ggk.thelionsofal-rassan-第71章

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　　He　drew　a　long　breath　before　answering　her。　He　looked　up　from　the　crowd　below　them　to　the　night　sky：　only　the　one　moon；　blue　among　the　stars。
　　Still　within　her；　moving　steadily　in　their　merging　rhythms；　Alvar　looked　down　again；　away　from　the　distant　lights　in　the　sky　to　the　nearer　ones　lit　by　mortal　men　and　women　to　chase　away　the　dark。
　　Across　the　square；　between　torches　set　into　the　wall　of　the　barracks；　he　saw　Rodrigo　Belmonte　falling。
　　
　　He　had　indeed　been　sitting　at　the　writing　desk；　parchment　before　him；　ink　and　quills；　a　glass　of　dark　wine　at　one　elbow；　trying　to　think　of　what　more　there　was　to　say…of　tidings；　counsels；　apprehensions；　need。
　　He　was　not　the　sort　of　man　who　could　write　to　his　wife　about　how　much　he　longed　to　have　her　in　this　room　with　him。　How　he　would　unbind　her　hair；　strand　by　strand；　and　slip　his　arms　about　her　and　draw　her　near；　after　so　long。　Allow　his　hands　to　travel；　and　then；　his　own　clothing　gone；　how　they　might　。。。　
　　He　could　not　write　these　things。　He　could　think　them；　however；　a　kind　of　punishment。　He　could　sit　alone　at　night　in　a　high　room　and　listen　to　the　sounds　of　revelry　drifting　up　through　the　open　window　and　he　could　picture　Miranda　in　his　mind；　and　imagine　her　here　now；　and　feel　weak　with　his　desire。
　　He　had　made　a　promise　years　before；　and　had　renewed　it　over　and　again…to　her；　but　more　to　himself。　He　was　not　the　kind　of　man　who　broke　promises。　He　defined　himself；　in　large　part；　by　that。　A　man　found　his　honor；　Rodrigo　Belmonte　thought…and　his　self…respect；　and　certainly　pride…on　many　different　kinds　of　battlefields。　He　was　on　one；　or　hovering　above　one；　tonight　in　Ragosa。　He　didn't　write　that　to　Miranda；　either。
　　He　picked　up　a　quill　again　and　dipped　it　into　the　black　ink　and　prepared　to　resume：　something　for　the　boys；　he　thought；　to　take　his　mind　from　these　unsettling　channels。
　　The　boys。　Love　there；　too；　sword…sharp；　fear　and　pride　as　well。　Almost　men　now。　Too　soon。　Riding　with　him？　Would　that　be　best？　He　thought　of　the　old　outlaw　Tarif　ibn　Hassan；　in　that　echoing　valley。　A　cunning；　ferocious　giant　of　a　man。　He　had　thought　about　him　often　since　that　day　in　the　Emin　ha'Nazar。　Two　sons　there；　as　well。　Kept　beside　him。　Both　of　them　fine　men；　capable　and　decent；　though　the　one　had　lost　his　leg　now；　which　was　a　misfortune。　Alive　though；　thanks　to　Jehane。　No　longer　young；　either　of　them。　And　neither；　it　could　be　seen；　would　ever　break　free　of　the　father's　wide　shade　into　his　own　defining　sunlight；　to　cast　his　own　shadow。　Not　even　after　Tarif　died。　It　could　be　seen。
　　Would　he　do　that　to　Fernan　and　Diego？
　　He　became　aware　that　he　had　been　holding　the　pen　for　a　long　time　over　the　smooth　pale　parchment。　Writing　nothing。　Chasing　thoughts。　The　ink　had　dried。　He　laid　the　quill　down　again。
　　There　came　a　knocking　at　his　door。
　　
　　Later；　tracking　events　backwards；　he　would　realize　what　had　put　him…very　slightly…on　the　alert。
　　He　had　not　heard　footsteps。　Any　of　his　own　pany　e　calling…as　many　of　them　had　promised；　or　threatened；　to　do…would　have　warned　him　by　their　noisy　progression　up　the　stairs　and　along　the　corridor。　The　Muwardis　were　too　schooled　to　silence。　The　stillness　of　the　desert；　at　night　under　stars。
　　Even　so；　it　was　only　a　partial　warning；　because　he　had　been　expecting　some　of　the　men　to　e　up　tonight；　with　more　wine；　and　stories　from　the　streets。　He'd　even　been　wondering；　feeling　a　little　sorry　for　himself；　what　was　taking　them　so　long。
　　So　he　called　out　an　easy　greeting；　and　pushed　his　chair　back；　rising　to　let　them　in。
　　And　the　door　burst　open。
