The Wheel of Osheim (The Red Queen's War 3)

Even in dire straits there’s a certain joy in riding hard through the empty streets of a city that is never empty. In my whole life, no matter how late the hour, I had never been able to let a horse have its head along Evening Way or the West Star Parade. I’d never once seen Evening Way without at least a dozen drunks, a city watchman or two, perhaps a young lord in pursuit of a young woman who was no lady . . . and by day there was never room enough to pass without scraping elbows with half of Vermillion. The din of Murder’s hooves echoed off the walls as we shot through.

By Thread Needle Corner a woman’s cry caught my attention. I looked up to see her at a high window, the uppermost floor of Melican’s, a fine tailor’s in which I’ve disposed of at least a modest fortune.

“Prince Jalan!”

I pulled on my reins. I’d out-distanced the two sluggards Captain Renprow had picked to accompany me and being hailed at least gave me an excuse to let them catch up. A quick glance around for lurking dead men or mire-ghouls creeping along the rooftops, and I called out, “Yes?” I’d expected to have more to say but “yes” seemed to cover it.

“You—you’re going to the palace? Take me with you . . .” She seemed to know me. She did look vaguely familiar—at least young and pretty.

“I’m in haste . . . good woman.” My lips wanted to say “Mary” but I settled for “good woman” rather than guess. I hoped that was how marshals talked.

My escorts clattered up, reining their steeds in with a distinct lack of expertise.

“Wait for me!” The good woman pulled back from the window then, as if in afterthought, thrust her white face back out. “There’s a horror in the Shambles. Killing people and making their bodies dance.” With that she withdrew, presumably headed for the stairs.

“Ride!” I set my heels to Murder’s ribs and he leapt forward. I didn’t even feel bad about it. I’d been charged with saving a city, not each citizen individually. And besides, Mary—I dimly recalled something about squeezing into a fitting room with the girl and finding her most accommodating—would likely be far safer hidden above an anonymous tailor’s than in the palace.

We rode on through dark streets, occasionally breaking into squares where the moon, now edging above the rooftops, washed the flagstones with silver. In Reymond Square, less than a quarter of a mile from Grandmother’s iron gates, a sharp wind blew up suddenly about us, whipping dust and stinging grit into the air. Dry leaves spiralled around in the dust-devil’s grip, old rags too, grey tatters lifted in the gyre.

“Rag-a-maul!” The man behind me.

“Ride!”

Something sliced at my cheek. I dipped my head and galloped, hearing the scream of one of my soldiers, and the thud as he hit the ground. More screaming, a torn and hideous gabbling, growing fainter as we pulled away. Thundering toward the mouth of the street opposite I saw a man walk out into the road, and turn toward us, arms wide. What remained of his skin hung in tatters from wet and dripping arms. Closing the last yards, I saw the faintest outline of what rode him—a skeletal thing, some awful grinning devil with more than a touch of insect in its mix. The man opened his mouth to speak, grinning in an echo of the devil’s mirth, but I rode him down before his first word.

A cold shudder ran the length of me even as Murder bore me away. The spirit from the whirlwind had been riding its victim much like a lichkin must ride its host, though the lichkin achieve a far more intimate union, burrowing within the unborn flesh to release its potential in hideous new ways. I dug my heels in and we reached ridiculous speed, hooves nearly slipping out from under us as we took the next corner. I couldn’t be away from that thing quick enough.

A minute later and I rounded a corner to the sight of the palace walls. The moon rode on the shoulder of the Genoa keep now, a blood moon, reddened by the smoke of ten thousand burning homes. I cantered on, my remaining soldier far behind. The palace walls, ever my sanctuary, had never been such a welcome sight. Nor, sadly, had they ever looked so low. For once I shared my grandmother’s disappointment that history had furnished the Red March monarchy with a luxurious seat, steeped in arts and culture, rather than a grim fortress menacing the surrounding city.

Almost immediately I spotted Martus. His command pavilion, pitched just a few yards before the walls, sagged drunkenly, there being few places a tent peg could be driven between the flagstones. A force of a hundred or so soldiers stood arrayed in the street, wide eyes searching the night as if they knew just how haunted it was. A couple of grooms stood with Martus’s horse close by the pavilion, along with two messageriders in their saddles and a trio of drummers bent under the weight of their instruments. Two minor officers stood at the pavilion’s entrance.