This is the thirtieth chapter of Wealthgiver, an alternate history serial romance about nationalism and cave-Thracians. For the back-of-the-book description and an index of chapters, click here. For the beginning, click here. For the previous chapter, click here.
Kori smiled and squinted against the morning sunlight, trying to answer questions and allay fears while ignoring the queasiness in her stomach.
Some of the gathered people were shocked to hear the secrets of the Good revealed to Fools. Others were still confused. Shrouded who? Unseen what? And what was a Bessian?
Surprise, anger, and fear she heard, and relief. Kori's ear twitched and she turned her head, scanning the crowd with her eyes. "Yes, yes," said a man's voice in the tone of, All right. It has finally begun.
Kori resonated with that emotion. So did Andrei, but who could be this third? Her eyes found the man in the bishop's entourage, which gave her pause. Surely it would be one of hodja's followers. If Kori wanted to destroy the future of her people, that was where she would have planted her sleeper agent.
The bishop cried out as the assassin shoved him aside and launched himself across the space separating him from Andrei. Andrei was turning to face his attacker, but too slowly.
He wouldn't be able to protect himself. Sickles unfolded like eagle's wings, and Kori was too far away. At best she would be able to drive her own weapon into the man's back as he slit her husband's throat. Cenk's saber was already out of its sheath, but Andrei was between him and the sprinting assassin.
The other Good near the pit. Arsen and the rest. She could command them. She must!
It was much harder than it should have been. Kori had agreed to let Andrei use the Good language in public. She had watched the winces on the other faces with a certain amount of smugness. But now her voice rebelled. "Spúas —!" Her throat closed. She could not utter these words before Fools.
Who are the Fools, if this is how we behave?
Kori straightened her spine and extended her finger. "Spúas igán!"
The assassin was upon her man. Andrei raised his arm and the knife aiming for his neck slashed a bloody line from his elbow to his wrist. He stumbled backward into Cenk, who had to pull back his own weapon.
"Pardon me, effendi," said a man in the hodja's entourage. Pushing his master aside, he aimed a pistol.
The assassin's other blade swept towards Andrei's lower torso. Andrei grasped at the wrist, but the assassin bore down on him, screaming, "Christ alone shall save—!"
The pistol cracked and the assassin slammed into Andrei. The two men twirled together, as if dancing, and arcs of blood drops followed their path to the ground.
***
"Spúas igán," said part of Andrei's brain. Stop him. Imperative mood. Accusative pronoun. Attend!
A shot rang out and the assassin was on top of him, dripping hot blood from his right shoulder. The left hand, though, came up like the tail of a scorpion. Andrei grabbed at that wrist. His elbow braced against the ground. Let the bastard try to get him now!
The assassin jerked his arm, not down toward Andrei's throat, but sideways toward his own.
How dare you? You will come to me when I take you!
Andrei let go with his hand and sank his teeth into the wounded man's wrist.
The assassin howled and Andrei ground his teeth until he felt the carpal sinews relax. There! What with the bullet to the left scapula, that was both hands taken out of commission.
Andrei brought up his good hand and gave his attacker a good jab to the lymph nodes under the jaw. The assassin gagged and jerked his head back, and Andrei rolled out from under him. His heels hung over the pit he'd dug and Kori was shouting his name.
Andrei pulled himself to his feet. His arm hurt. "I'm all right. Oh. Not exactly. Bastard got me on the arm." He clamped his left hand over his right forearm and did a quick assessment of the blood dripping from it. No pulsing. No squirting. "I'll be fine. Tourniquet!"
Rather than ripping off her own clothing as Andrei would have preferred, Kori jerked her head at Andrei and said, "Do it."
The false cleric who had shot the assassin bowed his head, holstered his pistol, and started sawing away at his robes with a sickle-shaped blade that, of course, he had ready to hand.
There were a lot of blades in the crowd, now that Andrei had the presence of mind to notice. They vanished back up sleeves and into sashes as Kori walked to the assassin. She kicked his sickles away from him and put her foot on his chest.
"Tsi tan iranzé?" she demanded, and most of the crowd winced. That meant 'who…something…you?' Probably 'who sent you?'
"The lord Jesus Chrrr…" the assassin gurgled as Kori pressed her foot down.
"Maí varáss ak ésta plak. Nabréma mi! Vas em Stopeáta te."
Andrei knew that one: the truest face is a mask. Answer me! I am your Mistress.
"Stopéa," gasped the assassin, and Kori relieved the pressure on his chest. "La di ma ié sára!"
But something you are not a maiden. Andrei squinted, feeling hot and dizzy.
"Ma ié sára."
Andrei gritted his teeth around the end of the cloth and pulled the tourniquet tighter. You are not the a maiden, the assassin said. Easy enough to understand.
"Blássa!" Kori commanded, but the assassin screamed.
"Piáss kápa blapát Saráda! Piáss kápa blapát Sarrr…"
Kori's foot pressed down on his chest again. Her face was white with rage. "Ma," she whispered. "Ma ta tan día."
'I won't kill you,' that was, but Andrei couldn't be bothered with translating the assassin's raving. He panted as someone — ah, Cenk — tied off his tourniquet. Good old Cenk.
"What the hell is going on?"
Andrei's Bulgarian was good enough to understand the hodja's muttered question, and even to form an answer. "A war, I think," he said and another wave of dizziness struck him. He leaned against Cenk, lolling around to look into the hole he'd dug.
Gold glittered like eyes against the black Earth. Andrei could smell it.
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Next: Chapter 31: A Death-pit