Liberating Fight Page 18

  He drew her aside as she was preparing to set out and said, “You will take care, yes?”

  “Of course. Edmund, you do not believe I would take this step if I thought I could not succeed, do you?”

  Edmund’s face was still with concern. He shook his head. “No, but so much of this is unknown. Being informed about the estate’s geography, and studying a map, are no substitute for seeing a thing in person.”

  “Which is why I shall survey the estate in detail before attempting entry.” Amaya gripped his hand tightly. “You know why I must do this.”

  “I do.” Edmund put his other hand over their joined ones. “Amaya, I…”

  She waited for him to finish, but he merely shook his head again and said, “There are things I wish to tell you, but they will wait for your return. Fare well, Amaya.”

  She nodded and released him. Saluting Valencia, she said, “I will return to the inn when the deed is finished. Do not go sleepless on my account.”

  “I doubt any of us could sleep knowing the errand you pursue,” Valencia said with a smile. “Go with God, Miss Salazar.”

  Amaya cast a final look at Jennet, standing beside Valencia. Jennet’s eyes were cast down, fixed on her boot tracing a loop in the dirt with its toe, and her fists were clenched tight at her sides. That Jennet might not meet her eyes, Amaya did not find surprising, but the young woman was the picture of uncertainty, and Amaya had never seen Jennet look uncertain in all the time she had known her. It was a mystery whose depths she could not afford to plumb, so she merely nodded and took off running along the northward road.

  As she ran, she gradually Shaped her leg muscles to carry her swiftly and tirelessly along the road. Her lungs and heart were already tuned to the same rhythm, so after half a dozen rikras, she was running as fleetly as she ever had across the mountains of Peru.

  It was a joy to run without fear of what European society would say, without the need to rein herself in to accommodate someone of lesser ability. At these times, she felt most connected to her five sunqu as they surged and thrummed within her, as if they were living creatures bound to her will. Being a Shaper felt like nothing else in the world.

  With her pupils dilated to catch the faint light of the moonless sky, and her eyes Shaped to make better sense of what that light revealed, the landscape she ran through was pale with grasses burned yellow by the summer sun, with darker blotches where the spreading trees grew at random. She had admired the irregularity of the scene as they rode toward Aranjuez; now she examined the trees with an eye to concealing herself when she neared the estate. The trees did not grow closely enough together to provide true cover, but she was accustomed to making her way through the craggy, treeless heights of her mountain home, and this would be as good for hiding as fog by comparison.

  Valencia had said the estate was five miles north of Aranjuez. Miles meant nothing to Amaya, and she did not know how to convert them to rikras, so she remained watchful for signs that she was approaching the estate. She noted that the trees were growing thicker and closer together after she had run for some six hundred heartbeats, and had just slowed to consider what this might mean when the road came out of the trees into a vast, empty space.

  And there it was, a house well lit by lanterns, its tiled, gently peaked roofs a slightly darker contrast to the white walls turned yellow by flame. To the right stood a much smaller building with the same gently peaked roof. The road continued to the house through a wide, treeless plain that Amaya guessed had been deliberately cleared, to give those at the house unimpeded sight of any approaching attackers. It gave the estate the appearance of being encroached upon on all sides by a forest, though in truth, the trees did not grow very thickly in their ring around the house. More trees grew near the building, only a few, nothing that would interfere with line of sight.

  Two men bearing long guns strolled back and forth in front of the house, guarding the long, pillared portico. The front door, visible in the portico’s shadow thanks to two lanterns flanking its doorposts, looked massive and ominous, like the guardian to a villain’s fortress high in the mountains. Amaya shook away this fancy, product of more of Bess’s books, and crouched low so as not to be seen by the sentries. She saw no one other than the two men, but it was likely they had compatriots on the far side.

  Keeping close to the tree line, she circled the estate, making note of anything that might prove useful. Don Balthasar was a sneaky man, she concluded, suspicious and clever. He had thought of almost everything: lanterns lit every part of the estate’s walls; the trees near the house, which would provide shade during the day, were close enough to the building that anyone hiding there would have to take great care not to be seen; and there were, in fact, two more sentries guarding the rear of the house. It was actually a courtyard formed by two ells extending back from the main house, paved with light-colored stones and centering on a fountain that flowed sluggishly, barely visible from Amaya’s perspective. The men patrolled outside it rather than entering the courtyard.

  When she had circled the entire estate, Amaya crouched in the shelter of a low, spreading tree and considered what she knew. Europeans had a tendency to put more effort into guarding the front door of a house than the back, even if the back were an easier entry. Amaya’s first instinct was to approach the rear of the house for this reason. But her assessment of Don Balthasar’s personality suggested that he was not a typical European.

  She watched the men at the front of the house, counting their steps. One moved faster than the other, making their circuits irregular. This meant there were times when both men were out of sight of one another around the corners of the house. And she had seen that the man at the back right corner never ventured around to the side of the house, but satisfied himself with a quick glance in that direction. She would make her move there.

