Some of the nobles had joined the guards on the floor. Kel saw Joss Falconet brandishing his sword, a slim silver blade. Montfaucon had drawn a thin dagger from his brocaded cuff; Kel saw him slit a Skull’s throat before plucking a half-full wineglass from a nearby table and downing the dregs. Charlon had waded in like a bull, unarmed but swinging his fists. Lady Sardou had produced a jeweled misericorde from the bosom of her dress, and was laying about her with ferocity.
In that moment, Kel knew he had been correct to always go armed to Dial Chamber meetings.
But where was Antonetta? He was used to having his entire focus be on Conor—whom he could see engaged in battle with a Skull, slashing away at his opponent without regard for the rules of swordplay Jolivet had taught them—and to have it split was disorienting. But he could not do anything about it; Ana had taken up residence somewhere behind his eyes, and he could not stop them searching for her. Looking for the flash of gold silk among the teeming mass—
And there she was, a silver dagger in her hand. She was near the doors, her mother behind her, looking stunned as Antonetta dispatched a Skull who had come too close with a kick to the knee and a swift slashing cut to the shoulder. Those secret sword lessons must be good ones, Kel thought. The Skull collapsed, bleeding and clutching at his arm, as Antonetta dragged her stunned mother by main force out of the room.
A few were following—safety seemed to be outside, but the path to it was a bloody trek through flashing blades and mounting chaos. Kel was halfway to Conor now. His progress was slow, each step a bloody fight. He decapitated a Skull with the sweep of his blade, ducked low to sever the ankle tendons of another. He stopped short of cutting the man’s throat. Better if some of them survived the night, a small rational voice in the back of his head told him. They would need to be interrogated. There was a why to all this, a why Kel could only guess at—
And then there was a shriek from the high table. Kel looked over and saw Sena Anessa stagger back. A black arrow protruded from her shoulder. No, not an arrow, Kel thought, rising to his feet, a crossbow bolt—
Anessa slumped, blood pouring down the front of her dress, and Luisa screamed. She was struggling in Vienne’s arms and she pulled free suddenly—only for a moment, but it was long enough. Even as Kel turned to look, to see where the first bolt had come from, the second arrowed through the air. It plunged into Luisa’s chest with enough force to lift the girl off her feet.
She slammed into the wall behind the high table. The bolt that had gone through her body must have lodged itself between two stones—later, it would be discovered that this was exactly what had happened—for it stuck fast. It stuck fast, and Luisa, who must have died the moment the bolt went into her chest, hung limply from it, dangling against the wall like one of the butterflies Kel had seen in Merren’s flat, pinned to a specimen board.
Vienne let out a terrible, heartbroken, shrilling cry and flung herself at Luisa. Kel could not bear to watch; he turned and saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, partway up the wall—
The gallery. From what better vantage point might one shoot a crossbow?
Kel ran. For the first time in his life he ran not toward Conor, but after something else. He shot up the twisting marble steps, exploding out onto the gallery, only to find it empty of musicians. There were instruments here, lying scattered about, and chairs that had been overturned—by those who had fled, Kel guessed—but the gallery was empty.
Kel was about to turn and go back downstairs when he saw the window.
An ordinary sash window at the end of the room, it was open, its curtain fluttering in the breeze. Only Kel knew, from years of familiarity with the gallery, that this window did not look out on empty air. It led to the roof.
A second later, he was climbing through it. His boots hit the roof tiles and he nearly slipped. It was no darker out here than it had been in the gallery—the moon was bright, a white moon that cast a brilliant glow over the curve of the roof, illuminating the scattered palaces of Marivent. And outlining the figure standing in shadow at the roof’s edge, gazing out over the city.
At its feet, a crossbow lay, abandoned.
Kel shouted, scrambling down the tiles. He was not sure, later, what he had shouted exactly. Something like: Who are you? Who paid you to do this? Something pointless, anyway.
The assassin did not move or seem to hear Kel. A slim figure, and tall, they seemed fitted into some kind of tight black uniform, flexible as a second skin. And yet Kel could not tell if the stranger was male or female, old or young, Castellani or foreign. Only that whoever it was seemed to have no fear of heights.
As he crept closer, the dark assassin turned toward him, slowly. Kel almost yelled aloud. The stranger had no face, or none he could observe. Only a smooth and featureless dark expanse. The black uniform, whatever material it was, covered everything entirely.
And yet, somehow, he felt strongly that the stranger was smiling.
“Sword Catcher.” The voice was a low hiss. “Királar. You ruined my plans, you know. But do not be afraid. Tonight is not your night to die.”
“How reassuring,” said Kel. “And yet, you’ll forgive me if I don’t find you entirely trustworthy.”
He took another step forward. He could not tell if the figure was watching him. It had no eyes, only pools of darker shadow amid the pale shadow that was its face.
“You stand upon the threshold of history, Sword Catcher,” said the figure. “For this is the beginning of the fall of House Aurelian.”
“And are you the architect of that fall?” Kel demanded, desperation and fury hot in his veins. “Will you buy their destruction with a child’s blood?”
The figure chuckled. “The fall is all around you,” it said. “Tread carefully.”
And with unbelievable speed, the assassin caught up their crossbow and sprang. Not toward Kel, but off the roof’s edge. The dark figure seemed to hang for a moment against the moon before hurtling silently toward the ground.
Kel raced to the edge of the roof, nausea roiling his stomach as he looked down, expecting to see a body crumpled on the flagstones, dark blood pooling around it.
But there was nothing. Only the empty courtyard, the ordinary shadows, the sough of wind in the branches of the cypress trees. He moved closer to the roof’s edge—
You ruined my plans, Sword Catcher.
There must have been another crossbow bolt, one meant for Conor. Death before marriage to Sarthe. Cursing himself, Kel bolted back the way he had come.
He had only been gone a few minutes, maybe less than that. But by the time Kel returned to the Shining Gallery, everything had changed, because of Vienne.
He found out later that, a moment after Luisa’s death, Vienne had leaped onto the high table, flinging herself at a Castelguard; they went down together, and when they rose, she had his sword in her hand.
She tore through the ring of Castelguards and lunged, her body making one long line with the sword, as if it were part of her. It sliced through the nearest Skull’s throat; his head spun from his body. Blood spurted from the stump of his throat as he sank slowly to his knees, listing like a drowning ship. He hit the ground just as Vienne leaped from the dais and charged into the fray, heedless of the blood that soaked her silver slippers.