Chapter 5 - Reap and Sow

Eda’s swimming head had room for only two thoughts. The first: Being punched really bloody hurt. The second: She had to get away. Now.

She ignored the searing pain in her mouth—he’d cut the inside of her lip—and scrambled to get up where she’d fallen. Gregory dove on her. She inhaled to scream, but his hand closed around her throat.

He brandished the fire poker threateningly. “Make a sound, and I’ll bash your brains out.”

Eda couldn’t have shouted if she wanted to. He was surprisingly heavy. She supposed that was the fault of the chainmail now visible beneath his collar. Her eyes filled with tears, fear and anger warring for dominance. Ben’s right. I’m an imbecile.

“Stand up.” Gregory hauled her upright. With the poker around her throat, he reached into his coat and drew out a fine silver-alloy dagger that flashed in the shadows. Eda’s heart thundered against her ribs so hard he could probably feel it. “The key’s in the foyer, you say? Are you telling me the truth?” The blade ghosted down her arm. “Don’t make me go looking.”

“Pocket,” she choked. “Right pocket.”

He rummaged about, searching. Eda reached into her jerkin and thumbed the penknife hiding there.

Gregory made an angry noise. “There’s nothing in here, you little—”

The blade pierced his thigh like a skewer in meat. He screamed. Eda twisted it with a grimace. His grip loosened and she elbowed him in the face. He fell back.

“Ben!” she screamed, racing through the stacks. “BEN!”

The Blade limped after her. Eda pulled over a stone vase, letting it roll into his path.

“Stop!” he roared. “You are being apprehended under suspicion of soul brokerage by the Order of the Blade—”

Eda didn’t hear Ben among all the commotion, but suddenly, he was there. He caught her as she scurried from the stacks into the foyer. He paused only a moment to steady her, then stormed onward the way she’d come. His hair was rumpled from sleep, and he was still dressed in his nightshirt, but his face was hard as stone. Eda watched in terror as he marched silently toward the Blade.

Gregory stopped. Raised his knife. “Stay where you are!”

Ben snatched another fire poker from the same collection she had, without so much as breaking his stride. The Blade must have realized the danger he was in because he frantically drew out a whistle from around his neck. The shop filled with a high, piercing note, loud enough to wake half the street. He blew again.

The poker struck him over the head. Gregory’s neck snapped back. He staggered, swiping blindly with his knife.

Ben hit him a second time. Blood sprayed. Gregory fell, but Ben continued to bring down the poker over and over. His strikes were so forceful that the muscles in his back bulged like a cart horse. Thwack, thwack, thwack. The Blade’s legs jerked. Fell still.

Eda couldn’t make much out in the dark, but she saw enough. She groaned and grabbed the shelves for support.

Lawrie was suddenly there, arms banded around her. His familiar scent of parchment and ink filled her nose. “Edie! Are you all right? What’s happened?”

Blood stained the grooves of her palm, she realized numbly. She’d stabbed Gregory.

Gregory, who was now lying dead on their floor.

Eda heard herself babbling. Her voice was thick with unshed tears. It was a wonder Lawrie could understand any of it. “—and then he hit me. I tried to get away—”

Ben appeared, cupping her face to make her look at him. He had specks of blood across his jaw. “Eda, listen to me. There are Blades outside, and they’ll soon be in. Do you have the cellar key?”

Only then did Eda notice them: dark shapes amassing outside the shop windows. The whistle. It was a signal.

She’d never known the Order to operate outside of their uniformed patrols. They were steadfast in the upholding of their tenets: In light we serve, through honor we defend. The Blades were not a faction to meddle in skulduggery and shadow. It was beneath them, and so beneath them was where the Shaws happily chose to remain.

But something had changed.

“The bishop,” Eda muttered. “That bishop from the capital—”

The door rattled on its hinges.

“Eda, the key!”

Bang.

“U-under the counter.”

Lawrie ran to get it. Ben pulled her through the stacks, ignoring the dead body sprawled across the rug. Eda nearly tripped over it, over him. A head cracked open, unrecognizable. Red pulpy smears. Soft tissue beneath her boots. She tried not to heave.

Ben had done that. “Ben. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He said nothing until they were at the cellar door. “Doesn’t matter now. Stay calm.”

Eda nodded, despair clawing at her insides. This can’t be happening. Not now, not after all these years.