  She crept around to the best vantage: a place where the ring of trees came closest to the house, across from a clump of trees next to the estate that was slightly thicker than most. She waited. The man at the rear of the house reached the end of his circuit, paused to look along the house’s side, and turned back. Two heartbeats later, the man at the front reached the corner and took a few steps along the side facing Amaya. He paused for what felt like an eternity, then turned and walked away. Amaya rose and sprinted for the trees beside the house.

  She did not run as fast as she was capable, feeling the need to remain silent, but it took only ten heartbeats for her to cross the distance, faster than any horse, faster than a jaguar after its prey. Breathing heavily, she crouched within the shelter of the trees and waited again.

  Presently, she heard the man at the rear make his usual stop and turn around again. This time, it took more than four heartbeats for the man at the front to appear. He walked toward Amaya’s hiding place. Just as he turned his back on her, Amaya leapt.

  She bore him to the ground with her arm across his mouth and her other hand wrapped around his throat. A silent command to his Sense sunqu sent a pulse through all his nerves, paralyzing him and silencing him. The man stiffened into perfect rigidity. Amaya lifted him over one shoulder and swiftly hid him beneath the tree where she had waited, then ran for the corner of the house and peered around it. The other sentry had not yet turned back to complete his circuit. By her count, he would notice his partner was gone well before the man at the rear came back to glance this way.

  The sentry turned and walked toward her. She could tell the moment he became suspicious because his steps slowed and he looked off toward the distant ring of trees, searching. Amaya held her breath. Now was when she would learn how truly devious Don Balthasar was. If she gave these men orders, those orders would be to raise the alarm if anything unusual happened. She hoped this sentry was cautious enough to come looking for his partner before making a stir.

  “Francisco?” the sentry said in a loud whisper. “Francisco, what have you found?”

  Good. He had jumped to conclusions that would get him killed. Amaya wa
ited until he was close to the corner, then jumped. He dropped as easily as the first, and Amaya took a moment to make sure of him before returning to the corner and waiting for the man at the rear to make his usual stop.

  This time, he paused longer than before. Amaya cast a swift glance over the tree where her paralyzed victim lay, suddenly certain that despite all her care, this other sentry could see his fallen companion. Then the man came along the side of the house toward the front.

  Amaya’s claws slid out involuntarily, though she hardly needed them. She watched him approach, step by step. Her fears aside, she had concealed the paralyzed man well enough, but only from someone approaching from the front of the house. This fool was going to ruin all her plans.

  The man paused. He looked around, peering past the trees toward the open plain. Then he turned and headed back the way he had come.

  Amaya did not release her bated breath until he was well out of sight. Then she carried the body of the second guard to where the paralyzed man lay, did a more thorough job of concealing both, and stopped the heart of the first man so that there was no chance of either recovering to give her away. She felt no qualms about doing so; these men were servants of a vile betrayer, and would have killed her themselves had they had the opportunity.

  Then she ran lightly to the front door and listened for signs that there were more men waiting inside. Her enhanced hearing perceived nothing. She felt horribly exposed against the nearly black wood of the door, with both lanterns shining brightly upon her, and had to remind herself that she had eliminated the nearest threats and could afford to be slow and cautious.

  After a few more heartbeats in which she satisfied herself that no one lurked beyond the door to attack her, she eased down on the latch—and found the door locked. Not barred, which would have been a nearly insurmountable challenge, but securely locked. Amaya allowed herself a moment’s smug pleasure. Yes, Don Balthasar was a worthy opponent, though likely he would find that no comfort when her claws tore out his throat.

  She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly so it spiraled out of her like a warm wind. Bracing herself, she drew on Strength, and bit back a moan of pain as her muscles expanded and grew denser. The muscles of her arms and shoulders strained the fabric of her shirt as they grew. Another command to Strength enhanced the muscles of her chest, an important balance to her upper body, and one she had neglected only once before learning wisdom.

  The pain in her torso and arms throbbed for what felt like several hundred beats and was really only ten. It had not fully subsided when Amaya once more took hold of the latch, but she was disinclined to wait. She gripped the latch, hoped it was as sturdy as it appeared, and with a single hard shove and an oof of breath, she broke the door free of the lock to swing silently and gently away from her.

  Amaya flattened herself against the doorpost so as not to offer herself as a silhouetted target. But the hall beyond was empty, and lit by a single lantern on a stand beside stairs leading up. Square stone tiles the color of Valencia’s dun horse covered the floor; a man in boots might have trouble moving silently across them. Amaya had gone barefoot for this task, the soles of her feet thickened and roughened to protect them, and she slipped noiselessly around the door and sniffed.

  Many doors led off this hall, which was large enough to be a room in itself. The faint smell of several kinds of meat reached her nose from one of them, and she ignored that door and focused on the others. The stairs lay to the right and made two turns before disappearing into the upper floor. Two more doors lay beyond the stairs on the right, both of them standing open. One led to a dining room far more ornate than the Hanleys’; it, too, smelled of dinner, though even more faintly. The second opened on a narrow hall that ended at a drawing room, angular and filled with overstuffed, over-embroidered furniture.

  Amaya suppressed the urge to run up the stairs to find Don Balthasar’s bedchamber. There were more men here somewhere, and she would be more successful in her goal if she did not leave them behind her to take her by surprise.