　　He　had　no　weapon　to　hand：　his　sword　and　the　rancher's　whip　lay　across　the　room；　by　the　bed　where　he　always　left　them。　Moving　by　sheerest　instinct；　triggered　by　that　half…doubt　at　the　back　of　his　mind；　he　twisted　desperately　away　from　the　first　flung　dagger。　He　felt　it　graze　his　arm。　In　the　same　wrenching　motion　he　seized　and　hurled　the　candle　from　the　desk　into　the　face　of　the　first　man　into　the　room。
　　There　were　two　more　behind　that　one；　he　had　time　to　see。　The　sword　was　hopeless；　he　would　never　get　to　it。
　　He　heard　a　cry　of　pain；　but　he　had　already　turned。　Hurtling　straight　over　the　desk；　expecting　a　knife　in　his　back　any　moment；　Rodrigo　Belmonte　went　out　the　open　window。
　　The　third…floor　window。　Much　too　far　above　the　ground　for　a　man　to　survive　a　fall　to　the　street。
　　He　had　no　intention　of　falling。
　　Lain　had　taught　him　a　trick　years　and　years　ago。　Whenever　he　spent　a　night　in　a　room　well　above　the　ground；　whether　in　castle　or　palace　or　barracks　hall；　Rodrigo　would　hammer　a　spike　into　the　wall　outside　his　window　and　tie　a　length　of　rope　to　that　spike。　A　way　out。　He　always　wanted　a　way　out。　It　had　saved　his　life　twice。　Once　here　in　Al…Rassan；　with　Raimundo　in　the　time　of　exile；　once　on　the　Jalonan　campaign。
　　He　gripped　the　window　ledge　as　he　went　through；　and　used　that　grip　to　turn　his　body　to　where　he　knew　the　rope　to　be。　He　let　go　of　the　ledge　and　reached　for　it。
　　The　rope　wasn't　there。
　　Rodrigo　fell；　knees　scraping　along　the　wall。　Even　as　he　plummeted；　fighting　a　blind　panic；　he　realized　that　they　must　have　scouted　the　location　of　his　room　earlier；　while　he　was　out；　dining　with　the　pany。　Someone　with　extremely　good　eyesight；　and　equally　good　with　a　bow；　had　shot　and　severed　the　coiled　rope。
　　Figuring　this　out　did　nothing　whatsoever　to　break　his　fall。
　　Something　else　did：　the　fact　that　Lain　Nunez…with　the　privileges　of　age　and　rank…had　taken　the　corner　room　directly　below　him；　and　had　done　the　same　thing　outside　his　own　chamber。
　　They　hadn't　bothered　to　shoot　the　lower　rope。　Hurtling　down　between　moon　and　torches；　Rodrigo　reached　out　as　he　saw　Lain's　window　rush　up　towards　him　and　he　clutched　for…and　found…the　rope　tied　to　a　spike　outside　it。
　　It　tore　through　his　hands；　shredding　his　palms。　But　it　held；　and　he　held　on　at　the　bottom；　though　his　shoulders　were　almost　pulled　from　their　sockets。　He　ended　up　swinging　back　and　forth　between　two　torches　on　the　barracks　wall；　one　flight　above　the　crowded　square。　No　one　seemed　even　to　have　noticed。
　　Or；　no　one　not　actually　watching　for　him　from　below。
　　Rodrigo　took　a　knife　in　the　left　arm；　flung　up　from　the　street。　No　chance　to　quietly　maneuver　into　a　first…floor　room。　He　let　go；　jerking　the　Muwardi　dagger　out　as　he　fell。　He　landed　hard；　rolling　immediately…and　so　went　under　the　sword　sweeping　at　him。
　　He　rolled　again　on　the　cobblestones　and　then　was　up　and　spinning。　A　veiled　Muwardi　appeared　before　him；　sword　up。　Rodrigo　feinted　left　and　then　cut　back　the　other　way。　The　descending　blade　missed　him；　striking　sparks　on　the　stones。　Rodrigo　pivoted；　swinging　his　knife　at　the　back　of　the　Muwardi's　head。　It　sank　into　his　neck。　The　man　grunted　and　toppled　over。　Rodrigo　grappled　for　the　sword。
　　He　ought　to　have　died　in　that　moment。
　　For　all　his　celebrated　prowess；　his　valor　and　experience；　he　ought　to　have　died　and　left　the　world　of　men　to　meet　his　god　behind　the　sun。
　　He　was　armed　with　only　a　knife；　wounded　already；　and　without　armor。　The　assassins　in　the　square　had　been　hand…picked　from　among　the　desert　warriors　in　Cartada　for　the　task　of　killing　him。
　　He　would　have　died　in　Ragosa　that　night；　had　someone　in　that　square　not　looked　up　to　see　him　falling　along　the　wall；　and　known　him；　and　reacted　to　the　sight　of　an　upward…flung　dagger　in　the　night。
　　The　third　Muwardi；　rushing　up　as　Belmonte　reached　for　that　life…preserving　sword；　had　his　weapon　out　and　slashing　to　kill。
