Adrian swallowed, shaking his head once and then again—as if, Helga thought under the rush of relief at his words and then horror at his prospects in a duel with this trained killer, he was talking to someone again . . . and disagreeing with them.
“I think you’re forgetting something, my lord,” Esmond said quietly.
“Yes?”
“Forgetting that if you harm my brother, in any way whatsoever, I’ll kill you and piss on your grave,” Esmond said, smiling himself. His eyes had taken on the same febrile brilliance they’d had during the duel with Director Franzois, and Sawtre checked for a moment.
“You don’t dare, Emerald,” he said softly.
“You’d be surprised what I dare,” Esmond replied, his voice equally calm.
Behind him the men of the Strikers tensed, and exchanged glances with Sawtre’s fighting tail. Those men began drifting towards their lord; one of them dashed out, to collect others of their band who were lifting their share in the sack of the palace.
“Excuse me,” Helga said loudly. Sawtre’s eyes did not waver. Helga tapped the edge of her buckler against her sword. “Excuse me. You, the asshole in the arming doublet!”
That brought amazed snickers from the crowd around the throne; even Casull, half-risen in annoyance and gathering apprehension at the sudden prospect of a battle royal before his eyes, turned to look at her.
The nobleman flicked her an annoyed glance. “Be silent, woman, or you’ll get a worse beating than you would otherwise.”
“Oh, excuse me, my mighty Islander Pirate Lord dumber-than-dogshit, but you’re forgetting something.”
“What?”
There was a slack amazement on Sawtre’s hard face; he could not believe that this was happening to him, this public defiance by a woman. His hand went to his belt. Not to the hilt of his sword, as it had a moment before, but to the thonged crop that hung there.
“Forgetting this,” Helga said, and thrust underarm.
Lord Sawtre’s face went slack with an amazement even more complete than before. Even then, his hand began a movement towards his sword, struck the hilt, began to draw. Hey, really good reflexes, Helga thought—it helped keep her mind off the fact that she had just probably condemned herself to death. I’d rather be dead, she thought, at the thick wet butcher’s-cleaver sound as the blade went in from below, just above the man’s left hip. Sawtre’s mouth and eyes went into identical Os of shock as she dropped her buckler, put both hands on the hilt, and ripped the blade upward with a twisting wrench of arms and shoulders and back.
It came free with a hard shit-stink following it, and the Islander noble dropped to his knees and clutched at the pink-and-red intestines spilling into his lap.
“Be silent, woman, you said?” Helga said, her voice breathy with exertion. “Try being silent about this, you velipad’s ass.”
The sword went up, and her right foot curled up and then slammed down to add emphasis as the blade fell—spattering red drops even before it struck the man’s neck, and with white shreds of fat sticking in nicks in the steel. Sawtre flopped boneless to the ground, and blood spilled down, crimson against the marble white and malachite green of the steps.
For a long moment there was absolute silence; Adrian was staring at her and looking—again as if he was talking to someone. His brother was staring at her too, seeing her as a person for the first time rather than a symbol his brother was willing to fight for, and his eyes were wide with an expert’s appreciation of what she’d just done. King Casull was frozen in a different set of calculations. His voice cut across the beginnings of a murmur:
“Well, it seems he was silent about that,” he observed, leaning back in the throne and resting his bearded chin on the knuckles of one hand. “And you know—I’ve thought Sawtre was a velipad’s arse myself, for a good long while now.”
He chuckled, then threw back his head and laughed outright. Some of the courtiers chimed in immediately, and others took it up, until the whole room was roaring.
Allfather of Vanbert, Greatest and Best—what a bunch of pirates! Even after a year in the Isles, she forgot sometimes. . . .