Lawrie came running. His hands trembled as he unlocked the cellar door. It swung open the same instant a loud crash rang throughout the shop. Voices called orders. The sound of many people spilled into the foyer: pounding footsteps, swords sliding from sheaths.

The Shaws piled into the cellar. Lawrie fumbled to lock it behind them. They were in total darkness. “I can’t find the keyhole. I can’t find it!”

A rummaging sound, and then a small flame sprang to life nearby. Ben had found the little stack of matches they kept under the first sconce. His hands were steady as he moved to light the next. “Try again.”

Lawrie did, his face skull-like in terror as footsteps thumped along the floorboards on the other side. The lock clicked into place just before someone tried the doorknob. It rattled violently. “They’re in here!”

Lawrie dragged her down the twisting stairwell. Eda’s legs wobbled like matchsticks, her head full of furious bees. This is all my fault.

With a grunt, Ben pulled up a metal grill set into the floor. The sewer access hatch. Most ground-level buildings in Blackbridge had one, big enough to fit a single person, fitted with a narrow set of footholds down one side of the chute for service workers.

The plan had been the same for years. If things went wrong—if they were found out and had nowhere else to go—this would be their escape route. The system of underground tunnels beneath Blackbridge were filthy and dangerous, but anything was better than capture by the Blades.

“Eda, get in.” Ben’s voice brokered no argument.

She moved toward the chute even as she frantically tried to think. “We could use the mirror, call Mr. Night. He could protect us—”

“Do not speak that name again. We’re on our own. Now get in!”

She dared not argue. For all his simmering rage, Ben still held her hand as she lowered herself into the shaft and felt cautiously about for footholds. Panic made her clumsy, but she managed, descending until only her head remained exposed. A dank, fetid smell rose up to meet her. The footholds were cold as ice against her palms.

Overhead, something scraped the door. Lawrie swallowed. “They’re taking it off the hinges.”

“I know. Get in the shaft quickly. Make room for him, Eda.” Ben positioned himself in the center of the room. At his back, the orange glow of the sconces reflected in the Gateway’s oil-smooth surface.

Eda realized he still held the poker, brandished like a sword. “Ben? What are you—”

Bang. The door screeched painfully as it shifted out of its lintel.

Her heart leaped into her throat. “Ben!”

He did not look at her. He stood stoically in place, like a soldier before an oncoming horde. Anger and fear were gone; in their place, a mask of grim determination. “There’s an access gate the servicemen never lock, remember? Take it east through the tunnels until you find another hatch. Get out of Blackbridge.”

Bang.

Tears blurred her vision. “Ben.”

Lawrie knelt down and cupped her cheek. “Do as he says. You’ll be fine, Edie, but you have to go now.” He pressed on her shoulder, pushing her deeper into the chute.

Eda clawed at the floor in alarm. “Lawrie, no. No! I am not leaving you! Look, I’ll move down, just wait a second—just—”

The door burst open with a terrific crash.

Lawrie dragged the grate across the chute, forcing her to duck or else be hit in the face. She cried out, reaching for him through the bars.

“Shhh,” he hissed, curiously calm. Footsteps pounded down the stairwell. “If you love us, you’ll run. Do not come back. Understand?”

Eda could only stare up at him in horror. His fingers grazed hers before he stood.

Ben swung at the first Blade, striking him in the throat. It was all he could manage before two more fell upon him, shoving him brutally to the ground. Face pressed to the floor, he briefly met her eyes. She saw his relief, for they hadn’t spotted her.

Lawrie punched one of the Blades holding Ben down; he was swiftly rewarded with a sword pommel to the face, wrestled to his knees.

Eda clung to the grate. Tears rolled down her face. My fault, my fault, my fault.

There were five Blades in all, a sixth above her on the stairs; she peered up through the gaps in the stairwell at his red cloak and heavy leather boots. Suddenly, they moved aside.

Another pair of feet appeared—more slender, their step lighter. Eda watched in trepidation as those fine feet slowly traversed the stairwell. Her brothers were hauled upright. She saw their expressions change before she caught a glimpse of the newcomer herself.

A lithe, angular figure stepped into the firelight. His red hair positively glowed against the shadows. Eda’s heart dropped.

“Well,” Bishop Florian Fane said, “what have we here?”