　　His　blade　was　intercepted　and　deflected　by　a　wooden　stave。　The　Muwardi　swore；　righted　himself　and　received　a　hard　blow　on　the　shin　from　the　staff。　He　wheeled；　ignoring　pain　as　a　warrior　had　to　and；　raising　the　sword　high；　towards　the　holy　stars；　brought　it　sweeping　downwards　against　the　accursed　interloper。
　　The　man　before　him；　alert　and　balanced；　moved　to　parry　this。　The　stave　came　up；　crosswise；　in　precisely　the　right　fashion。　It　was　light　wood；　though；　only　part　of　a　Carnival　costume；　and　the　descending　Muwardi　sword　was　real　as　death。　The　blade　sheared　through　the　staff　as　if　it　wasn't　there　and　bit　deep　into　the　intruder's　collarbone　in　the　same　moment　that　another　dagger；　flung　by　the　third　of　the　assassins；　sank　into　the　man's　breast。
　　The　nearer　Muwardi　grunted　with　satisfaction；　ripped　his　sword　roughly　free；　and　died。
　　Rodrigo　Belmonte；　with　that　moment's　respite　granted…one　of　those　moments　that　defined；　with　precision；　the　narrow　space　between　living　and　lying　dead　on　stone…had　a　Muwardi　blade　in　his　hand　and　a　black　rage　in　his　heart。
　　He　drove　the　sword　straight　into　the　chest　of　the　Muwardi；　tore　it　out；　and　turned　to　confront　the　third　man。　Who　did　not　run；　or　visibly　quail；　though　there　was　reason　now　to　do　both。　They　were　brave　men；　however。　Whatever　else　there　was　to　say　about　them；　the　warriors　of　the　sands　were　as　courageous　in　battle　as　any　men　who　walked　the　earth。　They　had　been　promised　Paradise　if　they　died　with　a　weapon　in　hand。
　　The　two　swords　met　with　a　grinding　and　then　a　quick；　clattering　sound。　A　woman　suddenly　screamed；　and　then　a　man　did　the　same。　The　crowd　around　them　began　frantically　spilling　away　from　this　abrupt；　lethal　violence。
　　It　didn't　last　long。　The　Muwardi　had　been　chosen　for　his　skill　in　causing　other　men　to　die；　but　he　was　facing　Rodrigo　Belmonte　of　Valledo　on　even　terms　in　a　cleared　space；　and　Belmonte　had　not　been　bested　in　single　bat　since　he　crossed　out　of　boyhood。
　　Another　clanging　of　metal；　as　Belmonte　drove　hard　for　the　other　man's　knees。　The　Muwardi　parried；　retreated。　Rodrigo　feinted　on　the　backhand；　high；　moving　forward　with　a　long　stride。　Then　he　dropped　swiftly；　unexpectedly；　to　one　knee　and　slashed　his　sword　into　the　Muwardi's　thigh。　The　man　cried　out；　staggered　sideways；　and　died　as　the　sword　bit　a　second　time；　cleanly　in　his　throat。
　　Rodrigo　turned；　without　pausing。　He　saw　what　he　had　expected　to　see：　three　more　of　them…the　ones　who　had　burst　into　his　room…racing　out　the　door　of　the　barracks；　fanning　apart。　He　knew　that　whichever　of　his　men　had　drawn　the　short　straw　for　this　watch　was　dead　in　that　doorway。　He　didn't　know　who　it　had　been。
　　The　deaths　of　his　men　enraged　him　beyond　any　words。
　　He　went　forward　to　meet　these　three　alone；　to　slake　rage　with　retribution；　grief　with　hard　and　deadly　movement。　He　did　know　who　had　died；　behind　him　in　the　square；　saving　his　life。　Rage；　a　great　grief。　He　moved　to　face　the　assassins。
　　Others　were　there　before　him。
　　An　entirely　naked　man；　with　something　trailing　along　the　ground　from　his　waist；　had　seized　the　sword　of　one　of　the　fallen　Muwardis。　He　was　already　engaging　the　first　of　the　new　ones。　From　the　other　side；　the　spectacle　of　a　peacock　wielding　a　shepherd's　crook　presented　itself。　Even　as　Rodrigo　ran　forward　he　saw　the　peacock　bring　that　crook　down　from　behind　upon　the　head　of　one　of　the　Muwardis。　The　desert　warrior　crumpled　like　a　child's　soft　toy。　The　peacock　scarcely　hesitated：　he　brought　the　staff　savagely　down　again　on　the　fallen　man's　skull。
　　The　naked　man…and　now　Rodrigo　realized　it　was　Alvar　de　Pellino；　and　that　the　trailing　object　was　not；　in　fact；　tied　to　his　waist…faced　his　Muwardi；　crashing　straight　into　him；　screaming　at　the　top　of　hi