“Must have had a pot of boiling oil over a fire,” Adrian muttered. Louder: “Again!”
More grenades arched out, for the windows, and a dozen or more over the rooftree. His own snapped into the bulged framework of the bronze grill, and blasted a corner of it out in a shower of wood splinters and metal fragments that pinged and whined off the wall and the street. His next went through the gap, and a hollow roar told him it had exploded in the hallway within.
“Again . . . all right, let’s go for it!”
Esmond and scores of his men joined him. They flattened against the wall, but no darts or boiling water or oil cascaded down from the windows above. Adrian lit another grenade and tossed it overhand through the shattered grill; it was one of the red-banded kind, the ones with lead balls packed into the double shell outside the powder. He could feel them slamming into the teak of the door’s interior.
Crossed spears tossed Esmond up. He gripped the stonework edges that had held the grill, looked within.
“All clear,” he said, and swung himself through feetfirst with an athlete’s impossible grace. They heard him swear mildly on the other side, as he wrenched at the warped bar, and then the doors were open.
Adrian looked through and swallowed. Men must have been packed in here pretty densely, when the first grenade came through. More had been trying to drag away the wounded, when that last one he’d thrown had landed among them.
Esmond stood with blood splashed up to his knees, like a statue of Wodep the War God poised with shield and sword. His face held a stony unconcern.
“This way,” he said, pointing.
The main staircase to the second floor ran up from the other side of the vestibule courtyard. In ancient times there would have been an open light well over the pool, letting in water for domestic use. Here it was a skylight, and the pool was ornamental . . . less so now, since a grenade had evidently landed in it, and the colorful swimmers were pasted across the columns and mosaics. A wounded man had crawled as far as the staircase, and was making a messy time of dying. Black smoke poured down the landing.
“Oh, Maiden shield us, the place is on fire,” Adrian blurted.
“Well, what did you expect?” Esmond said harshly. “Let’s go.”
“Wait.” Adrian ripped a strip of cloth off the bottom of his tunic and dipped it in the water of the ornamental pool before tying it around his nose.
“Good idea,” Esmond said, following suit along with the rest. “Half of you hand over your grenades and follow us,” he went on to the men. “The rest of you, keep a sharp lookout on the street for enemy reinforcements.”
The water smelled rankly bad, but it was welcome as they forced their way up into the furnace heat of the second story. The fire had started along the streetfront, and the doors in that direction were belching gouts of fire. It was running fast into the northwest corner of the building, though, running along the tinder-dry cedar rafters and the laths of the plasterwork that made up most of the big house’s interior partitions. And the paint in the murals, that’s linseed oil, Adrian reminded himself. And the tapestries . . . Maiden shield us!
They crouched and went down the connecting corridor around the central courtyard, towards the suite of Redvers’ wife, where her personal servants would be. Halfway down it was an improvised barricade of furniture, with the gasping, coughing forms of half a dozen City Company troopers behind it.
“We can—” he began. His brother ignored him.
“Nanya!” he shouted, like a battle cry, and leapt.
Adrian followed, sword in one sweating hand and buckler in the other. This isn’t my proper work— he thought.
His brother struck. Adrian’s eyes went wide; he felt Raj’s surprise at the back of his mind as well. The sword moved, blurring with its speed, and a spray of red droplets followed it in an arching spatter across the pale stucco of the walls. A man screamed, looking at the stump of an arm taken off at the elbow. Another slammed backward as the edge of Adrian’s sword ploughed into his forehead and then fell in a spastic quivering heap. As he wrenched the weapon free, Esmond kicked another in the crotch, then broke his bent-over neck with a downward blow of the shield rim. Adrian struck at a man backing away with his face slack in horror and the assegai loose in his hand. The City Companies trooper wailed and fled, clutching a gashed forearm. He looked up to see Esmond driving the remaining two Confeds before him down the corridor. As he watched, one went over backward at a slam from Esmond’s brass-faced shield. Esmond leapt high, came down on the man’s ribcage with both heels, managed to spring free in time to turn a final assegai thrust with his shield. Then the sword sprang out like a kermitoid’s licking tongue. The Confed gaped down at the blade through his torso, then slid backward as his face went slack.