  A dim glow radiated from the third doorway, a hall on the left. Amaya listened closely and heard the low murmur of voices and some rustling of cloth and tapping of boot soles as if someone were pacing. Silently, she crept down the hall, counting voices. Three. Men, by the deepness of their voices and the heaviness of their tread.

  The glow brightened as she approached the end of the hall, but not by very much. She discovered a closed door with a gleam of light limning it, brightest where it imperfectly met the floor. Or, not entirely closed; another crack of light ran from floor to near the ceiling, and whoever paced inside the room occasionally dimmed the light by passing between it and the door.

  Amaya listened. Two of the men within spoke in calm, unhurried tones about some event due to happen in a few days, something at which Don Balthasar would be expected to preside. The third man contributed little more than grunts to the conversation, but they were enough for Amaya to place him some distance from the door. The pacing man had the highest-pitched voice, and his conversational partner seemed to Amaya to be his superior, based on his tone of command. Amaya closed her eyes to give herself a better sense of where each of the three stood or sat.

  She heard the pacing steps grow louder just as she realized the man was coming toward the door. Instantly she assessed the situation. She was too far from the entry hall to reach it before the man opened the door. It was time to attack.

  She slammed into the door with all her strength and weight. It struck the pacing man, who let out a cry of pain and staggered backward. Amaya was on him, bearing him down and slashing at his throat, before the other two men could do more than rise from their seats. Blood fountained, and Amaya was up again, kicking the door shut with one foot and launching herself at another man with the other. He, too, fell over backward, and Amaya pressed him into the ground with one knee, took his head between her hands, and snapped his neck.

  The third man shouted, “We are under attack! Guards!” He was bigger than the other two, nearly as heavily muscled as Amaya currently was, and his darkly tanned skin was ashen with fear.

  Amaya snarled and turned on him, her bloody hands reaching for him. The man stumbled backward and managed to evade her claws, shouting all the while and fumbling for a pistol holstered at his side. Amaya wished in passing she knew how many guards there were to begin with, and then she had her hand around his throat and commanded his Heart to stop entirely, the entire sunqu. A peculiar look crossed the man’s face, and he grabbed at his chest before toppling, wheezing as if it were Need’s grasp of his lungs she had stopped instead.

  Amaya calmed her breathing and wiped her hands on the dead man’s shirt. She heard running footsteps nearby. Likely it had always been going to come to this. She concealed herself behind the door and waited.

  The footsteps grew louder. A handful of men poured into the room, slowing rapidly and falling over each other as they saw the carnage. Amaya waited for all four to enter, then slammed the door shut and leaped to the attack.

  She only resorted to her claws once; the rest fell to her Shaping their sunqu. When all four were dead, Amaya once more waited for her Need and Heart to subside and stared at the bodies. Dr. Macrae would not be so swift to urge Amaya to take up medicine if she knew what Extraordinary Shapers were capable of—though how could she not know, being an Extraordinary Shaper herself? Possibly doctoring was how Dr. Macrae soothed her conscience, for Amaya could not imagine the stately, composed woman capable of taking lives in such a fashion without being overpowered by guilt. True, there was some balancing of the scales if one could Heal others as well as Shape their deaths, but Amaya felt no need to justify herself to anyone.

  She once more wiped her hands and listened at the door, just in case. Distant shouts and screams told her the man’s warning had penetrated to the entire house, but no more men approached this room. She wrenched the door open past a body blocking it and ran for the stairs.

  The entry hall was
chaos. Men and women dressed for sleep thronged the hall, shouting at one another. Soldiers shoved them aside as they ran outside. No one noticed Amaya, standing at the edge of the commotion. She pushed past the servants and darted up the stairs.

  She heard the men waiting above—well, there was no more need to be stealthy. She ran lightly around the turns of the stair and came bursting out, diving at the nearest man before he could bring his pistol to bear on her. One touch, and his heart burst within his chest. She rose, snarling, and the remaining men opened fire.

  She was fast, but not fast enough to dodge every pistol ball. One struck her shoulder, cracking the scapula and sending pain shooting down her left arm that she ignored. Another hit her in the stomach, and a third grazed her right temple. As she bore down on her next victim, her body Shaped her injuries without more than a passing intent from her, the bone realigning and fusing together, the stomach Healing fast enough to eject the deformed ball at speed from the entry wound, the skin of her temple re-growing at a rate that made her head ache for a couple of heartbeats before fading. The pain of the rapid Shaping filled her, but the clear sharpness of battle lust made it distant, something easily ignored.

  As she Healed herself, she killed; a swipe to the throat here, a touch of the hand there. Men dropped like stones into a clear pool, their blood, when there was blood, soaking the planks of the floor. She reached the end of the hall, swiped blood out of her eyes, and regarded her fallen victims dispassionately. If there were more men, let them come. She had nearly reached her goal.

  Light came from beneath only one of the doors along this upper hall. She pushed the door open and flattened herself to one side, in case whoever was within was armed. Instead, she heard a man’s voice saying, “Let’s not waste any more time, shall we? Do come in.”