger of Yora’s two opponents and drove his long blade upward at an angle into the man’s back. As he staggered forward, his companion turned, cudgel swiping desperately to keep this new enemy at bay. Gyre danced out of range, feinted to keep his attention, then turned away as Yora’s spearpoint erupted from the guard’s chest, unmetal edge slashing effortlessly through flesh, bone, and leather. Two and one.
The guard in Harrow’s grip saw her companions go down, and her eyes went very wide. She said something—too low for Gyre to hear, but Harrow paused, relaxing a fraction. In an instant she was twisting, fingers coming up to tear at his face as she fought to draw the knife at her belt. Before she got there, though, Yora’s spear licked out, catching the woman in the eye and pinning her to the side of the wagon, unmetal passing easily through wood and bone.
Done. Gyre straightened up from his fighting crouch. Harrow let go of the shuddering body and stepped away, breathing hard. Yora pulled her spear free, letting the dead guard fall to the cobbles, and bent to pick up Harrow’s two-handed axe from where it had fallen. It was a heavy steel weapon, but her arm didn’t tremble as she handed it back to him.
“There’s a time and a place for mercy, Harrow,” Yora said. “But this isn’t it. Once you’ve decided to kill somebody, make sure you follow through.”
Harrow gave a nod, brushing lank brown hair off his sweaty forehead. He was eighteen, big and broad-shouldered but still with a hint of teenage gawkiness. He was in love with Yora, like half the tunnelborn his age, and Gyre saw the pain in his face at even this mild rebuke. Idiot boy.
“Good evening, my friends.” Ibb stepped around from the front of the carriage. He looked as flamboyant as usual; he wore a long leather tunnel coat, like Yora’s, but decorated with flashing bits of silver embroidery, and he added a broad-brimmed hat with one side rolled up in the Khirkhaz style. A long curved sword rode on one hip, and a blaster pistol in a worn holster sat on the other. “No difficulties so far, I take it?”
“Glad you finally decided to join us.” Yora whipped her spearpoint down, spraying the dripping blood across the cobbles. She was shorter and slighter than her legend indicated, but her frame was corded with muscle, and her orange eyes blazed with enough force to make up for any deficiencies in stature. The frown she directed at Ibb could have spoiled milk, but he absorbed it with the aplomb of long practice.
“I was in the agreed-on position,” Ibb said mildly. “It’s not my fault Halfmask works so quickly.”
“We’re not finished yet,” Gyre said. “Let’s make sure we get what we came for before we start congratulating ourselves.”
“Fair enough.” Ibb hopped up onto the back of the coach and pulled the rear door open, leaning prudently out of the way as he did so. When nothing emerged, he swung back and peered inside. “The chest is here, at least. Thoroughly locked, though.”
“We can take care of that later,” Yora said. “Harrow, get those thickheads moving.”
The boy was already at work with the big lizards, clicking his tongue softly and offering a handful of squirming earthworms. The treat had the desired effect, and first one and then the other clambered back to their feet, snorting and shaking their heads at the residual effect of the stunner. Harrow let them lick the worms up with their long, spiked tongues, while Ibb pushed the unconscious driver off the box and picked up the reins.
Blood was painted across the cobblestones, vivid crimson in the lamplight. Gyre fought the urge to look away from the corpses. They deserved what they got. The woman he’d stabbed in the stomach had managed to crawl several meters before her strength gave out, leaving a slick of gore behind her. They chose to work for the Order and the Republic. They’re a part of the system, just as much as the highest centarch. Once again, Gyre tried to scratch the scar where his eye was missing, and once again the half mask thwarted him. He swore.
The shrill shriek of whistles cut through the night, echoing weirdly in the fog. Gyre turned, hands dropping to his knives.
“Go!” Yora said to Ibb. “Harrow, stay with him. We’ll buy you a few minutes to get clear.”
Harrow clearly wanted to object, but Ibb was already snapping the reins, startling the thickheads into lumbering forward. He grabbed the boy by his shirt and hoisted him onto the box as the coach got up to speed. Yora moved to stand beside Gyre, spinning her spear in a slow circle.
“Was there a way out the other end of that alley?” Gyre said as the tramp of booted feet got closer.
“Someone’s back door,” Yora said, calm and professional.
“Locked?”
“Nothing I couldn’t break through.”
Lights swirled in the mist. “Give them a look at us,” Gyre said, “then head that way?”
Yora gave that a moment’s thought, then nodded. Gyre reached into the pockets of his coat and came up with three small clay spheres.
A squad of Auxiliaries emerged from the mist, twelve men and women with long spears and sword belts, in padded leather jerkins and conical steel caps. Their sergeant, a red-faced man with a bushy blue beard, had a whistle between his lips and was blowing for all he was worth. He pulled up at the sight of Gyre and Yora, and the squad clattered to a halt behind him. Gyre heard someone say, “Halfmask!”